Part 21 (1/2)

But he beareth a Helm of Aweing and a Hauberk all of gold, That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told; And strange is all his raiment, and he beareth a Dwarf-wrought sword, And his war-steed beareth beneath him red rings of a mighty h.o.a.rd, And the ancient gems of the sea-floor: there he sits on his cloud-grey steed, And his eyes are bright in the even, and we deem him mighty indeed, And our hearts are upraised at his coming; but how shall I tell thee or say If he be a King of the Kings and a lord of the earthly day, Or if rather the G.o.ds be abroad and he be one of these?

But forsooth no battle he biddeth, nor craveth he our peace.

So choose herein, King Giuki, wilt thou bid the man begone To his house of the earth or the heavens, lest a worser deed be won, Or wilt thou bid him abide in the Niblung peace and love?

And meseems if thus thou doest, thou shalt never repent thee thereof.”

Then uprose the King of the Niblungs, and was clad in purple and pall, And his sheathed sword lay in his hand, as he gat him adown the hall, And abroad through the Niblung doorway; and a mighty man he was, And wise and ancient of days: so there by the earls doth he pa.s.s, And beholdeth the King on the war-steed and looketh up in his face: But Sigurd smileth upon him in the Niblungs' fenced 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 abide And have all good at our hands? for unto the Niblungs' home And 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 G.o.d, Look not to see me tremble; for I know of such that have trod Unfeared in the Burg of the Niblungs; nor worser, nor better at all May fare the folk of the G.o.ds 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 gone Since 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 pa.s.sed, And great shouts of salutation to the cloudy roof were cast; And they rang from the gla.s.sy pillars, and the G.o.ds on the hangings stirred, And afar the cl.u.s.tering eagles on the golden roof-ridge heard, And cried out on the Sword of the Branstock as they cried in the other days: Then the harps rang out in the hall, and men sang in Sigurd's praise; And a flood of great remembrance, and the tales of the years gone by Swept over the soul of Sigurd, and his fathers seemed anigh; And he looked to the cloudy hall-roof, and anigh seemed Odin the Goth, And the Valkyrs holding the garland, and the crown of love and of troth; And his soul swells up exalted, and he deems that high above, In the glorious house of the heavens, are the outstretched hands of his love; And she stoops to the cloudy feast-hall, and the wavering wind is her voice, And her odorous breath floats round him, as she bids her King rejoice.

But now on the das he meeteth the kin of Giuki the wise: Lo, here is the crowned 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 lords Is the Maid of the Niblungs standing, the white-armed Giuki's child; And all these looked long on Sigurd and their hearts upon him smiled.

So Grimhild greeted the guest, and she deemed him fair and sweet, And she deemed him mighty of men, and a king for the queen-folk meet.

Then Gunnar the goodly war-king spake forth his greeting and speed, And deemed him n.o.ble and great, and a fellow for kings in their need: And Hogni gave him his greeting, and none his eyes might dim, And he smiled as the winter sun on the s.h.i.+pless ocean's rim.

Then greeted him Guttorm the young, and cried out that his heart was glad That the Volsung lived in their house, that a King of the Kings they had.

Then silent awhile the Maiden, the fair-armed Gudrun, stood, Yet might all men see by her visage that she deemed his coming good; But at last the gold she taketh, and before him doth she stand, And she poureth the wine of King-folk, and stretcheth forth her hand, And she saith: ”Hail, Sigurd the Volsung! may I see thy joy increase, And thy s.h.i.+elded sons beside thee, and thy days grown old in peace!”

And he took the cup from her hand, and drank, while his heart rejoiced At the Niblung Maiden's beauty, and her blessing lovely-voiced; And he thanked her well for the greeting, and no guile in his heart was grown, But he thought of his love enfolded in the arms of his renown.

So the Niblungs feast glad-hearted through the undark night and kind, And the burden of all sorrow seems fallen far behind On the road their lives have wended ere that happiest night of nights, And the careless days and quiet seem but thieves of their delights; For their hearts go forth before them toward the better days to come, When all the world of glory shall be called the Niblungs' home: Yea, as oft in the merry season and the morning of the May The birds break out a-singing for the world's face waxen gay, And they flutter there in the blossoms, and run through the dewy gra.s.s, As they sing the joy of the spring-tide, that bringeth the summer to pa.s.s; And they deem that for them alone was the earth wrought long ago.

And no hate and no repentance, and no fear to come they know; So fared the feast of the Niblungs on the eve that Sigurd came In the day of their deeds triumphant, and the blossom of their fame.

_Of Sigurd's warfaring in the company of the Niblungs, and of his great fame and glory._

Now gone is the summer season and the harvest of the year, And amid the winter weather the deeds of the Niblungs wear; But nought is their joyance worsened, or their mirth-tide waxen less, Though the swooping mountain tempest howl round their ridgy ness, Though a house of the windy battle their streeted burg be grown, Though the heaped-up, huddled cloud-drift be their very hall-roofs crown, Though the rivers bear the burden, and the Rime-G.o.ds grip and strive, And the snow in the mirky midnoon across the lealand drive.

But lo, in the stark midwinter how the war is smitten awake, And the blue-clad Niblung warriors the spears from the wall-nook take, And gird the dusky hauberk, and the ruddy fur-coat don, And draw the yellowing ermine o'er the steel from Welshland won.

Then they show their tokened war-s.h.i.+elds to the moon-dog and the stars, For the hurrying wind of the mountains has borne them tale of wars.

Lo now, in the court of the warriors they gather for the fray, Before the sun's uprising, in the moonless morn of day; And the spears by the dusk gate glimmer, and the torches s.h.i.+ne on the wall, And the murmuring voice of women comes faint from the cloudy hall: Then the grey dawn beats on the mountains mid a drift of frosty snow, And all men the face of Sigurd mid the swart-haired Niblungs know; And they see his gold gear glittering mid the red fur and the white, And high are the hearts uplifted by the hope of happy fight; And they see the sheathed Wrath s.h.i.+mmer mid the restless Welsh-wrought swords, And their hearts rejoice beforehand o'er the fall of conquered lords; And they see the Helm of Aweing and the awful eyes beneath, And they deem the victory glorious, and fair the warrior's death.

So forth through that cave of the gate from the Niblung Burg they fare, And they turn their backs on the plain, and the mountain-slopes they dare, And the place of the slaked earth-forges, as the eastering wind shall lead, And but few swords bide behind them the Niblung Burg to heed.

But lo, in the jaws of the mountains how few and small they seem, As dusky-strange in the snow-drifts their knitted hauberks gleam: Lo, now at the mountains' outmost 'neath Sigurd's gleaming eyes How wide in the winter season the citied lealand lies: Lo, how the beacons are flaring, and the bell-swayed steeples rock, And the gates of cities are shaken with the back-swung door-leaves'

shock: And, lo, the terror of towns, and the land that the winter wards, And over the streets snow-m.u.f.fled the clash of the Niblung swords.

But the slaves of the Kings are gathered, and their host the battle abides, And forth in the front of the Niblungs the golden Sigurd rides; And Gunnar smites on his right hand, and Hogni smites on the left, And glad is the heart of Guttorm, and the Southland host is cleft As the grey bill reapeth the willows in the autumn of the year, When the fish lie still in the eddies, and the rain-flood draweth anear.

Now sheathed is the Wrath of Sigurd; for as wax withstands the flame, So the Kings of the land withstood him and the glory of his fame.

And before the gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 feast For 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 s.h.i.+ning eyes and the hand that clave out truth From the heart of the wrack and the battle: it was then, as his gold gear burned O'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 hear The best of man-folk longing for the least of Sigurd's days, Thou shalt hearken to their story, till they tell forth all his praise, And become beloved and a wonder, as thou sayest when all is sung, 'And I too once beheld him in the days when I was young.'”

Men say that the white-armed Gudrun, the lovely Giuki's child, Looked long on Sigurd's visage in the winter weather wild On the eve of the Kings' departure; and she bore him wine and spake: ”Thou goest to the war, O Sigurd, for the Niblung brethren's sake; And so women send their kindred on many a doubtful tide, And dead full oft on the death-field shall the hope of their lives abide; Nor must they fear beforehand, nor weep when all is o'er; But thou, our guest and our stranger, thou goest to the war, And who knows but thine hand may carry the hope of all the earth; Now therefore if thou deemest that my prayer be aught of worth, Nor wilt scorn the child of a Niblung that prays for things to come, Pledge me for thy glad returning, and the sheaves of fame borne home!”