thrums hang unwinded by the maiden's weaving-stock:
And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy;
And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy.

But lo, as they gather and hearken by the door of Heimir's hall,
The wave of a mighty music on the souls of men doth fall,
And they bow their heads and hush them, because for a dear guest's sake
Is Heimir's hand in the harp-strings and the ancient song is awake,
And the words of the Gods' own fellow, and the hope of days gone by;
Then deep is that song-speech laden with the deeds that draw anigh,
And many a hope accomplished, and many an unhoped change,
And things of all once spoken, now grown exceeding strange;
Then keen as the battle-piercer the stringed speech arose,
And the hearts of men went with it, as of them that meet the foes;
Then soared the song triumphant as o'er the world well won,
Till sweet and soft it ended as a rose falls 'neath the sun;
But thereafter was there silence till the earls cast up the shout,
And the whole house clashed and glittered as the tramp of men bore out,
And folk fell back before them; then forth the earl-folk pour,
And forth comes Heimir the Ancient and stands by his fathers' door:
And then is the feast-hall empty and none therein abides:
For forth on the cloudy Greyfell the Son of Sigmund rides,
And the Helm of Awe he beareth, and the Mail-coat all of gold,
That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told,
And the Wrath to his side is girded, though the peace-strings wind it
round,
Yet oft and again it singeth, and strange is its sheathed sound:
But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous Sword
Are the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard,
And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er again
He neighs out hope of battle, for the heart of the beast is fain.

So there sitteth Sigurd the Volsung, and is dight to ride his ways,
For the world lies fair before him and the field of the people's
praise;
And he kisseth the ancient Heimir, and haileth the folk of the land,
And he crieth kind and joyous as the reins lie loose in his hand:
"Farewell, O folk of Lymdale, and your joy of the summer-tide!
For the acres whiten, meseemeth, and the harvest-field is wide:
Who knows of the toil that shal