Then she with the golden burden to the kingly high-seat stepped And away from the new-born baby the purple cloths she swept, And cried: "O King of the people, long mayst thou live in bliss, As our hearts to-day are happy! Queen Hiordis sends thee this, And she saith that the world shall call it by the name that thou shalt name; Now the gift to thee is given, and to thee is brought the fame." * * * * * Then e'en as a man astonied King Elf the Volsung took, While his feast-hall's ancient timbers with the cry of the earl-folk shook; For the eyes of the child gleamed on him till he was as one who sees The very Gods arising mid their carven images: To his ears there came a murmur of far seas beneath the wind And the tramp of fierce-eyed warriors through the outland forest blind; The sound of hosts of battle, cries round the hoisted shield, Low talk of the gathered wise-ones in the Goth-folk's holy field: So the thought in a little moment through King Elf the Mighty ran Of the years and their building and burden, and toil of the sons of man, The joy of folk and their sorrow, and the hope of deeds to do: With the love of many peoples was the wise king smitten through, As he hung o'er the new-born Volsung: but at last he raised his head, And looked forth kind o'er his people, and spake aloud and said: "O Sigmund King of Battle; O man of many days, Whom I saw mid the shields of the fallen and the dead men's silent praise, Lo, how hath the dark tide perished and the dawn of day begun! And now, O mighty Sigmund, wherewith shall we name thy son?" But there rose up a man most ancient, and he cried: "Hail Dawn of the Day! How many things shalt thou quicken, how many shalt thou slay! How many things shalt thou waken, how many lull to sleep! How many things shalt thou scatter, how many gather and keep! O me, how thy love shall cherish, how thine hate shall wither and burn! How the hope shall be sped from thy right hand, nor the fear to thy left return! O thy deeds that men shall sing of! O thy deeds that the Gods shall see! O SIGURD, Son of the Volsungs, O Victory yet to be!" Men heard the name and they knew it, and they caught it up in the air, And it went abroad by the windows and the doors of the feast-hall fair, It went through street and market; o'er meadow and acre it went, And over the wind-stirred forest and the dearth of the sea-beat bent, And over the sea-flood's welter, till the folk of the fishers heard, And the hearts of the isle-abiders on the sun-scorched rocks were stirred.