GUDRUN.
herein is told of the days of the niblungs after they slew sigurd, and of their woeful need and fall in the house of king atli.
King Atli wooeth and weddeth Gudrun.
Hear now of those Niblung war-kings, how in glorious state they dwell;
They do and undo at their pleasure and wear their life-days well;
They deal out doom to the people, and their hosts of war array,
Nor storm nor wind nor winter their eager swords shall stay:
They ride the lealand highways, they ride the desert plain,
They cry out kind to the Sea-god and loose the wave-steed's rein:
They climb the unmeasured mountains, and gleam on the world beneath,
And their swords are the blinding lightning, and their shields are the shadow of death:
When men tell of the lords of the Goth-folk, of the Niblungs is their word,
All folk in the round world's compass of their mighty fame have heard:
They are lords of the Ransom of Odin, the uncounted sea-born Gold,
The Grief of the wise Andvari, the Death of the Dwarfs of old,
The gleaming Load of Greyfell, the ancient Serpent's Bed,
The store of the days forgotten, by the dead heaped up for the dead.
Lo, such are the Kings of the Niblungs, but yet they crave and desire
Lest the world hold greater than they, lest the Gods and their kindred be higher.
Fair, bright is their hall in the even; still up to the cloudy roof
There goeth the glee and the singing while the eagles chatter aloof,
And the Gods on the hangings waver in the doubtful wind of night;
Still fair are the linen-clad damsels, still are the war-dukes bright;
Men come and go in the even; men come and go in the morn;
Good tidings with the daybreak, fair fame with the glooming is born:
—But no tidings of Sigurd and Brynhild, and whoso remembereth their days
Turns back to the toil or the laughter from his words of lamenting or praise,
Turns back to the glorious Gunnar, casts hope on the Niblung name,
Doeth deeds from the morn to the even, and beareth no burden of shame.
Well wedded is Gunnar the King, and Hogni hath wedded a wife;
Fair queens are those wives of the Niblungs, good helpmates in peace and in strife
Sweet they sit on the golden high-seat, and Grimhild sitteth beside,
And the years have made her glorious, and the days have swollen her pride;
She looketh down on the people, from on high she looketh down,
And her days have become a wonder, and her redes are wisdom's crown.
She saith: Where then are the Gods? what things have they shapen and made
More of might than the days I have shapen? of whom shall our hearts be afraid?
Now there was a King of the outlands, and Atli was his name,
The lord of a mighty people, a man of marvellous fame,
Who craved the utmost increase of all that kings desire;
Who would reach his hand to the gold as it ran in the ruddy fire,
Or go down to the ocean-pavement to harry the people beneath,
Or cast up his sword at the Gods, or bid the friendship of death.
By hap was the man unwedded, and wide in the world he sought
For a queen to increase his glory lest his name should come to nought;
And no kin like the kin of the Niblungs he found in all the earth.
No treasure like their treasure, no glory like their worth;
So he sendeth an ancient war-duke with a goodly company,
And three days they ride the mirk-wood and ten days they sail the sea,
And three days they ride the highways till they come to Gunnar's land;
And there on an even of summer in Gunnar's hall they stand,
And the spears of Welshland glitter, and the Southland garments gleam,
For those folk are fair apparelled as the people of a dream.
But the glorious Son of Giuki from amidst the high-seat spoke:
"Why stand ye mid men sitting, or fast mid feasting folk?
No meat nor drink there lacketh, and the hall is long and wide.
Three days in the peace of the Niblungs unquestioned shall ye bide,
Then timely do your message, and bid us peace or war."
But spake the Earl of Atli yet standing on the floor:
"All hail, O glorious Gunnar, O mighty King of men!
O'er-short is the life of man-folk, the three-score years and ten,
Long, long is the craft for the learning, and sore doth the right hand waste:
Lo, lord, our spurs are bloody, and our brows besweat with haste;
Our gear is stained by the sea-spray and rent by bitter gales,
For we struck no mast to the tempest, and the East was in our sails;
By the thorns is our raiment rended, for we rode the mirk-wood through,
And our steeds were the God-bred coursers, nor day from night-tide knew:
Lo, we are the men of Atli, and his will and his spoken word
Lies not beneath our pillow, nor hangs above the board;
Nay, how shall it fail but slay us if three days we hold it hid?
—I will speak to-night, O Niblung, save thy very mouth forbid:
But lo now, look on the tokens, and the rune-staff of the King."