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 firBrought war from the outer ocean to their fish-belovèd stream?Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleamAdown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars greyHave 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 sakeIs 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 stringèd 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 sheathèd sound:But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous SwordAre the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard,And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er againHe 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 hallNow 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 greenGo 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 heapèd 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 headThe 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 changèd love and lifeOn the further side of the battle, and the hope, and the shifting strife:So up and down he rideth, till at even of the dayA 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 woundBetwixt the lea and the acres, and the misty orchard ground;But forth from the feet of the mountains a ridgèd hill there ranThat 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 highThe threat of guarded battle, and the tale of victory.Then swift he hasteneth downward, lest day be wholly spentEre he come to the gate well warded, and the walls' beleaguerment;For his heart is eager to hearken what men-folk therein dwellAnd 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 ridgeO'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 cameRound the snows no summers minish and the far-off sunset flame:But lo, the burg at the ridge-end! have the Gods been building againSince 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 lordWho '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 toldStood up the many towers, so stark and sharp and cold;But dark-red and worn and ancient as the midmost mountain-sidesIs the wall that goeth about them; and its mighty compass hidesFull 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 forthTill 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 caveBored 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 boardsOr 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 wiseWith 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 aloneWill 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 sayIf 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 begoneTo 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' fencèd 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 abideAnd have all good at our hands? for unto the Niblungs' homeAnd 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 trodUnfeared in the Burg of the Niblungs; nor worser, nor better at allMay 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 goneSince 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 bySwept 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 daïs he meeteth the kin of Giuki the wise:Lo, here is the crownèd 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 lordsIs 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 gladThat 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 rejoicedAt 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 behindOn 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 MayThe 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 cameIn the day of their deeds triumphant, and the blossom of their fame.
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 firBrought war from the outer ocean to their fish-belovèd stream?Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleamAdown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars greyHave 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 sakeIs 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 stringèd 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 sheathèd sound:But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous SwordAre the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard,And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er againHe 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 hallNow 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 greenGo 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 heapèd 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 headThe 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 changèd love and lifeOn the further side of the battle, and the hope, and the shifting strife:So up and down he rideth, till at even of the dayA 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 woundBetwixt the lea and the acres, and the misty orchard ground;But forth from the feet of the mountains a ridgèd hill there ranThat 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 highThe threat of guarded battle, and the tale of victory.Then swift he hasteneth downward, lest day be wholly spentEre he come to the gate well warded, and the walls' beleaguerment;For his heart is eager to hearken what men-folk therein dwellAnd 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 ridgeO'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 cameRound the snows no summers minish and the far-off sunset flame:But lo, the burg at the ridge-end! have the Gods been building againSince 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 lordWho '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 toldStood up the many towers, so stark and sharp and cold;But dark-red and worn and ancient as the midmost mountain-sidesIs the wall that goeth about them; and its mighty compass hidesFull 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 forthTill 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 caveBored 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 boardsOr 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 wiseWith 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 aloneWill 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 sayIf 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 begoneTo 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' fencèd 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 abideAnd have all good at our hands? for unto the Niblungs' homeAnd 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 trodUnfeared in the Burg of the Niblungs; nor worser, nor better at allMay 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 goneSince 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 bySwept 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 daïs he meeteth the kin of Giuki the wise:Lo, here is the crownèd 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 lordsIs 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 gladThat 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 rejoicedAt 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 behindOn 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 MayThe 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 cameIn the day of their deeds triumphant, and the blossom of their fame.
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 eyesHow 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 cleftAs 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 feastFor 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 truthFrom the heart of the wrack and the battle: it was then, as his gold gear burnedO'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 hearThe 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 wildOn 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, rejoiceFor 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 wrackIs 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 kindBecause 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 seaAnd 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 availWhen the red flame lives amidst it? Lo now, the golden manIn 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 longTill 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 singIn 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 accursèd 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 ringsFrom 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 hallTo the feast of their glad returning the Niblung children fall;And far o'er the flowery lealand the shepherds of the plainBehold 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 shipsHigh up the Niblung River, that their sons may hear his lipsShed 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 talesAre 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 earthLoved 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 strangeComes 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!
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 eyesHow 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 cleftAs 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 feastFor 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 truthFrom the heart of the wrack and the battle: it was then, as his gold gear burnedO'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 hearThe 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 wildOn 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, rejoiceFor 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 wrackIs 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 kindBecause 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 seaAnd 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 availWhen the red flame lives amidst it? Lo now, the golden manIn 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 longTill 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 singIn 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 accursèd 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 ringsFrom 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 hallTo the feast of their glad returning the Niblung children fall;And far o'er the flowery lealand the shepherds of the plainBehold 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 shipsHigh up the Niblung River, that their sons may hear his lipsShed 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 talesAre 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 earthLoved 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 strangeComes 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!
Now again in the latter summer do those Kings of the Niblungs rideTo chase the sons of the plunder that curse the ocean-side:So over the oaken rollers they run the cutters downTill 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 throatsAnd dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats,And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursedAre 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 freeThat a maid may wend untroubled by the edges of the sea;And glad in the autumn season they sit them down againBy 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 cupBeat 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 soreThat 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 earthEarth'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 thereofShould 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 scoredWith 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 eyesThat 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 beenHis love of Brynhild perished as he gazed on the Niblung Queen:Brynhild's belovèd 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 nightAll waste is the burg of Brynhild, and there springeth a marvellous lightOn the desert hard by Lymdale, and few men know for why;But there are, who say that a wildfire thence roareth up to the skyRound a glorious golden dwelling, wherein there sitteth a QueenIn remembrance of the wakening, and the slumber that hath been;Wherein a Maid there sitteth, who knows not hope nor restFor 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 sharpBeneath the cloudy roof-tree, but no joyance with it went,And no voice but the eagles' crying with the stringèd 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 deemThat 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 bestridesAnd 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 outEre 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' feetWith 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 comesIn 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 outAnd 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-renownèd 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 himThat 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 tellOf thy deeds since yestereven? or whitherward wentst thou?"Then unto the earth leapt the Volsung, and gazed with doubtful browOn 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 earthIs 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 cheerThe 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 KingsWith the Niblung brethren about him, and they spake of famous things,And the dealings of lords of the earth; but he spake and answered againAnd 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 heartTo 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 armsAs 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 fireAll dies and is forgotten in the sweetness of desire;And close she clingeth to Sigurd, as one that hath gotten the bestAnd fair things of the world she deemeth, as a place of infinite rest.
Now again in the latter summer do those Kings of the Niblungs rideTo chase the sons of the plunder that curse the ocean-side:So over the oaken rollers they run the cutters downTill 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 throatsAnd dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats,And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursedAre 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 freeThat a maid may wend untroubled by the edges of the sea;And glad in the autumn season they sit them down againBy 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 cupBeat 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 soreThat 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 earthEarth'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 thereofShould 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 scoredWith 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 eyesThat 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 beenHis love of Brynhild perished as he gazed on the Niblung Queen:Brynhild's belovèd 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 nightAll waste is the burg of Brynhild, and there springeth a marvellous lightOn the desert hard by Lymdale, and few men know for why;But there are, who say that a wildfire thence roareth up to the skyRound a glorious golden dwelling, wherein there sitteth a QueenIn remembrance of the wakening, and the slumber that hath been;Wherein a Maid there sitteth, who knows not hope nor restFor 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 sharpBeneath the cloudy roof-tree, but no joyance with it went,And no voice but the eagles' crying with the stringèd 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 deemThat 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 bestridesAnd 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 outEre 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' feetWith 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 comesIn 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 outAnd 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-renownèd 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 himThat 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 tellOf thy deeds since yestereven? or whitherward wentst thou?"
Then unto the earth leapt the Volsung, and gazed with doubtful browOn 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 earthIs 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 cheerThe 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 KingsWith the Niblung brethren about him, and they spake of famous things,And the dealings of lords of the earth; but he spake and answered againAnd 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 heartTo 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 armsAs 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 fireAll dies and is forgotten in the sweetness of desire;And close she clingeth to Sigurd, as one that hath gotten the bestAnd fair things of the world she deemeth, as a place of infinite rest.