Of Sigurd's warfaring in the company of the Niblungs, and of his great fame and glory.
So Sigurd abode with the Niblungs all through summer and harvest time till with the stark midwinter came tidings of war. Then the earls of Giuki donned dusky hauberks and led forth their bands from the fortress, and the fair face and golden gear of Sigurd shone among those swart-haired warriors.
They fell on the cities of the plains, but none might resist the valour of Sigurd, and the Niblungs turned in triumph from the war, bringing rich spoil. So all that winter Sigurd fared to war with them and grew greater in glory and more beloved of all men, but ever the thoughts of his heart turned to Lymdale and to Brynhild who awaited him there.
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.'"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.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 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.'"
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.
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.
Of the Cup of evil drink that Grimhild the Wise-wife gave to Sigurd.
Now Gudrun the daughter of Giuki beheld Sigurd's glory and knew the kindness of his heart, and set her love on him, not knowing that all his thoughts were given to Brynhild. So Sigurd, seeing her sad and in no wise guessing the cause of her grief, strove to comfort her with kindly words, but her mood was still unchanged.
Then Grimhild the Queen, who was a witch-wife and a woman of crafty mind, marked the love of Gudrun for Sigurd, and marked moreover how his power and honour in the land would soon be greater than that of her own sons. Therefore she cast about for some shift that might bind Sigurd to serve with the Niblungs all his life-days.
Now it befell one night that Sigurd had returned from warring and sat on the high-seat to sup with the Niblung kings. His heartwas merry with victory and ever he thought of Hindfell and of Lymdale and the love of Brynhild. The people waxed joyful, and the hangings whereon glowed figures of the gods were stirred with their song and shouting till Giuki called on Sigurd to take the harp and sing of deeds agone. Then all men hearkened, hushed and happy, while Sigurd struck the strings and sang of his mighty kin, of Volsung, of Signy, and of Sigmund, their deeds and noble deaths. At last the tale was ended and he fell silent thinking still of Brynhild.
Now came Grimhild bearing him a cup of wine and speaking fair words of praise, but in the wine she had mingled a fatal witch-drink. So 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.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."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.
"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.
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."
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.
Now after Sigurd took the witch-drink came a great hush upon the feast-hall for a space. But Grimhild was fain of that hour and cried to the scalds for music, and they hastened to strike the harp, but no joy mingled with the sounds and no man was moved to singing.
No word spake Sigurd till the feast was over; then he strode out alone from the hall and the folk fell back before him. So he took a steed and all that night he rode alone in the deedless dark, and all the morrow, very heavy at heart yet knowing no cause for grief, and remembering all things save Brynhild.
At last he came again at sunset to the Niblung gates, and there came forth Giuki and Grimhild and the Niblung brethren with fair words of greeting, but in the doorway Gudrun stood and wept. So Sigurd entered with them, yet he knew that a flood of sorrow had come on his life-days and that no more might he feel the joy he had known aforetime in the Niblung hall. Howbeit, when he looked on the people and saw them in fear at his trouble, the kindness of his heart was kindled, and thrusting the heavy sorrow aside, he lifted his head and spake wise words of good cheer so that the folk looking on him were comforted.
Of the Wedding of Sigurd the Volsung.
But Gudrun knew Sigurd's heart and was sorrowful because of his grief and her great love for him, and when Grimhild bade her carry him wine, she arose and took the cup but could find no word to speak for anguish. And Sigurd looking on her face saw there akindness and a sorrow like his own, and seeing it he knew that she loved him. Then pity and love for her rose in his heart and comforted him, and he took the cup from her and spake, saying:—
"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."And his clear voice saith:"O Gudrun, now hearken while I swearThat the sun shall die for ever and the day no more be fair,Ere I forget thy pity and thine inmost heart of love!Yea, though the Kings be mighty, and the Gods be great above,I will wade the flood and the fire, and the waste of war forlorn,To look on the Niblung dwelling, and the house where thou wert born."Strange seemed the words to Sigurd that his gathering love compelled,And sweet and strange desire o'er his tangled trouble welled.But bright flashed the eyes of Gudrun, and she said: "King, as for me,If thou sawest the heart in my bosom, what oath might better thee?Yet my words thy words shall cherish, as thy lips my lips have done.—Herewith I swear, O Sigurd, that the earth shall hate the sun,And the year desire but darkness, and the blossoms shrink from day,Ere my love shall fail, belovèd, or my longing pass away!"
"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."
And his clear voice saith:"O Gudrun, now hearken while I swearThat the sun shall die for ever and the day no more be fair,Ere I forget thy pity and thine inmost heart of love!Yea, though the Kings be mighty, and the Gods be great above,I will wade the flood and the fire, and the waste of war forlorn,To look on the Niblung dwelling, and the house where thou wert born."
Strange seemed the words to Sigurd that his gathering love compelled,And sweet and strange desire o'er his tangled trouble welled.
But bright flashed the eyes of Gudrun, and she said: "King, as for me,If thou sawest the heart in my bosom, what oath might better thee?Yet my words thy words shall cherish, as thy lips my lips have done.—Herewith I swear, O Sigurd, that the earth shall hate the sun,And the year desire but darkness, and the blossoms shrink from day,Ere my love shall fail, belovèd, or my longing pass away!"
So they twain went hand in hand to stand before Giuki and Grimhild and the swart-haired Niblung brethren, and all these were glad-hearted when they marked their joy and goodlihead. Then Sigurd spake noble words of thanks to Giuki for all past kindness, and bade Giuki call him son because he had that day bidden Gudrun to wife, and he sware also to toil for her exalting and for the weal of all the Niblung kin. Thereto Giuki answered glad-hearted, "Hail, Sigurd, son of mine eld!" and called upon Grimhild the Queen to bless him.
Thus was Sigurd troth-plight to the white-armed Gudrun, and all men were fain of their love and spake nought but praise of him.
Hark now, on the morrow morning how the blast of the mighty hornFrom the builded Burg of the Niblungs goes over the acres shorn,And the roads are gay with the riders, and the bull in the stall is left,And the plough is alone in the furrow, and the wedge in the hole half-cleft;And late shall the ewes be folded, and the kine come home to the pail,And late shall the fires be litten in the outmost treeless dale:For men fare to the gate of Giuki and the ancient cloudy hall,And therein are the earls assembled and the kings wear purple and pall,And the flowers are spread beneath them, and the bench-cloths beaten with gold;And the walls are strange and wondrous with the noble stories told:For new-hung is the ancient dwelling with the golden spoils of the south,And men seem merry for ever, and the praise is in each man's mouth,And the name of Sigurd the Volsung, the King and the Serpent's Bane,Who exalteth the high this morning and blesseth the masters of gain:For men drink the bridal of Sigurd and the white-armed Niblung maid,And the best with the best shall be mingled, and the gold with the gold o'erlaid.So, fair in the hall is the feasting and men's hearts are uplifted on high,And they deem that the best of their life-days are surely drawing anigh,As now, one after other, uprise the scalds renowned,And their well-belovèd voices awake the hoped-for sound,In the midmost of the high-tide, and the joy of feasting lords.Then cometh a hush and a waiting, and the light of many swordsFlows into the hall of Giuki by the doorway of the King,And amid those flames of battle the war-clad warriors bringThe Cup of daring Promise and the hallowed Boar of Sôn,And men's hearts grow big with longing and great is the hope-tide grown;For bright the Son of Sigmund ariseth by the boardAnd unwinds the knitted peace-strings that hamper Regin's Sword:Then fierce is the light on the high-seat as men set down the CupAnigh the hand of Sigurd, and the edges blue rise up,And fall on the hallowed Wood-beast: as a trump of the woeful warRings the voice of the mighty Volsung as he speaks the words of yore:"By the Earth that groweth and giveth, and by all the Earth's increaseThat is spent for Gods and man-folk; by the sun that shines on these;By the Salt-Sea-Flood that beareth the life and death of men;By the Heavens and Stars that change not, though earth die out again;By the wild things of the mountain, and the houseless waste and lone;By the prey of the Goths in the thicket and the holy Beast of Sôn,I hallow me to Odin for a leader of his host,To do the deeds of the Highest, and never count the cost:And I swear, that whatso great-one shall show the day and the deed,I shall ask not why nor wherefore, but the sword's desire shall speed:And I swear to seek no quarrel, nor to swerve aside for aught,Though the right and the left be blooming, and the straight way wend to nought:And I swear to abide and hearken the prayer of any thrall,Though the war-torch be on the threshold and the foemen's feet in the hall:And I swear to sit on my throne in the guise of the kings of the earth,Though the anguish past amending, and the unheard woe have birth:And I swear to wend in my sorrow that none shall curse mine eyesFor the scowl that quelleth beseeching, and the hate that scorneth the wise.So help me Earth and Heavens, and the Under-sky and Seas,And the Stars in their ordered houses, and the Norns that order these!"And he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and fair as a star he shone,And all men rejoiced and wondered, and deemed Earth's glory won.Then came the girded maidens, and the slim earls' daughters poured,And uprose the dark-haired Gunnar and bare was the Niblung sword;Blue it gleamed in the hand of the folk-king as he laid it low on the Beast,And took oath as the Goths of aforetime in the hush of the people's feast:"I will work for the craving of Kings, and accomplish the will of the great,Nor ask what God withstandeth, nor hearken the tales of fate;When a King my life hath exalted, and wrought for my hope and my gain,For every deed he hath done me, thereto shall I fashion twain.I shall bear forth the fame of the Niblungs through all that hindereth;In my life shall I win great glory, and be merry in my death."So sweareth the lovely war-king and drinketh of the Cup,And the joy of the people waxeth and their glad cry goeth up.But again came the girded maidens: earls' daughters pour the wine,And bare is the blade of Hogni in the feast-hall over the Swine;Then he cries o'er the hallowed Wood-beast: "Earth, hearken, how I swear,To beseech no man for his helping, and to vex no God with prayer;And to seek out the will of the Norns, and look in the eyes of the curse;And to laugh while the love aboundeth, lest the glad world grow into worse;Then if in the murder I laugh not, O Earth, remember my name,And oft tell it aloud to the people for the Niblungs' fated shame!"Then he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and all men hearkened and deemedThat his speech was great and valiant, and as one of the wise he seemed.Then the linen-folded maidens of the earl-folk lift the gold,But the earls look each on the other, and Guttorm's place behold,And empty it lieth before them; for the child hath wearied of peace,And he sits by the oars in the East-seas, and winneth fame's increase.Nor then, nor ever after, o'er the Holy Beast he spake,When mighty hearts were exalted for the golden Sigurd's sake.
Hark now, on the morrow morning how the blast of the mighty hornFrom the builded Burg of the Niblungs goes over the acres shorn,And the roads are gay with the riders, and the bull in the stall is left,And the plough is alone in the furrow, and the wedge in the hole half-cleft;And late shall the ewes be folded, and the kine come home to the pail,And late shall the fires be litten in the outmost treeless dale:For men fare to the gate of Giuki and the ancient cloudy hall,And therein are the earls assembled and the kings wear purple and pall,And the flowers are spread beneath them, and the bench-cloths beaten with gold;And the walls are strange and wondrous with the noble stories told:For new-hung is the ancient dwelling with the golden spoils of the south,And men seem merry for ever, and the praise is in each man's mouth,And the name of Sigurd the Volsung, the King and the Serpent's Bane,Who exalteth the high this morning and blesseth the masters of gain:For men drink the bridal of Sigurd and the white-armed Niblung maid,And the best with the best shall be mingled, and the gold with the gold o'erlaid.
So, fair in the hall is the feasting and men's hearts are uplifted on high,And they deem that the best of their life-days are surely drawing anigh,As now, one after other, uprise the scalds renowned,And their well-belovèd voices awake the hoped-for sound,In the midmost of the high-tide, and the joy of feasting lords.Then cometh a hush and a waiting, and the light of many swordsFlows into the hall of Giuki by the doorway of the King,And amid those flames of battle the war-clad warriors bringThe Cup of daring Promise and the hallowed Boar of Sôn,And men's hearts grow big with longing and great is the hope-tide grown;For bright the Son of Sigmund ariseth by the boardAnd unwinds the knitted peace-strings that hamper Regin's Sword:Then fierce is the light on the high-seat as men set down the CupAnigh the hand of Sigurd, and the edges blue rise up,And fall on the hallowed Wood-beast: as a trump of the woeful warRings the voice of the mighty Volsung as he speaks the words of yore:
"By the Earth that groweth and giveth, and by all the Earth's increaseThat is spent for Gods and man-folk; by the sun that shines on these;By the Salt-Sea-Flood that beareth the life and death of men;By the Heavens and Stars that change not, though earth die out again;By the wild things of the mountain, and the houseless waste and lone;By the prey of the Goths in the thicket and the holy Beast of Sôn,I hallow me to Odin for a leader of his host,To do the deeds of the Highest, and never count the cost:And I swear, that whatso great-one shall show the day and the deed,I shall ask not why nor wherefore, but the sword's desire shall speed:And I swear to seek no quarrel, nor to swerve aside for aught,Though the right and the left be blooming, and the straight way wend to nought:And I swear to abide and hearken the prayer of any thrall,Though the war-torch be on the threshold and the foemen's feet in the hall:And I swear to sit on my throne in the guise of the kings of the earth,Though the anguish past amending, and the unheard woe have birth:And I swear to wend in my sorrow that none shall curse mine eyesFor the scowl that quelleth beseeching, and the hate that scorneth the wise.So help me Earth and Heavens, and the Under-sky and Seas,And the Stars in their ordered houses, and the Norns that order these!"
And he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and fair as a star he shone,And all men rejoiced and wondered, and deemed Earth's glory won.
Then came the girded maidens, and the slim earls' daughters poured,And uprose the dark-haired Gunnar and bare was the Niblung sword;Blue it gleamed in the hand of the folk-king as he laid it low on the Beast,And took oath as the Goths of aforetime in the hush of the people's feast:"I will work for the craving of Kings, and accomplish the will of the great,Nor ask what God withstandeth, nor hearken the tales of fate;When a King my life hath exalted, and wrought for my hope and my gain,For every deed he hath done me, thereto shall I fashion twain.I shall bear forth the fame of the Niblungs through all that hindereth;In my life shall I win great glory, and be merry in my death."
So sweareth the lovely war-king and drinketh of the Cup,And the joy of the people waxeth and their glad cry goeth up.But again came the girded maidens: earls' daughters pour the wine,And bare is the blade of Hogni in the feast-hall over the Swine;Then he cries o'er the hallowed Wood-beast: "Earth, hearken, how I swear,To beseech no man for his helping, and to vex no God with prayer;And to seek out the will of the Norns, and look in the eyes of the curse;And to laugh while the love aboundeth, lest the glad world grow into worse;Then if in the murder I laugh not, O Earth, remember my name,And oft tell it aloud to the people for the Niblungs' fated shame!"
Then he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and all men hearkened and deemedThat his speech was great and valiant, and as one of the wise he seemed.
Then the linen-folded maidens of the earl-folk lift the gold,But the earls look each on the other, and Guttorm's place behold,And empty it lieth before them; for the child hath wearied of peace,And he sits by the oars in the East-seas, and winneth fame's increase.Nor then, nor ever after, o'er the Holy Beast he spake,When mighty hearts were exalted for the golden Sigurd's sake.
Sigurd rideth with the Niblungs, and wooeth Brynhild for King Gunnar.
Now it fell on a day of the spring-tide that followed on these things,That Sigurd fares to the meadows with Gunnar and Hogni the Kings;For afar is Guttorm the youngest, and he sails the Eastern Seas,And fares with war-shield hoisted to win him fame's increase.There stay those Kings of the people alone in weed of war,And they cut a strip of the greensward on the meadow's daisied floor,And loosen it clean in the midst, while its ends in the earth abide;Then they heave its midmost aloft, and set on either sideAn ancient spear of battle writ round with words of worth;And these are the posts of the door, whose threshold is of the earth,And the skin of the earth is its lintel: but with war-glaives gleaming bareThe Niblung Kings and Sigurd beneath the earth-yoke fare;Then each an arm-vein openeth, and their blended blood falls downOn Earth the fruitful Mother where they rent her turfy gown:And then, when the blood of the Volsungs hath run with the Niblung blood,They kneel with their hands upon it and swear the brotherhood:Each man at his brother's bidding to come with the blade in his hand,Though the fire and the flood should sunder, and the very Gods withstand:Each man to love and cherish his brother's hope and will;Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill:And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they swornAs the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born.But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same,And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame.So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife,And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of life;And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise:To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace,And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the Kings,For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crookèd things.But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young,And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung.Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best;And men say: Is the king's heart mighty beyond all hope of rest?Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown!So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone.
Now it fell on a day of the spring-tide that followed on these things,That Sigurd fares to the meadows with Gunnar and Hogni the Kings;For afar is Guttorm the youngest, and he sails the Eastern Seas,And fares with war-shield hoisted to win him fame's increase.
There stay those Kings of the people alone in weed of war,And they cut a strip of the greensward on the meadow's daisied floor,And loosen it clean in the midst, while its ends in the earth abide;Then they heave its midmost aloft, and set on either sideAn ancient spear of battle writ round with words of worth;And these are the posts of the door, whose threshold is of the earth,And the skin of the earth is its lintel: but with war-glaives gleaming bareThe Niblung Kings and Sigurd beneath the earth-yoke fare;Then each an arm-vein openeth, and their blended blood falls downOn Earth the fruitful Mother where they rent her turfy gown:And then, when the blood of the Volsungs hath run with the Niblung blood,They kneel with their hands upon it and swear the brotherhood:Each man at his brother's bidding to come with the blade in his hand,Though the fire and the flood should sunder, and the very Gods withstand:Each man to love and cherish his brother's hope and will;Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill:And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they swornAs the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born.But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same,And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame.
So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife,And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of life;And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise:To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace,And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the Kings,For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crookèd things.But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young,And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung.Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best;And men say: Is the king's heart mighty beyond all hope of rest?Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown!So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone.
Now Giuki the king was long grown old, and he died and was buried beneath a great earth-mound high on the mountains.
So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold,As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled:But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land;A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand;A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom,A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom.On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son:"O Gunnar, King belovèd, a fair life hast thou won;On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers with gold;Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told:Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth,Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth.If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings,No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings."He said: "Meseemeth, mother, thou speakest not in haste,But hast sought and found beforehand, lest thy fair words fall to waste."She said: "Thou sayest the sooth; I have found the thing I sought:A Maid for thee is shapen, and a Queen for thee is wrought:In the waste land hard by Lymdale a marvellous hall is built,With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:Afar o'er the heath men see it, but no man draweth nigher,For the garth that goeth about it is nought but the roaring fire,A white wall waving aloft; and no window nor wicket is there,Whereby the shielded earl-folk or the sons of the merchants may fare:But few things from me are hidden, and I know in that hall of goldSits Brynhild, white as a wild-swan where the foamless seas are rolled;And the daughter of Kings of the world, and the sister of Queens is she,And wise, and Odin's Chooser, and the Breath of Victory:But for this cause sitteth she thus in the ring of the Wavering Flame,That no son of the Kings will she wed save the mightiest master of fame,And the man who knoweth not fear, and the man foredoomed of fateTo ride through her Wavering Fire to the door of her golden gate:And for him she sitteth and waiteth, and him shall she cherish and love,Though the Kings of the world should withstand it, and the Gods that sit above.Speak thou, O mighty Gunnar!—nay rather, Sigurd my son,Say who but the lord of the Niblungs should wed with this glorious one?"Long Sigurd gazeth upon her, and slow he sayeth again:"I know thy will, my mother; of all the sons of men,Of all the Kings unwedded, and the kindred of the great,It is meet that my brother Gunnar should ride to her golden gate."In the May-morn riseth Gunnar with fair face and gleaming eyes,And he calleth on Sigurd his brother, and he calleth on Hogni the wise:"Today shall we fare to the wooing, for so doth our mother bid;We shall go to gaze on marvels, and things from the King-folk hid."So they do on the best of their war-gear, and their steeds are dight for the road,And forth to the sun neigheth Greyfell as he neighed 'neath the Golden Load:But or ever they leap to the saddle, while yet in the door they stand,Thereto cometh Grimhild the wise-wife, and on each head layeth her hand,As she saith: "Be mighty and wise, as the kings that came before!For they knew of the ways of the Gods, and the craft of the Gods they bore:And they knew how the shapes of man-folk are the very imagesOf the hearts that abide within them, and they knew of the shaping of these.Be wise and mighty, O Kings, and look in mine heart and beholdThe craft that prevaileth o'er semblance, and the treasured wisdom of old!I hallow you thus for the day, and I hallow you thus for the night,And I hallow you thus for the dawning with my fathers' hidden might.Go now, for ye bear my will while I sit in the hall and spin;And tonight shall be the weaving, and tomorn the web shall ye win."So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word,But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathèd sword:None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens gaze,And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways.So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun,And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun:And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn;But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn:And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o'er the earth,And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert's dearth.None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red,And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd's head,And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides,And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides.Then the heart of a king's son failed not, but he tossed his sword on highAnd laughed as he spurred for the fire, and cried the Niblung cry;But the mare's son saw and imagined, and the battle-eager steed,That so oft had pierced the spear-hedge and never failed at need,Shrank back, and shrieked in his terror, and spite of spur and reinFled fast as the foals unbitted on Odin's pasturing plain;Wide then he wheeled with Gunnar, but with hand and knee he dealt,And the voice of a lord belovèd, till the steed his master felt,And bore him back to the brethren; by Greyfell Sigurd stood,And stared at the heart of the fire, and his helm was red as blood;But Hogni sat in his saddle, and watched the flames up-roll;And he said: "Thy steed has failed thee that was once the noblest foalIn the pastures of King Giuki; but since thine heart fails not,And thou wouldst not get thee backward and say, The fire was hot,And the voices pent within it were singing nought but death,Let Sigurd lend thee his steed that wore the Glittering Heath,And carried the Bed of the Serpent, and the ancient ruddy rings.So perchance may the mocks be lesser when men tell of the Niblung Kings."Then Sigurd looked on the twain, and he saw their swart hair waveIn the wind of the waste and the flame-blast, and no answer awhile he gave.But at last he spake: "O brother, on Greyfell shalt thou ride,And do on the Helm of Aweing and gird the Wrath to thy side,And cover thy breast with the war-coat that is throughly woven of gold,That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told:For this is the raiment of Kings when they ride the Flickering Fire,And so sink the flames before them and the might of their desire."Then Hogni laughed in his heart, and he said: "This changing were wellIf so might the deed be accomplished; but perchance there is more to tell:Thou shalt take the war-steed, Gunnar, and enough or nought it shall be:But the coal-blue gear of the Niblungs the golden hall shall see."Then Sigurd looked on the speaker, as one who would answer again,But his words died out on the waste and the fire-blast made them vain.Then he casteth the reins to his brother, and Gunnar praiseth his gift,And springeth aloft to the saddle as the fair sun fails from the lift;And Sigurd looks on the burden that Greyfell doth uprear,The huge king towering upward in the dusky Niblung gear:There sits the eager Gunnar, and his heart desires the deed,And of nought he recketh and thinketh, but a fame-stirred warrior's need;But Greyfell trembleth nothing and nought of the fire doth reck:Then the spurs in his flank are smitten, and the reins lie loose on his neck,And the sharp cry springeth from Gunnar—no handbreadth stirred the beast;The dusk drew on and over and the light of the fire increased,And still as a shard on the mountain in the sandy dale aloneWas the shape of the cloudy Greyfell, nor moved he more than the stone;But right through the heart of the fire for ever Sigurd stared,As he stood in the gold red-litten with the Wrath's thin edges bared.No word for a while spake any, till Gunnar leaped to the earth,And the anger wrought within him, and the fierce words came to birth:"Who mocketh the King of the Niblungs in the desert land forlorn?Is it thou, O Sigurd the Stranger? is it thou, O younger-born?Dost thou laugh in the hall, O Mother? dost thou spin, and laugh at the taleThat has drawn thy son and thine eldest to the sword and the blaze of the bale?Or thou, O God of the Goths, wilt thou hide and laugh thy fill,While the hands of the foster-brethren the blood of brothers spill?"But the awful voice of Sigurd across the wild went forth:"How changed are the words of Gunnar! where wend his ways of worth?I mock thee not in the desert, as I mocked thee not in the mead,When I swore beneath the turf-yoke to help thy fondest need:Nay, strengthen thine heart for the work, for the gift that thy manhood awaits;For I give thee a gift, O Niblung, that shall overload the Fates,And how may a King sustain it? but forbear with the dark to strive;For thy mother spinneth and worketh, and her craft is awake and alive."Then Hogni spake from the saddle: "The time, and the time is comeTo gather the might of our mother, and of her that spinneth at home.Forbear all words, O Gunnar, and anigh to Sigurd stand,And face to face behold him, and take his hand in thine hand:Then be thy will as his will, that his heart may mingle with thine,And the love that he sware 'neath the earth-yoke with thine hope may intertwine."Then the wrath from the Niblung slippeth and the shame that anger hath bred,And the heavy wings of the dreamtide flit over Gunnar's head:But he doth by his brother's bidding, and Sigurd's hand he takes,And he looks in the eyes of the Volsung, though scarce in the desert he wakes.There Hogni sits in the saddle aloof from the King's desire,And little his lips are moving, as he stares on the rolling fire,And mutters the spells of his mother, and the words she bade him say:But the craft of the kings of aforetime on those Kings of the battle lay;Dark night was spread behind them, and the fire flared up before,And unheard was the wind of the wasteland mid the white flame's wavering roar.Long Sigurd gazeth on Gunnar, till he sees, as through a cloud,The long black locks of the Niblung, and the King's face set and proud:Then the face is alone on the dark, and the dusky Niblung mailIs nought but the night before him: then whiles will the visage fail,And grow again as he gazeth, black hair and gleaming eyes,And fade again into nothing, as for more of vision he tries:Then all is nought but the night, yea the waste of an emptier thing,And the fire-wall Sigurd forgetteth, nor feeleth the hand of the King:Nay, what is it now he remembereth? it is nought that aforetime he knew,And no world is there left him to live in, and no deed to rejoice in or rue;But frail and alone he fareth, and as one in the sphere-stream's drift,By the starless empty places that lie beyond the lift:Then at last is he stayed in his drifting, and he saith, It is blind and dark;Yet he feeleth the earth at his feet, and there cometh a change and a spark,And away in an instant of time is the mirk of the dreamland rolled,And there is the fire-lit midnight, and before him an image of gold,A man in the raiment of Gods, nor fashioned worser than they:Full sad he gazeth on Sigurd from the great wide eyes and grey;And the Helm that Aweth the people is set on the golden hair,And the Mail of Gold enwraps him, and the Wrath in his hand is bare.Then Sigurd looks on his arm and his hand in his brother's hand,And thereon is the dark grey mail-gear well forged in the southern land;Then he looks on the sword that he beareth, and, lo, the eager bladeThat leaps in the hand of Gunnar when the kings are waxen afraid;And he turns his face o'er his shoulder, and the raven-locks hang downFrom the dark-blue helm of the Dwarf-folk, and the rings of the Niblung crown.Then a red flush riseth against him in the face ne'er seen before,Save dimly in the mirror or the burnished targe of war,And the foster-brethren sunder, and the clasped hands fall apart;But a change cometh over Sigurd, and the fierce pride leaps in his heart;He knoweth the soul of Gunnar, and the shaping of his mind;He seeketh the words of Sigurd, and Gunnar's voice doth he find,As he cries: "I know thy bidding; let the world be lief or loth,The child is unborn that shall hearken how Sigurd rued his oath!Well fare thou brother Gunnar! what deed shall I do this eveThat I shall never repent of, that thine heart shall never grieve?What deed shall I do this even that none else may bring to the birth,Nay, not the King of the Niblungs, and the lord of the best of the earth?"The flames rolled up to the heavens, and the stars behind were bright,Dark Hogni sat on his war-steed, and stared out into the night,And there stood Gunnar the King in Sigurd's semblance wrapped,—As Sigurd walking in slumber, for in Grimhild's guile was he lapped,That his heart forgat his glory, and the ways of Odin's lords,And the thought was frozen within him, and the might of spoken words.But Sigurd leapeth on Greyfell, and the sword in his hand is bare,And the gold spurs flame on his heels, and the fire-blast lifteth his hair;Forth Greyfell bounds rejoicing, and they see the grey wax red,As unheard the war-gear clasheth, and the flames meet over his head,Yet a while they see him riding, as through the rye men ride,When the word goes forth in the summer of the kings by the ocean-side;But the fires were slaked before him and the wild-fire burned no moreThan the ford of the summer waters when the rainy time is o'er.Not once turned Sigurd aback, nor looked o'er the ashy ring,To the midnight wilderness drear and the spell-drenched Niblung King:But he stayed and looked before him, and lo, a house high-builtWith its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:So he leapt adown from Greyfell, and came to that fair abode,And dark in the gear of the Niblungs through the gleaming door he strode:All light within was that dwelling, and a marvellous hall it was,But of gold were its hangings woven, and its pillars gleaming as glass,And Sigurd said in his heart, it was wrought erewhile for a God:But he looked athwart and endlong as alone its floor he trod,And lo, on the height of the daïs is upreared a graven throne,And thereon a woman sitting in the golden place alone;Her face is fair and awful, and a gold crown girdeth her head;And a sword of the kings she beareth, and her sun-bright hair is shedO'er the laps of the snow-white linen that ripples adown to her feet:As a swan on the billow unbroken ere the firth and the ocean meet,On the dark-blue cloths she sitteth, in the height of the golden place,Nor breaketh the hush of the hall, though her eyes be set on his face.Now he sees this is even the woman of whom the tale hath been told,E'en she that was wrought for the Niblungs, the bride ordained from of old,And hushed in the hall he standeth, and a long while looks in her eyes,And the word he hath shapen for Gunnar to his lips may never arise.The man in Gunnar's semblance looked long and knew no deed;And she looked, and her eyes were dreadful, and none would help her need.Then the image of Gunnar trembled, and the flesh of the War-King shrank;For he heard her voice on the silence, and his heart of her anguish drank:"King, King, who art thou that comest, thou lord of the cloudy gear?What deed for the weary-hearted shall thy strange hands fashion here?"The speech of her lips pierced through him like the point of the bitter sword,And he deemed that death were better than another spoken word;But he clencheth his hand on the war-blade, and setteth his face as the brass,And the voice of his brother Gunnar from out his lips doth pass:"When thou lookest on me, O Goddess, thou seest Gunnar the King,The King and the lord of the Niblungs, and the chief of their warfaring.But art thou indeed that Brynhild of whom is the rumour and fame,That she bideth the coming of kings to ride her Wavering Flame,Lest she wed the little-hearted, and the world grow evil and vile?For if thou be none other I will speak again in a while."She said: "Art thou Gunnar the Stranger! O art thou the man that I see?Yea, verily I am Brynhild; what other is like unto me?O men of the Earth behold me! hast thou seen, O labouring Earth,Such sorrow as my sorrow, or such evil as my birth?"Then spake the Wildfire's Trampler that Gunnar's image bore:"O Brynhild, mighty of women, be thou glorious evermore!Thou seest Gunnar the Niblung, as he sits mid the Niblung lords,And rides with the gods of battle in the fore-front of the swords."Hard rang his voice in the hall, and a while she spake no word,And there stood the Image of Gunnar, and leaned on his bright blue sword:But at last she cried from the high-seat: "If I yet am alive and awake,I know no words for the speaking, nor what answer I may make."She ceased and he answered nothing; and a hush on the hall there layAnd the moon slipped over the windows as he clomb the heavenly way;And no whit stirred the raiment of Brynhild: till she hearkened the Wooer's voice,As he said: "Thou art none of the women that swear and forswear and rejoice,Forgetting the sorrow of kings and the Gods and the labouring earth.Thou shall wed with King Gunnar the Niblung and increase his worth with thy worth."So spake he in semblance of Gunnar, and from off his hand he drewA ring of the spoils of the Southland, a marvel seen but of few,And he set the ring on her finger, and she turned to her lord and spake:"I thank thee, King, for thy goodwill, and thy pledge of love I take.Depart with my troth to thy people: but ere full ten days are o'erI shall come to the Sons of the Niblungs, and then shall we part no moreTill the day of the change of our life-days, when Odin and Freyia shall call.Lo, here, my gift of the morning! 'twas my dearest treasure of all;But thou art become its master, and for thee was it fore-ordained,Since thou art the man of mine oath and the best that the earth hath gained."And lo, 'twas the Grief of Andvari, and the lack that made him loth,The last of the God-folk's ransom, the Ring of Hindfell's oath;Now on Sigurd's hand it shineth, and long he looketh thereon,But it gave him back no memories of the days that were bygone.So forth from the hall goes the Wooer, and slow and slow he goes,As a conquered king from his city fares forth to meet his foes;And he taketh the reins of Greyfell, nor yet will back him there,But afoot through the cold slaked ashes of yester-eve doth fare,With his eyes cast down to the earth; till he heareth the wind, and a cry,And raiseth a face brow-knitted and beholdeth men anigh,And beholdeth Hogni the King set grey on his coal-black steed,And beholdeth the image of Sigurd, the King in the golden weed:Then he stayeth and stareth astonished and setteth his hand to his sword;Till Hogni cries from his saddle, and his word is a kindly word:"Hail, brother, the King of the people! hail, helper of my kin!Again from the death and the trouble great gifts hast thou set thee to winFor thy friends and the Niblung children, and hast crowned thine earthly fame,And increased thine exceeding glory and the sound of thy lovèd name."Nought Sigurd spake in answer but looked straight forth with a frown,And stretched out his hand to Gunnar, as one that claimeth his own.Then no word speaketh Gunnar, but taketh his hand in his hand,And they look in the eyes of each other, and a while in the desert they standTill the might of Grimhild prevaileth, and the twain are as yester-morn;But sad was the golden Sigurd, though his eyes knew nought of scorn;And he spake:"It is finished, O Gunnar! and I will that our brotherhoodMay endure through the good and the evil as it sprang in the days of the good:But I bid thee look to the ending, that the deed I did yest'reveBear nought for me to repent of, for thine heart of hearts to grieve.Thou art troth-plight, O King of the Niblungs, to Brynhild Queen of the earth,She hath sworn thine heart to cherish and increase thy worth with her worth:She shall come to the house of Gunnar ere ten days are past and o'er;And thenceforth the life of Brynhild shall part from thy life no more,Till the doom of our kind shall speed you, and Odin and Freyia shall call,And ye bide the Day of the Battle, and the uttermost changing of all."The praise and thanks they gave him! the words of love they spake!The tale that the world should hear of, deeds done for Sigurd's sake!They were lovely might you hear them: but they lack; for in very deedTheir sound was clean forgotten in the day of Sigurd's need.So that night in the hall of the ancient they hold high-tide again,And the Gods on the Southland hangings smile out full fair and fain,And the song goes up of Sigurd, and the praise of his fame fulfilled,But his speech in the dead sleep lieth, and the words of his wisdom are chilled:And men say, the King is careful, for he thinks of the people's weal,And his heart is afraid for our trouble, lest the Gods our joyance steal.But that night, when the feast was over, to Gudrun Sigurd came,And she noted the ring on his finger, and she knew it was nowise the sameAs the ring he was wont to carry; so she bade him tell thereof:Then he turned unto her kindly, and his words were words of love;Nor his life nor his death he heeded, but told her last night's tale:Yea, he drew forth the sword for his slaying, and whetted the edges of bale;For he took that Gold of Andvari, that Curse of the uttermost land,And he spake as a king that loveth, and set it on her hand;But her heart was exceeding joyous, as he kissed her sweet and soft,And bade her bear it for ever, that she might remember him oftWhen his hand from the world was departed and he sat in Odin's home.
So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold,As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled:But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land;A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand;A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom,A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom.
On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son:"O Gunnar, King belovèd, a fair life hast thou won;On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers with gold;Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told:Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth,Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth.If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings,No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings."
He said: "Meseemeth, mother, thou speakest not in haste,But hast sought and found beforehand, lest thy fair words fall to waste."
She said: "Thou sayest the sooth; I have found the thing I sought:A Maid for thee is shapen, and a Queen for thee is wrought:In the waste land hard by Lymdale a marvellous hall is built,With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:Afar o'er the heath men see it, but no man draweth nigher,For the garth that goeth about it is nought but the roaring fire,A white wall waving aloft; and no window nor wicket is there,Whereby the shielded earl-folk or the sons of the merchants may fare:But few things from me are hidden, and I know in that hall of goldSits Brynhild, white as a wild-swan where the foamless seas are rolled;And the daughter of Kings of the world, and the sister of Queens is she,And wise, and Odin's Chooser, and the Breath of Victory:But for this cause sitteth she thus in the ring of the Wavering Flame,That no son of the Kings will she wed save the mightiest master of fame,And the man who knoweth not fear, and the man foredoomed of fateTo ride through her Wavering Fire to the door of her golden gate:And for him she sitteth and waiteth, and him shall she cherish and love,Though the Kings of the world should withstand it, and the Gods that sit above.Speak thou, O mighty Gunnar!—nay rather, Sigurd my son,Say who but the lord of the Niblungs should wed with this glorious one?"
Long Sigurd gazeth upon her, and slow he sayeth again:"I know thy will, my mother; of all the sons of men,Of all the Kings unwedded, and the kindred of the great,It is meet that my brother Gunnar should ride to her golden gate."
In the May-morn riseth Gunnar with fair face and gleaming eyes,And he calleth on Sigurd his brother, and he calleth on Hogni the wise:"Today shall we fare to the wooing, for so doth our mother bid;We shall go to gaze on marvels, and things from the King-folk hid."
So they do on the best of their war-gear, and their steeds are dight for the road,And forth to the sun neigheth Greyfell as he neighed 'neath the Golden Load:But or ever they leap to the saddle, while yet in the door they stand,Thereto cometh Grimhild the wise-wife, and on each head layeth her hand,As she saith: "Be mighty and wise, as the kings that came before!For they knew of the ways of the Gods, and the craft of the Gods they bore:And they knew how the shapes of man-folk are the very imagesOf the hearts that abide within them, and they knew of the shaping of these.Be wise and mighty, O Kings, and look in mine heart and beholdThe craft that prevaileth o'er semblance, and the treasured wisdom of old!I hallow you thus for the day, and I hallow you thus for the night,And I hallow you thus for the dawning with my fathers' hidden might.Go now, for ye bear my will while I sit in the hall and spin;And tonight shall be the weaving, and tomorn the web shall ye win."
So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word,But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathèd sword:None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens gaze,And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways.
So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun,And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun:And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn;But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn:And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o'er the earth,And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert's dearth.None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red,And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd's head,And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides,And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides.
Then the heart of a king's son failed not, but he tossed his sword on highAnd laughed as he spurred for the fire, and cried the Niblung cry;But the mare's son saw and imagined, and the battle-eager steed,That so oft had pierced the spear-hedge and never failed at need,Shrank back, and shrieked in his terror, and spite of spur and reinFled fast as the foals unbitted on Odin's pasturing plain;Wide then he wheeled with Gunnar, but with hand and knee he dealt,And the voice of a lord belovèd, till the steed his master felt,And bore him back to the brethren; by Greyfell Sigurd stood,And stared at the heart of the fire, and his helm was red as blood;But Hogni sat in his saddle, and watched the flames up-roll;And he said: "Thy steed has failed thee that was once the noblest foalIn the pastures of King Giuki; but since thine heart fails not,And thou wouldst not get thee backward and say, The fire was hot,And the voices pent within it were singing nought but death,Let Sigurd lend thee his steed that wore the Glittering Heath,And carried the Bed of the Serpent, and the ancient ruddy rings.So perchance may the mocks be lesser when men tell of the Niblung Kings."
Then Sigurd looked on the twain, and he saw their swart hair waveIn the wind of the waste and the flame-blast, and no answer awhile he gave.But at last he spake: "O brother, on Greyfell shalt thou ride,And do on the Helm of Aweing and gird the Wrath to thy side,And cover thy breast with the war-coat that is throughly woven of gold,That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told:For this is the raiment of Kings when they ride the Flickering Fire,And so sink the flames before them and the might of their desire."
Then Hogni laughed in his heart, and he said: "This changing were wellIf so might the deed be accomplished; but perchance there is more to tell:Thou shalt take the war-steed, Gunnar, and enough or nought it shall be:But the coal-blue gear of the Niblungs the golden hall shall see."Then Sigurd looked on the speaker, as one who would answer again,But his words died out on the waste and the fire-blast made them vain.Then he casteth the reins to his brother, and Gunnar praiseth his gift,And springeth aloft to the saddle as the fair sun fails from the lift;And Sigurd looks on the burden that Greyfell doth uprear,The huge king towering upward in the dusky Niblung gear:There sits the eager Gunnar, and his heart desires the deed,And of nought he recketh and thinketh, but a fame-stirred warrior's need;But Greyfell trembleth nothing and nought of the fire doth reck:Then the spurs in his flank are smitten, and the reins lie loose on his neck,And the sharp cry springeth from Gunnar—no handbreadth stirred the beast;The dusk drew on and over and the light of the fire increased,And still as a shard on the mountain in the sandy dale aloneWas the shape of the cloudy Greyfell, nor moved he more than the stone;But right through the heart of the fire for ever Sigurd stared,As he stood in the gold red-litten with the Wrath's thin edges bared.
No word for a while spake any, till Gunnar leaped to the earth,And the anger wrought within him, and the fierce words came to birth:"Who mocketh the King of the Niblungs in the desert land forlorn?Is it thou, O Sigurd the Stranger? is it thou, O younger-born?Dost thou laugh in the hall, O Mother? dost thou spin, and laugh at the taleThat has drawn thy son and thine eldest to the sword and the blaze of the bale?Or thou, O God of the Goths, wilt thou hide and laugh thy fill,While the hands of the foster-brethren the blood of brothers spill?"
But the awful voice of Sigurd across the wild went forth:"How changed are the words of Gunnar! where wend his ways of worth?I mock thee not in the desert, as I mocked thee not in the mead,When I swore beneath the turf-yoke to help thy fondest need:Nay, strengthen thine heart for the work, for the gift that thy manhood awaits;For I give thee a gift, O Niblung, that shall overload the Fates,And how may a King sustain it? but forbear with the dark to strive;For thy mother spinneth and worketh, and her craft is awake and alive."
Then Hogni spake from the saddle: "The time, and the time is comeTo gather the might of our mother, and of her that spinneth at home.Forbear all words, O Gunnar, and anigh to Sigurd stand,And face to face behold him, and take his hand in thine hand:Then be thy will as his will, that his heart may mingle with thine,And the love that he sware 'neath the earth-yoke with thine hope may intertwine."
Then the wrath from the Niblung slippeth and the shame that anger hath bred,And the heavy wings of the dreamtide flit over Gunnar's head:But he doth by his brother's bidding, and Sigurd's hand he takes,And he looks in the eyes of the Volsung, though scarce in the desert he wakes.There Hogni sits in the saddle aloof from the King's desire,And little his lips are moving, as he stares on the rolling fire,And mutters the spells of his mother, and the words she bade him say:But the craft of the kings of aforetime on those Kings of the battle lay;Dark night was spread behind them, and the fire flared up before,And unheard was the wind of the wasteland mid the white flame's wavering roar.
Long Sigurd gazeth on Gunnar, till he sees, as through a cloud,The long black locks of the Niblung, and the King's face set and proud:Then the face is alone on the dark, and the dusky Niblung mailIs nought but the night before him: then whiles will the visage fail,And grow again as he gazeth, black hair and gleaming eyes,And fade again into nothing, as for more of vision he tries:Then all is nought but the night, yea the waste of an emptier thing,And the fire-wall Sigurd forgetteth, nor feeleth the hand of the King:Nay, what is it now he remembereth? it is nought that aforetime he knew,And no world is there left him to live in, and no deed to rejoice in or rue;But frail and alone he fareth, and as one in the sphere-stream's drift,By the starless empty places that lie beyond the lift:Then at last is he stayed in his drifting, and he saith, It is blind and dark;Yet he feeleth the earth at his feet, and there cometh a change and a spark,And away in an instant of time is the mirk of the dreamland rolled,And there is the fire-lit midnight, and before him an image of gold,A man in the raiment of Gods, nor fashioned worser than they:Full sad he gazeth on Sigurd from the great wide eyes and grey;And the Helm that Aweth the people is set on the golden hair,And the Mail of Gold enwraps him, and the Wrath in his hand is bare.
Then Sigurd looks on his arm and his hand in his brother's hand,And thereon is the dark grey mail-gear well forged in the southern land;Then he looks on the sword that he beareth, and, lo, the eager bladeThat leaps in the hand of Gunnar when the kings are waxen afraid;And he turns his face o'er his shoulder, and the raven-locks hang downFrom the dark-blue helm of the Dwarf-folk, and the rings of the Niblung crown.
Then a red flush riseth against him in the face ne'er seen before,Save dimly in the mirror or the burnished targe of war,And the foster-brethren sunder, and the clasped hands fall apart;But a change cometh over Sigurd, and the fierce pride leaps in his heart;He knoweth the soul of Gunnar, and the shaping of his mind;He seeketh the words of Sigurd, and Gunnar's voice doth he find,As he cries: "I know thy bidding; let the world be lief or loth,The child is unborn that shall hearken how Sigurd rued his oath!Well fare thou brother Gunnar! what deed shall I do this eveThat I shall never repent of, that thine heart shall never grieve?What deed shall I do this even that none else may bring to the birth,Nay, not the King of the Niblungs, and the lord of the best of the earth?"
The flames rolled up to the heavens, and the stars behind were bright,Dark Hogni sat on his war-steed, and stared out into the night,And there stood Gunnar the King in Sigurd's semblance wrapped,—As Sigurd walking in slumber, for in Grimhild's guile was he lapped,That his heart forgat his glory, and the ways of Odin's lords,And the thought was frozen within him, and the might of spoken words.
But Sigurd leapeth on Greyfell, and the sword in his hand is bare,And the gold spurs flame on his heels, and the fire-blast lifteth his hair;Forth Greyfell bounds rejoicing, and they see the grey wax red,As unheard the war-gear clasheth, and the flames meet over his head,Yet a while they see him riding, as through the rye men ride,When the word goes forth in the summer of the kings by the ocean-side;But the fires were slaked before him and the wild-fire burned no moreThan the ford of the summer waters when the rainy time is o'er.
Not once turned Sigurd aback, nor looked o'er the ashy ring,To the midnight wilderness drear and the spell-drenched Niblung King:But he stayed and looked before him, and lo, a house high-builtWith its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:So he leapt adown from Greyfell, and came to that fair abode,And dark in the gear of the Niblungs through the gleaming door he strode:All light within was that dwelling, and a marvellous hall it was,But of gold were its hangings woven, and its pillars gleaming as glass,And Sigurd said in his heart, it was wrought erewhile for a God:But he looked athwart and endlong as alone its floor he trod,And lo, on the height of the daïs is upreared a graven throne,And thereon a woman sitting in the golden place alone;Her face is fair and awful, and a gold crown girdeth her head;And a sword of the kings she beareth, and her sun-bright hair is shedO'er the laps of the snow-white linen that ripples adown to her feet:As a swan on the billow unbroken ere the firth and the ocean meet,On the dark-blue cloths she sitteth, in the height of the golden place,Nor breaketh the hush of the hall, though her eyes be set on his face.
Now he sees this is even the woman of whom the tale hath been told,E'en she that was wrought for the Niblungs, the bride ordained from of old,And hushed in the hall he standeth, and a long while looks in her eyes,And the word he hath shapen for Gunnar to his lips may never arise.
The man in Gunnar's semblance looked long and knew no deed;And she looked, and her eyes were dreadful, and none would help her need.Then the image of Gunnar trembled, and the flesh of the War-King shrank;For he heard her voice on the silence, and his heart of her anguish drank:
"King, King, who art thou that comest, thou lord of the cloudy gear?What deed for the weary-hearted shall thy strange hands fashion here?"
The speech of her lips pierced through him like the point of the bitter sword,And he deemed that death were better than another spoken word;But he clencheth his hand on the war-blade, and setteth his face as the brass,And the voice of his brother Gunnar from out his lips doth pass:"When thou lookest on me, O Goddess, thou seest Gunnar the King,The King and the lord of the Niblungs, and the chief of their warfaring.But art thou indeed that Brynhild of whom is the rumour and fame,That she bideth the coming of kings to ride her Wavering Flame,Lest she wed the little-hearted, and the world grow evil and vile?For if thou be none other I will speak again in a while."
She said: "Art thou Gunnar the Stranger! O art thou the man that I see?Yea, verily I am Brynhild; what other is like unto me?O men of the Earth behold me! hast thou seen, O labouring Earth,Such sorrow as my sorrow, or such evil as my birth?"
Then spake the Wildfire's Trampler that Gunnar's image bore:"O Brynhild, mighty of women, be thou glorious evermore!Thou seest Gunnar the Niblung, as he sits mid the Niblung lords,And rides with the gods of battle in the fore-front of the swords."
Hard rang his voice in the hall, and a while she spake no word,And there stood the Image of Gunnar, and leaned on his bright blue sword:But at last she cried from the high-seat: "If I yet am alive and awake,I know no words for the speaking, nor what answer I may make."She ceased and he answered nothing; and a hush on the hall there layAnd the moon slipped over the windows as he clomb the heavenly way;And no whit stirred the raiment of Brynhild: till she hearkened the Wooer's voice,As he said: "Thou art none of the women that swear and forswear and rejoice,Forgetting the sorrow of kings and the Gods and the labouring earth.Thou shall wed with King Gunnar the Niblung and increase his worth with thy worth."
So spake he in semblance of Gunnar, and from off his hand he drewA ring of the spoils of the Southland, a marvel seen but of few,And he set the ring on her finger, and she turned to her lord and spake:"I thank thee, King, for thy goodwill, and thy pledge of love I take.Depart with my troth to thy people: but ere full ten days are o'erI shall come to the Sons of the Niblungs, and then shall we part no moreTill the day of the change of our life-days, when Odin and Freyia shall call.Lo, here, my gift of the morning! 'twas my dearest treasure of all;But thou art become its master, and for thee was it fore-ordained,Since thou art the man of mine oath and the best that the earth hath gained."
And lo, 'twas the Grief of Andvari, and the lack that made him loth,The last of the God-folk's ransom, the Ring of Hindfell's oath;Now on Sigurd's hand it shineth, and long he looketh thereon,But it gave him back no memories of the days that were bygone.
So forth from the hall goes the Wooer, and slow and slow he goes,As a conquered king from his city fares forth to meet his foes;And he taketh the reins of Greyfell, nor yet will back him there,But afoot through the cold slaked ashes of yester-eve doth fare,With his eyes cast down to the earth; till he heareth the wind, and a cry,And raiseth a face brow-knitted and beholdeth men anigh,And beholdeth Hogni the King set grey on his coal-black steed,And beholdeth the image of Sigurd, the King in the golden weed:Then he stayeth and stareth astonished and setteth his hand to his sword;Till Hogni cries from his saddle, and his word is a kindly word:
"Hail, brother, the King of the people! hail, helper of my kin!Again from the death and the trouble great gifts hast thou set thee to winFor thy friends and the Niblung children, and hast crowned thine earthly fame,And increased thine exceeding glory and the sound of thy lovèd name."
Nought Sigurd spake in answer but looked straight forth with a frown,And stretched out his hand to Gunnar, as one that claimeth his own.Then no word speaketh Gunnar, but taketh his hand in his hand,And they look in the eyes of each other, and a while in the desert they standTill the might of Grimhild prevaileth, and the twain are as yester-morn;But sad was the golden Sigurd, though his eyes knew nought of scorn;And he spake:"It is finished, O Gunnar! and I will that our brotherhoodMay endure through the good and the evil as it sprang in the days of the good:But I bid thee look to the ending, that the deed I did yest'reveBear nought for me to repent of, for thine heart of hearts to grieve.Thou art troth-plight, O King of the Niblungs, to Brynhild Queen of the earth,She hath sworn thine heart to cherish and increase thy worth with her worth:She shall come to the house of Gunnar ere ten days are past and o'er;And thenceforth the life of Brynhild shall part from thy life no more,Till the doom of our kind shall speed you, and Odin and Freyia shall call,And ye bide the Day of the Battle, and the uttermost changing of all."
The praise and thanks they gave him! the words of love they spake!The tale that the world should hear of, deeds done for Sigurd's sake!They were lovely might you hear them: but they lack; for in very deedTheir sound was clean forgotten in the day of Sigurd's need.
So that night in the hall of the ancient they hold high-tide again,And the Gods on the Southland hangings smile out full fair and fain,And the song goes up of Sigurd, and the praise of his fame fulfilled,But his speech in the dead sleep lieth, and the words of his wisdom are chilled:And men say, the King is careful, for he thinks of the people's weal,And his heart is afraid for our trouble, lest the Gods our joyance steal.
But that night, when the feast was over, to Gudrun Sigurd came,And she noted the ring on his finger, and she knew it was nowise the sameAs the ring he was wont to carry; so she bade him tell thereof:Then he turned unto her kindly, and his words were words of love;Nor his life nor his death he heeded, but told her last night's tale:Yea, he drew forth the sword for his slaying, and whetted the edges of bale;For he took that Gold of Andvari, that Curse of the uttermost land,And he spake as a king that loveth, and set it on her hand;But her heart was exceeding joyous, as he kissed her sweet and soft,And bade her bear it for ever, that she might remember him oftWhen his hand from the world was departed and he sat in Odin's home.