My contribution to this list would be the legendary blade "Excaliber"
What blades would you add?
Roland feeleth his eyesight reft, Yet he stands erect with what strength is left; From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled, But his Durindana all bare he held. In front a dark brown rock arose He smote upon it ten grievous blows. Grated the steel as it struck the flint, Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint. "Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid! Ah, Durindana, my ill - starred blade, I may no longer thy guardian be! What fields of battle I won with thee! What realms and regions 'twas ours to gain, Now the lordship of Carlemaine! Never shalt thou possessor know Who would turn from face of mortal foe; A gallant vassal so long thee bore, Such as France the free shall know no more."
CXCIII
He smote anew on the marble stair. It grated, but breach nor notch was there. When Roland found that it would not break, Thus began he his plaint to make. "Ah, Durindana, how fair and bright Thou sparklest, flaming against the light! When Karl in Maurienne valley lay, God sent his angel from heaven to say 'This sword shall a valorous captain's be,' And he girt it, the gentle king, on me. With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine, Provence I conquered and Aquitaine; I conquered Normandy the free, Anjou, and the marches of Brittany; Romagna I won, and Lombardy, Bavaria, Flanders from side to side, And Burgundy, and Poland wide; Constantinople affiance vowed, And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed; Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland's plain, Of England made he his own domain. What might, regions I won of old, For the hoary - headed Karl to hold! But there presses on me a grievous pain, Lest thou in heathen hands remain. O God our Father, keep France from stain!"
CXCIV
His strokes once more on the brown rock fell, And the steel was bent past words to tell; Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain, Erect it leaped to the sky again. When he failed at the last to break his blade, His lamentation he inly made. "Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword, What relics lie in thy pommel stored! Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil's blood, Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed, Fragment of holy Mary's vest. 'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest; Thee should the hand of a Christian serve One who would never in battle swerve. What regions won I with thee of yore, The empire now of Karl the hoar! Rich and mighty is he therefore.'
