The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
Now again in the latter summer do those Kings of the Niblungs ride
To chase the sons of the plunder that curse the ocean-side:
So over the oaken rollers they run the cutters down
Till fair in the first of the deep are the glittering bows up-thrown;
But, shining wet and steel-clad, men leap from the surfy shore,
And hang their shields on the gunwale, and cast abroad the oar;
Then full to the outer ocean swing round the golden beaks,
And Sigurd sits by the tiller and the host of the spoilers seeks.
But lo, by the rim of the out-sea where the masts of the Vikings sway,
And their bows plunge down to the sea-floor as they ride the ridgy way,
And show the slant decks covered with swords from stem to stern:
Hark now, how the horns of battle for the clash of warriors yearn,
And the mighty song of mocking goes up from the thousands of throats,
As down the wind and landward the raven-banner floats:
For they see thin streaks and shining o'er the waters' face draw nigh,
And about each streak a foam-wake as the wet oars toss on high;
And they shout; for the silent Niblungs round those great sea-castles throng,
And the eager men unshielded swarm up the heights of wrong.
Then from bulwark unto bulwark the Wrath's flame sings and leaps,
And the unsteered manless dragons drift down the weltering deeps,
And the waves toss up a shield-foam, and hushed are the clamorous throats,
And dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats,
And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursed
Are swept toward the field-folk's houses, and the shores they saddened erst:
Lo there on the poop stands Sigurd mid the black-haired Niblung kings,
And his heart goes forth before him toward the day of better things,
And the burg in the land of Lymdale, and the hands that bide him there.
To chase the sons of the plunder that curse the ocean-side:
So over the oaken rollers they run the cutters down
Till fair in the first of the deep are the glittering bows up-thrown;
But, shining wet and steel-clad, men leap from the surfy shore,
And hang their shields on the gunwale, and cast abroad the oar;
Then full to the outer ocean swing round the golden beaks,
164
But lo, by the rim of the out-sea where the masts of the Vikings sway,
And their bows plunge down to the sea-floor as they ride the ridgy way,
And show the slant decks covered with swords from stem to stern:
Hark now, how the horns of battle for the clash of warriors yearn,
And the mighty song of mocking goes up from the thousands of throats,
As down the wind and landward the raven-banner floats:
For they see thin streaks and shining o'er the waters' face draw nigh,
And about each streak a foam-wake as the wet oars toss on high;
And they shout; for the silent Niblungs round those great sea-castles throng,
And the eager men unshielded swarm up the heights of wrong.
Then from bulwark unto bulwark the Wrath's flame sings and leaps,
And the unsteered manless dragons drift down the weltering deeps,
And the waves toss up a shield-foam, and hushed are the clamorous throats,
And dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats,
And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursed
Are swept toward the field-folk's houses, and the shores they saddened erst:
Lo there on the poop stands Sigurd mid the black-haired Niblung kings,
And his heart goes forth before him toward the day of better things,
And the burg in the land of Lymdale, and the hands that bide him there.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |