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diff --git a/18328.txt b/18328.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9fbc6a --- /dev/null +++ b/18328.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13662 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the +Fall of the Niblungs, by William Morris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs + +Author: William Morris + +Release Date: May 6, 2006 [EBook #18328] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIGURD THE VOLSUNG *** + + + + +Produced by R. Cedron, L.N. Yaddanapudi and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + +THE STORY OF SIGURD +THE VOLSUNG AND THE +FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS + +BY WILLIAM MORRIS + +EIGHTH IMPRESSION + +LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. +39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON +NEW YORK AND BOMBAY +1904 + +_All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +BOOK I. + +SIGMUND. + + PAGE + +_Of the dwelling of King Volsung, and the wedding of Signy his +daughter_ 1 + +_How the Volsungs fared to the Land of the Goths, and of the fall of +King Volsung_ 12 + +_Of the ending of all Volsung's Sons save Sigmund only and of how he +abideth in the wild wood_ 19 + +_Of the birth and fostering of Sinfiotli, Signy's Son_ 26 + +_Of the slaying of Siggeir the Goth-king_ 39 + +_How Sigmund cometh to the Land of the Volsungs again, and of the +death of Sinfiotli his Son_ 47 + +_Of the last battle of King Sigmund, and the death of him_ 55 + +_How King Sigmund the Volsung was laid in mound on the sea-side of +the Isle-realm_ 63 + +_How Queen Hiordis is known; and how she abideth in the house of +Elf the Son of the Helper_ 66 + + + +BOOK II. + +REGIN. + + +_Of the birth of Sigurd the Son of Sigmund_ 69 + +_Sigurd getteth to him the horse that is called Greyfell_ 75 + +_Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold that was accursed +from ancient days_ 81 + +_Of the forging of the Sword that is called The Wrath of Sigurd_ 101 + +_Of Gripir's Foretelling_ 108 + +_Sigurd rideth to the Glittering Heath_ 115 + +_Sigurd slayeth Fafnir the Serpent_ 121 + +_Sigurd slayeth Regin the Master of Masters on the Glittering Heath_ 127 + +_How Sigurd took to him the Treasure of the Elf Andvari_ 132 + +_How Sigurd awoke Brynhild upon Hindfell_ 134 + + + +BOOK III. + +BRYNHILD. + + +_Of the Dream of Gudrun the Daughter of Giuki_ 148 + +_How the folk of Lymdale met Sigurd the Volsung in the woodland_ 158 + +_How Sigurd met Brynhild in Lymdale_ 162 + +_Of Sigurd's riding to the Niblungs_ 168 + +_Of Sigurd's warfaring in the company of the Niblungs, and of his +great fame and glory_ 177 + +_Of the Cup of evil drink that Grimhild the Wise-wife gave to Sigurd_ 184 + +_Of the Wedding of Sigurd the Volsung_ 195 + +_Sigurd rideth with the Niblungs, and wooeth Brynhild for King +Gunnar_ 204 + +_How Brynhild was wedded to Gunnar the Niblung_ 221 + +_Of the Contention betwixt the Queens_ 228 + +_Gunnar talketh with Brynhild_ 240 + +_Of the exceeding great grief and mourning of Brynhild_ 245 + +_Of the slaying of Sigurd the Volsung_ 252 + +_Of the mighty Grief of Gudrun over Sigurd dead_ 262 + +_Of the passing away of Brynhild_ 268 + + + +BOOK IV. + +GUDRUN. + + +_King Atli wooeth and weddeth Gudrun_ 276 + +_Atli biddeth the Niblungs to him_ 287 + +_How the Niblungs fare to the Land of King Atli_ 297 + +_Atli speaketh with the Niblungs_ 309 + +_Of the Battle in Atli's Hall_ 316 + +_Of the Slaying of the Niblung Kings_ 323 + +_The Ending of Gudrun_ 338 + + + + +THE STORY +OF +SIGURD THE VOLSUNG +AND THE +FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS. + +BOOK I. + +SIGMUND. + + IN THIS BOOK IS TOLD OF THE EARLIER DAYS OF THE VOLSUNGS, AND OF + SIGMUND THE FATHER OF SIGURD, AND OF HIS DEEDS, AND OF HOW HE DIED + WHILE SIGURD WAS YET UNBORN IN HIS MOTHER'S WOMB. + + + _Of the dwelling of King Volsung, and the wedding of Signy his + daughter._ + + There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old; + Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold; + Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors; + Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its + floors, + And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast + The sails of the storm of battle adown the bickering blast. + There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great + Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate: + There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men. + Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again + Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days, + And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's + Praise. + + Thus was the dwelling of Volsung, the King of the Midworld's Mark, + As a rose in the winter season, a candle in the dark; + And as in all other matters 'twas all earthly houses' crown, + And the least of its wall-hung shields was a battle-world's renown, + So therein withal was a marvel and a glorious thing to see, + For amidst of its midmost hall-floor sprang up a mighty tree, + That reared its blessings roofward, and wreathed the roof-tree dear + With the glory of the summer and the garland of the year. + I know not how they called it ere Volsung changed his life, + But his dawning of fair promise, and his noontide of the strife, + His eve of the battle-reaping and the garnering of his fame, + Have bred us many a story and named us many a name; + And when men tell of Volsung, they call that war-duke's tree, + That crowned stem, the Branstock; and so was it told unto me. + + So there was the throne of Volsung beneath its blossoming bower. + But high o'er the roof-crest red it rose 'twixt tower and tower, + And therein were the wild hawks dwelling, abiding the dole of + their lord; + And they wailed high over the wine, and laughed to the waking sword. + + Still were its boughs but for them, when lo on an even of May + Comes a man from Siggeir the King with a word for his mouth to say: + "All hail to thee King Volsung, from the King of the Goths I come: + He hath heard of thy sword victorious and thine abundant home; + He hath heard of thy sons in the battle, the fillers of Odin's Hall; + And a word hath the west-wind blown him, (full fruitful be its fall!) + A word of thy daughter Signy the crown of womanhood: + Now he deems thy friendship goodly, and thine help in the battle good, + And for these will he give his friendship and his battle-aid again: + But if thou wouldst grant his asking, and make his heart full fain, + Then shalt thou give him a matter, saith he, without a price, + --Signy the fairer than fair, Signy the wiser than wise." + + Such words in the hall of the Volsungs spake the Earl of Siggeir + the Goth, + Bearing the gifts and the gold, the ring, and the tokens of troth. + But the King's heart laughed within him and the King's sons deemed + it good; + For they dreamed how they fared with the Goths o'er ocean and acre + and wood, + Till all the north was theirs, and the utmost southern lands. + + But nought said the snow-white Signy as she sat with folded hands + And gazed at the Goth-king's Earl till his heart grew heavy and cold, + As one that half remembers a tale that the elders have told, + A story of weird and of woe: then spake King Volsung and said: + + "A great king woos thee, daughter; wilt thou lie in a great king's bed, + And bear earth's kings on thy bosom, that our name may never die?" + + A fire lit up her face, and her voice was e'en as a cry: + "I will sleep in a great king's bed, I will bear the lords of the + earth, + And the wrack and the grief of my youth-days shall be held for + nothing worth." + + Then would he question her kindly, as one who loved her sore, + But she put forth her hand and smiled, and her face was flushed no more + "Would God it might otherwise be! but wert thou to will it not, + Yet should I will it and wed him, and rue my life and my lot." + + Lowly and soft she said it; but spake out louder now: + "Be of good cheer, King Volsung! for such a man art thou, + That what thou dost well-counselled, goodly and fair it is, + And what thou dost unwitting, the Gods have bidden thee this: + So work all things together for the fame of thee and thine. + And now meseems at my wedding shall be a hallowed sign, + That shall give thine heart a joyance, whatever shall follow after." + She spake, and the feast sped on, and the speech and the song and + the laughter + Went over the words of boding as the tide of the norland main + Sweeps over the hidden skerry, the home of the shipman's bane. + + So wendeth his way on the morrow that Earl of the Gothland King, + Bearing the gifts and the gold, and King Volsung's tokening, + And a word in his mouth moreover, a word of blessing and hail, + And a bidding to King Siggeir to come ere the June-tide fail + And wed him to white-hand Signy and bear away his bride, + While sleepeth the field of the fishes amidst the summer-tide. + + So on Mid-Summer Even ere the undark night began + Siggeir the King of the Goth-folk went up from the bath of the swan + Unto the Volsung dwelling with many an Earl about; + There through the glimmering thicket the linked mail rang out, + And sang as mid the woodways sings the summer-hidden ford: + There were gold-rings God-fashioned, and many a Dwarf-wrought sword, + And many a Queen-wrought kirtle and many a written spear; + So came they to the acres, and drew the threshold near, + And amidst of the garden blossoms, on the grassy, fruit-grown land, + Was Volsung the King of the Wood-world with his sons on either hand; + Therewith down lighted Siggeir the lord of a mighty folk, + Yet showed he by King Volsung as the bramble by the oak, + Nor reached his helm to the shoulder of the least of Volsung's sons. + And so into the hall they wended, the Kings and their mighty ones; + And they dight the feast full glorious, and drank through the + death of the day, + Till the shadowless moon rose upward, till it wended white away; + Then they went to the gold-hung beds, and at last for an hour or twain + Were all things still and silent, save a flaw of the summer rain. + + But on the morrow noontide when the sun was high and bare, + More glorious was the banquet, and now was Signy there, + And she sat beside King Siggeir, a glorious bride forsooth; + Ruddy and white was she wrought as the fair-stained sea-beast's tooth, + But she neither laughed nor spake, and her eyes were hard and cold, + And with wandering side-long looks her lord would she behold. + That saw Sigmund her brother, the eldest Volsung son, + And oft he looked upon her, and their eyes met now and anon, + And ruth arose in his heart, and hate of Siggeir the Goth, + And there had he broken the wedding, but for plighted promise and + troth. + But those twain were beheld of Siggeir, and he deemed of the + Volsung kin, + That amid their might and their malice small honour should he win; + Yet thereof made he no semblance, but abided times to be + And laughed out with the loudest, amid the hope and the glee. + And nought of all saw Volsung, as he dreamed of the coming glory, + And how the Kings of his kindred should fashion the round world's + story. + + So round about the Branstock they feast in the gleam of the gold; + And though the deeds of man-folk were not yet waxen old, + Yet had they tales for songcraft, and the blossomed garth of rhyme; + Tales of the framing of all things and the entering in of time + From the halls of the outer heaven; so near they knew the door. + Wherefore uprose a sea-king, and his hands that loved the oar + Now dealt with the rippling harp-gold, and he sang of the shaping + of earth, + And how the stars were lighted, and where the winds had birth, + And the gleam of the first of summers on the yet untrodden grass. + But e'en as men's hearts were hearkening some heard the thunder pass + O'er the cloudless noontide heaven; and some men turned about + And deemed that in the doorway they heard a man laugh out. + Then into the Volsung dwelling a mighty man there strode, + One-eyed and seeming ancient, yet bright his visage glowed: + Cloud-blue was the hood upon him, and his kirtle gleaming-grey + As the latter morning sundog when the storm is on the way: + A bill he bore on his shoulder, whose mighty ashen beam + Burnt bright with the flame of the sea and the blended silver's gleam. + And such was the guise of his raiment as the Volsung elders had told + Was borne by their fathers' fathers, and the first that warred in + the wold. + + So strode he to the Branstock nor greeted any lord, + But forth from his cloudy raiment he drew a gleaming sword, + And smote it deep in the tree-bole, and the wild hawks overhead + Laughed 'neath the naked heaven as at last he spake and said: + "Earls of the Goths, and Volsungs, abiders on the earth, + Lo there amid the Branstock a blade of plenteous worth! + The folk of the war-wand's forgers wrought never better steel + Since first the burg of heaven uprose for man-folk's weal. + Now let the man among you whose heart and hand may shift + To pluck it from the oakwood e'en take it for my gift. + Then ne'er, but his own heart falter, its point and edge shall fail + Until the night's beginning and the ending of the tale. + Be merry Earls of the Goth-folk, O Volsung Sons be wise, + And reap the battle-acre that ripening for you lies: + For they told me in the wild wood, I heard on the mountain side, + That the shining house of heaven is wrought exceeding wide, + And that there the Early-comers shall have abundant rest + While Earth grows scant of great ones, and fadeth from its best, + And fadeth from its midward and groweth poor and vile:-- + All hail to thee King Volsung! farewell for a little while!" + + So sweet his speaking sounded, so wise his words did seem, + That moveless all men sat there, as in a happy dream + We stir not lest we waken; but there his speech had end, + And slowly down the hall-floor, and outward did he wend; + And none would cast him a question or follow on his ways, + For they knew that the gift was Odin's, a sword for the world to + praise. + + But now spake Volsung the King: "Why sit ye silent and still? + Is the Battle-Father's visage a token of terror and ill? + Arise O Volsung Children, Earls of the Goths arise, + And set your hands to the hilts as mighty men and wise! + Yet deem it not too easy; for belike a fateful blade + Lies there in the heart of the Branstock for a fated warrior made." + + Now therewith spake King Siggeir: "King Volsung give me a grace + To try it the first of all men, lest another win my place + And mere chance-hap steal my glory and the gain that I might win." + + Then somewhat laughed King Volsung, and he said: "O Guest, begin; + Though herein is the first as the last, for the Gods have long to live, + Nor hath Odin yet forgotten unto whom the gift he would give." + + Then forth to the tree went Siggeir, the Goth-folk's mighty lord, + And laid his hand on the gemstones, and strained at the glorious sword + Till his heart grew black with anger; and never a word he said + As he wended back to the high-seat: but Signy waxed blood-red + When he sat him adown beside her; and her heart was nigh to break + For the shame and the fateful boding: and therewith King Volsung spake: + + "Thus comes back empty-handed the mightiest King of Earth, + And how shall the feeble venture? yet each man knows his worth; + And today may a great beginning from a little seed upspring + To o'erpass many a great one that hath the name of King: + So stand forth free and unfree; stand forth both most and least: + But first ye Earls of the Goth-folk, ye lovely lords we feast." + + Upstood the Earls of Siggeir, and each man drew anigh + And deemed his time was coming for a glorious gain and high; + But for all their mighty shaping and their deeds in the battle-wood, + No looser in the Branstock that gift of Odin stood. + Then uprose Volsung's homemen, and the fell-abiding folk; + And the yellow-headed shepherds came gathering round the Oak, + And the searchers of the thicket and the dealers with the oar: + And the least and the worst of them all was a mighty man of war. + But for all their mighty shaping, and the struggle and the strain + Of their hands, the deft in labour, they tugged thereat in vain; + And still as the shouting and jeers, and the names of men and the + laughter + Beat backward from gable to gable, and rattled o'er roof-tree and + rafter, + Moody and still sat Siggeir; for he said: "They have trained me here + As a mock for their woodland bondsmen; and yet shall they buy it dear." + + Now the tumult sank a little, and men cried on Volsung the King + And his sons, the hedge of battle, to try the fateful thing. + So Volsung laughed, and answered: "I will set me to the toil, + Lest these my guests of the Goth-folk should deem I fear the foil. + Yet nought am I ill-sworded, and the oldest friend is best; + And this, my hand's first fellow, will I bear to the grave-mound's + rest, + Nor wield meanwhile another: Yea this shall I have in hand + When mid the host of Odin in the Day of Doom I stand." + + Therewith from his belt of battle he raised the golden sheath, + And showed the peace-strings glittering about the hidden death: + Then he laid his hand on the Branstock, and cried: "O tree beloved, + I thank thee of thy good-heart that so little thou art moved: + Abide thou thus, green bower, when I am dead and gone + And the best of all my kindred a better day hath won!" + + Then as a young man laughed he, and on the hilts of gold + His hand, the battle-breaker, took fast and certain hold, + And long he drew and strained him, but mended not the tale, + Yet none the more thereover his mirth of heart did fail; + But he wended to the high-seat and thence began to cry: + + "Sons I have gotten and cherished, now stand ye forth to try; + Lest Odin tell in God-home how from the way he strayed, + And how to the man he would not he gave away his blade." + So therewithal rose Rerir, and wasted might and main; + Then Gunthiof, and then Hunthiof, they wearied them in vain; + Nought was the might of Agnar; nought Helgi could avail; + Sigi the tall and Solar no further brought the tale, + Nor Geirmund the priest of the temple, nor Gylfi of the wood. + + At last by the side of the Branstock Sigmund the Volsung stood, + And with right hand wise in battle the precious sword-hilt caught, + Yet in a careless fashion, as he deemed it all for nought: + When lo, from floor to rafter went up a shattering shout, + For aloft in the hand of Sigmund the naked blade shone out + As high o'er his head he shook it: for the sword had come away + From the grip of the heart of the Branstock, as though all loose + it lay. + A little while he stood there mid the glory of the hall, + Like the best of the trees of the garden, when the April sunbeams fall + On its blossomed boughs in the morning, and tell of the days to be; + Then back unto the high-seat he wended soberly; + For this was the thought within him; Belike the day shall come + When I shall bide here lonely amid the Volsung home, + Its glory and sole avenger, its after-summer seed. + Yea, I am the hired of Odin, his workday will to speed, + And the harvest-tide shall be heavy.--What then, were it come and past + And I laid by the last of the sheaves with my wages earned at the last? + + He lifted his eyes as he thought it, for now was he come to his place, + And there he stood by his father and met Siggeir face to face, + And he saw him blithe and smiling, and heard him how he spake: + "O best of the sons of Volsung, I am merry for thy sake + And the glory that thou hast gained us; but whereas thine hand and + heart + Are e'en now the lords of the battle, how lack'st thou for thy part + A matter to better the best? Wilt thou overgild fine gold + Or dye the red rose redder? So I prithee let me hold + This sword that comes to thine hand on the day I wed thy kin. + For at home have I a store-house; there is mountain-gold therein + The weight of a war-king's harness; there is silver plenteous store; + There is iron, and huge-wrought amber, that the southern men love sore, + When they sell me the woven wonder, the purple born of the sea; + And it hangeth up in that bower; and all this is a gift for thee: + But the sword that came to my wedding, methinketh it meet and right, + That it lie on my knees in the council and stead me in the fight." + + But Sigmund laughed and answered, and he spake a scornful word: + "And if I take twice that treasure, will it buy me Odin's sword, + And the gift that the Gods have given? will it buy me again to stand + Betwixt two mightiest world-kings with a longed-for thing in mine hand + That all their might hath missed of? when the purple-selling men + Come buying thine iron and amber, dost thou sell thine honour then? + Do they wrap it in bast of the linden, or run it in moulds of earth? + And shalt thou account mine honour as a matter of lesser worth? + Came the sword to thy wedding, Goth-king, to thine hand it never came, + And thence is thine envy whetted to deal me this word of shame." + + Black then was the heart of Siggeir, but his face grew pale and red, + Till he drew a smile thereover, and spake the word and said: + "Nay, pardon me, Signy's kinsman! when the heart desires o'ermuch + It teacheth the tongue ill speaking, and my word belike was such. + But the honour of thee and thy kindred, I hold it even as mine, + And I love you as my heart-blood, and take ye this for a sign. + I bid thee now King Volsung, and these thy glorious sons, + And thine earls and thy dukes of battle and all thy mighty ones, + To come to the house of the Goth-kings as honoured guests and dear + And abide the winter over; that the dusky days and drear + May be glorious with thy presence, that all folk may praise my life, + And the friends that my fame hath gotten; and that this my new-wed wife + Thine eyes may make the merrier till she bear my eldest born." + Then speedily answered Volsung: "No king of the earth might scorn + Such noble bidding, Siggeir; and surely will I come + To look upon thy glory and the Goths' abundant home. + But let two months wear over, for I have many a thing + To shape and shear in the Woodland, as befits a people's king: + And thou meanwhile here abiding of all my goods shalt be free, + And then shall we twain together roof over the glass-green sea + With the sides of our golden dragons; and our war-hosts' blended + shields + Shall fright the sea-abiders and the folk of the fishy fields." + + Answered the smooth-speeched Siggeir: "I thank thee well for this, + And thy bidding is most kingly; yet take it not amiss + That I wend my ways in the morning; for we Goth-folk know indeed + That the sea is a foe full deadly, and a friend that fails at need, + And that Ran who dwells thereunder will many a man beguile: + And I bear a woman with me; nor would I for a while + Behold that sea-queen's dwelling; for glad at heart am I + Of the realm of the Goths and the Volsungs, and I look for long to lie + In the arms of the fairest woman that ever a king may kiss. + So I go mine house to order for the increase of thy bliss, + That there in nought but joyance all we may wear the days + And that men of the time hereafter the more our lives may praise." + + And for all the words of Volsung e'en so must the matter be, + And Siggeir the Goth and Signy on the morn shall sail the sea. + But the feast sped on the fairer, and the more they waxed in disport + And the glee that all men love, as they knew that the hours were short. + Yet a boding heart bare Sigmund amid his singing and laughter; + And somewhat Signy wotted of the deeds that were coming after; + For the wisest of women she was, and many a thing she knew; + She would hearken the voice of the midnight till she heard what the + Gods would do, + And her feet fared oft on the wild, and deep was her communing + With the heart of the glimmering woodland, where never a fowl may sing. + + So fair sped on the feasting amid the gleam of the gold, + Amid the wine and the joyance; and many a tale was told + To the harp-strings of that wedding, whereof the latter days + Yet hold a little glimmer to wonder at and praise. + Then the undark night drew over, and faint the high stars shone, + And there on the beds blue-woven the slumber-tide they won; + Yea while on the brightening mountain the herd-boy watched his sheep. + Yet soft on the breast of Signy King Siggeir lay asleep. + + + _How the Volsungs fared to the Land of the Goths, and of the fall of + King Volsung._ + + Now or ever the sun shone houseward, unto King Volsung's bed + Came Signy stealing barefoot, and she spake the word and said: + "Awake and hearken, my father, for though the wedding be done, + And I am the wife of the Goth-king, yet the Volsungs are not gone. + So I come as a dream of the night, with a word that the Gods would say, + And think thou thereof in the day-tide, and let Siggeir go on his way + With me and the gifts and the gold, but do ye abide in the land, + Nor trust in the guileful heart and the murder-loving hand, + Lest the kin of the Volsungs perish, and the world be nothing worth." + + So came the word unto Volsung, and wit in his heart had birth; + And he sat upright in the bed and kissed her on the lips; + But he said: "My word is given, it is gone like the spring-tide ships: + To death or to life must I journey when the months are come to an end. + Yet my sons my words shall hearken, and shall nowise with me wend." + + Then she answered, speaking swiftly: "Nay, have thy sons with thee; + Gather an host together and a mighty company, + And meet the guile and the death-snare with battle and with wrack." + + He said: "Nay, my troth-word plighted e'en so should I draw aback: + I shall go a guest, as my word was; of whom shall I be afraid? + For an outworn elder's ending shall no mighty moan be made." + + Then answered Signy, weeping: "I shall see thee yet again + When the battle thou arrayest on the Goth-folks' strand in vain. + Heavy and hard are the Norns: but each man his burden bears; + And what am I to fashion the fate of the coming years?" + + She wept and she wended back to the Goth-king's bolster blue, + And Volsung pondered awhile till slumber over him drew; + But when once more he wakened, the kingly house was up, + And the homemen gathered together to drink the parting cup: + And grand amid the hall-floor was the Goth king in his gear, + And Signy clad for faring stood by the Branstock dear + With the earls of the Goths about her: so queenly did she seem, + So calm and ruddy coloured, that Volsung well might deem + That her words were a fashion of slumber, a vision of the night. + But they drank the wine of departing, and brought the horses dight, + And forth abroad the Goth-folk and the Volsung Children rode, + Nor ever once would Signy look back to that abode. + + So down over acre and heath they rode to the side of the sea, + And there by the long-ships' bridges was the ship-host's company. + Then Signy kissed her brethren with ruddy mouth and warm, + Nor was there one of the Goth-folk but blessed her from all harm; + Then sweet she kissed her father and hung about his neck, + And sure she whispered him somewhat ere she passed forth toward the + deck, + Though nought I know to tell it: then Siggeir hailed them fair, + And called forth many a blessing on the hearts that bode his snare. + Then were the gangways shipped, and blown was the parting horn, + And the striped sails drew with the wind, and away was Signy borne + White on the shielded long-ship, a grief in the heart of the gold; + Nor once would she turn her about the strand of her folk to behold. + + Thenceforward dwelt the Volsungs in exceeding glorious state, + And merry lived King Volsung, abiding the day of his fate; + But when the months aforesaid were well-nigh worn away + To his sons and his folk of counsel he fell these words to say: + "Ye mind you of Signy's wedding and of my plighted troth + To go in two months' wearing to the house of Siggeir the Goth: + Nor will I hide how Signy then spake a warning word + And did me to wit that her husband was a grim and guileful lord, + And would draw us to our undoing for envy and despite + Concerning the Sword of Odin, and for dread of the Volsung might. + Now wise is Signy my daughter and knoweth nought but sooth: + Yet are there seasons and times when for longing and self-ruth + The hearts of women wander, and this maybe is such; + Nor for her word of Siggeir will I trow it overmuch, + Nor altogether doubt it, since the woman is wrought so wise; + Nor much might my heart love Siggeir for all his kingly guise. + Yet, shall a king hear murder when a king's mouth blessing saith? + So maybe he is bidding me honour, and maybe he is bidding me death: + Let him do after his fashion, and I will do no less. + In peace will I go to his bidding let the spae-wrights ban or bless; + And no man now or hereafter of Volsung's blenching shall tell. + But ye, sons, in the land shall tarry, and heed the realm right well, + Lest the Volsung Children fade, and the wide world worser grow." + + But with one voice cried all men, that they one and all would go + To gather the Goth-king's honour, or let one fate go over all + If he bade them to battle and murder, till each by each should fall. + So spake the sons of his body, and the wise in wisdom and war. + Nor yet might it otherwise be, though Volsung bade full sore + That he go in some ship of the merchants with his life alone in his + hand; + With such love he loved his kindred, and the people of his land. + But at last he said: + "So be it; for in vain I war with fate, + Who can raise up a king from the dunghill and make the feeble great. + We will go, a band of friends, and be merry whatever shall come, + And the Gods, mine own forefathers, shall take counsel of our home." + + So now, when all things were ready, in the first of the autumn tide + Adown unto the swan-bath the Volsung Children ride; + And lightly go a shipboard, a goodly company, + Though the tale thereof be scanty and their ships no more than three: + But kings' sons dealt with the sail-sheets and earls and dukes of war + Were the halers of the hawsers and the tuggers at the oar. + So they drew the bridges shipward, and left the land behind, + And fair astern of the longships sprang up a following wind; + So swift o'er AEgir's acre those mighty sailors ran, + And speedier than all other ploughed down the furrows wan. + And they came to the land of the Goth-folk on the even of a day; + And lo by the inmost skerry a skiff with a sail of grey + That as they neared the foreshore ran Volsung's ship aboard, + And there was come white-hand Signy with her latest warning word. + + "O strange," she said, "meseemeth, O sweet, your gear to see, + And the well-loved Volsung faces, and the hands that cherished me. + But short is the time that is left me for the work I have to win, + Though nought it be but the speaking of a word ere the worst begin. + For that which I spake aforetime, the seed of a boding drear, + It hath sprung, it hath blossomed and born rank harvest of the spear; + Siggeir hath dight the death-snare; he hath spread the shielded net. + But ye come ere the hour appointed, and he looks not to meet you yet. + Now blest be the wind that wafted your sails here over-soon, + For thus have I won me seaward 'twixt the twilight and the moon, + To pray you for all the world's sake turn back from the murderous + shore. + --Ah take me hence, my father, to see my land once more!" + + Then sweetly Volsung kissed her: "Woe am I for thy sake, + But earth the word hath hearkened, that yet unborn I spake; + How I ne'er would turn me backward from the sword or the fire of bale; + --I have held that word till today, and today shall I change the tale? + And look on these thy brethren, how goodly and great are they, + Wouldst thou have the maidens mock them, when this pain hath past away + And they sit at the feast hereafter, that they feared the deadly + stroke? + Let us do our day's work deftly for the praise and the glory of folk; + And if the Norns will have it that the Volsung kin shall fail, + Yet I know of the deed that dies not, and the name that shall ever + avail." + + But she wept as one sick-hearted: "Woe's me for the hope of the morn! + Yet send me not back unto Siggeir and the evil days and the scorn: + Let me bide the death as ye bide it, and let a woman feel + That hope of the death of battle and the rest of the foeman's steel." + + "Nay nay," he said, "go backward: this too thy fate will have; + For thou art the wife of a king, and many a matter may'st save. + Farewell! as the days win over, as sweet as a tale shall it grow, + This day when our hearts were hardened; and our glory thou shalt know, + And the love wherewith we loved thee mid the battle and the wrack." + + She kissed them and departed, and mid the dusk fared back, + And she sat that eve in the high-seat; and I deem that Siggeir knew + The way that her feet had wended, and the deed she went to do: + For the man was grim and guileful, and he knew that the snare was laid + For the mountain bull unblenching and the lion unafraid. + + But when the sun on the morrow shone over earth and sea + Ashore went the Volsung Children a goodly company, + And toward King Siggeir's dwelling o'er heath and holt they went + But when they came to the topmost of a certain grassy bent, + Lo there lay the land before them as thick with shield and spear + As the rich man's wealthiest acre with the harvest of the year. + There bade King Volsung tarry and dight the wedge-array; + "For duly," he said, "doeth Siggeir to meet his guests by the way." + So shield by shield they serried, nor ever hath been told + Of any host of battle more glorious with the gold; + And there stood the high King Volsung in the very front of war; + And lovelier was his visage than ever heretofore. + As he rent apart the peace-strings that his brand of battle bound + And the bright blade gleamed to the heavens, and he cast the sheath + to the ground. + + Then up the steep came the Goth-folk, and the spear-wood drew anigh, + And earth's face shook beneath them, yet cried they never a cry; + And the Volsungs stood all silent, although forsooth at whiles + O'er the faces grown earth-weary would play the flickering smiles, + And swords would clink and rattle: not long had they to bide, + For soon that flood of murder flowed round the hillock-side; + Then at last the edges mingled, and if men forebore the shout, + Yet the din of steel and iron in the grey clouds rang about; + But how to tell of King Volsung, and the valour of his folk! + Three times the wood of battle before their edges broke; + And the shield-wall, sorely dwindled and reft of the ruddy gold, + Against the drift of the war-blast for the fourth time yet did hold. + But men's shields were waxen heavy with the weight of shafts they bore, + And the fifth time many a champion cast earthward Odin's door + And gripped the sword two-handed; and in sheaves the spears came on. + And at last the host of the Goth-folk within the shield-wall won, + And wild was the work within it, and oft and o'er again + Forth brake the sons of Volsung, and drave the foe in vain; + For the driven throng still thickened, till it might not give aback. + But fast abode King Volsung amid the shifting wrack + In the place where once was the forefront: for he said: "My feet are + old, + And if I wend on further there is nought more to behold + Than this that I see about me."--Whiles drew his foes away + And stared across the corpses that before his sword-edge lay. + But nought he followed after: then needs must they in front + Thrust on by the thickening spear-throng come up to bear the brunt, + Till all his limbs were weary and his body rent and torn: + Then he cried: "Lo now, Allfather, is not the swathe well shorn? + Wouldst thou have me toil for ever, nor win the wages due?" + + And mid the hedge of foemen his blunted sword he threw, + And, laid like the oars of a longship the level war-shafts pressed + On 'gainst the unshielded elder, and clashed amidst his breast, + And dead he fell, thrust backward, and rang on the dead men's gear: + But still for a certain season durst no man draw anear. + For 'twas e'en as a great God's slaying, and they feared the wrath + of the sky; + And they deemed their hearts might harden if awhile they should let + him lie. + + Lo, now as the plotting was long, so short is the tale to tell + How a mighty people's leaders in the field of murder fell. + For but feebly burned the battle when Volsung fell to field, + And all who yet were living were borne down before the shield: + So sinketh the din and the tumult; and the earls of the Goths ring + round + That crown of the Kings of battle laid low upon the ground, + Looking up to the noon-tide heavens from the place where first he + stood: + But the songful sing above him and they tell how his end is as good + As the best of the days of his life-tide; and well as he was loved + By his friends ere the time of his changing, so now are his foemen + moved + With a love that may never be worsened, since all the strife is o'er, + And the warders look for his coming by Odin's open door. + + But his sons, the stay of battle, alive with many a wound, + Borne down to the earth by the shield-rush amid the dead lie bound, + And belike a wearier journey must those lords of battle bide + Ere once more in the Hall of Odin they sit by their father's side. + Woe's me for the boughs of the Branstock and the hawks that cried on + the fight! + Woe's me for the tireless hearthstones and the hangings of delight, + That the women dare not look on lest they see them sweat with blood! + Woe's me for the carven pillars where the spears of the Volsungs stood! + And who next shall shake the locks, or the silver door-rings meet? + Who shall pace the floor beloved, worn down by the Volsung feet? + Who shall fill the gold with the wine, or cry for the triumphing? + Shall it be kindred or foes, or thief, or thrall, or king? + + + _Of the ending of all Volsung's Sons save Sigmund only, and of how he + abideth in the wild wood._ + + So there the earls of the Goth-folk lay Volsung 'neath the grass + On the last earth he had trodden; but his children bound must pass, + When the host is gathered together, amidst of their array + To the high-built dwelling of Siggeir; for sooth it is to say, + That he came not into the battle, nor faced the Volsung sword. + + So now as he sat in his high-seat there came his chiefest lord, + And he said: "I bear thee tidings of the death of the best of the + brave, + For thy foes are slain or bondsmen; and have thou Sigmund's glaive, + If a token thou desirest; and that shall be surely enough. + And I do thee to wit, King Siggeir, that the road was exceeding rough, + And that many an earl there stumbled, who shall evermore lie down. + And indeed I deem King Volsung for all earthly kingship's crown." + + Then never a word spake Siggeir, save: "Where be Volsung's sons?" + And he said: "Without are they fettered, those battle-glorious ones: + And methinks 'twere a deed for a king, and a noble deed for thee, + To break their bonds and heal them, and send them back o'er the sea, + And abide their wrath and the bloodfeud for this matter of Volsung's + slaying:" + + "Witless thou waxest," said Siggeir, "nor heedest the wise man's + saying; + 'Slay thou the wolf by the house-door, lest he slay thee in the wood.' + Yet since I am the overcomer, and my days henceforth shall be good, + I will quell them with no death-pains; let the young men smite them + down, + But let me not behold them when my heart is angrier grown." + + E'en as he uttered the word was Signy at the door, + And with hurrying feet she gat her apace to the high-seat floor, + As wan as the dawning-hour, though never a tear she had: + And she cried: "I pray thee, Siggeir, now thine heart is merry and glad + With the death and the bonds of my kinsmen, to grant me this one + prayer, + This one time and no other; let them breathe the earthly air + For a day, for a day or twain, ere they wend the way of death, + For 'sweet to eye while seen,' the elders' saying saith." + + Quoth he: "Thou art mad with sorrow; wilt thou work thy friends this + woe? + When swift and untormented e'en I would let them go: + Yet now shalt thou have thine asking, if it verily is thy will: + Nor forsooth do I begrudge them a longer tide of ill." + + She said: "I will it, I will it--O sweet to eye while seen!" + + Then to his earl spake Siggeir: "There lies a wood-lawn green + In the first mile of the forest; there fetter these Volsung men + To the mightiest beam of the wild-wood, till Queen Signy come again + And pray me a boon for her brethren, the end of their latter life." + + So the Goth-folk led to the woodland those gleanings of the strife, + And smote down a great-boled oak-tree, the mightiest they might find, + And thereto with bonds of iron the Volsungs did they bind, + And left them there on the wood-lawn, mid the yew-trees' compassing, + And went back by the light of the moon to the dwelling of the king. + + But he sent on the morn of the morrow to see how his foemen fared, + For now as he thought thereover, o'ermuch he deemed it dared + That he saw not the last of the Volsungs laid dead before his feet, + Back came his men ere the noontide, and he deemed their tidings sweet; + For they said: "We tell thee, King Siggeir, that Geirmund and Gylfi + are gone. + And we deem that a beast of the wild-wood this murder grim hath done, + For the bones yet lie in the fetters gnawed fleshless now and white; + But we deemed the eight abiding sore minished of their might." + + So wore the morn and the noontide, and the even 'gan to fall, + And watchful eyes held Signy at home in bower and hall. + + And again came the men in the morning, and spake: "The hopples hold + The bare white bones of Helgi, and the bones of Solar the bold: + And the six that abide seem feebler than they were awhile ago." + + Still all the day and the night-tide must Signy nurse her woe + About the house of King Siggeir, nor any might she send: + And again came the tale on the morrow: "Now are two more come to + an end. + For Hunthiof dead and Gunthiof, their bones lie side by side, + And the four that are left, us seemeth, no long while will abide." + + O woe for the well-watched Signy, how often on that day + Must she send her helpless eyen adown the woodland way! + Yet silent in her bosom she held her heart of flame. + And again on the morrow morning the tale was still the same: + + "We tell thee now, King Siggeir, that all will soon be done; + For the two last men of the Volsungs, they sit there one by one, + And Sigi's head is drooping, but somewhat Sigmund sings; + For the man was a mighty warrior, and a beater down of kings. + But for Rerir and for Agnar, the last of them is said, + Their bones in the bonds are abiding, but their souls and lives are + sped." + + That day from the eyes of the watchers nought Signy strove to depart, + But ever she sat in the high-seat and nursed the flame in her heart. + In the sight of all people she sat, with unmoved face and wan, + And to no man gave she a word, nor looked on any man. + Then the dusk and the dark drew over, but stirred she never a whit, + And the word of Siggeir's sending, she gave no heed to it. + And there on the morrow morning must he sit him down by her side, + When unto the council of elders folk came from far and wide. + And there came Siggeir's woodmen, and their voice in the hall arose: + + "There is no man left on the tree-beam: some beast hath devoured thy + foes; + There is nought left there but the bones, and the bonds that the + Volsungs bound." + + No word spake the earls of the Goth-folk, but the hall rang out with + a sound, + With the wail and the cry of Signy, as she stood upright on her feet, + And thrust all people from her, and fled to her bower as fleet + As the hind when she first is smitten; and her maidens fled away, + Fearing her face and her eyen: no less at the death of the day + She rose up amid the silence, and went her ways alone, + And no man watched her or hindered, for they deemed the story done. + So she went 'twixt the yellow acres, and the green meads of the sheep, + And or ever she reached the wild-wood the night was waxen deep + No man she had to lead her, but the path was trodden well + By those messengers of murder, the men with the tale to tell; + And the beams of the high white moon gave a glimmering day through + night + Till she came where that lawn of the woods lay wide in the flood of + light. + Then she looked, and lo, in its midmost a mighty man there stood, + And laboured the earth of the green-sward with a truncheon torn from + the wood; + And behold, it was Sigmund the Volsung: but she cried and had no fear: + + "If thou art living, Sigmund, what day's work dost thou here + In the midnight and the forest? but if thou art nought but a ghost, + Then where are those Volsung brethren, of whom thou wert best and + most?" + + Then he turned about unto her, and his raiment was fouled and torn, + And his eyen were great and hollow, as a famished man forlorn; + + But he cried: "Hail, Sister Signy! I looked for thee before, + Though what should a woman compass, she one alone and no more, + When all we shielded Volsungs did nought in Siggeir's land? + O yea, I am living indeed, and this labour of mine hand + Is to bury the bones of the Volsungs; and lo, it is well-nigh done. + So draw near, Volsung's daughter, and pile we many a stone + Where lie the grey wolf's gleanings of what was once so good." + + So she set her hand to the labour, and they toiled, they twain in + the wood + And when the work was over, dead night was beginning to fail: + Then spake the white-hand Signy: "Now shalt thou tell the tale + Of the death of the Volsung brethren ere the wood thy wrath shall hide, + Ere I wend me back sick-hearted in the dwelling of kings to abide." + + He said: "We sat on the tree, and well ye may wot indeed + That we had some hope from thy good-will amidst that bitter need. + Now none had 'scaped the sword-edge in the battle utterly, + And so hurt were Agnar and Helgi, that, unhelped, they were like to + die; + Though for that we deemed them happier: but now when the moon shone + bright, + And when by a doomed man's deeming 'twas the midmost of the night, + Lo, forth from yonder thicket were two mighty wood-wolves come, + Far huger wrought to my deeming than the beasts I knew at home: + Forthright on Gylfi and Geirmund those dogs of the forest fell, + And what of men so hoppled should be the tale to tell? + They tore them midst the irons, and slew them then and there, + And long we heard them snarling o'er that abundant cheer. + Night after night, O my sister, the story was the same, + And still from the dark and the thicket the wild-wood were-wolves came + And slew two men of the Volsungs whom the sword edge might not end. + And every day in the dawning did the King's own woodmen wend + To behold those craftsmen's carving and rejoice King Siggeir's heart. + And so was come last midnight, when I must play my part: + Forsooth when those first were murdered my heart was as blood and fire; + And I deemed that my bonds must burst with my uttermost desire + To free my naked hands, that the vengeance might be wrought; + But now was I wroth with the Gods, that had made the Volsungs for + nought + And I said: in the Day of their Doom a man's help shall they miss; + I will be as a wolf of the forest, if their kings must come to this; + Or if Siggeir indeed be their king, and their envy has brought it about + That dead in the dust lies Volsung, while the last of his seed dies + out. + Therewith from out the thicket the grey wolves drew anigh, + And the he-wolf fell on Sigi, but he gave forth never a cry, + And I saw his lips that they smiled, and his steady eyes for a space; + And therewith was the she-wolf's muzzle thrust into my very face. + The Gods helped not, but I helped; and I too grew wolfish then; + Yea I, who have borne the sword-hilt high mid the kings of men, + I, lord of the golden harness, the flame of the Glittering Heath, + Must snarl to the she-wolf's snarling, and snap with greedy teeth, + While my hands with the hand-bonds struggled; my teeth took hold the + first + And amid her mighty writhing the bonds that bound me burst, + As with Fenrir's Wolf it shall be: then the beast with the hopples I + smote, + When my left hand stiff with the bonds had got her by the throat. + But I turned when I had slain her, and there lay Sigi dead, + And once more to the night of the forest the fretting wolf had fled. + In the thicket I hid till the dawning, and thence I saw the men, + E'en Siggeir's heart-rejoicers, come back to the place again + To gather the well-loved tidings: I looked and I knew for sooth + How hate had grown in my bosom and the death of my days of ruth: + Though unslain they departed from me, lest Siggeir come to doubt. + But hereafter, yea hereafter, they that turned the world about, + And raised Hell's abode o'er God-home, and mocked all men-folk's + worth-- + Shall my hand turn back or falter, while these abide on earth, + Because I once was a child, and sat on my father's knees; + But long methinks shall Siggeir bide merrily at ease + In the high-built house of the Goths, with his shielded earls around, + His warders of day and of night-tide, and his world of peopled ground, + While his foe is a swordless outcast, a hunted beast of the wood, + A wolf of the holy places, where men-folk gather for good. + And didst thou think, my sister, when we sat in our summer bliss + Beneath the boughs of the Branstock, that the world was like to this?" + + As the moon and the twilight mingled, she stood with kindling eyes, + And answered and said: "My brother, thou art strong, and thou shalt + be wise: + I am nothing so wroth as thou art with the ways of death and hell, + For thereof had I a deeming when all things were seeming well. + In sooth overlong it may linger; the children of murder shall thrive, + While thy work is a weight for thine heart, and a toil for thy hand + to drive; + But I wot that the King of the Goth-folk for his deeds shall surely + pay, + And that I shall live to see it: but thy wrath shall pass away, + And long shalt thou live on the earth an exceeding glorious king, + And thy words shall be told in the market, and all men of thy deeds + shall sing: + Fresh shall thy memory be, and thine eyes like mine shall gaze + On the day unborn in the darkness, the last of all earthly days, + The last of the days of battle, when the host of the Gods is arrayed + And there is an end for ever of all who were once afraid. + There as thou drawest thy sword, thou shalt think of the days that + were, + And the foul shall still seem foul, and the fair shall still seem fair; + But thy wit shall then be awakened, and thou shalt know indeed + Why the brave man's spear is broken, and his war-shield fails at need; + Why the loving is unbeloved; why the just man falls from his state; + Why the liar gains in a day what the soothfast strives for late. + Yea, and thy deeds shalt thou know, and great shall thy gladness be; + As a picture all of gold thy life-days shalt thou see, + And know that thou too wert a God to abide through the hurry and haste; + A God in the golden hall, a God on the rain-swept waste, + A God in the battle triumphant, a God on the heap of the slain: + And thine hope shall arise and blossom, and thy love shall be + quickened again: + And then shalt thou see before thee the face of all earthly ill; + Thou shalt drink of the cup of awakening that thine hand hath holpen + to fill; + By the side of the sons of Odin shalt thou fashion a tale to be told + In the hall of the happy Baldur: nor there shall the tale grow old + Of the days before the changing, e'en those that over us pass. + So harden thine heart, O brother, and set thy brow as the brass! + Thou shalt do, and thy deeds shall be goodly, and the day's work + shall be done + Though nought but the wild deer see it. Nor yet shalt thou be alone + For ever-more in thy waiting; for belike a fearful friend + The long days for thee may fashion, to help thee ere the end. + But now shalt thou bide in the wild-wood, and make thee a lair therein: + Thou art here in the midst of thy foemen, and from them thou well + mayst win + Whatso thine heart desireth; yet be thou not too bold, + Lest the tale of the wood-abider too oft to the king be told. + Ere many days are departed again shall I see thy face, + That I may wot full surely of thine abiding-place + To send thee help and comfort; but when that hour is o'er + It were good, O last of the Volsungs, that I see thy face no more, + If so indeed it may be: but the Norns must fashion all, + And what the dawn hath fated on the hour of noon shall fall." + + Then she kissed him and departed, for the day was nigh at hand, + And by then she had left the woodways green lay the horse-fed land + Beneath the new-born daylight, and as she brushed the dew + Betwixt the yellowing acres, all heaven o'erhead was blue. + And at last on that dwelling of Kings the golden sunlight lay, + And the morn and the noon and the even built up another day. + + + _Of the birth and fostering of Sinfiotli, Signy's Son._ + + So wrought is the will of King Siggeir, and he weareth Odin's sword + And it lies on his knees in the council and hath no other lord: + And he sendeth earls o'er the sea-flood to take King Volsung's land, + And those scattered and shepherdless sheep must come beneath his hand. + And he holdeth the milk-white Signy as his handmaid and his wife. + And nought but his will she doeth, nor raiseth a word of strife; + So his heart is praising his wisdom, and he deems him of most avail + Of all the lords of the cunning that teacheth how to prevail. + + Now again in a half-month's wearing goes Signy into the wild, + And findeth her way by her wisdom to the dwelling of Volsung's child. + It was e'en as a house of the Dwarfs, a rock, and a stony cave. + In the heart of the midmost thicket by the hidden river's wave. + There Signy found him watching how the white-head waters ran, + And she said in her heart as she saw him that once more she had seen + a man. + His words were few and heavy, for seldom his sorrow slept, + Yet ever his love went with them; and men say that Signy wept + When she left that last of her kindred: yet wept she never more + Amid the earls of Siggeir, and as lovely as before + Was her face to all men's deeming: nor aught it changed for ruth, + Nor for fear nor any longing; and no man said for sooth + That she ever laughed thereafter till the day of her death was come. + + So is Volsung's seed abiding in a rough and narrow home; + And wargear he gat him enough from the slaying of earls of men, + And gold as much as he would; though indeed but now and again + He fell on the men of the merchants, lest, wax he overbold, + The tale of the wood-abider too oft to the king should be told. + Alone in the woods he abided, and a master of masters was he + In the craft of the smithying folk; and whiles would the hunter see, + Belated amid the thicket, his forge's glimmering light, + And the boldest of all the fishers would hear his hammer benight. + Then dim waxed the tale of the Volsungs, and the word mid the + wood-folk rose + That a King of the Giants had wakened from amidst the stone-hedged + close, + Where they slept in the heart of the mountains, and had come adown + to dwell + In the cave whence the Dwarfs were departed, and they said: It is + aught but well + To come anigh to his house-door, or wander wide in his woods? + For a tyrannous lord he is, and a lover of gold and of goods. + + So win the long years over, and still sitteth Signy there + Beside the King of the Goth-folk, and is waxen no less fair, + And men and maids hath she gotten who are ready to work her will, + For the worship of her fairness, and remembrance of her ill. + + So it fell on a morn of springtide, as Sigmund sat on the sward + By that ancient house of the Dwarf-kind and fashioned a golden sword? + By the side of the hidden river he saw a damsel stand, + And a manchild of ten summers was holding by her hand. + And she cried: + "O Forest-dweller! harm not the child nor me, + For I bear a word of Signy's, and thus she saith to thee: + 'I send thee a man to foster; if his heart be good at need + Then may he help thy workday; but hearken my words and heed; + If thou deem that his heart shall avail not, thy work is over-great + That thou weary thy heart with such-like: let him wend the ways of + his fate.'" + + And no more word spake the maiden, but turned and gat her gone, + And there by the side of the river the child abode alone: + But Sigmund stood on his feet, and across the river he went. + For he knew how the child was Siggeir's, and of Signy's fell intent. + So he took the lad on his shoulder, and bade him hold his sword, + And waded back to his dwelling across the rushing ford: + But the youngling fell a prattling, and asked of this and that, + As above the rattle of waters on Sigmund's shoulder he sat! + And Sigmund deemed in his heart that the boy would be bold enough. + So he fostered him there in the woodland in life full hard and rough + For the space of three months' wearing; and the lad was deft and + strong, + Yet his sight was a grief to Sigmund because of his father's wrong. + + On a morn to the son of King Siggeir Sigmund the Volsung said: + "I go to the hunting of deer, bide thou and bake our bread + Against I bring the venison." + So forth he fared on his way, + And came again with the quarry about the noon of day; + Quoth he: "Is the morn's work done?" But the boy said nought for a + space, + And all white he was and quaking as he looked on Sigmund's face. + + "Tell me, O Son of the Goth-king," quoth Sigmund, "how thou hast fared? + Forsooth, is the baking of bread so mighty a thing to be dared?" + + Quoth the lad: "I went to the meal-sack, and therein was something + quick, + And it moved, and I feared for the serpent, like a winter ashen stick + That I saw on the stone last even: so I durst not deal with the thing." + + Loud Sigmund laughed, and answered: "I have heard of that son of a + king, + Who might not be scared from his bread for all the worms of the land." + And therewith he went to the meal-sack and thrust therein his hand, + And drew forth an ash-grey adder, and a deadly worm it was: + Then he went to the door of the cave and set it down in the grass, + While the King's son quaked and quivered: then he drew forth his + sword from the sheath, + And said: + "Now fearest thou this, that men call the serpent of death?" + + Then said the son of King Siggeir: "I am young as yet for the war, + Yet e'en such a blade shall I carry ere many a month be o'er." + + Then abroad went the King in the wind, and leaned on his naked sword + And stood there many an hour, and mused on Signy's word. + But at last when the moon was arisen, and the undark night begun, + He sheathed the sword and cried: "Come forth, King Siggeir's son, + Thou shalt wend from out of the wild-wood and no more will I foster + thee." + + Forth came the son of Siggeir, and quaked his face to see, + But thereof nought Sigmund noted, but bade him wend with him. + So they went through the summer night-tide by many a wood-way dim, + Till they came to a certain wood-lawn, and Sigmund lingered there, + And spake as his feet brushed o'er it: "The June flowers blossom fair." + So they came to the skirts of the forest, and the meadows of the neat, + And the earliest wind of dawning blew over them soft and sweet: + There stayed Sigmund the Volsung, and said: + "King Siggeir's son, + Bide here till the birds are singing, and the day is well begun; + Then go to the house of the Goth-king, and find thou Signy the Queen, + And tell unto no man else the things thou hast heard and seen: + But to her shalt thou tell what thou wilt, and say this word withal: + 'Mother, I come from the wild-wood, and he saith, whatever befal + Alone will I abide there, nor have such fosterlings; + For the sons of the Gods may help me, but never the sons of Kings.' + Go, then, with this word in thy mouth--or do thou after thy fate, + And, if thou wilt, betray me!--and repent it early and late." + + Then he turned his back on the acres, and away to the woodland strode; + But the boy scarce bided the sunrise ere he went the homeward road; + So he came to the house of the Goth-kings, and spake with Signy the + Queen, + Nor told he to any other the things he had heard and seen, + For the heart of a king's son had he. + But Signy hearkened his word; + And long she pondered and said: "What is it my heart hath feared? + And how shall it be with earth's people if the kin of the Volsungs die, + And King Volsung unavenged in his mound by the sea-strand lie? + I have given my best and bravest, as my heart's blood I would give, + And my heart and my fame and my body, that the name of Volsung might + live. + Lo the first gift cast aback: and how shall it be with the last,-- + --If I find out the gift for the giving before the hour be passed?" + + Long while she mused and pondered while day was thrust on day, + Till the king and the earls of the strangers seemed shades of the + dreamtide grey + And gone seemed all earth's people, save that woman mid the gold + And that man in the depths of the forest in the cave of the Dwarfs + of old. + And once in the dark she murmured: "Where then was the ancient song + That the Gods were but twin-born once, and deemed it nothing wrong + To mingle for the world's sake, whence had the AEsir birth, + And the Vanir and the Dwarf-kind, and all the folk of earth?" + + Now amidst those days that she pondered came a wife of the + witch-folk there, + A woman young and lovesome, and shaped exceeding fair, + And she spake with Signy the Queen, and told her of deeds of her craft, + And how the might was with her her soul from her body to waft + And to take the shape of another and give her fashion in turn. + Fierce then in the heart of Signy a sudden flame 'gan burn, + And the eyes of her soul saw all things, like the blind, whom the + world's last fire + Hath healed in one passing moment 'twixt his death and his desire. + And she thought: "Alone I will bear it; alone I will take the crime; + On me alone be the shaming, and the cry of the coming time. + Yea, and he for the life is fated and the help of many a folk, + And I for the death and the rest, and deliverance from the yoke." + + Then wan as the midnight moon she answered the woman and spake: + "Thou art come to the Goth-queen's dwelling, wilt thou do so much + for my sake, + And for many a pound of silver and for rings of the ruddy gold, + As to change thy body for mine ere the night is waxen old?" + + Nought the witch-wife fair gainsaid it, and they went to the bower + aloft + And hand in hand and alone they sung the spell-song soft: + Till Signy looked on her guest, and lo, the face of a queen + With the steadfast eyes of grey, that so many a grief had seen: + But the guest held forth a mirror, and Signy shrank aback + From the laughing lips and the eyes, and the hair of crispy black, + But though she shuddered and sickened, the false face changed no whit; + But ruddy and white it blossomed and the smiles played over it; + And the hands were ready to cling, and beckoning lamps were the eyes, + And the light feet longed for the dance, and the lips for laughter + and lies. + + So that eve in the mid-hall's high-seat was the shape of Signy the + Queen, + While swiftly the feet of the witch-wife brushed over the moonlit + green, + But the soul mid the gleam of the torches, her thought was of gain + and of gold; + And the soul of the wind-driven woman, swift-foot in the moonlight + cold, + Her thoughts were of men's lives' changing, and the uttermost ending + of earth, + And the day when death should be dead, and the new sun's nightless + birth. + + Men say that about that midnight King Sigmund wakened and heard + The voice of a soft-speeched woman, shrill-sweet as a dawning bird; + So he rose, and a woman indeed he saw by the door of the cave + With her raiment wet to her midmost, as though with the river-wave: + And he cried: "What wilt thou, what wilt thou? be thou womankind or + fay, + Here is no good abiding, wend forth upon thy way!" + + She said: "I am nought but a woman, a maid of the earl-folk's kin: + And I went by the skirts of the woodland to the house of my sister + to win, + And have strayed from the way benighted: and I fear the wolves and + the wild + By the glimmering of thy torchlight from afar was I beguiled. + Ah, slay me not on thy threshold, nor send me back again + Through the rattling waves of thy ford, that I crossed in terror and + pain; + Drive me not to the night and the darkness, for the wolves of the + wood to devour. + I am weak and thou art mighty: I will go at the dawning hour." + + So Sigmund looked in her face and saw that she was fair; + And he said: "Nay, nought will I harm thee, and thou mayst harbour + here, + God wot if thou fear'st not me, I have nought to fear thy face: + Though this house be the terror of men-folk, thou shalt find it as + safe a place + As though I were nought but thy brother; and then mayst thou tell, + if thou wilt, + Where dwelleth the dread of the woodland, the bearer of many a guilt, + Though meseems for so goodly a woman it were all too ill a deed + In reward for the wood-wight's guesting to betray him in his need." + + So he took the hand of the woman and straightway led her in + Where days agone the Dwarf-kind would their deeds of smithying win: + And he kindled the half-slaked embers, and gave her of his cheer + Amid the gold and the silver, and the fight-won raiment dear; + And soft was her voice, and she sung him sweet tales of yore agone, + Till all his heart was softened; and the man was all alone, + And in many wise she wooed him; so they parted not that night, + Nor slept till the morrow morning, when the woods were waxen bright: + And high above the tree-boughs shone the sister of the moon, + And hushed were the water-ouzels with the coming of the noon + When she stepped from the bed of Sigmund, and left the Dwarf's abode; + And turned to the dwellings of men, and the ways where the earl-folk + rode. + But next morn from the house of the Goth-king the witch-wife went + her ways + With gold and goods and silver, such store as a queen might praise. + + But no long while with Sigmund dwelt remembrance of that night; + Amid his kingly longings and his many deeds of might + It fled like the dove in the forest or the down upon the blast: + Yet heavy and sad were the years, that even in suchwise passed, + As here it is written aforetime. + Thence were ten years worn by + When unto that hidden river a man-child drew anigh, + And he looked and beheld how Sigmund wrought on a helm of gold + By the crag and the stony dwelling where the Dwarf-kin wrought of old. + Then the boy cried: "Thou art the wood-wight of whom my mother spake; + Now will I come to thy dwelling." + So the rough stream did he take, + And the welter of the waters rose up to his chin and more; + But so stark and strong he waded that he won the further shore: + And he came and gazed on Sigmund: but the Volsung laughed, and said: + "As fast thou runnest toward me as others in their dread + Run over the land and the water: what wilt thou, son of a king?" + + But the lad still gazed on Sigmund, and he said: "A wondrous thing! + Here is the cave and the river, and all tokens of the place: + But my mother Signy told me none might behold that face, + And keep his flesh from quaking: but at thee I quake not aught: + Sure I must journey further, lest her errand come to nought: + Yet I would that my foster-father should be such a man as thou." + + But Sigmund answered and said: "Thou shalt bide in my dwelling now; + And thou mayst wot full surely that thy mother's will is done + By this token and no other, that thou lookedst on Volsung's son + And smiledst fair in his face: but tell me thy name and thy years: + And what are the words of Signy that the son of the Goth-king bears?" + + "Sinfiotli they call me," he said, "and ten summers have I seen; + And this is the only word that I bear from Signy the Queen, + That once more a man she sendeth the work of thine hands to speed, + If he be of the Kings or the Gods thyself shalt know in thy need." + + So Sigmund looked on the youngling and his heart unto him yearned; + But he thought: "Shall I pay the hire ere the worth of the work be + earned? + And what hath my heart to do to cherish Siggeir's son; + A brand belike for the burning when the last of its work is done?" + + But there in the wild and the thicket those twain awhile abode, + And on the lad laid Sigmund full many a weary load, + And thrust him mid all dangers, and he bore all passing well, + Where hardihood might help him; but his heart was fierce and fell; + And ever said Sigmund the Volsung: The lad hath plenteous part + In the guile and malice of Siggeir, and in Signy's hardy heart: + But why should I cherish and love him, since the end must come at last? + + Now a summer and winter and spring o'er those men of the wilds had + pass'd. + And summer was there again, when the Volsung spake on a day: + "I will wend to the wood-deer's hunting, but thou at home shalt stay, + And deal with the baking of bread against the even come." + + So he went and came on the hunting and brought the venison home, + And the child, as ever his wont was, was glad of his coming back, + And said: "Thou hast gotten us venison, and the bread shall nowise + lack." + + "Yea," quoth Sigmund the Volsung, "hast thou kneaded the meal that + was yonder?" + "Yea, and what other?" he said; "though therein forsooth was a wonder: + For when I would handle the meal-sack therein was something quick, + As if the life of an eel-grig were set in an ashen stick: + But the meal must into the oven, since we were lacking bread, + And all that is kneaded together, and the wonder is baked and dead." + + Then Sigmund laughed and answered: "Thou hast kneaded up therein + The deadliest of all adders that is of the creeping kin: + So tonight from the bread refrain thee, lest thy bane should come + of it." + + For here, the tale of the elders doth men a marvel to wit, + That such was the shaping of Sigmund among all earthly kings, + That unhurt he handled adders and other deadly things, + And might drink unscathed of venom: but Sinfiotli so was wrought, + That no sting of creeping creatures would harm his body aught. + + But now full glad was Sigmund, and he let his love arise + For the huge-limbed son of Signy with the fierce and eager eyes; + And all deeds of the sword he learned him, and showed him feats of war + Where sea and forest mingle, and up from the ocean's shore + The highway leads to the market, and men go up and down, + And the spear-hedged wains of the merchants fare oft to the + Goth-folk's town. + Sweet then Sinfiotli deemed it to look on the bale-fires' light, + And the bickering blood-reeds' tangle, and the fallow blades of fight. + And in three years' space were his war-deeds far more than the deeds + of a man: + But dread was his face to behold ere the battle-play began, + And grey and dreadful his face when the last of the battle sank. + And so the years won over, and the joy of the woods they drank, + And they gathered gold and silver, and plenteous outland goods. + + But they came to a house on a day in the uttermost part of the woods + And smote on the door and entered, when a long while no man bade; + And lo, a gold-hung hall, and two men on the benches laid + In slumber as deep as the death; and gold rings great and fair + Those sleepers bore on their bodies, and broidered southland gear, + And over the head of each there hung a wolf-skin grey. + + Then the drift of a cloudy dream wrapt Sigmund's soul away, + And his eyes were set on the wolf-skin, and long he gazed thereat, + And remembered the words he uttered when erst on the beam he sat, + That the Gods should miss a man in the utmost Day of Doom, + And win a wolf in his stead; and unto his heart came home + That thought, as he gazed on the wolf-skin and the other days waxed + dim, + And he gathered the thing in his hand, and did it over him; + And in likewise did Sinfiotli as he saw his fosterer do. + Then lo, a fearful wonder, for as very wolves they grew + In outward shape and semblance, and they howled out wolfish things, + Like the grey dogs of the forest; though somewhat the hearts of kings + Abode in their bodies of beasts. Now sooth is the tale to tell, + That the men in the fair-wrought raiment were kings' sons bound by a + spell + To wend as wolves of the wild-wood, for each nine days of the ten, + And to lie all spent for a season when they gat their shapes of men. + + So Sigmund and his fellow rush forth from the golden place; + And though their kings' hearts bade them the backward way to trace + Unto their Dwarf-wrought dwelling, and there abide the change, + Yet their wolfish habit drave them wide through the wood to range, + And draw nigh to the dwellings of men and fly upon the prey. + + And lo now, a band of hunters on the uttermost woodland way, + And they spy those dogs of the forest, and fall on with the spear, + Nor deemed that any other but woodland beasts they were, + And that easy would be the battle: short is the tale to tell; + For every man of the hunters amid the thicket fell. + + Then onwards fare those were-wolves, and unto the sea they turn, + And their ravening hearts are heavy, and sore for the prey they yearn: + And lo, in the last of the thicket a score of the chaffering men, + And Sinfiotli was wild for the onset, but Sigmund was wearying then + For the glimmering gold of his Dwarf-house, and he bade refrain from + the folk, + But wrath burned in the eyes of Sinfiotli, and forth from the + thicket he broke; + Then rose the axes aloft, and the swords flashed bright in the sun, + And but little more it needed that the race of the Volsungs was done, + And the folk of the Gods' begetting: but at last they quelled the war, + And no man again of the sea-folk should ever sit by the oar. + + Now Sinfiotli fay weary and faint, but Sigmund howled over the dead, + And wrath in his heart there gathered, and a dim thought wearied his + head + And his tangled wolfish wit, that might never understand; + As though some God in his dreaming had wasted the work of his hand, + And forgotten his craft of creation; then his wrath swelled up amain + And he turned and fell on Sinfiotli, who had wrought the wrack and + the bane + And across the throat he tore him as his very mortal foe + Till a cold dead corpse by the sea-strand his fosterling lay alow: + Then wearier yet grew Sigmund, and the dim wit seemed to pass + From his heart grown cold and feeble; when lo, amid the grass + There came two weazles bickering, and one bit his mate by the head, + Till she lay there dead before him: then he sorrowed over her dead: + But no long while he abode there, but into the thicket he went, + And the wolfish heart of Sigmund knew somewhat his intent: + So he came again with a herb-leaf and laid it on his mate, + And she rose up whole and living and no worser of estate + Than ever she was aforetime, and the twain went merry away. + + Then swiftly rose up Sigmund from where his fosterling lay, + And a long while searched the thicket, till that three-leaved herb + he found, + And he laid it on Sinfiotli, who rose up hale and sound + As ever he was in his life-days. But now in hate they had + That hapless work of the witch-folk, and the skins that their bodies + clad. + So they turn their faces homeward and a weary way they go, + Till they come to the hidden river, and the glimmering house they know. + + There now they abide in peace, and wend abroad no more + Till the last of the nine days perished, and the spell for a space + was o'er, + And they might cast their wolf-shapes: so they stood on their feet + upright + Great men again as aforetime, and they came forth into the light + And looked in each other's faces, and belike a change was there + Since they did on the bodies of wolves, and lay in the wood-wolves' + lair, + And they looked, and sore they wondered, and they both for speech + did yearn. + + First then spake out Sinfiotli: "Sure I had a craft to learn, + And thou hadst a lesson to teach, that I left the dwelling of kings, + And came to the wood-wolves' dwelling; thou hast taught me many things + But the Gods have taught me more, and at last have abased us both, + That of nought that lieth before us our hearts and our hands may be + loth. + Come then, how long shall I tarry till I fashion something great? + Come, Master, and make me a master that I do the deeds of fate." + + Heavy was Sigmund's visage but fierce did his eyen glow, + "This is the deed of thy mastery;--we twain shall slay my foe-- + And how if the foe were thy father?"-- + Then he telleth him Siggeir's tale: + And saith: "Now think upon it; how shall thine heart avail + To bear the curse that cometh if thy life endureth long-- + The man that slew his father and amended wrong with wrong? + Yet if the Gods have made thee a man unlike all men, + (For thou startest not, nor palest), can I forbear it then, + To use the thing they have fashioned lest the Volsung seed should die + And unavenged King Volsung in his mound by the sea-strand lie?" + + Then loud laughed out Sinfiotli, and he said: "I wot indeed + That Signy is my mother, and her will I help at need: + Is the fox of the King-folk my father, that adder of the brake, + Who gave me never a blessing, and many a cursing spake? + Yea, have I in sooth a father, save him that cherished my life, + The Lord of the Helm of Terror, the King of the Flame of Strife? + Lo now my hand is ready to strike what stroke thou wilt, + For I am the sword of the Gods: and thine hand shall hold the hilt." + + Fierce glowed the eyes of King Sigmund, for he knew the time was come + When the curse King Siggeir fashioned at last shall seek him home: + And of what shall follow after, be it evil days, or bliss, + Or praise, or the cursing of all men,--the Gods shall see to this. + + + _Of the slaying of Siggeir the Goth-king._ + + So there are those kings abiding, and they think of nought but the day + When the time at last shall serve them, to wend on the perilous way. + And so in the first of winter, when nights grow long and mirk, + They fare unto Siggeir's dwelling and seek wherein to lurk. + And by hap 'twas the tide of twilight, ere the watch of the night + was set + And the watch of the day was departed, as Sinfiotli minded yet + So now by a passage he wotted they gat them into the bower + Where lay the biggest wine-tuns, and there they abode the hour: + Anigh to the hall it was, but no man came thereto, + But now and again the cup-lord when King Siggeir's wine he drew: + Yea and so nigh to the feast-hall, that they saw the torches shine + When the cup-lord was departed with King Siggeir's dear-bought wine, + And they heard the glee of the people, and the horns and the + beakers' din, + When the feast was dight in the hall and the earls were merry therein. + Calm was the face of Sigmund, and clear were his eyes and bright; + But Sinfiotli gnawed on his shield-rim, and his face was haggard and + white: + For he deemed the time full long, ere the fallow blades should leap + In the hush of the midnight feast-hall o'er King Siggeir's golden + sleep. + + Now it fell that two little children, Queen Signy's youngest-born, + Were about the hall that even, and amid the glee of the horn + They played with a golden toy, and trundled it here and there, + And thus to that lurking-bower they drew exceeding near, + When there fell a ring from their toy, and swiftly rolled away + And into the place of the wine-tuns, and by Sigmund's feet made stay; + Then the little ones followed after, and came to the lurking-place + Where lay those night-abiders, and met them face to face, + And fled, ere they might hold them, aback to the thronging hall. + + Then leapt those twain to their feet lest the sword and the murder fall + On their hearts in their narrow lair and they die without a stroke; + But e'en as they met the torch-light and the din and tumult of folk, + Lo there on the very threshold did Signy the Volsung stand, + And one of her last-born children she had on either hand; + For the children had cried: "We have seen them--those two among the + wine, + And their hats are wide and white, and their garments tinkle and + shine." + So while men ran to their weapons, those children Signy took, + And went to meet her kinsmen: then once more did Sigmund look + On the face of his father's daughter, and kind of heart he grew, + As the clash of the coming battle anigh the doomed men drew: + But wan and fell was Signy; and she cried: + "The end is near! + --And thou with the smile on thy face and the joyful eyes and clear! + But with these thy two betrayers first stain the edge of fight, + For why should the fruit of my body outlive my soul tonight?" + + But he cried in the front of the spear-hedge; "Nay this shall be far + from me + To slay thy children sackless, though my death belike they be. + Now men will be dealing, sister, and old the night is grown, + And fair in the house of my fathers the benches are bestrown." + + So she stood aside and gazed: but Sinfiotli taketh them up + And breaketh each tender body as a drunkard breaketh a cup; + With a dreadful voice he crieth, and casteth them down the hall, + And the Goth-folk sunder before them, and at Siggeir's feet they fall. + + But the fallow blades leapt naked, and on the battle came, + As the tide of the winter ocean sweeps up to the beaconing flame. + But firm in the midst of onset Sigmund the Volsung stood, + And stirred no more for the sword-strokes than the oldest oak of the + wood + Shall shake to the herd-boys' whittles: white danced his war-flame's + gleam, + And oft to men's beholding his eyes of God would beam + Clear from the sword-blades' tangle, and often for a space + Amazed the garth of murder stared deedless on his face; + Nor back nor forward moved he: but fierce Sinfiotli went + Where the spears were set the thickest, and sword with sword was blent; + And great was the death before him, till he slipped in the blood and + fell: + Then the shield-garth compassed Sigmund, and short is the tale to tell; + For they bore him down unwounded, and bonds about him cast: + Nor sore hurt is Sinfiotli, but is hoppled strait and fast. + + Then the Goth-folk went to slumber when the hall was washed from blood: + But a long while wakened Siggeir, for fell and fierce was his mood, + And all the days of his kingship seemed nothing worth as then + While fared the son of Volsung as well as the worst of men, + While yet that son of Signy lay untormented there: + Yea the past days of his kingship seemed blossomless and bare + Since all their might had failed him to quench the Volsung kin. + + So when the first grey dawning a new day did begin, + King Siggeir bade his bondsmen to dight an earthen mound + Anigh to the house of the Goth-kings amid the fruit-grown ground: + And that house of death was twofold, for 'twas sundered by a stone + Into two woeful chambers: alone and not alone + Those vanquished thralls of battle therein should bide their hour, + That each might hear the tidings of the other's baleful bower, + Yet have no might to help him. So now the twain they brought + And weary-dull was Sinfiotli, with eyes that looked at nought. + But Sigmund fresh and clear-eyed went to the deadly hall, + And the song arose within him as he sat within its wall; + Nor aught durst Siggeir mock him, as he had good will to do, + But went his ways when the bondmen brought the roofing turfs thereto. + + And that was at eve of the day; and lo now, Signy the white + Wan-faced and eager-eyed stole through the beginning of night + To the place where the builders built, and the thralls with + lingering hands + Had roofed in the grave of Sigmund and hidden the glory of lands, + But over the head of Sinfiotli for a space were the rafters bare. + Gold then to the thralls she gave, and promised them days full fair + If they held their peace for ever of the deed that then she did: + And nothing they gainsayed it; so she drew forth something hid, + In wrappings of wheat-straw winded, and into Sinfiotli's place + She cast it all down swiftly; then she covereth up her face + And beneath the winter starlight she wended swift away. + But her gift do the thralls deem victual, and the thatch on the hall + they lay, + And depart, they too, to their slumber, now dight was the dwelling + of death. + + Then Sigmund hears Sinfiotli, how he cries through the stone and saith: + "Best unto babe is mother, well sayeth the elder's saw; + Here hath Signy sent me swine's-flesh in windings of wheaten straw." + + And again he held him silent of bitter words or of sweet; + And quoth Sigmund, "What hath betided? is an adder in the meat?" + Then loud his fosterling laughed: "Yea, a worm of bitter tooth, + The serpent of the Branstock, the sword of thy days of youth! + I have felt the hilts aforetime; I have felt how the letters run + On each side of the trench of blood and the point of that glorious one. + O mother, O mother of kings! we shall live and our days shall be sweet! + I have loved thee well aforetime, I shall love thee more when we meet." + + Then Sigmund heard the sword-point smite on the stone wall's side, + And slowly mid the darkness therethrough he heard it gride + As against it bore Sinfiotli: but he cried out at the last: + "It biteth, O my fosterer! It cleaves the earth-bone fast! + Now learn we the craft of the masons that another day may come + When we build a house for King Siggeir, a strait unlovely home." + + Then in the grave-mound's darkness did Sigmund the king upstand; + And unto that saw of battle he set his naked hand; + And hard the gift of Odin home to their breasts they drew; + Sawed Sigmund, sawed Sinfiotli, till the stone was cleft atwo, + And they met and kissed together: then they hewed and heaved full hard + Till lo, through the bursten rafters the winter heavens bestarred! + And they leap out merry-hearted; nor is there need to say + A many words between them of whither was the way. + + For they took the night-watch sleeping, and slew them one and all + And then on the winter fagots they made them haste to fall, + They pile the oak-trees cloven, and when the oak-beams fail + They bear the ash and the rowan, and build a mighty bale + About the dwelling of Siggeir, and lay the torch therein. + Then they drew their swords and watched it till the flames began to win + Hard on to the mid-hall's rafters, and those feasters of the folk, + As the fire-flakes fell among them, to their last of days awoke. + By the gable-door stood Sigmund, and fierce Sinfiotli stood + Red-lit by the door of the women in the lane of blazing wood: + To death each doorway opened, and death was in the hall. + + Then amid the gathered Goth-folk 'gan Siggeir the king to call: + "Who lit the fire I burn in, and what shall buy me peace? + Will ye take my heaped-up treasure, or ten years of my fields' + increase, + Or half of my father's kingdom? O toilers at the oar, + O wasters of the sea-plain, now labour ye no more! + But take the gifts I bid you, and lie upon the gold, + And clothe your limbs in purple and the silken women hold!" + + But a great voice cried o'er the fire: "Nay, no such men are we, + No tuggers at the hawser, no wasters of the sea: + We will have the gold and the purple when we list such things to win + But now we think on our fathers, and avenging of our kin. + Not all King Siggeir's kingdom, and not all the world's increase + For ever and for ever, shall buy thee life and peace. + For now is the tree-bough blossomed that sprang from murder's seed; + And the death-doomed and the buried are they that do the deed; + Now when the dead shall ask thee by whom thy days were done, + Thou shalt say by Sigmund the Volsung, and Sinfiotli, Signy's son." + + Then stark fear fell on the earl-folk, and silent they abide + Amid the flaming penfold; and again the great voice cried, + As the Goth-king's golden pillars grew red amidst the blaze: + "Ye women of the Goth-folk, come forth upon your ways; + And thou, Signy, O my sister, come forth from death and hell, + That beneath the boughs of the Branstock once more we twain may dwell." + + Forth came the white-faced women and passed Sinfiotli's sword, + Free by the glaive of Odin the trembling pale ones poured, + But amid their hurrying terror came never Signy's feet; + And the pearls of the throne of Siggeir shrunk in the fervent heat. + + Then the men of war surged outward to the twofold doors of bane, + But there played the sword of Sigmund amidst the fiery lane + Before the gable door-way, and by the woman's door + Sinfiotli sang to the sword-edge amid the bale-fire's roar, + And back again to the burning the earls of the Goth-folk shrank: + And the light low licked the tables, and the wine of Siggeir drank. + + Lo now to the woman's doorway, the steel-watched bower of flame, + Clad in her queenly raiment King Volsung's daughter came + Before Sinfiotli's sword-point; and she said: "O mightiest son, + Best now is our departing in the day my grief hath won, + And the many days of toiling, and the travail of my womb, + And the hate, and the fire of longing: thou, son, and this day of + the doom + Have long been as one to my heart; and now shall I leave you both, + And well ye may wot of the slumber my heart is nothing loth; + And all the more, as, meseemeth, thy day shall not be long + To weary thee with labour and mingle wrong with wrong. + Yea, and I wot that the daylight thine eyes had never seen + Save for a great king's murder and the shame of a mighty queen. + But let thy soul, I charge thee, o'er all these things prevail + To make thy short day glorious and leave a goodly tale." + + She kissed him and departed, and unto Sigmund went + As now against the dawning grey grew the winter bent: + As the night and the morning mingled he saw her face once more, + And he deemed it fair and ruddy as in the days of yore; + Yet fast the tears fell from her, and the sobs upheaved her breast: + And she said: "My youth was happy; but this hour belike is best + Of all the days of my life-tide, that soon shall have an end. + I have come to greet thee, Sigmund, then back again must I wend, + For his bed the Goth-king dighteth: I have lain therein, time was, + And loathed the sleep I won there: but lo, how all things pass, + And hearts are changed and softened, for lovely now it seems. + Yet fear not my forgetting: I shall see thee in my dreams + A mighty king of the world 'neath the boughs of the Branstock green, + With thine earls and thy lords about thee as the Volsung fashion + hath been. + And there shall all ye remember how I loved the Volsung name, + Nor spared to spend for its blooming my joy, and my life, and my fame. + For hear thou: that Sinfiotli, who hath wrought out our desire, + Who hath compassed about King Siggeir with this sea of a deadly fire, + Who brake thy grave asunder--my child and thine he is, + Begot in that house of the Dwarf-kind for no other end than this; + The son of Volsung's daughter, the son of Volsung's son. + Look, look! might another helper this deed with thee have done?" + + And indeed as the word she uttereth, high up the red flames flare + To the nether floor of the heavens: and yet men see them there, + The golden roofs of Siggeir, the hall of the silver door + That the Goths and the Gods had builded to last for evermore. + + She said: "Farewell, my brother, for the earls my candles light, + And I must wend me bedward lest I lose the flower of night." + + And soft and sweet she kissed him, ere she turned about again, + And a little while was Signy beheld of the eyes of men; + And as she crossed the threshold day brightened at her back, + Nor once did she turn her earthward from the reek and the whirling + wrack, + But fair in the fashion of Queens passed on to the heart of the hall. + + And then King Siggeir's roof-tree upheaved for its utmost fall, + And its huge walls clashed together, and its mean and lowly things + The fire of death confounded with the tokens of the kings. + A sign for many people on the land of the Goths it lay, + A lamp of the earth none needed, for the bright sun brought the day. + + + _How Sigmund cometh to the Land of the Volsungs again, and of the + death of Sinfiotli his Son._ + + Now Sigmund the king bestirs him, and Sinfiotli, Sigmund's son, + And they gather a host together, and many a mighty one; + Then they set the ships in the sea-flood and sail from the + stranger's shore, + And the beaks of the golden dragons see the Volsungs' land once more: + And men's hearts are fulfilled of joyance; and they cry, The sun + shines now + With never a curse to hide it, and they shall reap that sow! + Then for many a day sits Sigmund 'neath the boughs of the Branstock + green, + With his earls and lords about him as the Volsung wont hath been. + And oft he thinketh on Signy and oft he nameth her name, + And tells how she spent her joyance and her lifedays and her fame + That the Volsung kin might blossom and bear the fruit of worth + For the hope of unborn people and the harvest of the earth. + And again he thinks of the word that he spake that other day, + How he should abide there lonely when his kin was passed away, + Their glory and sole avenger, their after-summer seed. + + And now for their fame's advancement, and the latter days to speed, + He weddeth a wife of the King-folk; Borghild she had to name; + And the woman was fair and lovely and bore him sons of fame; + Men call them Hamond and Helgi, and when Helgi first saw light, + There came the Norns to his cradle and gave him life full bright, + And called him Sunlit Hill, Sharp Sword, and Land of Rings, + And bade him be lovely and great, and a joy in the tale of kings. + And he waxed up fair and mighty, and no worser than their word, + And sweet are the tales of his life-days, and the wonders of his sword, + And the Maid of the Shield that he wedded, and how he changed his life, + And of marvels wrought in the gravemound where he rested from the + strife. + + But the tale of Sinfiotli telleth, that wide in the world he went, + And many a wall of ravens the edge of his warflame rent; + And oft he drave the war-prey and wasted many a land: + Amidst King Hunding's battle he strengthened Helgi's hand; + And he went before the banners amidst the steel-grown wood, + When the sons of Hunding gathered and Helgi's hope withstood: + Nor less he mowed the war-swathe in Helgi's glorious day + When the kings of the hosts at the Wolf-crag set the battle in array. + Then at home by his father's high-seat he wore the winter through; + And the marvel of all men he was for the deeds whereof they knew, + And the deeds whereof none wotted, and the deeds to follow after. + + And yet but a little while he loved the song and the laughter, + And the wine that was drunk in peace, and the swordless lying down, + And the deedless day's uprising and the ungirt golden gown. + And he thought of the word of his mother, that his day should not be + long + To weary his soul with labour or mingle wrong with wrong; + And his heart was exceeding hungry o'er all men to prevail, + And make his short day glorious and leave a goodly tale. + + So when green leaves were lengthening and the spring was come again + He set his ships in the sea-flood and sailed across the main; + And the brother of Queen Borghild was his fellow in the war, + A king of hosts hight Gudrod; and each to each they swore, + And plighted troth for the helping, and the parting of the prey. + + Now a long way over the sea-flood they went ashore on a day + And fought with a mighty folk-king, and overcame at last: + Then wide about his kingdom the net of steel they cast, + And the prey was great and goodly that they drave unto the strand. + But a greedy heart is Gudrod, and a king of griping hand, + Though nought he blench from the battle; so he speaks on a morning + fair, + And saith: + "Upon the foreshore the booty will we share + If thou wilt help me, fellow, before we sail our ways." + + Sinfiotli laughed, and answered: "O'ershort methinks the days + That two kings of war should chaffer like merchants of the men: + I will come again in the even and look on thy dealings then, + And take the share thou givest." + Then he went his ways withal, + And drank day-long in his warship as in his father's hall; + And came again in the even: now hath Gudrod shared the spoil, + And throughout that day of summer not light had been his toil: + Forsooth his heap was the lesser; but Sinfiotli looked thereon, + And saw that a goodly getting had Borghild's brother won. + Clean-limbed and stark were the horses, and the neat were fat and + sleek, + And the men-thralls young and stalwart, and the women young and meek; + Fair-gilt was the harness of battle, and the raiment fresh and bright, + And the household stuff new-fashioned for lords' and earls' delight. + On his own then looked Sinfiotli, and great it was forsooth, + But half-foundered were the horses, and a sight for all men's ruth + Were the thin-ribbed hungry cow-kind; and the thralls both carle and + quean + Were the wilful, the weak, and the witless, and the old and the + ill-beseen; + Spoilt was the harness and house-gear, and the raiment rags of cloth. + + Now Sinfiotli's men beheld it and grew exceeding wroth, + But Sinfiotli laughed and answered: "The day's work hath been meet: + Thou hast done well, war-brother, to sift the chaff from the wheat + Nought have kings' sons to meddle with the refuse of the earth, + Nor shall warriors burden their long-ships with things of nothing + worth." + + Then he cried across the sea-strand in a voice exceeding great: + "Depart, ye thralls of the battle; ye have nought to do to wait! + Old, young, and good, and evil, depart and share the spoil, + That burden of the battle, that spring and seed of toil. + --But thou king of the greedy heart, thou king of the thievish grip, + What now wilt thou bear to the sea-strand and set within my ship + To buy thy life from the slaying? Unmeet for kings to hear + Of a king the breaker of troth, of a king the stealer of gear." + + Then mad-wroth waxed King Gudrod, and he cried: "Stand up, my men! + And slay this wood-abider lest he slay his brothers again!" + + But no sword leapt from its sheath, and his men shrank back in dread; + Then Sinfiotli's brow grew smoother, and at last he spake and said: + "Indeed thou art very brother of my father Sigmund's wife: + Wilt thou do so much for thine honour, wilt thou do so much for thy + life, + As to bide my sword on the island in the pale of the hazel wands? + For I know thee no battle-blencher, but a valiant man of thine hands." + + Now nought King Gudrod gainsayeth, and men dight the hazelled field, + And there on the morrow morning they clash the sword and shield, + And the fallow blades are leaping: short is the tale to tell, + For with the third stroke stricken to field King Gudrod fell. + So there in the holm they lay him; and plenteous store of gold + Sinfiotli lays beside him amid that hall of mould; + "For he gripped," saith the son of Sigmund, "and gathered for such + a day." + + Then Sinfiotli and his fellows o'er the sea-flood sail away, + And come to the land of the Volsungs: but Borghild heareth the tale, + And into the hall she cometh with eager face and pale + As the kings were feasting together, and glad was Sigmund grown + Of the words of Sinfiotli's battle, and the tale of his great renown: + And there sat the sons of Borghild, and they hearkened and were glad + Of their brother born in the wild-wood, and the crown of fame he had. + + So she stood before King Sigmund, and spread her hands abroad: + "I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the Volsungs' lord, + To tell me of my brother, why cometh he not from the sea?" + + Quoth Sinfiotli: "Well thou wottest and the tale hath come to thee: + The white swords met in the island; bright there did the war-shields + shine, + And there thy brother abideth, for his hand was worser than mine." + + But she heeded him never a whit, but cried on Sigmund and said: + "I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the lord of my bed, + To drive this wolf of the King-folk from out thy guarded land; + Lest all we of thine house and kindred should fall beneath his hand." + + Then spake King Sigmund the Volsung: "When thou hast heard the tale, + Thou shalt know that somewhat thy brother of his oath to my son did + fail; + Nor fell the man all sackless: nor yet need Sigmund's son + For any slain in sword-field to any soul atone. + Yet for the love I bear thee, and because thy love I know, + And because the man was mighty, and far afield would go, + I will lay down a mighty weregild, a heap of the ruddy gold." + + But no word answered Borghild, for her heart was grim and cold; + And she went from the hall of the feasting, and lay in her bower + a while; + Nor speech she took, nor gave it, but brooded deadly guile. + And now again on the morrow to Sigmund the king she went, + And she saith that her wrath hath failed her, and that well is she + content + To take the king's atonement; and she kissed him soft and sweet, + And she kissed Sinfiotli his son, and sat down in the golden seat + All merry and glad by seeming, and blithe to most and least. + And again she biddeth King Sigmund that he hold a funeral feast + For her brother slain on the island; and nought he gainsayeth her will. + + And so on an eve of the autumn do men the beakers fill, + And the earls are gathered together 'neath the boughs of the + Branstock green; + There gold-clad mid the feasting went Borghild, Sigmund's Queen, + And she poured the wine for Sinfiotli, and smiled in his face and said: + "Drink now of this cup from mine hand, and bury we hate that is dead." + + So he took the cup from her fingers, nor drank but pondered long + O'er the gathering days of his labour, and the intermingled wrong. + + Now he sat by the side of his father; and Sigmund spake a word: + "O son, why sittest thou silent mid the glee of earl and lord?" + + "I look in the cup," quoth Sinfiotli, "and hate therein I see." + + "Well looked it is," said Sigmund; "give thou the cup to me," + And he drained it dry to the bottom; for ye mind how it was writ + That this king might drink of venom, and have no hurt of it. + But the song sprang up in the hall, and merry was Sigmund's heart, + And he drank of the wine of King-folk and thrust all care apart. + + Then the second time came Borghild and stood before the twain, + And she said: "O valiant step-son, how oft shall I say it in vain, + That my hate for thee hath perished, and the love hath sprouted green? + Wilt thou thrust my gift away, and shame the hand of a queen?" + + So he took the cup from her fingers, and pondered over it long, + And thought on the labour that should be, and the wrong that + amendeth wrong. + + Then spake Sigmund the King: "O son, what aileth thine heart, + When the earls of men are merry, and thrust all care apart?" + + But he said: "I have looked in the cup, and I see the deadly snare." + + "Well seen it is," quoth Sigmund, "but thy burden I may bear." + And he took the beaker and drained it, and the song rose up in the + hall; + And fair bethought King Sigmund his latter days befall. + + But again came Borghild the Queen and stood with the cup in her hand, + And said: "They are idle liars, those singers of every land + Who sing how thou fearest nothing; for thou losest valour and might, + And art fain to live for ever." + Then she stretched forth her fingers white, + And he took the cup from her hand, nor drank, but pondered long + Of the toil that begetteth toil, and the wrong that beareth wrong. + + But Sigmund turned him about, and he said: "What aileth thee, son? + Shall our life-days never be merry, and our labour never be done?" + + But Sinfiotli said: "I have looked, and lo there is death in the cup." + + And the song, and the tinkling of harp-strings to the roof-tree + winded up: + And Sigmund was dreamy with wine and the wearing of many a year; + And the noise and the glee of the people as the sound of the wild + woods were, + And the blossoming boughs of the Branstock were the wild trees + waving about; + So he said: "Well seen, my fosterling; let the lip then strain it out." + Then Sinfiotli laughed and answered: "I drink unto Odin then, + And the Dwellers up in God-home, the lords of the lives of men." + + He drank as he spake the word, and forthwith the venom ran + In a chill flood over his heart, and down fell the mighty man + With never an uttered death-word and never a death-changed look, + And the floor of the hall of the Volsungs beneath his falling shook. + + Then up rose the elder of days with a great and bitter cry + And lifted the head of the fallen, and none durst come anigh + To hearken the words of his sorrow, if any words he said, + But such as the Father of all men might speak over Baldur dead. + And again, as before the death-stroke, waxed the hall of the + Volsungs dim, + And once more he seemed in the forest, where he spake with nought + but him. + + Then he lifted him up from the hall-floor and bore him on his breast, + And men who saw Sinfiotli deemed his heart had gotten rest, + And his eyes were no more dreadful. Forth fared the Volsung child + With Signy's son through the doorway; and the wind was great and wild, + And the moon rode high in the heavens, and whiles it shone out bright, + And whiles the clouds drew over. So went he through the night, + Until the dwellings of man-folk were a long while left behind. + Then came he unto the thicket and the houses of the wind, + And the feet of the hoary mountains, and the dwellings of the deer, + And the heaths without a shepherd, and the houseless dales and drear. + Then lo, a mighty water, a rushing flood and wide, + And no ferry for the shipless; so he went along its side, + As a man that seeketh somewhat: but it widened toward the sea, + And the moon sank down in the west, and he went o'er a desert lea. + + But lo, in that dusk ere the dawning a glimmering over the flood, + And the sound of the cleaving of waters, and Sigmund the Volsung stood + By the edge of the swirling eddy, and a white-sailed boat he saw, + And its keel ran light on the strand with the last of the dying flaw. + But therein was a man most mighty, grey-clad like the mountain-cloud, + One-eyed and seeming ancient, and he spake and hailed him aloud: + + "Now whither away, King Sigmund, for thou farest far to-night?" + + Spake the King: "I would cross this water, for my life hath lost its + light, + And mayhap there be deeds for a king to be found on the further shore." + + "My senders," quoth the shipman, "bade me waft a great king o'er, + So set thy burden a shipboard, for the night's face looks toward day." + + So betwixt the earth and the water his son did Sigmund lay; + But lo, when he fain would follow, there was neither ship nor man, + Nor aught but his empty bosom beside that water wan, + That whitened by little and little as the night's face looked to the + day. + So he stood a long while gazing and then turned and gat him away; + And ere the sun of the noon-tide across the meadows shone + Sigmund the King of the Volsungs was set in his father's throne, + And he hearkened and doomed and portioned, and did all the deeds of + a king. + So the autumn waned and perished, and the winter brought the spring. + + + _Of the last battle of King Sigmund, and the death of him._ + + Now is Queen Borghild driven from the Volsung's bed and board, + And unwedded sitteth Sigmund an exceeding mighty lord, + And fareth oft to the war-field, and addeth fame to fame: + And where'er are the great ones told of his sons shall the people name; + But short was their day of harvest and their reaping of renown, + And while men stood by to marvel they gained their latest crown. + So Sigmund alone abideth of all the Volsung seed, + And the folk that the Gods had fashioned lest the earth should lack + a deed + And he said: "The tree was stalwart, but its boughs are old and worn. + Where now are the children departed, that amidst my life were born? + I know not the men about me, and they know not of my ways: + I am nought but a picture of battle, and a song for the people to + praise. + I must strive with the deeds of my kingship, and yet when mine hour + is come + It shall meet me as glad as the goodman when he bringeth the last + load home." + + Now there was a king of the Islands, whom the tale doth Eylimi call, + And saith he was wise and valiant, though his kingdom were but small: + He had one only daughter that Hiordis had to name, + A woman wise and shapely beyond the praise of fame. + And now saith the son of King Volsung that his time is short enow + To labour the Volsung garden, and the hand must be set to the plough: + So he sendeth an earl of the people to King Eylimi's high-built hall, + Bearing the gifts and the tokens, and this word in his mouth withal: + + "King Sigmund the son of Volsung hath sent me here with a word + That plenteous good of thy daughter among all folk he hath heard, + And he wooeth that wisest of women that she may sit on his throne, + And lie in the bed of the Volsungs, and be his wife alone. + And he saith that he thinketh surely she shall bear the kings of the + earth, + And maybe the best and the greatest of all who are deemed of worth. + Now hereof would he have an answer within a half-month's space, + And these gifts meanwhile he giveth for the increase of thy grace." + + So King Eylimi hearkened the message, and hath no word to say, + For an earl of King Lyngi the mighty is come that very day, + He too for the wooing of Hiordis: and Lyngi's realm is at hand, + But afar King Sigmund abideth o'er many a sea and land: + And the man is young and eager, and grim and guileful of mood. + + At last he sayeth: "Abide here such space as thou deemest good, + But tomorn shalt thou have thine answer that thine heart may the + lighter be + For the hearkening of harp and songcraft, and the dealing with game + and glee." + Then he went to Queen Hiordis bower, where she worked in the silk + and the gold + The deeds of the world that should be, and the deeds that were of old. + And he stood before her and said: + "I have spoken a word, time was, + That thy will should rule thy wedding; and now hath it come to pass + That again two kings of the people will woo thy body to bed." + So she rose to her feet and hearkened: "And which be they?" she said. + + He spake: "The first is Lyngi, a valiant man and a fair, + A neighbour ill for thy father, if a foe's name he must bear: + And the next is King Sigmund the Volsung of a land far over sea, + And well thou knowest his kindred, and his might and his valiancy, + And the tales of his heart of a God; and though old he be waxen now, + Yet men deem that the wide world's blossom from Sigmund's loins + shall grow." + + Said Hiordis: "I wot, my father, that hereof may strife arise; + Yet soon spoken is mine answer; for I, who am called the wise, + Shall I thrust by the praise of the people, and the tale that no + ending hath, + And the love and the heart of the godlike, and the + heavenward-leading path, + For the rose and the stem of the lily, and the smooth-lipped + youngling's kiss, + And the eyes' desire that passeth, and the frail unstable bliss? + Now shalt thou tell King Sigmund, that I deem it the crown of my life + To dwell in the house of his fathers amidst all peace and strife, + And to bear the sons of his body: and indeed full well I know + That fair from the loins of Sigmund shall such a stem outgrow + That all folk of the earth shall be praising the womb where once he lay + And the paps that his lips have cherished, and shall bless my happy + day." + + Now the king's heart sore misgave him, but herewith must he be content, + And great gifts to the earl of Lyngi and a word withal he sent, + That the woman's troth was plighted to another people's king. + But King Sigmund's earl on the morrow hath joyful yea-saying, + And ere two moons be perished he shall fetch his bride away. + "And bid him," King Eylimi sayeth, "to come with no small array, + But with sword and shield and war-shaft, lest aught of ill betide." + + So forth goes the earl of Sigmund across the sea-flood wide, + And comes to the land of the Volsungs, and meeteth Sigmund the king, + And tells how he sped on his errand, and the joyful yea-saying. + + So King Sigmund maketh him ready, and they ride adown to the sea + All glorious of gear and raiment, and a goodly company. + Yet hath Sigmund thought of his father, and the deed he wrought before, + And hath scorn to gather his people and all his hosts of war + To wend to the feast and the wedding: yet are their long-ships ten, + And the shielded folk aboard them are the mightiest men of men. + So Sigmund goeth a shipboard, and they hoist their sails to the wind, + And the beaks of the golden dragons leave the Volsungs' land behind. + Then come they to Eylimi's kingdom, and good welcome have they there, + And when Sigmund looked on Hiordis, he deemed her wise and fair. + But her heart was exceeding fain when she saw the glorious king, + And it told her of times that should be full many a noble thing. + + So there is Sigmund wedded at a great and goodly feast, + And day by day on Hiordis the joy of her heart increased; + And her father joyed in Sigmund and his might and majesty, + And dead in the heart of the Isle-king his ancient fear did lie. + + Yet, forsooth, had men looked seaward, they had seen the gathering + cloud, + And the little wind arising, that should one day pipe so loud. + For well may ye wot indeed that King Lyngi the Mighty is wroth, + When he getteth the gifts and the answer, and that tale of the + woman's troth: + And he saith he will have the gifts and the woman herself withal, + Either for loving or hating, and that both those heads shall fall. + So now when Sigmund and Hiordis are wedded a month or more, + And the Volsung bids men dight them to cross the sea-flood o'er, + Lo, how there cometh the tidings of measureless mighty hosts + Who are gotten ashore from their long-ships on the skirts of King + Eylimi's coasts. + + Sore boded the heart of the Isle-king of what the end should be. + But Sigmund long beheld him, and he said: "Thou deem'st of me + That my coming hath brought thee evil; but put aside such things; + For long have I lived, and I know it, that the lives of mighty kings + Are not cast away, nor drifted like the down before the wind; + And surely I know, who say it, that never would Hiordis' mind + Have been turned to wed King Lyngi or aught but the Volsung seed + Come, go we forth to the battle, that shall be the latest deed + Of thee and me meseemeth: yea, whether thou live or die, + No more shall the brand of Odin at peace in his scabbard lie." + + And therewith he brake the peace-strings and drew the blade of bale, + And Death on the point abided, Fear sat on the edges pale. + + So men ride adown to the sea-strand, and the kings their hosts array + When the high noon flooded heaven; and the men of the Volsungs lay, + With King Eylimi's shielded champions mid Lyngi's hosts of war, + As the brown pips lie in the apple when ye cut it through the core. + + But now when the kings were departed, from the King's house Hiordis + went, + And before men joined the battle she came to a woody bent, + Where she lay with one of her maidens the death and the deeds to + behold. + + In the noon sun shone King Sigmund as an image all of gold, + And he stood before the foremost and the banner of his fame, + And many a thing he remembered, and he called on each earl by his name + To do well for the house of the Volsungs, and the ages yet unborn. + Then he tossed up the sword of the Branstock, and blew on his + father's horn, + Dread of so many a battle, doom-song of so many a man. + Then all the earth seemed moving as the hosts of Lyngi ran + On the Volsung men and the Isle-folk like wolves upon the prey; + But sore was their labour and toil ere the end of their harvesting day. + + On went the Volsung banners, and on went Sigmund before, + And his sword was the flail of the tiller on the wheat of the + wheat-thrashing floor, + And his shield was rent from his arm, and his helm was sheared from + his head: + But who may draw nigh him to smite for the heap and the rampart of + dead? + White went his hair on the wind like the ragged drift of the cloud, + And his dust-driven, blood-beaten harness was the death-storm's + angry shroud, + When the summer sun is departing in the first of the night of wrack; + And his sword was the cleaving lightning, that smites and is hurried + aback + Ere the hand may rise against it; and his voice was the following + thunder. + + Then cold grew the battle before him, dead-chilled with the fear and + the wonder: + For again in his ancient eyes the light of victory gleamed; + From his mouth grown tuneful and sweet the song of his kindred + streamed; + And no more was he worn and weary, and no more his life seemed spent: + And with all the hope of his childhood was his wrath of battle blent; + And he thought: A little further, and the river of strife is passed, + And I shall sit triumphant the king of the world at last. + + But lo, through the hedge of the war-shafts a mighty man there came, + One-eyed and seeming ancient, but his visage shone like flame: + Gleaming-grey was his kirtle, and his hood was cloudy blue; + And he bore a mighty twi-bill, as he waded the fight-sheaves through, + And stood face to face with Sigmund, and upheaved the bill to smite. + Once more round the head of the Volsung fierce glittered the + Branstock's light, + The sword that came from Odin; and Sigmund's cry once more + Rang out to the very heavens above the din of war. + Then clashed the meeting edges with Sigmund's latest stroke, + And in shivering shards fell earthward that fear of worldly folk. + But changed were the eyes of Sigmund, and the war-wrath left his face; + For that grey-clad mighty helper was gone, and in his place + Drave on the unbroken spear-wood 'gainst the Volsung's empty hands: + And there they smote down Sigmund, the wonder of all lands, + On the foemen, on the death-heap his deeds had piled that day. + + Ill hour for Sigmund's fellows! they fall like the seeded hay + Before the brown scythes' sweeping, and there the Isle-king fell + In the fore-front of his battle, wherein he wrought right well, + And soon they were nought but foemen who stand upon their feet + On the isle-strand by the ocean where the grass and the sea-sand meet. + + And now hath the conquering War-king another deed to do, + And he saith: "Who now gainsayeth King Lyngi come to woo, + The lord and the overcomer and the bane of the Volsung kin?" + So he fares to the Isle-king's dwelling a wife of the kings to win; + And the host is gathered together, and they leave the field of the + dead; + And round as a targe of the Goth-folk the moon ariseth red. + + And so when the last is departed, and she deems they will come not + aback, + Fares Hiordis forth from the thicket to the field of the fateful wrack, + And half-dead was her heart for sorrow as she waded the swathes of + the sword. + Not far did she search the death-field ere she found her king and lord + On the heap that his glaive had fashioned: not yet was his spirit past, + Though his hurts were many and grievous, and his life-blood ebbing + fast; + And glad were his eyes and open as her wan face over him hung, + And he spake: + "Thou art sick with sorrow, and I would thou wert not so young; + Yet as my days passed shall thine pass; and a short while now it seems + Since my hand first gripped the sword-hilt, and my glory was but in + dreams." + + She said: "Thou livest, thou livest! the leeches shall heal thee + still." + + "Nay," said he, "my heart hath hearkened to Odin's bidding and will; + For today have mine eyes beheld him: nay, he needed not to speak: + Forsooth I knew of his message and the thing he came to seek. + And now do I live but to tell thee of the days that are yet to come: + And perchance to solace thy sorrow; and then will I get me home + To my kin that are gone before me. Lo, yonder where I stood + The shards of a glaive of battle that was once the best of the good: + Take them and keep them surely. I have lived no empty days; + The Norns were my nursing mothers; I have won the people's praise. + When the Gods for one deed asked me I ever gave them twain; + Spendthrift of glory I was, and great was my life-days' gain; + Now these shards have been my fellow in the work the Gods would have, + But today hath Odin taken the gift that once he gave. + I have wrought for the Volsungs truly, and yet have I known full well + That a better one than I am shall bear the tale to tell: + And for him shall these shards be smithied; and he shall be my son + To remember what I have forgotten and to do what I left undone. + Under thy girdle he lieth, and how shall I say unto thee, + Unto thee, the wise of women, to cherish him heedfully. + Now, wife, put by thy sorrow for the little day we have had; + For in sooth I deem thou weepest: The days have been fair and glad: + And our valour and wisdom have met, and thou knowest they shall not + die: + Sweet and good were the days, nor yet to the Fates did we cry + For a little longer yet, and a little longer to live: + But we took, we twain in our meeting, all gifts that they had to give: + Our wisdom and valour have kissed, and thine eyes shall see the fruit, + And the joy for his days that shall be hath pierced mine heart to + the root. + Grieve not for me; for thou weepest that thou canst not see my face + How its beauty is not departed, nor the hope of mine eyes grown base. + Indeed I am waxen weary; but who heedeth weariness + That hath been day-long on the mountain in the winter weather's stress, + And now stands in the lighted doorway and seeth the king draw nigh, + And heareth men dighting the banquet, and the bed wherein he shall + lie?" + + Then failed the voice of Sigmund; but so mighty was the man, + That a long while yet he lingered till the dusky night grew wan, + And she sat and sorrowed o'er him, but no more a word he spake. + Then a long way over the sea-flood the day began to break; + And when the sun was arisen a little he turned his head + Till the low beams bathed his eyen, and there lay Sigmund dead. + And the sun rose up on the earth; but where was the Volsung kin + And the folk that the Gods had begotten the praise of all people + to win? + + + _How King Sigmund the Volsung was laid in mound on the sea-side of the + Isle-realm._ + + Now Hiordis looked from the dead, and her eyes strayed down to the sea, + And a shielded ship she saw, and a war-dight company, + Who beached the ship for the landing: so swift she fled away, + And once more to the depth of the thicket, wherein her handmaid lay: + And she said: "I have left my lord, and my lord is dead and gone, + And he gave me a charge full heavy, and here are we twain alone, + And earls from the sea are landing: give me thy blue attire, + And take my purple and gold and my crown of the sea-flood's fire, + And be thou the wife of King Volsung when men of our names shall ask, + And I will be the handmaid: now I bid thee to this task, + And I pray thee not to fail me, because of thy faith and truth, + And because I have ever loved thee, and thy mother fostered my youth. + Yea, because my womb is wealthy with a gift for the days to be. + Now do this deed for mine asking and the tale shall be told of thee." + + So the other nought gainsaith it and they shift their raiment there: + But well-spoken was the maiden, and a woman tall and fair. + + Now the lord of those new-coming men was a king and the son of a king, + King Elf the son of the Helper, and he sailed from war-faring + And drew anigh to the Isle-realm and sailed along the strand; + For the shipmen needed water and fain would go a-land; + And King Elf stood hard by the tiller while the world was yet a-cold: + Then the red sun lit the dawning, and they looked, and lo, behold! + The wrack of a mighty battle, and heaps of the shielded dead, + And a woman alive amidst them, a queen with crowned head, + And her eyes strayed down to the sea-strand, and she saw that + weaponed folk, + And turned and fled to the thicket: then the lord of the shipmen spoke: + "Lo, here shall we lack for water, for the brooks with blood shall run, + Yet wend we ashore to behold it and to wot of the deeds late done." + + So they turned their faces to Sigmund, and waded the swathes of the + sword. + "O, look ye long," said the Sea-king, "for here lieth a mighty lord: + And all these are the deeds of his war-flame, yet hardy hearts, be + sure, + That they once durst look in his face or the wrath of his eyen endure; + Though his lips be glad and smiling as a God that dreameth of mirth. + Would God I were one of his kindred, for none such are left upon earth. + Now fare we into the thicket, for thereto is the woman fled, + And belike she shall tell us the story of this field of the mighty + dead." + + So they wend and find the women, and bespeak them kind and fair: + Then spake the gold-crowned handmaid: "Of the Isle-king's house we + were, + And I am the Queen called Hiordis; and the man that lies on the field + Was mine own lord Sigmund the Volsung, the mightiest under shield." + + Then all amazed were the sea-folk when they hearkened to that word, + And great and heavy tidings they deem their ears have heard: + But again spake out the Sea-king: "And this blue-clad one beside, + So pale, and as tall as a Goddess, and white and lovely eyed?" + + "In sooth and in troth," said the woman, "my serving-maid is this; + She hath wept long over the battle, and sore afraid she is." + + Now the king looks hard upon her, but he saith no word thereto, + And down again to the death-field with the women-folk they go. + There they set their hands to the labour, and amidst the deadly mead + They raise a mound for Sigmund, a mighty house indeed; + And therein they set that folk-king, and goodly was his throne, + And dight with gold and scarlet: and the walls of the house were done + With the cloven shields of the foemen, and banners borne to field; + But none might find his war-helm or the splinters of his shield, + And clenched and fast was his right hand, but no sword therein he had: + For Hiordis spake to the shipmen: + "Our lord and master bade + That the shards of his glaive of battle should go with our lady the + Queen: + And by them that lie a-dying a many things are seen." + + So there lies Sigmund the Volsung, and far away, forlorn + Are the blossomed boughs of the Branstock, and the house where he + was born. + To what end was wrought that roof-ridge, and the rings of the silver + door, + And the fair-carved golden high-seat, and the many-pictured floor + Worn down by the feet of the Volsungs? or the hangings of delight, + Or the marvel of its harp-strings, or the Dwarf-wrought beakers bright? + Then the Gods have fashioned a folk who have fashioned a house in vain; + It is nought, and for nought they battled, and nought was their joy + and their pain, + Lo, the noble oak of the forest with his feet in the flowers and grass, + How the winds that bear the summer o'er its topmost branches pass, + And the wood-deer dwell beneath it, and the fowl in its fair twigs + sing, + And there it stands in the forest, an exceeding glorious thing: + Then come the axes of men, and low it lies on the ground, + And the crane comes out of the southland, and its nest is nowhere + found, + And bare and shorn of its blossoms is the house of the deer of the + wood. + But the tree is a golden dragon; and fair it floats on the flood, + And beareth the kings and the earl-folk, and is shield-hung all + without: + And it seeth the blaze of the beacons, and heareth the war-God's shout. + There are tidings wherever it cometh, and the tale of its time shall + be told + A dear name it hath got like a king, and a fame that groweth not old. + + Lo, such is the Volsung dwelling; lo, such is the deed he hath wrought + Who laboured all his life-days, and had rest but little or nought, + Who died in the broken battle; who lies with swordless hand + In the realm that the foe hath conquered on the edge of a + stranger-land. + + + _How Queen Hiordis is known; and how she abideth in the house of Elf + the son of the Helper._ + + Now asketh the king of those women where now in the world they will go, + And Hiordis speaks for the twain; "This is now but a land of the foe + And our lady and Queen beseecheth that unto thine house we wend + And that there thou serve her kingly that her woes may have an end." + + Fain then was the heart of the folk-king, and he bade aboard + forth-right. + And they hoist the sails to the wind and sail by day and by night + Till they come to a land of the people, and a goodly land it is + Where folk may dwell unharried and win abundant bliss, + The land of King Elf and the Helper; and there he bids them abide + In his house that is goodly shapen, and wrought full high and wide: + And he biddeth the Queen be merry, and set aside her woe, + And he doth by them better and better, as day on day doth go. + + Now there was the mother of Elf, and a woman wise was she, + And she spake to her son of a morning: "I have noted them heedfully. + Those women thou broughtst from the outlands, and fain now would I wot + Why the worser of the women the goodlier gear hath got." + + He said: "She hath named her Hiordis, the wife of the mightiest king, + E'en Sigmund the son of Volsung with whose name the world doth ring." + + Then the old queen laughed and answered: "Is it not so, my son. + That the handmaid still gave counsel when aught of deeds was done?" + + He said: "Yea, she spake mostly; and her words were exceeding wise. + And measureless sweet I deem her, and dear she is to mine eyes." + + But she said: "Do after my counsel, and win thee a goodly queen: + Speak ye to the twain unwary, and the truth shall soon be seen, + And again shall they shift their raiment, if I am aught but a fool." + + He said: "Thou sayst well, mother, and settest me well to school." + So he spake on a day to the women, and said to the gold-clad one: + "How wottest thou in the winter of the coming of the sun + When yet the world is darkling?" + She said: "In the days of my youth + I dwelt in the house of my father, and fair was the tide forsooth, + And ever I woke at the dawning, for folk betimes must stir, + Be the meadows bright or darksome; and I drank of the whey-tub there + As much as the heart desired; and now, though changed be the days, + I wake athirst in the dawning, because of my wonted ways." + + Then laughed King Elf and answered: "A fashion strange enow, + That the feet of the fair queen's-daughter must forth to follow the + plough, + Be the acres bright or darkling! But thou with the eyes of grey. + What sign hast thou to tell thee, that the night wears into day + When the heavens are mirk as the midnight?" + Said she, "In the days that were + My father gave me this gold-ring ye see on my finger here. + And a marvel goeth with it: for when night waxeth old + I feel it on my finger grown most exceeding cold, + And I know day comes through the darkness; and such is my dawning + sign." + + Then laughed King Elf and answered: "Thy father's house was fine; + There was gold enough meseemeth--But come now, say the word + And tell me the speech thou spakest awrong mine ears have heard, + And that thou wert the wife of Sigmund the wife of the mightiest King." + + No whit she smiled, but answered. "Indeed thou sayst the thing: + Such a wealth I had in my storehouse that I feared the Kings of men." + + He said: "Yet for nought didst thou hide thee; had I known of the + matter then, + As the daughter of my father had I held thee in good sooth, + For dear to mine eyes wert thou waxen, and my heart of thy woe was + ruth. + But now shall I deal with thee better than thy dealings to me have + been: + For my wife I will bid thee to be, and the people's very queen." + + She said: "When the son of King Sigmund is brought forth to the + light of day + And the world a man hath gotten, thy will shall I nought gainsay. + And I thank thee for thy goodness, and I know the love of thine heart; + And I see thy goodly kingdom, thy country set apart, + With the day of peace begirdled from the change and the battle's wrack: + 'Tis enough, and more than enough since none prayeth the past aback." + + Then the King is fain and merry, and he deems his errand sped, + And that night she sits on the high-seat with the crown on her + shapely head: + And amidst the song and the joyance, and the sound of the people's + praise, + She thinks of the days that have been, and she dreams of the coming + days. + + So passeth the summer season, and the harvest of the year, + And the latter days of the winter on toward the springtide wear. + + + + +BOOK II. + +REGIN. + + NOW THIS IS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SIGURD THE + VOLSUNG, AND THEREIN IS TOLD OF THE BIRTH OF HIM, AND OF HIS + DEALINGS WITH REGIN THE MASTER OF MASTERS, AND OF HIS DEEDS IN THE + WASTE PLACES OF THE EARTH. + + + _Of the birth of Sigurd the son of Sigmund._ + + Peace lay on the land of the Helper and the house of Elf his son; + There merry men went bedward when their tide of toil was done, + And glad was the dawn's awakening, and the noon-tide fair and glad: + There no great store had the franklin, and enough the hireling had; + And a child might go unguarded the length and breadth of the land + With a purse of gold at his girdle and gold rings on his hand. + 'Twas a country of cunning craftsmen, and many a thing they wrought, + That the lands of storm desired, and the homes of warfare sought. + But men deemed it o'er-well warded by more than its stems of fight, + And told how its earth-born watchers yet lived of plenteous might. + So hidden was that country, and few men sailed its sea, + And none came o'er its mountains of men-folk's company. + But fair-fruited, many-peopled, it lies a goodly strip, + 'Twixt the mountains cloudy-headed and the sea-flood's surging lip, + And a perilous flood is its ocean, and its mountains, who shall tell + What things in their dales deserted and their wind-swept heaths may + dwell. + + Now a man of the Kings, called Gripir, in this land of peace abode: + The son of the Helper's father, though never lay his load + In the womb of the mother of Kings that the Helper's brethren bore; + But of Giant kin was his mother, of the folk that are seen no more; + Though whiles as ye ride some fell-road across the heath there comes + The voice of their lone lamenting o'er their changed and conquered + homes. + A long way off from the sea-strand and beneath the mountains' feet + Is the high-built hall of Gripir, where the waste and the tillage meet; + A noble and plentiful house, that a little men-folk fear. + But beloved of the crag-dwelling eagles and the kin of the woodland + deer. + A man of few words was Gripir, but he knew of all deeds that had been, + And times there came upon him, when the deeds to be were seen: + No sword had he held in his hand since his father fell to field, + And against the life of the slayer he bore undinted shield: + Yet no fear in his heart abided, nor desired he aught at all, + But he noted the deeds that had been, and looked for what should + befall. + + Again, in the house of the Helper there dwelt a certain man + Beardless and low of stature, of visage pinched and wan: + So exceeding old was Regin, that no son of man could tell + In what year of the days passed over he came to that land to dwell: + But the youth of King Elf had he fostered, and the Helper's youth + thereto, + Yea and his father's father's: the lore of all men he knew, + And was deft in every cunning, save the dealings of the sword: + So sweet was his tongue-speech fashioned, that men trowed his every + word; + His hand with the harp-strings blended was the mingler of delight + With the latter days of sorrow; all tales he told aright; + The Master of the Masters in the smithying craft was he; + And he dealt with the wind and the weather and the stilling of the sea; + Nor might any learn him leech-craft, for before that race was made, + And that man-folk's generation, all their life-days had he weighed. + + In this land abideth Hiordis amid all people's praise + Till cometh the time appointed: in the fulness of the days + Through the dark and the dusk she travailed, till at last in the + dawning hour + Have the deeds of the Volsungs blossomed, and born their latest flower; + In the bed there lieth a man-child, and his eyes look straight on + the sun, + And lo, the hope of the people, and the days of a king are begun. + + Men say of the serving-women, when they cried on the joy of the morn, + When they handled the linen raiment, and washed the king new-born, + When they bore him back unto Hiordis, and the weary and happy breast, + And bade her be glad to behold it, how the best was sprung from the + best, + Yet they shrank in their rejoicing before the eyes of the child, + So bright and dreadful were they; yea though the spring morn smiled, + And a thousand birds were singing round the fair familiar home, + And still as on other mornings they saw folk go and come, + Yet the hour seemed awful to them, and the hearts within them burned + As though of fateful matters their souls were newly learned. + + But Hiordis looked on the Volsung, on her grief and her fond desire, + And the hope of her heart was quickened, and her joy was a living fire; + And she said: "Now one of the earthly on the eyes of my child hath + gazed + Nor shrunk before their glory, nor stayed her love amazed: + I behold thee as Sigmund beholdeth,--and I was the home of thine + heart-- + Woe's me for the day when thou wert not, and the hour when we shall + part!" + + Then she held him a little season on her weary and happy breast + And she told him of Sigmund and Volsung and the best sprung forth + from the best: + She spake to the new-born baby as one who might understand, + And told him of Sigmund's battle, and the dead by the sea-flood's + strand, + And of all the wars passed over, and the light with darkness blent. + + So she spake, and the sun rose higher, and her speech at last was + spent, + And she gave him back to the women to bear forth to the people's kings, + That they too may rejoice in her glory and her day of happy things. + + But there sat the Helper of Men with King Elf and his Earls in the + hall, + And they spake of the deeds that had been, and told of the times to + befall, + And they hearkened and heard sweet voices and the sound of harps + draw nigh, + Till their hearts were exceeding merry and they knew not wherefore + or why: + Then, lo, in the hall white raiment, as thither the damsels came, + And amid the hands of the foremost was the woven gold aflame. + + "O daughters of earls," said the Helper, "what tidings then do ye bear? + Is it grief in the merry morning, or joy or wonder or fear?" + + Quoth the first: "It is grief for the foemen that the Masters of + God-home would grieve." + + Said the next: "'Tis a wonder of wonders, that the hearkening world + shall believe." + + "A fear of all fears," said the third, "for the sword is uplifted on + men." + + "A joy of all joys," said the fourth, "once come, and it comes not + again!" + + "Lo, son," said the ancient Helper, "glad sit the earls and the lords! + Lookst thou not for a token of tidings to follow such-like words?" + + Saith King Elf: "Great words of women! or great hath our dwelling + become." + + Said the women: "Words shall be greater, when all folk shall praise + our home." + + "What then hath betid," said King Elf, "do the high Gods stand in + our gate?" + + "Nay," said they, "else were we silent, and they should be telling + of fate." + + "Is the bidding come," said the Helper, "that we wend the Gods to see?" + + "Many summers and winters," they said, "ye shall live on the earth, + it may be." + + Said a young man: "Will ye be telling that all we shall die no more?" + + "Nay," they answered, "nay, who knoweth but the change may be hard + at the door?" + + "Come ships from the sea," said an elder, "with all gifts of the + Eastland gold?" + + "Was there less than enough," said the women, "when last our + treasure was told?" + + "Speak then," said the ancient Helper, "let the worst and the best + be said." + + Quoth they: "'Tis the Queen of the Isle-folk, she is weary-sick on + her bed." + + Said King Elf: "Yet ye come rejoicing; what more lieth under the + tongue?" + + They said: "The earth is weary: but the tender blade hath sprung, + That shall wax till beneath its branches fair bloom the meadows green; + For the Gods and they that were mighty were glad erewhile with the + Queen." + + Said King Elf: "How say ye, women? Of a King new-born do ye tell, + By a God of the Heavens begotten in our fathers' house to dwell?" + + "By a God of the Earth," they answered; "but greater yet is the son, + Though long were the days of Sigmund, and great are the deeds he + hath done." + + 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 today 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. + + But the Queen in her golden chamber, the name she hearkened and knew + And she heard the flock of the women, as back to the chamber they drew, + And the name of Sigurd entered, and the body of Sigurd was come, + And it was as if Sigmund were living and she still in her lovely home; + Of all folk of the world was she well, and a soul fulfilled of rest + As alone in the chamber she wakened and Sigurd cherished her breast. + + But men feast in the merry noontide, and glad is the April green + That a Volsung looks on the sunlight and the night and the darkness + have been. + Earls think of marvellous stories, and along the golden strings + Flit words of banded brethren and names of war-fain Kings: + All the days of the deeds of Sigmund who was born so long ago; + All deeds of the glorious Signy, and her tarrying-tide of woe; + Men tell of the years of Volsung, and how long agone it was + That he changed his life in battle, and brought the tale to pass: + Then goeth the word of the Giants, and the world seems waxen old + For the dimness of King Rerir and the tale of his warfare told: + Yet unhushed are the singers' voices, nor yet the harp-strings cease + While yet is left a rumour of the mirk-wood's broken peace, + And of Sigi the very ancient, and the unnamed Sons of God, + Of the days when the Lords of Heaven full oft the world-ways trod. + + So stilleth the wind in the even and the sun sinks down in the sea, + And men abide the morrow and the Victory yet to be. + + + _Sigurd getteth to him the horse that is called Greyfell._ + + Now waxeth the son of Sigmund in might and goodliness, + And soft the days win over, and all men his beauty bless. + But amidst the summer season was the Isle-queen Hiordis wed + To King Elf the son of the Helper, and fair their life-days sped. + Peace lay on the land for ever, and the fields gave good increase, + And there was Sigurd waxing mid the plenty and the peace. + + Now hath the child grown greater, and is keen and eager of wit + And full of understanding, and oft hath he joy to sit + Amid talk of weighty matters when the wise men meet for speech; + And joyous he is moreover and blithe and kind with each. + But Regin the wise craftsmaster heedeth the youngling well, + And before the Kings he cometh, and saith such words to tell. + + "I have fostered thy youth, King Elf, and thine O Helper of men, + And ye wot that such a master no king shall see again; + And now would I foster Sigurd; for, though he be none of thy blood, + Mine heart of his days that shall be speaketh abundant good." + + Then spake the Helper of men-folk: "Yea, do herein thy will: + For thou art the Master of Masters, and hast learned me all my skill: + But think how bright is this youngling, and thy guile from him + withhold; + For this craft of thine hath shown me that thy heart is grim and cold, + Though three men's lives thrice over thy wisdom might not learn; + And I love this son of Sigmund, and mine heart to him doth yearn." + + Then Regin laughed, and answered: "I doled out cunning to thee; + But nought with him will I measure: yet no cold-heart shall he be, + Nor grim, nor evil-natured: for whate'er my will might frame, + Gone forth is the word of the Norns, that abideth ever the same. + And now, despite my cunning, how deem ye I shall die?" + + And they said he would live as he listed, and at last in peace + should lie + When he listed to live no longer; so mighty and wise he was. + + But again he laughed and answered: "One day it shall come to pass, + That a beardless youth shall slay me: I know the fateful doom; + But nought may I withstand it, as it heaves up dim through the gloom." + + So is Sigurd now with Regin, and he learns him many things; + Yea, all save the craft of battle, that men learned the sons of kings: + The smithying sword and war-coat; the carving runes aright; + The tongues of many countries, and soft speech for men's delight; + The dealing with the harp-strings, and the winding ways of song. + So wise of heart waxed Sigurd, and of body wondrous strong: + And he chased the deer of the forest, and many a wood-wolf slew, + And many a bull of the mountains: and the desert dales he knew, + And the heaths that the wind sweeps over; and seaward would he fare, + Far out from the outer skerries, and alone the sea-wights dare. + + On a day he sat with Regin amidst the unfashioned gold, + And the silver grey from the furnace; and Regin spake and told + Sweet tales of the days that have been, and the Kings of the bold + and wise; + Till the lad's heart swelled with longing and lit his sunbright eyes. + + Then Regin looked upon him: "Thou too shalt one day ride + As the Volsung Kings went faring through the noble world and wide. + For this land is nought and narrow, and Kings of the carles are these. + And their earls are acre-biders, and their hearts are dull with peace." + + But Sigurd knit his brows, and in wrathful wise he said: + "Ill words of those thou speakest that my youth have cherished. + And the friends that have made me merry, and the land that is fair + and good." + + Then Regin laughed and answered: "Nay, well I see by thy mood + That wide wilt thou ride in the world like thy kin of the earlier days: + And wilt thou be wroth with thy master that he longs for thy winning + the praise? + And now if the sooth thou sayest, that these King-folk cherish thee + well, + Then let them give thee a gift whereof the world shall tell: + Yea hearken to this my counsel, and crave for a battle-steed." + + Yet wroth was the lad and answered: "I have many a horse to my need, + And all that the heart desireth, and what wouldst thou wish me more?" + + Then Regin answered and said: "Thy kin of the Kings of yore + Were the noblest men of men-folk; and their hearts would never rest + Whatso of good they had gotten, if their hands held not the best. + Now do thou after my counsel, and crave of thy fosterers here + That thou choose of the horses of Gripir whichso thine heart holds + dear." + + He spake and his harp was with him, and he smote the strings full + sweet, + And sang of the host of the Valkyrs, how they ride the battle to meet, + And the dew from the dear manes drippeth as they ride in the first + of the sun, + And the tree-boughs open to meet it when the wind of the dawning is + done: + And the deep dales drink its sweetness and spring into blossoming + grass, + And the earth groweth fruitful of men, and bringeth their glory to + pass. + + Then the wrath ran off from Sigurd, and he left the smithying stead + While the song yet rang in the doorway: and that eve to the Kings he + said: + "Will ye do so much for mine asking as to give me a horse to my will? + For belike the days shall come, that shall all my heart fulfill, + And teach me the deeds of a king." + + Then answered King Elf and spake: + "The stalls of the Kings are before thee to set aside or to take, + And nought we begrudge thee the best." + + Yet answered Sigurd again; + For his heart of the mountains aloft and the windy drift was fain: + "Fair seats for the knees of Kings! but now do I ask for a gift + Such as all the world shall be praising, the best of the strong and + the swift + Ye shall give me a token for Gripir, and bid him to let me choose + From out of the noble stud-beasts that run in his meadow loose. + But if overmuch I have asked you, forget this prayer of mine, + And deem the word unspoken, and get ye to the wine." + + Then smiled King Elf, and answered: "A long way wilt thou ride, + To where unpeace and troubles and the griefs of the soul abide, + Yea unto the death at the last: yet surely shalt thou win + The praise of many a people: so have thy way herein. + Forsooth no more may we hold thee than the hazel copse may hold + The sun of the early dawning, that turneth it all unto gold." + + Then sweetly Sigurd thanked them; and through the night he lay + Mid dreams of many a matter till the dawn was on the way; + Then he shook the sleep from off him, and that dwelling of Kings he + left + And wended his ways unto Gripir. On a crag from the mountain reft + Was the house of the old King builded; and a mighty house it was, + Though few were the sons of men that over its threshold would pass: + But the wild ernes cried about it, and the vultures toward it flew, + And the winds from the heart of the mountains searched every chamber + through, + And about were meads wide-spreading; and many a beast thereon, + Yea some that are men-folk's terror, their sport and pasture won. + + So into the hall went Sigurd; and amidst was Gripir set + In a chair of the sea-beast's tooth; and his sweeping beard nigh met + The floor that was green as the ocean, and his gown was of + mountain-gold, + And the kingly staff in his hand was knobbed with the crystal cold. + + Now the first of the twain spake Gripir: "Hail King with the eyen + bright! + Nought needest thou show the token, for I know of thy life and thy + light. + And no need to tell of thy message; it was wafted here on the wind, + That thou wouldst be coming to-day a horse in my meadow to find: + And strong must he be for the bearing of those deeds of thine that + shall be. + Now choose thou of all the way-wearers that are running loose in my + lea, + And be glad as thine heart will have thee and the fate that leadeth + thee on, + And I bid thee again come hither when the sword of worth is won, + And thy loins are girt for thy going on the road that before thee lies; + For a glimmering over its darkness is come before mine eyes." + + Then again gat Sigurd outward, and adown the steep he ran + And unto the horse-fed meadow: but lo, a grey-clad man, + One-eyed and seeming-ancient, there met him by the way: + And he spake: "Thou hastest, Sigurd; yet tarry till I say + A word that shall well bestead thee: for I know of these mountains well + And all the lea of Gripir, and the beasts that thereon dwell." + + "Wouldst thou have red gold for thy tidings? art thou Gripir's + horse-herd then? + Nay sure, for thy face is shining like the battle-eager men + My master Regin tells of: and I love thy cloud-grey gown. + And thy visage gleams above it like a thing my dreams have known." + + "Nay whiles have I heeded the horse-kind," then spake that elder of + days, + "And sooth do the sages say, when the beasts of my breeding they + praise. + There is one thereof in the meadow, and, wouldst thou cull him out, + Thou shalt follow an elder's counsel, who hath brought strange + things about, + Who hath known thy father aforetime, and other kings of thy kin." + + So Sigurd said, "I am ready; and what is the deed to win?" + + He said: "We shall drive the horses adown to the water-side, + That cometh forth from the mountains, and note what next shall betide." + + Then the twain sped on together, and they drave the horses on + Till they came to a rushing river, a water wide and wan; + And the white mews hovered o'er it; but none might hear their cry + For the rush and the rattle of waters, as the downlong flood swept by. + So the whole herd took the river and strove the stream to stem, + And many a brave steed was there; but the flood o'ermastered them: + And some, it swept them down-ward, and some won back to bank, + Some, caught by the net of the eddies, in the swirling hubbub sank; + But one of all swam over, and they saw his mane of grey + Toss over the flowery meadows, a bright thing far away: + Wide then he wheeled about them, then took the stream again + And with the waves' white horses mingled his cloudy mane. + + Then spake the elder of days: "Hearken now, Sigurd, and hear; + Time was when I gave thy father a gift thou shalt yet deem dear, + And this horse is a gift of my giving:--heed nought where thou mayst + ride: + For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide, + And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to + give; + Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live." + + Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd now + To ask him many a matter: but dim did his bright shape grow, + As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night; + And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright. + + So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand, + And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland, + And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good. + And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir's blood, + The tireless horse of Odin: cloud-grey he was of hue, + And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund's son he knew, + So glad he went beneath him. Then the youngling's song arose + As he brushed through the noon-tide blossoms of Gripir's mighty close, + Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave, + Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling + wave. + + + _Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold that was + accursed from ancient days._ + + Now yet the days pass over, and more than words may tell + Grows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love him well. + But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time is fain + To know of what lies beyond them, and learn of the wide world's gain. + And he saith: "I dwell in a land that is ruled by none of my blood; + And my mother's sons are waxing, and fair kings shall they be and good; + And their servant or their betrayer--not one of these will I be. + Yet needs must I wait for a little till Odin calls for me." + + Now again it happed on a day that he sat in Regin's hall + And hearkened many tidings of what had chanced to fall, + And of kings that sought their kingdoms o'er many a waste and wild, + And at last saith the crafty master: + "Thou art King Sigmund's child: + Wilt thou wait till these kings of the carles shall die in a little + land, + Or wilt thou serve their sons and carry the cup to their hand; + Or abide in vain for the day that never shall come about, + When their banners shall dance in the wind and shake to the war-gods' + shout?" + + Then Sigurd answered and said: "Nought such do I look to be. + But thou, a deedless man, too much thou eggest me: + And these folk are good and trusty, and the land is lovely and sweet, + And in rest and in peace it lieth as the floor of Odin's feet: + Yet I know that the world is wide, and filled with deeds unwrought; + And for e'en such work was I fashioned, lest the songcraft come to + nought, + When the harps of God-home tinkle, and the Gods are at stretch to + hearken: + Lest the hosts of the Gods be scanty when their day hath begun to + darken, + When the bonds of the Wolf wax thin, and Loki fretteth his chain. + And sure for the house of my fathers full oft my heart is fain, + And meseemeth I hear them talking of the day when I shall come, + And of all the burden of deeds, that my hand shall bear them home. + And so when the deed is ready, nowise the man shall lack: + But the wary foot is the surest, and the hasty oft turns back." + + Then answered Regin the guileful: "The deed is ready to hand, + Yet holding my peace is the best, for well thou lovest the land; + And thou lovest thy life moreover, and the peace of thy youthful days, + And why should the full-fed feaster his hand to the rye-bread raise? + Yet they say that Sigmund begat thee and he looked to fashion a man. + Fear nought; he lieth quiet in his mound by the sea-waves wan." + + So shone the eyes of Sigurd, that the shield against him hung + Cast back their light as the sunbeams; but his voice to the roof-tree + rung: + "Tell me, thou Master of Masters, what deed is the deed I shall do? + Nor mock thou the son of Sigmund lest the day of his birth thou rue." + + Then answered the Master of Sleight: "The deed is the righting of + wrong, + And the quelling a bale and a sorrow that the world hath endured + o'erlong, + And the winning a treasure untold, that shall make thee more than the + kings; + Thereof is the Helm of Aweing, the wonder of earthly things, + And thereof is its very fellow, the War-coat all of gold, + That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow + told." + + Then answered Sigurd the Volsung: "How long hereof hast thou known? + And what unto thee is this treasure, that thou seemest to give as + thine own?" + + "Alas!" quoth the smithying master, "it is mine, yet none of mine, + Since my heart herein avails not, and my hand is frail and fine-- + It is long since I first came hither to seek a man for my need; + For I saw by a glimmering light that hence would spring the deed, + And many a deed of the world: but the generations passed, + And the first of the days was as near to the end that I sought as the + last; + Till I looked on thine eyes in the cradle: and now I deem through thee, + That the end of my days of waiting, and the end of my woes shall be." + + Then Sigurd awhile was silent; but at last he answered and said: + "Thou shalt have thy will and the treasure, and shalt take the curse + on thine head + If a curse the gold enwrappeth: but the deed will I surely do, + For today the dreams of my childhood hath bloomed in my heart anew: + And I long to look on the world and the glory of the earth + And to deal in the dealings of men, and garner the harvest of worth. + But tell me, thou Master of Masters, where lieth this measureless + wealth; + Is it guarded by swords of the earl-folk, or kept by cunning and + stealth? + Is it over the main sea's darkness, or beyond the mountain wall? + Or e'en in these peaceful acres anigh to the hands of all?" + + Then Regin answered sweetly: "Hereof must a tale be told: + Bide sitting, thou son of Sigmund, on the heap of unwrought gold, + And hearken of wondrous matters, and of things unheard, unsaid, + And deeds of my beholding ere the first of Kings was made. + + "And first ye shall know of a sooth, that I never was born of the race + Which the masters of God-home have made to cover the fair earth's face; + But I come of the Dwarfs departed; and fair was the earth whileome + Ere the short-lived thralls of the Gods amidst its dales were come:-- + And how were we worse than the Gods, though maybe we lived not as long? + Yet no weight of memory maimed us; nor aught we knew of wrong. + What felt our souls of shaming, what knew our hearts of love? + We did and undid at pleasure, and repented nought thereof. + --Yea we were exceeding mighty--bear with me yet, my son; + For whiles can I scarcely think it that our days are wholly done. + And trust not thy life in my hands in the day when most I seem + Like the Dwarfs that are long departed, and most of my kindred I dream. + + "So as we dwelt came tidings that the Gods amongst us were, + And the people came from Asgard: then rose up hope and fear, + And strange shapes of things went flitting betwixt the night and the + eve, + And our sons waxed wild and wrathful, and our daughters learned to + grieve. + Then we fell to the working of metal, and the deeps of the earth + would know, + And we dealt with venom and leechcraft, and we fashioned spear and bow, + And we set the ribs to the oak-keel, and looked on the landless sea; + And the world began to be such-like as the Gods would have it to be. + In the womb of the woeful earth had they quickened the grief and the + gold. + + "It was Reidmar the Ancient begat me; and now was he waxen old, + And a covetous man and a king; and he bade, and I built him a hall, + And a golden glorious house; and thereto his sons did he call, + And he bade them be evil and wise, that his will through them might + be wrought. + Then he gave unto Fafnir my brother the soul that feareth nought, + And the brow of the hardened iron, and the hand that may never fail, + And the greedy heart of a king, and the ear that hears no wail. + + "But next unto Otter my brother he gave the snare and the net, + And the longing to wend through the wild-wood, and wade the highways + wet: + And the foot that never resteth, while aught be left alive + That hath cunning to match man's cunning or might with his might to + strive. + + "And to me, the least and the youngest, what gift for the slaying of + ease? + Save the grief that remembers the past, and the fear that the future + sees; + And the hammer and fashioning-iron, and the living coal of fire; + And the craft that createth a semblance, and fails of the heart's + desire; + And the toil that each dawning quickens and the task that is never + done; + And the heart that longeth ever, nor will look to the deed that is won. + + "Thus gave my father the gifts that might never be taken again; + Far worse were we now than the Gods, and but little better than men. + But yet of our ancient might one thing had we left us still: + We had craft to change our semblance, and could shift us at our will + Into bodies of the beast-kind, or fowl, or fishes cold; + For belike no fixed semblance we had in the days of old, + Till the Gods were waxen busy, and all things their form must take + That knew of good and evil, and longed to gather and make. + + "So dwelt we, brethren and father; and Fafnir my brother fared + As the scourge and compeller of all things, and left no wrong undared; + But for me, I toiled and I toiled; and fair grew my father's house; + But writhen and foul were the hands that had made it glorious; + And the love of women left me, and the fame of sword and shield: + And the sun and the winds of heaven, and the fowl and the grass of + the field + Were grown as the tools of my smithy; and all the world I knew, + And the glories that lie beyond it, and whitherward all things drew; + And myself a little fragment amidst it all I saw, + Grim, cold-heart, and unmighty as the tempest-driven straw. + --Let be.--For Otter my brother saw seldom field or fold, + And he oftenest used that custom, whereof e'en now I told, + And would shift his shape with the wood-beasts and the things of land + and sea; + And he knew what joy their hearts had, and what they longed to be, + And their dim-eyed understanding, and his wood-craft waxed so great, + That he seemed the king of the creatures and their very mortal fate. + + "Now as the years won over three folk of the heavenly halls + Grew aweary of sleepless sloth, and the day that nought befalls; + And they fain would look on the earth, and their latest handiwork, + And turn the fine gold over, lest a flaw therein should lurk. + And the three were the heart-wise Odin, the Father of the Slain, + And Loki, the World's Begrudger, who maketh all labour vain, + And Haenir, the Utter-Blameless, who wrought the hope of man, + And his heart and inmost yearnings, when first the work began;-- + --The God that was aforetime, and hereafter yet shall be, + When the new light yet undreamed of shall shine o'er earth and sea. + + "Thus about the world they wended and deemed it fair and good, + And they loved their life-days dearly: so came they to the wood, + And the lea without a shepherd and the dwellings of the deer, + And unto a mighty water that ran from a fathomless mere. + Now that flood my brother Otter had haunted many a day + For its plenteous fruit of fishes; and there on the bank he lay + As the Gods came wandering thither; and he slept, and in his dreams + He saw the downlong river, and its fishy-peopled streams, + And the swift smooth heads of its forces, and its swirling wells and + deep, + Where hang the poised fishes, and their watch in the rock-halls keep. + And so, as he thought of it all, and its deeds and its wanderings, + Whereby it ran to the sea down the road of scaly things, + His body was changed with his thought, as yet was the wont of our kind, + And he grew but an Otter indeed; and his eyes were sleeping and blind + The while he devoured the prey, a golden red-flecked trout. + Then passed by Odin and Haenir, nor cumbered their souls with doubt; + But Loki lingered a little, and guile in his heart arose, + And he saw through the shape of the Otter, and beheld a chief of his + foes, + A king of the free and the careless: so he called up his baleful might, + And gathered his godhead together, and tore a shard outright + From the rock-wall of the river, and across its green wells cast; + And roaring over the waters that bolt of evil passed, + And smote my brother Otter that his heart's life fled away, + And bore his man's shape with it, and beast-like there he lay, + Stark dead on the sun-lit blossoms: but the Evil God rejoiced, + And because of the sound of his singing the wild grew many-voiced. + + "Then the three Gods waded the river, and no word Haenir spake, + For his thoughts were set on God-home, and the day that is ever awake. + But Odin laughed in his wrath, and murmured: 'Ah, how long, + Till the iron shall ring on the anvil for the shackles of thy wrong!' + + "Then Loki takes up the quarry, and is e'en as a man again; + And the three wend on through the wild-wood till they come to a + grassy plain + Beneath the untrodden mountains; and lo a noble house, + And a hall with great craft fashioned, and made full glorious; + But night on the earth was falling; so scantly might they see + The wealth of its smooth-wrought stonework and its world of imagery: + Then Loki bade turn thither since day was at an end, + And into that noble dwelling the lords of God-home wend; + And the porch was fair and mighty, and so smooth-wrought was its gold, + That the mirrored stars of heaven therein might ye behold: + But the hall, what words shall tell it, how fair it rose aloft, + And the marvels of its windows, and its golden hangings soft, + And the forest of its pillars! and each like the wave's heart shone, + And the mirrored boughs of the garden were dancing fair thereon. + --Long years agone was it builded, and where are its wonders now? + + "Now the men of God-home marvelled, and gazed through the golden glow, + And a man like a covetous king amidst of the hall they saw; + And his chair was the tooth of the whale, wrought smooth with never a + flaw; + And his gown was the sea-born purple, and he bore a crown on his head, + But never a sword was before him: kind-seeming words he said, + And bade rest to the weary feet that had worn the wild so long. + So they sat, and were men by seeming; and there rose up music and song, + And they ate and drank and were merry: but amidst the glee of the cup + They felt themselves tangled and caught, as when the net cometh up + Before the folk of the firth, and the main sea lieth far off; + And the laughter of lips they hearkened, and that hall-abider's scoff, + As his face and his mocking eyes anigh to their faces drew, + And their godhead was caught in the net, and no shift of creation they + knew + To escape from their man-like bodies; so great that day was the Earth. + + "Then spake the hall-abider: 'Where then is thy guileful mirth, + And thy hall-glee gone, O Loki? Come, Haenir, fashion now + My heart for love and for hope, that the fear in my body may grow, + That I may grieve and be sorry, that the ruth may arise in me, + As thou dealtst with the first of men-folk, when a master-smith thou + wouldst be. + And thou, Allfather Odin, hast thou come on a bastard brood? + Or hadst thou belike a brother, thy twin for evil and good, + That waked amidst thy slumber, and slumbered midst thy work? + Nay, Wise-one, art thou silent as a child amidst the mirk? + Ah, I know ye are called the Gods, and are mighty men at home, + But now with a guilt on your heads to no feeble folk are ye come, + To a folk that need you nothing: time was when we knew you not: + Yet e'en then fresh was the winter, and the summer sun was hot, + And the wood-meats stayed our hunger, and the water quenched our + thirst, + Ere the good and the evil wedded and begat the best and the worst. + And how if today I undo it, that work of your fashioning, + If the web of the world run backward, and the high heavens lack a King? + --Woe's me! for your ancient mastery shall help you at your need: + If ye fill up the gulf of my longing and my empty heart of greed, + And slake the flame ye have quickened, then may ye go your ways + And get ye back to your kingship and the driving on of the days + To the day of the gathered war-hosts, and the tide of your Fateful + Gloom. + Now nought may ye gainsay it that my mouth must speak the doom, + For ye wot well I am Reidmar, and that there ye lie red-hand + From the slaughtering of my offspring, and the spoiling of my land; + For his death of my wold hath bereft me and every highway wet. + --Nay, Loki, naught avails it, well-fashioned is the net. + Come forth, my son, my war-god, and show the Gods their work, + And thou who mightst learn e'en Loki, if need were to lie or lurk!' + + "And there was I, I Regin, the smithier of the snare, + And high up Fafnir towered with the brow that knew no fear, + With the wrathful and pitiless heart that was born of my father's will, + And the greed that the Gods had fashioned the fate of the earth to + fulfill. + + "Then spake the Father of Men: 'We have wrought thee wrong indeed, + And, wouldst thou amend it with wrong, thine errand must we speed; + For I know of thine heart's desire, and the gold thou shalt nowise + lack, + --Nor all the works of the gold. But best were thy word drawn back, + If indeed the doom of the Norns be not utterly now gone forth.' + + "Then Reidmar laughed and answered: 'So much is thy word of worth! + And they call thee Odin for this, and stretch forth hands in vain, + And pray for the gifts of a God who giveth and taketh again! + It was better in times past over, when we prayed for nought at all, + When no love taught us beseeching, and we had no troth to recall. + Ye have changed the world, and it bindeth with the right and the wrong + ye have made, + Nor may ye be Gods henceforward save the rightful ransom be paid. + But perchance ye are weary of kingship, and will deal no more with + the earth? + Then curse the world, and depart, and sit in your changeless mirth; + And there shall be no more kings, and battle and murder shall fail, + And the world shall laugh and long not, nor weep, nor fashion the + tale.' + + "So spake Reidmar the Wise; but the wrath burned through his word, + And wasted his heart of wisdom; and there was Fafnir the Lord, + And there was Regin the Wright, and they raged at their father's back: + And all these cried out together with the voice of the sea-storm's + wrack; + 'O hearken, Gods of the Goths! ye shall die, and we shall be Gods, + And rule your men beloved with bitter-heavy rods, + And make them beasts beneath us, save today ye do our will, + And pay us the ransom of blood, and our hearts with the gold fulfill.' + + "But Odin spake in answer, and his voice was awful and cold: + 'Give righteous doom, O Reidmar! say what ye will of the Gold!' + + "Then Reidmar laughed in his heart, and his wrath and his wisdom fled, + And nought but his greed abided; and he spake from his throne and said: + + "'Now hearken the doom I shall speak! Ye stranger-folk shall be free + When ye give me the Flame of the Waters, the gathered Gold of the Sea, + That Andvari hideth rejoicing in the wan realm pale as the grave; + And the Master of Sleight shall fetch it, and the hand that never gave, + And the heart that begrudgeth for ever shall gather and give and rue. + --Lo this is the doom of the wise, and no doom shall be spoken anew.' + + "Then Odin spake: 'It is well; the Curser shall seek for the curse; + And the Greedy shall cherish the evil--and the seed of the Great they + shall nurse.' + + "No word spake Reidmar the great, for the eyes of his heart were turned + To the edge of the outer desert, so sore for the gold he yearned. + But Loki I loosed from the toils, and he goeth his way abroad; + And the heart of Odin he knoweth, and where he shall seek the Hoard. + + "There is a desert of dread in the uttermost part of the world, + Where over a wall of mountains is a mighty water hurled, + Whose hidden head none knoweth, nor where it meeteth the sea; + And that force is the Force of Andvari, and an Elf of the Dark is he. + In the cloud and the desert he dwelleth amid that land alone; + And his work is the storing of treasure within his house of stone. + Time was when he knew of wisdom, and had many a tale to tell + Of the days before the Dwarf-age, and of what in that world befell: + And he knew of the stars and the sun, and the worlds that come and go + On the nether rim of heaven, and whence the wind doth blow, + And how the sea hangs balanced betwixt the curving lands, + And how all drew together for the first Gods' fashioning hands. + But now is all gone from him, save the craft of gathering gold, + And he heedeth nought of the summer, nor knoweth the winter cold, + Nor looks to the sun nor the snowfall, nor ever dreams of the sea, + Nor hath heard of the making of men-folk, nor of where the high Gods be + But ever he gripeth and gathereth, and he toileth hour by hour, + Nor knoweth the noon from the midnight as he looks on his stony bower, + And saith: 'It is short, it is narrow for all I shall gather and get; + For the world is but newly fashioned, and long shall its years be yet.' + + "There Loki fareth, and seeth in a land of nothing good, + Far off o'er the empty desert, the reek of the falling flood + Go up to the floor of heaven, and thither turn his feet + As he weaveth the unseen meshes and the snare of strong deceit; + So he cometh his ways to the water, where the glittering foam-bow + glows, + And the huge flood leaps the rock-wall and a green arch over it throws. + There under the roof of water he treads the quivering floor, + And the hush of the desert is felt amid the water's roar, + And the bleak sun lighteth the wave-vault, and tells of the fruitless + plain, + And the showers that nourish nothing, and the summer come in vain. + + "There did the great Guile-master his toils and his tangles set, + And as wide as was the water, so wide was woven the net; + And as dim as the Elf's remembrance did the meshes of it show; + And he had no thought of sorrow, nor spared to come and go + On his errands of griping and getting till he felt himself tangled + and caught: + Then back to his blinded soul was his ancient wisdom brought, + And he saw his fall and his ruin, as a man by the lightning's flame + Sees the garth all flooded by foemen; and again he remembered his name; + And e'en as a book well written the tale of the Gods he knew, + And the tale of the making of men, and much of the deeds they should + do. + + "But Loki took his man-shape, and laughed aloud and cried: + 'What fish of the ends of the earth is so strong and so feeble-eyed, + That he draweth the pouch of my net on his road to the dwelling of + Hell? + What Elf that hath heard the gold growing, but hath heard not the + light winds tell + That the Gods with the world have been dealing and have fashioned men + for the earth? + Where is he that hath ridden the cloud-horse and measured the ocean's + girth, + But seen nought of the building of God-home nor the forging of the + sword: + Where then is the maker of nothing, the earless and eyeless lord? + In the pouch of my net he lieth, with his head on the threshold of + Hell!' + + "Then the Elf lamented, and said: 'Thou knowst of my name full well: + Andvari begotten of Oinn, whom the Dwarf-kind called the Wise, + By the worst of the Gods is taken, the forge and the father of lies.' + + "Said Loki: 'How of the Elf-kind, do they love their latter life, + When their weal is all departed, and they lie alow in the strife?' + + "Then Andvari groaned and answered: 'I know what thou wouldst have, + The wealth mine own hands gathered, the gold that no man gave.' + + "'Come forth,' said Loki, 'and give it, and dwell in peace henceforth-- + Or die in the toils if thou listest, if thy life be nothing worth.' + + "Full sore the Elf lamented, but he came before the God, + And the twain went into the rock-house and on fine gold they trod, + And the walls shone bright, and brighter than the sun of the upper air. + How great was that treasure of treasures: and the Helm of Dread was + there; + The world but in dreams had seen it; and there was the hauberk of gold; + None other is in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told. + + "Then Loki bade the Elf-king bring all to the upper day, + And he dight himself with his Godhead to bear the treasure away: + So there in the dim grey desert before the God of Guile, + Great heaps of the hid-world's treasure the weary Elf must pile, + And Loki looked on laughing: but, when it all was done, + And the Elf was hurrying homeward, his finger gleamed in the sun: + Then Loki cried: 'Thou art guileful: thou hast not learned the tale + Of the wisdom that Gods hath gotten and their might of all avail. + Hither to me! that I learn thee of a many things to come; + Or despite of all wilt thou journey to the dead man's deedless home. + Come hither again to thy master, and give the ring to me; + For meseems it is Loki's portion, and the Bale of Men shall it be.' + + "Then the Elf drew off the gold-ring and stood with empty hand + E'en where the flood fell over 'twixt the water and the land, + And he gazed on the great Guile-master, and huge and grim he grew; + And his anguish swelled within him, and the word of the Norns he knew; + How that gold was the seed of gold to the wise and the shapers of + things, + The hoarders of hidden treasure, and the unseen glory of rings; + But the seed of woe to the world and the foolish wasters of men, + And grief to the generations that die and spring again: + Then he cried: + 'There farest thou Loki, and might I load thee worse + Than with what thine ill heart beareth, then shouldst thou bear my + curse: + But for men a curse thou bearest: entangled in my gold, + Amid my woe abideth another woe untold. + Two brethren and a father, eight kings my grief shall slay; + And the hearts of queens shall be broken, and their eyes shall loathe + the day. + Lo, how the wilderness blossoms! Lo, how the lonely lands + Are waving with the harvest that fell from my gathering hands!' + + "But Loki laughed in silence, and swift in Godhead went, + To the golden hall of Reidmar and the house of our content. + But when that world of treasure was laid within our hall + 'Twas as if the sun were minded to live 'twixt wall and wall, + And all we stood by and panted. Then Odin spake and said: + + "'O Kings, O folk of the Dwarf-kind, lo, the ransom duly paid! + Will ye have this sun of the ocean, and reap the fruitful field, + And garner up the harvest that earth therefrom shall yield?' + + "So he spake; but a little season nought answered Reidmar the wise, + But turned his face from the Treasure, and peered with eager eyes + Endlong the hall and athwart it, as a man may chase about + A ray of the sun of the morning that a naked sword throws out; + And lo from Loki's right-hand came the flash of the fruitful ring, + And at last spake Reidmar scowling: + 'Ye wait for my yea-saying + That your feet may go free on the earth, and the fear of my toils may + be done + That then ye may say in your laughter: The fools of the time agone! + The purblind eyes of the Dwarf-kind! they have gotten the garnered + sheaf + And have let their Masters depart with the Seed of Gold and of Grief: + O Loki, friend of Allfather, cast down Andvari's ring, + Or the world shall yet turn backward and the high heavens lack a king.' + + "Then Loki drew off the Elf-ring and cast it down on the heap, + And forth as the gold met gold did the light of its glory leap: + But he spake: 'It rejoiceth my heart that no whit of all ye shall lack, + Lest the curse of the Elf-king cleave not, and ye 'scape the utter + wrack.' + + "Then laughed and answered Reidmar: 'I shall have it while I live, + And that shall be long, meseemeth: for who is there may strive + With my sword, the war-wise Fafnir, and my shield that is Regin the + Smith? + But if indeed I should die, then let men-folk deal therewith, + And ride to the golden glitter through evil deeds and good. + I will have my heart's desire, and do as the high Gods would.' + + "Then I loosed the Gods from their shackles, and great they grew on + the floor + And into the night they gat them; but Odin turned by the door, + And we looked not, little we heeded, for we grudged his mastery; + Then he spake, and his voice was waxen as the voice of the winter sea: + + "'O Kings, O folk of the Dwarfs, why then will ye covet and rue? + I have seen your fathers' fathers and the dust wherefrom they grew; + But who hath heard of my father or the land where first I sprung? + Who knoweth my day of repentance, or the year when I was young? + Who hath learned the names of the Wise-one or measured out his will? + Who hath gone before to teach him, and the doom of days fulfill? + Lo, I look on the Curse of the Gold, and wrong amended by wrong, + And love by love confounded, and the strong abased by the strong; + And I order it all and amend it, and the deeds that are done I see, + And none other beholdeth or knoweth; and who shall be wise unto me? + For myself to myself I offered, that all wisdom I might know, + And fruitful I waxed of works, and good and fair did they grow; + And I knew, and I wrought and fore-ordered; and evil sat by my side, + And myself by myself hath been doomed, and I look for the fateful tide; + And I deal with the generations, and the men mine hand hath made, + And myself by myself shall be grieved, lest the world and its + fashioning fade.' + + "They went and the Gold abided: but the words Allfather spake, + I call them back full often for that golden even's sake, + Yet little that hour I heard them, save as wind across the lea; + For the gold shone up on Reidmar and on Fafnir's face and on me. + And sore I loved that treasure: so I wrapped my heart in guile, + And sleeked my tongue with sweetness, and set my face in a smile, + And I bade my father keep it, the more part of the gold, + Yet give good store to Fafnir for his goodly help and bold, + And deal me a little handful for my smithying-help that day. + But no little I desired, though for little I might pray; + And prayed I for much or for little, he answered me no more + Than the shepherd answers the wood-wolf who howls at the yule-tide + door: + But good he ever deemed it to sit on his ivory throne, + And stare on the red rings' glory, and deem he was ever alone: + And never a word spake Fafnir, but his eyes waxed red and grim + As he looked upon our father, and noted the ways of him. + + "The night waned into the morning, and still above the Hoard + Sat Reidmar clad in purple; but Fafnir took his sword, + And I took my smithying-hammer, and apart in the world we went; + But I came aback in the even, and my heart was heavy and spent; + And I longed, but fear was upon me and I durst not go to the Gold; + So I lay in the house of my toil mid the things I had fashioned of old; + And methought as I lay in my bed 'twixt waking and slumber of night + That I heard the tinkling metal and beheld the hall alight, + But I slept and dreamed of the Gods, and the things that never have + slept, + Till I woke to a cry and a clashing and forth from the bed I leapt, + And there by the heaped-up Elf-gold my brother Fafnir stood, + And there at his feet lay Reidmar and reddened the Treasure with blood: + And e'en as I looked on his eyen they glazed and whitened with death, + And forth on the torch-litten hall he shed his latest breath. + + "But I looked on Fafnir and trembled for he wore the Helm of Dread, + And his sword was bare in his hand, and the sword and the hand were red + With the blood of our father Reidmar, and his body was wrapped in gold, + With the ruddy-gleaming mailcoat of whose fellow hath nought been told, + And it seemed as I looked upon him that he grew beneath mine eyes: + And then in the mid-hall's silence did his dreadful voice arise: + + "'I have slain my father Reidmar, that I alone might keep + The Gold of the darksome places, the Candle of the Deep. + I am such as the Gods have made me, lest the Dwarf-kind people the + earth, + Or mingle their ancient wisdom with its short-lived latest birth. + I shall dwell alone henceforward, and the Gold and its waxing curse, + I shall brood on them both together, let my life grow better or worse. + And I am a King henceforward and long shall be my life, + And the Gold shall grow with my longing, for I shall hide it from + strife, + And hoard up the Ring of Andvari in the house thine hand hath built. + O thou, wilt thou tarry and tarry, till I cast thy blood on the guilt? + Lo, I am a King for ever, and alone on the Gold shall I dwell + And do no deed to repent of and leave no tale to tell.' + + "More awful grew his visage as he spake the word of dread, + And no more durst I behold him, but with heart a-cold I fled; + I fled from the glorious house my hands had made so fair, + As poor as the new-born baby with nought of raiment or gear: + I fled from the heaps of gold, and my goods were the eager will, + And the heart that remembereth all, and the hand that may never be + still. + + "Then unto this land I came, and that was long ago + As men-folk count the years; and I taught them to reap and to sow, + And a famous man I became: but that generation died, + And they said that Frey had taught them, and a God my name did hide. + Then I taught them the craft of metals, and the sailing of the sea, + And the taming of the horse-kind, and the yoke-beasts' husbandry, + And the building up of houses; and that race of men went by, + And they said that Thor had taught them; and a smithying-carle was I. + Then I gave their maidens the needle and I bade them hold the rock, + And the shuttle-race gaped for them as they sat at the weaving-stock. + But by then these were waxen crones to sit dim-eyed by the door, + It was Freyia had come among them to teach the weaving-lore. + Then I taught them the tales of old, and fair songs fashioned and true, + And their speech grew into music of measured time and due, + And they smote the harp to my bidding, and the land grew soft and + sweet: + But ere the grass of their grave-mounds rose up above my feet, + It was Bragi had made them sweet-mouthed, and I was the wandering + scald; + Yet green did my cunning flourish by whatso name I was called, + And I grew the master of masters--Think thou how strange it is + That the sword in the hands of a stripling shall one day end all this! + + "Yet oft mid all my wisdom did I long for my brother's part, + And Fafnir's mighty kingship weighed heavy on my heart + When the Kings of the earthly kingdoms would give me golden gifts + From out of their scanty treasures, due pay for my cunning shifts. + And once--didst thou number the years thou wouldst think it long ago-- + I wandered away to the country from whence our stem did grow. + There methought the fells grown greater, but waste did the meadows lie, + And the house was rent and ragged and open to the sky. + But lo, when I came to the doorway, great silence brooded there, + Nor bat nor owl would haunt it, nor the wood-wolves drew anear. + Then I went to the pillared hall-stead, and lo, huge heaps of gold, + And to and fro amidst them a mighty Serpent rolled: + Then my heart grew chill with terror, for I thought on the wont of + our race, + And I, who had lost their cunning, was a man in a deadly place, + A feeble man and a swordless in the lone destroyer's fold; + For I knew that the Worm was Fafnir, the Wallower on the Gold. + + "So I gathered my strength and fled, and hid my shame again + Mid the foolish sons of men-folk; and the more my hope was vain, + The more I longed for the Treasure, and deliv'rance from the yoke: + And yet passed the generations, and I dwelt with the short-lived folk. + + "Long years, and long years after, the tale of men-folk told + How up on the Glittering Heath was the house and the dwelling of gold, + And within that house was the Serpent, and the Lord of the Fearful + Face: + Then I wondered sore of the desert; for I thought of the golden place + My hands of old had builded; for I knew by many a sign + That the Fearful Face was my brother, that the blood of the Worm was + mine. + This was ages long ago, and yet in that desert he dwells, + Betwixt him and men death lieth, and no man of his semblance tells; + But the tale of the great Gold-wallower is never the more outworn. + Then came thy kin, O Sigurd, and thy father's father was born, + And I fell to the dreaming of dreams, and I saw thine eyes therein, + And I looked and beheld thy glory and all that thy sword should win; + And I thought that thou shouldst be he, who should bring my heart its + rest, + That of all the gifts of the Kings thy sword should give me the best. + + "Ah, I fell to the dreaming of dreams; and oft the gold I saw, + And the golden-fashioned Hauberk, clean-wrought without a flaw, + And the Helm that aweth the world; and I knew of Fafnir's heart + That his wisdom was greater than mine, because he had held him apart, + Nor spilt on the sons of men-folk our knowledge of ancient days, + Nor bartered one whit for their love, nor craved for the people's + praise. + + "And some day I shall have it all, his gold and his craft and his heart + And the gathered and garnered wisdom he guards in the mountains apart + And then when my hand is upon it, my hand shall be as the spring + To thaw his winter away and the fruitful tide to bring. + It shall grow, it shall grow into summer, and I shall be he that + wrought, + And my deeds shall be remembered, and my name that once was nought; + Yea I shall be Frey, and Thor, and Freyia, and Bragi in one: + Yea the God of all that is,--and no deed in the wide world done, + But the deed that my heart would fashion: and the songs of the freed + from the yoke + Shall bear to my house in the heavens the love and the longing of folk. + And there shall be no more dying, and the sea shall be as the land, + And the world for ever and ever shall be young beneath my hand." + + Then his eyelids fell, and he slumbered, and it seemed as Sigurd gazed + That the flames leapt up in the stithy and about the Master blazed, + And his hand in the harp-strings wandered and the sweetness from them + poured. + Then unto his feet leapt Sigurd and drew his stripling's sword, + And he cried: "Awake, O Master, for, lo, the day goes by, + And this too is an ancient story, that the sons of men-folk die, + And all save fame departeth. Awake! for the day grows late, + And deeds by the door are passing, nor the Norns will have them wait." + + Then Regin groaned and wakened, sad-eyed and heavy-browed, + And weary and worn was he waxen, as a man by a burden bowed: + And he spake: "Hast thou hearkened, Sigurd, wilt thou help a man that + is old + To avenge him for his father? Wilt thou win that Treasure of Gold + And be more than the Kings of the earth? Wilt thou rid the earth of + a wrong + And heal the woe and the sorrow my heart hath endured o'erlong?" + + Then Sigurd looked upon him with steadfast eyes and clear, + And Regin drooped and trembled as he stood the doom to hear: + But the bright child spake as aforetime, and answered the Master and + said: + "Thou shalt have thy will, and the Treasure, and take the curse on + thine head." + + + _Of the forging of the Sword that is called The Wrath of Sigurd._ + + Now again came Sigurd to Regin, and said: "Thou hast taught me a task + Whereof none knoweth the ending: and a gift at thine hands I ask." + + Then answered Regin the Master: "The world must be wide indeed + If my hand may not reach across it for aught thine heart may need." + + "Yea wide is the world," said Sigurd, "and soon spoken is thy word; + But this gift thou shalt nought gainsay me: for I bid thee forge me + a sword." + + Then spake the Master of Masters, and his voice was sweet and soft: + "Look forth abroad, O Sigurd, and note in the heavens aloft + How the dim white moon of the daylight hangs round as the Goth-God's + shield, + Now for thee first rang mine anvil when she walked the heavenly field + A slim and lovely lady, and the old moon lay on her arm: + Lo, here is a sword I have wrought thee with many a spell and charm + And all the craft of the Dwarf-kind; be glad thereof and sure; + Mid many a storm of battle full well shall it endure." + + Then Sigurd looked on the slayer, and never a word would speak: + Gemmed were the hilts and golden, and the blade was blue and bleak, + And runes of the Dwarf-kind's cunning each side the trench were scored: + But soft and sweet spake Regin: "How likest thou the sword?" + + Then Sigurd laughed and answered: "The work is proved by the deed; + See now if this be a traitor to fail me in my need." + + Then Regin trembled and shrank, so bright his eyes outshone + As he turned about to the anvil, and smote the sword thereon; + But the shards fell shivering earthward, and Sigurd's heart grew wroth + As the steel-flakes tinkled about him: "Lo, there the right-hand's + troth! + Lo, there the golden glitter, and the word that soon is spilt." + And down amongst the ashes he cast the glittering hilt, + And turned his back on Regin and strode out through the door, + And for many a day of spring-tide came back again no more. + But at last he came to the stithy and again took up the word: + "What hast thou done, O Master, in the forging of the sword?" + + Then sweetly Regin answered: "Hard task-master art thou, + But lo, a blade of battle that shall surely please thee now! + Two moons are clean departed since thou lookedst toward the sky + And sawest the dim white circle amid the cloud-flecks lie; + And night and day have I laboured; and the cunning of old days + Hath surely left my right-hand if this sword thou shalt not praise." + + And indeed the hilts gleamed glorious with many a dear-bought stone, + And down the fallow edges the light of battle shone; + Yet Sigurd's eyes shone brighter, nor yet might Regin face + Those eyes of the heart of the Volsungs; but trembled in his place + As Sigurd cried: "O Regin, thy kin of the days of old + Were an evil and treacherous folk, and they lied and murdered for gold; + And now if thou wouldst betray me, of the ancient curse beware, + And set thy face as the flint the bale and the shame to bear: + For he that would win to the heavens, and be as the Gods on high, + Must tremble nought at the road, and the place where men-folk die." + + White leaps the blade in his hand and gleams in the gear of the wall, + And he smites, and the oft-smitten edges on the beaten anvil fall: + But the life of the sword departed, and dull and broken it lay + On the ashes and flaked-off iron, and no word did Sigurd say, + But strode off through the door of the stithy and went to the Hall of + Kings, + And was merry and blithe that even mid all imaginings. + + But when the morrow was come he went to his mother and spake: + "The shards, the shards of the sword, that thou gleanedst for my sake + In the night on the field of slaughter, in the tide when my father + fell, + Hast thou kept them through sorrow and joyance? hast thou warded them + trusty and well? + Where hast thou laid them, my mother?" + Then she looked upon him and said: + "Art thou wroth, O Sigurd my son, that such eyes are in thine head? + And wilt thou be wroth with thy mother? do I withstand thee at all?" + + "Nay," said he, "nought am I wrathful, but the days rise up like a wall + Betwixt my soul and the deeds, and I strive to rend them through. + And why wilt thou fear mine eyen? as the sword lies baleful and blue + E'en 'twixt the lips of lovers, when they swear their troth thereon, + So keen are the eyes ye have fashioned, ye folk of the days agone; + For therein is the light of battle, though whiles it lieth asleep. + Now give me the sword, my mother, that Sigmund gave thee to keep." + + She said: "I shall give it thee gladly, for fain shall I be of thy + praise + When thou knowest my careful keeping of that hope of the earlier days." + + So she took his hand in her hand, and they went their ways, they twain; + Till they came to the treasure of queen-folk, the guarded chamber of + gain: + They were all alone with its riches, and she turned the key in the + gold, + And lifted the sea-born purple, and the silken web unrolled, + And lo, 'twixt her hands and her bosom the shards of Sigmund's sword; + No rust-fleck stained its edges, and the gems of the ocean's hoard + Were as bright in the hilts and glorious, as when in the Volsungs' hall + It shone in the eyes of the earl-folk and flashed from the shielded + wall. + + But Sigurd smiled upon it, and he said: "O Mother of Kings, + Well hast thou warded the war-glaive for a mirror of many things, + And a hope of much fulfilment: well hast thou given to me + The message of my fathers, and the word of thing to be: + Trusty hath been thy warding, but its hour is over now: + These shards shall be knit together, and shall hear the war-wind blow. + They shall shine through the rain of Odin, as the sun come back to + the world, + When the heaviest bolt of the thunder amidst the storm is hurled: + They shall shake the thrones of Kings, and shear the walls of war, + And undo the knot of treason when the world is darkening o'er. + They have shone in the dusk and the night-tide, they shall shine in + the dawn and the day; + They have gathered the storm together, they shall chase the clouds + away; + They have sheared red gold asunder, they shall gleam o'er the garnered + gold + They have ended many a story, they shall fashion a tale to be told: + They have lived in the wrack of the people; they shall live in the + glory of folk + They have stricken the Gods in battle, for the Gods shall they strike + the stroke." + + Then she felt his hands about her as he took the fateful sword, + And he kissed her soft and sweetly; but she answered never a word: + So great and fair was he waxen, so glorious was his face, + So young, as the deathless Gods are, that long in the golden place + She stood when he was departed: as some for-travailed one + Comes over the dark fell-ridges on the birth-tide of the sun, + And his gathering sleep falls from him mid the glory and the blaze; + And he sees the world grow merry and looks on the lightened ways, + While the ruddy streaks are melting in the day-flood broad and white; + Then the morn-dusk he forgetteth, and the moon-lit waste of night, + And the hall whence he departed with its yellow candles' flare: + So stood the Isle-king's daughter in that treasure-chamber fair. + + But swift on his ways went Sigurd, and to Regin's house he came, + Where the Master stood in the doorway and behind him leapt the flame, + And dark he looked and little: no more his speech was sweet, + No words on his lip were gathered the Volsung child to greet, + Till he took the sword from Sigurd and the shards of the days of old; + Then he spake: + "Will nothing serve thee save this blue steel and cold, + The bane of thy father's father, the fate of all his kin, + The baleful blade I fashioned, the Wrath that the Gods would win?" + + Then answered the eye-bright Sigurd: "If thou thy craft wilt do + Nought save these battle-gleanings shall be my helper true: + And what if thou begrudgest, and my battle-blade be dull, + Yet the hand of the Norns is lifted and the cup is over-full. + Repentst thou ne'er so sorely that thy kin must lie alow, + How much soe'er thou longest the world to overthrow, + And, doubting the gold and the wisdom, wouldst even now appease + Blind hate and eyeless murder, and win the world with these; + O'er-late is the time for repenting the word thy lips have said: + Thou shalt have the Gold and the wisdom and take its curse on thine + head. + I say that thy lips have spoken, and no more with thee it lies + To do the deed or leave it: since thou hast shown mine eyes + The world that was aforetime, I see the world to be; + And woe to the tangling thicket, or the wall that hindereth me! + And short is the space I will tarry; for how if the Worm should die + Ere the first of my strokes be stricken? Wilt thou get to thy mastery + And knit these shards together that once in the Branstock stood? + But if not and a smith's hands fail me, a king's hand yet shall be + good; + And the Norns have doomed thy brother. And yet I deem this sword + Is the slayer of the Serpent, and the scatterer of the Hoard." + + Great waxed the gloom of Regin, and he said: "Thou sayest sooth, + For none may turn him backward: the sword of a very youth + Shall one day end my cunning, as the Gods my joyance slew, + When nought thereof they were deeming, and another thing would do. + But this sword shall slay the Serpent; and do another deed, + And many an one thereafter till it fail thee in thy need. + But as fair and great as thou standeth, yet get thee from mine house, + For in me too might ariseth, and the place is perilous + With the craft that was aforetime, and shall never be again, + When the hands that have taught thee cunning have failed from the world + of men. + Thou art wroth; but thy wrath must slumber till fate its blossom bear; + Not thus were the eyes of Odin when I held him in the snare. + Depart! lest the end overtake us ere thy work and mine be done, + But come again in the night-tide and the slumber of the sun, + When the sharded moon of April hangs round in the undark May." + + Hither and thither a while did the heart of Sigurd sway; + For he feared no craft of the Dwarf-kind, nor heeded the ways of Fate, + But his hand wrought e'en as his heart would: and now was he weary + with hate + Of the hatred and scorn of the Gods, and the greed of gold and of gain, + And the weaponless hands of the stripling of the wrath and the rending + were fain. + But there stood Regin the Master, and his eyes were on Sigurd's eyes, + Though nought belike they beheld him, and his brow was sad and wise; + And the greed died out of his visage and he stood like an image of old. + + So the Norns drew Sigurd away, and the tide was an even of gold, + And sweet in the April even were the fowl-kind singing their best; + And the light of life smote Sigurd, and the joy that knows no rest, + And the fond unnamed desire, and the hope of hidden things; + And he wended fair and lovely to the house of the feasting Kings. + + But now when the moon was at full and the undark May begun, + Went Sigurd unto Regin mid the slumber of the sun, + And amidst the fire-hall's pavement the King of the Dwarf-kind stood + Like an image of deeds departed and days that once were good; + And he seemed but faint and weary, and his eyes were dim and dazed + As they met the glory of Sigurd where the fitful candles blazed. + Then he spake: + "Hail, Son of the Volsungs, the corner-stone is laid, + I have toiled and thou hast desired, and, lo, the fateful blade!" + + Then Sigurd saw it lying on the ashes slaked and pale, + Like the sun and the lightning mingled mid the even's cloudy bale, + For ruddy and great were the hilts, and the edges fine and wan, + And all adown to the blood-point a very flame there ran + That swallowed the runes of wisdom wherewith its sides were scored. + No sound did Sigurd utter as he stooped adown for his sword, + But it seemed as his lips were moving with speech of strong desire. + White leapt the blade o'er his head, and he stood in the ring of + its fire + As hither and thither it played, till it fell on the anvil's strength, + And he cried aloud in his glory, and held out the sword full length, + As one who would show it the world; for the edges were dulled no whit, + And the anvil was cleft to the pavement with the dreadful dint of it. + + But Regin cried to his harp-strings: "Before the days of men + I smithied the Wrath of Sigurd, and now is it smithied again: + And my hand alone hath done it, and my heart alone hath dared + To bid that man to the mountain, and behold his glory bared. + Ah, if the son of Sigmund might wot of the thing I would, + Then how were the ages bettered, and the world all waxen good! + Then how were the past forgotten and the weary days of yore, + And the hope of man that dieth and the waste that never bore! + How should this one live through the winter and know of all increase! + How should that one spring to the sunlight and bear the blossom of + peace! + No more should the long-lived wisdom o'er the waste of the wilderness + stray; + Nor the clear-eyed hero hasten to the deedless ending of day. + And what if the hearts of the Volsungs for this deed of deeds were + born, + How then were their life-days evil and the end of their lives forlorn?" + + There stood Sigurd the Volsung, and heard how the harp-strings rang, + But of other things they told him than the hope that the Master sang; + And his world lay far away from the Dwarf-king's eyeless realm + And the road that leadeth nowhere, and the ship without a helm: + But he spake: "How oft shall I say it, that I shall work thy will? + If my father hath made me mighty, thine heart shall I fulfill + With the wisdom and gold thou wouldest, before I wend on my ways; + For now hast thou failed me nought, and the sword is the wonder of + days." + + No word for a while spake Regin; but he hung his head adown + As a man that pondereth sorely, and his voice once more was grown + As the voice of the smithying-master as he spake: "This Wrath of thine + Hath cleft the hard and the heavy; it shall shear the soft and the + fine: + Come forth to the night and prove it." + So they twain went forth abroad, + And the moon lay white on the river and lit the sleepless ford, + And down to its pools they wended, and the stream was swift and full; + Then Regin cast against it a lock of fine-spun wool, + And it whirled about on the eddy till it met the edges bared, + And as clean as the careless water the laboured fleece was sheared. + + Then Regin spake: "It is good, what the smithying-carle hath wrought: + Now the work of the King beginneth, and the end that my soul hath + sought. + Thou shalt toil and I shall desire, and the deed shall be surely done: + For thy Wrath is alive and awake and the story of bale is begun." + + Therewith was the Wrath of Sigurd laid soft in a golden sheath + And the peace-strings knit around it; for that blade was fain of death; + And 'tis ill to show such edges to the broad blue light of day, + Or to let the hall-glare light them, if ye list not play the play. + + + _Of Gripir's Foretelling._ + + Now Sigurd backeth Greyfell on the first of the morrow morn, + And he rideth fair and softly through the acres of the corn; + The Wrath to his side is girded, but hid are the edges blue, + As he wendeth his ways to the mountains, and rideth the horse-mead + through. + His wide grey eyes are happy, and his voice is sweet and soft, + As amid the mead-lark's singing he casteth song aloft: + Lo, lo, the horse and the rider! So once maybe it was, + When over the Earth unpeopled the youngest God would pass; + But never again meseemeth shall such a sight betide, + Till over a world unwrongful new-born shall Baldur ride. + + So he comes to that ness of the mountains, and Gripir's garden steep, + That bravely Greyfell breasteth, and adown by the door doth he leap + And his war-gear rattleth upon him; there is none to ask or forbid + As he wendeth the house clear-lighted, where no mote of the dust is + hid, + Though the sunlight hath not entered: the walls are clear and bright, + For they cast back each to other the golden Sigurd's light; + Through the echoing ways of the house bright-eyed he wendeth along, + And the mountain-wind is with him, and the hovering eagles' song; + But no sound of the children of men may the ears of the Volsung hear, + And no sign of their ways in the world, or their will, or their hope + or their fear. + + So he comes to the hall of Gripir, and gleaming-green is it built + As the house of under-ocean where the wealth of the greedy is spilt; + Gleaming and green as the sea, and rich as its rock-strewn floor, + And fresh as the autumn morning when the burning of summer is o'er. + There he looks and beholdeth the high-seat, and he sees it strangely + wrought, + Of the tooth of the sea-beast fashioned ere the Dwarf-kind came to + nought; + And he looks, and thereon is Gripir, the King exceeding old, + With the sword of his fathers girded, and his raiment wrought of gold; + With the ivory rod in his right-hand, with his left on the crystal + laid, + That is round as the world of men-folk, and after its image made, + And clear is it wrought to the eyen that may read therein of Fate, + Though little indeed be its sea, and its earth not wondrous great. + + There Sigurd stands in the hall, on the sheathed Wrath doth he lean. + All his golden light is mirrored in the gleaming floor and green; + But the smile in his face upriseth as he looks on the ancient King, + And their glad eyes meet and their laughter, and sweet is the + welcoming: + And Gripir saith: "Hail Sigurd! for my bidding hast thou done, + And here in the mountain-dwelling are two Kings of men alone." + + But Sigurd spake: "Hail father! I am girt with the fateful sword + And my face is set to the highway, and I come for thy latest word." + + Said Gripir: "What wouldst thou hearken ere we sit and drink the wine?" + + "Thy word and the Norns'," said Sigurd, "but never a word of mine." + + "What sights wouldst thou see," said Gripir, "ere mine hand shall take + thine hand?" + + "As the Gods would I see," said Sigurd, "though Death light up the + land." + + "What hope wouldst thou hope, O Sigurd, ere we kiss, we twain, and + depart?" + + "Thy hope and the Gods'," said Sigurd, "though the grief lie hard on + my heart." + + Nought answered the ancient wise-one, and not a whit had he stirred + Since the clash of Sigurd's raiment in his mountain-hall he heard; + But the ball that imaged the earth was set in his hand grown old; + And belike it was to his vision, as the wide-world's ocean rolled, + And the forests waved with the wind, and the corn was gay with the + lark, + And the gold in its nether places grew up in the dusk and the dark, + And its children built and departed, and its King-folk conquered and + went, + As over the crystal image his all-wise face was bent: + For all his desire was dead, and he lived as a God shall live, + Whom the prayers of the world hath forgotten, and to whom no hand may + give. + + But there stood the mighty Volsung, and leaned on the hidden Wrath; + As the earliest sun's uprising o'er the sea-plain draws a path + Whereby men sail to the Eastward and the dawn of another day, + So the image of King Sigurd on the gleaming pavement lay. + + Then great in the hall fair-pillared the voice of Gripir arose, + And it ran through the glimmering house-ways, and forth to the sunny + close; + There mid the birds' rejoicing went the voice of an o'er-wise King + Like a wind of midmost winter come back to talk with spring. + + But the voice cried: "Sigurd, Sigurd! O great, O early born! + O hope of the Kings first fashioned! O blossom of the morn! + Short day and long remembrance, fair summer of the North! + One day shall the worn world wonder how first thou wentest forth! + + "Arise, O Sigurd, Sigurd! In the night arise and go, + Thou shalt smite when the day-dawn glimmers through the folds of + God-home's foe: + + "There the child in the noon-tide smiteth; the young King rendeth + apart, + The old guile by the guile encompassed, the heart made wise by the + heart. + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd; bind up to cast abroad! + That the earth may laugh before thee rejoiced by the Waters' Hoard. + + "Ride on, O Sigurd, Sigurd! for God's word goes forth on the wind, + And he speaketh not twice over; nor shall they loose that bind: + But the Day and the Day shall loosen, and the Day shall awake and + arise, + And the Day shall rejoice with the Dawning, and the wise heart learn + of the wise. + + "O fair, O fearless, O mighty, how green are the garths of Kings, + How soft are the ways before thee to the heart of their war-farings! + + "How green are the garths of King-folk, how fair is the lily and rose + In the house of the Cloudy People, 'neath the towers of kings and foes! + + "Smite now, smite now in the noontide! ride on through the hosts of + men! + Lest the dear remembrance perish, and today come not again. + + "Is it day?--But the house is darkling--But the hand would gather and + hold, + And the lips have kissed the cloud-wreath, and a cloud the arms enfold. + + "In the dusk hath the Sower arisen; in the dark hath he cast the seed, + And the ear is the sorrow of Odin and the wrong, and the nameless need! + + "Ah the hand hath gathered and garnered, and empty is the hand, + Though the day be full and fruitful mid the drift of the Cloudy Land! + + "Look, look on the drift of the clouds, how the day and the even doth + grow + As the long-forgotten dawning that was a while ago! + + "Dawn, dawn, O mighty of men! and why wilt thou never awake, + When the holy field of the Goth-folk cries out for thy love and thy + sake? + + "Dawn, now; but the house is silent, and dark is the purple blood + On the breast of the Queen fair-fashioned; and it riseth up as a flood + Round the posts of the door beloved; and a deed there lieth therein: + The last of the deeds of Sigurd; the worst of the Cloudy Kin-- + The slayer slain by the slain within the door and without. + --O dawn as the eve of the birth-day! O dark world cumbered with doubt! + + "Shall it never be day any more, nor the sun's uprising and growth? + Shall the kings of earth lie sleeping and the war-dukes wander in sloth + Through the last of the winter twilight? is the word of the wise-ones + said + Till the five-fold winter be ended and the trumpet waken the dead? + + "Short day and long remembrance! great glory for the earth! + O deeds of the Day triumphant! O word of Sigurd's worth! + It is done, and who shall undo it of all who were ever alive? + May the Gods or the high Gods' masters 'gainst the tale of the + righteous strive, + And the deeds to follow after, and all their deeds increase, + Till the uttermost field is foughten, and Baldur riseth in peace! + + "Cry out, O waste, before him! O rocks of the wilderness, cry! + For tomorn shalt thou see the glory, and the man not made to die! + Cry out, O upper heavens! O clouds beneath the lift! + For the golden King shall be riding high-headed midst the drift: + The mountain waits and the fire; there waiteth the heart of the wise + Till the earthly toil is accomplished, and again shall the fire arise; + And none shall be nigh in the ending and none by his heart shall be + laid, + Save the world that he cherished and quickened, and the Day that he + wakened and made." + + So died the voice of Gripir from amidst the sunny close, + And the sound of hastening eagles from the mountain's feet arose, + But the hall was silent a little, for still stood Sigmund's son, + And he heard the words and remembered, and knew them one by one. + Then he turned on the ancient Gripir with eyes that knew no guile + And smiled on the wise of King-folk as the first of men might smile + On the God that hath fashioned him happy; and he spake: + "Hast thou spoken and known + How there standeth a child before thee and a stripling scarcely grown? + Or hast thou told of the Volsungs, and the gathered heart of these, + And their still unquenched desire for garnering fame's increase? + E'en so do I hearken thy words: for I wot how they deem it long + Till a man from their seed be arisen to deal with the cumber and wrong. + Bid me therefore to sit by thy side, for behold I wend on my way, + And the gates swing-to behind me, and each day of mine is a day + With deeds in the eve and the morning, nor deeds shall the noontide + lack; + To the right and the left none calleth, and no voice crieth aback." + + "Come, kin of the Gods," said Gripir, "come up and sit by my side, + That we twain may be glad as the fearless, and they that have nothing + to hide: + I have wrought out my will and abide it, and I sit ungrieved and alone, + I look upon men and I help not; to me are the deeds long done + As those of today and tomorrow: for these and for those am I glad; + But the Gods and men are the framers, and the days of my life I have + had." + + Then Sigurd came unto Gripir, and he kissed the wise-one's face, + And they sat in the high-seat together, the child and the elder of + days; + And they drank of the wine of King-folk, and were joyful each of each, + And spake for a while of matters that are meet for King-folk's speech; + The deeds of men that have been and Kin of the Kings of the earth; + And Gripir told of the outlands, and the mid-world's billowy girth, + And tales of the upper heaven were mingled with his talk, + And the halls where the Sea-Queen's kindred o'er the gem-strewn + pavement walk, + And the innermost parts of the earth, where they lie, the green and + the blue, + And the red and the glittering gem-stones that of old the Dwarf-kind + knew. + + Long Sigurd sat and marvelled at the mouth that might not lie, + And the eyes no God had blinded, and the lone heart raised on high, + Then he rose from the gleaming high-seat, and the rings of battle rang + And the sheathed Wrath was hearkening and a song of war it sang, + But Sigurd spake unto Gripir: + "Long and lovely are thy days, + And thy years fulfilled of wisdom, and thy feet on the unhid ways, + And the guileless heart of the great that knoweth not anger nor pain: + So once hath a man been fashioned and shall not be again. + But for me hath been foaled the war-horse, the grey steed swift as + the cloud, + And for me were the edges smithied, and the Wrath cries out aloud; + And a voice hath called from the darkness, and I ride to the + Glittering Heath; + To smite on the door of Destruction, and waken the warder of Death." + + So they kissed, the wise and the wise, and the child from the elder + turned; + And again in the glimmering house-ways the golden Sigurd burned; + He stood outside in the sunlight, and tarried never a deal, + But leapt on the cloudy Greyfell with the clank of gold and steel, + And he rode through the sinking day to the walls of the kingly stead, + And came to Regin's dwelling when the wind was fallen dead, + And the great sun just departing: then blood-red grew the west, + And the fowl flew home from the sea-mead, and all things sank to rest. + + + _Sigurd rideth to the Glittering Heath._ + + Again on the morrow morning doth Sigurd the Volsung ride, + And Regin, the Master of Masters, is faring by his side, + And they leave the dwelling of kings and ride the summer land, + Until at the eve of the day the hills are on either hand: + Then they wend up higher and higher, and over the heaths they fare + Till the moon shines broad on the midnight, and they sleep 'neath the + heavens bare; + And they waken and look behind them, and lo, the dawning of day + And the little land of the Helper and its valleys far away; + But the mountains rise before them, a wall exceeding great. + + Then spake the Master of Masters: "We have come to the garth and the + gate: + There is youth and rest behind thee and many a thing to do, + There is many a fond desire, and each day born anew; + And the land of the Volsungs to conquer, and many a people's praise: + And for me there is rest it maybe, and the peaceful end of days. + We have come to the garth and the gate; to the hall-door now shall + we win, + Shall we go to look on the high-seat and see what sitteth therein?" + + "Yea, and what else?" said Sigurd, "was thy tale but mockeries, + And have I been drifted hither on a wind of empty lies?" + + "It was sooth, it was sooth," said Regin, "and more might I have told + Had I heart and space to remember the deeds of the days of old." + + And he hung down his head as he spake it, and was silent a little + space; + And when it was lifted again there was fear in the Dwarf-king's face. + And he said: "Thou knowest my thought, and wise-hearted art thou grown: + It were well if thine eyes were blinder, and we each were faring alone, + And I with my eld and my wisdom, and thou with thy youth and thy might; + Yet whiles I dream I have wrought thee, a beam of the morning bright, + A fatherless motherless glory, to work out my desire; + Then high my hope ariseth, and my heart is all afire + For the world I behold from afar, and the day that yet shall be; + Then I wake and all things I remember and a youth of the Kings I see-- + --The child of the Wood-abider, the seed of a conquered King, + The sword that the Gods have fashioned, the fate that men shall sing:-- + Ah might the world run backward to the days of the Dwarfs of old, + When I hewed out the pillars of crystal, and smoothed the walls of + gold!" + + Nought answered the Son of Sigmund; nay he heard him nought at all, + Save as though the wind were speaking in the bights of the + mountain-hall: + But he leapt aback of Greyfell, and the glorious sun rose up, + And the heavens glowed above him like the bowl of Baldur's cup, + And a golden man was he waxen; as the heart of the sun he seemed, + While over the feet of the mountains like blood the new light streamed; + Then Sigurd cried to Greyfell and swift for the pass he rode, + And Regin followed after as a man bowed down by a load. + + Day-long they fared through the mountains, and that highway's fashioner + Forsooth was a fearful craftsman, and his hands the waters were, + And the heaped-up ice was his mattock, and the fire-blast was his man, + And never a whit he heeded though his walls were waste and wan, + And the guest-halls of that wayside great heaps of the ashes spent + But, each as a man alone, through the sun-bright day they went, + And they rode till the moon rose upward, and the stars were small and + fair, + Then they slept on the long-slaked ashes beneath the heavens bare; + And the cold dawn came and they wakened, and the King of the + Dwarf-kind seemed + As a thing of that wan land fashioned; but Sigurd glowed and gleamed + Amid the shadowless twilight by Greyfell's cloudy flank, + As a little space they abided while the latest star-world shrank; + On the backward road looked Regin and heard how Sigurd drew + The girths of Greyfell's saddle, and the voice of his sword he knew, + And he feared to look on the Volsung, as thus he fell to speak: + + "I have seen the Dwarf-folk mighty, I have seen the God-folk weak; + And now, though our might be minished, yet have we gifts to give. + When men desire and conquer, most sweet is their life to live; + When men are young and lovely there is many a thing to do. + And sweet is their fond desire and the dawn that springs anew." + + "This gift," said the Son of Sigmund, "the Norns shall give me yet, + And no blossom slain by the sunshine while the leaves with dew are + wet." + + Then Regin turned and beheld him: "Thou shalt deem it hard and strange, + When the hand hath encompassed it all, and yet thy life must change. + Ah, long were the lives of men-folk, if betwixt the Gods and them + Were mighty warders watching mid the earth's and the heaven's hem! + Is there any man so mighty he would cast this gift away,-- + The heart's desire accomplished, and life so long a day, + That the dawn should be forgotten ere the even was begun?" + + Then Sigurd laughed and answered: "Fare forth, O glorious sun; + Bright end from bright beginning, and the mid-way good to tell, + And death, and deeds accomplished, and all remembered well! + Shall the day go past and leave us, and we be left with night, + To tread the endless circle, and strive in vain to smite? + But thou--wilt thou still look backward? thou sayst I know thy thought: + Thou hast whetted the sword for the slaying, it shall turn aside for + nought. + Fear not! with the Gold and the wisdom thou shalt deem thee God alone, + And mayst do and undo at pleasure, nor be bound by right nor wrong: + And then, if no God I be waxen, I shall be the weak with the strong." + + And his war-gear clanged and tinkled as he leapt to the saddle-stead: + And the sun rose up at their backs and the grey world changed to red, + And away to the west went Sigurd by the glory wreathed about, + But little and black was Regin as a fire that dieth out. + Day-long they rode the mountains by the crags exceeding old, + And the ash that the first of the Dwarf-kind found dull and quenched + and cold. + Then the moon in the mid-sky swam, and the stars were fair and pale, + And beneath the naked heaven they slept in an ash-grey dale; + And again at the dawn-dusk's ending they stood upon their feet, + And Sigurd donned his war-gear nor his eyes would Regin meet. + + A clear streak widened in heaven low down above the earth; + And above it lay the cloud-flecks, and the sun, anigh its birth, + Unseen, their hosts was staining with the very hue of blood, + And ruddy by Greyfell's shoulder the Son of Sigmund stood. + + Then spake the Master of Masters: "What is thine hope this morn + That thou dightest thee, O Sigurd, to ride this world forlorn?" + + "What needeth hope," said Sigurd, "when the heart of the Volsungs turns + To the light of the Glittering Heath, and the house where the Waster + burns? + I shall slay the Foe of the Gods, as thou badst me a while agone, + And then with the Gold and its wisdom shalt thou be left alone." + + "O Child," said the King of the Dwarf-kind, "when the day at last + comes round + For the dread and the Dusk of the Gods, and the kin of the Wolf is + unbound, + When thy sword shall hew the fire, and the wildfire beateth thy shield, + Shalt thou praise the wages of hope and the Gods that pitched the + field?" + + "O Foe of the Gods," said Sigurd, "wouldst thou hide the evil thing, + And the curse that is greater than thou, lest death end thy labouring, + Lest the night should come upon thee amidst thy toil for nought? + It is me, it is me that thou fearest, if indeed I know thy thought; + Yea me, who would utterly light the face of all good and ill, + If not with the fruitful beams that the summer shall fulfill, + Then at least with the world a-blazing, and the glare of the grinded + sword." + + And he sprang aloft to the saddle as he spake the latest word, + And the Wrath sang loud in the sheath as it ne'er had sung before, + And the cloudy flecks were scattered like flames on the heaven's floor, + And all was kindled at once, and that trench of the mountains grey + Was filled with the living light as the low sun lit the way: + But Regin turned from the glory with blinded eyes and dazed, + And lo, on the cloudy war-steed how another light there blazed, + And a great voice came from amidst it: + "O Regin, in good sooth, + I have hearkened not nor heeded the words of thy fear and thy ruth: + Thou hast told thy tale and thy longing, and thereto I hearkened + well:-- + Let it lead thee up to heaven, let it lead thee down to hell, + The deed shall be done tomorrow: thou shalt have that measureless Gold, + And devour the garnered wisdom that blessed thy realm of old, + That hath lain unspent and begrudged in the very heart of hate: + With the blood and the might of thy brother thine hunger shalt thou + sate; + And this deed shall be mine and thine; but take heed for what + followeth then! + Let each do after his kind! I shall do the deeds of men; + I shall harvest the field of their sowing, in the bed of their + strewing shall sleep; + To them shall I give my life-days, to the Gods my glory to keep. + But thou with the wealth and the wisdom that the best of the Gods + might praise, + If thou shalt indeed excel them and become the hope of the days, + Then me in turn hast thou conquered, and I shall be in turn + Thy fashioned brand of the battle through good and evil to burn, + Or the flame that sleeps in thy stithy for the gathered winds to blow, + When thou listest to do and undo and thine uttermost cunning to show. + But indeed I wot full surely that thou shalt follow thy kind; + And for all that cometh after, the Norns shall loose and bind." + + Then his bridle-reins rang sweetly, and the warding-walls of death, + And Regin drew up to him, and the Wrath sang loud in the sheath, + And forth from that trench in the mountains by the westward way they + ride; + And little and black goes Regin by the golden Volsung's side; + But no more his head is drooping, for he seeth the Elf-king's Gold; + The garnered might and the wisdom e'en now his eyes behold. + + So up and up they journeyed, and ever as they went + About the cold-slaked forges, o'er many a cloud-swept bent, + Betwixt the walls of blackness, by shores of the fishless meres, + And the fathomless desert waters, did Regin cast his fears, + And wrap him in desire; and all alone he seemed + As a God to his heirship wending, and forgotten and undreamed + Was all the tale of Sigurd, and the folk he had toiled among, + And the Volsungs, Odin's children, and the men-folk fair and young. + + So on they ride to the westward; and huge were the mountains grown + And the floor of heaven was mingled with that tossing world of stone: + And they rode till the noon was forgotten and the sun was waxen low, + And they tarried not, though he perished, and the world grew dark + below. + Then they rode a mighty desert, a glimmering place and wide, + And into a narrow pass high-walled on either side + By the blackness of the mountains, and barred aback and in face + By the empty night of the shadow; a windless silent place: + But the white moon shone o'erhead mid the small sharp stars and pale, + And each as a man alone they rode on the highway of bale. + + So ever they wended upward, and the midnight hour was o'er, + And the stars grew pale and paler, and failed from the heaven's floor, + And the moon was a long while dead, but where was the promise of day? + No change came over the darkness, no streak of the dawning grey; + No sound of the wind's uprising adown the night there ran: + It was blind as the Gaping Gulf ere the first of the worlds began. + + Then athwart and athwart rode Sigurd and sought the walls of the pass, + But found no wall before him; and the road rang hard as brass + Beneath the hoofs of Greyfell, as up and up he trod: + --Was it the daylight of Hell, or the night of the doorway of God? + + But lo, at the last a glimmer, and a light from the west there came, + And another and another, like points of far-off flame; + And they grew and brightened and gathered; and whiles together they ran + Like the moon wake over the waters; and whiles they were scant and wan, + Some greater and some lesser, like the boats of fishers laid + About the sea of midnight; and a dusky dawn they made, + A faint and glimmering twilight: So Sigurd strains his eyes, + And he sees how a land deserted all round about him lies + More changeless than mid-ocean, as fruitless as its floor: + Then the heart leaps up within him, for he knows that his journey + is o'er. + And there he draweth bridle on the first of the Glittering Heath: + And the Wrath is waxen merry and sings in the golden sheath + As he leaps adown from Greyfell, and stands upon his feet, + And wends his ways through the twilight the Foe of the Gods to meet. + + + _Sigurd slayeth Fafnir the Serpent._ + + Nought Sigurd seeth of Regin, and nought he heeds of him, + As in watchful might and glory he strides the desert dim, + And behind him paceth Greyfell; but he deems the time o'erlong + Till he meet the great gold-warden, the over-lord of wrong. + + So he wendeth midst the silence through the measureless desert place, + And beholds the countless glitter with wise and steadfast face, + Till him-seems in a little season that the flames grown somewhat wan, + And a grey thing glimmers before him, and becomes a mighty man. + One-eyed and ancient-seeming, in cloud-grey raiment clad; + A friendly man and glorious, and of visage smiling-glad: + Then content in Sigurd groweth because of his majesty, + And he heareth him speak in the desert as the wind of the winter sea: + + "Hail Sigurd! Give me thy greeting ere thy ways alone thou wend!" + + Said Sigurd: "Hail! I greet thee, my friend and my fathers' friend." + + "Now whither away," said the elder, "with the Steed and the ancient + Sword?" + + "To the greedy house," said Sigurd, "and the King of the Heavy Hoard." + + "Wilt thou smite, O Sigurd, Sigurd?" said the ancient mighty-one. + + "Yea, yea, I shall smite," said the Volsung, "save the Gods have slain + the sun." + + "What wise wilt thou smite," said the elder? "lest the dark devour thy + day?" + + "Thou hast praised the sword," said the child, "and the sword shall + find a way." + + "Be learned of me," said the Wise-one, "for I was the first of thy + folk." + + Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike + the stroke." + + Spake the Wise-one: "Thus shalt thou do when thou wendest hence alone: + Thou shalt find a path in the desert, and a road in the world of stone; + It is smooth and deep and hollow, but the rain hath riven it not, + And the wild wind hath not worn it, for it is but Fafnir's slot, + Whereby he wends to the water and the fathomless pool of old, + When his heart in the dawn is weary, and he loathes the ancient Gold: + There think of the great and the fathers, and bare the whetted Wrath, + And dig a pit in the highway, and a grave in the Serpent's path: + Lie thou therein, O Sigurd, and thine hope from the glooming hide, + And be as the dead for a season, and the living light abide! + And so shall thine heart avail thee, and thy mighty fateful hand, + And the Light that lay in the Branstock, the well-beloved brand." + + Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike + the stroke; + For I love thee, friend of my fathers, Wise Heart of the holy folk." + + So spake the Son of Sigmund, and beheld no man anear, + And again was the night the midnight, and the twinkling flames shone + clear + In the hush of the Glittering Heath; and alone went Sigmund's son + Till he came to the road of Fafnir, and the highway worn by one, + By the drift of the rain unfurrowed, by the windy years unrent, + And forth from the dark it came, and into the dark it went. + + Great then was the heart of Sigurd, for there in the midmost he stayed, + And thought of the ancient fathers, and bared the bright blue blade, + That shone as a fleck of the day-light, and the night was all around. + Fair then was the Son of Sigmund as he tolled and laboured the ground; + Great, mighty he was in his working, and the Glittering Heath he clave, + And the sword shone blue before him as he dug the pit and the grave: + There he hid his hope from the night-tide and lay like one of the dead, + And wise and wary he bided; and the heavens hung over his head. + + Now the night wanes over Sigurd, and the ruddy rings he sees, + And his war-gear's fair adornment, and the God-folk's images; + But a voice in the desert ariseth, a sound in the waste has birth, + A changing tinkle and clatter, as of gold dragged over the earth: + O'er Sigurd widens the day-light, and the sound is drawing close, + And speedier than the trample of speedy feet it goes; + But ever deemeth Sigurd that the sun brings back the day, + For the grave grows lighter and lighter and heaven o'erhead is grey. + + But now, how the rattling waxeth till he may not heed nor hark! + And the day and the heavens are hidden, and o'er Sigurd rolls the dark, + As the flood of a pitchy river, and heavy-thick is the air + With the venom of hate long hoarded, and lies once fashioned fair: + Then a wan face comes from the darkness, and is wrought in manlike + wise, + And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared are the blinded + eyes; + And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth through the grave + And departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled wave on wave + O'er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the sword, + And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary curse of the Hoard: + Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of life grew chill, + And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the bonds of the + Ancient Ill. + + Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove with the swaddling + of Death; + He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave of the Glittering + Heath; + He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust up over his head. + And smote the venom asunder, and clave the heart of Dread; + Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the rushing river of + blood, + And fulfilled with the joy of the War-God on the face of earth he stood + With red sword high uplifted, with wrathful glittering eyes; + And he laughed at the heavens above him for he saw the sun arise, + And Sigurd gleamed on the desert, and shone in the new-born light, + And the wind in his raiment wavered, and all the world was bright. + + But there was the ancient Fafnir, and the Face of Terror lay + On the huddled folds of the Serpent, that were black and ashen-grey + In the desert lit by the sun; and those twain looked each on each, + And forth from the Face of Terror went a sound of dreadful speech: + + "Child, child, who art thou that hast smitten? bright child, of whence + is thy birth?" + + "I am called the Wild-thing Glorious, and alone I wend on the earth." + + "Fierce child, and who was thy father?--Thou hast cleft the heart of + the Foe!" + + "Am I like to the sons of men-folk, that my father I should know?" + + "Wert thou born of a nameless wonder? shall the lies to my death-day + cling?" + + "How lieth Sigurd the Volsung, and the Son of Sigmund the King?" + + "O bitter father of Sigurd!--thou hast cleft mine heart atwain!" + + "I arose, and I wondered and wended, and I smote, and I smote not in + vain." + + "What master hath taught thee of murder?--Thou hast wasted Fafnir's + day." + + "I, Sigurd, knew and desired, and the bright sword learned the way." + + "Thee, thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings bring to the + bane." + + "Yet mine hand shall cast them abroad, and the earth shall gather + again." + + "I see thee great in thine anger, and the Norns thou heedest not." + + "O Fafnir, speak of the Norns and the wisdom unforgot!" + + "Let the death-doomed flee from the ocean, him the wind and the + weather shall drown." + + "O Fafnir, tell of the Norns ere thy life thou layest adown!" + + "O manifold is their kindred, and who shall tell them all? + There are they that rule o'er men-folk and the stars that rise and + fall: + --I knew of the folk of the Dwarfs, and I knew their Norns of old; + And I fought, and I fell in the morning, and I die afar from the gold: + --I have seen the Gods of heaven, and their Norns withal I know: + They love and withhold their helping, they hate and refrain the blow; + They curse and they may not sunder, they bless and they shall not + blend; + They have fashioned the good and the evil; they abide the change and + the end." + + "O Fafnir, what of the Isle, and what hast thou known of its name, + Where the Gods shall mingle edges with Surt and the Sons of the Flame?" + + "O child, O Strong Compeller! Unshapen is it hight; + There the fallow blades shall be shaken and the Dark and the Day shall + smite, + When the Bridge of the Gods is broken, and their white steeds swim the + sea, + And the uttermost field is stricken, last strife of thee and me." + + "What then shall endure, O Fafnir, the tale of the battle to tell?" + + "I am blind, O Strong Compeller, in the bonds of Death and Hell. + But thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings bring unto bane." + + "Yet the rings mine hand shall scatter, and the earth shall gather + again." + + "Woe, woe! in the days passed over I bore the Helm of Dread, + I reared the Face of Terror, and the hoarded hate of the Dead: + I overcame and was mighty; I was wise and cherished my heart + In the waste where no man wandered, and the high house builded apart: + Till I met thine hand, O Sigurd, and thy might ordained from of old; + And I fought and fell in the morning, and I die far off from the Gold." + + Then Sigurd leaned on his sword, and a dreadful voice went by + Like the wail of a God departing and the War-God's misery; + And strong words of ancient wisdom went by on the desert wind, + The words that mar and fashion, the words that loose and bind; + And sounds of a strange lamenting, and such strange things bewailed, + That words to tell their meaning the tongue of man hath failed. + + Then all sank into silence, and the Son of Sigmund stood + On the torn and furrowed desert by the pool of Fafnir's blood, + And the Serpent lay before him, dead, chilly, dull, and grey; + And over the Glittering Heath fair shone the sun and the day, + And a light wind followed the sun and breathed o'er the fateful place, + As fresh as it furrows the sea-plain or bows the acres' face. + + + _Sigurd slayeth Regin the Master of Masters on the Glittering Heath._ + + There standeth Sigurd the Volsung, and leaneth on his sword, + And beside him now is Greyfell and looks on his golden lord, + And the world is awake and living; and whither now shall they wend, + Who have come to the Glittering Heath, and wrought that deed to its + end? + For hither comes Regin the Master from the skirts of the field of + death, + And he shadeth his eyes from the sunlight as afoot he goeth and saith: + "Ah, let me live for a while! for a while and all shall be well, + When passed is the house of murder and I creep from the prison of + hell." + + Afoot he went o'er the desert, and he came unto Sigurd and stared + At the golden gear of the man, and the Wrath yet bloody and bared, + And the light locks raised by the wind, and the eyes beginning to + smile, + And the lovely lips of the Volsung, and the brow that knew no guile; + And he murmured under his breath while his eyes grew white with wrath: + + "O who art thou, and wherefore, and why art thou in the path?" + + Then he turned to the ash-grey Serpent, and grovelled low on the + ground, + And he drank of that pool of the blood where the stones of the wild + were drowned, + And long he lapped as a dog; but when he arose again, + Lo, a flock of the mountain-eagles that drew to the feastful plain; + And he turned and looked on Sigurd, as bright in the sun he stood, + A stripling fair and slender, and wiped the Wrath of the blood. + + But Regin cried: "O Dwarf-kind, O many-shifting folk, + O shapes of might and wonder, am I too freed from the yoke, + That binds my soul to my body a withered thing forlorn, + While the short-lived fools of man-folk so fair and oft are born? + Now swift in the air shall I be, and young in the concourse of kings, + If my heart shall come to desire the gain of earthly things." + + And he looked and saw how Sigurd was sheathing the Flame of War, + And the eagles screamed in the wind, but their voice came faint from + afar: + Then he scowled, and crouched and darkened, and came to Sigurd and + spake: + "O child, thou hast slain my brother, and the Wrath is alive and + awake." + + "Thou sayest sooth," said Sigurd, "thy deed and mine is done: + But now our ways shall sunder, for here, meseemeth, the sun + Hath but little of deeds to do, and no love to win aback." + + Then Regin crouched before him, and he spake: "Fare on to the wrack! + Fare on to the murder of men, and the deeds of thy kindred of old! + And surely of thee as of them shall the tale be speedily told. + Thou hast slain thy Master's brother, and what wouldst thou say + thereto, + Were the judges met for the judging and the doom-ring hallowed due?" + + Then Sigurd spake as aforetime: "Thy deed and mine it was, + And now our ways shall sunder, and into the world will I pass." + + But Regin darkened before him, and exceeding grim was he grown, + And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and wherewith wilt thou + atone?" + + "Stand up, O Master," said Sigurd, "O Singer of ancient days, + And take the wealth I have won thee, ere we wend on the sundering ways. + I have toiled and thou hast desired, and the Treasure is surely anear, + And thou hast wisdom to find it, and I have slain thy fear." + + But Regin crouched and darkened: "Thou hast slain my brother," he said. + + "Take thou the Gold," quoth Sigurd, "for the ransom of my head!" + + Then Regin crouched and darkened, and over the earth he hung; + And he said: "Thou hast slain my brother, and the Gods are yet but + young." + + Bright Sigurd towered above him, and the Wrath cried out in the sheath, + And Regin writhed against it as the adder turns on death; + And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and today shalt thou be my + thrall: + Yea a King shall be my cook-boy and this heath my cooking-hall." + + Then he crept to the ash-grey coils where the life of his brother had + lain. + And he drew a glaive from his side and smote the smitten and slain, + And tore the heart from Fafnir, while the eagles cried o'erhead. + And sharp and shrill was their voice o'er the entrails of the dead. + + Then Regin spake to Sigurd: "Of this slaying wilt thou be free? + Then gather thou fire together and roast the heart for me, + That I may eat it and live, and be thy master and more; + For therein was might and wisdom, and the grudged and hoarded lore:-- + --Or else, depart on thy ways afraid from the Glittering Heath." + + Then he fell abackward and slept, nor set his sword in the sheath, + But his hand was red on the hilts and blue were the edges bared, + Ash-grey was his visage waxen, and with open eyes he stared + On the height of heaven above him, and a fearful thing he seemed, + As his soul went wide in the world, and of rule and kingship he + dreamed. + + But Sigurd took the Heart, and wood on the waste he found, + The wood that grew and died, as it crept on the niggard ground, + And grew and died again, and lay like whitened bones; + And the ernes cried over his head, as he builded his hearth of stones, + And kindled the fire for cooking, and sat and sang o'er the roast + The song of his fathers of old, and the Wolflings' gathering host: + So there on the Glittering Heath rose up the little flame, + And the dry sticks crackled amidst it, and alow the eagles came, + And seven they were by tale, and they pitched all round about + The cooking-fire of Sigurd, and sent their song-speech out: + But nought he knoweth its wisdom, or the word that they would speak: + And hot grew the Heart of Fafnir and sang amid the reek. + + Then Sigurd looketh on Regin, and he deemeth it overlong + That he dighteth the dear-bought morsel, and the might for the Master + of wrong, + So he reacheth his hand to the roast to see if the cooking be o'er; + But the blood and the fat seethed from it and scalded his finger sore, + And he set his hand to his mouth to quench the fleshly smart, + And he tasted the flesh of the Serpent and the blood of Fafnir's Heart: + Then there came a change upon him, for the speech of fowl he knew, + And wise in the ways of the beast-kind as the Dwarfs of old he grew; + And he knitted his brows and hearkened, and wrath in his heart arose; + For he felt beset of evil in a world of many foes. + But the hilts of the Wrath he handled, and Regin's heart he saw, + And how that the Foe of the Gods the net of death would draw; + And his bright eyes flashed and sparkled, and his mouth grew set and + stern + As he hearkened the voice of the eagles, and their song began to learn. + + For the first cried out in the desert: "O mighty Sigmund's son, + How long wilt thou sit and tarry now the dear-bought roast is done?" + + And the second: "Volsung, arise! for the horns blow up to the hall, + And dight are the purple hangings, and the King to the feasting + should fall." + + And the third: "How great is the feast if the eater eat aright + The Heart of the wisdom of old and the after-world's delight!" + + And the fourth: "Yea, what of Regin? shall he scatter wrack o'er the + world? + Shall the father be slain by the son, and the brother 'gainst brother + be hurled?" + + And the fifth: "He hath taught a stripling the gifts of a God to give: + He hath reared up a King for the slaying, that he alone might live." + + And the sixth: "He shall waken mighty as a God that scorneth at truth; + He hath drunk of the blood of the Serpent, and drowned all hope and + ruth." + + And the seventh: "Arise, O Sigurd, lest the hour be overlate! + For the sun in the mid-noon shineth, and swift is the hand of Fate: + Arise! lest the world run backward and the blind heart have its will, + And once again be tangled the sundered good and ill; + Lest love and hatred perish, lest the world forget its tale, + And the Gods sit deedless, dreaming, in the high-walled heavenly vale." + + Then swift ariseth Sigurd, and the Wrath in his hand is bare, + And he looketh, and Regin sleepeth, and his eyes wide-open glare; + But his lips smile false in his dreaming, and his hand is on the sword; + For he dreams himself the Master and the new world's fashioning-lord. + And his dream hath forgotten Sigurd, and the King's life lies in the + pit; + He is nought; Death gnaweth upon him, while the Dwarfs in mastery sit. + + But lo, how the eyes of Sigurd the heart of the guileful behold, + And great is Allfather Odin, and upriseth the Curse of the Gold, + And the Branstock bloometh to heaven from the ancient wondrous root; + The summer hath shone on its blossoms, and Sigurd's Wrath is the fruit: + Dread then he cried in the desert: "Guile-master, lo thy deed! + Hast thou nurst my life for destruction, and my death to serve thy + need? + Hast thou kept me here for the net and the death that tame things die? + Hast thou feared me overmuch, thou Foe of the Gods on high? + Lest the sword thine hand was wielding should turn about and cleave + The tangled web of nothing thou hadst wearied thyself to weave. + Lo here the sword and the stroke! judge the Norns betwixt us twain! + But for me, I will live and die not, nor shall all my hope be vain." + + Then his second stroke struck Sigurd, for the Wrath flashed thin and + white, + And 'twixt head and trunk of Regin fierce ran the fateful light; + And there lay brother by brother a faded thing and wan. + But Sigurd cried in the desert: "So far have I wended on! + Dead are the foes of God-home that would blend the good and the ill; + And the World shall yet be famous, and the Gods shall have their will. + Nor shall I be dead and forgotten, while the earth grows worse and + worse? + With the blind heart king o'er the people, and binding curse with + curse." + + + _How Sigurd took to him the Treasure of the Elf Andvari._ + + Now Sigurd eats of the heart that once in the Dwarf-king lay, + The hoard of the wisdom begrudged, the might of the earlier day. + Then wise of heart was he waxen, but longing in him grew + To sow the seed he had gotten, and till the field he knew. + So he leapeth aback of Greyfell, and rideth the desert bare. + And the hollow slot of Fafnir, that led to the Serpent's lair. + Then long he rode adown it, and the ernes flew overhead, + And tidings great and glorious, of that Treasure of old they said. + So far o'er the waste he wended, and when the night was come + He saw the earth-old dwelling, the dread Gold-wallower's home: + On the skirts of the Heath it was builded by a tumbled stony bent; + High went that house to the heavens, down 'neath the earth it went. + Of unwrought iron fashioned for the heart of a greedy king: + 'Twas a mountain, blind without, and within was its plenishing + But the Hoard of Andvari the ancient, and the sleeping Curse unseen, + The Gold of the Gods that spared not and the greedy that have been. + + Through the door strode Sigurd the Volsung, and the grey moon and the + sword + Fell in on the tawny gold-heaps of the ancient hapless Hoard: + Gold gear of hosts unburied, and the coin of cities dead, + Great spoil of the ages of battle, lay there on the Serpent's bed: + Huge blocks from mid-earth quarried, where none but the Dwarfs have + mined, + Wide sands of the golden rivers no foot of man may find + Lay 'neath the spoils of the mighty and the ruddy rings of yore: + But amidst was the Helm of Aweing that the Fear of earth-folk bore, + And there gleamed a wonder beside it, the Hauberk all of gold, + Whose like is not in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told: + There Sigurd seeth moreover Andvari's Ring of Gain, + The hope of Loki's finger, the Ransom's utmost grain; + For it shone on the midmost gold-heap like the first star set in the + sky + In the yellow space of even when moon-rise draweth anigh. + Then laughed the Son of Sigmund, and stooped to the golden land, + And gathered that first of the harvest and set it on his hand; + And he did on the Helm of Aweing, and the Hauberk all of gold, + Whose like is not in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told: + Then he praised the day of the Volsungs amid the yellow light, + And he set his hand to the labour and put forth his kingly might; + He dragged forth gold to the moon, on the desert's face he laid + The innermost earth's adornment, and rings for the nameless made; + He toiled and loaded Greyfell, and the cloudy war-steed shone + And the gear of Sigurd rattled in the flood of moonlight wan; + There he toiled and loaded Greyfell, and the Volsung's armour rang + Mid the yellow bed of the Serpent: but without the eagles sang: + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! let the gold shine free and clear! + For what hath the Son of the Volsungs the ancient Curse to fear?" + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for thy tale is well begun, + And the world shall be good and gladdened by the Gold lit up by the + sun." + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! and gladden all thine heart! + For the world shall make thee merry ere thou and she depart." + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for the ways go green below, + Go green to the dwelling of Kings, and the halls that the Queen-folk + know." + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for what is there bides by the way, + Save the joy of folk to awaken, and the dawn of the merry day?" + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for the strife awaits thine hand, + And a plenteous war-field's reaping, and the praise of many a land." + + "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! But how shall storehouse hold + That glory of thy winning and the tidings to be told?" + + Now the moon was dead, and the star-worlds were great on the heavenly + plain, + When the steed was fully laden; then Sigurd taketh the rein + And turns to the ruined rock-wall that the lair was built beneath, + For there he deemed was the gate and the door of the Glittering Heath, + But not a whit moved Greyfell for aught that the King might do; + Then Sigurd pondered a while, till the heart of the beast he knew, + And clad in all his war-gear he leaped to the saddle-stead, + And with pride and mirth neighed Greyfell and tossed aloft his head, + And sprang unspurred o'er the waste, and light and swift he went, + And breasted the broken rampart, the stony tumbled bent; + And over the brow he clomb, and there beyond was the world, + A place of many mountains and great crags together hurled. + So down to the west he wendeth, and goeth swift and light, + And the stars are beginning to wane, and the day is mingled with night; + For full fain was the sun to arise and look on the Gold set free, + And the Dwarf-wrought rings of the Treasure and the gifts from the + floor of the sea. + + + _How Sigurd awoke Brynhild upon Hindfell._ + + By long roads rideth Sigurd amidst that world of stone, + And somewhat south he turneth; for he would not be alone, + But longs for the dwellings of man-folk, and the kingly people's + speech, + And the days of the glee and the joyance, where men laugh each to each. + But still the desert endureth, and afar must Greyfell fare + From the wrack of the Glittering Heath, and Fafnir's golden lair. + Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning of day + From out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloud-land grey + Comes up a mighty mountain, and it is as though there burns + A torch amidst of its cloud-wreath; so thither Sigurd turns, + For he deems indeed from its topmost to look on the best of the earth; + And Greyfell neigheth beneath him, and his heart is full of mirth. + + So he rideth higher and higher, and the light grows great and strange, + And forth from the clouds it flickers, till at noon they gather and + change, + And settle thick on the mountain, and hide its head from sight; + But the winds in a while are awakened, and day bettereth ere the night, + And, lifted a measureless mass o'er the desert crag-walls high, + Cloudless the mountain riseth against the sunset sky, + The sea of the sun grown golden, as it ebbs from the day's desire; + And the light that afar was a torch is grown a river of fire, + And the mountain is black above it, and below is it dark and dun; + And there is the head of Hindfell as an island in the sun. + + Night falls, but yet rides Sigurd, and hath no thought of rest, + For he longs to climb that rock-world and behold the earth at its best; + But now mid the maze of the foot-hills he seeth the light no more, + And the stars are lovely and gleaming on the lightless heavenly floor. + So up and up he wendeth till the night is wearing thin; + And he rideth a rift of the mountain, and all is dark therein, + Till the stars are dimmed by dawning and the wakening world is cold; + Then afar in the upper rock-wall a breach doth he behold, + And a flood of light poured inward the doubtful dawning blinds: + So swift he rideth thither and the mouth of the breach he finds, + And sitteth awhile on Greyfell on the marvellous thing to gaze: + For lo, the side of Hindfell enwrapped by the fervent blaze, + And nought 'twixt earth and heaven save a world of flickering flame, + And a hurrying shifting tangle, where the dark rents went and came. + + Great groweth the heart of Sigurd with uttermost desire, + And he crieth kind to Greyfell, and they hasten up, and nigher, + Till he draweth rein in the dawning on the face of Hindfell's steep: + But who shall heed the dawning where the tongues of that wildfire leap? + For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the heaven + The wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it driven + By the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood amidst it is + nought; + And no wayfarer's door and no window the hand of its builder hath + wrought + But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath uplifteth his hair, + And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail gleams white + and fair, + And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the waning stars behind: + But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snuff at the flame-wall blind. + And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the knitted mail, + And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan and pale. + + Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts, + And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts, + And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire's heart; + But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart, + And high o'er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roar + As it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor: + But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye, + When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh + The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell's mane, + And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir's bane, + And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair, + But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear; + Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left behind, + And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind. + + But forth a little further and a little further on + And all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wan + Beneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes, + And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies; + And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey. + And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day. + + Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw, + A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw, + The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white; + And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright, + As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin's hall. + Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall, + And far o'er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hung + A glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rang + As the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell's face + And the light from the yellowing east beamed soft on the shielded + place. + + But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt adown + To the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of renown; + He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of God it seemed, + As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd gleamed: + He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he wendeth around, + And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any sound: + But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open wide, + And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by the threshold abide + So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful light of the Wrath + Gleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the inward path: + For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance some + Dwarf-king's snare, + Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the morning air: + But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he behold, + And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the gold; + But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man is set, + But the utmost head of Hindfell ariseth higher yet; + And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned mound, + Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the level ground; + And there, on that mound of the Giants, o'er the wilderness forlorn, + A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn. + + So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the shielded door. + And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the Branstock he bore; + And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld the image wan, + And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape of a man + Set forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the world, + High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy bolts are hurled. + + Now he comes to the mound and climbs it, and will see if the man be + dead + Some King of the days forgotten laid there with crowned head, + Or the frame of a God, it may be, that in heaven hath changed his life, + Or some glorious heart beloved, God-rapt from the earthly strife: + Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen fair, + And clad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering gear, + In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh it were grown: + But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a glittering crown. + + So thereby he stoopeth and kneeleth, for he deems it were good indeed + If the breath of life abide there and the speech to help at need; + And as sweet as the summer wind from a garden under the sun + Cometh forth on the topmost Hindfell the breath of that sleeping-one. + Then he saith he will look on the face, if it bear him love or hate, + Or the bonds for his life's constraining, or the sundering doom of + fate. + So he draweth the helm from the head, and, lo, the brow snow-white, + And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips breathing light; + And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that ever was born, + Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert world forlorn: + But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth her spirit to move, + And awaken her heart to the world, that she may behold him and love. + And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he loveth her passing + sore; + And he saith; "Awake! I am Sigurd," but she moveth never the more. + + Then he looked on his bare bright blade, and he said: "Thou--what + wilt thou do? + For indeed as I came by the war-garth thy voice of desire I knew." + Bright burnt the pale blue edges for the sunrise drew anear, + And the rims of the Shield-burg glittered, and the east was exceeding + clear: + So the eager edges he setteth to the Dwarf-wrought battle-coat + Where the hammered ring-knit collar constraineth the woman's throat; + But the sharp Wrath biteth and rendeth, and before it fail the rings. + And, lo, the gleam of the linen, and the light of golden things: + Then he driveth the blue steel onward, and through the skirt, and out. + Till nought but the rippling linen is wrapping her about; + Then he deems her breath comes quicker and her breast begins to heave, + So he turns about the War-Flame and rends down either sleeve, + Till her arms lie white in her raiment, and a river of sun-bright hair + Flows free o'er bosom and shoulder and floods the desert bare. + + Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh up-heaveth her breast, + And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth into rest; + Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to change or smile, + And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet for a while; + And yet kneels Sigurd moveless her wakening speech to heed, + While soft the waves of the daylight o'er the starless heavens speed, + And the gleaming rims of the Shield-burg yet bright and brighter grow, + And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in the golden glow. + + Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes met the Volsung's + eyes. + And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his love arise, + For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew of her heart that + she loved, + As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with the speech-flood + moved: + + "O, what is the thing so mighty that my weary sleep hath torn, + And rent the fallow bondage, and the wan woe over-worn?" + + He said: "The hand of Sigurd and the Sword of Sigmund's son, + And the heart that the Volsungs fashioned this deed for thee have + done." + + But she said: "Where then is Odin that laid me here alow? + Long lasteth the grief of the world, and manfolk's tangled woe!" + + "He dwelleth above," said Sigurd, "but I on the earth abide, + And I came from the Glittering Heath the waves of thy fire to ride." + + But therewith the sun rose upward and lightened all the earth, + And the light flashed up to the heavens from the rims of the glorious + girth; + But they twain arose together, and with both her palms outspread, + And bathed in the light returning, she cried aloud and said: + + "All hail, O Day and thy Sons, and thy kin of the coloured things! + Hail, following Night, and thy Daughter that leadeth thy wavering + wings! + Look down with unangry eyes on us today alive, + And give us the hearts victorious, and the gain for which we strive! + All hail, ye Lords of God-home, and ye Queens of the House of Gold! + Hail, thou dear Earth that bearest, and thou Wealth of field and fold! + Give us, your noble children, the glory of wisdom and speech, + And the hearts and the hands of healing, and the mouths and hands that + teach!" + + Then they turned and were knit together; and oft and o'er again + They craved, and kissed rejoicing, and their hearts were full and fain. + + Then Sigurd looketh upon her, and the words from his heart arise: + "Thou art the fairest of earth, and the wisest of the wise; + O who art thou that lovest? I am Sigurd, e'en as I told; + I have slain the Foe of the Gods, and gotten the Ancient Gold; + And great were the gain of thy love, and the gift of mine earthly days, + If we twain should never sunder as we wend on the changing ways. + O who art thou that lovest, thou fairest of all things born? + And what meaneth thy sleep and thy slumber in the wilderness forlorn?" + + She said: "I am she that loveth: I was born of the earthly folk, + But of old Allfather took me from the Kings and their wedding yoke: + And he called me the Victory-Wafter, and I went and came as he would, + And I chose the slain for his war-host, and the days were glorious and + good, + Till the thoughts of my heart overcame me, and the pride of my wisdom + and speech, + And I scorned the earth-folk's Framer and the Lord of the world I must + teach: + For the death-doomed I caught from the sword, and the fated life I + slew, + And I deemed that my deeds were goodly, and that long I should do and + undo. + But Allfather came against me and the God in his wrath arose; + And he cried: 'Thou hast thought in thy folly that the Gods have + friends and foes, + That they wake, and the world wends onward, that they sleep, and the + world slips back, + That they laugh, and the world's weal waxeth, that they frown and + fashion the wrack: + Thou hast cast up the curse against me; it shall fall aback on thine + head; + Go back to the sons of repentance, with the children of sorrow wed! + For the Gods are great unholpen, and their grief is seldom seen, + And the wrong that they will and must be is soon as it had not been.' + + "Yet I thought: 'Shall I wed in the world, shall I gather grief on + the earth? + Then the fearless heart shall I wed, and bring the best to birth, + And fashion such tales for the telling, that Earth shall be holpen + at least, + If the Gods think scorn of its fairness, as they sit at the + changeless feast.' + + "Then somewhat smiled Allfather; and he spake: 'So let it be! + The doom thereof abideth; the doom of me and thee. + Yet long shall the time pass over ere thy waking-day be born: + Fare forth, and forget and be weary 'neath the Sting of the Sleepful + Thorn!' + + "So I came to the head of Hindfell and the ruddy shields and white, + And the wall of the wildfire wavering around the isle of night; + And there the Sleep-thorn pierced me, and the slumber on me fell, + And the night of nameless sorrows that hath no tale to tell. + Now I am she that loveth; and the day is nigh at hand + When I, who have ridden the sea-realm and the regions of the land, + And dwelt in the measureless mountains and the forge of stormy days, + Shall dwell in the house of my fathers and the land of the people's + praise; + And there shall hand meet hand, and heart by heart shall beat, + And the lying-down shall be joyous, and the morn's uprising sweet. + Lo now, I look on thine heart and behold of thine inmost will, + That thou of the days wouldst hearken that our portion shall fulfill; + But O, be wise of man-folk, and the hope of thine heart refrain! + As oft in the battle's beginning ye vex the steed with the rein, + Lest at last in its latter ending, when the sword hath hushed the horn, + His limbs should be weary and fail, and his might be over-worn. + O be wise, lest thy love constrain me, and my vision wax o'er-clear, + And thou ask of the thing that thou shouldst not, and the thing that + thou wouldst not hear. + + "Know thou, most mighty of men, that the Norns shall order all, + And yet without thine helping shall no whit of their will befall; + Be wise! 'tis a marvel of words, and a mock for the fool and the blind, + But I saw it writ in the heavens, and its fashioning there did I find: + And the night of the Norns and their slumber, and the tide when the + world runs back, + And the way of the sun is tangled, it is wrought of the dastard's lack. + But the day when the fair earth blossoms, and the sun is bright above. + Of the daring deeds is it fashioned and the eager hearts of love. + + "Be wise, and cherish thine hope in the freshness of the days, + And scatter its seed from thine hand in the field of the people's + praise; + Then fair shall it fall in the furrow, and some the earth shall speed, + And the sons of men shall marvel at the blossom of the deed: + But some the earth shall speed not: nay rather, the wind of the heaven + Shall waft it away from thy longing--and a gift to the Gods hast thou + given, + And a tree for the roof and the wall in the house of the hope that + shall be, + Though it seemeth our very sorrow, and the grief of thee and me. + + "Strive not with the fools of man-folk: for belike thou shalt overcome; + And what then is the gain of thine hunting when thou bearest the + quarry home? + Or else shall the fool overcome thee, and what deed thereof shall grow? + Nay, strive with the wise man rather, and increase thy woe and his woe; + Yet thereof a gain hast thou gotten; and the half of thine heart hast + thou won + If thou may'st prevail against him, and his deeds are the deeds thou + hast done: + Yea, and if thou fall before him, in him shalt thou live again, + And thy deeds in his hand shall blossom, and his heart of thine heart + shall be fain. + + "When thou hearest the fool rejoicing, and he saith, 'It is over and + past, + And the wrong was better than right, and hate turns into love at the + last, + And we strove for nothing at all, and the Gods are fallen asleep; + For so good is the world a growing that the evil good shall reap:' + Then loosen thy sword in the scabbard and settle the helm on thine + head, + For men betrayed are mighty, and great are the wrongfully dead + + "Wilt thou do the deed and repent it? thou hadst better never been + born: + Wilt thou do the deed and exalt it? then thy fame shall be outworn: + Thou shalt do the deed and abide it, and sit on thy throne on high, + And look on today and tomorrow as those that never die. + + "Love thou the Gods--and withstand them, lest thy fame should fail in + the end, + And thou be but their thrall and their bondsmen, who wert born for + their very friend: + For few things from the Gods are hidden, and the hearts of men they + know, + And how that none rejoiceth to quail and crouch alow. + + "I have spoken the words, beloved, to thy matchless glory and worth; + But thy heart to my heart hath been speaking, though my tongue hath + set it forth: + For I am she that loveth, and I know what thou wouldst teach + From the heart of thine unlearned wisdom, and I needs must speak thy + speech." + + Then words were weary and silent, but oft and o'er again + They craved and kissed rejoicing, and their hearts were full and fain. + + Then spake the Son of Sigmund: "Fairest, and most of worth, + Hast thou seen the ways of man-folk and the regions of the earth? + Then speak yet more of wisdom; for most meet meseems it is + That my soul to thy soul be shapen, and that I should know thy bliss." + + So she took his right hand meekly, nor any word would say, + Not e'en of love or praising, his longing to delay; + And they sat on the side of Hindfell, and their fain eyes looked and + loved, + As she told of the hidden matters whereby the world is moved: + And she told of the framing of all things, and the houses of the + heaven; + And she told of the star-worlds' courses, and how the winds be driven; + And she told of the Norns and their names, and the fate that abideth + the earth; + And she told of the ways of King-folk in their anger and their mirth; + And she spake of the love of women, and told of the flame that burns, + And the fall of mighty houses, and the friend that falters and turns, + And the lurking blinded vengeance, and the wrong that amendeth wrong, + And the hand that repenteth its stroke, and the grief that endureth + for long: + And how man shall bear and forbear, and be master of all that is; + And how man shall measure it all, the wrath, and the grief, and the + bliss. + + "I saw the body of Wisdom, and of shifting guise was she wrought, + And I stretched out my hands to hold her, and a mote of the dust they + caught; + And I prayed her to come for my teaching, and she came in the + midnight dream-- + And I woke and might not remember, nor betwixt her tangle deem: + She spake, and how might I hearken; I heard, and how might I know; + I knew, and how might I fashion, or her hidden glory show? + All things I have told thee of Wisdom are but fleeting images + Of her hosts that abide in the heavens, and her light that Allfather + sees: + Yet wise is the sower that sows, and wise is the reaper that reaps, + And wise is the smith in his smiting, and wise is the warder that + keeps: + And wise shalt thou be to deliver, and I shall be wise to desire; + --And lo, the tale that is told, and the sword and the wakening fire! + Lo now, I am she that loveth, and hark how Greyfell neighs, + And Fafnir's Bed is gleaming, and green go the downward ways, + The road to the children of men and the deeds that thou shalt do + In the joy of thy life-days' morning, when thine hope is fashioned + anew. + Come now, O Bane of the Serpent, for now is the high-noon come, + And the sun hangeth over Hindfell and looks on the earth-folk's home; + But the soul is so great within thee, and so glorious are thine eyes, + And me so love constraineth, and mine heart that was called the wise, + That we twain may see men's dwellings and the house where we shall + dwell, + And the place of our life's beginning, where the tale shall be to + tell." + + So they climb the burg of Hindfell, and hand in hand they fare, + Till all about and above them is nought but the sunlit air, + And there close they cling together rejoicing in their mirth; + For far away beneath them lie the kingdoms of the earth, + And the garths of men-folk's dwellings and the streams that water them, + And the rich and plenteous acres, and the silver ocean's hem, + And the woodland wastes and the mountains, and all that holdeth all; + The house and the ship and the island, the loom and the mine and the + stall, + The beds of bane and healing, the crafts that slay and save, + The temple of God and the Doom-ring, the cradle and the grave. + + Then spake the Victory-Wafter: "O King of the Earthly Age, + As a God thou beholdest the treasure and the joy of thine heritage, + And where on the wings of his hope is the spirit of Sigurd borne? + Yet I bid thee hover awhile as a lark alow on the corn; + Yet I bid thee look on the land 'twixt the wood and the silver sea + In the bight of the swirling river, and the house that cherished me! + There dwelleth mine earthly sister and the king that she hath wed; + There morn by morn aforetime I woke on the golden bed; + There eve by eve I tarried mid the speech and the lays of kings; + There noon by noon I wandered and plucked the blossoming things; + The little land of Lymdale by the swirling river's side, + Where Brynhild once was I called in the days ere my father died; + The little land of Lymdale 'twixt the woodland and the sea, + Where on thee mine eyes shall brighten and thine eyes shall beam on + me." + + "I shall seek thee there," said Sigurd, "when the day-spring is begun, + Ere we wend the world together in the season of the sun." + + "I shall bide thee there," said Brynhild, "till the fulness of the + days, + And the time for the glory appointed, and the springing-tide of + praise." + + From his hand then draweth Sigurd Andvari's ancient Gold; + There is nought but the sky above them as the ring together they hold, + The shapen ancient token, that hath no change nor end, + No change, and no beginning, no flaw for God to mend: + Then Sigurd cries: "O Brynhild, now hearken while I swear, + That the sun shall die in the heavens and the day no more be fair, + If I seek not love in Lymdale and the house that fostered thee, + And the land where thou awakedst 'twixt the woodland and the sea!" + + And she cried: "O Sigurd, Sigurd, now hearken while I swear + That the day shall die for ever and the sun to blackness wear, + Ere I forget thee, Sigurd, as I lie 'twixt wood and sea + In the little land of Lymdale and the house that fostered me!" + + Then he set the ring on her finger and once, if ne'er again, + They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain. + + So the day grew old about them and the joy of their desire, + And eve and the sunset came, and faint grew the sunset fire, + And the shadowless death of the day was sweet in the golden tide; + But the stars shone forth on the world, and the twilight changed and + died; + And sure if the first of man-folk had been born to that starry night, + And had heard no tale of the sunrise, he had never longed for the + light: + But Earth longed amidst her slumber, as 'neath the night she lay, + And fresh and all abundant abode the deeds of Day. + + + + +BOOK III. + +BRYNHILD. + + IN THIS BOOK IS TOLD OF THE DEEDS OF SIGURD, AND OF HIS SOJOURN + WITH THE NIBLUNGS, AND IN THE END OF HOW HE DIED. + + + _Of the Dream of Gudrun the Daughter of Giuki._ + + + And now of the Niblung people the tale beginneth to tell, + How they deal with the wind and the weather; in the cloudy drift they + dwell + When the war is awake in the mountains, and they drive the desert + spoil, + And their weaponed hosts unwearied through the misty hollows toil; + But again in the eager sunshine they scour across the plain, + And spear by spear is quivering, and rein is laid by rein, + And the dust is about and behind them, and the fear speeds on before, + As they shake the flowery meadows with the fleeting flood of war. + Yea, when they come from the battle, and the land lies down in peace, + No less in gear of warriors they gather earth's increase, + And helmed as the Gods of battle they drive the team afield: + These come to the council of elders with sword and spear and shield, + And shout to their war-dukes' dooming of their uttermost desire: + These never bow the helm-crest before the High-Gods' fire + But show their swords to Odin, and cry on Vingi-Thor + With the dancing of the ring-mail and the smitten shields of war: + Yet though amid their high-tides of the deaths of men they sing, + And of swords in the battle broken, and the fall of many a king, + Yet they sing it wreathed with the flowers and they praise the gift + and the gain + Of the war-lord sped to Odin as he rends the battle atwain. + And their days are young and glorious, and in hope exceeding great + With sword and harp and beaker on the skirts of the Norns they wait. + + Now the King of this folk is Giuki, and he sits in the Niblung hall + When the song of men goes roofward and the shields shine out from the + wall; + And his queen in the high-seat sitteth, the woman overwise, + Grimhild the kin of the God-folk, the wife of the glittering eyes: + And his sons on each hand are sitting; there is Gunnar the great and + fair, + With the lovely face of a king 'twixt the night of his wavy hair: + And there is the wise-heart Hogni; and his lips are close and thin, + And grey and awful his eyen, and a many sights they win: + And there is Guttorm the youngest, of the fierce and wandering glance, + And the heart that never resteth till the swords in the war-wind dance: + And there is Gudrun his daughter, and light she stands by the board, + And fair are her arms in the hall as the beaker's flood is poured: + She comes, and the earls keep silence; she smiles, and men rejoice; + She speaks, and the harps unsmitten thrill faint to her queenly voice. + + So blossom the days of the Niblungs, and great is their hope's increase + 'Twixt the merry days of battle and the tide of their guarded peace: + There is many a noon of joyance, and many an eve's delight, + And many a deed for the doing 'twixt the morning and the night. + + Now betimes on a morning of summer that Giuki's daughter arose, + Alone went the fair-armed Gudrun to her flowery garden-close; + And she went by the bower of women, and her damsels saw her thence, + And her nurse went down to meet her as she came by the rose-hung fence, + And she saw that her eyes were heavy as she trod with doubtful feet + Betwixt the rose and the lily, nor blessed the blossoms sweet: + And she spake: + "What ails thee, daughter, as one asleep to tread + O'er the grass of the merry summer and the daisies white and red? + And to have no heart for the harp-play, or the needle's mastery, + Where the gold and the silk are framing the Swans of the Goths on the + sea, + And helms and shields of warriors, and Kings on the hazelled isle? + Why hast thou no more joyance on the damsels' glee to smile? + Why biddest thou not to the wild-wood with horse and hawk and hound? + Why biddest thou not to the heathland and the eagle-haunted ground + To meet thy noble brethren as they ride from the mountain-road? + Hast thou deemed the hall of the Niblungs a churlish poor abode? + Wouldst thou wend away from thy kindred, and scorn thy fosterer's + praise? + --Or is this the beginning of love and the first of the troublous + days?" + + Then spake the fair-armed Gudrun: "Nay, nought I know of scorn + For the noble kin of the Niblungs, or the house where I was born; + No pain of love hath smit me, and no evil days begin, + And I shall be fain tomorrow of the deeds that the maidens win: + But if I wend the summer in dull unlovely seeming, + It comes of the night, O mother, and the tide of last night's + dreaming." + + Then spake the ancient woman: "Thy dream to me shalt thou show; + Such oft foretell but the weather, and the airts whence the wind + shall blow." + + Blood-red was waxen Gudrun, and she said: "But little it is: + Meseems I sat by the door of the hall of the Niblungs' bliss, + And from out of the north came a falcon, and a marvellous bird it was; + For his feathers were all of gold, and his eyes as the sunlit glass, + And hither and thither he flew about the kingdoms of Kings, + And the fear of men went with him, and the war-blast under his wings: + But I feared him never a deal, nay, hope came into my heart, + And meseemed in his war-bold ways I also had a part; + And my eyes still followed his wings as hither and thither he swept + O'er the doors and the dwellings of King-folk; till the heart within + me leapt, + For over the hall of the Niblungs he hung a little space, + Then stooped to my very knees, and cried out kind in my face: + And fain and full was my heart, and I took him to my breast, + And fair methought was the world and a home of infinite rest." + Her speech dropped dead as she spake, and her eyes from the nurse she + turned, + But now and again thereafter the flush in her fair cheek burned, + And her eyes were dreamy and great, as of one who looketh afar. + + But the nurse laughed out and answered: "Such the dreams of maidens + are; + And if thou hast told me all 'tis a goodly dream, forsooth: + For what should I call this falcon save a glorious kingly youth, + Who shall fly full wide o'er the world in fame and victory, + Till he hangs o'er the Niblung dwelling and stoops to thy very knee? + And fain and full shall thine heart be, when his cheek shall cherish + thy breast, + And fair things shalt thou deem of the world as a place of infinite + rest." + + But cold grew the maiden's visage: "God wot thou hast plenteous lore + In the reading of dreams, my mother; but thou lovest thy fosterling + sore, + And the good and the evil alike shall turn in thine heart to good; + Wise too is my mother Grimhild, but I fear her guileful mood, + Lest she love me overmuch, and fashion all dreams to ill. + Now who is the wise of woman, who herein hath measureless skill? + For her forthright would I find, how far soever I fare, + Lest I wend like a fool in the world, and rejoice with my feet in the + snare." + + Quoth the nurse: "Though the dream be goodly and its reading easy and + light, + It is nought but a little matter if thy golden wain be dight, + And thou ride to the land of Lymdale, the little land and green, + And come to the hall of Brynhild, the maid and the shielded Queen, + The Queen and the wise of women, who sees all haps to come: + And 'twill be but light to bid her to seek thy dream-tale home; + Though surely shall she arede it in e'en such wise as I; + And so shall the day be merry and the summer cloud go by." + + "Thou hast spoken well," said Gudrun, "let us tarry now no whit; + For wise in the world is the woman, and knoweth the ways of it." + + So they make the yoke-beasts ready, and dight the wains for the way, + And the maidens gather together, and their bodies they array, + And gird the laps of the linen, and do on the dark-blue gear, + And bind with the leaves of summer the wandering of their hair: + Then they drive by dale and acre, o'er heath and holt they wend, + Till they come to the land of the waters, and the lea by the + woodland's end; + And there is the burg of Brynhild, the white-walled house and long, + And the garth her fathers fashioned before the days of wrong. + So fare their feet on the earth by the threshold of the Queen, + And Brynhild's damsels abide them, for their goings had been seen; + And the mint and the blossomed woodruff they strew before their feet, + And their arms of welcome take them, and they kiss them soft and sweet, + And they go forth into the feast-hall, the many-pillared house; + Most goodly were its hangings and its webs were glorious + With tales of ancient fathers, and the Swans of the Goths on the sea, + And weaponed Kings on the island, and great deeds yet to be; + And the host of Odin's Choosers, and the boughs of the fateful Oak, + And the gush of Mimir's Fountain, and the Midworld-Serpent's yoke. + + So therein the maidens enter, but Gudrun all out-goes, + As over the leaves of the garden shines the many-folded rose: + Amidst and alone she standeth; in the hall her arms shine white, + And her hair falls down behind her like a cloak of the sweet-breathed + night, + As she casts her cloak to the earth, and the wind of the flowery tide + Runs over her rippling raiment and stirs the gold at her side. + But she stands and may scarce move forward, and a red flush lighteth + her face + As her eyes seek out Queen Brynhild in the height of the golden place. + + But lo, as a swan on the sea spreads out her wings to arise + From the face of the darksome ocean when the isle before her lies, + So Brynhild arose from her throne and the fashioned cloths of blue + When she saw the Maid of the Niblungs, and the face of Gudrun knew; + And she gathers the laps of the linen, and they meet in the hall, + they twain, + And she taketh her hands in her hands and kisseth her sweet and fain: + And she saith: "Hail, sister and queen! for we deem thy coming kind: + Though forsooth the hall of Brynhild is no weary way to find: + How fare the kin of the Niblungs? is thy mother happy and hale, + And the ancient of days, thy father, the King of all avail?" + + "It is well with my house," said Gudrun, "and my brethren's days are + fair, + And my mother's morns are joyous, and her eves have done with care; + And my father's heart is happy, and the Niblung glory grows, + And the land in peace is lying 'neath the lily and the rose: + But love and the mirth of summer have moved my heart to come + To look on thy measureless beauty, and seek thy glory home." + + "O be thou welcome!" said Brynhild; "it is good when queen-folk meet. + Come now, O goodly sister, and sit in my golden seat: + There are lovely hours before us, and the half of the summer day; + And what is the night of summer that eve should drive thee away?" + + So they sat, they twain, in the high-seat; and the maidens bore them + wine, + And they handled Dwarf-wrought treasures with their fingers fair and + fine, + And lovely they were together, and they marvelled each at each: + Yet oft was Gudrun silent, and she faltered in her speech, + As they matched great Kings and their war-deeds, and told of times + that were, + And their fathers' fathers' doings, and the deaths of war-lords dear. + And at last the twain sat silent, and spake no word at all, + And the western sky waxed ruddy, for the sun drew near its fall; + And the speech of the murmuring maidens, and the voice of the toil of + folk, + Died out in the hall of Brynhild as the garden-song awoke. + + Then Brynhild took up the word, and her voice was soft as she said: + "We have told of the best of King-folk, the living and the dead; + But hast thou heard, my sister, how the world grows fair with the word + Of a King from the mountains coming, a great and marvellous lord, + Who hath slain the Foe of the Gods, and the King that was wise from + of old; + Who hath slain the great Gold-wallower, and gotten the ancient Gold; + And the hand of victory hath he, and the overcoming speech, + And the heart and the eyes triumphant, and the lips that win and + teach?" + + Then met the eyes of the women, and Brynhild's word died out, + And bright flushed Gudrun's visage, and her lips were moved with doubt. + But again spake Brynhild the wise: + "He is come of a marvellous kin, + And of men that never faltered, and goodly days shall he win: + Yea now to this land is he coming, and great shall be his fame; + He is born of the Volsung King-folk, and Sigurd is his name." + + Then all the heart laughed in her, but the speech of her lips died out, + And red and pale waxed Gudrun, and her lips were moved with doubt, + Till she spake as a Queen of the Earth: + "Sister, the day grows late, + And meseemeth the watch of the earl-folk looks oft from the Niblung + gate + For the gleam of our golden wains and the dust-cloud thin and soft; + But nought shall they now behold them till the moon-lamp blazeth aloft. + Farewell, and have thanks for thy welcome and thy glory that I have + seen, + And I bid thee come to the Niblungs while the summer-ways are green, + That we thine heart may gladden as thou gladdenedst ours today." + + And she rose and kissed her sweetly as one that wendeth away: + But Brynhild looked upon her and said: "Wilt thou depart, + And leave the word unspoken that lieth on thine heart?" + + Then Gudrun faltered and spake: "Yea, hither I came in sooth, + With a dream for thine eyes of wisdom, and a prayer for thine heart + of ruth: + But young in the world am I waxen, and the scorn of folk I fear + When I speak to the ears of the wise, and a maiden's dream they hear." + + "I shall mock thee nought," said Brynhild; "yet who shall say indeed + But my heart shall fear thee rather, nor help thee in thy need?" + + Then spake the daughter of Giuki: "Lo, this was the dream I dreamed: + For without by the door of the Niblungs I sat in the morn, as meseemed; + Then I saw a falcon aloft, and a glorious bird he was, + And his feathers glowed as the gold, and his eyes as the sunlit glass: + Hither and thither he flew about the kingdoms of Kings, + And fear was borne before him, and death went under his wings: + Yet I feared him not, but loved him, and mine eyes must follow his + ways, + And the joy came into my heart, and hope of the happy days: + Then over the hall of the Niblungs he hung a little space + And stooped to my very knees, and cried out kind in my face; + And fain and full was my heart, and I took him to my breast, + And I cherished him soft and warm, for I deemed I had gotten the best." + + So speaketh the Maid of the Niblungs, and speech her lips doth fail, + And she gazeth on Brynhild's visage, and seeth her waxen pale, + As she saith: "'Tis a dream full goodly, and nought hast thou to fear; + Some glory of Kings shall love thee and thine heart shall hold him + dear." + + Again spake the daughter of Giuki: "Not yet hast thou hearkened all: + For meseemed my breast was reddened, as oft by the purple and pall, + But my heart was heavy within it, and I laid my hand thereon, + And the purple of blood enwrapped me, and the falcon I loved was gone." + + Yet pale was the visage of Brynhild, and she said: "Is it then so + strange + That the wedding-lords of the Niblungs their lives in the battle + should change? + Thou shalt wed a King and be merry, and then shall come the sword, + And the edges of hate shall be whetted and shall slay thy love and + thy lord, + And dead on thy breast shall he fall: and where then is the + measureless moan? + From the first to the last shalt thou have him, and scarce shall he + die alone. + Rejoice, O daughter of Giuki! there is worse in the world than this: + He shall die, and thou shalt remember the days of his glory and bliss." + + "I woke, and I wept," said Gudrun, "for the dear thing I had loved: + Then I slept, and again as aforetime were the gates of the dream-hall + moved, + And I went in the land of shadows; and lo I was crowned as a queen, + And I sat in the summer-season amidst my garden green; + And there came a hart from the forest, and in noble wise he went, + And bold he was to look on, and of fashion excellent + Before all beasts of the wild-wood; and fair gleamed that glorious-one, + And upreared his shining antlers against the very sun. + So he came unto me and I loved him, and his head lay kind on my knees, + And fair methought the summer, and a time of utter peace. + Then darkened all the heavens and dreary grew the tide, + And medreamed that a queen I knew not was sitting by my side, + And from out of the din and the darkness, a hand and an arm there came, + And a golden sleeve was upon it, and red rings of the Queen-folk's + fame: + And the hand was the hand of a woman: and there came a sword and a + thrust + And the blood of the lovely wood-deer went wide about the dust. + Then I cried aloud in my sorrow, and lo, in the wood I was, + And all around and about me did the kin of the wild-wolves pass. + And I called them friends and kindred, and upreared a battle-brand, + And cried out in a tongue that I knew not, and red and wet was my hand. + Lo now, the dream I have told thee, and nought have I held aback. + O Brynhild, what wilt thou tell me of treason and murder and wrack?" + + Long Brynhild stood and pondered and weary-wise was her face, + And she gazed as one who sleepeth, till thus she spake in a space: + "One dream in twain hast thou told, and I see what I saw e'en now, + But beyond is nought but the darkness and the measureless midnight's + flow: + Thy dream is all areded; I may tell thee nothing more: + Thou shalt live and love and lose, and mingle in murder and war. + Is it strange, O child of the Niblungs, that thy glory and thy pain + Must be blent with the battle's darkness and the unseen hurrying bane? + Do ye, of all folk on the earth, pray God for the changeless peace, + And not for the battle triumphant and the fruit of fame's increase? + For the rest, thou mayst not be lonely in thy welfare or thy woe, + But hearts with thine heart shall be tangled: but the queen and the + hand thou shalt know. + When we twain are wise together; thou shalt know of the sword and the + wood, + Thou shalt know of the wild-wolves' howling and thy right-hand wet + with blood, + When the day of the smith is ended, and the stithy's fire dies out, + And the work of the master of masters through the feast-hall goeth + about." + + They stand apart by the high-seat, and each on each they gaze + As though they forgat the summer, and the tide of the passing days, + And abode the deeds unborn and the Kings' deaths yet to be, + As the merchant bideth deedless the gold in his ships on the sea. + + At last spake the wise-heart Brynhild: "O glorious Niblung child! + The dreams and the word we have hearkened, and the dreams and the + word have been wild. + Thou hast thy life and thy summer, and the love is drawing anear; + Take these to thine heart to cherish, and deem them good and dear, + Lest the Norns should mock our knowledge and cast our fame aside, + And our doom be empty of glory as the hopeless that have died. + Farewell, O Niblung Maiden! for day on day shall come + Whilst thou shalt live rejoicing mid the blossom of thine home. + Now have thou thanks for thy greeting and thy glory that I have seen; + And come thou again to Lymdale while the summer-ways are green." + + So the hall-dusk deepens upon them till the candles come arow, + And they drink the wine of departing and gird themselves to go; + And they dight the dark-blue raiment and climb to the wains aloft + While the horned moon hangs in the heaven and the summer wind blows + soft. + Then the yoke-beasts strained at the collar, and the dust in the moon + arose, + And they brushed the side of the acre and the blooming dewy close; + Till at last, when the moon was sinking and the night was waxen late, + The warders of the earl-folk looked forth from the Niblung gate, + And saw the gold pale-gleaming, and heard the wain-wheels crush + The weary dust of the summer amidst the midnight hush. + + So came the daughter of Giuki from the hall of Brynhild the queen + When the days of the Niblungs blossomed and their hope was springing + green. + + + _How the folk of Lymdale met Sigurd the Volsung in the woodland._ + + Full fair was the land of Lymdale, and great were the men thereof, + And Heimir the King of the people was held in marvellous love; + And his wife was the sister of Brynhild, and the Queen of Queens was + she; + And his sons were noble striplings, and his daughters sweet to see; + And all these lived on in joyance through the good days and the ill, + Nor would shun the war's awaking; but now that the war was still + They looked to the wethers' fleeces and what the ewes would yield, + And led their bulls from the straw-stall, and drave their kine afield; + And they dealt with mere and river and all waters of their land, + And cast the glittering angle, and drew the net to the strand, + And searched the rattling shallows, and many a rock-walled well, + Where the silver-scaled sea-farers, and the crook-lipped bull-trout + dwell. + But most when their hearts were merry 'twas the joy of carle and quean + To ride in the deeps of the oak-wood, and the thorny thicket green: + Forth go their hearts before them to the blast of the strenuous horn, + Where the level sun comes dancing down the oaks in the early morn: + There they strain and strive for the quarry, when the wind hath fallen + dead + In the odorous dusk of the pine-wood, and the noon is high o'erhead: + There oft with horns triumphant their rout by the lone tree turns, + When over the bison's lea-land the last of sunset burns; + Or by night and cloud all eager with shaft on string they fare, + When the wind from the elk-mead setteth, or the wood-boar's tangled + lair: + For the wood is their barn and their storehouse, and their bower and + feasting-hall, + And many an one of their warriors in the woodland war shall fall. + + So now in the sweet spring season, on a morn of the sunny tide + Abroad are the Lymdale people to the wood-deers' house to ride: + And they wend towards the sun's uprising, and over the boughs he comes, + And the merry wind is with him, and stirs the woodland homes; + But their horns to his face cast clamour, and their hooves shake down + the glades, + And the hearts of their hounds are eager, and oft they redden blades; + Till at last in the noon they tarry in a daisied wood-lawn green, + And good and gay is their raiment, and their spears are sharp and + sheen, + And they crown themselves with the oak-leaves, and sit, both most + and least, + And there on the forest venison and the ancient wine they feast; + Then they wattle the twigs of the thicket to bear their spoil away, + And the toughness of the beech-boughs with the woodbine overlay: + With the voice of their merry labour the hall of the oakwood rings, + For fair they are and joyous as the first God-fashioned Kings. + + Now they gather their steeds together, that ere the moon is born + The candles of King Heimir may shine on harp and horn: + But as they stand by the stirrup and hand on rein is laid, + All eyes are turned to beholding the eastward-lying glade, + For thereby comes something glorious, as though an earthly sun + Were lit by the orb departing, lest the day should be wholly done; + Lo now, as they stand astonied, a wonder they behold, + For a warrior cometh riding, and his gear is all of gold; + And grey is the steed and mighty beneath that lord of war, + And a treasure of gold he beareth, and the gems of the ocean's floor: + Now they deem the war-steed wondrous and the treasure strange they + deem, + But so exceeding glorious doth the harnessed rider seem, + That men's hearts are all exalted as he draweth nigh and nigher, + And there are they abiding in fear and great desire: + For they look on the might of his limbs, and his waving locks they see, + And his glad eyes clear as the heavens, and the wreath of the summer + tree + That girdeth the dread of his war-helm, and they wonder at his sword, + And the tinkling rings of his hauberk, and the rings of the ancient + Hoard: + And they say: Are the Gods on the earth? did the world change + yesternight? + Are the sons of Odin coming, and the days of Baldur the bright? + + But forth stood Heimir the ancient, and of Gods and men was he chief + Of all who have handled the harp; and he stood betwixt blossom and + leaf, + And thrust his spear in the earth and cast abroad his hands: + "Hail, thou that ridest hither from the North and the desert lands! + Now thy face is turned to our hall-door and thereby must be thy way; + And, unless the time so presseth that thou ridest night and day, + It were good that thou lie in my house, and hearken the clink of the + horn, + Whether peace in thy hand thou bear us, or war on thy saddle be borne; + Whether wealth thou seek, or friends, or kin, or a maiden lost, + Or hast heart for the building of cities nor wilt hold thee aback for + the cost; + If fame thou wilt have among King-folk, to the land of the Kings art + thou come, + Or wouldst thou adown to the sea-flood, thou must pass by the garth + of our home. + Yea art thou a God from the heavens, who wilt deem me little of worth, + And art come for the wrack of my realm and wilt cast King Heimir forth, + Thou knowest I fear thee nothing, and no worse shall thy welcome be: + Or art thou a wolf of the hearth, none here shall meddle with thee:-- + Yet lo, as I look on thine eyen, and behold thy hope and thy mirth, + Meseems thou art better than these, some son of the Kings of the + Earth." + + Then spake the treasure-bestrider,--for his horse e'en now had he + reined + By the King and the earls of the people where the boughs of the + thicket waned:-- + "Yea I am a son of the Kings; but my kin have passed away, + And once were they called the Volsungs, and the sons of God were they: + I am young, but have learned me wisdom; I am lone, but deeds have I + done; + I have slain the Foe of the Gods, and the Bed of the Worm have I won. + But meseems that the earth is lovely, and that each day springeth anew + And beareth the blossom of hope, and the fruit of deeds to do. + And herein thou sayest the sooth, that I seek the fame of Kings, + And with them would I do and undo and be heart of their warfarings: + And for this o'er the Glittering Heath to the kingdoms of earth am I + come, + And over the head of Hindfell, and I seek the earl-folk's home + That is called the lea of Lymdale 'twixt the wood and the water-side; + For men call it the gate of the world where the Kings of Men abide: + Nor the least of God-folk am I, nor the wolf of the Kings accursed, + But Sigurd the son of Sigmund in the land of the Helper nursed: + And I thank thee, lord, for thy bidding, and tonight will I bide in + thine hall, + And fare on the morrow to Lymdale and the deeds thenceforward to fall." + + Then Sigurd leapt from Greyfell, and men were marvelling there + At the sound of his sweet-mouthed wisdom, and his body shapen fair. + But Heimir laughed and answered: "Now soon shall the deeds befall, + And tonight shalt thou ride to Lymdale and tonight shalt thou bide in + my hall: + For I am the ancient Heimir, and my cunning is of the harp, + Though erst have I dealt in the sword-play while the edge of war was + sharp." + + Then Sigurd joyed to behold him, for a god-like King he was, + And amid the men of Lymdale did the Son of Sigmund pass; + And their hearts are high uplifted, for across the air there came + A breath of his tale half-spoken and the tidings of his fame; + And their eyes are all unsatiate of gazing on his face, + For his like have they never looked on for goodliness and grace. + + So they bear him the wine of welcome, and then to the saddle they leap + And get them forth from the wood-ways to the lea-land of the sheep, + And the bull-fed Lymdale meadows; and thereover Sigurd sees + The long white walls of Heimir amidst the blossomed trees: + Then the slim moon rises in heaven, and the stars in the tree-tops + shine, + But the golden roof of Heimir looks down on the torch-lit wine, + And the song of men goes roofward in praise of Sigmund's Son, + And a joy to the Lymdale people is his glory new-begun. + + + _How Sigurd met Brynhild in Lymdale._ + + So there abideth Sigurd with the Lymdale forest-lords + In mighty honour holden, and in love beyond all words, + And thence abroad through the people there goeth a rumour and breath + Of the great Gold-wallower's slaying, and the tale of the Glittering + Heath, + And a word of the ancient Treasure and Greyfell's gleaming Load; + And the hearts of men grew eager, and the coming deeds abode. + But warily dealeth Sigurd, and he wends in the woodland fray + As one whose heart is ready and abides a better day: + In the woodland fray he fareth, and oft on a day doth ride + Where the mighty forest wild-bulls and the lonely wolves abide; + For as then no other warfare do the lords of Lymdale know, + And the axe-age and the sword-age seem dead a while ago, + And the age of the cleaving of shields, and of brother by brother + slain, + And the bitter days of the whoredom, and the hardened lust of gain; + But man to man may hearken, and he that soweth reaps, + And hushed is the heart of Fenrir in the wolf-den of the deeps. + + Now is it the summer-season, and Sigurd rideth the land, + And his hound runs light before him, and his hawk sits light on his + hand, + And all alone on a morning he rides the flowery sward + Betwixt the woodland dwellings and the house of Lymdale's lord; + And he hearkens Greyfell's going as he wends adown the lea, + And his heart for love is craving, and the deeds he deems shall be; + And he hears the Wrath's sheath tinkling as he rides the daisies down + And he thinks of his love laid safely in the arms of his renown. + But lo, as he rides the meadows, before him now he sees + A builded burg arising amid the leafy trees, + And a white-walled house on its topmost with a golden roof-ridge done, + And thereon the clustering dove-kind in the brightness of the sun. + So Sigurd stayed to behold it, for the heart within him laughed, + But e'en then, as the arrow speedeth from the mighty archer's draught, + Forth fled the falcon unhooded from the hand of Sigurd the King, + And up, and over the tree-boughs he shot with steady wing: + Then the Volsung followed his flight, for he looked to see him fall + On the fluttering folk of the doves, and he cried the backward call + Full oft and over again; but the falcon heeded it nought, + Nor turned to his kingly wrist-perch, nor the folk of the pigeons + sought, + But flew up to a high-built tower, and sat in the window a space, + Crying out like the fowl of Odin when the first of the morning they + face, + And then passed through the open casement as an erne to his eyrie goes. + + Much marvelled the Son of Sigmund, and rode to the fruitful close: + For he said: Here a great one dwelleth, though none have told me + thereof, + And he shall give me my falcon, and his fellowship and love. + So he came to the gate of the garth, and forth to the hall-door rode, + And leapt adown from Greyfell, and entered that fair abode; + For full lovely was it fashioned, and great was the pillared hall, + And fair in its hangings were woven the deeds that Kings befall, + And the merry sun went through it and gleamed in gold and horn; + But afield or a-fell are its carles, and none labour there that morn, + And void it is of the maidens, and they weave in the bower aloft, + Or they go in the outer gardens 'twixt the rose and the lily soft: + So saith Sigurd the Volsung, and a door in the corner he spies + With knots of gold fair-carven, and the graver's masteries: + So he lifts the latch and it opens, and he comes to a marble stair, + And aloft by the same he goeth through a tower wrought full fair. + And he comes to a door at its topmost, and lo, a chamber of Kings, + And his falcon there by the window with all unruffled wings. + + But a woman sits on the high-seat with gold about her head, + And ruddy rings on her arms, and the grace of her girdle-stead; + And sunlit is her rippled linen, and the green leaves lie at her feet, + And e'en as a swan on the billow where the firth and the out-sea meet. + On the dark-blue cloths she sitteth, so fair and softly made + Are her limbs by the linen hidden, and so white is she arrayed. + But a web of gold is before her, and therein by her shuttle wrought + The early days of the Volsungs and the war by the sea's rim fought, + And the crowned queen over Sigmund, and the Helper's pillared hall, + And the golden babe uplifted to the eyes of duke and thrall; + And there was the slender stripling by the knees of the Dwarf-folk's + lord, + And the gift of the ancient Gripir, and the forging of the Sword; + And there were the coils of Fafnir, and the hooded threat of death, + And the King by the cooking-fire, and the fowl of the Glittering Heath; + And there was the headless King-smith and the golden halls of the Worm, + And the laden Greyfell faring through the land of perished storm; + And there was the head of Hindfell, and the flames to the sky-floor + driven; + And there was the glittering shield-burg, and the fallow bondage riven; + And there was the wakening woman and the golden Volsung done, + And they twain o'er the earthly kingdoms in the lonely evening sun: + And there were fells and forests, and towns and tossing seas, + And the Wrath and the golden Sigurd for ever blent with these, + In the midst of the battle triumphant, in the midst of the war-kings' + fall, + In the midst of the peace well-conquered, in the midst of the praising + hall. + + There Sigurd stood and marvelled, for he saw his deeds that had been, + And his deeds of the days that should be, fair wrought in the golden + sheen: + And he looked in the face of the woman, and Brynhild's eyes he knew, + But still in the door he tarried, and so glad and fair he grew, + That the Gods laughed out in the heavens to see the Volsung's seed; + And the breeze blew in from the summer and over Brynhild's weed, + Till his heart so swelled with the sweetness that the fair word stayed + in his mouth, + And a marvel beloved he seemeth, as a ship new-come from the south: + And still she longed and beheld him, nor foot nor hand she moved + As she marvelled at her gladness, and her love so well beloved. + But at last through the sounds of summer the voice of Sigurd came, + And it seemed as a silver trumpet from the house of the fateful fame; + And he spake: "Hail, lady and queen! hail, fairest of all the earth! + Is it well with the hap of thy life-days, and thy kin and the house of + thy birth?" + + She said: "My kin is joyous, and my house is blooming fair, + And dead, both root and branches, is the tree of their travail and + care." + + He spake: "I have longed, I have wondered if thy heart were well at + ease, + If the hope of thy days had blossomed and born thee fair increase." + + "O have thou thanks," said Brynhild, "for thine heart that speaketh + kind! + Yea, the hope of my days is accomplished, and no more there is to + find." + + And again she spake in a space: "The road hath been weary and long, + But well hast thou ridden it, Sigurd, and the sons of God are strong." + + He said: "I have sought, O Brynhild, and found the heart of thine home; + And no man hath asked or holpen, and all unbidden I come." + + She said: "O welcome hither! for the heart of the King I knew, + And thine hope that overcometh, and thy will that nought shall undo." + + "Unbidden I came," he answered, "yet it is but a little space + Since I heard thy voice on the mountain, and thy kind lips cherished + my face." + + She rose from the dark-blue raiment, and trembling there she stood, + And no word her lips had gotten that her heart might deem it good: + And his heart went forth to meet her, yet nought he moved for a while, + Until the God-kin's laughter brake blooming from a smile + And he cried: "It is good, O Brynhild, that we draw exceeding near, + Lest Odin mock Kings' children that the doom of fate they fear." + + Then forth she stepped from the high-seat, and forth from the + threshold he came, + Till both their bodies mingling seemed one glory and the same, + And far o'er all fulfilment did the souls within them long, + As at breast and at lips of the faithful the earthly love strained + strong; + And fresh from the deeps of the summer the breeze across them blew, + But nought of the earth's desire, or the lapse of time they knew. + + Then apart, but exceeding nigh, for a little while they stand, + Till Brynhild toucheth her lord, and taketh his hand in her hand, + And she leadeth him through the chamber, and sitteth down in her seat; + And him she setteth beside her, and she saith: + "It is right and meet + That thou sit in this throne of my fathers, since thy gift today I + have: + Thou hast given it altogether, nor aught from me wouldst save; + And thou knowest the tale of women, how oft it haps on a day + That of such gifts men repent them, and their lives are cast away." + + He said: "I have cast it away as the tiller casteth the seed, + That the summer may better the spring-tide, and the autumn winter's + need: + For what were the fruit of our lives if apart they needs must pass, + And men shall say hereafter: Woe worth the hope that was!" + + She said: "That day shall dawn the best of all earthly days + When we sit, we twain, in the high-seat in the hall of the people's + praise: + Or else, what fruit of our life-days, what fruit of our death shall be? + What fruit, save men's remembrance of the grief of thee and me?" + + He said: "It is sharper to bear than the bitter sword in the breast, + O woe, to think of it now in the days of our gleaning of rest!" + + Said Brynhild: "I bid thee remember the word that I have sworn, + How the sun shall turn to blackness, and the last day be outworn, + Ere I forget thee, Sigurd, and the kindness of thy face." + + And they kissed and the day grew later and noon failed the golden + place. + But Sigurd said: "O Brynhild, remember how I swore + That the sun should die in the heavens and day come back no more, + Ere I forget thy wisdom and thine heart of inmost love. + Lo now, shall I unsay it, though the Gods be great above, + Though my life should last for ever, though I die tomorrow morn, + Though I win the realm of the world, though I sink to the + thrall-folk's scorn?" + + She said: "Thou shalt never unsay it, and thy heart is mine indeed: + Thou shalt bear my love in thy bosom as thou helpest the earth-folk's + need: + Thou shalt wake to it dawning by dawning; thou shalt sleep and it + shall not be strange: + There is none shall thrust between us till our earthly lives shall + change. + Ah, my love shall fare as a banner in the hand of thy renown, + In the arms of thy fame accomplished shall it lie when we lay us adown. + O deathless fame of Sigurd! O glory of my lord! + O birth of the happy Brynhild to the measureless reward!" + + So they sat as the day grew dimmer, and they looked on days to come, + And the fair tale speeding onward, and the glories of their home; + And they saw their crowned children and the kindred of the kings, + And deeds in the world arising and the day of better things; + All the earthly exaltation, till their pomp of life should be passed, + And soft on the bosom of God their love should be laid at the last. + + But when words have a long while failed them, and the night is nigh + at hand, + They arise in the golden glimmer, and apart and anigh they stand: + Then Brynhild stooped to the Wrath, and touched the hilts of the sword, + Ere she wound her arms round Sigurd and cherished the lips of her lord: + Then sweet were the tears of Brynhild, and fast and fast they fell, + And the love that Sigurd uttered, what speech of song may tell? + + But he turned and departed from her, and her feet on the threshold + abode + As he went through the pillared feast-hall, and forth to the night + he rode: + So he turned toward the dwelling of Heimir and his love and his fame + seemed one, + And all full-well accomplished, what deeds soe'er were done: + And the love that endureth for ever, and the endless hope he bore. + As he faced the change of Heaven and the chance of worldly war. + + + _Of Sigurd's riding to the Niblungs._ + + What aileth the men of Lymdale, that their house is all astir? + Shall the hunt be up in the forest, or hath the shield-hung fir + Brought war from the outer ocean to their fish-beloved stream? + Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleam + Adown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars grey + Have the neat-herds seen the banners of the drivers of the prey? + + No, the forest shall be empty of the Lymdale men this morn, + And the wells of the Lymdale river have heard no battle-horn, + Nor the sheep in the flowery hollows seen any painted shield, + And nought from the fear of warriors bide the neat-herds from the + field; + Yet full is the hall of Heimir with eager earls of war, + And the long-locked happy shepherds are gathered round the door, + And the smith has left his stithy, and the wife has left her rock, + And the bright thrums hang unwinded by the maiden's weaving-stock: + And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy; + And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy. + + But lo, as they gather and hearken by the door of Heimir's hall, + The wave of a mighty music on the souls of men doth fall, + And they bow their heads and hush them, because for a dear guest's sake + Is Heimir's hand in the harp-strings and the ancient song is awake, + And the words of the Gods' own fellow, and the hope of days gone by; + Then deep is that song-speech laden with the deeds that draw anigh, + And many a hope accomplished, and many an unhoped change, + And things of all once spoken, now grown exceeding strange; + Then keen as the battle-piercer the stringed speech arose, + And the hearts of men went with it, as of them that meet the foes; + Then soared the song triumphant as o'er the world well won, + Till sweet and soft it ended as a rose falls 'neath the sun; + But thereafter was there silence till the earls cast up the shout, + And the whole house clashed and glittered as the tramp of men bore out, + And folk fell back before them; then forth the earl-folk pour, + And forth comes Heimir the Ancient and stands by his fathers' door: + And then is the feast-hall empty and none therein abides: + For forth on the cloudy Greyfell the Son of Sigmund rides, + And the Helm of Awe he beareth, and the Mail-coat all of gold, + That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told, + And the Wrath to his side is girded, though the peace-strings wind it + round, + Yet oft and again it singeth, and strange is its sheathed sound: + But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous Sword + Are the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard, + And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er again + He neighs out hope of battle, for the heart of the beast is fain. + + So there sitteth Sigurd the Volsung, and is dight to ride his ways, + For the world lies fair before him and the field of the people's + praise; + And he kisseth the ancient Heimir, and haileth the folk of the land, + And he crieth kind and joyous as the reins lie loose in his hand: + "Farewell, O folk of Lymdale, and your joy of the summer-tide! + For the acres whiten, meseemeth, and the harvest-field is wide: + Who knows of the toil that shall be, when the reaping-hook gleams grey, + And the knees of the strong are loosened in the afternoon of day? + Who knows of the joy that shall be, when the reaper cometh again, + And his sheaves are crowned with the blossoms, and the song goes up + from the wain? + But now let the Gods look to it, to hinder or to speed! + But the love and the longing I know, and I know the hand and the deed." + + And he gathered the reins together, and set his face to the road, + And the glad steed neighed beneath him as they fared from the King's + abode, + And out past the dewy closes; but the shouts went up to the sky, + Though some for very sorrow forbore the farewell cry, + Nor was any man but heavy that the godlike guest should go; + And they craved for that glad heart guileless, and that face without + a foe. + But Greyfell fareth onward, and back to the dusky hall + Now goeth the ancient Heimir, and back to bower and stall, + And back to hammer and shuttle go earl and carle and quean; + And piping in the noontide adown the hollows green + Go the yellow-headed shepherds amidst the scattered sheep; + And all hearts a dear remembrance and a hope of Sigurd keep. + + But forth by dale and lealand doth the Son of Sigmund wend, + Till far away lies Lymdale and the folk of the forest's end; + And he rides a heath unpeopled and holds the westward way, + Till a long way off before him come up the mountains grey; + Grey, huge beyond all telling, and the host of the heaped clouds, + The black and the white together, on that rock-wall's coping crowds; + But whiles are rents athwart them, and the hot sun pierceth through, + And there glow the angry cloud-caves 'gainst the everlasting blue, + And the changeless snow amidst it; but down from that cloudy head + The scars of fires that have been show grim and dusky-red; + And lower yet are the hollows striped down by the scanty green, + And lingering flecks of the cloud-host are tangled there-between, + White, pillowy, lit by the sun, unchanged by the drift of the wind. + + Long Sigurd looked and marvelled, and up-raised his heart and his mind; + For he deemed that beyond that rock-wall bode his changed love and life + On the further side of the battle, and the hope, and the shifting + strife: + So up and down he rideth, till at even of the day + A hill's brow he o'ertoppeth that had hid the mountains grey; + Huge, blacker they showed than aforetime, white hung the cloud-flecks + there, + But red was the cloudy crown, for the sun was sinking fair: + A wide plain lay beneath him, and a river through it wound + Betwixt the lea and the acres, and the misty orchard ground; + But forth from the feet of the mountains a ridged hill there ran + That upreared at its hithermost ending a builded burg of man; + And Sigurd deemed in his heart as he looked on the burg from afar, + That the high Gods scarce might win it, if thereon they fell with war; + So many and great were the walls, so bore the towers on high + The threat of guarded battle, and the tale of victory. + Then swift he hasteneth downward, lest day be wholly spent + Ere he come to the gate well warded, and the walls' beleaguerment; + For his heart is eager to hearken what men-folk therein dwell + And the name of that noble dwelling, and the tale that it hath to tell. + So he rides by the tilth of the acres, 'twixt the overhanging trees, + And but seldom now and again a glimpse of the burg he sees, + Till he comes to the flood of the river, and looks up from the balks + of the bridge; + Then how was the plain grown little 'neath that mighty burg of the + ridge + O'erhung by the cloudy mountains and the ash of another day, + Whereto the slopes clomb upward till the green died out in the grey, + And the grey in the awful cloud-land, where the red rents went and came + Round the snows no summers minish and the far-off sunset flame: + But lo, the burg at the ridge-end! have the Gods been building again + Since they watched the aimless Giants pile up the wall of the plain, + The house for none to dwell in? Or in what days lived the lord + Who 'neath those thunder-forges upreared that battle's ward? + Or was not the Smith at his work, and the blast of his forges awake, + And the world's heart poured from the mountain for that ancient + people's sake? + For as waves on the iron river of the days whereof nothing is told + Stood up the many towers, so stark and sharp and cold; + But dark-red and worn and ancient as the midmost mountain-sides + Is the wall that goeth about them; and its mighty compass hides + Full many a dwelling of man whence the reek now goeth aloft, + And the voice of the house-abiders, the sharp sounds blent with the + soft: + But one house in the midst is unhidden and high up o'er the wall it + goes; + Aloft in the wind of the mountains its golden roof-ridge glows, + And down mid its buttressed feet is the wind's voice never still; + And the day and the night pass o'er it and it changes to their will, + And whiles is it glassy and dark, and whiles is it white and dead, + And whiles is it grey as the sea-mead, and whiles is it angry red; + And it shimmers under the sunshine and grows black to the threat of + the storm, + And dusk its gold roof glimmers when the rain-clouds over it swarm, + And bright in the first of the morning its flame doth it uplift, + When the light clouds rend before it and along its furrows drift. + + Upriseth the heart of Sigurd, but ever he rideth forth + Till he comes to the garth and the gateway built up in the face of + the north: + Then e'en as a wind from the mountains he heareth the warders' speech, + As aloft in the mighty towers they clamour each to each: + Then horn to horn blew token, and far and shrill they cried, + And he heard, as the fishers hearken the cliff-fowl over the tide: + But he rode in under the gate, that was long and dark as a cave + Bored out in the isles of the northland by the beat of the restless + wave; + And the noise of the winds was within it, and the sound of swords + unseen, + As the night when the host is stirring and the hearts of Kings are + keen. + But no man stayed or hindered, and the dusk place knew his smile, + And into the court of the warriors he came forth after a while, + And looked aloft to the hall-roof, high up and grey as the cloud, + For the sun was wholly perished; and there he crieth aloud: + + "Ho, men of this mighty burg, to what folk of the world am I come? + And who is the King of battles who dwells in this lordly home? + Or perchance are ye of the Elf-kin? are ye guest-fain, kind at the + boards + Or murder-churls and destroyers to gain and die by the sword?" + + Then the spears in the forecourt glittered and the swords shone over + the wall, + But the song of smitten harp-strings came faint from the cloudy hall. + And he hearkened a voice and a crying: "The house of Giuki the King, + And the Burg of the Niblung people and the heart of their warfaring." + There were many men about him, and the wind in the wall-nook sang, + And the spears of the Niblungs glittered, and the swords in the + forecourt rang. + But they looked on his face in the even, and they hushed their voices + and gazed, + For fear and great desire the hearts of men amazed. + + Now cometh an earl to King Giuki as he sits in godlike wise + With his sons, the Kings of battle, and his wife of the glittering + eyes, + And the King cries out at his coming to tell why the watch-horns blew; + But the earl saith: "Lord of the people, choose now what thou wilt do; + For here is a strange new-comer, and he saith, to thee alone + Will he tell of his name and his kindred, and the deeds that his hand + hath done. + But he beareth a Helm of Aweing and a Hauberk all of gold, + That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told; + And strange is all his raiment, and he beareth a Dwarf-wrought sword, + And his war-steed beareth beneath him red rings of a mighty Hoard, + And the ancient gems of the sea-floor: there he sits on his + cloud-grey steed, + And his eyes are bright in the even, and we deem him mighty indeed, + And our hearts are upraised at his coming; but how shall I tell thee + or say + If he be a King of the Kings and a lord of the earthly day, + Or if rather the Gods be abroad and he be one of these? + But forsooth no battle he biddeth, nor craveth he our peace. + So choose herein, King Giuki, wilt thou bid the man begone + To his house of the earth or the heavens, lest a worser deed be won, + Or wilt thou bid him abide in the Niblung peace and love? + And meseems if thus thou doest, thou shalt never repent thee thereof." + + Then uprose the King of the Niblungs, and was clad in purple and pall, + And his sheathed sword lay in his hand, as he gat him adown the hall, + And abroad through the Niblung doorway; and a mighty man he was, + And wise and ancient of days: so there by the earls doth he pass, + And beholdeth the King on the war-steed and looketh up in his face: + But Sigurd smileth upon him in the Niblungs' fenced place, + As the King saith: "Gold-bestrider, who into our garth wouldst ride, + Wilt thou tell thy name to a King, who biddeth thee here abide + And have all good at our hands? for unto the Niblungs' home + And the heart of a war-fain people from the weary road are ye come; + And I am Giuki the King: so now if thou nam'st thee a God, + Look not to see me tremble; for I know of such that have trod + Unfeared in the Burg of the Niblungs; nor worser, nor better at all + May fare the folk of the Gods than the Kings in Giuki's hall; + So I bid thee abide in my house, and when many days are o'er, + Thou shalt tell us at last of thine errand, if thou bear us peace or + war." + + Then all rejoiced at his word till the swords on the bucklers rang, + And adown from the red-gold Treasure the Son of Sigmund sprang, + And he took the hand of Giuki, and kissed him soft and sweet, + And spake: "Hail, ancient of days! for thou biddest me things most + meet, + And thou knowest the good from the evil: few days are over and gone + Since my father was old in the world ere the deed of my making was won; + But Sigmund the Volsung he was, full ripe of years and of fame; + And I, who have never beheld him, am Sigurd called of name; + Too young in the world am I waxen that a tale thereof should be told, + And yet have I slain the Serpent, and gotten the Ancient Gold, + And broken the bonds of the weary, and ridden the Wavering Fire. + But short is mine errand to tell, and the end of my desire: + For peace I bear unto thee, and to all the kings of the earth, + Who bear the sword aright, and are crowned with the crown of worth; + But unpeace to the lords of evil, and the battle and the death; + And the edge of the sword to the traitor, and the flame to the + slanderous breath: + And I would that the loving were loved, and I would that the weary + should sleep, + And that man should hearken to man, and that he that soweth should + reap. + Now wide in the world would I fare, to seek the dwellings of Kings, + For with them would I do and undo, and be heart of their warfarings; + So I thank thee, lord, for thy bidding, and here in thine house will + I bide, + And learn of thine ancient wisdom till forth to the field we ride." + + Glad then was the murmur of folk, for the tidings had gone forth, + And its breath had been borne to the Niblungs, and the tale of + Sigurd's worth. + + But the King said: "Welcome, Sigurd, full fair of deed and of word! + And here mayst thou win thee fellows for the days of the peace and + the sword; + For not lone in the world have I lived, but sons from my loins have + sprung, + Whose deeds with the rhyme are mingled, and their names with the + people's tongue." + + Then he took his hand in his hand, and into the hall they passed, + And great shouts of salutation to the cloudy roof were cast; + And they rang from the glassy pillars, and the Gods on the hangings + stirred, + And afar the clustering eagles on the golden roof-ridge heard, + And cried out on the Sword of the Branstock as they cried in the + other days: + Then the harps rang out in the hall, and men sang in Sigurd's praise; + And a flood of great remembrance, and the tales of the years gone by + Swept over the soul of Sigurd, and his fathers seemed anigh; + And he looked to the cloudy hall-roof, and anigh seemed Odin the Goth, + And the Valkyrs holding the garland, and the crown of love and of + troth; + And his soul swells up exalted, and he deems that high above, + In the glorious house of the heavens, are the outstretched hands of + his love; + And she stoops to the cloudy feast-hall, and the wavering wind is + her voice, + And her odorous breath floats round him, as she bids her King rejoice. + + But now on the dais he meeteth the kin of Giuki the wise: + Lo, here is the crowned Grimhild, the queen of the glittering eyes; + Lo, here is the goodly Gunnar with the face of a king's desire; + Lo, here is Hogni that holdeth the wisdom tried in the fire; + Lo, here is Guttorm the youngest, who longs for the meeting swords; + Lo, here, as a rose in the oak-boughs, amid the Niblung lords + Is the Maid of the Niblungs standing, the white-armed Giuki's child; + And all these looked long on Sigurd and their hearts upon him smiled. + + So Grimhild greeted the guest, and she deemed him fair and sweet, + And she deemed him mighty of men, and a king for the queen-folk meet. + Then Gunnar the goodly war-king spake forth his greeting and speed, + And deemed him noble and great, and a fellow for kings in their need: + And Hogni gave him his greeting, and none his eyes might dim, + And he smiled as the winter sun on the shipless ocean's rim. + Then greeted him Guttorm the young, and cried out that his heart was + glad + That the Volsung lived in their house, that a King of the Kings they + had. + Then silent awhile the Maiden, the fair-armed Gudrun, stood, + Yet might all men see by her visage that she deemed his coming good; + But at last the gold she taketh, and before him doth she stand, + And she poureth the wine of King-folk, and stretcheth forth her hand, + And she saith: "Hail, Sigurd the Volsung! may I see thy joy increase, + And thy shielded sons beside thee, and thy days grown old in peace!" + + And he took the cup from her hand, and drank, while his heart rejoiced + At the Niblung Maiden's beauty, and her blessing lovely-voiced; + And he thanked her well for the greeting, and no guile in his heart + was grown, + But he thought of his love enfolded in the arms of his renown. + + So the Niblungs feast glad-hearted through the undark night and kind, + And the burden of all sorrow seems fallen far behind + On the road their lives have wended ere that happiest night of nights, + And the careless days and quiet seem but thieves of their delights; + For their hearts go forth before them toward the better days to come, + When all the world of glory shall be called the Niblungs' home: + Yea, as oft in the merry season and the morning of the May + The birds break out a-singing for the world's face waxen gay, + And they flutter there in the blossoms, and run through the dewy grass, + As they sing the joy of the spring-tide, that bringeth the summer to + pass; + And they deem that for them alone was the earth wrought long ago. + And no hate and no repentance, and no fear to come they know; + So fared the feast of the Niblungs on the eve that Sigurd came + In the day of their deeds triumphant, and the blossom of their fame. + + + _Of Sigurd's warfaring in the company of the Niblungs, and of his + great fame and glory._ + + Now gone is the summer season and the harvest of the year, + And amid the winter weather the deeds of the Niblungs wear; + But nought is their joyance worsened, or their mirth-tide waxen less, + Though the swooping mountain tempest howl round their ridgy ness, + Though a house of the windy battle their streeted burg be grown, + Though the heaped-up, huddled cloud-drift be their very hall-roofs + crown, + Though the rivers bear the burden, and the Rime-Gods grip and strive, + And the snow in the mirky midnoon across the lealand drive. + + But lo, in the stark midwinter how the war is smitten awake, + And the blue-clad Niblung warriors the spears from the wall-nook take, + And gird the dusky hauberk, and the ruddy fur-coat don, + And draw the yellowing ermine o'er the steel from Welshland won. + Then they show their tokened war-shields to the moon-dog and the stars, + For the hurrying wind of the mountains has borne them tale of wars. + Lo now, in the court of the warriors they gather for the fray, + Before the sun's uprising, in the moonless morn of day; + And the spears by the dusk gate glimmer, and the torches shine on + the wall, + And the murmuring voice of women comes faint from the cloudy hall: + Then the grey dawn beats on the mountains mid a drift of frosty snow, + And all men the face of Sigurd mid the swart-haired Niblungs know; + And they see his gold gear glittering mid the red fur and the white, + And high are the hearts uplifted by the hope of happy fight; + And they see the sheathed Wrath shimmer mid the restless Welsh-wrought + swords, + And their hearts rejoice beforehand o'er the fall of conquered lords; + And they see the Helm of Aweing and the awful eyes beneath, + And they deem the victory glorious, and fair the warrior's death. + + So forth through that cave of the gate from the Niblung Burg they fare, + And they turn their backs on the plain, and the mountain-slopes they + dare, + And the place of the slaked earth-forges, as the eastering wind shall + lead, + And but few swords bide behind them the Niblung Burg to heed. + But lo, in the jaws of the mountains how few and small they seem, + As dusky-strange in the snow-drifts their knitted hauberks gleam: + Lo, now at the mountains' outmost 'neath Sigurd's gleaming eyes + How wide in the winter season the citied lealand lies: + Lo, how the beacons are flaring, and the bell-swayed steeples rock, + And the gates of cities are shaken with the back-swung door-leaves' + shock: + And, lo, the terror of towns, and the land that the winter wards, + And over the streets snow-muffled the clash of the Niblung swords. + + But the slaves of the Kings are gathered, and their host the battle + abides, + And forth in the front of the Niblungs the golden Sigurd rides; + And Gunnar smites on his right hand, and Hogni smites on the left, + And glad is the heart of Guttorm, and the Southland host is cleft + As the grey bill reapeth the willows in the autumn of the year, + When the fish lie still in the eddies, and the rain-flood draweth + anear. + + Now sheathed is the Wrath of Sigurd; for as wax withstands the flame, + So the Kings of the land withstood him and the glory of his fame. + And before the grass is growing, or the kine have fared from the stall, + The song of the fair-speech-masters goes up in the Niblung hall, + And they sing of the golden Sigurd and the face without a foe, + And the lowly man exalted and the mighty brought alow: + And they say, when the sun of summer shall come aback to the land, + It shall shine on the fields of the tiller that fears no heavy hand; + That the sheaf shall be for the plougher, and the loaf for him that + sowed, + Through every furrowed acre where the Son of Sigmund rode. + + Full dear was Sigurd the Volsung to all men most and least, + And now, as the spring drew onward, 'twas deemed a goodly feast + For the acre-biders' children by the Niblung Burg to wait, + If perchance the Son of Sigmund should ride abroad by the gate: + For whosoever feared him, no little-one, forsooth, + Would shrink from the shining eyes and the hand that clave out truth + From the heart of the wrack and the battle: it was then, as his gold + gear burned + O'er the balks of the bridge and the river, that oft the mother turned, + And spake to the laughing baby: "O little son, and dear, + When I from the world am departed, and whiles a-nights ye hear + The best of man-folk longing for the least of Sigurd's days, + Thou shalt hearken to their story, till they tell forth all his praise, + And become beloved and a wonder, as thou sayest when all is sung, + 'And I too once beheld him in the days when I was young.'" + + Men say that the white-armed Gudrun, the lovely Giuki's child, + Looked long on Sigurd's visage in the winter weather wild + On the eve of the Kings' departure; and she bore him wine and spake: + "Thou goest to the war, O Sigurd, for the Niblung brethren's sake; + And so women send their kindred on many a doubtful tide, + And dead full oft on the death-field shall the hope of their lives + abide; + Nor must they fear beforehand, nor weep when all is o'er; + But thou, our guest and our stranger, thou goest to the war, + And who knows but thine hand may carry the hope of all the earth; + Now therefore if thou deemest that my prayer be aught of worth, + Nor wilt scorn the child of a Niblung that prays for things to come, + Pledge me for thy glad returning, and the sheaves of fame borne home!" + + He laughed, for his heart was merry for the seed of battle sown, + For the fruit of love's fulfilment, and the blossom of renown; + And he said: "I look in the wine-cup and I see goodwill therein; + Be merry, Maid of the Niblungs; for these are the prayers that win!" + + He drank, and the soul within him to the love and the glory turned, + And all unmoved was her visage, howso her heart-strings yearned. + + But again when the bolt of battle on the sleeping kings had been + hurled, + And the gold-tipped cloud of the Niblungs had been sped on the winter + world, + And once more in that hall of the stories was dight triumphant feast, + And in joy of soul past telling sat all men most and least, + There stood the daughter of Giuki by the king-folk's happy board, + And grave and stern was Gudrun as the wine of kings she poured: + But Sigurd smiled upon her, and he said: + "O maid, rejoice + For thy pledge's fair redeeming, and the hope of thy kindly voice! + Thou hast prayed for the guest and the stranger, and, lo, from the + battle and wrack + Is the hope of the Niblungs blossomed, and thy brethren's lives come + back." + + She turned and looked upon him, and the flush ran over her face, + And died out as the summer lightning, that scarce endureth a space; + But still was her visage troubled, as she said: "Hast thou called me + kind + Because I feared for earth's glory when point and edge are blind? + But now is the night as the day, when thou bringest my brethren home, + And back in the arms of thy glory the Niblung hope has come." + + But his eyes look kind upon her, and the trouble passeth away, + And there in the hall of the Niblungs is dark night as glorious day. + + Now spring o'er the winter prevaileth, and the blossoms brighten the + field; + But lo, in the flowery lealands the gleam of spear and shield, + For swift to the tidings of warfare speeds on the Niblung folk, + And the Kings to the sea are riding, and the battle-laden oak. + Now the isle-abiders tremble, and the dwellers by the sea + And the nesses flare with the beacons, and the shepherds leave the lea, + As the tale of the golden warrior speeds on from isle to isle. + Now spread is the snare of treason, and cast is the net of guile, + And the mirk-wood gleams with the ambush, and venom lurks at the board; + And whiles and again for a little the fair fields gleam with the sword, + And the host of the isle-folk gather, nigh numberless of tale: + But how shall its bulk and its writhing the willow-log avail + When the red flame lives amidst it? Lo now, the golden man + In the towns from of old time famous, by the temples tall and wan; + How he wends with the swart-haired Niblungs through the mazes of the + streets, + And the hosts of the conquered outlands and their uncouth praying + meets. + There he wonders at their life-days and their fond imaginings, + As he bears the love of Brynhild through the houses of the kings, + Where his word shall do and undo, and with crowns of kings shall he + deal; + And he laughs to scorn the treasure where thieves break through and + steal, + And the moth and the rust are corrupting: and he thinks the time is + long + Till the dawning of love's summer from the cloudy days of wrong. + + So they raise and abase and alter, then turn about and ride, + Mid the peace of the sword triumphant, to the shell-strown ocean's + side; + And they bear their glory away to the mouth of the fishy stream, + And again in the Niblung lealand doth the Welsh-wrought war-gear gleam, + And they come to the Burg of the Niblungs and the mighty gate of war, + And betwixt the gathered maidens through its dusky depths they pour, + And with war-helms done with blossoms round the Niblung hall they sing + In the windless cloudless even and the ending of the spring; + Yea, they sing the song of Sigurd and the face without a foe, + And they sing of the prison's rending and the tyrant laid alow, + And the golden thieves' abasement, and the stilling of the churl, + And the mocking of the dastard where the chasing edges whirl; + And they sing of the outland maidens that thronged round Sigurd's hand, + And sung in the streets of the foemen of the war-delivered land; + And they tell how the ships of the merchants come free and go at their + will, + And how wives in peace and safety may crop the vine-clad hill; + How the maiden sits in her bower, and the weaver sings at his loom, + And forget the kings of grasping and the greedy days of gloom; + For by sea and hill and township hath the Son of Sigmund been. + And looked on the folk unheeded, and the lowly people seen. + + Then into the hall of the Niblungs go the battle-staying earls, + And they cast the spoil in the midmost; the webs of the out-sea pearls, + And the gold-enwoven purple that on hated kings was bright; + Fair jewelled swords accursed that never flashed in fight; + Crowns of old kings of battle that dastards dared to wear; + Great golden shields dishonoured, and the traitors' battle-gear; + Chains of the evil judges, and the false accusers' rings, + And the cloud-wrought silken raiment of the cruel whores of kings. + And they cried: "O King of the people, O Giuki old of years, + Lo, the wealth that Sigurd brings thee from the fashioners of tears! + Take thou the gift, O Niblung, that the Volsung seed hath brought! + For we fought on the guarded fore-shore, in the guileful wood we + fought; + And we fought in the traitorous city, and the murder-halls of kings; + And Sigurd showed us the treasure, and won us the ruddy rings + From the jaws of the treason and death, and redeemed our lives from + the snare, + That the uttermost days might know it, and the day of the Niblungs be + fair: + And all this he giveth to thee, as the Gods give harvest and gain, + And sit in their thrones of the heavens of the praise of the people + fain." + + Then Sigurd passed through the hall, and fair was the light of his + eyes, + And he came to King Giuki the ancient, and Grimhild the overwise, + And stooped to the elder of days and kissed the war-wise head; + And they loved him passing sore as a very son of their bed. + But he stood in the sight of the people, and sweet he was to see, + And no foe and no betrayer, and no envier now hath he: + But Gunnar the bright in the battle deems him his earthly friend, + And Hogni is fain of his fellow, howso the day's work end, + And Guttorm the young is joyous of the help and gifts he hath; + And all these would shine beside him in the glory of his path; + There is none to hate or hinder, or mar the golden day, + And the light of love flows plenteous, as the sun-beams hide the way. + + Now there was the white-armed Gudrun, the lovely Giuki's child, + And her eyes beheld his glory, but her heart was unbeguiled, + And the dear hope fainted in her: I am frail and weak, she saith, + And he so great and glorious with the eyes that look on death! + Yet she comes, and speaks before him as she bears the golden horn: + "The world is glad, O Sigurd, that ever thou wert born, + And I with the world am rejoicing: drink now to the Niblung bliss, + That I, a deedless maiden, may thank thee well for this!" + + So he drank of the cup at her bidding and laughed, and said, "Forsooth, + Good-will with the cup is blended, and the very heart of ruth: + Yet meseems thy words are merrier than thine inmost soul this eve; + Nay, cast away thy sorrow, lest the Kings of battle grieve!" + + She smiled and departed from him, and there in the cloudy hall + To the feast of their glad returning the Niblung children fall; + And far o'er the flowery lealand the shepherds of the plain + Behold the litten windows, and know that Kings are fain. + + So fares the tale of Sigurd through all kingdoms of the earth, + And the tale is told of his doings by the utmost ocean's girth; + And fair feast the merchants deem it to warp their sea-beat ships + High up the Niblung River, that their sons may hear his lips + Shed fair words o'er their ladings and the opened southland bales; + Then they get them aback to their countries, and tell how all men's + tales + Are nought, and vain and empty in setting forth his grace, + And the unmatched words of his wisdom, and the glory of his face. + Came the wise men too from the outlands, and the lords of singers' + fame, + That men might know hereafter the deeds that knew his name; + And all these to their lands departed, and bore aback his love, + And cherished the tree of his glory, and lived glad in the joy thereof. + + But men say that howsoever all other folk of earth + Loved Sigmund's son rejoicing, and were bettered of their mirth, + Yet ever the white-armed Gudrun, the dark-haired Niblung Maid, + From the barren heart of sorrow her love upon him laid: + He rejoiceth, and she droopeth; he speaks and hushed is she; + He beholds the world's days coming, nought but Sigurd may she see; + He is wise and her wisdom falters; he is kind, and harsh and strange + Comes the voice from her bosom laden, and her woman's mercies change. + He longs, and she sees his longing, and her heart grows cold as a + sword, + And her heart is the ravening fire, and the fretting sorrows' hoard. + + Ah, shall she not wander away to the wilds and the wastes of the deer, + Or down to the measureless sea-flood, and the mountain marish drear? + Nay, still shall she bide and behold him in the ancient happy place, + And speak soft as the other women with wise and queenly face. + Woe worth the while for her sorrow, and her hope of life forlorn! + --Woe worth the while for her loving, and the day when she was born! + + + _Of the Cup of evil drink that Grimhild the Wise-wife gave to Sigurd._ + + Now again in the latter summer do those Kings of the Niblungs ride + To chase the sons of the plunder that curse the ocean-side: + So over the oaken rollers they run the cutters down + Till fair in the first of the deep are the glittering bows up-thrown; + But, shining wet and steel-clad, men leap from the surfy shore, + And hang their shields on the gunwale, and cast abroad the oar; + Then full to the outer ocean swing round the golden beaks, + And Sigurd sits by the tiller and the host of the spoilers seeks. + But lo, by the rim of the out-sea where the masts of the Vikings sway, + And their bows plunge down to the sea-floor as they ride the ridgy way, + And show the slant decks covered with swords from stem to stern: + Hark now, how the horns of battle for the clash of warriors yearn, + And the mighty song of mocking goes up from the thousands of throats, + As down the wind and landward the raven-banner floats: + For they see thin streaks and shining o'er the waters' face draw nigh, + And about each streak a foam-wake as the wet oars toss on high; + And they shout; for the silent Niblungs round those great sea-castles + throng, + And the eager men unshielded swarm up the heights of wrong. + Then from bulwark unto bulwark the Wrath's flame sings and leaps, + And the unsteered manless dragons drift down the weltering deeps, + And the waves toss up a shield-foam, and hushed are the clamorous + throats + And dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats, + And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursed + Are swept toward the field-folk's houses, and the shores they saddened + erst: + Lo there on the poop stands Sigurd mid the black-haired Niblung kings, + And his heart goes forth before him toward the day of better things, + And the burg in the land of Lymdale, and the hands that bide him there. + + But now with the spoil of the spoilers mid the Niblungs doth he fare, + When the Kings have dight the beacons and the warders of the coast, + That fire may call to fire for the swift redeeming host. + Then they fare to the Burg of the people, and leave that lealand free + That a maid may wend untroubled by the edges of the sea; + And glad in the autumn season they sit them down again + By the shrines of the Gods of the Niblungs, and the hallowed hearths + of men. + + So there on an eve is Sigurd in the ancient Niblung hall, + Where the cloudy hangings waver and the flickering shadows fall, + And he sits by the Kings on the high-seat, and wise of men he seems, + And of many a hidden marvel past thought of man he dreams: + On the Head of Hindfell he thinketh, and how fair the woman was, + And how that his love hath blossomed, and the fruit shall come to pass; + And he thinks of the burg in Lymdale, and how hand met hand in love, + Nor deems him aught too feeble the heart of the world to move; + And more than a God he seemeth, and so steadfast and so great, + That the sea of chance wide-weltering 'neath his will must needs abate. + + High riseth the glee of the people, and the song and the clank of the + cup + Beat back from pillar to pillar, to the cloud-blue roof go up; + And men's hearts rejoice in the battle, and the hope of coming days, + Till scarce may they think of their fathers, and the kings of bygone + praise. + + But Giuki looketh on Sigurd and saith from heart grown fain: + "To sit by the silent wise-one, how mighty is the gain! + Yet we know this long while, Sigurd, that lovely is thy speech; + Wilt thou tell us the tales of the ancient, and the words of masters + teach? + For the joy of our hearts is stormy with mighty battles won, + And sweet shall be their lulling with thy tale of deeds agone." + + Then they brought the harp to Sigurd, and he looked on the ancient man, + As his hand sank into the strings, and a ripple over them ran, + And he looked forth kind o'er the people, and all men on his glory + gazed, + And hearkened, hushed and happy, as the King his voice upraised; + There he sang of the works of Odin, and the hails of the heavenly + coast, + And the sons of God uprising, and the Wolflings' gathering host; + And he told of the birth of Rerir, and of Volsung yet unborn, + All the deeds of his father's father, and his battles overworn; + Then he told of Signy and Sigmund, and the changing of their lives; + Tales of great kings' departing, and their kindred and their wives. + But his song and his fond desire go up to the cloudy roof, + And blend with the eagles' shrilling in the windy night aloof. + So he made an end of his story, and he sat and longed full sore + That the days of all his longing as a story might be o'er: + But the wonder of the people, and their love of Sigurd grew, + And green grew the tree of the Volsungs, as the Branstock blossomed + anew. + + Now up rose Grimhild the wise-wife, and she stood by Sigurd and said: + "There is none of the kings of kingdoms that may match thy goodlihead: + Lo now, thou hast sung of thy fathers; but men shall sing of thee, + And therewith shall our house be remembered, and great shall our + glory be. + I beseech thee hearken a little to a faithful word of mine, + When thou of this cup hast drunken; for my love is blent with the + wine." + + He laughed and took the cup: But therein with the blood of the earth + Earth's hidden might was mingled, and deeds of the cold sea's birth, + And things that the high Gods turn from, and a tangle of strange love, + Deep guile, and strong compelling, that whoso drank thereof + Should remember not his longing, should cast his love away, + Remembering dead desire but as night remembereth day. + + So Sigurd looked on the horn, and he saw how fair it was scored + With the cunning of the Dwarf-kind and the masters of the sword; + And he drank and smiled on Grimhild above the beaker's rim, + And she looked and laughed at his laughter; and the soul was changed + in him. + Men gazed and their hearts sank in them, and they knew not why it was, + Why the fair-lit hall was darkling, nor what had come to pass: + For they saw the sorrow of Sigurd, who had seen but his deeds erewhile, + And the face of the mighty darkened, who had known but the light of + its smile. + + But Grimhild looked and was merry: and she deemed her life was great, + And her hand a wonder of wonders to withstand the deeds of Fate: + For she saw by the face of Sigurd and the token of his eyes + That her will had abased the valiant, and filled the faithful with + lies, + And blinded the God-born seer, and turned the steadfast athwart, + And smitten the pride of the joyous, and the hope of the eager heart; + The hush of the hall she hearkened, and the fear of men she knew, + But all this was a token unto her, and great pride within her grew, + As she saw the days that were coming from the well-spring of her blood; + Goodly and glorious and great by the kings of her kindred she stood, + And faced the sorrow of Sigurd, and her soul of that hour was fain; + For she thought: I will heal the smitten, I will raise up the smitten + and slain, + And take heed where the Gods were heedless, and build on where they + began, + And frame hope for the unborn children and the coming days of man. + + Then she spake aloud to the Volsung: "Hear this faithful word of mine! + For the draught thou hast drunken, O Sigurd, and my love was blent + with the wine: + O Sigurd, son of the mighty, thy kin are passed away, + But uplift thine heart and be merry, for new kin hast thou gotten + today; + Thy father is Giuki the King, and Grimhild thy mother is made, + And thy brethren are Gunnar and Hogni and Guttorm the unafraid. + Rejoice for a kingly kindred, and a hope undreamed before! + For the folk shall be wax in the fire that withstandeth the Niblung + war; + The waste shall bloom as a garden in the Niblung glory and trust, + And the wrack of the Niblung people shall burn the world to dust: + Our peace shall still the world, our joy shall replenish the earth; + And of thee it cometh, O Sigurd, the gold and the garland of worth!" + + But the heart was changed in Sigurd; as though it ne'er had been + His love of Brynhild perished as he gazed on the Niblung Queen: + Brynhild's beloved body was e'en as a wasted hearth, + No more for bale or blessing, for plenty or for dearth. + --O ye that shall look hereafter, when the day of Sigurd is done, + And the last of his deeds is accomplished, and his eyes are shut in + the sun, + When ye look and long for Sigurd, and the image of Sigurd behold, + And his white sword still as the moon, and his strong hand heavy and + cold, + Then perchance shall ye think of this even, then perchance shall ye + wonder and cry, + "Twice over, King, are we smitten, and twice have we seen thee die." + + As folk of the summer feasters, who have fallen to feast in the morn, + And have wreathed their brows with roses ere the first of the clouds + was born; + Beneath the boughs were they sitting, and the long leaves twinkled + about, + And the wind with their laughter was mingled, nor held aback from + their shout, + Amidst of their harp it lingered, from the mouth of their horn went up, + Round the reek of their roast was it breathing, o'er the flickering + face of their cup-- + --Lo now, why sit they so heavy, and why is their joy-speech dead, + Why are the long leaves drooping, and the fair wind hushed overhead?-- + Look out from the sunless boughs to the yellow-mirky east, + How the clouds are woven together o'er that afternoon of feast; + There are heavier clouds above them, and the sun is a hidden wonder, + It rains in the nether heaven, and the world is afraid with the + thunder: + E'en so in the hall of the Niblungs, and the holy joyous place, + Sat the earls on the marvel gazing, and the sorrow of Sigurd's face. + + Men say that a little after the evil of that night + All waste is the burg of Brynhild, and there springeth a marvellous + light + On the desert hard by Lymdale, and few men know for why; + But there are, who say that a wildfire thence roareth up to the sky + Round a glorious golden dwelling, wherein there sitteth a Queen + In remembrance of the wakening, and the slumber that hath been; + Wherein a Maid there sitteth, who knows not hope nor rest + For remembrance of the Mighty, and the Best come forth from the Best. + + But the hushed Kings sat in the feast-hall, till Grimhild cried on + the harp, + And the minstrels' fingers hastened, and the sound rang clear and sharp + Beneath the cloudy roof-tree, but no joyance with it went, + And no voice but the eagles' crying with the stringed song was blent; + And as it began, it ended, and no soul had been moved by its voice, + To lament o'er the days passed over, or in coming days to rejoice. + Late groweth the night o'er the people, but no word hath Sigurd said, + Since he laughed o'er the glittering Dwarf-gold and raised the cup to + his head: + No wrath in his eyes is arisen, no hope, nor wonder, nor fear; + Yet is Sigurd's face as boding to folk that behold him anear, + As the mountain that broodeth the fire o'er the town of man's delights, + As the sky that is cursed nor thunders, as the God that is smitten + nor smites. + + So silent sitteth the Volsung o'er the blindness of the wrong, + But night on the Niblungs waxeth, and their Kings for the morrow long, + And the morrow of tomorrow that the light may be fair to their eyes, + And their days as the days of the joyous: so now from the throne they + arise, + And their men depart from the feast-hall, their care in sleep to lay, + But none durst speak with Sigurd, nor ask him, whither away, + As he strideth dumb from amidst them; and all who see him deem + That he heedeth the folk of the Niblungs but as people of a dream. + So they fall away from about him, till he stands in the forecourt + alone; + Then he fares to the kingly stables, nor knoweth he his own, + Nor backeth the cloudy Greyfell, but a steed of the Kings he bestrides + And forth through the gate of the Niblungs and into the night he rides: + --Yea he with no deed before him, and he in the raiment of peace; + And the moon in the mid-sky wadeth, and is come to her most increase. + + In the deedless dark he rideth, and all things he remembers save one, + And nought else hath he care to remember of all the deeds he hath done: + He hasteneth not nor stayeth; he lets the dark die out + Ere he comes to the burg of Brynhild and rides it round about; + And he lets the sun rise upward ere he rideth thence away, + And wendeth he knoweth not whither, and he weareth down the day; + Till lo, a plain and a river, and a ridge at the mountains' feet + With a burg of people builded for the lords of God-home meet. + O'er the bridge of the river he rideth, and unto the burg-gate comes + In no lesser wise up-builded than the gate of the heavenly homes: + Himseems that the gate-wards know him, for they cry out each to each, + And as whispering winds in the mountains he hears their far-off speech. + So he comes to the gate's huge hollow, and amidst its twilight goes, + And his horse is glad and remembers, and that road of King-folk knows; + And the winds are astir in its arches with the sound of swords unseen, + And the cries of kings departed, and the battles that have been. + + So into a garth of warriors from that dusk he rideth out + And no man stayeth nor hindereth; there he gazeth round about, + And seeth a glorious dwelling, a mighty far-famed place, + As the last of the evening sunlight shines fair on his weary face; + And there is a hall before him, and huge in the even it lies, + A mountain grey and awful with the Dwarf-folk's masteries: + And the houses of men cling round it, and low they seem and frail, + Though the wise and the deft have built them for a long-enduring tale: + There the wind sings loud in the wall-nook, and the spears are sparks + on the wall, + And the swords are flaming torches as the sun is hard on his fall: + He falls, and the even dusketh o'er that sword-renowned close, + But Sigurd bideth and broodeth for the Niblung house he knows, + And he hath a thought within him that he rideth forth from shame, + And that men have forgotten the greeting and are slow to remember his + fame. + + But forth from the hall came a shouting, and the voice of many men, + And he deemed they cried "Hail, Sigurd! thou art welcome home again!" + Then he looked to the door of the feast-hall and behold it seemed to + him + That its wealth of graven stories with more than the dusk was dim; + With the waving of white raiment and the doubtful gleam of gold. + Then there groweth a longing within him, nor his heart will he + withhold; + But he rideth straight to the doorway, and the stories of the door: + And there sitteth Giuki the ancient, the King, the wise of war, + And Grimhild the kin of the God-folk, the wife of the glittering eyes; + And there is the goodly Gunnar, and Hogni the overwise, + And Guttorm the young and the war-fain; and there in the door and the + shade, + With eyes to the earth cast downward, is the white-armed Niblung Maid. + But all these give Sigurd greeting, and hail him fair and well; + And King Giuki saith: + "Hail, Sigurd! what tidings wilt thou tell + Of thy deeds since yestereven? or whitherward wentst thou?" + + Then unto the earth leapt the Volsung, and gazed with doubtful brow + On the King and the Queen and the Brethren, and the white-armed + Giuki's Child, + Yet amidst all these in a measure of his heavy heart was beguiled: + He spread out his hands before them, and he spake: + "O, what be ye, + Who ask of the deeds of Sigurd, and seek of the days to be? + Are ye aught but the Niblung children? for meseems I would ask for a + gift, + But the thought of my heart is unstable, and my hope as the + winter-drift; + And the words may not be shapen.--But speak ye, men of the earth, + Have ye any new-found tidings, or are deeds come nigh to the birth? + Are there knots for my sword to sunder? are there thrones for my hand + to shake? + And to which of the Gods shall I give, and from which of the Kings + shall I take? + Or in which of the houses of man-folk henceforward shall I dwell? + O speak, ye Niblung children, and the tale to Sigurd tell!" + + None answered a word for a space; but Gudrun wept in the door, + And the noise of men came outward and of feet that went on the floor. + Then Grimhild stood before him, and took him by the hand, + And she said: "In the hall are gathered the earls of the Niblung land. + Come thou with the Mother of Kings and sit in thy place tonight, + That the cheer of the earls may be bettered, nor the war-dukes lose + delight." + + "Come, brother and king," said Gunnar, "for here of all the earth + Is the place that may not lack thee, and the folk that loves thy + worth." + + "Come, Sigurd the wise," said Hogni, "and so shall thy visage cheer + The folk that is bold for tomorrow, and the hearts that know no fear." + + "Come, Sigurd the keen," said Guttorm, "for thy sword lies light in + the sheath, + And oft shall we ride together to face the fateful death." + + No word at all spake Gudrun, as she stood in the doorway dim, + But turned her face from beholding as she reached her hand to him. + + Then Sigurd nought gainsaid them, but into the hall he passed, + And great shouts of salutation to the cloudy roof were cast, + And rang back from the glassy pillars, and the woven God-folk stirred, + And afar the clustering eagles on the golden roof-ridge heard, + And cried out on the Sword of the Branstock as they cried in other + days; + And the harps rang out in the hall, and men sang in Sigurd's praise. + + But he looked to the right and the left, and he knew there was ruin + and lack, + And the death of yestereven, and the days that should never come back; + And he strove, but nought he remembered of the matters that he would, + Save that great was the flood of sorrow that had drowned his days of + good: + Then he deemed that the sons of the earl-folk, e'en mid their praising + word, + Were looking on his trouble as a people sore afeard; + And the gifts that the Gods had given the pride in his soul awoke, + And kindled was Sigurd's kindness by the trouble of the folk; + And he thought: I shall do and undo, as while agone I did, + And abide the time of the dawning, when the night shall be no more hid! + Then he lifted his head like a king, and his brow as a God's was clear, + And the trouble fell from the people, and they cast aside their fear; + And scarce was his glory abated as he sat in the seat of the Kings + With the Niblung brethren about him, and they spake of famous things, + And the dealings of lords of the earth; but he spake and answered again + And thrust by the grief of forgetting, and his tangled thought and + vain, + And cast his care on the morrow, that the people might be glad. + Yet no smile there came to Sigurd, and his lips no laughter had; + But he seemeth a king o'er-mighty, who hath won the earthly crown, + In whose hand the world is lying, who no more heedeth renown. + + But now speaketh Grimhild the Queen: "Rise, daughter of my folk, + For thou seest my son is weary with the weight of the careful yoke; + Go, bear him the wine of the Kings, and hail him over the gold, + And bless the King for his coming to the heart of the Niblung fold." + + Upriseth the white-armed Gudrun, and taketh the cup in her hand; + Dead-pale in the night of her tresses by Sigurd doth she stand, + And strives with the thought within her, and finds no word to speak: + For such is the strength of her anguish, as well might slay the weak; + But her heart is a heart of the Queen-folk and of them that bear + earth's kings, + And her love of her lord seems lovely, though sore the torment wrings, + --How fares it with words unspoken, when men are great enow, + And forth from the good to the good the strong desires shall flow? + Are they wasted e'en as the winds, the barren maids of the sky, + Of whose birth there is no man wotteth, nor whitherward they fly? + + Lo, Sigurd lifteth his eyes, and he sees her silent and pale, + But fair as Odin's Choosers in the slain kings' wakening dale, + But sweet as the mid-fell's dawning ere the grass beginneth to move; + And he knows in an instant of time that she stands 'twixt death and + love, + And that no man, none of the Gods can help her, none of the days, + If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways. + But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred, + And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word, + And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in + his heart + To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart. + And he saith: + "O Maid of the Niblungs, thou art weary-faced this eve: + Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve! + Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne, + That here mid the warriors' joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn? + For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would, + As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!" + + He seeth the love in her eyen, and the life that is tangled in his, + And the heart cries out within him, and man's hope of earthly bliss; + And again would he spare her the speech, as she strives with her + longing sore. + + "Here are glad men about us, and a joyous folk of war. + And they that have loved thee for long, and they that have cherished + mine heart; + But we twain alone are woeful, as sad folk sitting apart. + Ah, if I thy soul might gladden! if thy lips might give me peace! + Then belike were we gladdest of all; for I love thee more than these. + The cup of goodwill that thou bearest, and the greeting thou wouldst + say, + Turn these to the cup of thy love, and the words of the + troth-plighting day; + The love that endureth for ever, and the never-dying troth, + To face the Norns' undoing, and the Gods amid their wrath." + + Then he taketh the cup and her hands, and she boweth meekly adown, + Till she feels the arms of Sigurd round her trembling body thrown: + A little while she doubteth in the mighty slayer's arms + As Sigurd's love unhoped-for her barren bosom warms; + A little while she struggleth with the fear of his mighty fame, + That grows with her hope's fulfilment; ruth rises with wonder and + shame; + For the kindness grows in her soul, as forgotten anguish dies, + And her heart feels Sigurd's sorrow in the breast whereon she lies; + Then the fierce love overwhelms her, and as wax in the fervent fire + All dies and is forgotten in the sweetness of desire; + And close she clingeth to Sigurd, as one that hath gotten the best + And fair things of the world she deemeth, as a place of infinite rest. + + + _Of the Wedding of Sigurd the Volsung._ + + That night sleeps Sigurd the Volsung, and awakes on the morrow-morn, + And wots at the first but dimly what thing in his life hath been born: + But the sun cometh up in the autumn, and the eve he remembered, + And the word he hath given to Gudrun to love her to the death; + And he longs for the Niblung maiden, that her love may cherish his + heart, + Lest e'en as a Godhead banished he dwell in the world apart: + The new sun smiteth his body as he leaps from the golden bed, + And doeth on his raiment and is fair apparelled; + Then he goes his ways through the chambers, and greeteth none at all + Till he comes to the garth and the garden in the nook of the Niblung + wall. + + Now therein, mid the yellowing leafage, and the golden blossoms spent, + Alone and lovely and eager the white-armed Gudrun went; + Swift then he hasteneth toward her, and she bideth his drawing near, + And now in the morn she trembleth; for her love is blent with fear; + And wonder is all around her, for she deemed till yestereve, + When she saw the earls astonied, and the golden Sigurd grieve, + That on some most mighty woman his joyful love was set; + And love hath made her humble, and her race doth she forget, + And her noble and mighty heart from the best of the Niblungs sprung, + The sons of the earthly War-Gods of the days when the world was young. + Yea she feareth her love and his fame, but she feareth his sorrow most, + Lest he spake from a heart o'erladen and counted not the cost. + But lo, the love of his eyen, and the kindness of his face! + And joy her body burdens, and she trembleth in her place, + And sinks in the arms that cherish with a faint and eager cry, + And again on the bosom of Sigurd doth the head of Gudrun lie. + + Fairer than yestereven doth Sigurd deem his love, + And more her tender wooing and her shame his soul doth move; + And his words of peace and comfort come easier forth from him, + And woman's love seems wondrous amidst his trouble dim; + Strange, sweet, to cling together! as oft and o'er again + They crave and kiss rejoicing, and their hearts are full and fain. + + Then a little while they sunder, and apart and anigh they stand, + And Sigurd's eyes grow awful as he stretcheth forth his hand, + And his clear voice saith: + "O Gudrun, now hearken while I swear + That the sun shall die for ever and the day no more be fair. + Ere I forget thy pity and thine inmost heart of love! + Yea, though the Kings be mighty, and the Gods be great above, + I will wade the flood and the fire, and the waste of war forlorn, + To look on the Niblung dwelling, and the house where thou wert born." + + Strange seemed the words to Sigurd that his gathering love compelled, + And sweet and strange desire o'er his tangled trouble welled. + + But bright flashed the eyes of Gudrun, and she said: "King, as for me, + If thou sawest the heart in my bosom, what oath might better thee? + Yet my words thy words shall cherish, as thy lips my lips have done. + --Herewith I swear, O Sigurd, that the earth shall hate the sun, + And the year desire but darkness, and the blossoms shrink from day, + Ere my love shall fail, beloved, or my longing pass away!" + + Now they go from the garth and the garden, and hand in hand they come + To the hall of the kings of aforetime, and the heart of the Niblung + home. + There they go 'neath the cloudy roof-tree, and on to the high-seat + fair, + And there sitteth Giuki the ancient, and the guileful Grimhild is + there, + With the swart-haired Niblung brethren; and all these are exceeding + fain, + When they look on Sigurd and Gudrun, and the peace that enwrappeth + the twain, + For in her is all woe forgotten, sick longing little seen, + And the shame that slayeth pity, and the self-scorn of a Queen; + And all doubt in love is swallowed, and lovelier now is she + Than a picture deftly painted by the craftsmen over sea; + And her face is a rose of the morning by the night-tide framed about, + And the long-stored love of her bosom from her eyes is leaping out. + But how fair is Sigurd the King that beside her beauty goes! + How lovely is he shapen, how great his stature shows! + How kind is the clasping right-hand, that hath smitten the battle + acold! + How kind are the awful eyen that no foeman durst behold! + How sweet are the lips unsmiling, and the brow as the open day! + What man can behold and believe it, that his life shall pass away? + So he standeth proud by the high-seat, and the sun through the vast + hall pours + And the Gods on the hangings waver as the wind goes by the doors, + And abroad are the sounds of man-folk, and the eagles cry from the + roof, + And the ancient deeds of Sigmund seem fallen far aloof; + And dead are the fierce days fallen, and the world is soft and sweet, + As the Son of the Volsungs speaketh in noble words and meet: + + "O hearken, King of the Niblungs, O ancient of the days! + Time was, when alone I wandered, and went on the wasteland ways, + And sore my soul desired the harvest of the sword: + Then I slew the great Gold-wallower, and won the ancient Hoard, + And I turned to the dwellings of men; for I longed for measureless + fame, + And to do and undo with the Kings, and the pride of the Kings to tame; + And I longed for the love of the King-folk; but who desired my soul, + Who stayed my feet in his dwelling, who showed the weary the goal, + Who drew me forth from the wastes, and the bitter kinless dearth, + Till I came to the house of Giuki and the hallowed Niblung hearth? + Count up the deeds and forbearings, count up the words of the days + That show forth the love of the Niblungs and the ancient people's + praise. + Nay, number the waves of the sea, and the grains of the yellow sand, + And the drops of the rain in the April, and the blades of the grassy + land! + And what if one heart of the Niblungs had stored and treasured it all, + And hushed, and moved but softly, lest one grain thereof should fall? + If she feared the barren garden, and the sunless fallow field? + How then should the spring-tide labour, and the summer toil to yield! + And so may the high Gods help me, as I from this day forth + Shall toil for her exalting to the height of worldly worth, + If thou stretch thine hands forth, Giuki, and hail me for thy son: + Then there as thou sitt'st in thy grave-mound when thine earthly day + is done, + Thou shalt hear of our children's children, and the crowned kin of + kings, + And the peace of the Niblung people in the day of better things; + And then mayst thou be merry of the eve when Sigurd came, + In the day of the deeds of the Niblungs and the blossom of their fame, + Stretch forth thine hands to thy son: for I bid thy daughter to wife, + And her life shall withhold my death-day, and her death shall stay my + life." + + Then spoke the ancient Giuki: "Hail, Sigurd, son of mine eld! + And I bless the Gods for the day that mine ancient eyes have beheld: + Now let me depart in peace, since I know for very sooth + That waxen e'en as the God-folk shall the Niblungs blossom in youth. + Come, take thy mother's greeting, and let thy brethren say + How well they love thee, Sigurd, and how fair they deem the day." + + Then lowly bendeth Sigurd 'neath the guileful Grimhild's hand, + And he kisseth the Kings of the Niblungs, and about him there they + stand, + The war-fain, darkling kindred; and all their words are praise, + And the love of the tide triumphant, and the hope of the latter days. + + Hark now, on the morrow morning how the blast of the mighty horn + From the builded Burg of the Niblungs goes over the acres shorn, + And the roads are gay with the riders, and the bull in the stall is + left, + And the plough is alone in the furrow, and the wedge in the hole + half-cleft; + And late shall the ewes be folded, and the kine come home to the pail, + And late shall the fires be litten in the outmost treeless dale: + For men fare to the gate of Giuki and the ancient cloudy hall, + And therein are the earls assembled and the kings wear purple and pall, + And the flowers are spread beneath them, and the bench-cloths beaten + with gold; + And the walls are strange and wondrous with the noble stories told: + For new-hung is the ancient dwelling with the golden spoils of the + south, + And men seem merry for ever, and the praise is in each man's mouth, + And the name of Sigurd the Volsung, the King and the Serpent's Bane, + Who exalteth the high this morning and blesseth the masters of gain: + For men drink the bridal of Sigurd and the white-armed Niblung maid, + And the best with the best shall be mingled, and the gold with the + gold o'erlaid. + + So, fair in the hall is the feasting and men's hearts are uplifted + on high, + And they deem that the best of their life-days are surely drawing + anigh, + As now, one after other, uprise the scalds renowned, + And their well-beloved voices awake the hoped-for sound, + In the midmost of the high-tide, and the joy of feasting lords. + Then cometh a hush and a waiting, and the light of many swords + Flows into the hall of Giuki by the doorway of the King, + And amid those flames of battle the war-clad warriors bring + The Cup of daring Promise and the hallowed Boar of Son, + And men's hearts grow big with longing and great is the hope-tide + grown; + For bright the Son of Sigmund ariseth by the board, + And unwinds the knitted peace-strings that hamper Regin's Sword: + Then fierce is the light on the high-seat as men set down the Cup + Anigh the hand of Sigurd, and the edges blue rise up, + And fall on the hallowed Wood-beast: as a trump of the woeful war + Rings the voice of the mighty Volsung as he speaks the words of yore: + + "By the Earth that groweth and giveth, and by all the Earth's increase + That is spent for Gods and man-folk; by the sun that shines on these; + By the Salt-Sea-Flood that beareth the life and death of men; + By the Heavens and Stars that change not, though earth die out again; + By the wild things of the mountain, and the houseless waste and lone; + By the prey of the Goths in the thicket and the holy Beast of Son, + I hallow me to Odin for a leader of his host, + To do the deeds of the highest, and never count the cost: + And I swear, that whatso great-one shall show the day and the deed, + I shall ask not why nor wherefore, but the sword's desire shall speed: + And I swear to seek no quarrel, nor to swerve aside for aught, + Though the right and the left be blooming, and the straight way wend + to nought: + And I swear to abide and hearken the prayer of any thrall, + Though the war-torch be on the threshold and the foemen's feet in the + hall: + And I swear to sit on my throne in the guise of the kings of the earth, + Though the anguish past amending, and the unheard woe have birth: + And I swear to wend in my sorrow that none shall curse mine eyes + For the scowl that quelleth beseeching, and the hate that scorneth + the wise. + So help me Earth and Heavens, and the Under-sky and Seas, + And the Stars in their ordered houses, and the Norns that order these!" + + And he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and fair as a star he shone, + And all men rejoiced and wondered, and deemed Earth's glory won. + + Then came the girded maidens, and the slim earls' daughters poured, + And uprose the dark-haired Gunnar and bare was the Niblung sword; + Blue it gleamed in the hand of the folk-king as he laid it low on + the Beast, + And took oath as the Goths of aforetime in the hush of the people's + feast: + "I will work for the craving of Kings, and accomplish the will of the + great, + Nor ask what God withstandeth, nor hearken the tales of fate; + When a King my life hath exalted, and wrought for my hope and my gain, + For every deed he hath done me, thereto shall I fashion twain. + I shall bear forth the fame of the Niblungs through all that hindereth; + In my life shall I win great glory, and be merry in my death." + + So sweareth the lovely war-king and drinketh of the Cup, + And the joy of the people waxeth and their glad cry goeth up. + But again came the girded maidens: earls' daughters pour the wine, + And bare is the blade of Hogni in the feast-hall over the Swine; + Then he cries o'er the hallowed Wood-beast: "Earth, hearken, how I + swear + To beseech no man for his helping, and to vex no God with prayer; + And to seek out the will of the Norns, and look in the eyes of the + curse; + And to laugh while the love aboundeth, lest the glad world grow into + worse; + Then if in the murder I laugh not, O Earth, remember my name, + And oft tell it aloud to the people for the Niblungs' fated shame!" + + Then he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and all men hearkened and + deemed + That his speech was great and valiant, and as one of the wise he + seemed. + + Then the linen-folded maidens of the earl-folk lift the gold + But the earls look each on the other, and Guttorm's place behold, + And empty it lieth before them; for the child hath wearied of peace, + And he sits by the oars in the East-seas, and winneth fame's increase. + Nor then, nor ever after, o'er the Holy Beast he spake, + When mighty hearts were exalted for the golden Sigurd's sake. + + But now crieth Giuki the Ancient: "O fair sons, well have ye sworn, + And gladdened my latter-ending, and my kingly hours outworn; + Full fain from the halls of Odin on the world's folk shall I gaze + And behold all hearts rejoicing in the Niblungs' glorious days." + + Glad cries of earls rose upward and beat on the cloudy roof, + And went forth on the drift of the autumn to the mountains far aloof: + Speech stirred in the hearts of the singers, and the harps might not + refrain, + And they called on the folk of aforetime of the Niblung joy to be fain. + + But Sigurd sitteth by Gudrun, and his heart is soft and kind, + And the pity swelleth within it for the days when he was blind; + And with yet another pity, lest his sorrow seen o'erweigh + Her fond desire's fulfilment, and her fair soul's blooming-day: + And many a word he frameth his kingly fear to hide, + And the tangle of his trouble, that her joy may well abide. + But the joy so filleth Gudrun and the triumph of her bliss, + That oft she sayeth within her: How durst I dream of this? + How durst I hope for the days wherein I now shall dwell, + And that assured joyance whereof no tongue may tell? + + So fares the feast in glory till thin the night doth grow, + And joy hath wearied the people, and to rest and sleep they go: + Then dight is the fateful bride-bed, and the Norns will hinder nought + That the feet of the Niblung Maiden to the chamber of Kings be brought, + And the troth is pledged and wedded, and the Norns cast nought before + The feet of Sigurd the Volsung and the bridal chamber-door. + All hushed was the house of the Niblungs, and they two were left alone, + And kind as a man made happy was the golden Sigurd grown, + As there in the arms of the mighty he clasped the Niblung Maid; + But her spirit fainted within her, and her very soul was afraid, + And her mouth was empty of words when their lips were sundered a space, + And in awe and utter wonder she gazed upon his face; + As one who hath prayed for a God in the dwelling of man to abide, + And he comes, and the face unfashioned his ruth and his mercy must + hide. + She trembled and wept before him, till at last amidst her tears + The joy and the hope of women fell on her unawares, + And she sought the hands that had held her, and the face that her face + had blessed, + And the bosom of Sigurd the Mighty, the hope of her earthly rest. + + Then he spake as she hearkened and wondered: "With the Kings of men I + rode, + And none but the men of the war-fain our coming swords abode: + O, dear was the day of the riding, and the hope of the clashing swords! + O, dear were the deeds of battle, and the fall of Odin's lords, + When I met the overcomers, and beheld them overcome, + When we rent the spoil from the spoilers, and led the chasers home! + O, sweet was the day of the summer when we won the ancient towns, + And we stood in the golden bowers and took and gave the crowns! + And sweet were the suppliant faces, and the gifts and the grace we + gave, + And the life and the wealth unhoped for, and the hope to heal and save: + And sweet was the praise of the Niblungs, and dear was the song that + arose + O'er the deed assured, accomplished, and the death of the people's + foes! + O joyful deeds of the mighty! O wondrous life of a King! + Unto thee alone will I tell it, and his fond imagining, + That but few of the people wot of, as he sits with face unmoved + In the place where kings have perished, in the seat of kings beloved!" + + His kind arms clung about her, and her face to his face he drew; + "The life of the kings have I conquered, but this is strange and new; + And from out the heart of the striving a lovelier thing is born, + And the love of my love is sweeter and these hours before the morn." + + Again she trembled before him and knew not what she feared, + And her heart alone, unhidden, deemed her love too greatly dared; + But the very body of Sigurd, the wonder of all men, + Cast cherishing arms about her, and kissed her mouth again, + And in love her whole heart melted, and all thought passed away, + Save the thought of joy's fulfilment and the hours before the day; + She murmured words of loving as his kind lips cherished her breast, + And the world waxed nought but lovely and a place of infinite rest. + + But it was long thereafter ere the sun rose o'er their love, + And lit the world of autumn and the pale sky hung above; + And it stirred the Gods in the heavens, and the Kings of the Goths it + stirred, + Till the sound of the world awakening in their latter dreams they + heard; + And over the Burg of the Niblungs the day spread fair and fresh + O'er the hopes of the ancient people and those twain become one flesh. + + + _Sigurd rideth with the Niblungs, and wooeth Brynhild for King + Gunnar._ + + Now it fell on a day of the spring-tide that followed on these things, + That Sigurd fares to the meadows with Gunnar and Hogni the Kings; + For afar is Guttorm the youngest, and he sails the Eastern Seas, + And fares with war-shield hoisted to win him fame's increase. + So come the Kings to the Doom-ring, and the people's Hallowed Field, + And no dwelling of man is anigh it, and no acre forced to yield; + There stay those Kings of the people alone in weed of war, + And they cut a strip of the greensward on the meadow's daisied floor, + And loosen it clean in the midst, while its ends in the earth abide; + Then they heave its midmost aloft, and set on either side + An ancient spear of battle writ round with words of worth; + And these are the posts of the door, whose threshold is of the earth + And the skin of the earth is its lintel: but with war-glaives gleaming + bare + The Niblung Kings and Sigurd beneath the earth-yoke fare; + Then each an arm-vein openeth, and their blended blood falls down + On Earth the fruitful Mother where they rent her turfy gown: + And then, when the blood of the Volsungs hath run with the Niblung + blood, + They kneel with their hands upon it and swear the brotherhood: + Each man at his brother's bidding to come with the blade in his hand, + Though the fire and the flood should sunder, and the very Gods + withstand: + Each man to love and cherish his brother's hope and will; + Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill: + And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they sworn + As the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born. + But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same, + And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame. + + So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife, + And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of + life; + And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise: + To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace, + And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the + Kings, + For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crooked + things. + But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young, + And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung. + Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best; + And men say: Is the king's heart mighty beyond all hope of rest? + Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown! + So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone. + + Now Giuki the King of the Niblungs must change his life at the last, + And they lay him down in the mountains and a great mound over him cast: + For thus had he said in his life-days: "When my hand from the people + shall fade, + Up there on the side of the mountains shall the King of the Niblungs + be laid, + Whence one seeth the plain of the tillage and the fields where + man-folk go; + Then whiles in the dawn's awakening, when the day-wind riseth to blow, + Shall I see the war-gates opening, and the joy of my shielded men + As they look to the field of the dooming: and whiles in the even again + Shall I see the spoil come homeward, and the host of the Niblungs pour + Through the gates that the Dwarf-folk builded and the well-beloved + door." + + So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold, + As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled: + But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land; + A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand; + A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom, + A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom. + + On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son: + "O Gunnar, King beloved, a fair life hast thou won; + On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers + with gold; + Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told: + Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth, + Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth. + If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings, + No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings." + + He said: "Meseemeth, mother, thou speaketh not in haste, + But hast sought and found beforehand, lest thy fair words fall to + waste." + + She said: "Thou sayest the sooth; I have found the thing I sought: + A Maid for thee is shapen, and a Queen for thee is wrought: + In the waste land hard by Lymdale a marvellous hall is built, + With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt: + Afar o'er the heath men see it, but no man draweth nigher, + For the garth that goeth about it is nought but the roaring fire, + A white wall waving aloft; and no window nor wicket is there, + Whereby the shielded earl-folk or the sons of the merchants may fare: + But few things from me are hidden, and I know in that hall of gold + Sits Brynhild, white as a wild-swan where the foamless seas are rolled; + And the daughter of Kings of the world, and the sister of Queens is + she, + And wise, and Odin's Chooser, and the Breath of Victory: + But for this cause sitteth she thus in the ring of the Wavering Flame, + That no son of the Kings will she wed save the mightiest master of + fame, + And the man who knoweth not fear, and the man foredoomed of fate + To ride through her Wavering Fire to the door of her golden gate: + And for him she sitteth and waiteth, and him shall she cherish and + love, + Though the Kings of the world should withstand it, and the Gods that + sit above. + Speak thou, O mighty Gunnar!--nay rather, Sigurd my son, + Say who but the lord of the Niblungs should wed with this glorious + one?" + + Long Sigurd gazeth upon her, and slow he sayeth again: + "I know thy will, my mother; of all the sons of men, + Of all the Kings unwedded, and the kindred of the great, + It is meet that my brother Gunnar should ride to her golden gate." + + Then laughed Gunnar and answered: "May a king of the people fear? + May a king of the harp and the hall-glee hold such a maid but dear? + Yet nought have I and my kindred to do with fateful deeds; + Lo, how the fair earth bloometh, and the field fulfilleth our needs, + And our swords rust not in our scabbards, and our steeds bide not in + the stall, + And oft are the shields of the Niblungs drawn clanking down from the + wall; + And I sit by my brother Sigurd, and no ill there is in our life, + And the harp and the sword is beside me, and I joy in the peace and + the strife. + So I live, till at last in the sword-play midst the uttermost longing + of fame + I shall change my life and be merry, and leave no hated name. + Yet nevertheless, my mother, since the word has thus gone forth, + And I wot of thy great desire, I will reach at this garland of worth; + And I bid you, Kings and Brethren, with the wooer of Queens to ride, + That ye tell of the thing hereafter, and the deeds that shall betide." + + "It were well, O Son," said Grimhild, "in such fellowship to fare; + But not today nor tomorrow; the hearts of the Gods would I wear, + And know of the will of the Norns; for a mighty matter is this, + And a deed all lands shall tell of, and the hope of the Niblung bliss." + + So apart for long dwelt Grimhild, and mingled the might of the earth + With the deeds of the chilly sea, and the heart of the cloudland's + dearth; + And all these with the wine she mingled, and sore guile was set + therein, + Blindness, and strong compelling for such as dared to win: + And she gave the drink to her sons; and withal unto Gunnar she spake, + And told him tales of the King-folk, and smote desire awake; + Till many a time he bethinks him of the Maiden sitting alone, + And the Queen that was shapen for him; till a dream of the night is + she grown, + And a tale of the day's desire, and the crown of all his praise: + And the net of the Norns was about him, and the snare was spread in + his ways, + And his mother's will was spurring adown the way they would; + For she was the wise of women and the framer of evil and good. + + In the May-morn riseth Gunnar with fair face and gleaming eyes, + And he calleth on Sigurd his brother, and he calleth on Hogni the wise: + "Today shall we fare to the wooing, for so doth our mother bid; + We shall go to gaze on marvels, and things from the King-folk hid." + + So they do on the best of their war-gear, and their steeds are dight + for the road, + And forth to the sun neigheth Greyfell as he neighed 'neath the + Golden Load: + But or ever they leap to the saddle, while yet in the door they stand, + Thereto cometh Grimhild the wise-wife, and on each head layeth her + hand, + As she saith: "Be mighty and wise, as the kings that came before! + For they knew of the ways of the Gods, and the craft of the Gods they + bore: + And they knew how the shapes of man-folk are the very images + Of the hearts that abide within them, and they knew of the shaping of + these. + Be wise and mighty, O Kings, and look in mine heart and behold + The craft that prevaileth o'er semblance, and the treasured wisdom of + old! + I hallow you thus for the day, and I hallow you thus for the night, + And I hallow you thus for the dawning with my fathers' hidden might. + Go now, for ye bear my will while I sit in the hall and spin; + And tonight shall be the weaving, and tomorn the web shall ye win." + + So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word, + But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathed + sword: + None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens + gaze, + And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways. + + So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun, + And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun: + And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn; + But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn: + And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o'er the + earth, + And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert's dearth. + None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red, + And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd's head, + And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides, + And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides. + + Then the heart of a king's son failed not, but he tossed his sword on + high + And laughed as he spurred for the fire, and cried the Niblung cry; + But the mare's son saw and imagined, and the battle-eager steed, + That so oft had pierced the spear-hedge and never failed at need, + Shrank back, and shrieked in his terror, and spite of spur and rein + Fled fast as the foals unbitted on Odin's pasturing plain; + Wide then he wheeled with Gunnar, but with hand and knee he dealt, + And the voice of a lord beloved, till the steed his master felt, + And bore him back to the brethren; by Greyfell Sigurd stood, + And stared at the heart of the fire, and his helm was red as blood; + But Hogni sat in his saddle, and watched the flames up-roll; + And he said: "Thy steed has failed thee that was once the noblest foal + In the pastures of King Giuki; but since thine heart fails not, + And thou wouldst not get thee backward and say, The fire was hot, + And the voices pent within it were singing nought but death, + Let Sigurd lend thee his steed that wore the Glittering Heath, + And carried the Bed of the Serpent, and the ancient ruddy rings. + So perchance may the mocks be lesser when men tell of the Niblung + Kings." + + Then Sigurd looked on the twain, and he saw their swart hair wave + In the wind of the waste and the flame-blast, and no answer awhile he + gave. + But at last he spake: "O brother, on Greyfell shalt thou ride, + And do on the Helm of Aweing and gird the Wrath to thy side, + And cover thy breast with the war-coat that is throughly woven of gold, + That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told: + For this is the raiment of Kings when they ride the Flickering Fire, + And so sink the flames before them and the might of their desire." + + Then Hogni laughed in his heart, and he said: "This changing were well + If so might the deed be accomplished; but perchance there is more to + tell: + Thou shalt take the war-steed, Gunnar, and enough or nought it shall + be: + But the coal-blue gear of the Niblungs the golden hall shall see." + + Then Sigurd looked on the speaker, as one who would answer again, + But his words died out on the waste and the fire-blast made them vain. + Then he casteth the reins to his brother, and Gunnar praiseth his gift, + And springeth aloft to the saddle as the fair sun fails from the lift; + And Sigurd looks on the burden that Greyfell doth uprear, + The huge king towering upward in the dusky Niblung gear: + There sits the eager Gunnar, and his heart desires the deed, + And of nought he recketh and thinketh, but a fame-stirred warrior's + need; + But Greyfell trembleth nothing and nought of the fire doth reck: + Then the spurs in his flank are smitten, and the reins lie loose on + his neck, + And the sharp cry springeth from Gunnar--no handbreadth stirred the + beast; + The dusk drew on and over and the light of the fire increased, + And still as a shard on the mountain in the sandy dale alone + Was the shape of the cloudy Greyfell, nor moved he more than the stone; + But right through the heart of the fire for ever Sigurd stared, + As he stood in the gold red-litten with the Wrath's thin edges bared. + + No word for a while spake any, till Gunnar leaped to the earth, + And the anger wrought within him, and the fierce words came to birth: + "Who mocketh the King of the Niblungs in the desert land forlorn? + Is it thou, O Sigurd the Stranger? is it thou, O younger-born? + Dost thou laugh in the hall, O Mother? dost thou spin, and laugh at + the tale + That has drawn thy son and thine eldest to the sword and the blaze of + the bale? + Or thou, O God of the Goths, wilt thou hide and laugh thy fill, + While the hands of the fosterbrethren the blood of brothers spill?" + + But the awful voice of Sigurd across the wild went forth: + "How changed are the words of Gunnar! where wend his ways of worth? + I mock thee not in the desert, as I mocked thee not in the mead, + When I swore beneath the turf-yoke to help thy fondest need: + Nay, strengthen thine heart for the work, for the gift that thy + manhood awaits; + For I give thee a gift, O Niblung, that shall overload the Fates, + And how may a King sustain it? but forbear with the dark to strive; + For thy mother spinneth and worketh, and her craft is awake and alive." + + Then Hogni spake from the saddle: "The time, and the time is come + To gather the might of our mother, and of her that spinneth at home. + Forbear all words, O Gunnar, and anigh to Sigurd stand, + And face to face behold him, and take his hand in thine hand: + Then be thy will as his will, that his heart may mingle with thine, + And the love that he sware 'neath the earth-yoke with thine hope may + intertwine." + + Then the wrath from the Niblung slippeth and the shame that anger + hath bred, + And the heavy wings of the dreamtide flit over Gunnar's head: + But he doth by his brother's bidding, and Sigurd's hand he takes, + And he looks in the eyes of the Volsung, though scarce in the desert + he wakes. + There Hogni sits in the saddle aloof from the King's desire, + And little his lips are moving, as he stares on the rolling fire, + And mutters the spells of his mother, and the words she bade him say: + But the craft of the kings of aforetime on those Kings of the battle + lay; + Dark night was spread behind them, and the fire flared up before, + And unheard was the wind of the wasteland mid the white flame's + wavering roar. + + Long Sigurd gazeth on Gunnar, till he sees, as through a cloud, + The long black locks of the Niblung, and the King's face set and proud: + Then the face is alone on the dark, and the dusky Niblung mail + Is nought but the night before him: then whiles will the visage fail, + And grow again as he gazeth, black hair and gleaming eyes, + And fade again into nothing, as for more of vision he tries: + Then all is nought but the night, yea the waste of an emptier thing, + And the fire-wall Sigurd forgetteth, nor feeleth the hand of the King: + Nay, what is it now he remembereth? it is nought that aforetime he + knew, + And no world is there left him to live in, and no deed to rejoice in + or rue; + But frail and alone he fareth, and as one in the sphere-stream's drift, + By the starless empty places that lie beyond the lift: + Then at last is he stayed in his drifting, and he saith, It is blind + and dark; + Yet he feeleth the earth at his feet, and there cometh a change and a + spark, + And away in an instant of time is the mirk of the dreamland rolled, + And there is the fire-lit midnight, and before him an image of gold, + A man in the raiment of Gods, nor fashioned worser than they: + Full sad he gazeth on Sigurd from the great wide eyes and grey; + And the Helm that Aweth the people is set on the golden hair, + And the Mail of Gold enwraps him, and the Wrath in his hand is bare. + + Then Sigurd looks on his arm and his hand in his brother's hand, + And thereon is the dark grey mail-gear well forged in the southern + land; + Then he looks on the sword that he beareth, and, lo, the eager blade + That leaps in the hand of Gunnar when the kings are waxen afraid; + And he turns his face o'er his shoulder, and the raven-locks hang down + From the dark-blue helm of the Dwarf-folk, and the rings of the + Niblung crown. + + Then a red flush riseth against him in the face ne'er seen before, + Save dimly in the mirror or the burnished targe of war, + And the foster-brethren sunder, and the clasped hands fall apart; + But a change cometh over Sigurd, and the fierce pride leaps in his + heart; + He knoweth the soul of Gunnar, and the shaping of his mind; + He seeketh the words of Sigurd, and Gunnar's voice doth he find, + As he cries: "I know thy bidding; let the world be lief or loth, + The child is unborn that shall hearken how Sigurd rued his oath! + Well fare thou brother Gunnar! what deed shall I do this eve + That I shall never repent of, that thine heart shall never grieve? + What deed shall I do this even that none else may bring to the birth, + Nay, not the King of the Niblungs, and the lord of the best of the + earth?" + + The flames rolled up to the heavens, and the stars behind were bright, + Dark Hogni sat on his war-steed, and stared out into the night, + And there stood Gunnar the King in Sigurd's semblance wrapped, + --As Sigurd walking in slumber, for in Grimhild's guile was he lapped, + That his heart forgat his glory, and the ways of Odin's lords, + And the thought was frozen within him, and the might of spoken words. + + But Sigurd leapeth on Greyfell, and the sword in his hand is bare, + And the gold spurs flame on his heels, and the fire-blast lifteth his + hair; + Forth Greyfell bounds rejoicing, and they see the grey wax red, + As unheard the war-gear clasheth, and the flames meet over his head, + Yet a while they see him riding, as through the rye men ride, + When the word goes forth in the summer of the kings by the ocean-side; + But the fires were slaked before him and the wild-fire burned no more + Than the ford of the summer waters when the rainy time is o'er. + + Not once turned Sigurd aback, nor looked o'er the ashy ring, + To the midnight wilderness drear and the spell-drenched Niblung King: + But he stayed and looked before him, and lo, a house high-built + With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt: + So he leapt adown from Greyfell, and came to that fair abode, + And dark in the gear of the Niblungs through the gleaming door he + strode: + All light within was that dwelling, and a marvellous hall it was, + But of gold were its hangings woven, and its pillars gleaming as glass, + And Sigurd said in his heart, it was wrought erewhile for a God: + But he looked athwart and endlong as alone its floor he trod, + And lo, on the height of the dais is upreared a graven throne, + And thereon a woman sitting in the golden place alone; + Her face is fair and awful, and a gold crown girdeth her head; + And a sword of the kings she beareth, and her sun-bright hair is shed + O'er the laps of the snow-white linen that ripples adown to her feet: + As a swan on the billow unbroken ere the firth and the ocean meet, + On the dark-blue cloths she sitteth, in the height of the golden place, + Nor breaketh the hush of the hall, though her eyes be set on his face. + + Now he sees this is even the woman of whom the tale hath been told, + E'en she that was wrought for the Niblungs, the bride ordained from + of old, + And hushed in the hall he standeth, and a long while looks in her eyes, + And the word he hath shapen for Gunnar to his lips may never arise. + + The man in Gunnar's semblance looked long and knew no deed; + And she looked, and her eyes were dreadful, and none would help her + need. + Then the image of Gunnar trembled, and the flesh of the War-King + shrank; + For he heard her voice on the silence, and his heart of her anguish + drank: + + "King, King, who art thou that comest, thou lord of the cloudy gear? + What deed for the weary-hearted shall thy strange hands fashion here?" + + The speech of her lips pierced through him like the point of the bitter + sword, + And he deemed that death were better than another spoken word: + But he clencheth his hand on the war-blade, and setteth his face as + the brass, + And the voice of his brother Gunnar from out his lips doth pass: + "When thou lookest on me, O Goddess, thou seest Gunnar the King, + The King and the lord of the Niblungs, and the chief of their + warfaring. + But art thou indeed that Brynhild of whom is the rumour and fame, + That she bideth the coming of kings to ride her Wavering Flame, + Lest she wed the little-hearted, and the world grow evil and vile? + For if thou be none other I will speak again in a while." + + She said: "Art thou Gunnar the Stranger? O art thou the man that I see? + Yea, verily I am Brynhild: what other is like unto me? + O men of the Earth behold me! hast thou seen, O labouring Earth, + Such sorrow as my sorrow, or such evil as my birth?" + + Then spake the Wildfire's Trampler that Gunnar's image bore: + "O Brynhild, mighty of women, be thou glorious evermore! + Thou seest Gunnar the Niblung, as he sits mid the Niblung lords, + And rides with the gods of battle in the fore-front of the swords. + Now therefore awaken to life! for this eve have I ridden thy Fire, + When but few of the kings would outface it, to fulfil thine heart's + desire. + And such love is the love of the kings, and such token have women to + know + That they wed with God's beloved, and that fair from their bed shall + outgrow + The stem of the world's desire, and the tree that shall not be abased, + Till the day of the uttermost trial when the war-shield of Odin is + raised. + So my word is the word of wooing, and I bid thee remember thine oath, + That here in this hall fair-builded we twain may plight the troth; + That here in the hall of thy waiting thou be made a wedded wife, + And be called the Queen of the Niblungs, and awaken unto life." + + Hard rang his voice in the hall, and a while she spake no word, + And there stood the Image of Gunnar, and leaned on his bright blue + sword: + But at last she cried from the high-seat: "If I yet am alive and awake, + I know no words for the speaking, nor what answer I may make." + + She ceased and he answered nothing; and a hush on the hall there lay, + And the moon slipped over the windows as he clomb the heavenly way; + And no whit stirred the raiment of Brynhild: till she hearkened the + Wooer's voice, + As he said: "Thou art none of the women that swear and forswear and + rejoice, + Forgetting the sorrow of kings and the Gods and the labouring earth. + Thou shalt wed with King Gunnar the Niblung and increase his worth + with thy worth." + + And again was there silence a while, and the War-King leaned on his + sword + In the shape of his foster-brother; then Brynhild took up the word: + "Hail Gunnar, King of the Niblungs! tonight shalt thou lie by my side, + For thou art the Gods' beloved, and for thee was I shapen a bride: + For thee, for the King, have I waited, and the waiting now is done; + I shall bear Earth's kings on my bosom and nourish the Niblung's son. + Though women swear and forswear, and are glad no less in their life, + Tonight shall I wed with the King-folk and be called King Gunnar's + wife. + Come Gunnar, Lord of the Niblungs, and sit in my fathers' seat! + For for thee alone was it shapen, and the deed is due and meet." + + Up she rose exceeding glorious, and it was as when in May + The blossomed hawthorn stirreth with the dawning-wind of day; + But the Wooer moved to meet her, and amid the golden place + They met, and their garments mingled and face was close to face; + And they turned again to the high-seat, and their very right hands met, + And King Gunnar's bodily semblance beside her Brynhild set. + + But over his knees and the mail-rings the high King laid his sword, + And looked in the face of Brynhild and swore King Gunnar's word: + He swore on the hand of Brynhild to be true to his wedded wife, + And before all things to love her till all folk should praise her life. + Unmoved did Brynhild hearken, and in steady voice she swore + To be true to Gunnar the Niblung while her life-days should endure; + So she swore on the hand of the Wooer: and they two were all alone, + And they sat a while in the high-seat when the wedding-troth was done, + But no while looked each on the other, and hand fell down from hand, + And no speech there was betwixt them that their hearts might + understand. + + At last spake the all-wise Brynhild: "Now night is beginning to fade, + Fair-hung is the chamber of Kings, and the bridal bed is arrayed." + + He rose and looked upon her: as the moon at her utmost height, + So pale was the visage of Brynhild, and her eyes as cold and bright: + Yet he stayed, nor stirred from the high-seat, but strove with the + words for a space, + Till she took the hand of the King and led him down from his place, + And forth from the hall she led him to the chamber wrought for her + love; + The fairest chamber of earth, gold-wrought below and above, + And hung were the walls fair-builded with the Gods and the kings of + the earth + And the deeds that were done aforetime, and the coming deeds of worth. + There they went in one bed together; but the foster-brother laid + 'Twixt him and the body of Brynhild his bright blue battle-blade, + And she looked and heeded it nothing; but e'en as the dead folk lie, + With folded hands she lay there, and let the night go by: + And as still lay that Image of Gunnar as the dead of life forlorn, + And hand on hand he folded as he waited for the morn. + So oft in the moonlit minster your fathers may ye see + By the side of the ancient mothers await the day to be. + Thus they lay as brother by sister--and e'en such had they been to + behold, + Had he borne the Volsung's semblance and the shape she knew of old. + + Night hushed as the moon fell downward, and there came the leaden sleep + And weighed down the head of the War-King, that he lay in slumber deep, + And forgat today and tomorrow, and forgotten yesterday; + Till he woke in the dawn and the daylight, and the sun on the gold + floor lay, + And Brynhild wakened beside him, and she lay with folded hands + By the edges forged of Regin and the wonder of the lands, + The Light that had lain in the Branstock, the hope of the Volsung Tree, + The Sunderer, the Deliverer, the torch of days to be: + Then he strove to remember the night and what deeds had come to pass, + And what deeds he should do hereafter, and what manner of man he was; + For there in the golden chamber lay the dark unwonted gear, + And beside his cheek on the pillow were long locks of the raven hair: + But at last he remembered the even and the deed he came to do, + And he turned and spake to Brynhild as he rose from the bolster blue: + + "I give thee thanks, fair woman, for the wedding-troth fulfilled; + I have come where the Norns have led me, and done as the high Gods + willed: + But now give we the gifts of the morning, for I needs must depart to + my men + And look on the Niblung children, and rule o'er the people again. + But I thank thee well for thy greeting, and thy glory that I have seen, + For but little thereto are those tidings that folk have told of the + Queen. + Henceforth with the Niblung people anew beginneth thy life, + And fair days of peace await thee, and fair days of glorious strife. + And my heart shall be grieved at thy grief, and be glad of thy + well-doing, + And all men shall say thou hast wedded a true heart and a king." + + So spake he in semblance of Gunnar, and from off his hand he drew + A ring of the spoils of the Southland, a marvel seen but of few, + And he set the ring on her finger, and she turned to her lord and + spake: + "I thank thee, King, for thy goodwill, and thy pledge of love I take. + Depart with my troth to thy people: but ere full ten days are o'er + I shall come to the Sons of the Niblungs, and then shall we part no + more + Till the day of the change of our life-days, when Odin and Freyia + shall call. + Lo, here, my gift of the morning! 'twas my dearest treasure of all; + But thou art become its master, and for thee was it fore-ordained, + Since thou art the man of mine oath and the best that the earth hath + gained." + + And lo, 'twas the Grief of Andvari, and the lack that made him loth, + The last of the God-folk's ransom, the Ring of Hindfell's oath; + Now on Sigurd's hand it shineth, and long he looketh thereon, + But it gave him back no memories of the days that were bygone. + Then in most exceeding sorrow rose Sigurd from the bed, + And again lay Brynhild silent as an image of the dead. + Then the King did on his war-gear and girt his sword to his side, + And was e'en as an image of Gunnar when the Niblungs dight them to + ride. + And she on the bed of the bridal, remembering hope that was, + Lay still, and hearkened his footsteps from the echoing chamber pass. + So forth from the hall goes the Wooer, and slow and slow he goes, + As a conquered king from his city fares forth to meet his foes; + And he taketh the reins of Greyfell, nor yet will back him there, + But afoot through the cold slaked ashes of yester-eve doth fare, + With his eyes cast down to the earth; till he heareth the wind, and + a cry, + And raiseth a face brow-knitted and beholdeth men anigh, + And beholdeth Hogni the King set grey on his coal-black steed, + And beholdeth the image of Sigurd, the King in the golden weed: + Then he stayeth and stareth astonished and setteth his hand to his + sword; + Till Hogni cries from his saddle, and his word is a kindly word: + + "Hail, brother, and King of the people! hail, helper of my kin! + Again from the death and the trouble great gifts hast thou set thee + to win + For thy friends and the Niblung children, and hast crowned thine + earthly fame, + And increased thine exceeding glory and the sound of thy loved name." + + Nought Sigurd spake in answer but looked straight forth with a frown, + And stretched out his hand to Gunnar, as one that claimeth his own. + Then no word speaketh Gunnar, but taketh his hand in his hand, + And they look in the eyes of each other, and a while in the desert + they stand + Till the might of Grimhild prevaileth, and the twain are as + yester-morn; + But sad was the golden Sigurd, though his eyes knew nought of scorn: + And he spake: + "It is finished, O Gunnar! and I will that our brotherhood + May endure through the good and the evil as it sprang in the days of + the good; + But I bid thee look to the ending, that the deed I did yest'reve + Bear nought for me to repent of, for thine heart of hearts to grieve. + Thou art troth-plight, O King of the Niblungs, to Brynhild Queen of + the earth, + She hath sworn thine heart to cherish and increase thy worth with her + worth: + She shall come to the house of Gunnar ere ten days are past and o'er; + And thenceforth the life of Brynhild shall part from thy life no more, + Till the doom of our kind shall speed you, and Odin and Freyia shall + call, + And ye bide the Day of the Battle, and the uttermost changing of all." + + The praise and thanks they gave him! the words of love they spake! + The tale that the world should hear of, deeds done for Sigurd's sake! + They were lovely might you hear them: but they lack; for in very deed + Their sound was clean forgotten in the day of Sigurd's need. + + But as yet are those King-folk lovely, and no guile of heart they know, + And, in troth and love rejoicing, by Sigurd's side they go: + O'er heath and holt they hie them, o'er hill and dale they ride, + Till they come to the Burg of the Niblungs and the war-gate of their + pride; + And there is Grimhild the wise-wife, and she sits and spins in the + hall. + + "Rejoice, O mother," saith Gunnar, "for thy guest hath holpen all + And this eve shall thy sons be merry: but ere ten days are o'er + Here cometh the Maid, and the Queen, the Wise, and the Chooser of war; + So wrought is the will of the Niblungs and their blossoming boughs + increase, + And joyous strife shall we dwell in, and merry days of peace." + + So that night in the hall of the ancient they hold high-tide again, + And the Gods on the Southland hangings smile out full fair and fain, + And the song goes up of Sigurd, and the praise of his fame fulfilled, + But his speech in the dead sleep lieth, and the words of his wisdom + are chilled: + And men say, the King is careful, for he thinks of the people's weal, + And his heart is afraid for our trouble, lest the Gods our joyance + steal. + + But that night, when the feast was over, to Gudrun Sigurd came, + And she noted the ring on his finger, and she knew it was nowise the + same + As the ring he was wont to carry; so she bade him tell thereof: + Then he turned unto her kindly, and his words were words of love; + Nor his life nor his death he heeded, but told her last night's tale: + Yea he drew forth the sword for his slaying, and whetted the edges of + bale; + For he took that Gold of Andvari, that Curse of the uttermost land, + And he spake as a king that loveth, and set it on her hand; + But her heart was exceeding joyous, as he kissed her sweet and soft, + And bade her bear it for ever, that she might remember him oft + When his hand from the world was departed and he sat in Odin's home. + + But no one of his words she forgat when the latter days were come, + When the earth was hard for her footsteps, and the heavens were + darkling above + And but e'en as a tale that is told were waxen the years of her love, + Yea thereof, from the Gold of Andvari, the sparks of the waters wan, + Sprang a flame of bitter trouble, and the death of many a man, + And the quenching of the kindreds, and the blood of the broken troth, + And the Grievous Need of the Niblungs and the Sorrow of Odin the Goth. + + + _How Brynhild was wedded to Gunnar the Niblung._ + + So wear the ten days over, and the morrow-morn is come, + And the light-foot expectation flits through the Niblung home, + And the girded hope is ready, and all people are astir, + When the voice of the keen-eyed watchman from the topmost tower they + hear: + "Look forth from the Burg, O Niblungs, and the war-gate of renown! + For the wind is up in the morning, and the may-blooms fall adown, + And the sun on the earth is shining, and the clouds are small and high, + And here is a goodly people and an army drawing anigh." + + Then horsed are the sons of the earl-folk, and their robes are + glittering-gay, + And they ride o'er the bridge of the river adown the dusty way, + Till they come on a lovely people, and the maids of war they meet, + Whose cloaks are blue and broidered, and their girded linen sweet; + And they ride on the roan and the grey, and the dapple-grey and the + red, + And many a bloom of the may-tide on their crispy locks is shed: + Fair, young are the sons of the earl-folk, and they laugh for love + and glee, + As the lovely-wristed maidens on the summer ways they see. + + But lo, mid the sweet-faced fellows there cometh a golden wain, + Like the wain of the sea be-shielded with the signs of the war-god's + gain: + Snow-white are its harnessed yoke-beasts, and its bench-cloths are of + blue, + Inwrought with the written wonders that ancient women knew; + But nought therein there sitteth save a crowned queen alone, + Swan-white on the dark-blue bench-cloths and the carven ivory throne; + Abashed are sons of the earl-folk of their laughter and their glee, + When the glory of Queen Brynhild on the summer ways they see. + + But they hear the voice of the woman, and her speech is soft and kind: + "Are ye the sons of the Niblungs, and the folk I came to find, + O young men fair and lovely? So may your days be long, + And grow in gain and glory, and fail of grief and wrong!" + Then they hailed her sweet and goodly, and back again they rode + By the bridge o'er the rushing river to the gate of their abode; + And high aloft, half-hearkened, rang the joyance of the horn, + And the cry of the Ancient People from their walls of war was borne + O'er the tilth of the plain, and the meadows, and the sheep-fed slopes + that lead + From the God-built wall of the mountains to the blossoms of the mead. + + Then up in the wain stood Brynhild, and her voice was sweet as she + said: + "Is this the house of Gunnar, and the man I swore to wed?" + + But she hearkened the cry from the gateway and the hollow of the door: + "Yea this is the dwelling of Gunnar, and the house of the God of War: + There is none of the world so mighty, be he outland King or Goth, + Save Sigurd the mighty Volsung and the brother of his troth." + + Then spake Brynhild and said: "Lo, a house of ancient Kings, + Wrought for great deeds' fulfilment, and the birth of noble things! + Be the bloom of the earth upon it, and the hope of the heavens above! + May peace and joy abide there, and the full content of love! + And when our days are done with, and we lie alow in rest, + May its lords returning homeward still deem they see the best!" + + She spake with voice unfaltering, and the golden wain moved on, + And all men deemed who heard her that great gifts their home had won. + + So she passed through the dusk of the doorway, and the cave of the + war-fair folk, + Wherein the echoing horse-hoofs as the sound of swords awoke, + And the whispering wind of the may-tide from the cloudy wall smote + back, + And cried in the crown of the roof-arch of battle and the wrack; + And the voice of maidens sounded as kings' cries in the day of the + wrath, + When the flame is on the threshold and the war-shields strew the path. + + So fair in the sun of the forecourt doth Brynhild's wain shine bright, + And the huge hall riseth before her, and the ernes cry out from its + height, + And there by the door of the Niblungs she sees huge warriors stand, + Dark-clad, by the shoulders greater than the best of any land, + And she knoweth the chiefs of the Niblungs, the dreaded dukes of war: + But one in cloudy raiment stands a very midst the door, + And ruddy and bright is his visage, and his black locks wave in the + wind, + And she knoweth the King of the Niblungs and the man she came to find: + Then nought she lingered nor loitered, but stepped to the earth adown + With right-hand reached to the War-God, the wearer of the crown; + And she said: + "I behold thee, Gunnar, the King of War that rode + Through the waves of the Flickering Fire to the door of mine abode, + To lie by my side in the even, and waken in the morn; + And for this I needs must deem thee the best of all men born, + The highest-hearted, the greatest, the staunchest of thy love: + And that such the world yet holdeth, my heart is fain thereof: + And for thee I deem was I fashioned, and for thee the oath I swore + In the days of my glory and wisdom, ere the days of youth were o'er. + May the bloom of the earth be upon thee, and the hope of the heavens + above, + May the blessing of days be upon thee, and the full content of love! + Mayst thou see our children's children, and the crowned kin of kings! + May no hope from thine eyes be hidden of the day of better things! + May the fire ne'er stay thy glory, nor the ocean-flood thy fame! + Through ages of all ages may the wide world praise thy name! + Yea oft may the word be spoken when low we lie at rest, + 'It befell in the days of Gunnar, the happiest and the best!' + All this may the high Gods give thee, and thereto a gift I give, + The body of Queen Brynhild so long as both we live." + + With unmoved face, unfaltering, the blessing-words she said, + But the joy sprang up in Gunnar and increased his goodlihead, + And he cast his arms about her and kissed her on the mouth, + And he said: + "The gift is greater than all treasure of the south: + As glad as my heart this moment, so glad may be thy life, + And the world be never weary of the joy of Gunnar's wife!" + + She spake no word, and smiled not, but she held his hand henceforth. + And he said: "Now take the greetings of my men, the most of worth." + + Then she turned her face to the war-dukes, and hearkened to their + praise, + And she spake in few words sweetly, and blessed their coming days. + Then again spake Gunnar and said: "Lo, Hogni my brother is this; + But Guttorm is far on the East-seas, and seeketh the warrior's bliss; + A third there is of my brethren, and my house holds none so great; + In the hall by the side of my sister thy face doth he await." + + Then Brynhild turned unto Hogni, and he greeted her fair and well, + And she prayed all blessings upon him, and a tale that the world + should tell: + Then again she spake unto Gunnar: "I had deemed ye had been but three + Who sprang from the loins of Giuki; is this fourth akin unto thee, + This hall-abider the mighty?" + He said: "He is nought of our blood. + But the Gods have sent him to usward to work us measureless good: + It is even Sigurd the Volsung, the best man ever born, + The man that the Gods withstand not, my friend, and my brother sworn." + + She heard the name, and she changed not, but her feet went forth as + he led, + And under the cloudy roof-tree Queen Brynhild bowed her head. + Then, were there a man so ancient as had lived beyond his peers + On the earth, that beareth all things, a twice-told tale of years, + He had heard no sound so mighty as the shout that shook the wall + When Brynhild's feet unhearkened first trod the Niblung hall. + No whit the clamour stirred her; but her godlike eyes she raised + And betwixt the hedge of the earl-folk on the golden high-seat gazed, + And the man that sat by Gudrun: but e'en as the rainless cloud + Ere the first of the tempest ariseth the latter sun doth shroud, + And men look round and shudder, so Grimhild came between + The silent golden Sigurd and the eyes of the mighty Queen, + And again heard Brynhild greeting, and again she spake and said: + + "O Mother of the Niblungs, such hap be on thine head, + As thy love for me, the stranger, was past the pain of words! + Mayst thou see thy son's sons glorious in the meeting of the swords! + Mayst thou sleep and doubt thee nothing of the fortunes of thy race! + Mayst thou hear folk call yon high-seat the earth's most happy place!" + + Then the Wise-wife hushed before her, and a little fell aside, + And nought from the eyes of Brynhild the high-seat now did hide; + And the face so long desired, unchanged from time agone, + In the house of the Cloudy People from the Niblung high-seat shone: + She stood with her hand in Gunnar's, and all about and around + Were the unfamiliar faces, and the folk that day had found; + But her heart ran back through the years, and yet her lips did move + With the words she spake on Hindfell, when they plighted troth of love. + + Lo, Sigurd fair on the high-seat by the white-armed Gudrun's side, + In the midst of the Cloudy People, in the dwelling of their pride! + His face is exceeding glorious and awful to behold; + For of all his sorrow he knoweth and his hope smit dead and cold: + The will of the Norns is accomplished, and, lo, they wend on their + ways, + And leave the mighty Sigurd to deal with the latter days: + The Gods look down from heaven, and the lonely King they see, + And sorrow over his sorrow, and rejoice in his majesty. + For the will of the Norns is accomplished, and outworn is Grimhild's + spell, + And nought now shall blind or help him, and the tale shall be to tell: + He hath seen the face of Brynhild, and he knows why she hath come, + And that his is the hand that hath drawn her to the Cloudy People's + home: + He knows of the net of the days, and the deeds that the Gods have bid, + And no whit of the sorrow that shall be from his wakened soul is hid: + And his glory his heart restraineth, and restraineth the hand of the + strong + From the hope of the fools of desire and the wrong that amendeth wrong; + And he seeth the ways of the burden till the last of the uttermost end. + But for all the measureless anguish, and the woe that nought may amend, + His heart speeds back to Hindfell, and the dawn of the wakening day; + And the hours betwixt are as nothing, and their deeds are fallen away + As he looks on the face of Brynhild; and nought is the Niblung folk, + But they two are again together, and he speaketh the words he spoke, + When he swore the love that endureth, and the truth that knoweth not + change; + And Brynhild's face drew near him with eyes grown stern and strange. + --Lo, such is the high Gods' sorrow, and men know nought thereof, + Who cry out o'er their undoing, and wail o'er broken love. + Now she stands on the floor of the high-seat, and for e'en so little + a space + As men may note delaying, she looketh on Sigurd's face, + Ere she saith: + "I have greeted many in the Niblungs' house today, + And for thee is the last of my greetings ere the feast shall wear away: + Hail, Sigurd, son of the Volsungs! hail, lord of Odin's storm! + Hail, rider of the wasteland and slayer of the Worm! + If aught thy soul shall desire while yet thou livest on earth, + I pray that thou mayst win it, nor forget its might and worth." + + All grief, sharp scorn, sore longing, stark death in her voice he knew, + But gone forth is the doom of the Norns, and what shall he answer + thereto, + While the death that amendeth lingers? and they twain shall dwell for + awhile + In the Niblung house together by the hearth that forged the guile; + Yet amid the good and the guileless, and the love that thought no + wrong, + Shall they fashion the deeds to remember, and the fame that endureth + for long: + And oft shall he look on Brynhild, and oft her words shall he hear, + And no hope and no beseeching in his inmost heart shall stir. + So he spake as a King of the people in whom all fear is dead, + And his anguish no man noted, as the greeting-words he said: + + "Hail, fairest of all things fashioned! hail, thou desire of eyes! + Hail, chooser of the mightiest, and teacher of the wise! + Hail, wife of my brother Gunnar! in might may thy days endure, + And in peace without a trouble that the world's weal may be sure!" + + She heard and turned unto Gunnar as a queen that seeketh her place, + But to Gudrun she gave no greeting, nor beheld the Niblung's face. + Then up stood the wife of Sigurd and strove with the greeting-word, + But the cold fear rose in her heart, and the hate within her stirred, + And the greeting died on her lips, and she gazed for a moment or twain + On the lovely face of Brynhild, and so sat in the high-seat again, + And turned to her lord beside her with many a word of love. + + But the song sprang up in the hall, and the eagles cried from above, + And forth to the freshness of May went the joyance of the feast: + And Sigurd sat with the Niblungs, and gave ear to most and to least, + And showed no sign to the people of the grief that on him lay; + Nor seemeth he worser to any than he was on the yesterday. + + + _Of the Contention betwixt the Queens._ + + So there are all these abiding in the Burg of the ancient folk + Mid the troth-plight sworn and broken, and the oaths of the earthly + yoke. + Then Guttorm comes from his sea-fare, and is waxen fierce and strong, + A man in the wars delighting, blind-eyed through right and wrong: + Still Sigurd rides with the Brethren, as oft in the other days, + And never a whit abateth the sound of the people's praise; + They drink in the hall together, they doom in the people's strife, + And do every deed of the King-folk, that the world may rejoice in + their life. + + There now is Brynhild abiding as a Queen in the house of the Kings, + And hither and thither she wendeth through the day of queenly things; + And no man knoweth her sorrow; though whiles is the Niblung bed + Too hot and weary a dwelling for the temples of her head, + And she wends, as her wont was aforetime, when the moon is riding high, + And the night on the earth is deepest; and she deemeth it good to lie + In the trench of the windy mountains, and the track of the wandering + sheep, + While soft in the arms of Sigurd Queen Gudrun lieth asleep: + There she cries on the lovely Sigurd, and she cries on the love and + the oath, + And she cries on the change and the vengeance, and the death to deliver + them both. + But her crying none shall hearken, and her sorrow nought shall know, + Save the heart of the golden Sigurd, and the man fast bound in woe: + So she wendeth her back in the dawning, toward the deeds and the + dwellings of men, + And she sits in the Niblung high-seat, and is fair and queenly again. + Close now is her converse with Gudrun, and sore therein she strives + Lest the barren stark contention should mingle in their lives; + And she humbles her oft before her, as before the Queen of the earth, + The mistress, the overcomer, the winner of all that is worth: + And Gudrun beareth it all, and deemeth it little enow + Though the wife of Sigurd be worshipped: and the scorn in her heart + doth grow, + Of every soul save Sigurd: for that tale of the night she bears + Scarce hid 'twixt the lips and the bosom; and with evil eye she hears + Songs sung of the deeds of Gunnar, and the rider of the fire, + Who mocked at the bane of King-folk to win his heart's desire: + But Sigurd's will constraineth, and with seeming words of peace + She deals with the converse of Brynhild, and the days her load + increase. + + Men tell how the heart-wise Hogni grew wiser day by day; + He knows of the craft of Grimhild, and how she looketh to sway + The very council of God-home and the Norns' unchanging mind; + And he saith that well-learned is his mother, but that e'en her feet + are blind + Down the path that she cannot escape from: nay oft is she nothing, + he saith, + Save a staff for the foredoomed staying, and a sword for the ordered + death; + And that he will be wiser than this, nor thrust his desire aside, + Nor smother the flame of his hatred; but the steed of the Norns will + he ride, + Till he see great marvels and wonders, and leave great tales to be + told: + And measureless pride is in him, a stern heart, stubborn and cold. + + But of Gunnar the Niblung they say it, that the bloom of his youth + is o'er, + And many are manhood's troubles, and they burden him oft and sore. + He dwells with Brynhild his wife, with Grimhild his mother he dwells, + And noble things of his greatness, of his joy, the rumour tells; + Yet oft and oft of an even he thinks of that tale of the night, + And the shame springs fresh in his heart at his brother Sigurd's might; + And the wonder riseth within him, what deed did Sigurd there, + What gift to the King hath he given: and he looks on Brynhild the fair, + The fair face never smiling, and the eyes that know no change, + And he deems in the bed of the Niblungs she is but cold and strange; + And the Lie is laid between them, as the sword lay while agone. + He hearkens to Grimhild moreover, and he deems she is driving him on, + He knoweth not whither nor wherefore: but she tells of the measureless + Gold, + And the Flame of the uttermost Waters, and the Hoard of the kings of + old: + And she tells of kings' supplanters, and the leaders of the war, + Who take the crown of song-craft, and the tale when all is o'er: + She tells of kings' supplanters, and saith: Perchance 'twere well, + Might some tongue of the wise of the earth of those deeds of the + night-tide tell: + She tells of kings' supplanters: I am wise, and the wise I know, + And for nought is the sword-edge whetted, save the smiting of the blow: + Old friends are last to sever, and twain are strong indeed, + When one the King's shame knoweth, and the other knoweth his need. + + So Gunnar hearkens and hearkens, and he saith, It is idle and worse: + If the oath of my brother be broken, let the earth then see to the + curse! + But again he hearkens and hearkens, and when none may hear his thought + He saith in the silent night-tide: Shall my brother bring me to nought? + Must my stroke be a stroke of the guilty, though on sackless folk it + fall? + Shall a king sit joy-forsaken mid the riches of his hall? + And measureless pride is in Gunnar, and it blends with doubt and shame, + And the unseen blossom is envy and desire without a name. + + But fair-faced, calm as a God who hath none to call his foes, + Betwixt the Kings and the people the golden Sigurd goes; + No knowledge of man he lacketh, and the lore he gained of old + From the ancient heart of the Serpent and the Wallower on the Gold + Springs fresh in the soul of Sigurd; the heart of Hogni he sees, + And the heart of his brother Gunnar, and he grieveth sore for these. + But he seeth the heart of Brynhild, and knoweth her lonely cry + When the waste is all about her, and none but the Gods are anigh: + And he knoweth her tale of the night-tide, when desire, that day doth + dull, + Is stirred by hope undying, and fills her bosom full + Of the sighs she may not utter, and the prayers that none may heed; + Though the Gods were once so mighty the smiling world to speed. + And he knows of the day of her burden, and the measure of her toil, + And the peerless pride of her heart, and her scorn of the fall and the + foil. + And the shadowy wings of the Lie, that with hand unwitting he led + To the Burg of the ancient people, brood over board and bed; + And the hand of the hero faileth, and seared is the sight of the wise, + And good is at one with evil till the new-born death shall arise. + + In the hall sitteth Sigurd by Brynhild, in the council of the Kings, + And he hearkeneth her spoken wisdom, and her word of lovely things: + In the field they meet, and the wild-wood; on the acre and the heath; + And scarce may he tell if the meeting be worse than the coward's death, + Or better than life of the righteous: but his love is a flaming fire, + That hath burnt up all before it of the things that feed desire. + + The heart of Gudrun he seeth, her heart of burning love, + That knoweth of nought but Sigurd on the earth, in the heavens above, + Save the foes that encompass his life, and the woman that wasteth away + 'Neath the toil of a love like her love, and the unrewarded day: + For hate her eyes hath quickened, and no more is Gudrun blind, + And sure, though dim it may be, she seeth the days behind: + And the shadowy wings of the Lie, that the hand unwitting led + To the love and the heart of Gudrun, brood over board and bed; + And for all the hand of the hero and the foresight of the wise, + From the heart of a loving woman shall the death of men arise. + + It was most in these latter days that his fame went far abroad, + The helper, the overcomer, the righteous sundering sword; + The loveliest King of the King-folk, the man of sweetest speech, + Whose ear is dull to no man that his helping shall beseech; + The eye-bright seer of all things, that wasteth every wrong, + The straightener of the crooked, the hammer of the strong: + Lo, such was the Son of Sigmund in the days whereof I tell, + The dread of the doom and the battle; and all children loved him well. + + Now it happed on a summer season mid the blossom of the year, + When the clouds were high and little, and the sun exceeding clear, + That Queen Brynhild arose in the morning, and longed for the eddying + pool, + And the Water of the Niblungs her summer sleep to cool: + So she set her face to the river, where the hawthorn and the rose + Hide the face of the sunlit water from the yellow-blossomed close + And the house-built Burg of the Niblungs; for there by a grassy strand + The shallow water floweth o'er white and stoneless sand + And deepeneth up and outward; and the bank on the further side + Goes high and shear and rocky the water's face to hide + From the plain and the horse-fed meadow: there the wives of the + Niblungs oft + Would play in the wide-spread water when the summer days were soft; + And thither now goes Brynhild, and the flowery screen doth pass, + When lo, fair linen raiment falls before her on the grass, + And she looks, and there is Gudrun, the white-armed Niblung child, + All bare for the sunny river and the water undefiled. + Round she turned with her face yet dreamy with the love of yesternight, + Till the flush of anger changed it: but Brynhild's face grew white, + Though soft she spake and queenly: + "Hail, sister of my lord! + Thou art fair in the summer morning 'twixt the river and the sward!" + + Then she disarrayed her shoulders and cast her golden girth, + And she said: "Thou art sister of Gunnar, and the kin of the best of + the earth; + So shalt thou go before me to meet the water cold." + + Then, smiling nowise kindly, doth Gudrun her behold, + And she saith: "Thou art wrong, Queen Brynhild, to give the place to + me, + For she that is wife of the greatest more than sister-kin shall be. + --Nay, if here were the sister of Sigurd ne'er before me should she go, + Though sister were she surely of the best that the earth-folk know: + Yet I linger not, since thou biddest, for the courteous of women thou + art; + And the love of the night and the morning is heavy at my heart; + For the best of the world was beside me, while thou layest with Gunnar + the King." + + She laughs and leaps, and about her the glittering waters spring: + But Brynhild laugheth in answer, and her face is white and wan + As swift she taketh the water; and the bed-gear of the swan + Wreathes long folds round about her as she wadeth straight and swift + Where the white-scaled slender fishes make head against the drift: + Then she turned to the white-armed Gudrun, who stood far down the + stream + In the lapping of the west-wind and the rippling shallows' gleam, + And her laugh went down the waters, as the war-horn on the wind, + When the kings of war are seeking, and their foes are fain to find. + + But Gudrun cried upon her, and said: "Why wadest thou so + In the deeps and the upper waters, and wilt leave me here below?" + + Then e'en as one transfigured loud Brynhild cried, and said: + "So oft shall it be between us at hall and board and bed; + E'en so in Freyia's garden shall the lilies cover me, + While thou on the barren footways thy gown-hem folk shall see: + E'en so shall the gold cloths lap me, when we sit in Odin's hall, + While thou shiverest, little hidden, by thy lord, the Helper's thrall, + By the serving-man of Gunnar, who all his bidding doth, + And waits by the door of the bower while his master plighteth the + troth: + But my mate is the King of the King-folk who rode the Wavering Fire, + And mocked at the ruddy death to win his heart's desire. + Lo now, it is meet and righteous that ye of the happy days + Should bow the heads and wonder at the wedding all men praise. + O, is it not goodly and sweet with the best of the earth to dwell, + And the man that all shall worship when the tale grows old to tell! + For the woe and the anguish endure not, but the tale and the fame + endure, + And as wavering wind is the joyance, but the Gods' renown shall + be sure: + It is well, O ye troth-breakers! there was found a man to ride + Through the waves of my Flickering Fire to lie by Brynhild's side." + + Then no word answered Gudrun till she waded up the stream + And stretched forth her hand to Brynhild, and thereon was a golden + gleam, + And she spake, and her voice was but little: + "Thou mayst know by this token and sign + If the best of the kings of man-folk and the master of masters is + thine." + + White waxed the face of Brynhild as she looked on the glittering thing: + And she spake: "By all thou lovest, whence haddest thou the ring?" + + Then Gudrun laughed in her glory the face of the Queen to see: + "Thinkst thou that my brother Gunnar gave the Dwarf-wrought ring to + me?" + + Nought spake the glorious woman, but as one who clutcheth a knife + She turned on the mocking Gudrun, and again spake Sigurd's wife: + + "I had the ring, O Brynhild, on the night that followed the morn, + When the semblance of Gunnar left thee in thy golden hall forlorn: + And he, the giver that gave it, was the Helper's war-got thrall, + And the babe King Elf uplifted to the war-dukes in the hall; + And he rode with the heart-wise Regin, and rode the Glittering Heath, + And gathered the Golden Harvest and smote the Worm to the death: + And he rode with the sons of the Niblungs till the words of men must + fail + To tell of the deeds of Sigurd and the glory of his tale: + Yet e'en as thou sayst, O Brynhild, the bidding of Gunnar he did, + For he cloaked him in Gunnar's semblance and his shape in Gunnar's + hid:-- + Thou all-wise Queen of the Niblungs, was this so hard a part + For the learned in the lore of Regin, who ate of the Serpent's heart? + --Thus he wooed the bride for Gunnar, and for Gunnar rode the fire; + And he held thine hand for Gunnar, and lay by thy dead desire. + We have known thee for long, O Brynhild, and great is thy renown; + In this shalt thou joy henceforward and nought in thy wedding crown." + + Now is Brynhild wan as the dead, and she openeth her mouth to speak, + But no word cometh outward: then the green bank doth she seek, + And casteth her raiment upon her, and flees o'er the meadow fair, + As though flames were burning beneath it, and red gleeds the daisies + were: + But fair with face triumphant from the water Gudrun goes, + And with many a thought of Sigurd the heart within her glows. + + And yet as she walked the meadow a fear upon her came, + What deeds are the deeds of women in their anguish and their shame; + And many a heavy warning and many a word of fate + By the lips of Sigurd spoken she remembereth overlate; + Yet e'en to the heart within her she dissembleth all her dread. + Daylong she sat in her bower in glee and goodlihead, + But when the day was departing and the earl-folk drank in the hall + She went alone in the garden by the nook of the Niblung wall; + There she thought of that word in the river, and of how it were + better unsaid, + And she looked with kind words to hide it, as men bury their + battle-dead + With the spice and the sweet-smelling raiment: in the cool of the eve + she went + And murmured her speech of forgiveness and the words of her intent, + While her heart was happy with love: then she lifted up her face, + And lo, there was Brynhild the Queen hard by in the leafy place; + Then the smile from her bright eyes faded and a flush came over her + cheek + And she said: "What dost thou, Brynhild? what matter dost thou seek?" + + But the word of Sigurd smote her, and she spake ere the answer came: + "Hard speech was between us, Brynhild, and words of evil and shame; + I repent, and crave thy pardon: wilt thou say so much unto me, + That the Niblung wives may be merry, as great queens are wont to be?" + + But no word answered Brynhild, and the wife of Sigurd spake: + "Lo, I humble myself before thee for many a warrior's sake, + And yet is thine anger heavy--well then, tell all thy tale, + And the grief that sickens thine heart, that a kindly word may avail." + + Then spake Brynhild and said: "Thou art great and livest in bliss, + And the noble queens and the happy should ask better tidings than this: + For ugly words must tell it; thou shouldst scarce know what they mean; + Thou, the child of the mighty Niblungs, thou, Sigurd's wedded queen. + It is good to be kindly and soft while the heart hath all its will." + + Said the Queen: "There is that in thy word that the joy of my heart + would kill. + I have humbled myself before thee, and what further shall I say?" + + Then spake Brynhild the Queen: "I spake heavy words today; + And thereof do I repent me; but one thing I beseech thee and crave: + That thou speak but a word in thy turn my life and my soul to save: + --Yea the lives of many warriors, and the joy of the Niblung home, + And the days of the unborn children, and the health of the days to + come-- + Say thou it was Gunnar thy brother that gave thee the Dwarf-lord's + ring, + And not the glorious Sigurd, the peerless lovely King; + E'en so will I serve thee for ever, and peace on this house shall be, + And rest ere my departing, and a joyous life for thee; + And long life for the lovely Sigurd, and a glorious tale to tell. + O speak, thou sister of Gunnar, that all may be better than well!" + + But hard grew the heart of Gudrun, and she said: "Hast thou heard the + tale + That the wives of the Niblungs lie, lest the joy of their life-days + fail? + Wilt thou threaten the house of the Niblungs, wilt thou threaten my + love and my lord? + --It was Sigurd that lay in thy bed with thee and the edge of the + sword; + And he told me the tale of the night-tide, and the bitterest tidings + thereof, + And the shame of my brother Gunnar, how his glory was turned to a + scoff; + And he set the ring on my finger with sweet words of the sweetest + of men, + And no more from me shall it sunder--lo, wilt thou behold it again?" + And her hand gleamed white in the even with the ring of Andvari + thereon, + The thrice-cursed burden of greed and the grain from the needy won; + Then uprose the voice of Brynhild, and she cried to the towers aloft: + + "O house of the ancient people, I blessed thee sweet and soft; + In the day of my grief I blessed thee, when my life seemed evil and + long; + Look down, O house of the Niblungs, on the hapless Brynhild's wrong! + Lest the day and the hour be coming when no man in thy courts shall be + left + To remember the woe of Brynhild, and the joy from her life-days reft; + Lest the grey wolf howl in the hall, and the wood-king roll in the + porch, + And the moon through thy broken rafters be the Niblungs' feastful + torch." + + "O God-folk hearken," cried Gudrun, "what a tale there is to tell! + How a Queen hath cursed her people, and the folk that hath cherished + her well!" + + "O Niblung child," said Brynhild, "what bitterer curse may be + Than the curse of Grimhild thy mother, and the womb that carried thee?" + + "Ah fool!" said the wife of Sigurd, "wilt thou curse thy very friend? + But the bitter love bewrays thee, and thy pride that nought shall end." + + "Do I curse the accursed?" said Brynhild, "but yet the day shall come, + When thy word shall scarce be better on the threshold of thine home; + When thine heart shall be dulled and chilly with e'en such a mingling + of might, + As in Sigurd's cup she mingled, and thou shalt not remember aright." + + Out-brake the child of the Niblungs: "A witless lie is this; + But thou sickenest sore for Sigurd, and the giver of all bliss: + A ruthless liar thou art: thou wouldst cut off my glory and gain, + Though it further thine own hope nothing, and thy longing be empty + and vain. + Ah, thou hungerest after mine husband!--yet greatly art thou wed, + And high o'er the kings of the Goth-folk doth Gunnar rear the head." + + "Which one of the sons of Giuki," said Brynhild, "durst to ride + Through the waves of my Flickering Fire to lie by Brynhild's side? + Thou shouldst know him, O Sister of Kings; let the glorious name be + said, + Lest mine oath in the water be written, and I wake up, vile and + betrayed, + In the arms of the faint-heart dastard, and of him that loveth life, + And casteth his deeds to another, and the wooing of his wife." + + "Yea, hearken," said she of the Niblungs, "what words the stranger + saith! + Hear the words of the fool of love, how she feareth not the death, + Nor to cry the shame on Gunnar, whom the King-folk tremble before: + The wise and the overcomer, the crown of happy war!" + + Said Brynhild: "Long were the days ere the Son of Sigmund came; + Long were the days and lone, but nought I dreamed of the shame. + So may the day come, Grimhild, when thine eyes know not thy son! + Think then on the man I knew not, and the deed thy guile hath done!" + + Then coldly laughed Queen Gudrun, and she said: "Wilt thou lay all + things + On the woman that hath loved thee and the Mother of the Kings? + O all-wise Queen of the Niblungs, was this change too hard a part + For the learned in the lore of Regin, who ate of the Serpent's heart?" + + Then was Brynhild silent a little, and forth from the Niblung hall + Came the sound of the laughter of men to the garth by the nook of the + wall; + And a wind arose in the twilight, and sounds came up from the plain + Of kine in the dew-fall wandering, and of oxen loosed from the wain, + And the songs of folk free-hearted, and the river rushing by; + And the heart of Brynhild hearkened and she cried with a grievous cry: + + "O Sigurd, O my Sigurd, we twain were one, time was, + And the wide world lay before us and the deeds to bring to pass! + And now I am nought for helping, and no helping mayst thou give; + And all is marred and evil, and why hast thou heart to live?" + + She held her peace for anguish, and forth from the hall there came + The shouts of the joyous Niblungs, and the sound of Sigurd's name: + And Brynhild turned from Gudrun, and lifted her voice and said: + "O evil house of the Niblungs, may the day of your woe and your dread + Be meted with the measure of the guile ye dealt to me, + When ye sealed your hearts from pity and forgat my misery!" + + And she turned to flee from the garden; but her gown-lap Gudrun caught, + And cried: "Thou evil woman, for thee were the Niblungs wrought, + And their day of the fame past telling, that they should heed thy life? + Dear house of the Niblung glory, fair bloom of the warriors' strife, + How well shalt thou stand triumphant, when all we lie in the earth + For a little while remembered in the story of thy worth!" + + But the lap of her linen raiment did Brynhild tear from her hold + And spake from her mouth brought nigher, and her voice was low and + cold: + + "Such pride and comfort in Sigurd henceforward mayst thou find, + Such joy of his life's endurance, as thou leav'st me joy behind!" + + But turmoil of wrath wrapt Gudrun, that she knew not the day from the + night, + And she hardened her heart for evil as the warriors when they smite: + And she cried: "Thou filled with murder, my love shall blossom and + bloom + When thou liest in the hell forgotten! smite thence from the deedless + gloom, + Smite thence at the lovely Sigurd, from the dark without a day! + Let the hand that death hath loosened the King of Glory slay!" + + So died her words of anger, and her latter speech none heard, + Save the wind of the early night-tide and the leaves by its wandering + stirred; + For amidst her wrath and her blindness was the hapless Brynhild gone: + And she fled from the Burg of the Niblungs and cried to the night + alone: + + "O Sigurd, O my Sigurd, what now shall give me back + One word of thy loving-kindness from the tangle and the wrack? + O Norns, fast bound from helping, O Gods that never weep, + Ye have left stark death to help us, and the semblance of our sleep! + Yet I sleep and remember Sigurd; and I wake and nought is there, + Save the golden bed of the Niblungs, and the hangings fashioned fair: + If I stretch out mine hand to take it, that sleep that the sword-edge + gives, + How then shall I come on Sigurd, when again my sorrow lives + In the dreams of the slumber of death? O nameless, measureless woe, + To abide on the earth without him, and alone from earth to go!" + + So wailed the wife of Gunnar, as she fled through the summer night, + And unwitting around she wandered, till again in the dawning light + She stood by the Burg of the Niblungs, and the dwelling of her lord. + + Awhile bode the white-armed Gudrun on the edge of the daisied sward, + Till she shrank from the lonely flowers and the chill, speech-burdened + wind. + Then she turned to the house of her fathers and her golden chamber + kind; + And for long by the side of Sigurd hath she lain in light-breathed + sleep, + While yet the winds of night-tide round the wandering Brynhild sweep. + + + _Gunnar talketh with Brynhild._ + + On the morrow awakeneth Gudrun; and she speaketh with Sigurd and saith: + "For what cause is Brynhild heavy, and as one who abideth but death?" + + "Yea," Sigurd said, "is it so? as a great queen she goes upon earth, + And thoughtful of weighty matters, and things that are most of worth." + + "It was other than this," said Gudrun, "that I deemed her yesterday; + All men would have said great trouble on the wife of Gunnar lay." + + "Is it so?" said Sigurd the Volsung, "Ah, I sore misdoubt me then, + That thereof shall we hear great tidings that shall be for the ruin + of men." + + "Why grieveth she so," said Gudrun, "a queen so mighty and wise, + The Chooser of the war-host, the desire of many eyes, + The Queen of the glorious Gunnar, the wife of the man she chose? + And she sits by his side on the high-seat, as the lily blooms by the + rose." + + "Where then in the world was Brynhild," said he, "when she spake that + word, + And said that her beloved was her very earthly lord?" + + Then was Sigurd silent a little, and Gudrun spake no more; + For despite the heart of the Niblungs, and her love exceeding sore, + With fear her soul was smitten for the word that Sigurd spake, + And yet more for his following silence; and the stark death seemed to + awake + And stride through the Niblung dwelling, and the sunny morn grew dim: + Till, lo, the voice of the Volsung, and the speech came forth from him: + + "Hearken, Gudrun my wife; the season is nigh at hand, + Yea, the day is now on the threshold, when thou alone in the land + Shalt answer for Sigurd departed, and shalt say that I loved thee well; + And yet if thou hear'st men say it, then true is the tale to tell, + That Brynhild was my beloved in the tide and the season of youth; + And as great as is thy true-love, e'en so was her love and her truth. + But for this cause thus have I spoken, that the tale of the night hast + thou told, + And cast the word unto Brynhild, and shown her the token of gold. + --A deed for the slaying of many, and the ending of my life, + Since I betrayed her unwitting.--Yet grieve not, Gudrun my wife! + For cloudy of late were the heavens with many a woven lie, + And now is the clear of the twilight, when the slumber draweth anigh. + But call up the soul of the Niblungs, and harden thine heart to bear, + For wert thou not sprung from the mighty, today were thy portion of + fear: + Yea, thou wottest it even as I; but I see thine heart arise, + And the soul of the mighty Niblungs, and fair is the love in thine + eyes." + + Then forth went the King from the chamber to the council of the Kings, + And he sat with the wise in the Doom-ring for the sifting of troublous + things, + And rejoiced the heart of the people: and the Wrath kept watch by his + side. + And his eyen were nothing dimmer than on many a joyous tide. + + But abed lay Brynhild the Queen, as a woman dead she lay, + And no word for better or worse to the best of her folk would she say: + So they bore the tidings to Gunnar, and said: "Queen Brynhild ails + With a sickness whereof none knoweth, and death o'er her life + prevails." + + Then uprose Gunnar the Niblung, and he went to Brynhild his wife, + And prayed her to strengthen her heart for the glory of his life: + But she gave not a word in answer, nor turned to where he stood, + And there rose up a fear in his heart, and he looked for little of + good: + There he bode for a long while silent, and the thought within him + stirred + Of wise speech of his mother Grimhild, and many a warning word: + But he spake: + "Art thou smitten of God, unto whom shall we cast the prayer? + Art thou wronged by one of the King-folk, for whom shall the blades be + bare?" + + Belike she never heard him; she lay in her misery, + And the slow tears gushed from her eyen and nought of the world would + she see. + But ill thoughts arose in Gunnar, and remembrance of the speech + Erst spoken low by Grimhild; yet he turned his heart to beseech, + And he spake again: + "O Brynhild, if I ever made thee glad, + If the glory of the great-ones of my gift thine heart hath had. + As mine heart hath been faithful to thee, as I longed for thy + life-days' gain, + Tell now of thy toil and thy trouble that we each of each may be fain!" + + Nought spake she, nothing she moved, and the tears were dried on her + cheek; + But the very words of Grimhild did Gunnar's memory seek; + He sought and he found and considered; and mighty he was and young, + And he thought of the deeds of his fathers and the tales of the + Niblungs sung; + How they bore no God's constraining, and rode through the wrong and + the right + That the storm of their wrath might quicken, and their tempest carry + the light. + The words of his mother he gathered and the wrath-flood over him + rolled, + And with it came many a longing, that his heart had never told, + Nay, scarce to himself in the night-tide, for the gain of the ruddy + rings, + And the fame of the earth unquestioned and the mastery over kings, + And he sole King in the world-throne, unequalled, unconstrained; + And with wordless wrath he fretted at the bonds that his glory had + chained, + And the bitter anger stirred him, and at last he spake and cried: + + "How long, O all-wise Brynhild, like the dead wilt thou abide, + Nor speak to thy lord and thy husband and the man that rode thy Fire, + And mocked at the bane of King-folk to accomplish thy desire? + I deem thou sickenest, Brynhild, with the love of a mighty-one, + The foe, the King's supplanter, he that so long hath shone + Mid the honour of our fathers, and the lovely Niblung house, + Like a serpent amidst of the treasure that the day makes glorious." + + Yet never a word she answered, nor unto the great King turned, + Till through all the patience of King-folk the flame of his anger + burned, + And his voice was the rattling thunder, as he cried across the bed: + + "O who art thou, fearful woman? art thou one of the first of the dead? + Hast thou long ago seen and hated the tide of the Niblung praise, + And clad thee in flesh twice over for the bane of our happy days? + Art thou come from the far-off country that none may live and behold + For the bane of the King of the Niblungs, and of Sigurd lord of the + Gold?" + + Then she raised herself on her elbow and turned her eyes on the King: + "O tell me, Gunnar," she said, "that thou gavest Andvari's Ring + To thy sister the white-armed Gudrun!--thou, not thy captain of war, + The son of the God-born Volsungs, the Lord of the Treasure of yore! + O swear it that I may live! that I may be glad in thine hall, + And weave with the wisdom of women, and broider the purple and pall, + And look in thy face at the chess-play, and drink of thy carven cup, + And whisper a word in season when the voice of the wise goes up, + And speak thee the speech of kindness by the hallowed Niblung hearth. + O swear it, King of the Niblungs, lest thine honour die of the dearth! + O swear it, lord I have wedded, lest mine honour come to nought, + And I be but a wretch and a bondmaid for a year's embracing bought!" + + Till his heart hath heard her meaning at the golden bed he stares, + And the last of the words she speaketh flit empty past his ears; + For he knows that the tale of the night-tide hath been told and + understood, + And now of her shame was he deeming e'en worse than Brynhild would. + So he turns from her face and the chamber with his glory so undone, + That he saith the Gods did evil when the mighty work they won, + And wrought the Burg of the Niblungs, and fashioned his fathers' days, + And led them on to the harvest of the deeds and the people's praise. + And nought he sees to amend it, save the hungry eyeless sword, + And the war without hope or honour, and the strife without reward. + + So alone he goeth his ways, and the morn to the noontide falls, + And the sun goeth down in the heavens, and fades from the Niblung + walls, + And the dusk and the dark draw over, and no man the King may see. + But Sigurd sits in the hall mid the war-dukes' company: + Alone of the Kings in the Doom-ring, and the council of the wise, + By the street and the wharf and the burg-gate he shines in the + people's eyes; + Stately and lovely to look on he heareth of good and of ill, + And he knitteth up and divideth, with life and death at his will. + + + _Of the exceeding great grief and mourning of Brynhild._ + + Now the sun cometh up in the morning and shines o'er holt and heath, + And the wall of the mighty mountains, and the sheep-fed slopes beneath, + And the horse-fed plain and the river, and the acres of the wheat, + And the herbs of bane and of healing, and the garden hedges sweet; + It shines on the sea and the shepherd, and the husbandman's desire; + On the Niblung Burg it shineth and smiteth the vanes afire; + And in Gudrun's bower it shineth, and seeth small joy therein, + For hushed the fair-clad maidens the work of women win; + Then Gudrun looketh about her, and she saith: + "Why sit ye so, + That I hearken but creak of the loom-stock and the battens' homeward + blow? + Why is your joy departed and your sweet speech fallen dumb? + Are the Niblungs fled from the battle, is their war-host overcome? + Have the Norns given forth their shaming? have they fallen in the + fight? + Yet the sun shines notwithstanding, and the world around is bright." + + Then answered a noble woman, and the wise of maids was she: + "Thou knowest, O lovely lady, that nought of this may be; + Yet with woe that the world shall hearken the glorious house is filled, + On the hearth of all men hallowed the cup of joy is spilled. + --A dread, an untimely hour, an exceeding evil day!" + + Then the wife of Sigurd answered: "Arise and go thy way + To the chamber of Queen Brynhild, and bid her wake at last, + For that long have we slept and slumbered, and the deedless night is + passed: + Bid her wake to the deeds of queen-folk, and be glad as the + world-queens are + When they look on the people that loves them, and thrust all trouble + afar. + Let her foster her greatness and glory, and the fame no ages forget, + That tomorn may as yesterday blossom, yea more abundantly yet." + + Then arose the light-foot maiden: but she stayed and spake by the door: + "O Gudrun, I durst not behold her, for the days of her joyance are + o'er, + And the days of her life are numbered, and her might is waxen weak, + And she lieth as one forsaken, and no word her lips will speak, + Nay, not to her lord that loveth: but all we deem, O Queen, + That the wrath of the Gods is upon her for ancient deeds unseen." + + Nought answered the white-armed Gudrun, but the fear in her soul arose, + For she thought of the golden Sigurd, and the compassing of foes, + And great grew the dread of her maidens as they gazed upon her face: + But she rose and looked not backward as she hastened from her place, + And sought the King of the Niblungs by hall and chamber and stair, + And bright was the pure mid-morning and the wind was fresh and fair. + + So she came on her brother Gunnar, as he sat apart and alone, + Arrayed in the Niblung war-gear, nor moved he more than the stone + In the jaws of the barren valley and the man-deserted dale; + On his knees was the breadth of the sunshine, and thereon lay the + edges pale, + The war-flame of the Niblungs, the sword that his right hand knew: + + White was the fear on her lips, and hard at her heart it drew. + As she spake: + "I have found thee, O brother! O Gunnar, go to her and say + That my heart is grieved with her grief and I mourn for her evil day." + + Then Gunnar answered her word, but his words were heavy and slow: + "Thou know'st not the words thou speakest--and wherefore should I go, + Since I am forbidden to share it, the woe or the weal of her heart? + Look thou on the King of the Niblungs, how he sitteth alone and apart, + Fast bound in the wiles of women, and the web that a traitor hath spun, + And no deed for his hand he knoweth, or to do or to leave undone." + + Wan-faced from before him she fled, and she went with hurrying feet, + And no child of man in her going would she look upon or greet, + Till she came unto Hogni the Wise; and he sat in his war-array, + The coal-blue gear of the Niblungs, and the sword o'er his knees there + lay: + + She sickened, and said: "What dost thou? what then is the day and the + deed, + That the sword on thy knees is naked, and thou clad in the warrior's + weed? + Go in, go in to Brynhild, and tell her how I mourn + For the grief whereof none wotteth that hath made her days forlorn." + + "It is good, my sister," said Hogni, "to abide in the harness of war + When the days and the days are changing, and the Norns' feet stand by + the door. + I will nowise go in unto Brynhild, lest the evil tide grow worse. + For what woman will bear the sorrow and burden her soul with a curse + If she may escape it unbidden? and there are words that wound + Far worse than the bitter edges, though wise in the air they sound. + Bide thou and behold things fated! Hast thou learned how men may teach + The stars in their ordered courses, or lead the Norns with speech?" + + She stood and trembled before him, nor durst she long behold + The silent face of Hogni and the far-seeing eyes and cold. + So she gat her forth from before him, and Sigurd her husband she + sought, + And the speech on her lips was ready, till the chill fear made it + nought; + For apart and alone was he sitting in all his war-gear clad, + And Fafnir's Helm of Aweing, and Regin's Wrath he had, + And over the breast of Sigurd was the Hauberk all of gold + That hath not the like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told. + + But he set her down beside him and said: "What fearest thou then? + What terror strideth in daylight mid the peace of the Niblung men?" + + She cried: "The Helm and the Sword, and the golden guard of thy + breast!" + + "So oft, O wife," said Sigurd, "is a war-king clad the best + When the peril quickens before him, and on either hand is doubt; + Thus men wreathe round the beaker whence the wine shall be soon + poured out. + But hope thou not overmuch, for the end is not today; + And fear thou little indeed, for not long shall the sword delay: + But speak, O daughter of Giuki, for thy lips scarce held the word + Ere thou sawest the gleam of my hauberk and the edge of the ancient + Sword, + The Light that hath lain in the Branstock, the hope of the Volsung + tree, + The Sunderer, the Deliverer, the torch of days to be." + + She sighed; for her heart was heavy for the days but a while agone, + When the death was little dreamed of, and the joy was lightly won; + And her soul was bitter with anger for the day that Brynhild had led + To the heart of the Niblung glory: but fear thrust on, and she said: + "O my lord, O Sigurd the mighty, an evil day is this, + A chill, an untimely hour for the blooming of our bliss! + Go in to my sister Brynhild, and tell her of very sooth + That my heart for her sorrow sorrows, and is sick for woe and ruth." + + "The hour draws nigh," said Sigurd, "for I know of the speech and the + word + That is kind in the air to hearken, and is worse than the whetted + sword. + Now is Brynhild sore encompassed by a tide of measureless woe, + And amidst and anear, as I see it, she seeth the death-star grow. + Yet belike it is, O Gudrun, that thy will herein shall be done; + But now depart, I pray thee, and leave thy lord alone: + Heavy and hard shall it be, for a season shall it endure, + But the grief and the sorrow shall perish, and the fame of the Gods + is sure." + + Yet she sat by his side and spake not, and a while at his glory she + gazed, + For his face o'erpassed the brightness that so long the folk had + praised, + And she durst not question or touch him, and at last she rose from + his side, + And gat her away soft-footed, and wandered far and wide + Through the house and the Burg of the Niblungs; yet durst she never + more + Go look on the Niblung Brethren as they sat in their harness of war. + + But the morn to the noon hath fallen, and the afternoon to the eve, + And the beams of the westering sun the Niblung wall-stones leave, + And yet sitteth Sigurd alone; then the sun sinketh down into night, + And the moon ariseth in heaven, and the earth is pale with her light: + And there sitteth Sigurd the Volsung in the gold and the harness of war + That was won from the heart-wise Fafnir and the guarded Treasure of + yore, + But pale is the Helm of Aweing, and wan are the ruddy rings: + So whiles in a city forsaken ye see the shapes of kings, + And the lips that the carvers wrought, while their words were + remembered and known, + And the brows men trembled to look on in the long-enduring stone, + And their hands once unforgotten, and their breasts, the walls of war; + But now are they hidden marvels to the wise and the master of lore, + And he nameth them not, nor knoweth, and their fear is faded away. + + E'en so sat Sigurd the Volsung till the night waxed moonless and grey, + Till the chill dawn spread o'er the lowland, and the purple fells grew + clear + In the cloudless summer dawn-dusk, and the sun was drawing anear: + Then reddened the Burg of the Niblungs, and the walls of the ancient + folk, + And a wind came down from the mountains and the living things awoke + And cried out for need and rejoicing; till, lo, the rim of the sun + Showed over the eastern ridges, and the new day was begun; + And the beams rose higher and higher, and white grew the Niblung wall, + And the spears on the ramparts glistered and the windows blazed withal, + And the sunlight flooded the courts, and throughout the chambers + streamed: + Then bright as the flames of the heaven the Helm of Aweing gleamed, + Then clashed the red rings of the Treasure, as Sigurd stood on his + feet, + And went through the echoing chambers, as the winds in the wall-nook + beat; + And there in the earliest morning while the lords of the Niblungs lie + 'Twixt light sleep and awakening they hear the clash go by, + And their dreams are of happy battle, and the songs that follow fame, + And the hope of the Gods accomplished, and the tales of the ancient + name, + Ere Sigurd came to the Niblungs and faced their gathered foes. + But on to the chamber of Brynhild alone in the morning he goes, + And the sun lieth broad across it, and the door is open wide + As the last of the women had left it; then he lifted his voice and + cried: + + "Awake, arise, O Brynhild! for the house is smitten through + With the light of the sun awakened, and the hope of deeds to do." + + She spake: "Art thou come to behold me? thou, the mightiest and the + worst + Of the pitiless betrayers, that the hope of my life hath nursed." + + He said: "It is I that awake thee, and I give thee the life and the + days + For fulfilling the deedful measure, and the cup of the people's + praise." + + She cried: "O the gifts of Sigurd!--Ah why didst thou cast me aside, + That we twain should be dwelling, the strangers, in the house of the + Niblung pride? + What life is the death in life? what deeds--where the shame cometh up + Betwixt the speech of the wise-ones and the draught of the welcoming + cup; + And the shame and repentance awaketh when the song in the harp is + awake? + Where we rise in the morning for nothing, and lie down for no love's + sake? + Where thou ridest forth to the battle and the dead hope dulleth thy + light, + And with shame thy hand is cumbered when the sword is uplifted to + smite? + O Sigurd, what hast thou done, that the gifts are cast aback? + --O nay, no life of repentance!--but the bitter sword and the wrack!" + + "O Brynhild, live!" said the Volsung, "for what shall the world be then + When thou from the earth art departed, and the hallowed hearths of + men?" + + She said: "Woe worth the while for the word that hath come from thy + mouth! + As the bitter weltering ocean to the shipman dying of drouth, + E'en so is the life thou biddest, since thou pitiedst not thine own, + Nor thy love, nor the hope of thy life-days, but must dwell as a glory + alone!" + + "It is truer to tell," said Sigurd, "that mine heart in thy love was + enwrapped + Till the evil hour of the darkening, and the eyeless tangle had happed: + And thereof shalt thou know, O Brynhild, on one day better than I, + When the stroke of the sword hath been smitten, and the night hath + seen me die: + Then belike in thy fresh-springing wisdom thou shalt know of the dark + and the deed, + And the snare for our feet fore-ordered from whence they shall never + be freed. + But for me, in the net I awakened and the toils that unwitting I wove, + And no tongue may tell of the sorrow that I had for thy wedded love: + But I dwelt in the dwelling of kings; so I thrust its seeming apart + And I laboured the field of Odin: and e'en this was a joy to my heart, + That we dwelt in one house together, though a stranger's house it + were." + + "O late, and o'erlate!" cried Brynhild--"may the dead folk hearken + and hear? + All was and today it is not--And the Oath unto Gunnar is sworn, + Shall I live the days twice over, and the life thou hast made forlorn?" + + And she heard the words of Hindfell and the oath of the earlier day, + Till the daylight darkened before her, and all memory passed away, + And she cried: "I may live no longer, for the Gods have forgotten the + earth, + And my heart is the forge of sorrow, and my life is a wasting dearth." + + Then once again spake Sigurd, once only and no more: + A pillar of light all golden he stood on the sunlit floor; + And his eyes were the eyes of Odin, and his face was the hope of the + world, + And his voice was the thunder of even when the bolt o'er the mountains + is hurled: + The fairest of all things fashioned he stood 'twixt life and death, + And the Wrath of Regin rattled, and the rings of the Glittering Heath, + As he cried: + "I am Sigurd the Volsung, and belike the tale shall be true + That no hand on the earth may hinder what my hand would fashion and do: + And what God or what man shall gainsay it if our love be greater than + these, + The pride and the glory of Sigurd, and the latter days' increase? + O live, live, Brynhild beloved! and thee on the earth will I wed, + And put away Gudrun the Niblung--and all those shall be as the dead." + + But so swelled the heart within him as he cast the speech abroad, + That the golden wall of the battle, the fence unrent by the sword. + The red rings of the uttermost ocean on the breast of Sigurd brake: + And he saw the eyes of Brynhild, and turned from the word she spake: + + "I will not wed thee, Sigurd, nor any man alive." + + Then Sigurd goes out from before her; and the winds in the wall-nook + strive, + And the craving of fowl and the beast-kind with the speech of men is + blent, + And the voice of the sons of the Niblungs; and their day's first hour + is spent + As he goes through the hall of the War-dukes, and many an earl is + astir, + But none durst question Sigurd lest of evil days he hear: + So he comes to his kingly chamber, and there sitteth Gudrun alone, + And the fear in her soul is minished, but the love and the hatred are + grown: + She is wan as the moonlit midnight; but her heart is cold and proud, + And she asketh him nought of Brynhild, and nought he speaketh aloud. + + + _Of the slaying of Sigurd the Volsung._ + + Ere the noon ariseth Brynhild, and forth abroad she goes, + And sits by the wall of her bower 'twixt the lily and the rose; + Great dread and sickness is on her, as it shall be once on the morn + When the uttermost sun is arisen 'neath the blast of the world-shaking + horn: + Her maidens come and go, but none dares cast her a word; + From the wall the warders behold her, and turn round to the spear and + the sword; + Yea, few dare speak of Brynhild as morning fadeth in noon + In the Burg of the ancient people mid the stir and the glory of June. + + Then cometh forth speech from Brynhild, and she calls to her maidens + and saith: + "Go tell ye the King of the Niblungs that I am arisen from death, + And come forth from the uttermost sickness, and with him I needs must + speak: + That we look into weighty matters and due deeds for king-folk seek." + + So they went and returned not again, and it was but a little space + Ere she looked, and behold, it was Gunnar that stood before her face, + And his war-gear darkened the noon-tide and the grey helm gleamed from + his head, + But his eyes were fearful beneath it: then she gazed on the heavens + and said: + + "Thou art come, O King of the Niblungs; what mighty deed is to frame + That thou wearest the cloudy harness, and the arms of the Niblung + name?" + + He spake: "O woman, thou mockest! what King of the people is here? + Are not all kings confounded, and all peoples' shame laid bare? + Shall the Gods grow little to help, or men grow great to amend? + Nay, the hunt is up in the world and the Gods to the forest will wend, + And their hearts are exceeding merry as they ride and drive the prey: + But what if the bear grin on them, and the wood-beast turn to bay? + What now if the whelp of their breeding a wolf of the world be grown, + To cry out in the face of their brightness and mar their glad renown?" + + She heeded him not, nor hearkened: but he said: "Thou wert wise of old; + And hither I come at thy bidding: let the thought of thine heart be + told." + + She said: "What aileth thee, Gunnar? time was thou wert great and glad. + And that was yester-morning: how then is the good turned bad?" + + He said: "I was glad in my dreams, and I woke and my glory was dead." + + "Hath a God then wrought thee evil, or one of the King-folk?" she said. + + He said: "In the snare am I taken, in the web that a traitor hath spun; + And no deed knoweth my right-hand to do or to leave undone." + + "I look upon thee," said Brynhild, "I know thy race and thy name. + Yet meseems the deed thou sparest, to amend thine evil and shame." + + "Nought, nought," he said, "may amend it, save the hungry eyeless + sword. + And the war without hope or honour, and the strife without reward." + + "Thou hast spoken the word," said Brynhild, "if the word is enough, + it is well. + Let us eat and drink and be merry, that all men of our words may tell!" + + "O all-wise woman," said Gunnar, "what deed lieth under the tongue? + What day for the dearth of the people, when the seed of thy sowing hath + sprung?" + + She said: "Our garment is Shame, and nought the web shall rend, + Save the day without repentance, and the deed that nought may amend." + + "Speak, mighty of women," said Gunnar, "and cry out the name and the + deed + That the ends of the Earth may hearken, and the Niblungs' grievous + Need." + + "To slay," she said, "is the deed, to slay a King ere the morn, + And the name is Sigurd the Volsung, my love and thy brother sworn." + + She turned and departed from him, and he knew not whither she went; + But he took his sword from the girdle and the peace-strings round it + rent, + And into the house he gat him, and the sunlit fair abode, + But his heart in the mid-mirk waded, as through the halls he strode, + Till he came to a chamber apart; and Grimhild his mother was there, + And there was his brother Hogni in the cloudy Niblung gear: + Him-seemed there was silence between them as of them that have spoken, + and wait + Till the words of their mouths be accomplished by slow unholpen Fate: + But they turned to the door, and beheld him, and he took his sheathed + sword + And cast it adown betwixt them, and it clashed half bare on the board, + And Grimhild spake as it clattered: "For whom are the peace-strings + rent? + For whom is the blood-point whetted and the edge of thine intent?" + + He said: "For the heart of Sigurd; and thus all is rent away + Betwixt this word and his slaying, save a little hour of day." + + Then spake Hogni and answered: "All lands beneath the sun + Shall know and hearken and wonder that such a deed must be done." + + "Speak, brother of Kings," said Gunnar, "dost thou know deeds better + or worse + That shall wash us clean from shaming, and redeem our lives from the + curse?" + + "I am none of the Norns," said Hogni, "nor the heart of Odin the Goth, + To avenge the foster-brethren, or broken love and troth: + Thy will is the story fated, nor shall I look on the deed + With uncursed hands unreddened, and edges dulled at need." + + Again spake Grimhild the wise-wife: "Where then is Guttorm the brave? + For he blent not his blood with the Volsung's, nor his oath to Sigurd + gave, + Nor called on Earth to witness, nor went beneath the yoke; + And now is he Sigurd's foeman; and who may curse his stroke?" + + Then Hogni laughed and answered: "His feet on the threshold stand: + Forged is thy sword, O Mother, and its hilts are come to hand, + And look that thou whet it duly; for the Norns are departed now; + From the blood of our foster-brother no branch of bale shall grow; + Hoodwinked are the Gods of heaven, their sleep-dazed eyes are blind; + They shall peer and grope through the darkness, and nought therein + shall find, + Save the red right hand of Guttorm, and his lips that never swore; + At the young man's deed shall they wonder, and all shall be covered + o'er: + Ho, Guttorm, enter, and hearken to the counsel of the wise!" + + Then in through the door strode Guttorm fair-clad in hunter's guise, + With no steel save his wood-knife girded; but his war-fain eyes stared + wild, + As he spake: "What words are ye hiding from the youngest Niblung child? + What work is to win, my brethren, that ye sit in warrior's weed, + And tell me nought of the glory, and cover up the deed?" + + Then uprose Grimhild the wise-wife, and took the cup again; + Night-long had she brewed that witch-drink and laboured not in vain, + For therein was the creeping venom, and hearts of things that prey + On the hidden lives of ocean, and never look on day; + And the heart of the ravening wood-wolf and the hunger-blinded beast + And the spent slaked heart of the wild-fire the guileful cup increased: + But huge words of ancient evil about its rim were scored, + The curse and the eyeless craving of the first that fashioned sword. + + So the cup in her hand was gleaming, as she turned unto Guttorm and + spake; + "Be merry, King of the War-fain! we hold counsel for thy sake: + The work is a God's son's slaying, and thine is the hand that shall + smite, + That thy name may be set in glory and thy deeds live on in light." + + Forth flashed the flame from his eyen, and he cried: "Where then is + the foe, + This dread of mine house and my brethren, that my hand may lay him + alow?" + + "Drink, son," she said, "and be merry! and I shall tell his name, + Whose death shall crown thy life-days, and increase thy fame with his + fame." + + He drinketh and craveth for battle, and his hand for a sword doth seek, + And he looketh about on his brethren, but his lips no word may speak; + They speak the name, and he hears not, and again he drinks of the cup + And knows not friend nor kindred, and the wrath in his heart wells up, + That no God may bear unmingled, and he cries a wordless cry, + As the last of the day is departing and the dusk time drawing anigh. + + Then Grimhild goes from the chamber, and bringeth his harness of war, + And therewith they array his body, and he drinketh the cup once more, + And his heart is set on the murder, and now may he understand + What soul is dight for the slaying, and what quarry is for his hand. + For again, they tell him of Sigurd, and the man he remembereth, + And praiseth his mighty name and his deeds that laughed on death. + + Now dusk and dark draw over, and through the glimmering house + They go to the place of the Niblungs, the high hall and glorious; + For hard by is the chamber of Sigurd: there dight in their harness of + war + In their thrones sit Gunnar and Hogni, but Guttorm stands on the floor + With his blue blade naked before them: the torches flare from the wall + And the woven God-folk waver, but the hush is deep in the hall, + And those Niblung faces change not, though the slow moon slips from her + height + And earth is acold ere dawning, and new winds shake the night. + + Now it was in the earliest dawn-dusk that Guttorm stirred in his place, + And the mail-rings tinkled upon him, as he turned his helm-hid face, + And went forth from the hall and the high-seat; but the Kings sat still + in their pride + And hearkened the clash of his going and heeded how it died. + + Slow, all alone goeth Guttorm to Sigurd's chamber door, + And all is open before him, and the white moon lies on the floor + And the bed where Sigurd lieth with Gudrun on his breast, + And light comes her breath from her bosom in the joy of infinite rest. + Then Guttorm stands on the threshold, and his heart of the murder is + fain, + And he thinks of the deeds of Sigurd, and praiseth his greatness and + gain; + Bright blue is his blade in the moonlight--but lo, how Sigurd lies, + As the carven dead that die not, with fair wide-open eyes; + And their glory gleameth on Guttorm, and the hate in his heart is + chilled, + And he shrinketh aback from the threshold and knoweth not what he + willed. + + But his brethren heed and hearken, and they hear the clash draw nigh, + But they stir no whit in their pride, though the lord of all creatures + should die. + Then they see where cometh Guttorm, but they cast him never a word, + For white 'neath the flickering torches they see his unstained sword; + But he gazed on those Kings of the kindred, and the beast of war awoke; + And his heart was exceeding wrathful with the tarrying of the stroke: + And he strode to the chamber of Sigurd, and again they heeded well + How the clash, in the cloister awakened, by the threshold died and + fell. + + But Guttorm gazed from the threshold, and the moon was fading away + From the golden bed of Sigurd, and the Niblung woman lay + On the bosom of the Volsung, and her hand lay light on her lord; + But dread were his eyes wide-open, and they gleamed against the sword, + And Guttorm shrank from before them, and back to the hall he came: + There the biding brethren behold him flash wild in the torches' flame, + Nor stir their lips to question; but their swords on their knees are + laid; + The torches faint in the dawning, and they see his unstained blade. + + Now dieth moon and candle, and though the day be nigh + The roof of the hall fair-builded seems far aloof as the sky, + But a glimmer grows on the pavement and the ernes on the roof-ridge + stir: + Then the brethren hist and hearken, for a sound of feet they hear, + And into the hall of the Niblungs a white thing cometh apace: + But the sword of Guttorm upriseth, and he wendeth from his place, + And the clash of steel goes with him; yet loud as it may sound + Still more they hear those footsteps light-falling on the ground, + And the hearts of the Niblungs waver, and their pride is smitten acold, + For they look on that latest comer, and Brynhild they behold: + But she sits by their side in silence, and heeds them nothing more + Than the grey soft-footed morning heeds yester-even's war. + + But Guttorm clashed in the cloisters and through the silence strode + And scarce on the threshold of Sigurd a little while abode: + There the moon from the floor hath departed and heaven without is grey, + And afar in the eastern quarter faint glimmer streaks of day. + Close over the head of Sigurd the Wrath gleams wan and bare, + And the Niblung woman stirreth, and her brow is knit with fear; + But the King's closed eyes are hidden, loose lie his empty hands, + There is nought 'twixt the sword of the slayer and the Wonder of all + Lands. + Then Guttorm laughed in his war-rage, and his sword leapt up on high, + As he sprang to the bed from the threshold and cried a wordless cry, + And with all the might of the Niblungs through Sigurd's body thrust, + And turned and fled from the chamber, and fell amid the dust, + Within the door and without it, the slayer slain by the slain; + For the cast of the sword of Sigurd had smitten his body atwain + While yet his cry of onset through the echoing chambers went. + + Woe's me! how the house of the Niblungs by another cry was rent, + The wakening wail of Gudrun, as she shrank in the river of blood + From the breast of the mighty Sigurd: he heard it and understood, + And rose up on the sword of Guttorm, and turned from the country of + death, + And spake words of loving-kindness as he strove for life and breath: + + "Wail not, O child of the Niblungs! I am smitten, but thou shalt live, + In remembrance of our glory, mid the gifts the Gods shall give!" + + She stayed her cry to hearken, and her heart well nigh stood still: + But he spake: "Mourn not, O Gudrun, this stroke is the last of ill; + Fear leaveth the House of the Niblungs on this breaking of the morn; + Mayst thou live, O woman beloved, unforsaken, unforlorn!" + + Then he sank aback on the sword, and down to his lips she bent + If some sound therefrom she might hearken; for his breath was + well-nigh spent: + "It is Brynhild's deed," he murmured, "and the woman that loves me + well; + Nought now is left to repent of, and the tale abides to tell. + I have done many deeds in my life-days, and all these, and my love, + they lie + In the hollow hand of Odin till the day of the world go by. + I have done and I may not undo, I have given and I take not again: + Art thou other than I, Allfather, wilt thou gather my glory in vain?" + + There was silence then in the chamber, as the dawn spread wide and + grey, + And hushed was the hall of the Niblungs at the entering-in of day. + Long Gudrun hung o'er the Volsung and waited the coming word; + Then she stretched out her hand to Sigurd and touched her love and her + lord, + And the broad day fell on his visage, and she knew she was there alone, + And her heart was wrung with anguish and she uttered a weary moan: + Then Brynhild laughed in the hall, and the first of men's voices was + that + Since when on yester-even the kings in the high-seat had sat. + + But the wrath of Gunnar was kindled and the words of the king + out-brake, + "Woe's me, thou wonder of women! thou art glad for no man's sake, + Nay not for thine own, meseemeth, for thou bidest here as the dead, + As the pale ones stricken deedless, whose tale of life is sped." + + She hearkened him not nor answered; and day came on apace, + And they heard the anguish of Gudrun and her voice in the ancient + place. + + "Awake, O House of the Niblungs! for my kin hath slain my lord. + Awake, awake, to the murder, and the edges of the sword! + Awake, go forth and be merry! and yet shall the day betide, + When ye stand in the garth of the foemen, and death is on every side, + And ye look about and around you, and right and left ye look + For the least of the hours of Sigurd, and his hand that the battle + shook: + Then be your hope as mine is, then face ye death and shame + As I face the desolation, and the days without a name!" + + And she shrieked as the woe gathered on her, and the sun rose over her + head: + "Wake, wake, O men of this house, for Sigurd the Volsung is dead!" + + In the house rose rumour and stir, and men stood up in the morn, + And their hearts with doubt were shaken, as if with the Uttermost Horn: + The cry and the calling spread, and shields clashed down from the wall, + And swords in the chamber glittered, and men ran apace to the hall. + Nor knew what man to question, nor who had tidings to give, + Nor what were the days thenceforward wherein the folk should live. + But ever the word is amongst them that Sigurd the Volsung is slain, + And the spears in the hall were tossing as the rye in the windy plain. + But they look aloft to the high-seat and they see the gleam of the + gold: + And Gunnar the King of battle, and Hogni wise and cold, + And Brynhild the wonder of women; and her face is deadly pale, + And the Kings are clad in their war-gear, and bared are the edges of + bale. + Then cold fear falleth upon them, but the noise and the clamour abate, + And they look on the war-wise Gunnar and awhile for his word they wait; + But e'en as he riseth above them, doth a shriek through the tumult + ring: + + "Awake, O House of the Niblungs, for slain is Sigurd the King!" + + Then nothing faltered Gunnar, but he stood o'er the Niblung folk, + And over the hall woe-stricken the words of pride he spoke: + + "Mourn now, O Niblung people, for gone is Sigurd our guest, + And Guttorm the King is departed, and this is our day of unrest; + But all this of the Norns was fore-ordered, and herein is Odin's hand; + Cast down are the mighty of men-folk, but the Niblung house shall + stand: + Mourn then today and tomorrow, but the third day waken and live, + For the Gods died not this morning, and great gifts they have to give." + + He spake and awhile was silence, and then did the cry outbreak, + And many there were of the Earl-folk that wept for Sigurd's sake; + And they wept for their little children, and they wept for those + unborn, + Who should know the earth without him and the world of his worth + forlorn. + But wild is the wailing of women as they fare to the place of the dead, + Where cold is Gudrun sitting mid the waste of Sigurd's bed. + Then they take the man beloved, and bear him forth to the hall, + And spread the linen above him, and cloth of purple and pall; + And meekly Gudrun followeth, and she sitteth down thereby, + But mute is her mouth henceforward, and she giveth forth no cry, + And no word of lamentation, though far abroad they weep + For the gift of the Gods departed, and the golden Sigurd's sleep. + + Meanwhile elsewhere the women and the wives of the Niblungs wail + O'er the body of King Guttorm and array him for the bale, + And Grimhild opens her treasure and bears forth plenteous gold + And goodly things for his journey, and the land of Death acold. + + So rent is the joy of the Niblungs; and their simple days and fain + From that ancient house are departed, and who shall buy them again? + For he, the redeemer, the helper, the crown of all their worth, + They looked upon him and wondered, they loved; and they thrust him + forth. + + + _Of the mighty Grief of Gudrun over Sigurd dead._ + + Of old in the days past over was Gudrun blent with the dead, + As she sat in measureless sorrow o'er Sigurd's wasted bed, + But no sigh came from her bosom, nor smote she hand in hand, + Nor wailed with the other women, and the daughters of the land; + Then the wise of the Earls beheld her, smit cold with her dread intent, + And they rose one after other, and before the Queen they went; + Men ancient, men mighty in battle, men sweet of speech were there, + And they loved her, and entreated, and spake good words to hear: + But no tears and no lamenting in Gudrun's heart would strive + With the deadly chill of sorrow that none may bear and live. + + Now there were the King-folk's daughters, and wives of the Earls of + war, + The fair, and the noble-hearted, the wise in ancient lore; + And they rose one after other, and stood before the Queen + To tell of their woes past over, and the worst their eyes had seen: + There was Giaflaug, Giuki's sister, she was old and stark to see, + And she said: + "O heavyhearted; they slew my King from me: + Look up, O child of the Niblungs, and hearken mournful things + Of the woes of living man-folk and the daughters of the Kings! + Dead now is the last of my brethren; to the dead my sister went; + My son and my little daughter in the earliest days were spent: + On the earth am I living loveless, long past are the happy days, + They lie with things departed and vain and foolish praise, + And the hopes of hapless people: yet I sit with the people's lords + When men are hushed to hearken the least of all my words. + What else is the wont of the Niblungs? why else by the Gods were they + wrought, + Save to wear down lamentation, and make all sorrow nought?" + + No word of woe gat Gudrun, nor had she will to weep, + Such weight of woe was on her for the golden Sigurd's sleep: + Her heart was cold and dreadful; nor good from ill she knew + For the love they had taken from her, and the day with nought to do. + + Then troth-plight maids forsaken, and never-wedded ones, + And they that mourned dead husbands and the hope of unborn sons, + These told of their bitterest trouble and the worst their eyes had + seen; + "Yet all we live to love thee, and the glory of the Queen. + Look up, look up, O Gudrun! what rest for them that wail + If the Queens of men shall tremble, and the God-kin faint and fail?" + + No voice gat Gudrun's sorrow, no care she had to weep; + For the deeds of the day she knew not, nor the dreams of Sigurd's + sleep: + Her heart was cold and dreadful; nor good from ill she knew, + Because of her love departed, and the day with nought to do. + + Then spake a Queen of Welshland, and Herborg hight was she: + "O frozen heart of sorrow, the Norns dealt worse with me: + Of old, in the days departed, were my brave ones under shield, + Seven sons, and the eighth, my husband, and they fell in the Southland + field: + Yet lived my father and mother, yet lived my brethren four, + And I bided their returning by the sea-washed bitter shore: + But the winds and death played with them, o'er the wide sea swept the + wave, + The billows beat on the bulwarks and took what the battle gave: + Alone I sang above them, alone I dight their gear + For the uttermost journey of all men, in the harvest of the year: + Nor wakened spring from winter ere I left those early dead; + With bound hands and shameful body I went as the sea-thieves led: + Now I sit by the hearth of a stranger; nor have I weal nor woe, + Save the hope of the Niblung masters and the sorrow of a foe." + + No wailing word gat Gudrun, no thought she had to weep + O'er the sundering tide of Sigurd, and the loved lord's lonely sleep: + Her heart was cold and dreadful; nor good from ill she knew, + Since her love was taken from her and the day of deeds to do. + + Then arose a maid of the Niblungs, and Gullrond was her name, + And betwixt that Queen of Welshland and Gudrun's grief she came: + And she said: "O foster-mother, O wise in the wisdom of old, + Hast thou spoken a word to the dead, and known them hear and behold? + E'en so is this word thou speakest, and the counsel of thy face." + + All heed gave the maids and the warriors, and hushed was the + spear-thronged place, + As she stretched out her hand to Sigurd, and swept the linen away + From the lips that had holpen the people, and the eyes that had + gladdened the day; + She set her hand unto Sigurd, and turned the face of the dead + To the moveless knees of Gudrun, and again she spake and said: + + "O Gudrun, look on thy loved-one; yea, as if he were living yet + Let his face by thy face be cherished, and thy lips on his lips be + set!" + + Then Gudrun's eyes fell on it, and she saw the bright-one's hair + All wet with the deadly dew-fall, and she saw the great eyes stare + At that cloudy roof of the Niblungs without a smile or frown; + And she saw the breast of the mighty and the heart's wall rent adown: + She gazed and the woe gathered on her, so exceeding far away + Seemed all she once had cherished from that which near her lay; + She gazed, and it craved no pity, and therein was nothing sad, + Therein was clean forgotten the hope that Sigurd had: + Then she looked around and about her, as though her friend to find, + And met those woeful faces but as grey reeds in the wind, + And she turned to the King beneath her and raised her hands on high, + And fell on the body of Sigurd with a great and bitter cry; + All else in the house kept silence, and she as one alone + Spared not in that kingly dwelling to wail aloud and moan; + And the sound of her lamentation the peace of the Niblungs rent, + While the restless birds in the wall-nook their song to the green + leaves sent; + And the geese in the home-mead wandering clanged out beneath the sun; + For now was the day's best hour, and its loveliest tide begun. + + Long Gudrun lay on Sigurd, and her tears fell fast on the floor + As the rain in midmost April when the winter-tide is o'er, + Till she heard a wail anigh her and how Gullrond wept beside, + Then she knew the voice of her pity, and rose upright and cried: + + "O ye, e'en such was my Sigurd among these Giuki's sons, + As the hart with the horns day-brightened mid the forest-creeping ones; + As the spear-leek fraught with wisdom mid the lowly garden grass; + As the gem on the gold band's midmost when the council cometh to pass, + And the King is lit with its glory, and the people wonder and praise. + --O people, Ah thy craving for the least of my Sigurd's days! + O wisdom of my Sigurd! how oft I sat with thee + Thou striver, thou deliverer, thou hope of things to be! + O might of my love, my Sigurd! how oft I sat by thy side, + And was praised for the loftiest woman and the best of Odin's pride! + But now am I as little as the leaf on the lone tree left, + When the winter wood is shaken and the sky by the North is cleft." + + Then her speech grew wordless wailing, and no man her meaning knew; + Till she hushed her swift and turned her; for a laugh her wail pierced + through, + As a whistling shaft the night-wind in some foe-encompassed wood; + And lo, by the nearest pillar the wife of Gunnar stood; + There stood the allwise Brynhild 'gainst the golden carving pressed, + As she stared at the wound of Sigurd and that rending of his breast: + But she felt the place fallen silent, and the speechless anger set + On her own chill, bitter sorrow; and the eyes of the women met, + And they stood in the hall together, as they stood that while ago, + When they twain in Brynhild's dwelling of days to come would know: + But every soul kept silence, and all hearts were chill as stone + As Brynhild spake: + "Thou woman, shall thine eyes be wet alone? + Shalt thou weep and speak in thy glory, when I may weep no more, + When I speak, and my speech is as silence to the man that loved me + sore?" + + Then folk heard the woe of Gudrun, and the bitterness of hate: + "Day cursed o'er every other! when they opened wide the gate, + And Kings in gold arrayed them, and all men the joy might hear, + As Greyfell neighed in the forecourt the world's delight to bear, + And my brethren shook the world-ways as they rode to Brynhild's bower, + --An ill day--an evil woman--a most untimely hour!" + + But she wailed: "The seat is empty, and empty is the bed, + And earth is hushed henceforward of the words my speech-friend said! + Lo, the deeds of the sons of Giuki, and my brethren of one womb! + Lo, the deeds of the sons of Giuki for the latter days of doom! + O hearken, hearken Gunnar! May the dear Gold drag thee adown, + And Greyfell's ruddy Burden, and the Treasure of renown, + And the rings that ye swore the oath on! yea, if all avengers die, + May Earth, that ye bade remember, on the blood of Sigurd cry! + Be this land as waste as the trothplight that the lips of fools have + sworn! + May it rain through this broken hall-roof, and snow on the hearth + forlorn! + And may no man draw anigh it to tell of the ruin and the wrack! + Yea, may I be a mock for the idle if my feet come ever aback, + If my heart think kind of the chambers, if mine eyes shall yearn to + behold + The fair-built house of my fathers, the house beloved of old!" + + Then she waileth out before them, and hideth her face from the day, + And she casteth her down from the high-seat and fleeth fast away; + And forth from the Hall of the Niblungs, and forth from the Burg is + she gone, + And forth from the holy dwellings, and a long way forth alone, + Till she comes to the lonely wood-waste, the desert of the deer + By the feet of the lonely mountains, that no man draweth anear; + But the wolves are about and around her, and death seems better than + life, + And folding the hands and forgetting a merrier thing than strife; + And for long and long thereafter no man of Gudrun knows, + Nor who are the friends of her life-days, nor whom she calleth her + foes. + + But how great in the hall of the Niblungs is the voice of weeping and + wail! + Men bide on the noon's departing, men bide till the eve shall fail, + Then they wend one after other to the sleep that all men win, + Till few are the hall-abiders, and the moon is white therein, + And no sound in the house may ye hearken save the ernes that stir + o'erhead, + And the far-off wail o'er Guttorm and the wakeners o'er the dead: + But still by the carven pillar doth the all-wise Brynhild stand + A-gaze on the wound of Sigurd, nor moveth foot nor hand, + Nor speaketh word to any, of them that come or go + Round the evil deed of the Niblungs and the corner-stone of woe. + + + _Of the passing away of Brynhild._ + + Once more on the morrow-morning fair shineth the glorious suns + And the Niblung children labour on a deed that shall be done. + For out in the people's meadows they raise a bale on high, + The oak and the ash together, and thereon shall the Mighty lie; + Nor gold nor steel shall be lacking, nor savour of sweet spice, + Nor cloths in the Southlands woven, nor webs of untold price: + The work grows, toil is as nothing; long blasts of the mighty horn + From the topmost tower out-wailing o'er the woeful world are borne. + + But Brynhild lay in her chamber, and her women went and came, + And they feared and trembled before her, and none spake Sigurd's name; + But whiles they deemed her weeping, and whiles they deemed indeed + That she spake, if they might but hearken, but no words their ears + might heed; + Till at last she spake out clearly: + "I know not what ye would; + For ye come and go in my chamber, and ye seem of wavering mood + To thrust me on, or to stay me; to help my heart in woe, + Or to bid my days of sorrow midst nameless folly go." + + None answered the word of Brynhild, none knew of her intent; + But she spake: "Bid hither Gunnar, lest the sun sink o'er the bent, + And leave the words unspoken I yet have will to speak." + + Then her maidens go from before her, and that lord of war they seek, + And he stands by the bed of Brynhild and strives to entreat and + beseech, + But her eyes gaze awfully on him, and his lips may learn no speech. + And she saith: + "I slept in the morning, or I dreamed in the waking-hour, + And my dream was of thee, O Gunnar, and the bed in thy kingly bower, + And the house that I blessed in my sorrow, and cursed in my sorrow and + shame, + The gates of an ancient people, the towers of a mighty name: + King, cold was the hall I have dwelt in, and no brand burned on the + hearth; + Dead-cold was thy bed, O Gunnar, and thy land was parched with dearth: + But I saw a great King riding, and a master of the harp, + And he rode amidst of the foemen, and the swords were bitter-sharp, + But his hand in the hand-gyves smote not, and his feet in the fetters + were fast, + While many a word of mocking at his speechless face was cast. + Then I heard a voice in the world: 'O woe for the broken troth, + And the heavy Need of the Niblungs, and the Sorrow of Odin the Goth! + Then I saw the halls of the strangers, and the hills, and the + dark-blue sea, + Nor knew of their names and their nations, for earth was afar from me, + But brother rose up against brother, and blood swam over the board, + And women smote and spared not, and the fire was master and lord. + Then, then was the moonless mid-mirk, and I woke to the day and the + deed, + The deed that earth shall name not, the day of its bitterest need. + Many words have I said in my life-days, and little more shall I say: + Ye have heard the dream of a woman, deal with it as ye may: + For meseems the world-ways sunder, and the dusk and the dark is mine, + Till I come to the hall of Freyia, where the deeds of the mighty shall + shine.'" + + So hearkened Gunnar the Niblung, that her words he understood, + And he knew she was set on the death-stroke, and he deemed it nothing + good: + But he said: "I have hearkened, and heeded thy death and mine in thy + words: + I have done the deed and abide it, and my face shall laugh on the + swords; + But thee, woman, I bid thee abide here till thy grief of soul abate; + Meseems nought lowly nor shameful shall be the Niblung fate; + And here shalt thou rule and be mighty, and be queen of the + measureless Gold, + And abase the kings and upraise them; and anew shall thy fame be told, + And as fair shall thy glory blossom as the fresh fields under the + spring." + + Then he casteth his arms about her, and hot is the heart of the King + For the glory of Queen Brynhild and the hope of her days of gain, + And he clean forgetteth Sigurd and the foster-brother slain: + But she shrank aback from before him, and cried: "Woe worth the while + For the thoughts ye drive back on me, and the memory of your guile! + The Kings of earth were gathered, the wise of men were met; + On the death of a woman's pleasure their glorious hearts were set, + And I was alone amidst them--Ah, hold thy peace hereof! + Lest the thought of the bitterest hours this little hour should move." + + He rose abashed from before her, and yet he lingered there; + Then she said: "O King of the Niblungs, what noise do I hearken and + hear? + Why ring the axes and hammers, while feet of men go past, + And shields from the wall are shaken, and swords on the pavement cast, + And the door of the treasure is opened; and the horn cries loud and + long, + And the feet of the Niblung children to the people's meadows throng?" + + His face was troubled before her, and again she spake and said: + "Meseemeth this is the hour when men array the dead; + Wilt thou tell me tidings, Gunnar, that the children of thy folk + Pile up the bale for Guttorm, and the hand that smote the stroke?" + + He said: "It is not so, Brynhild; for that Giuki's son was burned + When the moon of the middle heaven last night toward dawning turned." + + They looked on each other and spake not; but Gunnar gat him gone, + And came to his brother Hogni, the wise-heart Giuki's son, + And spake: "Thou art wise, O Hogni; go in to Brynhild the queen, + And stay her swift departing; or the last of her days hath she seen." + + "It is nought, thy word," said Hogni; "wilt thou bring dead men aback, + Or the souls of kings departed midst the battle and the wrack? + Yet this shall be easier to thee than the turning Brynhild's heart; + She came to dwell among us, but in us she had no part; + Let her go her ways from the Niblungs with her hand in Sigurd's hand. + Will the grass grow up henceforward where her feet have trodden the + land?" + + "O evil day," said Gunnar, "when my queen must perish and die!" + + "Such oft betide," saith Hogni, "as the lives of men flit by; + But the evil day is a day, and on each day groweth a deed, + And a thing that never dieth; and the fateful tale shall speed. + Lo now, let us harden our hearts and set our brows as the brass, + Lest men say it, 'They loathed the evil and they brought the evil to + pass.'" + + So they spake, and their hearts were heavy, and they longed for the + morrow morn, + And the morrow of tomorrow, and the new day yet to be born. + + But Brynhild cried to her maidens: "Now open ark and chest, + And draw forth queenly raiment of the loveliest and the best, + Red rings that the Dwarf-lords fashioned, fair cloths that queens have + sewed, + To array the bride for the mighty, and the traveller for the road." + + They wept as they wrought her bidding and did on her goodliest gear; + But she laughed mid the dainty linen, and the gold-rings fashioned + fair: + She arose from the bed of the Niblungs, and her face no more was wan; + As a star in the dawn-tide heavens, mid the dusky house she shone: + And they that stood about her, their hearts were raised aloft + Amid their fear and wonder: then she spake them kind and soft: + + "Now give me the sword, O maidens, wherewith I sheared the wind + When the Kings of Earth were gathered to know the Chooser's mind." + + All sheathed the maidens brought it, and feared the hidden blade, + But the naked blue-white edges across her knees she laid, + And spake: "The heaped-up riches, the gear my fathers left, + All dear-bought woven wonders, all rings from battle reft, + All goods of men desired, now strew them on the floor, + And so share among you, maidens, the gifts of Brynhild's store." + + They brought them mid their weeping, but none put forth a hand + To take that wealth desired, the spoils of many a land: + There they stand and weep before her, and some are moved to speech, + And they cast their arms about her and strive with her, and beseech + That she look on her loved-ones' sorrow and the glory of the day. + It was nought; she scarce might see them, and she put their hands away + And she said: "Peace, ye that love me! and take the gifts and the gold + In remembrance of my fathers and the faithful deeds of old." + + Then she spake: "Where now is Gunnar, that I may speak with him? + For new things are mine eyes beholding and the Niblung house grows dim, + And new sounds gather about me, that may hinder me to speak + When the breath is near to flitting, and the voice is waxen weak." + + Then upright by the bed of the Niblungs for a moment doth she stand, + And the blade flasheth bright in the chamber, but no more they hinder + her hand + Than if a God were smiting to rend the world in two: + Then dulled are the glittering edges, and the bitter point cleaves + through + The breast of the all-wise Brynhild, and her feet from the pavement + fail, + And the sigh of her heart is hearkened mid the hush of the maidens' + wail. + Chill, deep is the fear upon them, but they bring her aback to the bed, + And her hand is yet on the hilts, and sidelong droopeth her head. + + Then there cometh a cry from withoutward, and Gunnar's hurrying feet + Are swift on the kingly threshold, and Brynhild's blood they meet. + Low down o'er the bed he hangeth and hearkeneth for her word, + And her heavy lids are opened to look on the Niblung lord, + And she saith: + "I pray thee a prayer, the last word in the world I speak, + That ye bear me forth to Sigurd, and the hand my hand would seek; + The bale for the dead is builded, it is wrought full wide on the plain, + It is raised for Earth's best Helper, and thereon is room for twain: + Ye have hung the shields about it, and the Southland hangings spread, + There lay me adown by Sigurd and my head beside his head: + But ere ye leave us sleeping, draw his Wrath from out the sheath, + And lay that Light of the Branstock, and the blade that frighted deaths + Betwixt my side and Sigurd's, as it lay that while agone, + When once in one bed together we twain were laid alone: + How then when the flames flare upward may I be left behind? + How then may the road he wendeth be hard for my feet to find? + How then in the gates of Valhall may the door of the gleaming ring + Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on my king?" + + Then she raised herself on her elbow, but again her eyelids sank, + And the wound by the sword-edge whispered, as her heart from the iron + shrank, + And she moaned: "O lives of man-folk, for unrest all overlong + By the Father were ye fashioned; and what hope amendeth a wrong? + Now at last, O my beloved, all is gone; none else is near, + Through the ages of all ages, never sundered, shall we wear." + + Scarce more than a sigh was the word, as back on the bed she fell, + Nor was there need in the chamber of the passing of Brynhild to tell; + And no more their lamentation might the maidens hold aback, + But the sound of their bitter mourning was as if red-handed wrack + Ran wild in the Burg of the Niblungs, and the fire were master of all. + + Then the voice of Gunnar the war-king cried out o'er the weeping hall: + "Wail on, O women forsaken, for the mightiest woman born! + Now the hearth is cold and joyless, and the waste bed lieth forlorn. + Wail on, but amid your weeping lay hand to the glorious dead, + That not alone for an hour may lie Queen Brynhild's head: + For here have been heavy tidings, and the Mightiest under shield + Is laid on the bale high-builded in the Niblungs' hallowed field. + Fare forth! for he abideth, and we do Allfather wrong, + If the shining Valhall's pavement await their feet o'erlong." + + Then they took the body of Brynhild in the raiment that she wore, + And out through the gate of the Niblungs the holy corpse they bore, + And thence forth to the mead of the people, and the high-built + shielded bale; + Then afresh in the open meadows breaks forth the women's wail + When they see the bed of Sigurd and the glittering of his gear; + And fresh is the wail of the people as Brynhild draweth anear, + And the tidings go before her that for twain the bale is built, + That for twain is the oak-wood shielded and the pleasant odours spilt. + + There is peace on the bale of Sigurd, and the Gods look down from on + high, + And they see the lids of the Volsung close shut against the sky, + As he lies with his shield beside him in the Hauberk all of gold, + That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told; + And forth from the Helm of Aweing are the sunbeams flashing wide, + And the sheathed Wrath of Sigurd lies still by his mighty side. + Then cometh an elder of days, a man of the ancient times, + Who is long past sorrow and joy, and the steep of the bale he climbs; + And he kneeleth down by Sigurd, and bareth the Wrath to the sun + That the beams are gathered about it, and from hilt to blood-point run, + And wide o'er the plain of the Niblungs doth the Light of the + Branstock glare, + Till the wondering mountain-shepherds on that star of noontide stare, + And fear for many an evil; but the ancient man stands still + With the war-flame on his shoulder, nor thinks of good or of ill, + Till the feet of Brynhild's bearers on the topmost bale are laid, + And her bed is dight by Sigurd's; then he sinks the pale white blade + And lays it 'twixt the sleepers, and leaves them there alone-- + He, the last that shall ever behold them,--and his days are well nigh + done. + + Then is silence over the plain; in the noon shine the torches pale + As the best of the Niblung Earl-folk bear fire to the builded bale: + Then a wind in the west ariseth, and the white flames leap on highs + And with one voice crieth the people a great and mighty cry, + And men cast up hands to the Heavens, and pray without a word, + As they that have seen God's visage, and the face of the Father have + heard. + + They are gone--the lovely, the mighty, the hope of the ancient Earth: + It shall labour and bear the burden as before that day of their birth: + It shall groan in its blind abiding for the day that Sigurd hath sped, + And the hour that Brynhild hath hastened, and the dawn that waketh the + dead: + It shall yearn, and be oft-times holpen, and forget their deeds no + more, + Till the new sun beams on Baldur, and the happy sealess shore. + + + + +BOOK IV. + +GUDRUN. + + HEREIN IS TOLD OF THE DAYS OF THE NIBLUNGS AFTER THEY SLEW SIGURD, + AND OF THEIR WOEFUL NEED AND FALL IN THE HOUSE OF KING ATLI. + + + _King Atli wooeth and weddeth Gudrun._ + + Hear now of those Niblung war-kings, how in glorious state they dwell; + They do and undo at their pleasure and wear their life-days well; + They deal out doom to the people, and their hosts of war array, + Nor storm nor wind nor winter their eager swords shall stay: + They ride the lealand highways, they ride the desert plain, + They cry out kind to the Sea-god and loose the wave-steed's rein: + They climb the unmeasured mountains, and gleam on the world beneath, + And their swords are the blinding lightning, and their shields are the + shadow of death: + When men tell of the lords of the Goth-folk, of the Niblungs is their + word, + All folk in the round world's compass of their mighty fame have heard: + They are lords of the Ransom of Odin, the uncounted sea-born Gold, + The Grief of the wise Andvari, the Death of the Dwarfs of old, + The gleaming Load of Greyfell, the ancient Serpent's Bed, + The store of the days forgotten, by the dead heaped up for the dead. + Lo, such are the Kings of the Niblungs, but yet they crave and desire + Lest the world hold greater than they, lest the Gods and their kindred + be higher. + + Fair, bright is their hall in the even; still up to the cloudy roof + There goeth the glee and the singing while the eagles chatter aloof, + And the Gods on the hangings waver in the doubtful wind of night; + Still fair are the linen-clad damsels, still are the war-dukes bright; + Men come and go in the even; men come and go in the morn; + Good tidings with the daybreak, fair fame with the glooming is born: + --But no tidings of Sigurd and Brynhild, and whoso remembereth their + days + Turns back to the toil or the laughter from his words of lamenting or + praise, + Turns back to the glorious Gunnar, casts hope on the Niblung name, + Doeth deeds from the morn to the even, and beareth no burden of shame. + + Well wedded is Gunnar the King, and Hogni hath wedded a wife; + Fair queens are those wives of the Niblungs, good helpmates in peace + and in strife + Sweet they sit on the golden high-seat, and Grimhild sitteth beside, + And the years have made her glorious, and the days have swollen her + pride; + She looketh down on the people, from on high she looketh down, + And her days have become a wonder, and her redes are wisdom's crown. + She saith: Where then are the Gods? what things have they shapen and + made + More of might than the days I have shapen? of whom shall our hearts be + afraid? + + Now there was a King of the outlands, and Atli was his name, + The lord of a mighty people, a man of marvellous fame, + Who craved the utmost increase of all that kings desire; + Who would reach his hand to the gold as it ran in the ruddy fire, + Or go down to the ocean-pavement to harry the people beneath, + Or cast up his sword at the Gods, or bid the friendship of death. + + By hap was the man unwedded, and wide in the world he sought + For a queen to increase his glory lest his name should come to nought; + And no kin like the kin of the Niblungs he found in all the earth. + No treasure like their treasure, no glory like their worth; + So he sendeth an ancient war-duke with a goodly company, + And three days they ride the mirk-wood and ten days they sail the sea, + And three days they ride the highways till they come to Gunnar's land; + And there on an even of summer in Gunnar's hall they stand, + And the spears of Welshland glitter, and the Southland garments gleam, + For those folk are fair apparelled as the people of a dream. + + But the glorious Son of Giuki from amidst the high-seat spoke: + "Why stand ye mid men sitting, or fast mid feasting folk? + No meat nor drink there lacketh, and the hall is long and wide. + Three days in the peace of the Niblungs unquestioned shall ye bide, + Then timely do your message, and bid us peace or war." + + But spake the Earl of Atli yet standing on the floor: + "All hail, O glorious Gunnar, O mighty King of men! + O'er-short is the life of man-folk, the three-score years and ten, + Long, long is the craft for the learning, and sore doth the right hand + waste: + Lo, lord, our spurs are bloody, and our brows besweat with haste; + Our gear is stained by the sea-spray and rent by bitter gales, + For we struck no mast to the tempest, and the East was in our sails; + By the thorns is our raiment rended, for we rode the mirk-wood through, + And our steeds were the God-bred coursers, nor day from night-tide + knew: + Lo, we are the men of Atli, and his will and his spoken word + Lies not beneath our pillow, nor hangs above the board; + Nay, how shall it fail but slay us if three days we hold it hid? + --I will speak to-night, O Niblung, save thy very mouth forbid: + But lo now, look on the tokens, and the rune-staff of the King." + + Then spake the Son of Giuki: "Give forth the word and the thing. + Since thy faithfulness constraineth: but I know thy tokens true, + And thy rune-staff hath the letters that in days agone I knew." + + "Then this is the word," said the elder, "that Atli set in my mouth: + 'I have known thee of old, King Gunnar, when we twain drew sword in + the south + In the days of thy father Giuki, and great was the fame of thee then: + But now it rejoiceth my heart that thou growest the greatest of men, + And anew I crave thy friendship, and I crave a gift at thy hands, + That thou give me the white-armed Gudrun, the queen and the darling of + lands, + To be my wife and my helpmate, my glory in hall and afield; + That mine ancient house may blossom and fresh fruit of the King-tree + yield. + I send thee gifts moreover, though little things be these. + But such is the fashion of great-ones when they speak across the + seas.'" + + Then cried out that earl of the strangers, and men brought the gifts + and the gold; + White steeds from the Eastland horse-plain, fine webs of price untold, + Huge pearls of the nether ocean, strange masteries subtly wrought + By the hands of craftsmen perished and people come to nought. + + But Gunnar laughed and answered: "King Atli speaketh well; + Across the sea, peradventure, I too a tale may tell: + Now born is thy burden of speech; so rejoice at the Niblung board, + For here art thou sweetly welcome for thyself and thy mighty lord: + And maybe by this time tomorrow, or maybe in a longer space, + Shall ye have an answer for Atli, and a word to gladden his face." + + So the strangers sit and are merry, and the Wonder of the East + And the glory of the Westland kissed lips in the Niblung feast. + + But again on the morrow-morning speaks Gunnar with Grimhild and saith: + "Where then in the world is Gudrun, and is she delivered from death? + For nought hereof hast thou told me: but the wisest of women art thou, + And I deem that all things thou knowest, and thy cunning is timely now; + For King Atli wooeth my sister; and as wise as thou mayst be, + What thing mayst thou think of greater 'twixt the ice and the + uttermost sea + Than the might of the Niblung people, if this wedding come to pass?" + + Then answered the mighty Grimhild, and glad of heart she was: + "It is sooth that Gudrun liveth; for that daughter of thy folk + Fled forth from the Burg of the Niblungs when the Volsung's might ye + broke: + She fled from all holy dwellings to the houses of the deer, + And the feet of the mountains deserted that few folk come anear: + There the wolves were about and around her, and no mind she had to + live; + Dull sleep she deemed was better than with turmoiled thought to strive: + But there rode a wife in the wood, a queen of the daughters of men, + And she came where Gudrun abided, whose might was minished as then, + Till she was as a child forgotten; nor that queen might she gainsay; + Who took the white-armed Gudrun, and bore my daughter away + To her burg o'er the hither mountains; there she cherished her soft + and sweet, + Till she rose, from death delivered, and went upon her feet: + She awoke and beheld those strangers, a trusty folk and a kind, + A goodly and simple people, that few lords of war shall find: + Glorious and mighty they deemed her, as an outcast wandering God, + And she loved their loving-kindness, and the fields of the tiller she + trod, + And went 'twixt the rose and the lily, and sat in the chamber of wool, + And smiled at the laughing maidens, and sang over shuttle and spool. + Seven seasons there hath she bided, and this have I wotted for long; + But I knew that her heart is as mine to remember the grief and the + wrong, + So the days of thy sister I told not, in her life would I have no part, + Lest a foe for thy life I should fashion, and sharpen a sword for thine + heart: + But now is the day of our deeds, and no longer durst I refrain, + Lest I put the Gods' hands from me, and make their gifts but vain. + Yea, the woman is of the Niblungs, and often I knew her of old, + How her heart would burn within her when the tale of their glory was + told. + With wisdom and craft shall I work, with the gifts that Odin hath + given, + Wherewith my fathers of old, and the ancient mothers have striven." + + "Thy word is good," quoth Gunnar, "a happy word indeed: + Lo, how shall I fear a woman, who have played with kings in my need? + Yea, how may I speak of my sister, save well remembering + How goodly she was aforetime, how fair in everything, + How kind in the days passed over, how all fulfilled of love + For the glory of the Niblungs, and the might that the world shall move? + She shall see my face and Hogni's, she shall yearn to do our will, + And the latter days of her brethren with glory shall fulfil." + + Then Grimhild laughed and answered: "Today then shalt thou ride + To the dwelling of Thora the Queen, for there doth thy sister abide." + + As she spake came the wise-heart Hogni, and that speech of his mother + he heard, + And he said: "How then are ye saying a new and wonderful word, + That ye meddle with Gudrun's sorrow, and her grief of heart awake? + Will ye draw out a dove from her nest, and a worm to your hall-hearth + take?" + + "What then," said his brother Gunnar, "shall we thrust by Atli's word? + Shall we strive, while the world is mocking, with the might of the + Eastland sword, + While the wise are mocking to see it, how the great devour the great?" + + "O wise-heart Hogni," said Grimhild, "wilt thou strive with the hand + of fate, + And thrust back the hand of Odin that the Niblung glory will crown? + Wert thou born in a cot-carle's chamber, or the bed of a King's + renown?" + + "I know not, I know not," said Hogni, "but an unsure bridge is the sea, + And such would I oft were builded betwixt my foeman and me. + I know a sorrow that sleepeth, and a wakened grief I know, + And the torment of the mighty is a strong and fearful foe." + + They spake no word before him; but he said: "I see the road; + I see the ways we must journey--I have long cast off the load, + The burden of men's bearing wherein they needs must bind + All-eager hope unseeing with eyeless fear and blind: + So today shall my riding be light; nor now, nor ever henceforth + Shall men curse the sword of Hogni in the tale of the Niblung worth." + + Therewith he went out from before them, and through chamber and hall + he cried + On the best of the Niblung earl-folk, for that now the Kings would + ride: + Soon are all men assembled, and their shields are fresh and bright, + Nor gold their raiment lacketh; then the strong-necked steeds they + dight, + They dight the wain for Grimhild, and she goeth up therein, + And the well-clad girded maidens have left the work they win, + To sit by the Mother of Kings and make her glory great: + Then to horse get the Kings of the Niblungs, and ride out by the + ancient gate; + And amidst its dusky hollows stir up the sound of swords: + Forth then from the hallowed houses ride on those war-fain lords, + Till they come to the dales deserted, and the woodland waste and drear; + There the wood-wolves shrink before them, fast flee the forest-deer, + And the stony wood-ways clatter as the Niblung host goes by. + Adown by the feet of the mountains that eve in sleep they lie, + And arise on the morrow-morning and climb the mountain-pass, + And the sunless hollow places, and the slopes that hate the grass. + So they cross the hither ridges and ride a stony bent + Adown to the dale of Thora, and the country of content; + By the homes of a simple people, by cot and close they go, + Till they come to Thora's dwelling; but fair it stands and low + Amidst of orchard-closes, and round about men win + Fair work in field and garden, and sweet are the sounds therein. + + Then down by the door leaps Gunnar, but awhile in the porch he stands + To hearken the women's voices and the sound of their labouring hands; + And amidst of their many murmurings a mightier voice he hears, + The speech of his sister Gudrun: his inmost heart it stirs, + And he entereth glad and smiling; bright, huge in the lowly hall + He stands in the beam of sunlight where the dust-motes dance and fall. + + On the high-seat sitteth Gudrun when she sees the man of war + Come gleaming into the chamber; then she standeth up on the floor, + And is great and goodly to look on mid the women of that place: + But she knoweth the guise of the Niblungs, and she knoweth Gunnar's + face, + And at first she turneth to flee, as erewhile she fled away + When she rose from the wound of Sigurd and loathed the light of day: + But her father's heart rose in her, and the sleeping wrong awoke, + And she made one step from the high-seat before Queen Thora's folk; + And Gunnar moved from the threshold, and smiled as he drew anear, + And Hogni went behind him and the Mother of Kings was there; + And her maids and the Earls of the Niblungs stood gleaming there + behind: + Lo, the kin and the friends of Gudrun, a smiling folk and kind! + + In the midst stood Gudrun before them, and cried aloud and said: + "What! bear ye tidings of Sigurd? is he new come back from the dead? + O then will I hasten to greet him, and cherish my love and my lord, + Though the murderous sons of Giuki have borne the tale abroad." + + Dead-pale she stood before them, and no mouth answered again, + And the summer morn grew heavy, and chill were the hearts of men + And Thora's people trembled: there the simple people first + Saw the horror of the King-folk, and mighty lives accurst. + + All hushed stood the glorious Gunnar, but Hogni came before, + And he said: "It is sooth, my sister, that thy sorrow hath been sore, + That hath rent thee away from thy kindred and the folk that love thee + most: + But to double sorrow with hatred is to cast all after the lost, + And to die and to rest not in death, and to loathe and linger the end: + Now today do we come to this dwelling thy grief and thy woe to amend, + And to give thee the gift that we may; for without thy love and thy + peace + Doth our life and our glory sicken, though its outward show increase. + Lo, we bear thee rule and dominion, and hope and the glory of life, + For King Atli wooeth thee, Gudrun, for his queen and his wedded wife." + + Still she stood as a carven image, as a stone of ancient days + When the sun is bright about it and the wind sweeps low o'er the ways. + All hushed was Gunnar the Niblung and knew not how to beseech, + But still Hogni faced his sister, nor faltered aught in his speech: + + "Thou art young," he said, "O sister; thou wert called a mighty queen + When the nurses first upraised thee and first thy body was seen: + If thou bide with these toiling women when a great king bids thee to + wife, + Then first is it seen of the Niblungs that they cringe and cower from + strife: + By the deeds of the Golden Sigurd I charge thee hinder us not, + When the Norns have dight the way-beasts, and our hearts for the + journey are hot!" + + She answered not with speaking, she questioned not with eyes, + Nought did her deadly anger to her brow unknitted rise, + Then forth came Grimhild the Mighty, and the cup was in her hand, + Wherein with the sea's dread mingled was the might and the blood of + the land; + And the guile of the summer serpent and the herb of the sunless dale + Were blent for the deadening slumber that forgetteth joy and bale; + And cold words of ancient wisdom that the very Gods would dim + Were the foreshores of that wine-sea and the cliffs that girt its rim: + Therewith in the hall stood Grimhild, and cried aloud and spake: + + "It was I that bore thee, daughter; I laboured once for thy sake, + I groaned to bear thee a queen, I sickened sore for thy fame: + By me and my womb I command thee that thou worship the Niblung name, + And take the gift we would give thee, and be wed to a king of the + earth, + And rejoice in kings hereafter when thy sons are come to the birth: + Lo, then as thou lookest upon them, and thinkest of glory to come, + It shall be as if Sigmund were living, and Sigurd sat in thine home." + + Nought answered the white-armed Gudrun, no master of masters might see + The hate in her soul swift-growing or the rage of her misery. + But great waxed the wrath of Grimhild; there huge in the hall she + stood, + And her fathers' might stirred in her, and the well-spring of her + blood; + And she cried out blind with anger: "Though all we die on one day, + Though we live for ever in sorrow, yet shalt thou be given away + To Atli the King of the mighty, high lord of the Eastland gold: + Drink now, that my love and my wisdom may thaw thine heart grown cold; + And take those great gifts of our giving, the cities long builded for + thee, + The wine-burgs digged for thy pleasure, the fateful wealthy lea, + The darkling woods of the deer, the courts of mighty lords, + The hosts of men war-shielded, the groves of fallow swords!" + + Nought changed the eyes of Gudrun, but she reached her hand to the cup + And drank before her kindred, and the blood from her heart went up, + And was blent with the guile of the serpent, and many a thing she + forgat, + But never the day of her sorrow, and of how o'er Sigurd she sat: + But the land's-folk looked on the Niblungs as the daughter of Giuki + drank, + And before their wrath they trembled, and before their joy they shrank. + + Then yet again spake Gudrun, and they that stood thereby, + --O how their hearts were heavy as though the sun should die! + She said: "O Kings of my kindred, I shall nought gainsay your will; + With the fruit of your fond desires your hearts shall ye fulfil; + Bear me back to the Burg of the Niblungs, and the house of my fathers + of old, + That the men of King Atli may take me with the tokens and treasure of + gold." + + Then the cry goeth up from the Niblungs, and no while in that house + they abide; + Forth fare the Cloudy People and the stony slopes they ride, + And the sun is bright behind them o'er queen Thora's lowly dale, + Where the sound of their speech abideth as an ancient woeful tale. + But the Niblungs ride the forest and the dwellings of the deer, + And the wife of the Golden Sigurd to the ancient Burg they bear; + She speaks not of good nor of evil, and no change in her face men see, + Nay, not when the Niblung towers rise up above the lea; + Nay, not when they come to the gateway, and that builded gloom again + Swallows up the steed and its rider, and sword, and gilded wain; + Nay, not when to earth she steppeth, and her feet again pass o'er + The threshold of the Niblungs and the holy house of yore; + Nay, not when alone she lieth in the chamber, on the bed + Where she lay, a little maiden, ere her hope was born and dead: + Yea, how fair is her face on the morrow, how it winneth all people's + praise, + As the moon that forebodeth nothing on the night of the last of days. + + Nought tarry the lords of King Atli, and the Niblungs stay them nought; + The doors of the treasure are opened and the gold and the tokens are + brought; + And all men in the hall are assembled, where Gunnar speaketh and saith: + + "Go hence, O men of King Atli, and tell of our love and our faith + To thy master, the mighty of men: go take him this treasure of gold, + And show him how we have hearkened, and nought from his heart may + withhold, + Nay, not our best and our dearest, nay, not the crown of our worth, + Our sister, the white-armed Gudrun, the wise and the Queen of the + earth." + + Then arose the cry of the people, and that Duke of Atli spake: + "We bless thee, O mighty Gunnar, for the Eastland Atli's sake, + And his kingdom as thy kingdom, and his men as thy men shall be, + And the gold in Atli's treasure is stored and gathered for thee." + + So spake he amid their shouting, and the Queen from the high-seat + stept, + And Gudrun stood with the strangers, and there were women who wept, + But she wept no more than she smiled, nor spake, nor turned again + To that place in the ancient dwelling where once lay Sigurd slain. + But she mounteth the wain all golden, and the Earls to the saddle leap, + And forth they ride in the morning, and adown the builded steep + That hath no name for Gudrun, save the place where Sigurd fell, + The strong abode of treason, the house where murderers dwell. + + Three days they ride the lealand till they come to the side of the sea: + Ten days they sail the sea-flood to the land where they would be: + Three days they ride the mirk-wood to the peopled country-side, + Three days through a land of cities and plenteous tilth they ride; + On the fourth the Burg of Atli o'er the meadows riseth up, + And the houses of his dwelling fine-wrought as a silver cup. + + Far off in a bight of the mountains by the inner sea it stands, + Turned away from the house of Gudrun, and her kindred and their lands. + Then to right and to left looked Gudrun and beheld the outland folk, + With no love nor hate nor wonder, as out from the teeth she spoke + To that unfamiliar people that had seen not Sigurd's face. + There she saw the walls most mighty as they came to the fenced place: + But lo, by the gate of the city and the entering in of the street + Is an host exceeding glorious, for the King his bride will greet: + So Gudrun stayeth her fellows, and lighteth down from the wain, + And afoot cometh Atli to meet hers and they meet in the midst, they + twain, + And he casteth his arms about her as a great man glad at heart; + Nought she smiles, nor her brow is knitted as she draweth aback and + apart, + No man could say who beheld her if sorry or glad she were; + But her steady eyes are beholding the King and the Eastland's Fear, + And she thinks: Have I lived too long? how swift doth the world grow + worse, + Though it was but a little season that I slept, forgetting the curse! + + But the King speaks kingly unto her and they pass forth under the gate, + And she sees he is rich and mighty, though the Niblung folk be great; + So strong is his house upbuilded, so many are his lords, + So great the hosts for the murder and the meeting of the swords; + And she saith: It is surely enough and no further now shall I wend; + In this house, in the house of a stranger shall be the tale and the + end. + + + _Atli biddeth the Niblungs to him._ + + There now is Gudrun abiding, and gone by is the bloom of her youth, + And she dwells with a folk untrusty, and a King that knows not ruth: + Great are his gains in the world, and few men may his might withstand, + But he weigheth sore on his people and cumbers the hope of his land; + He craves as the sea-flood craveth, he gripes as the dying hour, + All folk lie faint before him as he seeketh a soul to devour: + Like breedeth like in his house, and venom, and guile, and the knife + Oft lie 'twixt brother and brother, and the son and the father's life: + As dogs doth Gudrun heed them, and looks with steadfast eyes + On the guile and base contention, and the strife of murder and lies. + + So pass the days and the moons, and the seasons wend on their ways, + And there as a woman alone she sits mid the glory and praise: + There oft in the hall she sitteth, and as empty images + Are grown the shapes of the strangers, till her fathers' hall she sees: + Void then seems the throne of the King, and no man sits by her side + In the house of the Cloudy People and the place of her brethren's + pride; + But a dead man lieth before her, and there cometh a voice and a hand, + And the cloth is plucked from the dead, and, lo, the beloved of the + land, + The righter of wrongs, the deliverer, yea he that gainsayed no grace: + In a stranger's house is Gudrun and no change comes over her face, + But her heart cries: Woe, woe, woe, O woe unto me and to all! + On the fools, on the wise, on the evil let the swift destruction fall! + + Cold then is her voice in the high-seat, and she hears not what it + saith; + But Atli heedeth and hearkeneth, for she tells of the Glittering Heath, + And the Load of the mighty Greyfell, and the Ransom of Odin the Goth: + Cold yet is her voice as she telleth of murder and breaking of troth, + Of the stubborn hearts of the Niblungs, and their hands that never + yield, + Of their craving that nought fulfilleth, of their hosts arrayed for the + field. + --What then are the words of King Atli that the cold voice answereth + thus? + + "King, so shalt thou do, and be sackless of the vengeance that lieth + with us: + What words are these of my brethren, what words are these of my kin? + For kin upon kin hath pity, and good deeds do brethren win + For the babes of their mothers' bosoms, and the children of one womb: + But no man on me had pity, no kings were gathered for doom, + When I lifted my hands for the pleading in the house of my father's + folk; + When men turned and wrapped them in treason, and did on wrong as a + cloak: + I have neither brethren nor kindred, and I am become thy wife + To help thine heart to its craving, and strengthen thine hand in the + strife." + + Thus she stirred up the lust of Atli, she, unmoved as a mighty queen, + While the fire that burned within her by no child of man was seen. + + There oft in the bed she lieth, and beside her Atli sleeps, + And she seeth him not nor heedeth, for the horror over her creeps, + And her own cry rings through the chamber that along ago she cried, + And a man for his life-breath gasping is struggling by her side, + Yea, who but Sigurd the Volsung; and no man of men in death + Ere spake such words of pity as the words that now he saith, + As the words he speaketh ever while he riseth up on the sword, + The sword of the foster-brethren and the Kings that swore the word. + Lo, there she lieth and hearkeneth if yet he speak again, + And long she lieth hearkening and lieth by the slain. + + So dreams the waking Gudrun till the morn comes on apace + And the daylight shines on Atli, and no change comes over her face, + And deep hush lies on the chamber; but loud cries out her heart: + How long, how long, O God-folk, will ye sit alone and apart, + And let the blood of Sigurd cry on you from the earth, + While crowned are the sons of murder with worship and with worth? + If ye tarry shall I tarry? From the darkness of the womb + Came I not in the days passed over for accomplishing your doom? + + So she saith till the daylight brightens, and the kingly house is + astir, + And she sits by the side of Atli, and a woman's voice doth hear, + One who speaks with the voice of Gudrun, a queenly voice and cold: + "How oft shall I tell thee, Atli, of the wise Andvari's Gold, + The Treasure Regin craved for, the uncounted ruddy rings? + Full surely he that holds it shall rule all earthly kings: + Stretch forth thine hand, O Atli, for the gift is marvellous great, + And I am she that giveth! how long wilt thou linger and wait + Till the traitors come against thee with the war-torch and the steel, + And here in thy land thou perish, befooled of thy kingly weal? + Have I wedded the King of the Eastlands, the master of numberless + swords, + Or a serving-man of the Niblungs, a thrall of the Westland lords?" + + So spake the voice of Gudrun; suchwise she cast the seed + O'er the gold-lust of King Atli for the day of the Niblungs' Need. + + Who is this in the hall of King Gunnar, this golden-gleaming man? + Who is this, the bright and the silent as the frosty eve and wan, + Round whom the speech of wise-ones lies hid in bonds of fear? + Who this in the Niblung feast-hall as the moon-rise draweth anear? + + Hark! his voice mid the glittering benches and the wine-cups of the + Earls, + As cold as the wind that bloweth where the winter river whirls, + And the winter sun forgetteth all the promise of the spring: + "Hear ye, O men of the Westlands, hear thou, O Westland King, + I have ridden the scorching highways, I have ridden the mirk-wood + blind, + I have sailed the weltering ocean your Westland house to find; + For I am the man called Knefrud with Atli's word in my mouth. + That saith: O noble Gunnar, come thou and be glad in the south, + And rejoice with Eastland warriors; for the feast for thee is dight, + And the cloths for thy coming fashioned my glorious hall make bright. + Knowst thou not how the sun of the heavens hangs there 'twixt floor + and roof. + How the light of the lamp all golden holds dusky night aloof? + How the red wine runs like a river, and the white wine springs as a + well, + And the harps are never ceasing of ancient deeds to tell? + Thou shalt come when thy heart desireth, when thou weariest thou shalt + go, + And shalt say that no such high-tide the world shall ever know. + Come bare and bald as the desert, and leave mine house again + As rich as the summer wine-burg, and the ancient wheat-sown plain! + Come, bid thy men be building thy store-house greater yet, + And make wide thy stall and thy stable for the gifts thine hand shall + get! + Yet when thou art gone from Atli he shall stand by his treasure of + gold, + He shall look through stall and stable, he shall ride by field and + fold, + And no ounce from the weight shall be lacking, of his beasts shall + lack no head, + If no thief hath stolen from Gunnar, if no beast in his land lie dead. + Yea henceforth let our lives be as one, let our wars and our + wayfarings blend, + That my name with thine may be told of when the song is sung in the + end, + That the ancient war-spent Atli may sit and laugh with delight + O'er thy feet the swift in battle, o'er thine hand uplifted to smite." + + So spake the guileful Knefrud mid the silence of the wise, + Nor once his cold voice faltered, nor once he sank his eyes: + Then spake the glorious Gunnar: + "We hear King Atli's voice. + And the heart is glad within us that he biddeth us rejoice: + Yet the thing shall be seen but seldom that a Niblung fares from his + land + With eyes by the gold-lust blinded, with the greedy griping hand. + When thou farest aback unto Atli, thou shalt tell him how thou hast + been + In the house of the Westland Gunnar, and what things thine eyes have + seen: + Thou shalt tell of the seven store-houses with swords filled through + and through, + Gold-hilted, deftly smithied, in the Southland wave made blue: + Thou shalt tell of the house of the treasures and the Gold that lay + erewhile + On the Glittering Heath of murder 'neath the heart of the Serpent's + guile: + Thou shalt note our glittering hauberk, thou shalt strive to bend our + bow, + Thou shalt look on the shield of Gunnar that its white face thou mayst + know: + Thou shalt back the Niblung war-steed when the west wind blows its + most, + And see if it over-run thee; thou shalt gaze on the Niblung host + And be glad of the friends of Atli; thou shalt fare through stable and + stall, + And tell over the tale of the beast-kind, if the night forbear to fall; + Through the horse-mead shalt thou wander, through the meadows of the + sheep, + But forbear to count their thousands lest thou weary for thy sleep; + Thou shalt look if the barns be empty, though the wheat-field whiteneth + now, + In the midmost of the summer in the fields men cared to plough; + Thou shalt dwell with men that lack not, and the tillers fair and fain; + Thou shalt see, and long, and wonder, and tell thy King of his gain; + For in all that here thou beholdest hath he portion even as we; + Sweet bloometh his love in our midmost, and the fair time yet may be, + When we twain shall meet and be merry; and sure when our lives are done + No more shall men sunder our glory than the Gods have rent the sun. + Sit, mighty man, and be joyous: and then shalt thou cast us a word + And say how fareth our sister mid the glory of her lord." + + Then Knefrud looked upon Gunnar, and spake, nor sank his eyes: + "Each morn at the day's beginning when the sun hath hope to arise + She looketh from Atli's tower toward the west part and the grey, + To see the Niblung spear-heads gleam down the lonely way: + Each eve at the day's departing on the topmost tower she stands, + And looketh toward the mirk-wood and the sea of the western lands: + There long in the wind she standeth, and the even grown acold, + To see the Niblung war-shields come forth from out the wold." + + Then Gunnar turneth to Hogni, and he saith: "O glorious lord, + What saith thine heart to the bidding, and Atli's loving word?" + + "I have done many deeds," said Hogni, "I have worn the smooth and the + rough, + While the Gods looked on from heaven, and belike I have done enough, + And no deed for me abideth, but rather the sleep and the rest + But thou, O Son of King Giuki, art our eldest and our best, + And fair lie the fields before thee wherein thine hand shall work: + By the wayside of the greedy doth many a peril lurk; + Full wise is the great one meseemeth who bideth his ending at home + When the winds and the waves may be dealing with hate that hath far + to come." + + "I hearken thy word," said Gunnar, "and I know in very deed + That long-lived and happy are most men that hearken Hogni's rede. + Hear thou, O Eastland War-god, and bear this answer aback, + That nought may the earth of my people King Giuki's children lack, + And that here in the land am I biding till the Norns my life shall + change; + Howbeit, if here were Atli, his face were scarce more strange + Than that daughter of my father whom sore I long to see: + Let him come, and sit with the Niblungs, and be called their king + with me." + + Then spake the guileful Knefrud, and his word was exceeding proud: + "It is little the wont of Atli to sit at meat with a crowd; + Yet know, O Westland Warrior, that thy message shall be done. + Since the Cloudy Folk make ready new lodging for the sun." + + He laughed, and the wise kept silence, and Gunnar heeded him nought: + On the daughter of his people was set the Niblung's thought, + So sore he longed to behold her; for his life seemed wearing away, + And the wealth and the fame he had gathered seemed nought by the + earlier day, + The day of love departed, and of hope forgotten long. + + But Hogni laughs with the stranger, and cries out for harp and song, + And the glee rises up as a river when the mountain-tops grow clear, + When seaward drift the rain-clouds, and the end of day is near; + As of birds in the green groves singing is the Niblung manhood's voice, + And the Earls without foreboding in their mighty life rejoice. + Glad then grows the King of the people, and the sweetness filleth his + heart, + And he turneth about a little, and speaketh to Knefrud apart: + "What sayest thou, lord of the Eastland, how with Gudrun's heart it + fares? + Is she sunk in the day of dominion and the burden that it bears, + Or remembereth she her brethren and her father and her folk?" + + Then Knefrud looked upon Gunnar, and forth from the teeth he spoke: + "It is e'en as I said, King Gunnar: all eves she stands by the gate + The coming of her kindred through the dusky tide to wait: + Each day in the dawn she ariseth, and saith the time is at hand + When the feet of the Niblung War-Kings shall tread King Atli's land: + Then she praiseth the wings of the dove, and the wings of the + wayfaring crane + 'Gainst whom the wind prevails not, and the tempest driveth in vain; + And she praiseth the waves of the ocean, how they toil and toil and + blend, + Till they break on the strand beloved, and the Niblung earth in the + end." + + He spake, and the song rose upward and the wine of Kings was poured, + And Gunnar heard in the wall-nook how the wind went forth abroad, + And he dreamed, and beheld the ocean, and all kingdoms of the earth, + And the world lay fair before him and his worship and his worth. + + Then again spake the Eastland liar: "O King, I may not hide + That great things in the land of Atli thy mighty soul abide; + For the King is spent and war-weak, nor rejoiceth more in strife; + And his sons, the children of Gudrun, now look their first on life: + For this end meseems is his bidding, that no worser men than ye + May sit in the throne of Atli and the place where he wont to be." + + In the tuneful hall of the Niblungs that Eastland liar spake, + And he heard the song of the mighty o'er Gunnar's musing break, + And his cold heart gladdened within him as man cried out to man, + And fair 'twixt horn and beaker the red wine bubbled and ran. + + At last spake Gunnar the Niblung as his hand on the cup he laid: + "A great king craveth our coming, and no more shall he be gainsayed: + We will go to look on Atli, though the Gods and the Goths forbid; + Nought worse than death meseemeth on the Niblungs' path is hid, + And this shall the high Gods see to, but I to the Niblung name, + And the day of deeds to accomplish, and the gathering-in of fame." + + Up he stood with the bowl in his right-hand, and mighty and great he + was, + And he cried: "Now let the beakers adown the benches pass; + Let us drink dear draughts and glorious, though the last farewell it + be, + And this draught that I drink have sundered my father's house and me." + + He drank, and all men drank with him, and the hearts of the Earls + arose, + As of them that snatch forth glory from the deadly wall of foes: + With the joy of life were they drunken and no man knew for why, + And the voice of their exultation rose up in an awful cry; + --It is joy in the mouths that utter, it is hope in the hearts that + crave, + And think of no gainsaying, and remember nought to save; + But without the women hearken, and the hearts within them sink; + And they say: What then betideth that our lords forbear to drink, + And wail and weep in the night-tide and cry the Gods to aid? + Why then are the Kings tormented, and the warriors' hearts afraid? + + Then the deadened sound sweeps landward, and the hearts of the + field-folk fail, + And they say: Is there death in the Burg, that thence goeth the cry and + the wail? + Lo, lo, the feast-hall's windows! blood-red through the dark they + shine: + Why is weeping the song of the Niblungs, and blood the warrior's wine? + + But therein are the torches tossing, and the shields of men upborne, + And the death-blades yet unbloodied cast up 'twixt bowl and horn, + And all rest of heart is departed as men speak of the mirk-wood's ways, + And the fame of outland countries, and the green sea's troublous days. + + But Gunnar arose o'er the people, as a mighty King he spake: + "O ye of the house of Giuki that are joyous for my sake, + What then shall be left to the Niblungs if we return no more? + Then let the wolves be warders of the Niblungs' gathered store! + On the hearth let the worm creep over where the fire now flares aloft! + And the adder coil in the chambers where the Niblung wives sleep soft! + Let the master of the pine-wood roll huge in the Niblung porch, + And the moon through the broken rafters be the Niblungs' feastful + torch!" + + Glad they cried on the glorious Gunnar; for they saw the love in his + eyes, + And with joy and wine were they drunken, and his words passed over the + wise, + As oft o'er the garden lilies goes the rising thunder-wind, + And they know no other summer, and no spring that was they mind. + + But Hogni speaketh to Knefrud: "Lo, Gunnar's word is said: + How fares it, lord, with Gudrun? remembereth she the dead?" + + Then the liar laughed out and answered: "Ye shall go tomorrow morn; + The man to turn back Gunnar shall never now be born: + Each day-spring the white Gudrun on Sigurd's glory cries, + All eves she wails on Sigurd when the fair sun sinks and dies!" + + "Thou sayest sooth," said Hogni, "one day we twain shall wend + To the gate of the Eastland Atli, that our tale may have an end. + Long time have I looked for the journey, and marvelled at the day, + With what eyes I shall look on Sigurd, what words his mouth shall say." + + Then he raiseth the cup for Gunnar, and men see his glad face shine + As he crieth hail and glory o'er the bubbles of the wine; + And they drink to the lives of the brethren, and men of the latter + earth + May not think of the height of their hall-glee, or measure out their + mirth: + So they feast in the undark even to the midmost of the night. + Till at last, with sleep unwearied, they weary with delight, + And pass forth to the beds blue-covered, and leave the hearth acold: + They sleep; in the hall grown silent scarce glimmereth now the gold: + For the moon from the world is departed, and grey clouds draw across, + To hide the dawn's first promise and deepen earthly loss. + The lone night draws to its death, and never another shall fall + On those sons of the feastful warriors in the Niblungs' holy hall. + + + _How the Niblungs fare to the Land of King Atli._ + + Now when the house was silent, and all men in slumber lay, + And yet two hours were lacking of the dawning-tide of day, + The sons of his foster-mother doth the heart-wise Hogni find; + In the dead night, speaking softly, he showeth them his mind, + And they wake and hearken and heed him, and arise from the bolster + blue, + Nor aught do their stout hearts falter at the deed he bids them do. + So he and they go softly while all men slumber and sleep, + And they enter the treasure-houses, and come to their midmost heap; + But so rich in the night it glimmers that the brethren hold their + breath, + While Hogni laugheth upon it:--long it lay on the Glittering Heath, + Long it lay in the house of Reidmar, long it lay 'neath the waters wan; + But no long while hath it tarried in the houses and dwellings of man. + + Nor long these linger before it; they set their hands to the toil, + And uplift the Bed of the Serpent, the Seed of murder and broil; + No word they speak in their labour, but bear out load on load + To great wains that out in the fore-court for the coming Gold abode: + Most huge were the men, far mightier than the mightiest fashioned now, + But the salt sweat dimmed their eyesight and flooded cheek and brow + Ere half the work was accomplished; and by then the laden wains + Came groaning forth from the gateway, dawn drew on o'er the plains; + And the ramparts of the people, those walls high-built of old, + Stood grey as the bones of a battle in a dale few folk behold: + But in haste they goad the yoke-beasts, and press on and make no + speech, + Though the hearts are proud within them and their eyes laugh each at + each. + + No great way down from the burg-gate, anigh to the hallowed field, + There lieth a lake in the river as round as Odin's shield, + A black pool huge and awful: ten long-ships of the most + Therein might wager battle, and the sunken should be lost + Beyond all hope of diver, yea, beyond the plunging lead; + On either side its rock-walls rise up to a mighty head, + But by green slopes from the meadows 'tis easy drawing near + To the brow whence the dark-grey rampart to the water goeth sheer: + 'Tis as if the Niblung River had cleft the grave-mound through + Of the mightiest of all Giants ere the Gods' work was to do; + And indeed men well might deem it, that fearful sights lie hid + Beneath the unfathomed waters, the place to all forbid; + No stream the black deep showeth, few winds may search its face, + And the silver-scaled sea-farers love nought its barren space. + + There now the Niblung War-king and the foster-brethren twain + Lead up their golden harvest and stay it wain by wain, + Till they hang o'er the rim scarce balanced: no glance they cast below + To the black and awful waters well known from long ago, + But they cut the yoke-beasts' traces, and drive them down the slopes, + Who rush through the widening daylight, and bellow forth their hopes + Of the straw-stall and the barley: but the Niblungs turn once more, + Hard toil the warrior cart-carles for the garnering of their store, + And shoulder on the wain-wheels o'er the edge of the grimly wall, + And stand upright to behold it, how the waggons plunge and fall. + + Down then and whirling outward the ruddy Gold fell forth, + As a flame in the dim grey morning, flashed out a kingdom's worth, + Then the waters, roared above it, the wan water and the foam + Flew up o'er the face of the rock-wall as the tinkling Gold fell home, + Unheard, unseen for ever, a wonder and a tale, + Till the last of earthly singers from, the sons of men shall fail: + Then the face of the further waters a widening ripple rent + And forth from hollow places strange sounds as of talking went, + And loud laughed Hogni in answer; but not so long he stayed + As that half the oily ripple in long sleepy coils was laid, + Or the lapping fallen silent in the water-beaten caves; + Scarce streamward yet were drifting the foam-heaps o'er the waves. + When betwixt the foster-brethren down the slopes King Hogni strode + Toward the ancient Burg of his fathers, as a man that casteth a load: + No word those fellows had spoken since he whispered low and light + O'er the beds of the foster-brethren in the dead hour of the night, + But his face was proud and glorious as he strode the war-gate through, + And went up to his kingly chamber, and the golden bed he knew, + And lay down and slept by his help-mate as a play-spent child might + sleep + In some franklin's wealthy homestead, in the room the nurses keep. + + Nought the sun on that morn delayeth, but light o'er the world's face + flies. + And awake by the side of King Hogni the wedded woman lies, + And her bosom is weary with sighing, and her eyes with dream-born + tears. + And a sound as of all confusion is ever in her ears: + Then she turneth and crieth to Hogni, as she layeth a hand on his + breast; + "Wake, wake, thou son of Giuki! save thy speech-friend all unrest!" + + Then he waketh up as a child that hath slept in the summer grass, + And he saith: "What tidings, O Bera, what tidings come to pass?" + + She saith, "Wilt thou wend with Gunnar to Atli over the main?" + + Said Hogni: "Hast thou not heard it, how rich we shall come again?" + + "Ye shall never come back," said Bera, "ye shall die by the inner sea." + + "Yea, here or there," said Hogni, "my death no doubt shall be." + + "O Hogni," she said, "forbear it, that snare of the Eastland wrong! + In the health and the wealth of the sunlight at home mayst thou tarry + for long: + For waking or sleeping I dreamed, and dreaming, the tokens I saw." + + "Oft," he said, "in the hands of the house-wife comes the crock by its + fatal flaw: + An hundred earls shall slay me, or the fleeing night-thief's shaft, + The sickness that wasteth cities, or the unstrained summer draught: + Now as mighty shall be King Atli and the gathered Eastland force + As the fly in the wine desired, or the weary stumbling horse." + + She said: "Wilt thou stay in the land, lest the noble faint and fail, + And the Gods have nought to tell of in the ending of the tale? + O King, save thou thine hand-maid, lest the bloom of Kings decay!" + + He said: "Good yet were the earth, though all we should die in a day: + But so fares it with you, ye women: when your husband or brother shall + die, + Ye deem that the world shall perish, and the race of man go by." + + "Sure then is thy death," she answered, "for I saw the Eastland flood + Break over the Burg of the Niblungs, and fill the hall with blood." + + He said: "Shall we wade the meadows to the feast of Atli the King? + Then the blood-red blossoming sorrel about our legs shall cling." + + Said Bera: "I saw thee coming with the face of other days; + But the flame was in thy raiment, and thy kingly cloak was ablaze." + + "How else," said he, "O woman, wouldst thou have a Niblung stride, + Save in ruddy gold sun-lighted, through the house of Atli's pride?" + + She said: "I beheld King Atli midst the place of sacrifice + And the holy grove of the Eastland in a king's most hallowed guise: + Then I looked, as with laughter triumphant he laid his gift in the + fire, + And lo, 'twas the heart of Hogni, and the heart of my desire; + But he turned and looked upon me as I sickened with fear and with love, + And I saw the guile of the greedy, and with speechless sleep I strove, + And had cried out curses against him, but my gaping throat was hushed, + Till the light of a deedless dawning o'er dream and terror rushed; + And there wert thou lying beside me, though but little joy it seemed, + For thou wert but an image unstable of the days before I dreamed." + + Quoth Hogni, "Shall I arede it? Seems it not meet to thee + That the heart and the love of the Niblungs in Atli's hand should be, + When he stands by the high Gods' altars, and uplifts his heart for the + tide + When the kings of the world-great people to the Eastland house shall + ride? + Nay, Bera, wilt thou be weeping? but parting-fear is this; + Doubt not we shall come back happy from the house of Atli's bliss: + At least, when a king's hand offers all honour and great weal, + Wouldst thou have me strive to unclasp it to show the hidden steel? + With evil will I meet evil when it draweth exceeding near; + But oft have I heard of evil, whose father was but fear, + And his mother lust of living, and nought will I deal with it, + Lest the past, and those deeds of my doing be as straw when the fire + is lit. + Lo now, O Daughter of Kings, let us rise in the face of the day, + And be glad in the summer morning when the kindred ride on their way; + For tears beseem not king-folk, nor a heart made dull with dreams, + But to hope, if thou mayst, for ever, and to fear nought, well + beseems." + + There the talk falls down between them, and they rise in the morn, + they twain, + And bright-faced wend through the dwelling of the Niblungs' glory and + gain. + + Meanwhile awakeneth Gunnar, and looks on the wife by his side, + And saith: "Why weepest thou, Glaumvor, what evil now shall betide?" + + She said: "I was waking and dreamed, or I slept and saw the truth; + The Norns are hooded and angry, and the Gods have forgotten their + ruth." + + "Speak, sweet-mouthed woman," said Gunnar, "if the Norns are hard, I + am kind; + Though even the King of the Niblungs may loose not where they bind." + + She said: "Wilt thou go unto Atli and enter the Burg of the East? + Wilt thou leave the house of the faithful, and turn to the murderer's + feast?" + + "It is e'en as certain," said Gunnar, "as though I knocked at his gate, + If the winds and waters stay not, or death, or the dealings of Fate." + + "Woe worth the while!" said Glaumvor, "then I talk with the dead + indeed: + And why must I tarry behind thee afar from the Niblungs' Need?" + + He said: "Thou wert heavy-hearted last night for the parting-tide; + And alone in the dreamy country thy soul would needs abide, + And see not the King that loves thee, nor remember the might of his + hand; + So thou falledst a prey unholpen to the lies of the dreamy land." + + "Ah, would they were lies," said Glaumvor, "for not the worst was this: + There thou wert in the holy high-seat mid the heart of the Niblung + bliss, + And a sword was borne into our midmost, and its point and its edge + were red, + And at either end the wood-wolves howled out in the day of dread; + With that sword wert thou smitten, O Gunnar, and the sharp point + pierced thee through. + And the kin were all departed, and no face of man I knew: + Then I strove to flee and might not; for day grew dark and strange, + And no moonrise and no morning the eyeless mirk would change." + + "Such are dreams of the night," said Gunnar, "that lovers oft perplex, + When the sundering hour is coming with the cares that entangle and vex. + Yet if there be more, fair woman, when a king speaks loving words, + May I cast back words of anger, and the threat of grinded swords?" + + "O yet wouldst thou tarry," said Glaumvor, "in the fair sun-lighted + day! + Nor give thy wife to another, nor cast thy kingdom away." + + "Of what king of the people," said Gunnar, "hast thou known it written + or told, + That the word was born in the even which the morrow should withhold?" + + "Alas, alas!" said Glaumvor, "then all is over and done! + For I dreamed of the hall of the Niblungs at the setting of the sun, + How dead women came in thither no worse than queens arrayed, + Who passed by the earls of the Niblungs, and their hands on thy + gown-skirt laid, + And hailed thee fair for their fellow, and bade thee come to their + hall. + O bethink thee, King of the Niblungs, what tidings shall befall!" + + "Yea, shall they befall?" said Gunnar, "then who am I to strive + Against the change of my life-days, while the Gods on high are alive? + I shall ride as my heart would have me; let the Gods bestir them then, + And raise up another people in the stead of the Niblung men: + But at home shalt thou sit, King's Daughter, in the keeping of the + Fates, + And be blithe with the men of thy people and the guest within thy + gates, + Till thou know of our glad returning to the holy house and dear + Or the fall of Giuki's children, and a tale that all shall hear. + Arise and do on gladness, lest the clouds roll on and lower + O'er the heavy hearts of the people in the Niblungs' parting hour." + + So he spake, and his love rejoiced her, and they rose in the face of + the day, + And no seeming shadow of evil on those bright-eyed King-folk lay. + + Thus stirreth the house of the Niblungs, and awakeneth unto life; + And were there any envy, or doubt that breedeth strife, + 'Twixt friends or kin or brethren, 'twas healed that self-same morn, + And peace and loving-kindness o'er all the house was borne, + + Now arrayed are the earls and the warriors, and into the hall they come + When the morning sun is shining through the heart of their ancient + home; + And lo, how the allwise Grimhild is set in the golden seat, + The first of the way-fain warriors, and the first of the wives to + greet; + In the raiment of old she sitteth, aloft in the kingly place, + And all men marvel to see her and the glory of her face. + + So all is dight for departing and the helms of the Niblung lords + Shine close as a river of fire o'er the hilts of hidden swords: + About and around are the women; and who e'er hath been heavy of heart, + If their hearts are light this morning when their fairest shall depart? + They hear the steeds in the forecourt; from the rampart of the wall + Comes the cry and noise of the warders as man to man doth call; + For the young give place to the old, and the strong carles labour to + show + The last-learned craft of battle to their fathers ere they go. + There is mocking and mirth and laughter as men tell to the ancient + sires + Of the four-sheared shaft of the gathering, and the horn, and the + beaconing fires. + Woe's me! but the women laugh not: do they hope that the sun may be + stayed, + And the journey of the Niblungs a little while delayed? + Or is not their hope the rather, that they do but dream in the night, + And that they shall awake in a little with the land's life faring + aright? + Ah, fair and fresh is the morning as ever a season hath been, + And the nourishing sun shines glorious on the toil of carle and quean, + And the wealth of the land desired, and all things are alive and awake; + Let them wait till the even bringeth sweet rest for hearts that ache. + + Lo now, a stir by the doorway, and men see how great and grand + Come the Kings of Giuki begotten, all-armed, and hand in hand: + Where then shall the world behold them, such champions clad in steel, + Such hearts so free and bounteous, so wise for the people's weal? + Where then shall the world see such-like, if these must die as the + mean, + And fall as lowly people, and their days be no more seen? + They go forth fair and softly as they wend to the seat of the Kings, + And they smile in their loving-kindness as they talk of bygone things. + Are they not as the children of Giuki, that fared afield erewhile + In hope without contention, mid the youth that knew no guile? + Their wedded wives are beside them with faces proud and fair, + That smile, if the lips smile only, for the Eastland liar is there. + Fain the women are of those Brethren, and they seem so gay and kind, + That again the hope upspringeth of their lords abiding behind. + + But Hogni spake to his brother, and they looked on the liar's son, + And clear ran King Gunnar's laughter as the summer waters run; + Then the Queens' hearts fainted within them, and with pain they drew + their breath; + For they knew that the King was merry and laughed in the face of death. + + Fair now on the ancient high-seat, and the heart of the Niblung pride, + Stand those lovely lords of Giuki with their wedded wives beside. + And Gunnar cries: "O maidens, let the cup be in every hand, + For this morn for a little season we leave our fathers' land, + And love we leave behind us, and love abroad we bear, + And these twain shall meet in a little, and their meeting-tide be fair: + Rejoice, O Niblung children, be glad o'er the parting cup! + For meseems if the heavens were falling, our spears should hold them + up." + + Then he leaped adown from the high-seat and amidst his men he stood, + And the very joy of God-folk ran through the Niblung blood, + And the glee of them that die not: there they drink in their mighty + hall, + And glad on the ancient fathers, and the sons of God they call: + The hope of their hearts goes upward in the last most awful voice, + And once more the quivering timbers of the Niblung home rejoice. + + But exceeding proud sits Grimhild, and so wondrous is her state + That men deem they have never seen her so glorious and so great, + And she speaks, when again in the feast-hall is there silence save of + the mail + And the whispered voice of women, as they tell their latest tale: + + "Go forth, O Kings, to dominion, and the crown of all your might, + And the tale from of old foreordered ere the day was begotten of night. + For all this is the work of the Norns, though ye leave a woman behind + Who hath toiled and toiled in the darkness, the road of fate to find: + Go glad, O children of Giuki; though scarce ye wot indeed + Of the labour of your mother to win your glory's meed. + Farewell, farewell, O children, till ye get you back again + To her that bore you in darkness, and brought you forth in pain! + Cast wide the doors for the King-folk, ring out O harpstrings now! + For the best e'er born of woman go forth with cloudless brow. + Be glad O ancient lintel, O threshold of the door, + For such another parting shall earth behold no more!" + + She ceased, and no voice gave answer save the voice of smitten harps, + As the hands of the music-weavers went o'er their golden warps; + Then high o'er the warriors towering, as the king-leek o'er the grass, + Out into the world of sunlight through the door those Brethren pass, + And all the host of the warriors, the women's silent woe, + The steel and the feet soft-falling o'er the ancient threshold go, + While all alone on the high-seat the god-born Grimhild sits: + There hearkeneth she steeds' neighing, and the champing of the bits, + And the clash of steel-clad champions, as at last they leap aloft, + And cries and women's weeping 'mid the music breathing soft; + Then the clattering of the horse-hoofs, and the echo of the gate + With the wakened sword-song singing o'er departure of the great, + Till the many mingled voices are swallowed up and stilled, + And all the air by seeming with an awful sound is filled, + The cry of the Niblung trumpet, as men reach the unwalled space: + So whiles in a mighty city, and a many-peopled place, + When the rain falls down 'mid the babble, nor ceaseth rattle of wheels, + And with din of wedding joy-bells the minster steeple reels, + Lo, God sends down his thunder, and all else is hushed as then, + And it is as the world's beginning, and before the birth of men. + + Long sitteth the god-born Grimhild till all is silent there, + For afar down the meadows with the host all people fare; + Then bitter groweth her visage, in the hush she crieth and saith: + + "O ye--whom then shall I cry on, ye that hunt my sons unto death, + And overthrow our glory, and bring our labour to nought-- + Ye Gods, ye had fashioned the greatest, and to make them greater I + wrought, + And to strengthen your hands for the battle, and uplift your hearts + for the end: + But ye, ye have fashioned confusion, and the great with the little ye + blend, + Till no more on the earth shall be living the mighty that mock at your + death, + Till like the leaves men tremble, like the dry leaves quake at a + breath. + I have wrought for your lives and your glory, and for this have I + strengthened my guile, + That the earth your hands uplifted might endure, nor pass in a while + Like the clouds of latter morning that melt in the first of the night." + + She rose up great and dreadful, and stood on the floor upright, + And cast up her hands to the roof-tree, and cried aloud and said: + + "Woe to you that have made me for nothing! for the house of the + Niblungs is dead, + Empty and dead as the desert, where the sun is idle and vain + And no hope hath the dew to cherish, and no deed abideth the rain!" + + She falleth aback in the high seat, and the eagles cry from aloof, + While Grimhild's eyes wide-open stare up at the Niblung roof: + But they see not, nought are they doing to feed her fear or desire; + And her heart, the forge of sorrow, dead, cold, is its baneful fire; + And her cunning hand is helpless, for her hopeless soul is gone; + Far off belike it drifteth from the waste her labour won. + + Fair now through midmost ocean King Gunnar's dragons run, + And the green hills round about them gleam glorious with the sun; + The keels roll down the sea-dale, and welter up the steep, + And o'er the brow hang quivering ere again they take the leap; + For the west wind pipes behind them, and no land is on their lea, + As the mightiest of earth's peoples sails down the summer sea: + And as eager as the west-wind, no duller than the foam + They spread all sails to the breezes, and seek their glory home: + Six days they sail the sea-flood, and the seventh dawn of day + Up-heaveth a new country, a land far-off and grey; + Then Knefrud biddeth heed it, and he saith: "Lo, the Eastland shore, + And the land few ships have sailed to, by the mirk-wood covered o'er." + + Then riseth the cry and the shouting as the golden beaks they turn, + For all hearts for the land of cities, and the hall of Atli yearn: + But a little after the noontide is the Niblung host embayed, + And betwixt the sheltering nesses the ocean-wind is laid: + No whit they brook delaying: but their noblest and their best + Toss up the shaven oar-blades, and toil and mock at rest: + Full swift they skim the swan-mead till the tall masts quake and reel, + And the oaken sea-burgs quiver from bulwark unto keel. + It is Gunnar goes the foremost with the tiller in his hand, + And beside him standeth Knefrud and laughs on Atli's land: + And so fair are the dragons driven, that by ending of the day + On the beach by the ebb left naked the sea-beat keels they lay: + Then they look aloft from the foreshore, and lo, King Atli's steeds + On the brow of the mirk-wood standing, well dight for the warriors' + needs, + The red and the roan together, and the dapple-grey and the black; + Nor bits nor silken bridles, nor golden cloths they lack, + And the horse-lads of King Atli with that horse-array are blent, + And their shout of salutation o'er the oozy sand is sent: + Then no more will the Niblungs tarry when they see that ready band + But they leap adown from the long-ships, and waist-deep they wade the + strand, + And they in their armour of onset, beshielded, and sword by the side, + E'en as men returning homeward to their loves and their friends that + abide. + The first of all goeth Gunnar, and Hogni the wise cometh after, + And wringeth the sea from his kirtle; and all men hearken his laughter, + As his feet on the earth stand firm, and the sun in the west goeth + down, + And the Niblungs stand on the foreshore 'twixt the sea and the + mirk-wood brown. + + For no meat there they linger, and they tarry for no sleep, + But aloft to the golden saddles those Giuki's children leap, + And forth from the side of the sea-flood they ride the mirk-wood's + ways, + Loud then is the voice of King Hogni and he sets forth Atli's praise, + As they ride through the night of the tree-boughs till the earthly + night prevails, + And along the desert sea-strand the wind of ocean wails. + + There none hath tethered the dragons, or inboard handled the oars, + And the tide of the sea cometh creeping along the stranger-shores, + Till those golden dragons are floated, and their unmanned oars awash + In the sandy waves of the shallows, from stem to tiller clash: + Then setteth a wind from the shore, and the night is waxen a-cold, + And seaward drift the long-ships with their raiment and vessels of + gold, + And their Gods with mastery carven: and who knoweth the story to tell, + If their wrack came ever to shoreward in some place where fishers + dwell, + Or sank in midmost ocean, and lay on the sea-floor wan + Where the pale sea-goddess singeth o'er the bane of many a man? + + + _Atli speaketh with the Niblungs._ + + Three days the Niblung warriors the ways of the mirk-wood ride + Till they come to a land of cities and the peopled country-side, + And the land's-folk run from their labour, and the merchants throng + the street + And the lords of many a city the stranger kings would meet. + But nought will the Niblungs tarry; swift through Atli's weal they + wend, + For their hearts are exceeding eager for their journey's latter end. + Three days they ride that country, and many a city leave, + But the fourth dawn mighty mountains by the inner sea upheave. + Then they ride a little further, and Atli's burg they see + With the feet of the mountains mingled above the flowery lea, + And yet a little further, and lo, its long white wall, + And its high-built guarded gateways, and its towers o'erhung and tall; + And ever all along them the glittering spear-heads run, + As the sparks of the white wood-ashes when the cooking-fire is done. + + Then they look to the right and the left hand, and see no folk astir, + And no reek from the homestead chimneys; and no toil of men they hear: + But the hook hangs lone in the vineyard, and the scythe is lone in the + hay, + The bucket thirsts by the well-side, the void cart cumbers the way. + Then doubt on the war-host falleth, and they think: Well were we then, + When once we rode in the Westland and saw the brown-faced men + Peer through the hawthorn hedges as the Niblung host went by. + Yet they laugh and make no semblance of any fear drawn nigh. + Yea, Knefrud looked upon them, and with chilly voice he spake: + + "Now his guests doth Atli honour, and yet more will he do for your + sake, + Who hath hidden all his people, and holdeth his vassals at home + On the day that the mighty Niblungs adown his highway come, + Lest men fear as the finders of Gods, and tremble and cumber the ways, + And the voice of the singers fail them to sing of the Niblungs' + praise." + + Men laughed as his voice they hearkened, and none bade turn again, + But the swords in the scabbards rattled as they rode with loosened + rein. + + Now they ride in the Burg-gate's shadow from out the sunlit fields, + Till the spears aloft are hidden and Atli's painted shields; + And no captain cries from the rampart, nor soundeth any horn, + And the doors of oak and iron are shut this merry morn: + Then the Niblungs leap from the saddle, and the threats of earls arise, + And the wrath of Kings' defenders is waxing in their eyes; + But Knefrud looketh and laugheth, and he saith: + "So is Atli fain + Of the glory of the Niblungs and their honour's utmost gain: + By no feet but yours this morning will he have his threshold trod, + Nay, not by the world's most glorious, nay not by a wandering God." + + Then Hogni looked on Knefrud as the bodily death shall gaze + On the last of the Kings of men-folk in the last of the latter days, + And he caught a staff from his saddle, a mighty axe of war, + And stood most huge of all men in face of Atli's door, + And upreared the axe against it with such wondrous strokes and great, + That the iron-knitted marvel hung shattered in the gate: + Through the rent poured the Niblung children, and in Atli's burg they + stood; + With none to bid them welcome, or ask them what they would. + + But Hogni turned upon Knefrud, and spake: "I said, time was, + That we twain should ride out hither to bring a deed to pass: + And now one more deed abideth, and then no more for thee, + And another and another, and no more deeds for me." + + 'Gainst the liar's eyes one moment flashed out the axe-head's sheen, + And then was the face of Knefrud as though it ne'er had been, + And his gay-clad corpse lay glittering on the causeway in the sun. + + No man cried out on Hogni or asked of the deed so done, + But their shielded ranks they marshalled and through Atli's burg they + strode: + There they see the merchant's dwelling, the rich man's fair abode, + The halls of doom, and the market, the loom and the smithying-booth, + The stall for the wares of the outlands, the temples high and smooth: + But all is hushed and empty, and no child of man they meet + As they thread the city's tangle, and enter street on street, + And leave the last forgotten, and of the next know nought. + + So through the silent city by the Norns their feet are brought, + Till lo, on a hill's uprising a huge house they behold, + And a hall with gates all brazen, and roof of ruddy gold: + Then they know the house of Atli, and they trow that sooth it is + That the Lord of such a dwelling may give his guest-folk bliss: + Then they loosen the swords in their scabbards, and upraise a mighty + shout, + And the trumpet of the Niblungs through the lonely street rings out + And stilleth the wind in the wall-nook: but hark, as its echoes die, + How forth from that hall of the Eastlands comes the sound of + minstrelsy, + And the brazen doors swing open: but the Niblungs are at the door, + And the bidden guests of Atli o'er the fateful threshold pour; + There the music faileth before them, till its sound is over and done, + And fair in the city behind them lies the flood of the morning sun: + No man of the Niblungs murmureth, none biddeth turn aback + And still their hands are empty, and sleep the edges of wrack. + + Huge, dim is the hall of Atli, and faint and far aloof, + As stars in the misty even, yet hang the lamps in the roof, + And but little daylight toucheth the walls and the hangings of gold: + No King and no earl-folk's children do the bidden guests behold, + Till they look aloft to the high-seat, and lo, a woman alone, + A white queen crowned, and silent as the ancient shapen stone + That men find in the dale deserted, as beneath the moon they wend, + When they weary even to slumber, and the journey draws to an end. + Chill then are the hearts of the warriors, for they know how they look + on a queen, + That Gudrun well-beloved of the days that once have been; + Then were men that murmured on Sigurd, and as in some dream of the + night + They looked, but the left hand failed them, and there came no help + from the right. + + But forth stood the mighty Gunnar, and men heard his kingly voice + As he spake: "O child of my father, I see thee again and rejoice, + Though I wot not where I have wended, or where thou dwellest on earth, + Or if this be the dead men's dwelling, or the hall of Atli's mirth!" + + She stirred not, nothing she answered: but forth stood Hogni the King, + Clear, sharp, in the house of the stranger did the voice of the + fearless ring: + "O sister, O daughter of Giuki, O child of my mother's womb, + By what death shall the Niblungs perish, what day is the day of their + doom?" + + Forth then from the lips of Gudrun a dreadful voice was borne: + "Ye shall die to-day, O brethren, at the hands of a King forsworn." + + As she spake the outer door-leaves clashed to with a mighty sound, + And the outer air was troubled with a new noise gathering around: + As of leaves in the midmost summer ere the dusk of the even warm. + When the winds in the hillsides gathered go forth before the storm; + Men abode, and a wicket opened on the feast-hall's inner side + And the Niblungs looked for the coming of King Atli in his pride: + But one man entered only, and he thin and old and spare, + A swordless man and a little--yet was King Atli there. + He looked not once on the Niblungs, but forth to the high-seat went, + And stood aloof from Gudrun with his eyes to the hall-floor bent: + Thence came a voice from his lips, and men heard, for the hush was + great. + And the hearts of the bold were astonished 'neath the overhanging fate. + + "Ye are come, O Kings of the Niblungs, ye are come, O slayers of men! + But how great, and where is the ransom that shall buy your departure + again?" + + Then spake the wise-heart Hogni: "Do the bidden guests so long + To depart to the night and the silence from the fire and the wine and + the song? + Fear not! the feast shall be merry, and here we abide in thine hall, + Till thou and the great feast-master shall bid the best befall." + + There were cries of men in the city, there was clang and clatter of + steel. + And high cried the thin-voiced Atli, the lord of the Eastland weal: + "Ye are come in your pride, O Niblungs; but this day of days is mine: + Will ye die? will ye live and be little? Hear now the token and sign!" + + Great then grew the voices without, with one name was the city filled, + Yea, all the world it might be, and all sounds of the earth were + stilled + With that cry of the name of Atli: but Gunnar stood for a space + Till the cry was something sunken, then he put back the helm from his + face + And spread out his hands before him, and his hands were empty and bare + As he stood in the front of the Niblungs like a great God smiling and + fair: + + "We shall live and never be little, we shall die and be masters of + fame: + I know not thy will, O Atli, nor what thou wouldst with thy name." + + "Ye shall know my will," said Atli, "ye shall do it, or do no more + The deeds of the days of the living: ye shall render the garnered + store, + Ye shall give forth the Gold of Sigurd, the wealth of the uttermost + strand." + + "To give a gift," cried Hogni, "we came to King Atli's land: + Tomorn for a little season thou shalt be the richest fool + Of all kings ever told of; and the rest let the high Gods rule." + + "O King of the East," said Gunnar, "great gifts for thee draw nigh, + But the treasure of the Niblungs in their guarded house shall lie." + + "What then will ye do?" quoth Atli; "have ye seen the fish in the net?" + + "Eve telleth of deeds," said Gunnar, "and it is but the morning as + yet." + + Said Atli: "Yea, will ye die? are there no deeds left you to do?" + + "We shall smite with the sword," said the Niblung, "and tomorn will we + journey anew." + + "Craftsmaster Hogni," said Atli, "where then are the shifts of the + wise?" + + Said Hogni: "To smite with the sword, and go glad from the country of + lies." + + "So died the fool," said Atli, "as Hogni dieth today." + + "Smote the blind and the aimless," said Hogni, "and Baldur passed + away." + + Said Atli: "Yet may ye live in the wholesome light of the sun, + And your latter days be as plenteous as the deeds your hands have + done." + + "Dost thou hearken, O sword," said Gunnar, "and yet thou liest in + peace? + When then wilt thou look on the daylight, that the words of the + mocker may cease?" + + "Thou, Hogni the wise," said Atli, "art thou weary of wisdom and lore, + Wilt thou die with these fools of the sword, and be mocked mid the + blind of the war?" + + "Many things have I learned," said Hogni, "but today's task, easy it + is; + For men die every hour and they wage no master for this. + --Get hence, thou evil King, thou liar and traitor of kings, + Lest the edge of my sword be thy portion and not the ruddy rings!" + + Then Atli shrank from before him, and the eyes of his intent, + And no more words he cast them, but forth from the hall he went, + And again were the Niblung children alone in the hall of their foes + With the wan and silent woman: but without great clamour arose, + And the clashing of steel against steel, and the crying of man unto + man, + And the wind of that summer morning through the Eastland banners ran: + Then so loud o'er all was winded a mighty horn of fight, + That unheard were the shouts of the Niblungs as Gunnar's sword leapt + white. + But Hogni turned to the great-one who the Niblung trumpet bore, + And he took the mighty metal, and kissed the brass of war, + And its shattering blast went forward, and beat back from the + gable-wall + And shook the ancient timbers, and the carven work of the hall: + Then it was to the Niblung warriors as their very hearts they heard + Cry out, not glad nor sorry, nor hoping, nor afeard, + But touched by the hand of Odin, smit with foretaste of the day, + When the fire shall burn up fooling, and the veil shall fall away; + When bare-faced, all unmingled, shall the evil stand in the light, + And men's deeds shall be nothing doubtful, nor the foe that they shall + smite. + In the hall was the voice of the trumpet, but therein might it nowise + abide, + But over burg and lealand it spread full far and wide, + And strong men quaked as they heard it in the guarded chamber of stone, + And the lord of weaponed kinsfolk was as one that sitteth alone + In a land by the foeman wasted, and no man to his neighbour spoke, + But they thought on the death of Atli and the slaughter of the folk. + + + _Of the Battle in Atli's Hall._ + + Ye shall know that in Atli's feast-hall on the side that joined the + house + Were many carven doorways whose work was glorious + With marble stones and gold-work, and their doors of beaten brass: + Lo now, in the merry morning how the story cometh to pass! + --While the echoes of the trumpet yet fill the people's ears, + And Hogni casts by the war-horn, and his Dwarf-wrought sword uprears, + All those doors aforesaid open, and in pour the streams of steel, + The best of the Eastland champions, the bold men of Atli's weal: + They raise no cry of battle nor cast forth threat of woe, + And their helmed and hidden faces from each other none may know: + Then a light in the hall ariseth, and the fire of battle runs + All adown the front of the Niblungs in the face of the mighty-ones; + All eyes are set upon them, hard drawn is every breath, + Ere the foremost points be mingled and death be blent with death. + --All eyes save the eyes of Hogni; but e'en as the edges meet, + He turneth about for a moment to the gold of the kingly seat, + Then aback to the front of battle; there then, as the lightning-flash + Through the dark night showeth the city when the clouds of heaven + clash, + And the gazer shrinketh backward, yet he seeth from end to end + The street and the merry market, and the windows of his friend, + And the pavement where his footsteps yestre'en returning trod, + Now white and changed and dreadful 'neath the threatening voice of God; + So Hogni seeth Gudrun, and the face he used to know, + Unspeakable, unchanging, with white unknitted brow, + With half-closed lips untrembling, with deedless hands and cold + Laid still on knees that stir not, and the linen's moveless fold. + + Turned Hogni unto the spear-wall, and smote from where he stood, + And hewed with his sword two-handed as the axe-man in a wood: + Before his sword was a champion and the edges clave to the chin, + And the first man fell in the feast-hall of those that should fall + therein, + Then man with man was dealing, and the Niblung host of war + Was swept by the leaping iron, as the rock anigh the shore + By the ice-cold waves of winter: yet a moment Gunnar stayed, + As high in his hand unbloodied he shook his awful blade; + And he cried: + "O Eastland champions, do ye behold it here, + The sword of the ancient Giuki? Fall on and have no fear, + But slay and be slain and be famous, if your master's will it be! + Yet are we the blameless Niblungs, and bidden guests are we: + So forbear, if ye wander hood-winked, nor for nothing slay and be + slain; + For I know not what to tell you of the dead that live again." + + So he saith in the midst of the foemen with his war-flame reared on + high, + But all about and around him goes up a bitter cry + From the iron men of Atli, and the bickering of the steel + Sends a roar up to the roof-ridge, and the Niblung war-ranks reel + Behind the steadfast Gunnar: but lo, have ye seen the corn, + While yet men grind the sickle, by the wind-streak overborne + When the sudden rain sweeps downward, and summer groweth black, + And the smitten wood-side roareth 'neath the driving thunder-wrack? + So before the wise-heart Hogni shrank the champions of the East + As his great voice shook the timbers in the hall of Atli's feast. + There he smote and beheld not the smitten, and by nought were his + edges stopped; + He smote and the dead were thrust from him; a hand with its shield he + lopped; + There met him Atli's marshal, and his arm at the shoulder he shred; + Three swords were upreared against him of the best of the kin of the + dead; + And he struck off a head to the rightward, and his sword through a + throat he thrust, + But the third stroke fell on his helm-crest, and he stooped to the + ruddy dust, + And uprose as the ancient Giant, and both his hands were wet: + Red then was the world to his eyen, as his hand to the labour he set; + Swords shook and fell in his pathway, huge bodies leapt and fell, + Harsh grided shield and war-helm like the tempest-smitten bell, + And the war-cries ran together, and no man his brother knew, + And the dead men loaded the living, as he went the war-wood through; + And man 'gainst man was huddled, till no sword rose to smite. + And clear stood the glorious Hogni in an island of the fight, + And there ran a river of death 'twixt the Niblung and his foes, + And therefrom the terror of men and the wrath of the Gods arose. + + Now fell the sword of Gunnar and rose up red in the air, + And hearkened the song of the Niblung, as his voice rang glad and + clear, + And rejoiced and leapt at the Eastmen, and cried as it met the rings + Of a giant of King Atli, and a murder-wolf of kings; + But it quenched its thirst in his entrails, and knew the heart in his + breast, + And hearkened the praise of Gunnar, and lingered not to rest, + But fell upon Atli's brother and stayed not in his brain; + Then he fell and the King leapt over, and clave a neck atwain, + And leapt o'er the sweep of a pole-axe and thrust a lord in the throat, + And King Atli's banner-bearer through shield and hauberk smote; + Then he laughed on the huddled East-folk, and against their + war-shields drave + While the white swords tossed about him, and that archer's skull he + clave + Whom Atli had bought in the Southlands for many a pound of gold; + And the dark-skinned fell upon Gunnar and over his war-shield rolled + And cumbered his sword for a season, and the many blades fell on, + And sheared the cloudy helm-crest and rents in his hauberk won, + And the red blood ran from Gunnar; till that Giuki's sword outburst, + As the fire-tongue from the smoulder that the leafy heap hath nursed, + And unshielded smote King Gunnar, and sent the Niblung song + Through the quaking stems of battle in the hall of Atli's wrong: + Then he rent the knitted war-hedge till by Hogni's side he stood, + And kissed him amidst of the spear-hail, and their cheeks were wet + with blood. + + Then on came the Niblung bucklers, and they drave the East-folk home + As the bows of the oar-driven long-ship beat off the waves in foam: + They leave their dead behind them, and they come to the doors and the + wall, + And a few last spears from the fleeing amidst their shield-hedge fall: + But the doors clash to in their faces, as the fleeing rout they drive, + And fain would follow after; and none is left alive + In the feast-hall of King Atli, save those fishes of the net, + And the white and silent woman above the slaughter set. + + Then biddeth the heart-wise Hogni, and men to the windows climb, + And uplift the war-grey corpses, dead drift of the stormy time, + And cast them adown to their people: thence they come aback and say + That scarce shall ye see the houses, and no whit the wheel-worn way + For the spears and shields of the Eastlands that the merchant city + throng: + And back to the Niblung burg-gate the way seemed weary-long. + + Yet passeth hour on hour, and the doors they watch and ward, + But a long while hear no mail-clash, nor the ringing of the sword; + Then droop the Niblung children, and their wounds are waxen chill, + And they think of the Burg by the river, and the builded holy hill, + And their eyes are set on Gudrun as of men who would beseech; + But unlearned are they in craving and know not dastard's speech. + Then doth Giuki's first-begotten a deed most fair to be told, + For his fair harp Gunnar taketh, and the warp of silver and gold; + With the hand of a cunning harper he dealeth with the strings, + And his voice in their midst goeth upward, as of ancient days he sings, + Of the days before the Niblungs, and the days that shall be yet; + Till the hour of toil and smiting the warrior hearts forget, + Nor hear the gathering foemen, nor the sound of swords aloof: + Then clear the song of Gunnar goes up to the dusky roof; + And the coming spear-host tarries, and the bearers of the woe + Through the cloisters of King Atli with lingering footsteps go. + + But Hogni looketh on Gudrun, and no change in her face he sees, + And no stir in her folded linen and the deedless hands on her knees: + Then from Gunnar's side he hasteneth; and lo, the open door, + And a foeman treadeth the pavement, and his lips are on Atli's floor, + For Hogni is death in the doorway: then the Niblungs turn on the foe, + And the hosts are mingled together, and blow cries out on blow. + + Still the song goeth up from Gunnar, though his harp to earth be laid; + But he fighteth exceeding wisely, and is many a warrior's aid, + And he shieldeth and delivereth, and his eyes search through the hall, + And woe is he for his fellows, as his battle-brethren fall; + For the turmoil hideth little from that glorious folk-king's eyes, + And o'er all he beholdeth Gudrun, and his soul is waxen wise, + And he saith: We shall look on Sigurd, and Sigmund of old days, + And see the boughs of the Branstock o'er the ancient Volsung's praise. + + Woe's me for the wrath of Hogni! From the door he giveth aback + That the Eastland slayers may enter to the murder and the wrack: + Then he rageth and driveth the battle to the golden kingly seat, + And the last of the foes he slayeth by Gudrun's very feet, + That the red blood splasheth her raiment; and his own blood therewithal + He casteth aloft before her, and the drops on her white hands fall: + But nought she seeth or heedeth, and again he turns to the fight, + Nor heedeth stroke nor wounding so he a foe may smite: + Then the battle opens before him, and the Niblungs draw to his side; + As Death in the world first fashioned, through the feast-hall doth he + stride. + And so once more do the Niblungs sweep that murder-flood of men + From the hall of toils and treason, and the doors swing to again. + + Then again is there peace for a little within the fateful fold; + But the Niblungs look about them, and but few folk they behold + Upright on their feet for the battle: now they climb aloft no more. + Nor cast the dead from the windows; but they raise a rampart of war, + And its stones are the fallen East-folk, and no lowly wall is that. + + Therein was Gunnar the mighty: on the shields of men he sat, + And the sons of his people hearkened, for his hand through the + harp-strings ran, + And he sang in the hall of his foeman of the Gods and the making of + man, + And how season was sundered from season in the days of the fashioning, + And became the Summer and Autumn, and became the Winter and Spring; + He sang of men's hunger and labour, and their love and their breeding + of broil, + And their hope that is fostered of famine, and their rest that is + fashioned of toil: + Fame then and the sword he sang of, and the hour of the hardy and wise, + When the last of the living shall perish, and the first of the dead + shall arise, + And the torch shall be lit in the daylight, and God unto man shall + pray, + And the heart shall cry out for the hand in the fight of the uttermost + day. + + So he sang, and beheld not Gudrun, save as long ago he saw + His sister, the little maiden of the face without a flaw: + But wearily Hogni beheld her, and no change in her face there was, + And long thereon gazed Hogni, and set his brows as the brass, + Though the hands of the King were weary, and weak his knees were grown. + And he felt as a man unholpen in a waste land wending alone. + + Now the noon was long passed over when again the rumour arose, + And through the doors cast open flowed in the river of foes: + They flooded the hall of the murder, and surged round that rampart of + dead; + No war-duke ran before them, no lord to the onset led, + But the thralls shot spears at adventure, and shot out shafts from + afar, + Till the misty hall was blinded with the bitter drift of war: + Few and faint were the Niblung children, and their wounds were waxen + acold, + And they saw the Hell-gates open as they stood in their grimly hold: + + Yet thrice stormed out King Hogni, thrice stormed out Gunnar the King, + Thrice fell they aback yet living to the heart of the fated ring; + And they looked and their band was little, and no man but was wounded + sore, + And the hall seemed growing greater, such hosts of foes it bore, + So tossed the iron harvest from wall to gilded wall; + And they looked and the white-clad Gudrun sat silent over all. + + Then the churls and thralls of the Eastland howled out as wolves + accurst, + But oft gaped the Niblungs voiceless, for they choked with anger and + thirst; + And the hall grew hot as a furnace, and men drank their flowing blood, + Men laughed and gnawed on their shield-rims, men knew not where they + stood + And saw not what was before them; as in the dark men smote, + Men died heart-broken, unsmitten; men wept with the cry in the throat, + Men lived on full of war-shafts, men cast their shields aside + And caught the spears to their bosoms; men rushed with none beside, + And fell unarmed on the foemen, and tore and slew in death: + And still down rained the arrows as the rain across the heath; + Still proud o'er all the turmoil stood the Kings of Giuki born, + Nor knit were the brows of Gunnar, nor his song-speech overworn; + But Hogni's mouth kept silence, and oft his heart went forth + To the long, long day of the darkness, and the end of worldly worth. + + Loud rose the roar of the East-folk, and the end was coming at last; + Now the foremost locked their shield-rims and the hindmost over them + cast, + And nigher they drew and nigher, and their fear was fading away, + For every man of the Niblungs on the shaft-strewn pavement lay, + Save Gunnar the King and Hogni: still the glorious King up-bore + The cloudy shield of the Niblungs set full of shafts of war; + But Hogni's hands had fainted, and his shield had sunk adown, + So thick with the Eastland spearwood was that rampart of renown; + And hacked and dull were the edges that had rent the wall of foes; + Yet he stood upright by Gunnar before that shielded close, + Nor looked on the foemen's faces as their wild eyes drew anear, + And their faltering shield-rims clattered with the remnant of their + fear; + But he gazed on the Niblung woman, and the daughter of his folk, + Who sat o'er all unchanging ere the war-cloud over them broke. + + Now nothing might men hearken in the house of Atli's weal, + Save the feet slow tramping onward, and the rattling of the steel, + And the song of the glorious Gunnar, that rang as clearly now + As the speckled storm-cock singeth from the scant-leaved hawthorn-bough + When the sun is dusking over and the March snow pelts the land. + There stood the mighty Gunnar with sword and shield in hand, + There stood the shieldless Hogni with set unangry eyes, + And watched the wall of war-shields o'er the dead men's rampart rise, + And the white blades flickering nigher, and the quavering points of + war. + Then the heavy air of the feast-hall was rent with a fearful roar, + And the turmoil came and the tangle, as the wall together ran: + But aloft yet towered the Niblungs, and man toppled over man, + And leapt and struggled to tear them; as whiles amidst the sea + The doomed ship strives its utmost with mid-ocean's mastery, + And the tall masts whip the cordage, while the welter whirls and leaps, + And they rise and reel and waver, and sink amid the deeps: + So before the little-hearted in King Atli's murder-hall + Did the glorious sons of Giuki 'neath the shielded onrush fall: + Sore wounded, bound and helpless, but living yet, they lie + Till the afternoon and the even in the first of night shall die. + + + _Of the Slaying of the Niblung Kings._ + + Lo now, 'tis an hour or twain, and a labour lightly won + By the serving-men of Atli, and the Niblung blood is gone + From the golden house of his greatness, and the Eastland dead no more + Lie in great heaps together on Atli's mazy floor: + Then they cast fair summer blossoms o'er the footprints of the dead, + They wreathe round Atli's high-seat and the benches fair bespread, + And they light the odorous torches, and the sun of the golden roof, + Till the candles of King Atli hold dusky night aloof. + + So they toil and are heavy-hearted, nor know what next shall betide, + As they look on the stranger-woman in the heart of Atli's pride. + + Now stand they aback for the trumpet and the merry minstrelsy, + For they tremble before King Atli, and golden-clad is he, + And his golden crown is heavy and he strides exceeding slow, + With the wise and the mighty about him, through the house of the + Niblungs' woe. + There then by the Niblung woman on the throne he sat him down, + And folk heard the gold gear tinkle and the rings of the Eastland + crown: + Folk looked on his rich adornment, on King Atli's pride they gazed, + And the bright beams wearied their eyen, by the glory were they dazed; + There the councillors kept silence and the warriors clad in steel, + All men lowly, all men mighty, that had care of Atli's weal; + Yea there in the hall were they waiting for the word to come from his + lips, + As they of the merchant-city behold the shield-hung ships + Sweep slow through the windless haven with their gaping heads of gold, + And they know not their nation and names, nor hath aught of their + errand been told. + + But King Atli looketh before him, and is grown too great to rejoice, + And he speaks and the world is troubled, though thin and scant be his + voice: + + "Bring forth the fallen and conquered, bring forth the bounden thrall, + That they who were once the Niblungs did once King Hogni call." + + So they brought him fettered and bound; and scarce on his feet he + stood, + But men stayed him up by the King; for the sword had drunk of his + blood, + And the might of his body had failed him, and yet so great was he + That the East-folk cowered before him and the might of his majesty. + + Then spake the all-great Atli: "Thou yielded thrall of war, + I would hear thee tell of the Treasure, the Hoard of the kings of + yore!" + + But words were grown heavy to Hogni, and scarce he spake with a smile: + "Let the living seek their desire; for indeed thou shalt live for a + while." + + "Wilt thou speak and live," said Atli, "nor pay for the blood thou + hast spilt?" + + Said he: "Thou art waxen so mighty, thou mayst have the Gold when thou + wilt." + + Said the King: "I will give thee thy life, and forgive thee measureless + woe." + + "It was gathered for thee," said Hogni, "and fashioned long ago." + + "Speak, man o'ercome," quoth Atli: "Is life so little a thing?" + + "Art thou mighty? put forth thine hand and gather the Gold!" said the + King. + + "Wilt thou tell of the Gold," said the East-King, "the desire of many + eyes?" + + "Yea, once on a day," said Hogni, "when the dead from the sea shall + arise." + + Said he: "So great is my longing, that, O foe, I would have thee live, + Yea, live and be great as aforetime, if this word thou yet wouldst + give." + + Said the Niblung: "Thee shall I heed, or the longing of thy pride? + I, who heeded Sigurd nothing, who thrust mine oath aside, + When the years were young and goodly and the summer bore increase! + Shall I crave my life of the greedy and pray for days of peace? + I, who whetted the sword for Sigurd, and bared the blade in the morn, + And smote ere the sun's uprising, and left my sister forlorn: + 'Yea I lied,' quoth the God-loved Singer, 'when the will of the Gods I + told!' + --Stretch forth thine hand, O Mighty, and take thy Treasure of Gold!" + + Then was Atli silent a little, for anger dulled his thought, + And the heaped-up wealth of the Eastland seemed an idle thing and + nought: + He turned and looked upon Gudrun as one who was fain to beseech, + But he saw her eyes that beheld not, and her lips that knew no speech, + And fear shot across his anger, and guile with his wrath was blent, + And he spake aloud to the war-lords: + "O ye, shall the eve be spent, + Nor behold the East rejoicing? what a mock for the Gods is this, + That men ever care for the morrow, nor nurse their toil-won bliss! + Lo now, this hour I speak in is the first of the seven-days' feast, + And the spring of our exultation o'er the glory of the East: + Draw nigh, O wise, O mighty, and gather words to praise + The hope of the King accomplished in the harvest of his days: + Bear forth this slave of the Niblungs to the pit and the chamber of + death, + That he hearken the council of night, and the rede that tomorrow saith, + And think of the might of King Atli, and his hand that taketh his own, + Though the hill-fox bark at his going, and his path with the bramble + be grown." + + So they led the Niblung away from the light and the joy of the feast, + In the chamber of death they cast him, and the pit of the Lord of the + East: + And thralls were the high King's warders; yet sons of the wise withal + Came down to sit with Hogni in the doomed man's darkling hall; + For they looked in his face and feared, lest Atli smite too nigh + The kin of the Gods of Heaven, and more than a man's child die. + + But 'neath the golden roof-sun, at beginning of the night, + Is the seven-days' feast of triumph in the hall of Atli dight; + And his living Earls come thither in peaceful gold attire, + And the cups on the East-King's tables shine out as a river of fire, + And sweet is the song of the harp-strings, and the singers' honeyed + words; + While wide through all the city do wives bewail their lords, + And curse the untimely hour and the day of the land forlorn, + And the year that the Earth shall rue of, and children never born. + + But Atli spake to his thrall-folk, and they went, and were little + afraid + To take the glorious Gunnar, and the King in shackles laid: + They deemed they should live for ever, and eat and sleep as the swine, + To them were the tales of the singers no token and no sign; + For the blossom of the Niblungs they rolled amid the dust, + That well-renowned Gunnar 'neath Atli's chair they thrust; + The feet of the Eastland liar on Gunnar's neck are set, + And by Atli Gudrun sitteth, and nought she stirreth yet. + + Outbrake the glee of the dastards, and they that had not dared + To meet the swords of the Niblungs, no whit the God-folk feared: + They forgat that the Norns were awake, and they praised the master of + guile + The war-spent conquering Atli and the face without a smile; + And the tumult of their triumph and the wordless mingled roar + Went forth from that hall of the Eastlands and smote the heavenly + floor. + + At last spake Atli the mighty: "Stand up, thou war-won thrall, + Whom they that were once the Niblungs did once King Gunnar call!" + + From the dust they dragged up Gunnar, and set him on his feet, + And the heart within him was living and the pride for a war-king meet; + And his glory was nothing abated, and fair he seemed and young, + As the first of the Cloudy Kings, fresh shoot from the sower sprung. + But Atli looked upon him, and a smile smoothed out his brow + As he said: "What thoughtest thou, Gunnar, when thou layst in the dust + e'en now?" + + He said: "Of Valhall I thought, and the host of my fathers' land, + And of Hogni that thou hast slaughtered, and my brother Sigurd's hand." + + Said Atli: "Think of thy life, and the days that shall be yet, + And thyself, maybe, as aforetime, in the throne of thy father set." + + "O Eastland liar," said Gunnar, "no more will I live and rue." + + Said Atli: "The word I have spoken, thy word may yet make true." + + "I weary of speech," said the Niblung, "with those that are lesser + than I." + + "Yet words of mine shalt thou hearken," said Atli, "or ever thou die." + + "So crieth the fool," said Gunnar, "on the God that his folly hath + slain." + + Said Atli: "Forth shall my word, nor yet shall be gathered again." + + "Yet meeter were thy silence; for thy folk make ready to sing." + + "O Gunnar, I long for the Gold with the heart and the will of a king." + + "This were good to tell," said Gunnar, "to the Gods that fashioned the + earth!" + + "Make me glad with the Gold," said Atli, "live on in honour and worth!" + + With a dreadful voice cried Gunnar: "O fool, hast thou heard it told + Who won the Treasure aforetime and the ruddy rings of the Gold? + It was Sigurd, child of the Volsungs, the best sprung forth from the + best: + He rode from the North and the mountains and became my summer-guest. + My friend and my brother sworn: he rode the Wavering Fire + And won me the Queen of Glory and accomplished my desire; + The praise of the world he was, the hope of the biders in wrong, + The help of the lowly people, the hammer of the strong: + Ah, oft in the world henceforward shall the tale be told of the deed, + And I, e'en I, will tell it in the day of the Niblungs' Need: + For I sat night-long in my armour, and when light was wide o'er the + land + I slaughtered Sigurd my brother, and looked on the work of mine hand. + And now, O mighty Atli, I have seen the Niblungs' wreck, + And the feet of the faint-heart dastard have trodden Gunnar's neck; + And if all be little enough, and the Gods begrudge me rest, + Let me see the heart of Hogni cut quick from his living breast, + And laid, on the dish before me: and then shall I tell of the Gold, + And become thy servant, Atli, and my life at thy pleasure hold. + O goodly story of Gunnar, and the King of the broken troth + In the heavy Need of the Niblungs, and the Sorrow of Odin the Goth!" + + Grim then waxed Atli bemocked, yet he pondered a little while, + For yet with his bitter anger strove the hope of his greedy guile, + And as one who falleth a-dreaming he hearkened Gunnar's word, + While his eyes beheld that Treasure, and the rings of the Ancient + Hoard. + + But he spake low-voiced to his sword-carles, and they heard and + understood, + And departed swift from the feast-hall to do the work he would. + To the chamber of death they gat them, to the pit they went adown, + And saw the wise men sitting round the war-king of renown: + Then they spake: "We are Atli's bondmen, and Atli's doom we bring: + We shall carve the heart from thy body, and thou living yet, O King." + + Then Hogni laughed, for they feared him; and he said: "Speed ye the + work! + For fain would I look on the storehouse where such marvels used to + lurk, + And the forge of fond desires, and the nurse of life that fails. + Take heed now! deeds are doing for the fashioners of tales." + + But they feared as they looked on the Niblung, and the wise men + hearkened and spake, + And bade them abide for a season, yea even for Atli's sake, + For the night-slaying is as the murder; and they looked on each other + and feared, + For Atli's bitter whisper their very hearts had heard: + Then they said: "The King makes merry, as a well the white wine + springs, + And the red wine runs as a river; and what are the hearts of kings, + That men may know them naked from the hearts of bond and thrall? + Nor go we empty-handed to King Atli in his hall." + + So the sword-carles spake to each other, and they looked and a man + they saw, + Who should hew the wood if he lived, and for thralls the water should + draw, + A thrall-born servant of servants, begetter of thralls on the earth: + And they said: "If this one were away, scarce greater were waxen the + dearth + That this morning hath wrought on the Eastland; for the years shall + eke out his woe, + And no day his toil shall lessen, and worse and worse shall he grow." + + They drew the steel new-whetted, on the thrall they laid the hand; + For they said: "All hearts be fashioned as the heart of the King of + the land." + But the thrall was bewildered with anguish, and wept and bewailed him + sore + For the loss of his life of labour, and the grief that long he bore. + + But wroth was the son of Giuki and he spake: "It is idle and vain, + And two men for one shall perish, and the knife shall be whetted again. + It is better to die than be sorry, and to hear the trembling cry, + And to see the shame of the poor: O fools, must the lowly die + Because kings strove with swords? I bid you to hasten the end, + For my soul is sick with confusion, and fain on the way would I wend." + + But the life of the thrall is over, and his fearful heart they set + On a fair wide golden platter, and bear it ruddy wet + To the throne of the triumphing East-King; he looketh, and feareth + withal + Lest the house should fail about him and the golden roof should fall: + But Gunnar laughed beside him, and spake o'er the laden gold: + + "O heart of a feeble trembler, no heart of Hogni the bold! + A gold dish bears thee quaking, yet indeed thou quakedst more + When the breast of the helpless dastard the burden of thee bore." + + The great hall was smitten silent and its mirth to fear was turned, + For the wrath of the King was kindled, and the eyes of Atli burned, + And he cried as they trembled before him: "Let me see the heart of my + foe! + Fear ye to mock King Atli till his head in the dust be alow!" + + Then the sword-carles flee before him, and are angry with their dread, + For they fear the living East-King yet more than the Niblung dead: + They come to the pit and the death-house, and the whetted steel they + bear; + They are pale before King Hogni; as winter-wolves they glare + Whom the ravening hunger driveth, when the chapmen journey slow, + And their horses faint in the moon-dusk, and stumble through the snow. + + But Hogni laughed before them, and he saith: "Now welcome again, + Now welcome again, war-fellows! Was Atli hood-winked then? + I looked that ye should be speedy; and, forsooth, ye needs must haste, + Lest more lives than one this even for Atli's will ye waste." + + About him throng the sword-men, and they shout as the war-fain cry + In the heart of the bitter battle when their hour is come to die, + And they cast themselves upon him, as on some wide-shielded man + That fierce in the storm of Odin upreareth edges wan. + + With the bound man swift is the steel: sore tremble the sons of the + wise, + And their hearts grow faint within them; yet no man hideth his eyes + As the edges deal with the mighty: nor dreadful is he now, + For the mock from his mouth hath faded, and the threat hath failed + from his brow, + And his face is as great and Godlike as his fathers of old days, + As fair as an image fashioned in remembrance of their praise: + But fled is the spirit of Hogni, and every deed he did, + The seed of the world it lieth, in the hand of Odin hid. + + On the gold is the heart of Hogni, and men bear it forth to the King, + As he sits in the hall of his triumph mid the glee and the + harp-playing: + Lo, the heart of a son of Giuki! and Gunnar liveth yet, + And the white unangry Gudrun by the Eastland King is set: + Upriseth the soul of Atli, and his breast is swollen with pride, + And he laughs in the face of Gunnar and the woman set by his side: + Then he looks on his living earls, and they cast their cry to the roof, + And it clangs o'er the woeful city and wails through the night aloof; + All the world of man-folk hearkeneth, and hath little joy therein, + Though the men of the East in glory high-tide with Atli win. + + But fair is the face of Gunnar as the token draweth anigh; + And he saith: "O heart of Hogni, on the gold indeed dost thou lie, + And as little as there thou quakest far less wert thou wont to quake + When thou lay'st in the breast of the mighty, and wert glad for his + gladness' sake, + And wert sorry with his sorrow; O mighty heart, farewell! + Farewell for a little season, till thy latest deed I tell." + + Then was Gunnar silent a little, and the shout in the hall had died, + And he spoke as a man awakening, and turned on Atli's pride. + "Thou all-rich King of the Eastlands, e'en such a man might I be + That I might utter a word, and the heart should be glad in thee, + And I should live and be sorry; for I, I only am left + To tell of the ransom of Odin, and the wealth from the toiler reft. + Lo, once it lay in the water, hid, deep adown it lay, + Till the Gods were grieved and lacking, and men saw it and the day: + Let it lie in the water once more, let the Gods be rich and in peace! + But I at least in the world from the words and the babble shall cease." + + So he spake and Atli beheld him, and before his eyes he shrank: + Still deep of the cup of desire the mighty Atli drank, + And to overcome seemed little if the Gold he might not have, + And his hard heart craved for a while to hold the King for a slave, + A bondman blind and guarded in his glorious house and great: + But he thought of the overbold, and of kings who have dallied with + fate, + And died bemocked and smitten; and he deemed it worser than well + While the last of the sons of Giuki hangeth back from his journey to + Hell: + So he turneth away from the stranger, and beholdeth Gudrun his wife, + Not glad nor sorry by seeming, no stirrer nor stayer of strife: + Then he looked at his living earl-folk, and thought of his groves of + war, + And his realm and the kindred nations, and his measureless guarded + store: + And he thought: Shall Atli perish, shall his name be cast to the dead, + Though the feeble folk go wailing? Then he cried aloud and said: + + "Why tarry ye, Sons of the Morning? the wain for the bondman is dight; + And the folk that are waiting his body have need of no sunshine to + smite. + Go forth 'neath the stars and the night-wind; go forth by the cloud and + the moon, + And come back with the word in the dawning, that my house may be merry + at noon!" + + Then the sword-folk rise round Gunnar, round the fettered and bound + they throng, + As men in the bitter battle round the God-kin over-strong; + They bore him away to the doorway, and the winds were awake in the + night, + And the wood of the thorns of battle in the moon shone sharp and + bright; + But Gunnar looked to the heavens, and blessed the promise of rain, + And the windy drift of the clouds, and the dew on the builded wain: + And the sword-folk tarried a little, and the sons of the wise were + there, + And beheld his face o'er the war-helms, and the wavy night of his hair. + Then they feared for the weal of Atli, and the Niblung's harp they + brought, + And they dealt with the thralls of the sword, and commanded and + besought, + Till men loosened the gyves of Gunnar, and laid the harp by his side, + Then the yoke-beasts lowed in the forecourt and the wheels of the + waggon cried, + And the war-thorns clashed in the night, and the men went dark on + their way, + And the city was silent before them, on the roofs the white moon lay. + + Now they left the gate and the highway, and came to a lonely place, + Where the sun all day had been shining on the desert's empty face; + Then the moon ran forth from a cloud, the grey light shone and showed + The pit of King Atli's adders in the land without a road, + Digged deep adown in the desert with shining walls and smooth + For the Serpents' habitation, and the folk that know not ruth. + Therein they thrust King Gunnar, and he bare of his kingly weed, + But they gave his harp to the Niblung, and his hands of the gyves they + freed; + They stood around in their war-gear to note what next should befall + For the comfort of King Atli, and the glee of the Eastland hall. + + Still hot was that close with the sun, and thronged with the coiling + folk, + And about the feet of Gunnar their hissing mouths awoke: + But he heeded them not nor beheld them, and his hands in the + harp-strings ran, + As he sat him down in the midmost on a sun-scorched rock and wan: + And he sighed as one who resteth on a flowery bank by the way + When the wind is in the blossoms at the even-tide of day: + But his harp was murmuring low, and he mused: Am I come to the death, + And I, who was Gunnar the Niblung? nay, nay, how I draw my breath, + And love my life as the living! and so I ever shall do, + Though wrack be loosed in the heavens and the world be fashioned anew. + + But the worms were beholding their prey, and they drew around and + nigher, + Smooth coil, and flickering tongue, and eyes as the gold in the fire; + And he looked and beheld them and spake, nor stilled his harp + meanwhile: + "What will ye? O thralls of Atli, O images of guile?" + + Then, he rose at once to his feet, and smote the harp with his hand, + And it rang as if with a cry in the dream of a lonely land; + Then he fondled its wail as it faded, and orderly over the strings + Went the marvellous sound of its sweetness, like the march of Odin's + kings + New-risen for play in the morning when o'er meadows of God-home they + wend, + And hero playeth with hero, that their hands may be deft in the end. + But the crests of the worms were uplifted, though coil on coil was + stayed, + And they moved but as dark-green rushes by the summer river swayed. + + Then uprose the Song of Gunnar, and sang o'er his crafty hands, + And told of the World of Aforetime, unshapen, void of lands; + Yet it wrought, for its memory bideth, and it died and abode its doom; + It shaped, and the Upper-Heavens, and the hope came forth from its + womb. + Great then grew the voice of Gunnar, and his speech was sweet on the + wild, + And the moon on his harp was shining, and the hands of the Niblung + child: + + "So perished the Gap of the Gaping, and the cold sea swayed and sang, + And the wind came down on the waters, and the beaten rock-walls rang; + Then the Sun from the south came shining, and the Starry Host stood + round, + And the wandering Moon of the heavens his habitation found; + And they knew not why they were gathered, nor the deeds of their + shaping they knew: + But lo, Mid-Earth the Noble 'neath their might and their glory grew, + And the grass spread over its face, and the Night and the Day were + born, + And it cried on the Death in the even, and it cried on the Life in the + morn: + Yet it waxed and waxed, and knew not, and it lived and had not learned; + And where were the Framers that framed, and the Soul and the Might + that had yearned? + + "On the Thrones are the Powers that fashioned, and they name the Night + and the Day, + And the tide of the Moon's increasing, and the tide of his waning away: + And they name the years for the story; and the Lands they change and + change, + The great and the mean and the little, that this unto that may be + strange: + They met, and they fashioned dwellings, and the House of Glory they + built; + They met, and they fashioned the Dwarf-kind, and the Gold and the + Gifts and the Guilt. + + "There were twain, and they went upon earth, and were speechless + unmighty and wan; + They were hopeless, deathless, lifeless, and the Mighty named them Man: + Then they gave them speech and power, and they gave them colour and + breath; + And deeds and the hope they gave them, and they gave them Life and + Death; + Yea, hope, as the hope of the Framers; yea, might, as the Fashioners + had, + Till they wrought, and rejoiced in their bodies, and saw their sons + and were glad: + And they changed their lives and departed, and came back as the leaves + of the trees + Come back and increase in the summer:--and I, I, I am of these; + And I know of Them that have fashioned, and the deeds that have + blossomed and grow; + But nought of the Gods' repentance, or the Gods' undoing I know." + + Then falleth the speech of Gunnar, and his lips the word forget, + But his crafty hands are busy, and the harp is murmuring yet. + + And the crests of the worms have fallen, and their flickering tongues + are still, + The Roller and the Coiler, and Greyback, lord of ill, + Grave-groper and Death-swaddler, the Slumberer of the Heath, + Gold-wallower, Venom-smiter, lie still, forgetting death, + And loose are coils of Long-back; yea, all as soft are laid + As the kine in midmost summer about the elmy glade; + --All save the Grey and Ancient, that holds his crest aloft, + Light-wavering as the flame-tongue when the evening wind is soft: + For he comes of the kin of the Serpent once wrought all wrong to nurse, + The bond of earthly evil, the Midworld's ancient curse. + + But Gunnar looked and considered, and wise and wary he grew, + And the dark of night was waning and chill in the dawning it grew; + But his hands were strong and mighty and the fainting harp he woke, + And cried in the deadly desert, and the song from his soul out-broke: + + "O Hearken, Kindreds and Nations, and all Kings of the plenteous earth. + Heed, ye that shall come hereafter, and are far and far from the birth! + I have dwelt in the world aforetime, and I called it the garden of God; + I have stayed my heart with its sweetness, and fair on its freshness I + trod; + I have seen its tempest and wondered, I have cowered adown from its + rain, + And desired the brightening sunshine, and seen it and been fain; + I have waked, time was, in its dawning; its noon and its even I wore; + I have slept unafraid of its darkness, and the days have been many and + more: + I have dwelt with the deeds of the mighty; I have woven the web of the + sword; + I have borne up the guilt nor repented; I have sorrowed nor spoken the + word; + And I fought and was glad in the morning, and I sing in the night and + the end: + So let him stand forth, the Accuser, and do on the death-shoon to wend; + For not here on the earth shall I hearken, nor on earth for the + dooming shall stay, + Nor stretch out mine hand for the pleading; for I see the spring of + the day + Round the doors of the golden Valhall, and I see the mighty arise, + And I hearken the voice of Odin, and his mouth on Gunnar cries, + And he nameth the Son of Giuki, and cries on deeds long done, + And the fathers of my fathers, and the sons of yore agone. + + "O Odin, I see, and I hearken; but, lo thou, the bonds on my feet, + And the walls of the wilderness round me, ere the light of thy land I + meet! + I crave and I weary, Allfather, and long and dark is the road; + And the feet of the mighty are weakened, and the back is bent with the + load." + + Then fainted the song of Gunnar, and the harp from his hand fell down, + And he cried: "Ah, what hath betided? for cold the world hath grown, + And cold is the heart within me, and my hand is heavy and strange; + What voice is the voice I hearken in the chill and the dusk and the + change? + Where art thou, God of the war-fain? for this is the death indeed; + And I unsworded, unshielded, in the Day of the Niblungs' Need!" + + He fell to the earth as he spake, and life left Gunnar the King, + For his heart was chilled for ever by the sleepless serpent's sting, + The grey Worm, Great and Ancient--and day in the East began, + And the moon was low in the heavens, and the light clouds over him ran. + + + _The Ending of Gudrun._ + + Men sleep in the dwelling of Atli through the latter hours of night, + Though the comfortless women be wailing as they that love not light + Men sleep in the dawning-hour, and bowed down is Atli's head + Amidst the gold and the purple, and the pillows of his bed: + But hark, ere the sun's uprising, when folk see colours again, + Is the trample of steeds in the fore-court, and the noise of steel and + of men + And Atli wakeneth and riseth, and is clad in purple and pall, + And he goeth forth from the chamber and meeteth his earls in the hall + A king full great and mighty, if a great king ever hath been; + And over his head on the high-seat still sitteth Gudrun the Queen. + + Then he said: "Whence come ye, children? whence come ye, Lords of the + East? + Shall today be for evil and mourning or a day of joyance and feast?" + + They said: "Today shall be wailing for the foes of the Eastland kin; + But for them that love King Atli shall the day of feasts begin: + For we come from the land deserted, and the heath without a way, + And now are the earth's folk telling of the Niblungs passed away." + + Then King Atli turned unto Gudrun, and the new sun shone through the + door, + The long beams fell from the mountains and lighted Atli's floor: + Then he cried: "Lo, the day-light, Gudrun! and the Cloudy Folk is gone; + There is glory now in the Eastland, and thy lord is king alone." + + But Gudrun rose from the high-seat, and her eyes on the King she + turned; + And he stood rejoicing before her, and his crown in the sunlight + burned, + With the golden gear was he swaddled, and he held the red-gold rod + That the Kings of the East had carried since first they came from God: + Down she came, and men kept silence, and the earls beheld her face, + As her raiment rustled about her in the morning-joyous place: + So she stood amidst of the sun-beams, by King Atli's board she stood, + And men looked and wondered at her, would she speak them ill or good: + She wept not, and she sighed not, nor smiled in the stranger land, + But she stood before King Atli, and the cup was in her hand. + + Then she spake: "Take, King, and drink it! for earth's mightiest men + prevail, + And to thee is the praise and the glory, and the ending of the tale: + There are men to the dead land faring, but the dark o'er their heads + is deep, + They cry not, they return not, and no more renown they reap; + But we do our will without them, nor fear their speech or frown; + And glad shall be our uprising, and light our lying-down." + + She said: "A maid of maidens my mother reared me erst; + By the side of the glorious Gunnar my early days were nursed; + By the side of the heart-wise Hogni I went from field to flower, + Joy rose with the sun's uprising, nor sank in the twilight hour; + Kings looked and laughed upon us as we played with the golden toy: + And oft our hands were meeting as we mingled joy with joy." + + More she spake: "O King command me! for women's knees are weak, + And their feet are little steadfast, and their hands for comfort seek: + On the earth the blossom falleth when the branch is dried with day, + And the vine to the elm-bough clingeth when men smite the roots away." + + Then drank the Eastland Atli as he looked in Gudrun's face, + And beheld no wrath against him, and no hate of the coming days; + Then he spake: "O mighty woman, this day the feast shall be + For the heritance of Atli, and the gain of mine and me: + For this day the Eastland people such great dominion win, + That a world to their will new-fashioned 'neath their glory shall + begin. + Yet, since the mighty are fallen, and kings are gone from earth, + Let these at the feast be remembered, and their ancient deeds of worth. + So I bid thee, O King's Daughter, sit by Atli at the feast, + To praise thy kin departed and Atli's weal increased; + And the heirship-feast and the death-feast today shall be as one; + And then shalt thou wake tomorrow with all thy mourning done, + And all thy will accomplished, and thy glory great and sure. + That for ever and for ever shall the tale thereof endure." + + He spake in the sunny morning, and Gudrun answered and said: + "Thou hast bidden me feast, O Atli, and thy will shall be obeyed: + And well I thank thee, great-one, for the gifts thine hand would give; + For who shall gainsay the mighty, and the happy Kings that live? + Thou hast swallowed the might of the Niblungs, and their glory lieth + in thee: + Live long, and cherish thy wealth, that the world may wonder and see!" + + Therewith to the bower of queens the Niblung wendeth her way, + And in all the glory of women the folk her body array: + Forth she comes with the crown on her head and the ivory rod in her + hand, + With queens for her waiting-women, and the hope of many a land: + There she goes in that wonder of houses when the high-tide of Atli is + dight, + And her face is as fair as the sea, and her eyen are glittering bright. + + By Atli's side she sitteth, o'er the earls they twain are set, + And shields of the ancient wise-ones on the wall are hanging yet, + And the golden sun of the roof-sky, the sun of Atli's pride, + Through the beams where day but glimmers casts red light far and wide: + The beakers clash thereunder, the red wine murmureth speech, + And the eager long-beard warriors cast praises each to each + Of the blossoming tree of the Eastland:--and tomorrow shall be as + today, + Yea, even more abundant, and all foes have passed away. + + It was then in the noon-tide moment; o'er the earth high hung the sun, + When the song o'er the mighty Niblungs in a stranger-house was begun, + And their deeds were told by the foemen, and the names of hope they had + Rang sweet in the hall of the murder to make King Atli glad: + It is little after the noon-tide when thereof they sing no more, + Nor tell of the strife that has been, and the leaping flames of war, + And the vengeance lulled for ever and the wrath that shall never awake: + For where is the kin of Hogni, and who liveth for Gunnar's sake? + + So men in the hall make merry, nor note the afternoon, + And the time when men grow weary with the task that ends not soon; + The sun falls down unnoted, and night and her daughter are nigh, + And a dull grey mist and awful hangeth over the east of the sky, + And spreadeth, though winds are sleeping, and riseth higher and higher; + But the clouds hang high in the west as a sea of rippling fire, + That the face of the gazer is lighted, if unto the west ye gaze, + And white walls in the lonely meadows grow ruddy under the blaze; + Yet brighter e'en than the cloud-sea, far-off and clear serene, + Mid purple clouds unlitten the light lift lieth between; + And who looks, save the lonely shepherd on the brow of the houseless + hill, + Who hath many a day seen no man to tell him of good or of ill? + + Day dies, and the storm-threats perish, and the stars to the heaven + are come, + And the white moon climbeth upward and hangs o'er the Eastland home; + But no man in the hall of King Atli shall heed the heavens without, + For Atli's roof is their heaven, and thereto they cast the shout, + And this, the glory they builded, is become their God to praise, + The hope of their generations, the giver of goodly days: + No more they hearken the harp-strings, no more they hearken the song; + All the might of the deedful Niblungs is a tale forgotten long, + And yester-morning's murder is as though it ne'er had been; + They heed not the white-armed Gudrun, the glorious Stranger-Queen, + They heed not Atli triumphant, for they also, they are Kings, + They are brethren of the God-folk and the fashioners of things; + Nay, the Gods,--and the Gods have sorrow, and these shall rue no more, + These world-kings, these prevailers, these beaters-down of war: + What golden house shall hold them, what nightless shadowless heaven? + --So they feast in the hall of Atli, and that eve is the first of the + seven. + + So they feast, and weary, and know not how weary they are grown, + As they stretch out hands to gather where their hands have never sown; + They are drunken with wine and with folly, and the hope they would + bring to pass + Of the mirth no man may compass, and the joy that never was, + Till their heads hang heavy with slumber, and their hands from the + wine-cup fail, + And blind stray their hands in the harp-strings and their mouths may + tell no tale. + + Now the throne of Atli is empty, low lieth the world-king's head + Mid the woven gold and the purple, and the dreams of Atli's bed, + And Gudrun lieth beside him as the true by the faithful and kind, + And every foe is departed, and no fear is left behind: + Lo, lo, the rest of the night-tide for which all kings would long, + And all warriors of the people that have fought with fear and wrong. + + Yet a while;--it was but an hour and the moon was hung so high, + As it seemed that the silent night-tide would never change and die; + But lo, how the dawn comes stealing o'er the mountains of the east, + And dim grows Atli's roof-sun o'er yestereven's feast; + Dim yet in the treasure-houses lie the ancient heaps of gold, + But slowly come the colours to the Dwarf-wrought rings of old: + Yet a while; and the day-light lingers: yea, yea, is it darker than + erst? + Hath the day into night-tide drifted, the day by the twilight nursed? + Are the clouds in the house of King Atli? Or what shines brighter that + morn, + In helms and shields of the ancient, and swords by dead kings borne? + Have the heavens come down to Atli? Hath his house been lifted on high, + Lest the pride of the triumphing World-King should fade in the world + and die? + + Lo, lo, in the hall of the Murder where the white-armed Gudrun stands, + Aloft by the kingly high-seat, and nought empty are her hands; + For the litten brand she beareth, and the grinded war-sword bare: + Still she stands for a little season till day groweth white and fair + Without the garth of King Atli; but within, a wavering cloud + Rolls, hiding the roof and the roof-sun; then she stirreth and crieth + aloud: + + "Alone was I yestereven: and alone in the night I lay, + And I thought on the ancient fathers, and longed for the dawning of + day: + Then I rose from the bed of the Eastlands; to the Holy Hearth I went; + And lo, how the brands were abiding the hand of mine intent! + Then I caught them up with wisdom, with care I bore them forth, + And I laid them amidst of the treasures and dear things of uttermost + worth; + 'Neath the fair-dight benches I laid them and the carven work of the + hall; + I was wise, as the handmaid arising ere the sun hath litten the wall, + When the brands on the hearth she lighteth that her work betimes she + may win, + That her hand may toil unchidden, and her day with praise begin. + --Begin, O day of Atli! O ancient sun, arise, + With the light that I loved aforetime, with the light that blessed + mine eyes, + When I woke and looked on Sigurd, and he rose on the world and shone! + And we twain in the world together! and I dwelt with Sigurd alone." + + She spake; and the sun clomb over the Eastland mountains' rim + And shone through the door of Atli and the smoky hall and dim, + But the fire roared up against him, and the smoke-cloud rolled aloof, + And back and down from the timbers, and the carven work of the roof; + There the ancient trees were crackling as the red flames shot aloft + From the heart of the gathering smoke-cloud; there the far-fetched + hangings soft, + The gold and the sea-born purple, shrank up in a moment of space, + And the walls of Atli trembled, and the ancient golden place. + + But the wine-drenched earls were awaking, and the sleep-dazed warriors + stirred, + And the light of their dawning was dreadful; wild voice of the day + they heard, + And they knew not where they were gotten, and their hearts were + smitten with dread, + And they deemed that their house was fallen to the innermost place of + the dead, + The hall for the traitors builded, the house of the changeless plain; + They cried, and their tongues were confounded, and none gave answer + again: + They rushed, and came nowhither; each man beheld his foe, + And smote as the hopeless and dying, nor brother brother might know, + The sons of one mother's sorrow in the fire-blast strove and smote, + And the sword of the first-begotten was thrust in the father's throat, + And the father hewed at his stripling; the thrall at the war-king + cried, + And mocked the face of the mighty in that house of Atli's pride. + + There Gudrun stood o'er the turmoil; there stood the Niblung child; + As the battle-horn is dreadful, as the winter wind is wild, + So dread and shrill was her crying and the cry none heeded or heard, + As she shook the sword in the Eastland, and spake the hidden word: + + "The brand for the flesh of the people, and the sword for the King of + the world!" + Then adown the hall and the smoke-cloud the half-slaked torch she + hurled + And strode to the chamber of Atli, white-fluttering mid the smoke; + But their eyen met in the doorway and he knew the hand and the stroke, + And shrank aback before her; and no hand might he upraise, + There was nought in his heart but anguish in that end of Atli's days. + + But she towered aloft before him, and cried in Atli's home: + "Lo, lo, the day-light, Atli, and the last foe overcome!" + And with all the might of the Niblungs she thrust him through and fled, + And the flame was fleet behind her and hung o'er the face of the dead. + + There was none to hinder Gudrun, and the fire-blast scathed her nought, + For the ways of the Norns she wended, and her feet from the wrack they + brought + Till free from the bane of the East-folk, the swift pursuing flame, + To the uttermost wall of Atli and the side of the sea she came: + She stood on the edge of the steep, and no child of man was there: + A light wind blew from the sea-flood and its waves were little and + fair, + And gave back no sign of the burning, as in twinkling haste they ran, + White-topped in the merry morning, to the walls and the havens of man. + + Then Gudrun girded her raiment, on the edge of the steep she stood, + She looked o'er the shoreless water, and cried out o'er the measureless + flood: + "O Sea, I stand before thee; and I who was Sigurd's wife! + By his brightness unforgotten I bid thee deliver my life + From the deeds and the longing of days, and the lack I have won of the + earth, + And the wrong amended by wrong, and the bitter wrong of my birth!" + + She hath spread out her arms as she spake it, and away from the earth + she leapt, + And cut off her tide of returning; for the sea-waves over her swept, + And their will is her will henceforward; and who knoweth the deeps of + the sea, + And the wealth of the bed of Gudrun, and the days that yet shall be? + + Ye have heard of Sigurd aforetime, how the foes of God he slew; + How forth from the darksome desert the Gold of the Waters he drew; + How he wakened Love on the Mountain, and wakened Brynhild the Bright, + And dwelt upon Earth for a season, and shone in all men's sight. + Ye have heard of the Cloudy People, and the dimming of the day, + And the latter world's confusion, and Sigurd gone away; + Now ye know of the Need of the Niblungs and the end of broken troth, + All the death of kings and of kindreds and the sorrow of Odin the Goth. + + +THE END. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes + +Page Problem Correction +v Siggier Siggeir +7 he said: O Guest, begin; he said: "O Guest, begin; +17 to meet his guests by the way. to meet his guests by the way." +28 wend the ways of his fate." wend the ways of his fate.'" +30 and said: What is it and said: "What is it +42 Sinfioli's Sinfiotli's +57 Sigmund's loins shall grow.' Sigmund's loins shall grow." +64 waded the swathes of the sword waded the swathes of the sword. +99 the blood of the Worm was mine the blood of the Worm was mine. +128 and the Gods are yet but young. and the Gods are yet but young." +140 All hail, O Day "All hail, O Day +141 the Sting of the Sleepful Thorn! the Sting of the Sleepful Thorn!' +143 I needs must speak thy speech.' I needs must speak thy speech." +183 as the sun-beams hide the way as the sun-beams hide the way. +189 God that is smitten nor smites God that is smitten nor smites. +216 his worth with thy worth.' his worth with thy worth." +237 'A witless lie is this; "A witless lie is this; +257 lord of all creatures should die lord of all creatures should die. +281 asembled assembled +283 Now to day do we come Now today do we come +293 called their king with me.' called their king with me." +304 and they seem so gay and kind. and they seem so gay and kind, +338 Lords of the East Lords of the East? + + +The following words with and without hyphens are transcribed as in the +text: + +a-cold acold +a-land aland +all-wise allwise +beshielded be-shielded +daylight day-light +Daylong Day-long +doorway door-way +downward down-ward +evermore ever-more +forecourt fore-court +forefront fore-front +foreordered fore-ordered +foreshore fore-shore +forthright forth-right +fosterbrethren foster-brethren +gemstones gem-stones +godlike god-like +goodwill good-will +gravemound grave-mound +greensward green-sward +handmaid hand-maid +harpstrings harp-strings +heavyhearted heavy-hearted +helpmate help-mate +lealand lea-land +leechcraft leech-craft +lifedays life-days +longships long-ships +manchild man-child +manfolk's man-folk's +manlike manlike +midnoon mid-noon +moonlit moon-lit +moonrise moon-rise +noontide noon-tide +O'ershort O'er-short +oakwood oak-wood +outbrake out-brake +overworn over-worn +sidelong side-long +songcraft song-craft +spearwood spear-wood +springtide spring-tide +storehouse store-house +sunbeams sun-beams +sunbright sun-bright +sunlit sun-lit +today to-day +tonight to-night +torchlight torch-light +trothplight troth-plight +upbuilded up-builded +upheaveth up-heaveth +upraised up-raised +warfarings war-farings +warflame war-flame +wargear war-gear +wildfire wild-fire +woodways wood-ways +yestereve yester-eve +yestereven yester-even + + +The following words with and without accented vowels are transcribed as in +the text: + +accursed accursed +assured assured +beloved beloved +changed changed +crooked crooked +crowned crowned +heaped heaped +loved loved +sheathed sheathed +Son Son + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and +the Fall of the Niblungs, by William Morris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIGURD THE VOLSUNG *** + +***** This file should be named 18328.txt or 18328.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/2/18328/ + +Produced by R. 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