"Come, brother and king," said Gunnar, "for here of all the earth
Is the place that may not lack thee, and the folk that loves thy worth."
"Come, Sigurd the wise," said Hogni, "and so shall thy visage cheer
The folk that is bold for tomorrow, and the hearts that know no fear."
"Come, Sigurd the keen," said Guttorm, "for thy sword lies light in the sheath,
And oft shall we ride together to face the fateful death."
No word at all spake Gudrun, as she stood in the doorway dim,
But turned her face from beholding as she reached her hand to him.
Then Sigurd nought gainsaid them, but into the hall he passed,
And great shouts of salutation to the cloudy roof were cast,
And rang back from the glassy pillars, and the woven God-folk stirred,
And afar the clustering eagles on the golden roof-ridge heard,
And cried out on the Sword of the Branstock as they cried in other days;
And the harps rang out in the hall, and men sang in Sigurd's praise.
But he looked to the right and the left, and he knew there was ruin and lack,
And the death of yestereven, and the days that should never come back;
And he strove, but nought he remembered of the matters that he would,
Save that great was the flood of sorrow that had drowned his days of good:
Then he deemed that the sons of the earl-folk, e'en mid their praising word,
Were looking on his trouble as a people sore afeard;
And the gifts that the Gods had given the pride in his soul awoke,
And kindled was Sigurd's kindness by the trouble of the folk;
And he thought: I shall do and undo, as while agone I did,
And abide the time of the dawning, when the night shall be no more hid!
Then he lifted his head like a king, and his brow as a God's was clear,
And the trouble fell from the people, and they cast aside their fear;
And scarce was his glory abated as he sat in the seat of the Kings
With the Niblung brethren about him, and they spake of famous things,
And the dealings of lords of the earth; but he spake and answered again
And thrust by the grief of forgetting, and his tangled thought and vain,
And cast his care on the morrow, that the people might be glad.
Yet no smile there came to Sigurd, and his lips no laughter had;
But he seemeth a king o'er-mighty, who hath won the earthly crown,
In whose hand the world is lying, who no more heedeth renown.
But now speaketh Grimhild the Queen: "Rise, daughter of my folk,
For thou seest my son is weary with the weight of the careful yoke;
Go, bear him the wine of the Kings, and hail him over the gold,
And bless the King for his coming to the heart of the Niblung fold."
Upriseth the white-armed Gudrun, and taketh the cup in her hand;
Dead-pale in the night of her tresses by Sigurd doth she stand,
And strives with the thought within her, and finds no word to speak:
For such is the strength of her anguish, as well might slay the weak;
But her heart is a heart of the Queen-folk and of them that bear earth's kings,
And her love of her lord seems lovely, though sore the torment wrings,
—How fares it with words unspoken, when men are great enow,
And forth from the good to the good the strong desires shall flow?
Are they wasted e'en as the winds, the barren maids of the sky,
Of whose birth there is no man wotteth, nor whitherward they fly?
Lo, Sigurd lifteth his eyes, and he sees her silent and pale,
But fair as Odin's Choosers in the slain kings' wakening dale,
But sweet as the mid-fell's dawning ere the grass beginneth to move;
And he knows in an instant of time that she stands 'twixt death and love,
And that no man, none of the Gods can help her, none of the days,
If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways.
But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred,
And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word,
And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in his heart
To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart.
And he saith:
"O Maid of the Niblungs, thou art weary-faced this eve:
Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve!
Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne,
That here mid the warriors' joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn?
For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would,
As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!"
He seeth the love in her eyen, and the life that is tangled in his,
And the heart cries out within him, and man's hope of earthly bliss;
And again would he spare her the speech, as she strives with her longing sore.