There as thou drawest thy sword, thou shall think of the days that were
    And the foul shall still seem foul, and the fair shall still seem fair;
    But thy wit shall then be awakened, and thou shalt know indeed
    Why the brave man’s spear is broken, and his war shield fails at need;
    Why the loving is unbeloved; why the just man falls from his state;
    Why the liar gains in a day what the soothfast strives for late. 
    Yea, and thy deeds shalt thou know, and great shall thy gladness be;
    As a picture all of gold thy life-days shalt thou see,
    And know that thou wert a God to abide through the hurry and haste;
    A God in the golden hall, a God in the rain-swept waste,
    A God in the battle triumphant, a God on the heap of the slain: 
    And thine hope shall arise and blossom, and thy love shall be quickened
            again: 
    And then shalt thou see before thee the face of all earthly ill;
    Thou shalt drink of the cup of awakening that thine hand hath holpen to
            fill;
    By the side of the sons of Odin shalt thou fashion a tale to be told
    In the hall of the happy Baldur.

(P. 25.)

In this wise one Christian might hearten another to accept the dealings of Providence to-day.  While we do not think that a worshipper of Odin would have spoken all these words, they are not an undue exaggeration of the noblest traits of the old Icelandic religion.

The poem does not record the death of Siggeir’s and Signy’s son, though the saga does.  Morris adds a touch when he makes the imprisoned men exult over the sword that Signy drops into their grave, and he also puts into the mouth of Siggeir in the burning hall words that the saga does not contain.  The poem says that the women of the Gothfolk were permitted to retire from the burning hall, but the saga has no such statement.  The war of foul words between Granmar and Sinfjoetli is left in the saga, and the cause of Gudrod’s death is changed from rivalry over a woman to anger over a division of war booty.  In Sigmund’s lament over his childlessness we have another of the poet’s additions, and certainly we find no fault with the liberty: 

The tree was stalwart, but its boughs are old and worn. 
Where now are the children departed, that amidst my life were born? 
I know not the men about me, and they know not of my ways: 
I am nought but a picture of battle, and a song for the people to
praise. 
I must strive with the deeds of my kingship, and yet when mine hour is
come
It shall meet me as glad as the goodman when he bringeth the last load
home.

(P. 56.)

When the great hero dies, Morris puts into his mouth another of the magnificent speeches that are the glory of this poem.  Four lines from it must suffice: 

When the gods for one deed asked me I ever gave them twain;
Spendthrift of glory I was, and great was my life-day’s gain.