They took them pure gold from their secret store, The piece ’t was but small in size, But ere ’t had been long in the furnace roar, ’T was a jewel beyond all prize. A broad red ring all of wroughten gold, As a snake with its tail in its head, And a garland of gems did the rim enfold, Together with rare art laid. ’T was solid and heavy, and wrought with care, Thrice it passed through the white flames’ glow; A ring to produce, fit for Odin to wear, No labor they spared, I trow. They worked it and turned it with wondrous skill, Till they gave it the virtue rare, That each thrice third night from its rim there fell Eight rings, as their parent fair. ’T was the same with which Odin sanctified God Balder’s and Nanna’s faith; On his gentle bosom was Draupner laid, When their eyes were closed in death. Next they laid on the anvil a steel-bar cold, They needed nor fire nor file; But their sledge-hammers, following, like thunder rolled, And Sindre sang runes the while. When Loke now marked how the steel gat power, And how warily out ’t was beat (’T was to make a new hammer for Ake-Thor), He’d recourse once more to deceit. In a trice, of a hornet the semblance he took, Whilst in cadence fell blow on blow, In the leading dwarf’s forehead his barbed sting he stuck, That the blood in a stream down did flow. Then the dwarf raised his hand to his brow for the smart, Ere the iron well out was beat, And they found that the haft by an inch was too short, But to alter it then ’t was too late. Now a small elf came running with gold on his head, Which he gave a dwarf woman to spin, Who the metal like flax on her spinning wheel laid, Nor tarried her task to begin. So she span and span, and the gold thread ran Into hair, though Loke thought it a pity; She span and sang to the sledge-hammer’s clang This strange, wild spinning-wheel ditty; Henceforward her hair shall the tall Sif wear, Hanging loose down her white neck behind; By no envious braid shall it captive be made, But in native grace float in the wind. No swain shall it view in the clear heaven’s blue, But his heart in its toils shall be lost; No goddess, not e’en beauty’s faultless queen, Such long glossy ringlets shall boast. Though they now seem dead, let them touch but her head, Each hair shall the life-moisture fill; Nor shall malice nor spell henceforward prevail Sif’s tresses to work aught of ill.