and Freyia, and Bragi in one: 
    Yea the God of all that is,—­and no deed in the wide world done,
    But the deed that my heart would fashion:  and the songs of the freed
      from the yoke
    Shall bear to my house in the heavens the love and the longing of folk. 
    And there shall be no more dying, and the sea shall be as the land,
    And the world for ever and ever shall be young beneath my hand.”

    Then his eyelids fell, and he slumbered, and it seemed as Sigurd gazed
    That the flames leapt up in the stithy and about the Master blazed,
    And his hand in the harp-strings wandered and the sweetness from them
      poured. 
    Then unto his feet leapt Sigurd and drew his stripling’s sword,
    And he cried:  “Awake, O Master, for, lo, the day goes by,
    And this too is an ancient story, that the sons of men-folk die,
    And all save fame departeth.  Awake! for the day grows late,
    And deeds by the door are passing, nor the Norns will have them wait.”

    Then Regin groaned and wakened, sad-eyed and heavy-browed,
    And weary and worn was he waxen, as a man by a burden bowed: 
    And he spake:  “Hast thou hearkened, Sigurd, wilt thou help a man that
      is old
    To avenge him for his father?  Wilt thou win that Treasure of Gold
    And be more than the Kings of the earth?  Wilt thou rid the earth of
      a wrong
    And heal the woe and the sorrow my heart hath endured o’erlong?”

    Then Sigurd looked upon him with steadfast eyes and clear,
    And Regin drooped and trembled as he stood the doom to hear: 
    But the bright child spake as aforetime, and answered the Master and
      said: 
    “Thou shalt have thy will, and the Treasure, and take the curse on
      thine head.”

    Of the forging of the Sword that is called The Wrath of Sigurd.

    Now again came Sigurd to Regin, and said:  “Thou hast taught me a task
    Whereof none knoweth the ending:  and a gift at thine hands I ask.”

    Then answered Regin the Master:  “The world must be wide indeed
    If my hand may not reach across it for aught thine heart may need.”

    “Yea wide is the world,” said Sigurd, “and soon spoken is thy word;
    But this gift thou shalt nought gainsay me:  for I bid thee forge me
      a sword.”

    Then spake the Master of Masters, and his voice was sweet and soft: 
    “Look forth abroad, O Sigurd, and note in the heavens aloft
    How the dim white moon of the daylight hangs round as the Goth-God’s
      shield,
    Now for thee first rang mine anvil when she walked the heavenly field
    A slim and lovely lady, and the old moon lay on her arm: 
    Lo, here is a sword I have wrought thee with many a spell and charm
    And all the craft of the Dwarf-kind; be glad thereof and sure;
    Mid many a storm of battle full well shall it endure.”