So round about the Branstock they feast in the gleam of the gold;
  And though the deeds of man-folk were not yet waxen old,
  Yet had they tales for songcraft, and the blossomed garth of rhyme;
  Tales of the framing of all things and the entering in of time
  From the halls of the outer heaven; so near they knew the door. 
  Wherefore uprose a sea-king, and his hands that loved the oar
  Now dealt with the rippling harp-gold, and he sang of the shaping of earth,
  And how the stars were lighted, and where the winds had birth,
  And the gleam of the first of summers on the yet untrodden grass. 
  But e’en as men’s hearts were hearkening some heard the thunder pass
  O’er the cloudless noontide heaven; and some men turned about
  And deemed that in the doorway they heard a man laugh out. 
  Then into the Volsung dwelling a mighty man there strode,
  One-eyed and seeming ancient, yet bright his visage glowed: 
  Cloud-blue was the hood upon him, and his kirtle gleaming-grey
  As the latter morning sundog when the storm is on the way: 
  A bill he bore on his shoulder, whose mighty ashen beam
  Burnt bright with the flame of the sea and the blended silver’s gleam. 
  And such was the guise of his raiment as the Volsung elders had told
  Was borne by their fathers’ fathers, and the first that warred in the wold.

  So strode he to the Branstock nor greeted any lord,
  But forth from his cloudy raiment he drew a gleaming sword,
  And smote it deep in the tree-hole, and the wild hawks overhead
  Laughed ’neath the naked heaven as at last he spake and said: 

  “Earls of the Goths, and Volsungs, abiders on the earth,
  Lo there amid the Branstock a blade of plenteous worth! 
  The folk of the war-wand’s forgers wrought never better steel
  Since first the burg of heaven uprose for man-folk’s weal. 
  Now let the man among you whose heart and hand may shift
  To pluck it from the oakwood e’en take it for my gift. 
  Then ne’er, but his own heart falter, its point and edge shall fail
  Until the night’s beginning and the ending of the tale. 
  Be merry Earls of the Goth-folk, O Volsung Sons be wise
  And reap the battle-acre that ripening for you lies: 
  For they told me in the wild wood, I heard on the mountain side,
  That the shining house of heaven is wrought exceeding wide,
  And that there the Early-comers shall have abundant rest
  While Earth grows scant of great ones, and fadeth from its best,
  And fadeth from its midward and groweth poor and vile:—­
  All hail to thee King Volsung! farewell for a little while!”

  So sweet his speaking sounded, so wise his words did seem,
  That moveless all men sat there, as in a happy dream
  We stir not lest we waken; but there his speech had end,
  And slowly down the hall-floor, and outward did he wend;
  And none would cast him a question or follow on his ways,
  For they knew that the gift was Odin’s, a sword for the world to praise.