Рихард Вагнер: The Rhinegold & The Valkyrie. The Ring of the Niblung, part 1

Of that billow-born brood
Bring me no tidings,
For they have wooed
To my woe
Full many a man to their caves.

Worth far more than Freia
Were the glittering gold.
Eternal youth, too, were his
Who could use the charm in its quest.

Hear, Wotan,
Our word while we wait;
Freia we will restore you,
And will take
Paltrier payment:
The Niblung's red-gleaming gold
Will guerdon us giants rude.

Ye must be mad!
With what I possess not
How can I, shameless ones, pay you?

Hard labour
Went to those walls;
How easy
With fraud-aided force
(What our malice never achieved)
The Niblung to break and bind!

Why should I make
War on the Niblung?—
Fight, your foe to confound?
Insolent
And greedily grasping
Dolts you grow through my debt!

Maiden, come!
We claim thee ours!
As pledge thou shalt be held
Till the ransom is paid.

Woe's me! Woe's me! Woe!

From your midst
We bear her forth!
Till evening—mark it well!—
As a pledge she is ours.
We will return then.
But when we come,
If the Rhinegold be not ready,
The Rhinegold bright and red—

The respite is ended,
Freia is forfeit
And bides among us for aye!

Sister! Brothers!
Save me! Help!

Up! Follow fast!

Fall now the heavens!

Save me! Help!

Downward over stock and stone
Striding they go;
Through the ford across the Rhine
Wade now the robbers.
Sad at heart
Hangs Freia,
Thrown rudely over rough shoulders!
Heia! hei!
The louts, how they lumber along!
Through the Rhine valley they reel.
Not till Riesenheim's march
Is reached will they rest!

How darkly Wotan doth dream!
What ails the high, happy Gods?

Does a mist mock me?
Tricks me a dream?
Dismayed and wan,
How swiftly ye fade!
Lo! the bloom forsakes your cheeks,
And quenched is the light of your eyes!
Courage, Froh!
Day's but begun!
From thy hand, Donner,
The hammer is falling!
And why frets Fricka?
Sees she with sorrow
That Wotan's hair, growing grey,
Has made him gloomy and old?

Woe's me! Woe's me!
What does it mean?

My hand sinks down.

My heart stands still.

I have it: hear what ye lack!
Of Freia's fruit
Ye have not partaken to-day.
The golden apples
Within her garden
Restored you your strength and your youth,
Ate ye thereof each day.
The garden's guardian
In pledge has been given.
On the branches dries
And droops the fruit,
To drop soon and decay.
My loss is lighter,
For still did Freia,
Stingy to me,
Stint the delectable fruit.
Not half as godlike
Am I, ye high ones, as you!

But ye trusted solely
To the fruit that makes young,
As well both the giants wist.
Your life they played for,
Plotted to take;
Contrive so that they fail.
Lacking the apples,
Old and worn,
Grey and weary,
Wasting, the scoff of the world,
The Gods must pine and pass.

Wotan, alas!
Unhappy man!
See what thy laughing
Lightness has brought us—
Scoff and scorn for all!

Up, Loge,
And follow me!
To Nibelheim hastening downward,
I go in search of the gold.

The Rhine-daughters
Thy aid invoked:
Not vainly they hoped for thy help then?

Fool, be silent!
Freia, the fair one—
Freia's ransom we go for.

Where thou wouldst go
Gladly I lead.
Shall we dive
Sheer through the depths of the Rhine?

Not through the Rhine.

Then swift let us swing
Through this smoky chasm.
Together, come, creep we in!

Ye others wait
Till evening here;
The golden ransom
When got will again make us young.

Fare thee well, Wotan!

Good luck! Good luck!

O come back soon
To thy sorrowing wife!