Siegfried & The Twilight of the Gods. The Ring of the Niblung, part 2

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Рихард Вагнер

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Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2018

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What ails, then, the Gods everlasting?

WALTRAUTE

Give earnest heed to what I tell thee!
Since from thee Wotan parted,
No more has he sent
Us to battle;
Anxious and bewildered
We rode to the field.
Shunned are Walhall's bold heroes
By Warfather;
Riding alone,
Without pause or rest
He wandered and roamed through the world.
At last he returned
With his spear splintered;
In his hand the pieces;
A hero had cleft it asunder.
With silent sign
Walhall's heroes
Then he sent forth
To hew down the world-ash-tree.
He bade them pile
The logs as they hewed them,
Until they were heaped
High round the hall of the blest.
The Gods he next
Called to a council;
The high seat
He solemnly took,
Bidding them
Who gathered in fear sit beside him.
The heroes filled
The hall, ranged round in their order.
So sits he,
Speaks no word,
Upon his high seat
Grave and mute,
The splintered spear
Held fast in his hand,
Holda's apples
Touching no more.
Fear and amazement
Hold the Gods fast fettered.
He has sent his ravens
Forth to seek tidings;
If they return
And bring him comforting news,
Then the God will
With soul serene
Smile evermore and be glad.
Round his knees in sorrow
Twined lie the Valkyries;
He heeds not
Our glances beseeching;
By terror and wild anguish
We all are consumed.
Against his breast
Weeping I nestled,
Then soft grew his gaze:
He remembered, Brünnhilde, thee.
He closed his eyes
As if dreaming,
Heavily sighed
And whispered these words:
"If to the deep Rhine's daughters
She would restore the ring that was theirs.
From the grievous curse
Both God and world were freed!'
Then I took thought,
And from his side
Through the silent ranks
Stole noiselessly forth.
In haste, unseen,
I mounted my horse,
And stormed in tumult to thee.
Grant, O sister,
The boon I beg;
What thou canst do,
Undaunted perform!
End thou the grief of the Gods!

[She has thrown herself down before Brünnhilde.

BRÜNNHILDE [Quietly.

What dreadful dream-born fancies,
Sad one, are those thou dost tell?
The high Gods' holy
And cloud-paved heaven
Is no longer my home.
I grasp not what thou art saying;
Dark its sense,
Wild and confused.
Within thine eyes,
So over-weary,
Gleams wavering fire;
With thy wan visage,