Sigurd slayeth Fafnir the Serpent.
Nought Sigurd seeth of Regin, and nought he heeds of him,As in watchful might and glory he strides the desert dim,And behind him paceth Greyfell; but he deems the time o'erlongTill he meet the great gold-warden, the over-lord of wrong.So he wendeth midst the silence through the measureless desert place,And beholds the countless glitter with wise and steadfast face,Till him-seems in a little season that the flames grown somewhat wan,And a grey thing glimmers before him, and becomes a mighty man,One-eyed and ancient-seeming, in cloud-grey raiment clad;A friendly man and glorious, and of visage smiling-glad:Then content in Sigurd groweth because of his majesty,And he heareth him speak in the desert as the wind of the winter sea:"Hail Sigurd! Give me thy greeting ere thy ways alone thou wend!"Said Sigurd: "Hail! I greet thee, my friend and my fathers' friend.""Now whither away," said the elder, "with the Steed and the ancient Sword?""To the greedy house," said Sigurd, "and the King of the Heavy Hoard.""Wilt thou smite, O Sigurd, Sigurd?" said the ancient mighty-one."Yea, yea, I shall smite," said the Volsung, "save the Gods have slain the sun.""What wise wilt thou smite," said the elder, "lest the dark devour thy day?""Thou hast praised the sword," said the child, "and the sword shall find a way.""Be learned of me," said the Wise-one, "for I was the first of thy folk."Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike the stroke."Spake the Wise-one: "Thus shalt thou do when thou wendest hence alone:Thou shalt find a path in the desert, and a road in the world of stone;It is smooth and deep and hollow, but the rain hath riven it not,And the wild wind hath not worn it, for it is but Fafnir's slot,Whereby he wends to the water and the fathomless pool of old,When his heart in the dawn is weary, and he loathes the ancient Gold:There think of the great and the fathers, and bare the whetted Wrath,And dig a pit in the highway, and a grave in the Serpent's path:Lie thou therein, O Sigurd, and thine hope from the glooming hide,And be as the dead for a season, and the living light abide!And so shall thine heart avail thee, and thy mighty fateful hand,And the Light that lay in the Branstock, the well-belovèd brand."Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike the stroke;For I love thee, friend of my fathers, Wise Heart of the holy folk."So spake the Son of Sigmund, and beheld no man anear,And again was the night the midnight, and the twinkling flame shone clearIn the hush of the Glittering Heath; and alone went Sigmund's sonTill he came to the road of Fafnir, and the highway worn by one,By the drift of the rain unfurrowed, by the windy years unrent,And forth from the dark it came, and into the dark it went.Great then was the heart of Sigurd, for there in the midmost he stayed,And thought of the ancient fathers, and bared the bright blue blade,That shone as a fleck of the day-light, and the night was all around.Fair then was the Son of Sigmund as he toiled and laboured the ground;Great, mighty he was in his working, and the Glittering Heath he clave,And the sword shone blue before him as he dug the pit and the grave:There he hid his hope from the night-tide and lay like one of the dead,And wise and wary he bided; and the heavens hung over his head.Now the night wanes over Sigurd, and the ruddy rings he sees,And his war-gear's fair adornment, and the God-folk's images;But a voice in the desert ariseth, a sound in the waste has birth,A changing tinkle and clatter, as of gold dragged over the earth:O'er Sigurd widens the day-light, and the sound is drawing close,And speedier than the trample of speedy feet it goes;But ever deemeth Sigurd that the sun brings back the day,For the grave grows lighter and lighter and heaven o'erhead is grey.But now, how the rattling waxeth till he may not heed nor hark!And the day and the heavens are hidden, and o'er Sigurd rolls the dark,As the flood of a pitchy river, and heavy-thick is the airWith the venom of hate long hoarded, and lies once fashioned fair:Then a wan face comes from the darkness, and is wrought in man-like wise,And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared are the blinded eyes;And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth through the graveAnd departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled wave on waveO'er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the sword,And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary curse of the Hoard;Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of life grew chill,And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the bonds of the Ancient Ill.Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove with the swaddling of Death;He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave of the Glittering Heath;He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust up over his head.And smote the venom asunder and clave the heart of Dread;Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the rushing river of blood,And fulfilled with the joy of the War-God on the face of earth he stoodWith red sword high uplifted, with wrathful glittering eyes;And he laughed at the heavens above him for he saw the sun arise,And Sigurd gleamed on the desert, and shone in the new-born light,And the wind in his raiment wavered, and all the world was bright.But there was the ancient Fafnir, and the Face of Terror layOn the huddled folds of the Serpent, that were black and ashen-greyIn the desert lit by the sun; and those twain looked each on each,And forth from the Face of Terror went a sound of dreadful speech:"Child, child, who art thou that hast smitten? bright child, of whence is thy birth?""I am called the Wild-thing Glorious, and alone I wend on the earth.""What master hath taught thee of murder?—Thou hast wasted Fafnir's day.""I, Sigurd, knew and desired, and the bright sword learned the way.""I am blind, O Strong Compeller, in the bonds of Death and Hell.But thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings bring unto bane.""Yet the rings mine hand shall scatter, and the earth shall gather again.""Woe, woe! in the days passed over I bore the Helm of Dread,I reared the Face of Terror, and the hoarded hate of the Dead:I overcame and was mighty; I was wise and cherished my heartIn the waste where no man wandered, and the high house builded apart:Till I met thine hand, O Sigurd, and thy might ordained from of old;And I fought and fell in the morning, and I die far off from the Gold."Then all sank into silence, and the Son of Sigmund stoodOn the torn and furrowed desert by the pool of Fafnir's blood,And the Serpent lay before him, dead, chilly, dull, and grey;And over the Glittering Heath fair shone the sun and the day,And a light wind followed the sun and breathed o'er the fateful place,As fresh as it furrows the sea-plain or bows the acres' face.
Nought Sigurd seeth of Regin, and nought he heeds of him,As in watchful might and glory he strides the desert dim,And behind him paceth Greyfell; but he deems the time o'erlongTill he meet the great gold-warden, the over-lord of wrong.
So he wendeth midst the silence through the measureless desert place,And beholds the countless glitter with wise and steadfast face,Till him-seems in a little season that the flames grown somewhat wan,And a grey thing glimmers before him, and becomes a mighty man,One-eyed and ancient-seeming, in cloud-grey raiment clad;A friendly man and glorious, and of visage smiling-glad:Then content in Sigurd groweth because of his majesty,And he heareth him speak in the desert as the wind of the winter sea:
"Hail Sigurd! Give me thy greeting ere thy ways alone thou wend!"
Said Sigurd: "Hail! I greet thee, my friend and my fathers' friend."
"Now whither away," said the elder, "with the Steed and the ancient Sword?"
"To the greedy house," said Sigurd, "and the King of the Heavy Hoard."
"Wilt thou smite, O Sigurd, Sigurd?" said the ancient mighty-one.
"Yea, yea, I shall smite," said the Volsung, "save the Gods have slain the sun."
"What wise wilt thou smite," said the elder, "lest the dark devour thy day?"
"Thou hast praised the sword," said the child, "and the sword shall find a way."
"Be learned of me," said the Wise-one, "for I was the first of thy folk."
Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike the stroke."
Spake the Wise-one: "Thus shalt thou do when thou wendest hence alone:Thou shalt find a path in the desert, and a road in the world of stone;It is smooth and deep and hollow, but the rain hath riven it not,And the wild wind hath not worn it, for it is but Fafnir's slot,Whereby he wends to the water and the fathomless pool of old,When his heart in the dawn is weary, and he loathes the ancient Gold:There think of the great and the fathers, and bare the whetted Wrath,And dig a pit in the highway, and a grave in the Serpent's path:Lie thou therein, O Sigurd, and thine hope from the glooming hide,And be as the dead for a season, and the living light abide!And so shall thine heart avail thee, and thy mighty fateful hand,And the Light that lay in the Branstock, the well-belovèd brand."
Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike the stroke;For I love thee, friend of my fathers, Wise Heart of the holy folk."
So spake the Son of Sigmund, and beheld no man anear,And again was the night the midnight, and the twinkling flame shone clearIn the hush of the Glittering Heath; and alone went Sigmund's sonTill he came to the road of Fafnir, and the highway worn by one,By the drift of the rain unfurrowed, by the windy years unrent,And forth from the dark it came, and into the dark it went.
Great then was the heart of Sigurd, for there in the midmost he stayed,And thought of the ancient fathers, and bared the bright blue blade,That shone as a fleck of the day-light, and the night was all around.Fair then was the Son of Sigmund as he toiled and laboured the ground;Great, mighty he was in his working, and the Glittering Heath he clave,And the sword shone blue before him as he dug the pit and the grave:There he hid his hope from the night-tide and lay like one of the dead,And wise and wary he bided; and the heavens hung over his head.
Now the night wanes over Sigurd, and the ruddy rings he sees,And his war-gear's fair adornment, and the God-folk's images;But a voice in the desert ariseth, a sound in the waste has birth,A changing tinkle and clatter, as of gold dragged over the earth:O'er Sigurd widens the day-light, and the sound is drawing close,And speedier than the trample of speedy feet it goes;But ever deemeth Sigurd that the sun brings back the day,For the grave grows lighter and lighter and heaven o'erhead is grey.
But now, how the rattling waxeth till he may not heed nor hark!And the day and the heavens are hidden, and o'er Sigurd rolls the dark,As the flood of a pitchy river, and heavy-thick is the airWith the venom of hate long hoarded, and lies once fashioned fair:Then a wan face comes from the darkness, and is wrought in man-like wise,And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared are the blinded eyes;And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth through the graveAnd departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled wave on waveO'er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the sword,And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary curse of the Hoard;Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of life grew chill,And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the bonds of the Ancient Ill.
Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove with the swaddling of Death;He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave of the Glittering Heath;He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust up over his head.And smote the venom asunder and clave the heart of Dread;Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the rushing river of blood,And fulfilled with the joy of the War-God on the face of earth he stoodWith red sword high uplifted, with wrathful glittering eyes;And he laughed at the heavens above him for he saw the sun arise,And Sigurd gleamed on the desert, and shone in the new-born light,And the wind in his raiment wavered, and all the world was bright.
But there was the ancient Fafnir, and the Face of Terror layOn the huddled folds of the Serpent, that were black and ashen-greyIn the desert lit by the sun; and those twain looked each on each,And forth from the Face of Terror went a sound of dreadful speech:
"Child, child, who art thou that hast smitten? bright child, of whence is thy birth?"
"I am called the Wild-thing Glorious, and alone I wend on the earth."
"What master hath taught thee of murder?—Thou hast wasted Fafnir's day."
"I, Sigurd, knew and desired, and the bright sword learned the way."
"I am blind, O Strong Compeller, in the bonds of Death and Hell.But thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings bring unto bane."
"Yet the rings mine hand shall scatter, and the earth shall gather again."
"Woe, woe! in the days passed over I bore the Helm of Dread,I reared the Face of Terror, and the hoarded hate of the Dead:I overcame and was mighty; I was wise and cherished my heartIn the waste where no man wandered, and the high house builded apart:Till I met thine hand, O Sigurd, and thy might ordained from of old;And I fought and fell in the morning, and I die far off from the Gold."
Then all sank into silence, and the Son of Sigmund stoodOn the torn and furrowed desert by the pool of Fafnir's blood,And the Serpent lay before him, dead, chilly, dull, and grey;And over the Glittering Heath fair shone the sun and the day,And a light wind followed the sun and breathed o'er the fateful place,As fresh as it furrows the sea-plain or bows the acres' face.
Sigurd slayeth Regin the Master of Masters on the Glittering Heath.
There standeth Sigurd the Volsung, and leaneth on his sword,And beside him now is Greyfell and looks on his golden lord,And the world is awake and living; and whither now shall they wend,Who have come to the Glittering Heath, and wrought that deed to its end?For hither comes Regin the Master from the skirts of the field of death.Afoot he went o'er the desert, and he came unto Sigurd and staredAt the golden gear of the man, and the Wrath yet bloody and bared,And the light locks raised by the wind, and the eyes beginning to smile,And the lovely lips of the Volsung, and the brow that knew no guile;And he murmured under his breath while his eyes grew white with wrath:"O who art thou, and wherefore, and why art thou in the path?"Then he turned to the ash-grey Serpent, and grovelled low on the ground,And he drank of that pool of the blood where the stones of the wild were drowned,And long he lapped as a dog; but when he arose again,Lo, a flock of the mountain-eagles that drew to the feastful plain;And he turned and looked on Sigurd, as bright in the sun he stood,A stripling fair and slender, and wiped the Wrath of the blood.Then he scowled and crouched and darkened, and came to Sigurd and spake:"O child, thou hast slain my brother, and the Wrath is alive and awake.""Thou sayest sooth," said Sigurd, "thy deed and mine is done:But now our ways shall sunder, for here, meseemeth, the sunHath but little of deeds to do, and no love to win aback."But Regin darkened before him, and exceeding grim was he grown,And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and wherewith wilt thou atone?""Stand up, O Master," said Sigurd, "O Singer of ancient days,And take the wealth I have won thee, ere we wend on the sundering ways.I have toiled and thou hast desired, and the Treasure is surely anear,And thou hast wisdom to find it, and I have slain thy fear."But Regin crouched and darkened: "Thou hast slain my brother," he said."Take thou the Gold," quoth Sigurd, "for the ransom of my head!"Then Regin crouched and darkened, and over the earth he hung;And he said: "Thou hast slain my brother, and the Gods are yet but young."And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and today shall thou be my thrall:Yea, a King shall be my cook-boy and this heath my cooking-hall."Then he crept to the ash-grey coils where the life of his brother had lain,And he drew a glaive from his side and smote the smitten and slain,And tore the heart from Fafnir, while the eagles cried o'erhead,And sharp and shrill was their voice o'er the entrails of the dead.Then Regin spake to Sigurd: "Of this slaying wilt thou be free?Then gather thou fire together and roast the heart for me,That I may eat it and live, and be thy master and more;For therein was might and wisdom, and the grudged and hoarded lore:——Or else, depart on thy ways afraid from the Glittering Heath."Then he fell abackward and slept, nor set his sword in the sheath.But Sigurd took the Heart, and wood on the waste he found,The wood that grew and died, as it crept on the niggard ground,And grew and died again, and lay like whitened bones;And the ernes cried over his head, as he builded his hearth of stones,And kindled the fire for cooking, and sat and sang o'er the roastThe song of his fathers of old, and the Wolflings' gathering host:So there on the Glittering Heath rose up the little flame,And the dry sticks crackled amidst it, and alow the eagles came,And seven they were by tale, and they pitched all round aboutThe cooking-fire of Sigurd, and sent their song-speech out:But nought he knoweth its wisdom, or the word that they would speak:And hot grew the Heart of Fafnir and sang amid the reek.Then Sigurd looketh on Regin, and he deemeth it overlongThat he dighteth the dear-bought morsel, and the might for the Master of wrong,So he reacheth his hand to the roast to see if the cooking be o'er;But the blood and the fat seethed from it and scalded his finger sore,And he set his hand to his mouth to quench the fleshly smart,And he tasted the flesh of the Serpent and the blood of Fafnir's Heart:Then there came a change upon him, for the speech of fowl he knew,And wise in the ways of the beast-kind as the Dwarfs of old he grew;And he knitted his brows and hearkened, and wrath in his heart aroseFor he felt beset of evil in a world of many foes.But the hilts of the Wrath he handled, and Regin's heart he saw,And how that the Foe of the Gods the net of death would draw;And his bright eyes flashed and sparkled, and his mouth grew set and sternAs he hearkened the voice of the eagles, and their song began to learn.
There standeth Sigurd the Volsung, and leaneth on his sword,And beside him now is Greyfell and looks on his golden lord,And the world is awake and living; and whither now shall they wend,Who have come to the Glittering Heath, and wrought that deed to its end?For hither comes Regin the Master from the skirts of the field of death.
Afoot he went o'er the desert, and he came unto Sigurd and staredAt the golden gear of the man, and the Wrath yet bloody and bared,And the light locks raised by the wind, and the eyes beginning to smile,And the lovely lips of the Volsung, and the brow that knew no guile;And he murmured under his breath while his eyes grew white with wrath:
"O who art thou, and wherefore, and why art thou in the path?"
Then he turned to the ash-grey Serpent, and grovelled low on the ground,And he drank of that pool of the blood where the stones of the wild were drowned,And long he lapped as a dog; but when he arose again,Lo, a flock of the mountain-eagles that drew to the feastful plain;And he turned and looked on Sigurd, as bright in the sun he stood,A stripling fair and slender, and wiped the Wrath of the blood.
Then he scowled and crouched and darkened, and came to Sigurd and spake:"O child, thou hast slain my brother, and the Wrath is alive and awake."
"Thou sayest sooth," said Sigurd, "thy deed and mine is done:But now our ways shall sunder, for here, meseemeth, the sunHath but little of deeds to do, and no love to win aback."
But Regin darkened before him, and exceeding grim was he grown,And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and wherewith wilt thou atone?"
"Stand up, O Master," said Sigurd, "O Singer of ancient days,And take the wealth I have won thee, ere we wend on the sundering ways.I have toiled and thou hast desired, and the Treasure is surely anear,And thou hast wisdom to find it, and I have slain thy fear."
But Regin crouched and darkened: "Thou hast slain my brother," he said.
"Take thou the Gold," quoth Sigurd, "for the ransom of my head!"
Then Regin crouched and darkened, and over the earth he hung;And he said: "Thou hast slain my brother, and the Gods are yet but young."
And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and today shall thou be my thrall:Yea, a King shall be my cook-boy and this heath my cooking-hall."
Then he crept to the ash-grey coils where the life of his brother had lain,And he drew a glaive from his side and smote the smitten and slain,And tore the heart from Fafnir, while the eagles cried o'erhead,And sharp and shrill was their voice o'er the entrails of the dead.
Then Regin spake to Sigurd: "Of this slaying wilt thou be free?Then gather thou fire together and roast the heart for me,That I may eat it and live, and be thy master and more;For therein was might and wisdom, and the grudged and hoarded lore:——Or else, depart on thy ways afraid from the Glittering Heath."
Then he fell abackward and slept, nor set his sword in the sheath.
But Sigurd took the Heart, and wood on the waste he found,The wood that grew and died, as it crept on the niggard ground,And grew and died again, and lay like whitened bones;And the ernes cried over his head, as he builded his hearth of stones,And kindled the fire for cooking, and sat and sang o'er the roastThe song of his fathers of old, and the Wolflings' gathering host:So there on the Glittering Heath rose up the little flame,And the dry sticks crackled amidst it, and alow the eagles came,And seven they were by tale, and they pitched all round aboutThe cooking-fire of Sigurd, and sent their song-speech out:But nought he knoweth its wisdom, or the word that they would speak:And hot grew the Heart of Fafnir and sang amid the reek.
Then Sigurd looketh on Regin, and he deemeth it overlongThat he dighteth the dear-bought morsel, and the might for the Master of wrong,So he reacheth his hand to the roast to see if the cooking be o'er;But the blood and the fat seethed from it and scalded his finger sore,And he set his hand to his mouth to quench the fleshly smart,And he tasted the flesh of the Serpent and the blood of Fafnir's Heart:Then there came a change upon him, for the speech of fowl he knew,And wise in the ways of the beast-kind as the Dwarfs of old he grew;And he knitted his brows and hearkened, and wrath in his heart aroseFor he felt beset of evil in a world of many foes.But the hilts of the Wrath he handled, and Regin's heart he saw,And how that the Foe of the Gods the net of death would draw;And his bright eyes flashed and sparkled, and his mouth grew set and sternAs he hearkened the voice of the eagles, and their song began to learn.
And six of the eagles cried to Sigurd not to tarry before the feast, and they urged him to kill Regin, who had planned Fafnir's death that he alone might live and fashion the world after his evil will.
And the seventh: "Arise, O Sigurd, lest the hour be overlate!For the sun in the mid-noon shineth, and swift is the hand of Fate:Arise! lest the world run backward and the blind heart have its will,And once again be tangled the sundered good and ill;Lest love and hatred perish, lest the world forget its tale,And the Gods sit deedless, dreaming, in the high-walled heavenly vale."Then swift ariseth Sigurd, and the Wrath in his hand is bare,And he looketh, and Regin sleepeth, and his eyes wide-open glare;But his lips smile false in his dreaming, and his hand is on the sword;For he dreams himself the Master and the new world's fashioning-lord,And his dream hath forgotten Sigurd, and the King's life lies in the pit;He is nought; Death gnaweth upon him, while the Dwarfs in mastery sit.But lo, how the eyes of Sigurd the heart of the guileful behold,And great is Allfather Odin, and upriseth the Curse of the Gold,And the Branstock bloometh to heaven from the ancient wondrous root;The summer hath shone on its blossoms, and Sigurd's Wrath is the fruit.Then his second stroke struck Sigurd, for the Wrath flashed thin and white,And 'twixt head and trunk of Regin fierce ran the fateful light;And there lay brother by brother a faded thing and wan.But Sigurd cried in the desert: "So far have I wended on!Dead are the foes of God-home that would blend the good and the ill;And the World shall yet be famous, and the Gods shall have their will.Nor shall I be dead and forgotten, while the earth grows worse and worse,With the blind heart king o'er the people, and binding curse with curse."
And the seventh: "Arise, O Sigurd, lest the hour be overlate!For the sun in the mid-noon shineth, and swift is the hand of Fate:Arise! lest the world run backward and the blind heart have its will,And once again be tangled the sundered good and ill;Lest love and hatred perish, lest the world forget its tale,And the Gods sit deedless, dreaming, in the high-walled heavenly vale."
Then swift ariseth Sigurd, and the Wrath in his hand is bare,And he looketh, and Regin sleepeth, and his eyes wide-open glare;But his lips smile false in his dreaming, and his hand is on the sword;For he dreams himself the Master and the new world's fashioning-lord,And his dream hath forgotten Sigurd, and the King's life lies in the pit;He is nought; Death gnaweth upon him, while the Dwarfs in mastery sit.
But lo, how the eyes of Sigurd the heart of the guileful behold,And great is Allfather Odin, and upriseth the Curse of the Gold,And the Branstock bloometh to heaven from the ancient wondrous root;The summer hath shone on its blossoms, and Sigurd's Wrath is the fruit.
Then his second stroke struck Sigurd, for the Wrath flashed thin and white,And 'twixt head and trunk of Regin fierce ran the fateful light;And there lay brother by brother a faded thing and wan.But Sigurd cried in the desert: "So far have I wended on!Dead are the foes of God-home that would blend the good and the ill;And the World shall yet be famous, and the Gods shall have their will.Nor shall I be dead and forgotten, while the earth grows worse and worse,With the blind heart king o'er the people, and binding curse with curse."
How Sigurd took to him the Treasure of the Elf Andvari.
So Sigurd ate of the heart of Fafnir, and as he ate the longing to be gone to mighty deeds grew great, and he leapt on Greyfell and sought the home of the Dweller amid the Gold on the edge of the heath. He strode through the doorway, and before him lay golden armour, golden coins, and golden sands from rivers that none but the Dwarfs could mine. But more wonderful than all other treasures were the Helm of Aweing, and the Hauberk all of gold, while on top of the midmost heap, gleaming like the brightest star in the sky, lay the ring of Andvari.
Sigurd put on the helm and the hauberk, and dragged out gold wherewith he loaded Greyfell till the cloud-grey horse shone, while the eagles ever bade him bring forth the treasure, and let the gold shine in the open. And as the stars paled and the dawn grew clearer, Sigurd and Greyfell passed swiftly and lightly towards the west.
How Sigurd awoke Brynhild upon Hindfell.
By long roads rideth Sigurd amidst that world of stone,And somewhat south he turneth; for he would not be alone,But longs for the dwellings of man-folk, and the kingly people's speech,And the days of the glee and the joyance, where men laugh each to each.But still the desert endureth, and afar must Greyfell fareFrom the wrack of the Glittering Heath, and Fafnir's golden lair.Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning of dayFrom out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloud-land greyComes up a mighty mountain, and it is as though there burnsA torch amidst of its cloud-wreath; so thither Sigurd turns,For he deems indeed from its topmost to look on the best of the earth;And Greyfell neigheth beneath him, and his heart is full of mirth.Night falls, but yet rides Sigurd, and hath no thought of rest,For he longs to climb that rock-world and behold the earth at its best;But now mid the maze of the foot-hills he seeth the light no more,And the stars are lovely and gleaming on the lightless heavenly floor.So up and up he wendeth till the night is wearing thin;And he rideth a rift of the mountain, and all is dark therein,Till the stars are dimmed by dawning and the wakening world is cold;Then afar in the upper rock-wall a breach doth he behold,And a flood of light poured inward the doubtful dawning blinds:So swift he rideth thither and the mouth of the breach he finds,And sitteth awhile on Greyfell on the marvellous thing to gaze:For lo, the side of Hindfell enwrapped by the fervent blaze,And nought 'twixt earth and heaven save a world of flickering flame,And a hurrying shifting tangle, where the dark rents went and came.Great groweth the heart of Sigurd with uttermost desire,And he crieth kind to Greyfell, and they hasten up, and nigher,Till he draweth rein in the dawning on the face of Hindfell's steep:But who shall heed the dawning where the tongues of that wildfire leap?For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the heavenThe wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it drivenBy the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood amidst it is nought;And no wayfarer's door and no window the hand of its builder hath wrought.But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath uplifteth his hair,And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail gleams white and fair,And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the waning stars behind:But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snuff at the flame-wall blind,And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the knitted mail,And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan and pale.Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts,And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts,And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire's heart;But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart,And high o'er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roarAs it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor:But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye,When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh.The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell's mane,And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir's bane,And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair,But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear;Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left behind,And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind.But forth a little further and a little further onAnd all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wanBeneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes,And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies;And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey,And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day.Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw,A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw,The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white;And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright.As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin's hall.Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall,And far o'er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hungA glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rungAs the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell's faceAnd the light from the yellow east beamed soft on the shielded place.But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt adownTo the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of renown;He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of God it seemed,As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd gleamed:He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he wendeth around,And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any sound:But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open wide,And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by the threshold abide.So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful light of the WrathGleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the inward path:For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance some Dwarf-king's snare,Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the morning air:But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he behold,And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the gold;But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man is set,But the utmost head of Hindfell ariseth higher yet;And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned mound,Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the level ground;And there, on that mound of the Giants, o'er the wilderness forlorn,A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn.So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the shielded door,And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the Branstock he bore;And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld the image wan,And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape of a manSet forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the world,High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy bolts are hurled.Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen fair,And clad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering gear,In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh it were grown:But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a glittering crown.So thereby he stoopeth and kneeleth, for he deems it were good indeedIf the breath of life abide there and the speech to help at need;And as sweet as the summer wind from a garden under the sunCometh forth on the topmost Hindfell the breath of that sleeping-one.Then he saith he will look on the face, if it bear him love or hate,Or the bonds for his life's constraining, or the sundering doom of fate.So he draweth the helm from the head, and, lo, the brow snow-white,And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips breathing light;And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that ever was born,Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert world forlorn:But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth her spirit to move,And awaken her heart to the world, that she may behold him and love.And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he loveth her passing sore.And he saith: "Awake! I am Sigurd;" but she moveth never the more.Then he looked on his bare bright blade, and he said: "Thou—what wilt thou do?For indeed as I came by the war-garth thy voice of desire I knew."Bright burnt the pale blue edges for the sunrise drew anear,And the rims of the Shield-burg glittered, and the east was exceeding clear:So the eager edges he setteth to the Dwarf-wrought battle-coatWhere the hammered ring-knit collar constraineth the woman's throat;But the sharp Wrath biteth and rendeth, and before it fail the rings,And, lo, the gleam of the linen, and the light of golden things:Then he driveth the blue steel onward, and through the skirt, and out,Till nought but the rippling linen is wrapping her about;Then he deems her breath comes quicker and her breast begins to heave,So he turns about the War-Flame and rends down either sleeve,Till her arms lie white in her raiment, and a river of sun-bright hairFlows free o'er bosom and shoulder and floods the desert bare.Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh up-heaveth her breast,And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth into rest;Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to change or smile,And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet for a while;And yet kneels Sigurd moveless her wakening speech to heed,While soft the waves of the daylight o'er the starless heavens speed,And the gleaming rims of the Shield-burg yet bright and brighter grow,And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in the golden glow.Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes met the Volsung's eyes.And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his love arise,For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew of her heart that she loved,As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with the speech-flood moved:"O, what is the thing so mighty that my weary sleep hath torn,And rent the fallow bondage, and the wan woe over-worn?"He said: "The hand of Sigurd and the Sword of Sigmund's son,And the heart that the Volsungs fashioned this deed for thee have done."But she said: "Where then is Odin that laid me here alow?Long lasteth the grief of the world, and manfolk's tangled woe!""He dwelleth above," said Sigurd, "but I on the earth abide,And I came from the Glittering Heath the waves of thy fire to ride."Then Sigurd looketh upon her, and the words from his heart arise:"Thou art the fairest of earth, and the wisest of the wise;O who art thou that lovest? I am Sigurd, e'en as I told;I have slain the Foe of the Gods, and gotten the Ancient Gold;And great were the gain of thy love, and the gift of mine earthly days,If we twain should never sunder as we wend on the changing ways.O who art thou that lovest, thou fairest of all things born?And what meaneth thy sleep and thy slumber in the wilderness forlorn?"
By long roads rideth Sigurd amidst that world of stone,And somewhat south he turneth; for he would not be alone,But longs for the dwellings of man-folk, and the kingly people's speech,And the days of the glee and the joyance, where men laugh each to each.But still the desert endureth, and afar must Greyfell fareFrom the wrack of the Glittering Heath, and Fafnir's golden lair.Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning of dayFrom out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloud-land greyComes up a mighty mountain, and it is as though there burnsA torch amidst of its cloud-wreath; so thither Sigurd turns,For he deems indeed from its topmost to look on the best of the earth;And Greyfell neigheth beneath him, and his heart is full of mirth.
Night falls, but yet rides Sigurd, and hath no thought of rest,For he longs to climb that rock-world and behold the earth at its best;But now mid the maze of the foot-hills he seeth the light no more,And the stars are lovely and gleaming on the lightless heavenly floor.So up and up he wendeth till the night is wearing thin;And he rideth a rift of the mountain, and all is dark therein,Till the stars are dimmed by dawning and the wakening world is cold;Then afar in the upper rock-wall a breach doth he behold,And a flood of light poured inward the doubtful dawning blinds:So swift he rideth thither and the mouth of the breach he finds,And sitteth awhile on Greyfell on the marvellous thing to gaze:For lo, the side of Hindfell enwrapped by the fervent blaze,And nought 'twixt earth and heaven save a world of flickering flame,And a hurrying shifting tangle, where the dark rents went and came.
Great groweth the heart of Sigurd with uttermost desire,And he crieth kind to Greyfell, and they hasten up, and nigher,Till he draweth rein in the dawning on the face of Hindfell's steep:But who shall heed the dawning where the tongues of that wildfire leap?For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the heavenThe wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it drivenBy the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood amidst it is nought;And no wayfarer's door and no window the hand of its builder hath wrought.But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath uplifteth his hair,And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail gleams white and fair,And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the waning stars behind:But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snuff at the flame-wall blind,And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the knitted mail,And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan and pale.
Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts,And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts,And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire's heart;But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart,And high o'er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roarAs it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor:But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye,When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh.The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell's mane,And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir's bane,And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair,But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear;Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left behind,And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind.
But forth a little further and a little further onAnd all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wanBeneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes,And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies;And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey,And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day.
Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw,A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw,The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white;And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright.As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin's hall.Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall,And far o'er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hungA glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rungAs the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell's faceAnd the light from the yellow east beamed soft on the shielded place.
But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt adownTo the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of renown;He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of God it seemed,As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd gleamed:He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he wendeth around,And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any sound:But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open wide,And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by the threshold abide.So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful light of the WrathGleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the inward path:For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance some Dwarf-king's snare,Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the morning air:But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he behold,And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the gold;But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man is set,But the utmost head of Hindfell ariseth higher yet;And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned mound,Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the level ground;And there, on that mound of the Giants, o'er the wilderness forlorn,A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn.
So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the shielded door,And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the Branstock he bore;And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld the image wan,And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape of a manSet forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the world,High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy bolts are hurled.
Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen fair,And clad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering gear,In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh it were grown:But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a glittering crown.
So thereby he stoopeth and kneeleth, for he deems it were good indeedIf the breath of life abide there and the speech to help at need;And as sweet as the summer wind from a garden under the sunCometh forth on the topmost Hindfell the breath of that sleeping-one.Then he saith he will look on the face, if it bear him love or hate,Or the bonds for his life's constraining, or the sundering doom of fate.So he draweth the helm from the head, and, lo, the brow snow-white,And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips breathing light;And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that ever was born,Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert world forlorn:But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth her spirit to move,And awaken her heart to the world, that she may behold him and love.And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he loveth her passing sore.And he saith: "Awake! I am Sigurd;" but she moveth never the more.Then he looked on his bare bright blade, and he said: "Thou—what wilt thou do?For indeed as I came by the war-garth thy voice of desire I knew."Bright burnt the pale blue edges for the sunrise drew anear,And the rims of the Shield-burg glittered, and the east was exceeding clear:So the eager edges he setteth to the Dwarf-wrought battle-coatWhere the hammered ring-knit collar constraineth the woman's throat;But the sharp Wrath biteth and rendeth, and before it fail the rings,And, lo, the gleam of the linen, and the light of golden things:Then he driveth the blue steel onward, and through the skirt, and out,Till nought but the rippling linen is wrapping her about;Then he deems her breath comes quicker and her breast begins to heave,So he turns about the War-Flame and rends down either sleeve,Till her arms lie white in her raiment, and a river of sun-bright hairFlows free o'er bosom and shoulder and floods the desert bare.
Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh up-heaveth her breast,And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth into rest;Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to change or smile,And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet for a while;And yet kneels Sigurd moveless her wakening speech to heed,While soft the waves of the daylight o'er the starless heavens speed,And the gleaming rims of the Shield-burg yet bright and brighter grow,And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in the golden glow.
Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes met the Volsung's eyes.And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his love arise,For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew of her heart that she loved,As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with the speech-flood moved:
"O, what is the thing so mighty that my weary sleep hath torn,And rent the fallow bondage, and the wan woe over-worn?"
He said: "The hand of Sigurd and the Sword of Sigmund's son,And the heart that the Volsungs fashioned this deed for thee have done."But she said: "Where then is Odin that laid me here alow?Long lasteth the grief of the world, and manfolk's tangled woe!"
"He dwelleth above," said Sigurd, "but I on the earth abide,And I came from the Glittering Heath the waves of thy fire to ride."
Then Sigurd looketh upon her, and the words from his heart arise:"Thou art the fairest of earth, and the wisest of the wise;O who art thou that lovest? I am Sigurd, e'en as I told;I have slain the Foe of the Gods, and gotten the Ancient Gold;And great were the gain of thy love, and the gift of mine earthly days,If we twain should never sunder as we wend on the changing ways.O who art thou that lovest, thou fairest of all things born?And what meaneth thy sleep and thy slumber in the wilderness forlorn?"
Then the maiden told him that she had been the handmaid of the All-father, but that she grew too proud, and Odin had sent her to Hindfell, where the sleep thorn pierced her that she might sleep till she found the fearless heart she would wed. Such a one had she found now, and many were the words of prophetic wisdom and warning that fell from her lips on the ears of Sigurd.
But many though they were they were not enough for him, who prayed her to speak with him more of Wisdom.
So together they sat on the side of Hindfell and talked of all that is and can be, and then together they climbed the mountain, till beneath them they saw the kingdoms of the earth stretching far away, and Brynhild bade him look down on her home, saying:
"Yet I bid thee look on the land 'twixt the wood and the silver seaIn the bight of the swirling river, and the house that cherished me!There dwelleth mine earthly sister and the king that she hath wed;There morn by morn aforetime I woke on the golden bed;There eve by eve I tarried mid the speech and the lays of kings;There noon by noon I wandered and plucked the blossoming things;The little land of Lymdale by the swirling river's side,Where Brynhild once was I called in the days ere my father died;The little land of Lymdale 'twixt the woodland and the sea,Where on thee mine eyes shall brighten and thine eyes shall beam on me.""I shall seek thee there," said Sigurd, "when the day-spring is begun,Ere we wend the world together in the season of the sun.""I shall bide thee there," said Brynhild, "till the fulness of the days,And the time for the glory appointed, and the springing-tide of praise."From his hand then draweth Sigurd Andvari's ancient Gold;There is nought but the sky above them as the ring together they hold,The shapen ancient token, that hath no change nor end,No change, and no beginning, no flaw for God to mend:Then Sigurd cries: "O Brynhild, now hearken while I swear,That the sun shall die in the heavens and the day no more be fair,If I seek not love in Lymdale and the house that fostered thee,And the land where thou awakedst 'twixt the woodland and the sea!"And she cried: "O Sigurd, Sigurd, now hearken while I swearThat the day shall die for ever and the sun to blackness wear,Ere I forget thee, Sigurd, as I lie 'twixt wood and seaIn the little land of Lymdale and the house that fostered me!"Then he set the ring on her finger and once, if ne'er again,They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain.
"Yet I bid thee look on the land 'twixt the wood and the silver seaIn the bight of the swirling river, and the house that cherished me!There dwelleth mine earthly sister and the king that she hath wed;There morn by morn aforetime I woke on the golden bed;There eve by eve I tarried mid the speech and the lays of kings;There noon by noon I wandered and plucked the blossoming things;The little land of Lymdale by the swirling river's side,Where Brynhild once was I called in the days ere my father died;The little land of Lymdale 'twixt the woodland and the sea,Where on thee mine eyes shall brighten and thine eyes shall beam on me."
"I shall seek thee there," said Sigurd, "when the day-spring is begun,Ere we wend the world together in the season of the sun."
"I shall bide thee there," said Brynhild, "till the fulness of the days,And the time for the glory appointed, and the springing-tide of praise."
From his hand then draweth Sigurd Andvari's ancient Gold;There is nought but the sky above them as the ring together they hold,The shapen ancient token, that hath no change nor end,No change, and no beginning, no flaw for God to mend:Then Sigurd cries: "O Brynhild, now hearken while I swear,That the sun shall die in the heavens and the day no more be fair,If I seek not love in Lymdale and the house that fostered thee,And the land where thou awakedst 'twixt the woodland and the sea!"
And she cried: "O Sigurd, Sigurd, now hearken while I swearThat the day shall die for ever and the sun to blackness wear,Ere I forget thee, Sigurd, as I lie 'twixt wood and seaIn the little land of Lymdale and the house that fostered me!"
Then he set the ring on her finger and once, if ne'er again,They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain.
Of Sigurd's riding to the Niblungs.
Now Brynhild and Sigurd left Hindfell, and Brynhild went to dwell in her sister's house, but Sigurd abode not long in the land of Lymdale, for his love urged him to great adventures wherein he might win glory befitting the man who should wed so noble a woman as Brynhild.
So it befell one day in summer that he dight himself in the Helm of Aweing and the Mail-coat all of gold, and girded the Wrath to his side to ride forth again. And on his saddle he bound the red rings of Fafnir's Treasure.
Then he kissed the ancient King Heimir, and hailed the folk of the land who came to give him god-speed.
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 forth by dale and lealand doth the Son of Sigmund wend,Till far away lies Lymdale and the folk of the forest's end;And he rides a heath unpeopled and holds the westward way,Till a long way off before him come up the mountains grey;Grey, huge beyond all telling, and the host of the heaped clouds,The black and the white together, on that rock-wall's coping crowds.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.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.
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 forth by dale and lealand doth the Son of Sigmund wend,Till far away lies Lymdale and the folk of the forest's end;And he rides a heath unpeopled and holds the westward way,Till a long way off before him come up the mountains grey;Grey, huge beyond all telling, and the host of the heaped clouds,The black and the white together, on that rock-wall's coping crowds.
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.
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.
Then Sigurd's heart was glad as he beheld the city, and after a while he came to a gate-way set in the northern wall, and the gate was long and dark as a sea-cave. But no man stayed him as he rode through the dusk to the inner court-yard, and saw the lofty roof of the hall before him, cold now and grey like a very cloud, for the sun was fully set. But in the towers watch-men were calling one to another. To them he cried, saying:—
"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 board,Or murder-churls and destroyers to gain and die by the sword?"Then the spears in the forecourt glittered and the swords shone over the wall,But the song of smitten harp-strings came faint from the cloudy hall.And he hearkened a voice and a crying: "The house of Giuki the King,And the Burg of the Niblung people and the heart of their warfaring."There were many men about him, and the wind in the wall-nook sang,And the spears of the Niblungs glittered, and the swords in the forecourt rang.But they looked on his face in the even, and they hushed their voices and gazed,For fear and great desire the hearts of men amazed.Now cometh an earl to King Giuki as he sits in godlike 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."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 praiseBut 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.
"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 board,Or murder-churls and destroyers to gain and die by the sword?"Then the spears in the forecourt glittered and the swords shone over the wall,But the song of smitten harp-strings came faint from the cloudy hall.And he hearkened a voice and a crying: "The house of Giuki the King,And the Burg of the Niblung people and the heart of their warfaring."There were many men about him, and the wind in the wall-nook sang,And the spears of the Niblungs glittered, and the swords in the forecourt rang.But they looked on his face in the even, and they hushed their voices and gazed,For fear and great desire the hearts of men amazed.
Now cometh an earl to King Giuki as he sits in godlike 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."
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
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.
Then all gave him greeting as one who should be their fellow in mighty deeds, and the fair-armed Gudrun, Giuki's daughter, brought him a cup of welcome, and that night the Niblungs feasted in gladness of heart.