The Story of the Volsungs

CHAPTER XLIII. The Latter End of all the Kin of the...

Now tel­leth the tale con­cern­ing the sons of Gu­drun, that she had ar­rayed their war-​rai­ment in such wise, that no steel would bite there­on; and she bade them play not with stones or oth­er heavy mat­ters, for that it would be to their scathe if they did so.

And now, as they went on their way, they met Erp, their broth­er, and asked him in what wise he would help them.

He an­swered, “Even as hand helps hand, or foot helps foot.”

But that they deemed naught at all, and slew him there and then. Then they went their ways, nor was it long or ev­er Hamdir stum­bled, and thrust down his hand to steady him­self, and spake there­with –

“Naught but a true thing spake Erp, for now should I have fall­en, had not hand been to steady me.”

A lit­tle af­ter Sor­li stum­bled, but turned about on his feet, and so stood, and spake –

“Yea now had I fall­en, but that I stead­ied my­self with both feet.”

And they said they had done evil­ly with Erp their broth­er.

But on they fare till they come to the abode of King Jor­munrek, and they went up to him and set on him forth­with, and Hamdir cut both hands from him and Sor­li both feet. Then spake Hamdir –

“Off were the head if Erp were alive; our broth­er whom we slew on the way, and found out our deed too late.” Even as the Song says, –

“Off were the head If Erp were alive yet, Our broth­er the bold, Whom we slew by the way, The well-​famed in war­fare.”

Now in this must they turn away from the words of their moth­er, where­as they had to deal with stones. For now men fell on them, and they de­fend­ed them­selves in good and man­ly wise, and were the scathe of many a man, nor would iron bite on them.

But there came there­to a cer­tain man, old of as­pect and one-​eyed, (1) and he spake –

“No wise men are ye, where­as ye can­not bring these men to their end.”

Then the king said, “Give us rede there­to, if thou canst.”

He said, “Smite them to the death with stones.”

In such wise was it done, for the stones flew thick and fast from ev­ery side, and that was the end of their life-​days.

And now has come to an end the whole root and stem of the Giuk­ings. (2)

NOW MAY ALL EARLS BE BET­TERED IN MIND, MAY THE GRIEF OF ALL MAID­ENS EV­ER BE MIN­ISHED, FOR THIS TALE OF TROU­BLE SO TOLD TO ITS END­ING.

END­NOTES: (1) Odin; he ends the tale as he be­gan it. (2) “And now,” etc., in­sert­ed by trans­la­tors from the prose Ed­da, the stan­za at the end from the Whet­ting of Gu­drun.

AP­PENDIX: EX­CERPTS FROM THE PO­ET­IC ED­DA.

PART OF THE SEC­OND LAY OF HEL­GI HUND­INGS-​BANE (1)

Hel­gi wed­ded Sigrun, and they be­gate sons to­geth­er, but Hel­gi lived not to be old; for Dag, (2) the son of Hog­ni, sac­ri­ficed to Odin, pray­ing that he might avenge his fa­ther. So Odin lent Dag his spear, and Dag met Hel­gi, his broth­er-​in-​law, at a place called Fet­ter-​grove, and thrust him through with that spear, and there fell Hel­gi dead; but Dag rode to Se­vafell, and told Sigrun of the news.

DAG: Loth am I, sis­ter Of sor­row to tell the, For by hard need driv­en Have I drawn on the greet­ing; This morn­ing fell In Fet­ter-​grove The king well deemed The best in the wide world, Yea, he who stood On the necks of the strong.”

SIGRUN: All oaths once sworn Shall bite thee sore, The oaths that to Hel­gi Once thou swarest At the bright white Wa­ter of Light­en­ing, (3) And at the cold rock That the sea run­neth over.

May the ship sweep not on That should sweep at its swiftest, Though the wind de­sired Be­hind thee driv­eth! May the horse nev­er run That should run at his most might When from thy foe’s face Thou hast most need to flee!

May the sword nev­er bite That thou drawest from scab­bard But and if round thine head In wrath it singeth!

Then should meet price be paid For Hel­gi’s slay­ing When a wolf thou wert Out in the wild-​wood, Emp­ty of good things Emp­ty of glad­ness, With no meat for thy mouth But dead men’s corpses!

DAG: With mad words thou ravest, Thy wits are gone from thee, When thou for thy broth­er Such ill fate bid­dest; Odin alone Let all this bale loose, Cast­ing the strife-​runes ‘Twixt friends and kin­dred.

Rings of red gold Will thy broth­er give thee, And the stead of Vandil And the lands of Vig­dale; Have half of the land For thy sor­row’s heal­ing, O ring-​ar­rayed sweet­ling For thee and thy sons!

SIGRUN: No more sit I hap­py At Se­vafell; At day-​dawn, at night Naught love I my life Till broad o’er the peo­ple My lord’s light breaketh; Till his war-​horse run­neth Be­neath him hith­er, Well wont to the gold bit — Till my king I wel­come.

In such wise did Hel­gi Deal fear around To all his foes And all their friends As when the goat run­neth Be­fore the wolf’s rage Filled with mad fear Down from the fell.

As high above all lords Did Hel­gi beat him As the ash-​tree’s glo­ry From the thorn ariseth, Or as the fawn With the dew-​fell sprin­kled Is far above All oth­er wild things, As his horns go gleam­ing ‘Gainst the very heav­ens.

A bar­row was raised above Hel­gi, but when he came in Val­hall, then Odin bade him be lord of all things there, even as he; so Hel­gi sang –

HEL­GI: Now shalt thou, Hund­ing For the help of each man Get ready the foot-​bath, And kin­dle the fire; The hounds shalt thou bind And give heed to the hors­es, Give wash to the swine Ere to sleep thou goest.

A bond­maid of Sigrun went in the evening-​tide by Hel­gi’s mound, and there saw how Hel­gi rode to­ward it with a great com­pa­ny; then she sang –

BOND­MAID: It is vain things’ be­guilling That me­thinks I be­hold, Or the end­ing of all things, As ye ride, O ye dead men, Smit­ing with spurs Your hors­es’ sides? Or may dead war­riors Wend their ways home­ward?

THE DEAD: No vain things’ be­guil­ing Is that thou be­hold­est, Nor the ru­in of all things; Though thou look­est up­on us, Though we smite with spurs Our hors­es’ sides; Rather dead war­riors May wend their ways home­ward.

Then went the bond­maid home, and told Sigrun, and sang –

BOND­MAID: Go out, Sigrun From Se­vafell, If thou lis­test to look on The lord of thy peo­ple! For the mound is un­cov­ered Thith­er is Hel­gi come, And his wounds are bleed­ing, But the king thee bid­deth To come and stay That stream of sor­row.

So Sigrun went in­to the mound to Hel­gi, and sang –

SIGRUN: Now am I as fain Of this fair meet­ing, As are the hun­gry Hawks of Odin, When they wot of the slay­ing Of the yet warm quar­ry, Or bright with dew See the day a-​dawn­ing.

Ah, I will kiss My king laid life­less, Ere thou castest by Thy blood-​stained byrny. O Hel­gi, thy hair Is thick with death’s rime, With the dew of the dead Is my love all drip­ping; Dead-​cold are the hands Of the son of Hog­ni; How for thee, O my king, May I win heal­ing?

HEL­GI: Thou alone, Sigrun Of Se­vafell, Hast so done that Hel­gi With grief’s dew drip­peth; O clad in gold Cru­el tears thou weep­est, Bright May of the South­lands, Or ev­er thou sleep­est; Each tear in blood fal­leth On the breast of thy lord, Cold wet and bit­ter-​sharp Swollen with sor­row.

Ah, we shall drink Dear draughts and love­ly, Though, we have lost Both life and lands; Nei­ther shall any Sing song of sor­row, Though in my breast Be wounds wide to be­hold: For now are brides In the mound abid­ing; Kings’ daugh­ters sit By us de­part­ed.

Bow Sigrun ar­rayed a bed in the mound, and sang –

SIGRUN: Here, Hel­gi, for thee A bed have I dight, Kind with­out woe, O kin of the Ylf­in­gs! To thy bo­som, O king, Will I come and sleep soft, As I was wont When my lord was liv­ing.

HEL­GI: Now will I call Naught not to be hoped for Ear­ly or late At Se­vafell, When thou in the arms Of a dead man art laid, White maid­en of Hog­ni, Here in the mound: And thou yet quick, O King’s daugh­ter!

Now needs must I ride On the red­den­ing ways; My pale horse must tread The high­way aloft; West must I go To Wind­helm’s bridge Ere the war-​win­ning crowd Hall-​crow­er (4) waketh.

So Hel­gi rode his ways: and the oth­ers gat them gone home to the house. But the next night Sigrun bade the bond­wom­an have heed of the mound. So at night­fall, thenas Sigrun came to the mound, she sang:

SIGRUN: Here now would he come, If to come he were mind­ed; Sig­mund’s off­spring From the halls of Odin. O me the hope waneth Of Hel­gi’s com­ing; For high on the ash-​boughs Are the ernes abid­ing, And all folk drift To­ward the Thing of the dream­land.

BOND­MAID: Be not fool­ish of heart, And fare all alone To the house of the dead, O Hero’s daugh­ter! For more strong and dread­ful In the night sea­son Are all dead war­riors Than in the day­light.

But a lit­tle while lived Sigrun, be­cause of her sor­row and trou­ble. But in old time folk trowed that men should be born again, though their troth be now deemed but an old wife’s dot­ting. And so, as folk say, Hel­gi and Sigrun were born again, and at that tide was he called Hel­gi the Scathe of Hadding, and she Kara the daugh­ter of Half­dan; and she was a Valkyrie, even as is said in the Lay of Kara.

END­NOTES: (1) On­ly that part of the song is giv­en which com­pletes the episodes of Hel­gi Hund­ing’s-​bane; the ear­li­er part of the song dif­fers lit­tle from the Saga. (2) Hog­ni, the fa­ther of Dar and Sigrun, had been slain by Hel­gi in bat­tle, and Hel­gi had giv­en peace to, and tak­en oaths of Dag. (3) One of the rivers of the un­der-​world. (4) Hall-​crow­er, “Sal­gofnir”: lit. Hall-​gaper, the cock of Val­hall.

PART OF THE LAY OF SIGR­DRI­FA (1)

Now this is my first coun­sel, That thou with thy kin Be guilt­less, guile­less ev­er, Nor hasty of wrath, De­spite of wrong done — Un­to the dead good that doeth.

Lo the sec­ond coun­sel, That oath thou swear­est nev­er, But trusty oath and true: Grim tor­ment­ing Gripes troth-​break­ers; Cursed wretch is the wolf of vows.

This is my third rede, That thou at the Thing Deal not with the fools of folk; For un­wise man From mouth lets fall Wors­er word than well he wot­teth.

Yet hard it is That hold­ing of peace When men shall deem thee das­tard, Or deem the lie said sooth­ly; But woe­ful is home-​wit­ness, Un­less right good thou gettest it. Ah, on an­oth­er day Drive the life from out him, And pay the liar back for his ly­ing.

Now be­hold the fourth rede: If ill witch thee bideth, Woe-​be­gat­ting by the way, Good go­ing fur­ther Rather than guest­ing, Though thick night be on thee.

Far-​see­ing eyes Need all sons of men Who wend in wrath to war; For bale­ful wom­en Bide oft by the high­way, Swords and hearts to soft­en.

And now the fifth rede: As fair as thou seest Brides on the bench abid­ing, Let not love’s sil­ver Rule over thy sleep­ing; Draw no wom­an to kind kiss­ing!

For the sixth thing, I rede When men sit a-​drink­ing Amid ale-​words and ill-​words, Dead thou naught With the drunk­en fight-​staves For wine stealeth wit from many.

Brawl­ing and drink Have brought un­to men Sor­row sore oft enow; Yea, bane un­to some, And to some weary bale; Many are the griefs of mankind.

For the sev­enth, I rede thee, If strife thou rais­est With a man right high of heart, Bet­ter fight a-​field Than burn in the fire With­in thine hall fair to be­hold.

The eighth rede that I give thee: Un­to all ill look thou, And hold thine heart from all be­guil­ing; Draw to thee no maid­en, No man’s wife be­wray thou, Urge them not un­to un­meet plea­sure.

This is the ninth coun­sel: That thou have heed of dead folk Where­so thou find­est them a-​field; Be they sick-​dead, Be they sea-​dead, Or come to end­ing by war-​weapons.

Let bath be made For such men for­done, Wash thou hands and feet there­of, Comb their hair and dry them Ere the cof­fin has them; Then bid them sleep full sweet­ly.

This for the tenth coun­sel: That thou give trust nev­er Un­to oaths of foe­man’s kin, Be’st thou bane of his broth­er, Or hast thou felled his fa­ther; Wolf in young son wax­es, Though he with gold be glad­dened.

For wrong and ha­tred Shall rest them nev­er, Nay, nor sore sor­row. Both wit and weapons Well must the king have Who is fain to be the fore­most.

The last rede and eleventh: Un­til all ill look thou. And watch thy friends’ ways ev­er Scarce durst I look For long life for thee, king: Strong trou­ble ariseth now al­ready.

END­NOTES: (1) This con­tin­ues the first part of the lay giv­en in Chap­ter XX of the Saga; and is, in fact, the orig­inal verse of Chap­ter XXI.

THE LAY CALLED THE SHORT LAY OF SIG­URD.

Sig­urd of yore, Sought the dwelling of Giu­ki, As he fared, the young Vol­sung, Af­ter fight won; Troth he took From the two brethren; Oath swore they be­twixt them, Those bold ones of deed.

A may they gave to him And wealth man­ifold, Gu­drun the young, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter: They drank and gave doom Many days to­geth­er, Sig­urd the young, And the sons of Giu­ki.

Un­til they wend­ed For Bryn­hild’s woo­ing, Sig­urd a-​rid­ing Amidst their rout; The wise young Vol­sung Who knew of all ways — Ah! He had wed her, Had fate so willed it.

South­lander Sig­urd A naked sword, Bright, well grind­ed, Laid be­twixt them; No kiss he won From the fair wom­an, Nor in arms of his Did the Hun King hold her, Since he gat the young maid For the son of Giu­ki.

No lack in her life She wot­ted of now, And at her death-​day No dread­ful thing For a shame in­deed Or a shame in seem­ing; But about and be­twixt Went bale­ful fate.

Alone, abroad, She sat of an evening, Of full many things She fall a-​talk­ing: “O for my Sig­urd! I shall have death, Or my fair, my love­ly, Laid in mine arms.

“For the word once spo­ken, I sor­row sore­ly — His queen is Gu­drun, I am wed to Gun­nar; The dread Norns wrought for us A long while of woe.”

Oft with heart deep In dread­ful thoughts, O’er ice-​fields and ice-​hills She fared a-​night time, When he and Gu­drun Were gone to their fair bed, And Sig­urd wrapped The bed-​gear round her.

“Ah! Now the Hun King His queen in arms hold­eth, While love I go lack­ing, And all things longed for With no de­light But in dread­ful thought.”

These dread­ful things Thrust her to­ward mur­der: — “Lis­ten, Gun­nar, For thou shalt lose My wide lands, Yea, me my­self! Nev­er love I my life, With thee for my lord –

“I will fare back thith­er From whence I came, To my nigh­est kin And those that know me There shall I sit Sleep­ing my life away, Un­less thou slayest Sig­urd the Hun King, Mak­ing thy might more E’en than his might was!

“Yea, let the son fare Af­ter the fa­ther, And no young wolf A long while nour­ish! For on earth man li­eth Vengeance lighter, And peace shall be sur­er If the son live not.”

Adrad was Gun­nar, Heavy-​heart­ed was he, And in doubt­ful mood Day-​long he sat. For naught he wot­ted, Nor might see clear­ly What was the seem­li­est Of deeds to set hand to; What of all deeds Was best to be done: For he mind­ed the vows Sworn to the Vol­sung, And the sore wrong To be wrought against Sig­urd.

Wa­vered his mind A weary while, No wont it was Of those days worn by, That queens should flee From the realms of their kings.

“Bryn­hild to me Is bet­ter than all, The child of Budli Is the best of wom­en. Yea, and my life Will I lay down, Ere I am twinned From that wom­an’s trea­sure.”

He bade call Hog­ni To the place where he bid­ed; With all the trust that might be, Trowed he in him.

“Wilt thou be­wray Sig­urd For his wealth’s sake? Good it is to rule O’er the Rhine’s met­al; And well con­tent Great wealth to wield, Bid­ing in peace And bliss­ful days.”

One thing alone Hog­ni Had for an an­swer: “Such do­ings for us Are naught seem­ly to do; To rend with sword Oaths once sworn, Oaths once sworn, And troth once plight­ed.

“Nor know we on mould, Men of hap­pi­er days, The while we four Rule over the folk; While the bold in bat­tle, The Hun King, bides liv­ing.

“And no no­bler kin Shall be known afield, If our five sons We long may fos­ter; Yea, a good­ly stem Shall sure­ly wax. — But I clear­ly see In what wise it standeth, Bryn­hild’s sore urg­ing O’er­much on thee beareth.

“Gut­torm shall we Get for the slay­ing, Our younger broth­er Bare of wis­dom; For he was out of All the oaths sworn, All the oaths sworn, And the plight­ed troth.”

Easy to rouse him Who of naught reck­eth! — Deep stood the sword In the heart of Sig­urd.

There, in the hall, Gat the high-​heart­ed vengeance; For he can his sword At the reck­less slay­er: Out at Gut­torm Flew Gram the mighty, The gleam­ing steel From Sig­urd’s hand.

Down fell the slay­er Smit­ten asun­der; The heavy head And the hands fell one way, But the feet and such like Aback where they stood.

Gu­drun was sleep­ing Soft in the bed, Emp­ty of sor­row By the side of Sig­urd: When she awoke With all plea­sure gone, Swim­ming in blood Of Frey’s beloved.

So sore her hands She smote to­geth­er, That the great-​heart­ed Gat raised in bed; — “O Gu­drun, weep not So woe­ful­ly, Sweet love­ly bride, For thy brethren live for thee!

“A young child have I For her­itor; Too young to win forth From the house of his foes. — Black deeds and ill Have they been a-​do­ing, Evil rede Have they wrought at last.

“Late, late, rideth with them Un­to the Thing, Such sis­ter’s son, Though sev­en thou bear, — — But well I wot Which way all goeth; Alone wrought Bryn­hild This bale against us.

“That maid­en loved me Far be­fore all men, Yet wrong to Gun­nar I nev­er wrought; Broth­er­hood I heed­ed And all bound­en oaths, That none should deem me His queen’s dar­ling.”

Weary sighed Gu­drun, As the king gat end­ing, And so sore her hands She smote to­geth­er, That the cups arow Rang out there­with, And the geese cried on high That were in the home­field.

Then laughed Bryn­hild Budli’s daugh­ter, Once, once on­ly, From out her heart; When to her bed Was borne the sound Of the sore greet­ing Of Giu­ki’s daugh­ter.

Then, quoth Gun­nar, The king, the hawk-​bear­er, “Where­as, thou laugh­est, O hate­ful wom­an, Glad on thy bed, No good it be­to­keneth: Why lack­est thou else Thy love­ly hue? Feed­er of foul deeds, Fey do I deem thee,

“Well wor­thy art thou Be­fore all wom­en, That thine eyes should see Atli slain of us; That thy broth­er’s wounds Thou shouldest see a-​bleed­ing, That his bloody hurts Thine hands should bind.”

“No man blameth thee, Gun­nar, Thou hast ful­filled death’s mea­sure But naught Atli feareth All thine ill will; Life shall he lay down Lat­er than ye, And still bear more might Aloft than thy might.

“I shall tell thee, Gun­nar, Though well the tale thou know­est, In what ear­ly days Ye dealt abroad your wrong: Young was I then, Worn with no woe, Good wealth I had In the house of my broth­er!

“No mind had I That a man should have me, Or ev­er ye Giuk­ings, Rode in­to our garth; There ye sat on your steeds Three kings of the peo­ple — — Ah! That that far­ing Had nev­er be­fall­en!

“Then spake Atli To me apart, And said that no wealth He would give un­to me, Nei­ther gold nor lands If I would not be wed­ded; Nay, and no part Of the wealth ap­por­tioned, Which in my first days He gave me du­ly; Which in my first days He count­ed down.

“Wa­vered the mind With­in me then, If to fight I should fall And the felling of folk, Bold in Byrny Be­cause of my broth­er; A deed of fame Had that been to all folk, But to many a man Sor­row of mind.

“So I let all sink In­to peace at the last: More grew I mind­ed For the mighty trea­sure, The red-​shin­ing rings Of Sig­mund’s son; For no man’s wealth else Would I take un­to me.

“For my­self had I giv­en To that great king Who sat amid gold On the back of Grani; Nought were his eyes Like to your eyen, Nor in any wise Went his vis­age with yours; Though ye might deem you Due kings of men.

“One I loved, One, and none oth­er, The gold-​decked may Had no doubt­ful mind; There­of shall Atli Wot full sure­ly, When he get­teth to know I am gone to the dead.

“Far be it from me, Fee­ble and wa­ver­ing, Ev­er to love An­oth­er’s love — — Yes shall my woe Be well avenged.”

Up rose Gun­nar, The great men’s lead­er, And cast his arms About the queen’s neck; And all went nigh One af­ter oth­er, With their whole hearts Her heart to turn.

But then all these From her neck she thrust, Of her long jour­ney No man should let her.

Then called he Hog­ni To have talk with him; “Let all folk go Forth in­to the hall, Thine with mine — — O need sore and mighty! — To wot if we yet My wife’s part­ing may stay. Till with time’s wear­ing Some hin­drance wax.”

One an­swer Hog­ni Had for all; “Nay, let hard need Have rule there­over, And no man let her Of her long jour­ney! Nev­er born again, May she come back thence!

“Luck­less she came To the lap of her moth­er, Born in­to the world For ut­ter woe, TO many a man For heart-​whole mourn­ing.”

Up­raised he turned From the talk and the trou­ble, To where the gem-​field Dealt out good­ly trea­sure; As she looked and be­held All the wealth that she had, And the hun­gry bond­maids, And maids of the hall.

With no good in her heart She donned her gold byrny, Ere she thrust the sword point Through the midst of her body: On the bois­ter’s far side Sank she ad­own, And, smit­ten with sword, Still bethought her of re­des.

“Let all come forth Who are fain the red gold, Or things less wor­thy To win from my hands; To each one I give A neck­lace gilt over, Wrought hang­ings and bed=gear, And bright wo­ven weed.”

All they kept si­lence, And thought what to speak, Then all at once An­swer gave: “Full enow are death-​doomed, Fain are we to live yet, Maids of the hall All meet work win­ning.”

“From her wise heart at last The linen-​clad damsel, The one of few years Gave forth the word: “I will that none driv­en By hand or by word, For our sake should lose Well-​loved life.

“Thou on the bones of you Sure­ly shall burn, Less dear trea­sure At your de­part­ing Nor with Me­nia’s Meal (1) Shall ye come to see me.”

“Sit thee down, Gun­nar, A word must I say to thee Of the life’s ru­in Of thy light­some bride — — Nor shall thy ship Swim soft and sweet­ly For all that I Lay life ad­own.

“Soon­er than ye might deem Shall ye make peace with Gu­drun, For the wise wom­an Shall full in the young wife The hard mem­ory Of her dead hus­band.

“There is a may born Reared by her moth­er, Whiter and brighter Than is the bright day; She shall be Swan­hild, She shall be Sun­beam.

“Thou shalt give Gu­drun Un­to a great one, No­ble, well-​praised Of the world’s folk; Not with her good­will, Or love shalt thou give her; Yet will Atli Come to win her, My very broth­er, Born of Budli.

– “Ah! Many a mem­ory Of how ye dealt with me, How sore­ly, how evil­ly Ye ev­er be­guiled me, How all plea­sure left me The while my life last­ed! –

“Fain wilt thou be Odd­run to win, But thy good lik­ing Shall Atli let; But in se­cret wise Shall ye win to­geth­er, And she shall love thee As I had loved thee, If in such wise Fare had willed it.

“But with all ill Shall Atli sting thee, In­to the strait worm-​close Shall he cast thee.

“But no long space Shall slip away Ere Atli too All life shall lose, Yea, all his weal With the life of his sons, For a dread­ful bed Dights Gu­drun for him, From a heart sore laden, With the sword’s sharp edge.

“More seem­ly for Gu­drun, Your very sis­ter, In death to wend af­ter Her love first wed; Had but good rede To her been giv­en, Or if her heart Had been like to my heart.

– “Faint my speech groweth — But for our sake Ne’er shall she lose Her life beloved; The sea shall have her, High bil­lows bear her Forth un­to Jon­akr’s Fair land of his fa­thers.

“There shall she bear sons, Stays of a her­itage, Stays of a her­itage, Jon­akr’s sons; And Swan­hild shall she Send from the land, That may born of her, The may born of Sig­urd.

“Her shall bite The rede of Bik­ki, Where­as for no good Wins Jor­munrek life; And so is clean per­ished All the kin of Sig­urd, Yea, and more greet­ing, And more for Gu­drun.

“And now one prayer Yet pray I of thee — That last word of mine Here in the world — So broad on the field Be the burg of the dead That fair space may be left For us all to lie down, All those that died At Sig­urd’s death!

“Hang round that burg Fair hang­ings and shields, Web by Gauls wo­ven, And folk of the Gauls: There burn the Hun King Ly­ing be­side me.

“But on the oth­er side Burn by the Hun King Those who served me Strewn with trea­sure; Two at the head, And two at the feet, Two hounds there­with, And two hawks more­over: Then is all dealt With even deal­ing.

“Lay there amidst us The right-​dight met­al, The sharp-​edged steel, That so lay erst; When we both to­geth­er In­to one bed went, And were called by the name Of man and wife.

“Nev­er, then, be­like Shall clash be­hind him Val­hall’s bright door With rings be­dight: And if my fel­low­ship Fol­loweth af­ter, In no wretched wise Then shall we wend.

“For him shall fol­low My five bond­maids, My eight bonds­men, No borel folk: Yea, and my fos­ter­er, And my fa­ther’s dow­er That Budli of old days Gave to his dear child.

“Much have I spo­ken, More would I speak, If the sword would give me Space for speech; But my words are wan­ing, My wounds are swelling — Naught but truth have I told — — And now make I end­ing.”

END­NOTES: (1) “Me­nia’s Maid” — pe­riphra­sis for gold.

THE HELL-​RIDE OF BRYN­HILD.

Af­ter the death of Bryn­hild were made two bales, one for Sig­urd, and that was first burned; but Bryn­hild was burned on the oth­er, and she was in a char­iot hung about with good­ly hang­ings.

And so folk say that Bryn­hild drave in her char­iot down along the way to Hell, and passed by an abode where dwelt a cer­tain gi­ant­ess, and the gi­ant­ess spake: –

THE GI­ANT-​WOM­AN “Nay, with my good­will Nev­er goest thou Through this stone-​pil­lared Stead of mine! More seem­ly for thee To sit sewing the cloth, Than to go look on The love of an­oth­er.

“What dost thou, go­ing From the land of the Gauls, O rest­less head, To this mine house? Gold­en girl, hast thou not, If thou lis­test to hear­ken, In sweet wise from thy hands The blood of men washen?”

BRYN­HILD “Nay, blame me naught, Bride of the rock-​hall, Though I roved a war­ring In the days that were; The high­er of us twain Shall I ev­er be hold­en When of our kind Men make ac­count.”

THE GI­ANT-​WOM­AN “Thou, O Bryn­hild, Budli’s daugh­ter, Wert the worst ev­er born In­to the world; For Giu­ki’s chil­dren Death hast thou got­ten, And turned to de­struc­tion Their good­ly dwelling.”

BRYN­HILD “I shall tell thee True tale from my char­iot, O thou who naught wottest, If thou lis­test to wot; How for me they have got­ten Those heirs of Giu­ki, A love­less life, A life of lies.

“Hild un­der helm, The Hlym­dale peo­ple, E’en those who knew me, Ev­er would call me.

“The change­ful shapes Of us eight sis­ters, The wise king bade Un­der oak-​tree to bear; Of twelve win­ters was I, If thou lis­test to wot, When I sware to the young lord Oaths of love.

“There­after gat I Mid the folk of the Goths, For Helm­gun­nar the old, Swift jour­ney to Hell, And gave to Aud’s broth­er The young, gain and glo­ry; Where­of over­wrath Waxed Odin with me.

“So he shut me in shield-​wall In Ska­ta grove, Red shields and white Close set around me; And bade him alone My slum­ber to break Who in no land Knew how to fear.

“He set round my hall, To­ward the south quar­ter, The Bane of all trees Burn­ing aloft; And ruled that he on­ly There­over should ride Who should bring me the gold O’er which Fafnir brood­ed.

“Then up­on Grani rode The good­ly gold-​strew­er To where my fos­ter­er Ruled his fair dwelling. He who alone there Was deemed best of all, The War-​lord of the Danes, Well wor­thy of men.

“In peace did we sleep Soft in one bed, As though he had been Naught but my broth­er: There as we lay Through eight nights wear­ing, No hand in love On each oth­er we laid.

“Yet thence blamed me, Gu­drun, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter, That I had slept In the arms of Sig­urd; And then I wot­ted As I fain had not wot­ted, That they had be­wrayed me In my be­trothals.

“Ah! For un­rest All too long Are men and wom­en Made alive! Yet we twain to­geth­er Shall wear through the ages, Sig­urd and I. — — Sink ad­own, O gi­ant-​wife!”

FRAG­MENTS OF THE LAY OF BRYN­HILD

HOG­NI SAID: “What hath wrought Sig­urd Of any wrong-​do­ing That the life of the famed one Thou art fain of tak­ing?”

GUN­NAR SAID: “To me has Sig­urd Sworn many oaths, Sworn many oaths, And sworn them ly­ing, And he be­wrayed me When it be­hoved him Of all folk to his troth To be the most trusty.”

HOG­NI SAID: “Thee hath Bryn­hild Un­to all bale, And all hate whet­ted, And a work of sor­row; For she grudges to Gu­drun All good­ly life; And to thee the bliss Of her very body.”

*******

Some the wolf roast­ed, Some minced the worm, Some un­to Gut­torm Gave the wolf-​meat, Or ev­er they might In their lust for mur­der On the high king Lay dead­ly hand.

Sig­urd lay slain On the south of the Rhine High from the fair tree Croaked forth the raven, “Ah, yet shall Atli On you red­den edges, The old oaths shall weigh On your souls, O war­riors.”

With­out stood Gu­drun, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter, And the first word she said Was even this word: “Where then is Sig­urd, Lord of the War­folk, Since my kin Come rid­ing the fore­most?

One word Hog­ni Had for an an­swer: “Our swords have smit­ten Sig­urd asun­der, And the grey horse hangs droop­ing O’er his lord ly­ing dead.”

Then quoth Bryn­hild, Budli’s daugh­ter; “Good weal shall ye have Of weapons and lands, That Sig­urd alone Would sure­ly have ruled If he had lived But a lit­tle longer.

“Ah, noth­ing seem­ly For Sig­urd to rule Giu­ki’s house And the folk of the Goths, When of him five sons For the slay­ing of men, Ea­ger for bat­tle, Should have been be­got­ten!”

Then laughed Bryn­hild — Loud rang the whole house — One laugh on­ly From out her heart: “Long shall your bliss be Of lands and peo­ple, Where­as the famed lord You have felled to the earth!”

Then spake Gu­drun, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter; “Much thou speak­est, Many things fear­ful, All grame be on Gun­nar The bane of Sig­urd! From a heart full of hate Shall come heavy vengeance.”

Forth sped the even Enow there was drunk­en, Full enow was there Of all soft speech; And all men got sleep When to bed they were got­ten; Gun­nar on­ly lay wak­ing Long af­ter all men.

His feet fell he to mov­ing, Fell to speak to him­self The waster of men, Still turned in his mind What on the bough Those twain would be say­ing, The raven and erne, As they rode their ways home­ward.

But Bryn­hild awoke, Budli’s daugh­ter, May of the shield-​folk, A lit­tle ere morn­ing: “Thrust ye on, hold ye back, — Now all harm is wrought, — To tell of my sor­row, Or to let all slip by me?”

All kept si­lence Af­ter her speak­ing, None might know That wom­an’s mind, Or why she must weep To tell of the work That laugh­ing once Of men she prayed.

BRYN­HILD SPAKE: “In dreams, O Gun­nar, Grim things fell on me; Dead-​cold the hall was, And my bed was a-​cold, And thou, lord, wert rid­ing Reft of all bliss, Laden with fet­ters ‘Mid the host of thy foe­men.”

“So now all ye, O House of the Niblungs, Shall be brought to naught, O ye oath-​break­ers!

“Think’st thou not, Gun­nar, How that betid, When ye let the blood run Both in one foot­step? With ill re­ward Hast thou re­ward­ed His heart so fain To be the fore­most!

“As well was seen When he rode his ways, That king of all worth, Un­to my woo­ing; How the host-​de­stroy­er Held to the vows Sworn be­fore­time, Sworn to the young king.

“For his wound­ing-​wand All wrought with gold, The king beloved Laid be­tween us; With­out were its edges Wrought with fire, But with ven­om-​drops Deep dyed with­in.”

Thus this song tel­leth of the death of Sig­urd, and set­teth forth how that they slew him with­out doors; but some say that they slew him with­in doors, sleep­ing in his bed. But the Dutch Folk say that they slew him out in the wood: and so sayeth the an­cient song of Gu­drun, that Sig­urd and the sons of Giu­ki were rid­ing to the Thing whenas he was slain. But all with one ac­cord say that they be­wrayed him in their troth with him, and fell on him as he lay unar­rayed and un­awares.

THE SEC­OND OR AN­CIENT LAY OF GU­DRUN.

Thio­drek the King was in Atli’s house, and had lost there the more part of his men: so there Thio­drek and Gu­drun be­wailed their trou­bles one to the oth­er, and she spake and said: –

A may of all mays My moth­er reared me Bright in bow­er; Well loved I my brethren, Un­til that Giu­ki With gold ar­rayed me, With gold ar­rayed me, And gave me to Sig­urd.

Such was my Sig­urd, Among the sons of Giu­ki As is the green leek O’er the low grass wax­en, Or a hart high-​limbed Over hur­ry­ing deer, Or glede-​red gold Over grey sil­ver.

Till me they be­grudged, Those my brethren, The fate to have him, Who was first of all men; Nor might they sleep, Nor sit a-​doom­ing, Ere they let slay My well-​loved Sig­urd.

Grani ran to the Thing, There was clat­ter to hear, But nev­er came Sig­urd Him­self there­un­to; All the sad­dle-​girt beasts With blood were be­sprin­kled, As faint with the way Neath the slay­ers they went.

Then greet­ing I went With Grani to talk, And with tear-​fur­rowed cheeks I bade him tell all; But droop­ing laid Grani, His head in the grass, For the steed well wot­ted Of his mas­ter’s slay­ing.

A long while I wan­dered, Long my mind wa­vered, Ere the kings I might ask Con­cern­ing my king.

Then Gun­nar hung head, But Hog­ni told Of the cru­el slay­ing Of my Sig­urd: “On the wa­ter’s far side Lies, smit­ten to death, The bane of Gut­torm To the wolves giv­en over.

“Go, look on Sig­urd, On the ways that go south­ward, There shalt thou hear The ernes high scream­ing, The ravens a-​croak­ing As their meat they crave for; Thou shalt hear the wolves howl­ing Over thine hus­band.

“How hast thou, Hog­ni, The heart to tell me, Me of joy made emp­ty, Of such mis­ery? Thy wretched heart May the ravens tear Wide over the world, With no men mayst thou wend.”

One thing Hog­ni Had for an­swer, Fall­en from his high heart, Full of all trou­ble: “More greet­ing yet, O Gu­drun, for thee, If my heart the ravens Should rend asun­der!”

Thence I turned From the talk and the trou­ble To go a leas­ing (1) What the wolves had left me; No sigh I made No smote hands to­geth­er, Nor did I wail As oth­er wom­en When I sat over My Sig­urd slain.

Night methought it, And the moon­less dark, When I sat in sor­row Over Sig­urd; Bet­ter than all things I deemed it would be If they would let me Cast my life by, Or burn me up As they burn the birch-​wood.

From the fell I wan­dered Five days to­geth­er, Un­til the high hall Of Half lay be­fore me; Sev­en sea­sons there I sat with Tho­ra, The daugh­ter of Ha­con, Up in Den­mark.

My heart to glad­den With gold she wrought South­land halls And swans of the Dane-​folk; There had we paint­ed The chiefs a-​play­ing; Fair our hands wrought Folk of the kings.

Red shields we did, Doughty knights of the Huns, Hosts spear-​dight, hosts helm-​dight, All a high king’s fel­lows; And the ships of Sig­mund From the land swift sail­ing; Heads gilt over And prows fair graven.

On the cloth we broi­dered That tide of their bat­tling, Siggeir and Sig­gar, South in Fion.

Then heard Grimhild, The Queen of Goth­land, How I was abid­ing, Weighed down with woe; And she thrust the cloth from her And called to her sons, And oft and ea­ger­ly Asked them there­of, Who for her son Would their sis­ter atone, Who for her lord slain Would lay down weregild.

Fain was Gun­nar Gold to lay down All wrongs to atone for, And Hog­ni in like­wise; Then she asked who was fain Of far­ing straight­ly, The steed to sad­dle To set forth the wain, The horse to back, And the hawk to fly, To shoot forth the ar­row From out the yew-​bow.

Val­darr the Dane-​king Came with Jarisleif Ey­mod the third went Then went Jarizskar; In king­ly wise In they wend­ed, The host of the Long­beards; Red cloaks had they, Byrnies short-​cut, Helms strong ham­mered, Girt with glaives, And hair red-​gleam­ing.

Each would give me Gifts de­sired, Gifts de­sired, Speech dear to my heart, If they might yet, De­spite my sor­row, Win back my trust, But in them nought I trust­ed.

Then brought me Grimhild A beaker to drink of, Cold and bit­ter, Wrong’s mem­ory to quench; Made great was that drink With the might of the earth, With the death-​cold sea And the blood that Son (2) hold­eth.

On that horn’s face were there All the kin of let­ters Cut aright and red­dened, How should I rede them right­ly?

The ling-​fish long Of the land of Hadding, Wheat-​ears un­shorn, And wild things’ in­wards.

In that mead were min­gled Many ills to­geth­er, Blood of all the wood, And brown-​burnt acorns; The black dew of the hearth, (3) And god-​doomed dead beasts’ in­wards And the swine’s liv­er sod­den, For wrongs late done that dead­ens.

Then waned my mem­ory When that was with­in me, Of my lord ‘mid the hall By the iron laid low. Three kings came Be­fore my knees Ere she her­self Fell to speech with me.

“I will give to thee, Gu­drun, Gold to be glad with, All the great wealth Of thy fa­ther gone from us, Rings of red gold And the great hall of Lod­ver, And all fair hang­ings left By the king late fall­en.

“Maids of the Huns Wo­ven pic­tures to make, And work fair in gold Till thou deem’st thy­self glad. Alone shalt thou rule O’er the rich­es of Budli, Shalt be made great with gold, And be giv­en to Atli.”

“Nev­er will I Wend to a hus­band, Or wed the broth­er Of Queen Bryn­hild; Naught it be­seems me With the son of Budli Kin to bring forth, Or to live and be mer­ry.”

“Nay, the high chiefs Re­ward not with ha­tred, For take heed that I Was the first in this tale! To thy heart shall it be As if both these had life, Sig­urd and Sig­mund, When thou hast borne sons.”

“Naught may I, Grimhild, Seek af­ter glad­ness, Nor deem aught hope­ful Of any high war­rior, Since wolf and raven Were friends to­geth­er, The greedy, the cru­el, O’er great Sig­urd’s heart-​blood.”

“Of all men that can be For the no­blest of kin This king have I found, And the fore­most of all; Him shalt thou have Till with eld thou art heavy — Be thou ev­er un­wed, If thou wilt naught of him!”

“Nay, nay, bid me not With thy words long abid­ing To take un­to me That bale­fullest kin; This king shall bid Gun­nar Be stung to his bane, And shall cut the heart From out of Hog­ni.

“Nor shall I leave life Ere the keen lord, The ea­ger in sword-​play, My hand shall make end of.”

Grimhild a-​weep­ing Took up the word then, When the sore bale she wot­ted Await­ing her sons, And the bane hang­ing over Her off­spring beloved.

“I will give thee, more­over, Great lands, many men, Wineberg and Val­berg, If thou wilt but have them; Hold them life­long, And live hap­py, O daugh­ter!”

“Then him must I take From among king­ly men, ‘Gainst my heart’s de­sire, From the hands of my kins­folk; But no joy I look To have from that lord: Scarce may my broth­er’s bane Be a shield to my sons.”

Soon was each war­rior Seen on his horse, But the Gaul­ish wom­en In­to wains were got­ten; Then sev­en days long O’er a cold land we rode, And for sev­en oth­er Clove we the sea-​waves. But with the third sev­en O’er dry land we wend­ed.

There the gate-​war­dens Of the burg, high and wide, Un­looked the bar­ri­ers Ere the burg-​garth we rode to –

***** *****

Atli woke me When meseemed I was Full evil of heart For my kin dead slain.

“In such wise did the Norns Wake me or now.” — Fain was he to know Of this ill fore­show­ing — “That methought, O Gu­drun, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter, That thou setst in my heart A sword wrought for guile.”

“For fires to­ken­ing I deem it That dream­ing of iron, But for pride and for lust The wrath of fair wom­en Against some bale Be­like, I shall burn thee For thy so­lace and heal­ing Though hate­ful thou art.”

“In the fair garth methought Had saplings fall­en E’en such as I would Should have wax­en ev­er; Up­root­ed were these, And red­dened with blood, And borne to the bench, And folk bade me eat of them.

“Methought from my hand then Went hawks a-​fly­ing Lack­ing their meat To the land of all ill; Methought that their hearts Min­gled with hon­ey, Swollen with blood I ate amid sor­row.

“Lo, next two whelps From my hands I loos­ened, Joy­less were both, And both a-​howl­ing; And now their flesh Be­came naught but corpses, Where­of must I eat But sore against my will.”

“O’er the prey of the fish­ers Will folk give doom; From the bright white fish The heads will they take; With­in a few nights, Fey as they are, A lit­tle ere day Of that draught will they eat.”

“Ne’er since lay I down, Ne’er since would I sleep, Hard of heart, in my bed: — That deed have I to do. (4)

END­NOTES: (1) The orig­inal has “a vid lesa”. “Leas­ing” is the word still used for glean­ing in many coun­try sides in Eng­land. (2) Son was the ves­sel in­to which was poured the blood of Quasir, the God of Po­et­ry. (3) This means soot. (4) The whole of this lat­ter part is frag­men­tary and ob­scure; there seems want­ing to two of the dreams some triv­ial in­ter­pre­ta­tion by Gu­drun, like those giv­en by Hog­ni to Kost­bera in the Saga, of which na­ture, of course, the in­ter­pre­ta­tion con­tained in the last stan­za but one is, as we have ren­dered it: an­oth­er ren­der­ing, from the dif­fer­ent read­ing of the ear­li­er edi­tion of “Ed­da” (Copen­hagen, 1818) would make this re­fer much more di­rect­ly to the slay­ing of her sons by Gu­drun.

THE SONG OF ATLI.

Gu­drun, Giu­ki’s daugh­ter, avenger her brethren, as is told far and wide; first she slew the sons of Atli, and then Atli him­self; and she burned the hall there­after, and all the house­hold with it: and about these mat­ters is this song made: –

In days long gone Sent Atli to Gun­nar A crafty one rid­ing, Kne­frud men called him; To Giu­ki’s garth came he, To the hall of Gun­nar, To the bench­es gay-​dight, And the glad­some drink­ing.

There drank the great folk ‘Mid the guile­ful one’s si­lence, Drank wine in their fair hall: The Huns’ wrath they feared When Kne­frud cried In his cold voice, As he sat on the high seat, That man of the South­land:

“Atli has sent me Rid­ing swift on his er­rands On the bit-​grip­ing steed Through dark wood­ways un­beat­en, To bid thee, King Gun­nar, Come to his fair bench With helm well-​adorned, To the house of King Atli.

“Shield shall ye have there And spears ashen-​shaft­ed, Helms rud­dy with gold, And hosts of the Huns; Sad­dle-​gear sil­ver gilt, Shirts red as blood, The hedge of the war­wife, And hors­es bit-​grip­ing.

“And he saith he will give you Gni­ta­heath widespread, And whistling spears And prows well-​gild­ed, Might wealth With the stead of Dan­pi, And that no­ble wood Men name the Murk­wood.”

Then Gun­nar turned head And spake un­to Hog­ni: “What rede from thee, high one, Since such things we hear? No gold know I On Gni­ta­heath, That we for our parts Have not por­tion as great.

“Sev­en halls we have Ful­filled of swords, And hilts of gold Each sword there has; My horse is the best, My blade is the keen­est; Fair my bow o’er the bench is, Gleams my byrny with gold; Bright­est helm, bright­est shield, From Kiar’s dwelling ere brought — Bet­ter all things I have Than all things of the Huns.”

HOG­NI SAID: “What mind has our sis­ter That a ring she hath sent us In weed of wolves clad? Bids she not to be wary? For a wolf’s hair I found The fair ring wreathed about; Wolf be­set shall the way be If we wend on this er­rand.”

No sons whet­ted Gun­nar, Nor none of his kin, Nor learned men nor wise men, Nor such as were mighty. Then spake Gun­nar E’en as a king should speak, Glo­ri­ous in mead-​hall From great heart and high:

“Rise up now, Fiornir, Forth down the bench­es Let the gold-​cups of great ones Pass in hands of my good-​men! Well shall we drink wine, Draughts dear to our hearts, Though the last of all feasts In our fair house this be!

“For the wolves shall rule O’er the wealth of the Niblungs, With the pine-​woods’ war­dens In Gun­nar per­ish: And the black-​felled bears With fierce teeth shall bite For the glee of the dog kind, If again comes not Gun­nar.”

Then good men nev­er shamed, Greet­ing aloud, Led the great king of men From the garth of his home; And cried the fair son Of Hog­ni the king: “Fare hap­py, O Lords, Where­so your hearts lead you!”

Then the bold knights Let their bit-​grip­ing steeds Wend swift o’er the fells, Tread the murk-​wood un­known, All the Hun­wood was shak­ing As the hardy ones fared there; O’er the green meads they urged Their steeds shy of the goad.

Then Atli’s land saw they; Great tow­ers and strong, And the bold men of Bik­ki, Aloft on the burg: The South­land folks’ hall Set with bench­es about, Dight with buck­lers well bound­en, And bright white shin­ing shields.

There drank Atli, The aw­ful Hun king, Wine in his fair hall; With­out were the warders, Gun­nar’s folk to have heed of, Lest they had fared thith­er With the whistling spear War to wake ‘gainst the king.

But first came their sis­ter As they came to the hall, Both her brethren she met, With beer lit­tle glad­dened: “Be­wrayed art thou, Gun­nar! What dost thou great king To deal war to the Huns? Go thou swift from the hall!

Bet­ter, broth­er, hadst thou Fared here in thy byrny Than with helm gai­ly dight Looked on Atli’s great house: Them hadst sat then in sad­dle Through days bright with the sun Fight to awak­en And fair fields to red­den:

“O’er the folk fate makes pale Should the Norn’s tears have fall­en, The shield mays of the Huns Should have known of all sor­row; And King Atli him­self To worm-​close should be brought; But now is the worm-​close Kept but for thee.”

Then spake Gun­nar Great ‘mid the peo­ple: “Over-​late sis­ter The Niblungs to sum­mon; A long way to seek The help­ing of war­riors, The high lord un­shamed, From the hills of the Rhine!”

***** *****

Sev­en Hog­ni beat down With his sword sharp-​grind­ed, And the eighth man he thrust Amidst of the fire. Ev­er so shall famed war­rior Fight with his foe­men, As Hog­ni fought For the hand of Gun­nar.

But on Gun­nar they fell, And set him in fet­ters, And bound hard and fast That friend of Bur­gun­di­ans; Then the war­rior they asked If he would buy life, But life with gold That king of the Goths.

Nobly spake Gun­nar, Great lord of the Niblungs; “Hog­ni’s bleed­ing heart first Shall lie in mine hand, Cut from the breast Of the bold-​rid­ing lord, With bit­ter-​sharp knife From the son of the king.”

With guile the great one Would they be­guile, On the wail­ing thrall Laid they hand un­wares, And cut the heart From out of Hjal­li, Laid it bleed­ing on trencher And bare it to Gun­nar.

“Here have I the heart Of Hjal­li the trem­bler, Lit­tle like the heart Of Hog­ni the hardy: As much as it trem­bleth Laid on the trencher By the half more it trem­bled In the breast of him hid­den.”

Then laughed Hog­ni When they cut the heart from him, From the crest-​smith yet quick, Lit­tle thought he to quail. The hard acorn of thought From the high king they took, Laid it bleed­ing on trencher And bare it Gun­nar.

“Here have I the heart Of Hog­ni the hardy, Lit­tle like to the heart Of Hjal­li the trem­bler. How­so lit­tle it quaketh Laid here on the dish, Yet far less it quaked In the breast of him laid.

“So far mayst thou bide From men’s eyen, O Atli, As from that trea­sure Thou shalt abide!

“Be­hold in my heart Is hid­den for ev­er That hoard of the Niblungs, Now Hog­ni is dead. Doubt threw me two ways While the twain of us lived, But all that is gone Now I live on alone.

“The great Rhine shall rule O’er the hate-​rais­ing trea­sure, That gold of the Niblungs, The seed of the gods: In the wel­ter­ing wa­ter Shall that wealth lie a-​gleam­ing, Or it shine on the hands Of the chil­dren of Huns!”

Then cried Atli, King of the Hun-​folk, “Drive forth your wains now The slave is fast bound­en.” And straight­ly thence The bit-​shak­ing steeds Drew the hoard-​war­den, The war-​god to his death.

Atli the great king, Rode up­on Glaum, With shields set round about, And sharp thorns of bat­tle: Gu­drun, bound by wed­lock To these, vic­to­ry made gods of, Held back her tears As the hall she ran in­to.

“Let it fare with thee, Atli, E’en af­ter thine oaths sworn To Gun­nar fell of­ten; Yea, oaths sworn of old time, By the sun slop­ing south­ward, By the high burg of Sigry, By the fair bed of rest, By the red ring of Ull!”

Now a host of men Cast the high king alive In­to a close Crept o’er with­in With most foul worms, Ful­filled of all ven­om, Ready grave to dig In his doughty heart.

Wrath­ful-​heart­ed he smote The harp with his hand, Gun­nar laid there alone; And loud rang the strings. — In such wise ev­er Should hardy ring-​scat­ter­er Keep gold from all folk In the garth of his foe­man.

Then Atli would wend About his wide land, On his steed brazen shod, Back from the mur­der. Din there was in the garth, All thronged with the hors­es; High the weapon-​song rose From men come from the heath.

Out then went Gu­drun, ‘Gainst Atli re­turn­ing, With a cup gild­ed over, To greet the land’s ruler; “Come, then, and take it, King glad in thine hall, From Gu­drun’s hands, For the hell-​far­ers groan not!”

Clashed the beakers of Atli, Wine-​laden on bench, As in hall there a-​gath­ered, The Huns fell a-​talk­ing, And the long-​beard­ed ea­ger ones En­tered there­in, From a murk den new-​come, From the mur­der of Gun­nar.

Then has­tened the sweet-​faced De­light of the shield-​folk, Bright in the fair hall, Wine to bear to them: The dread­ful wom­an Gave dain­ties with­al To the lords pale with fate, Laid strange word up­on Atli:

“The hearts of thy sons Hast thou eat­en, sword-​deal­er, All bloody with death And drenched with hon­ey: In most heavy mood Brood o’er veni­son of men! Drink rich draughts there­with, Down the high bench­es send it!

“Nev­er callest thou now From hence­forth to thy knee Fair Erp or fair Eir­il, Bright-​faced with the drink; Nev­er seest thou them now Amid­most the seat, Scat­ter­ing the gold, Or shaft­ing of spears; Manes trim­ming du­ly, Or driv­ing steeds forth!”

Din arose from the bench­es, Dread song of men was there, Noise ‘mid the fair hang­ings, As all Hun’s chil­dren wept; All sav­ing Gu­drun, Who nev­er gat greet­ing, For her brethren bear-​hardy For her sweet sons and bright, The young ones, the sim­ple Once got­ten with Atli.

***** *****

The seed of gold Sowed the swan-​bright wom­an, Rings of red gold She gave to the house-​carls; Fate let she wax, Let the bright gold flow forth, In naught spared that wom­an The store-​hous­es’ wealth.

Atli un­aware Was a-​weary with drink; No weapon had he, No heed­ing of Gu­drun — Ah, the pity would be bet­ter, When in soft wise they twain Would full of­ten em­brace Be­fore the great lords!

To the bed with sword-​point Blood gave she to drink With a hand fain of death, And she let the dogs loose: Then in from the hall-​door — — Up waked the house-​carls — Hot brands she cast, Gat re­venge for her brethren.

To the flame gave she all Who there­in might be found; Fell ad­own the old tim­bers, Reeked all trea­sure-​hous­es; There the shield-​mays were burnt, Their lives’ span brought to naught; In the fierce fire sank down All the stead of the Bud­lungs.

Wide told of is this — Ne’er sithence in the world, Thus fared bride clad in byrny For her broth­ers’ aveng­ing; For be­hold, this fair wom­an To three kings of the peo­ple, Hath brought very death Or ev­er she died!

THE WHET­TING OF GU­DRUN.

Gu­drun went down un­to the sea whenas she had slain Atli, and she cast her­self there­in, for she was fain to end her life: but no­wise might she drown. She drave over the firths to the land of King Jon­akr, and he wed­ded her, and their sons were Sor­li, and Erp, and Hamdir, and there was Swan­hild, Sig­urd’s daugh­ter, nour­ished: and she was giv­en to Jor­munrek the Mighty. Now Bik­ki was a man of his, and gave such coun­sel to Rand­ver, the king’s son, as that he should take her; and with that coun­sel were the young folk well con­tent.

Then Bik­ki told the king, and the king let hang Rand­ver, but bade Swan­hild be trod­den un­der hors­es’ feet. But when Gu­drun heard there­of, she spake to her sons –

Words of strife heard I, Huger than any, Woe­ful words spo­ken, Sprung from all sor­row, When Gu­drun fierce-​heart­ed With the grimmest of words Whet­ter her sons Un­to the slay­ing.

“Why are ye sit­ting here? Why sleep ye life away? Why doth it grieve you nought? Glad words to speak, Now when your sis­ter — Young of years was she — Has Jor­munrek trod­den With the tread­ing of hors­es? –

“Black hors­es and white In the high­way of war­riors; Grey hors­es that know The roads of the Goths. –

“Lit­tle like are ye grown To that Gun­nar of old days! Nought are your hearts As the heart of Hog­ni! Well would ye seek Vengeance to win If your mood were in aught As the mood of my brethren, Or the hardy hearts Of the Kings of the Huns!”

Then spake Hamdir, The high-​heart­ed — “Lit­tle didst thou Praise Hog­ni’s do­ings, When Sig­urd woke From out of sleep, And the blue-​white bed-​gear Up­on thy bed Grew red with man’s blood — With the blood of thy mate!

“Too bale­ful vengeance Wrought­est thou for thy brethren Most sore and evil When thy sons thou slewedst, Else all we to­geth­er On Jor­munrek Had wrought sore vengeance For that our sis­ter.

“Come, bring forth quick­ly The Hun kings’ bright gear, Since thou has urged us Un­to the sword-​Thing!”

Laugh­ing went Gu­drun To the bow­er of good gear, Kings’ crest­ed helms From chests she drew, And wide-​wrought byrnies Bore to her sons: Then on their hors­es Load laid the heroes.

Then spake Hamdir, The high-​heart­ed — “Nev­er cometh again His moth­er to see The spear-​god laid low In the land of the Goths. That one arvel mayst thou For all of us drink, For sis­ter Swan­hild, And us thy sons.”

Greet­ed Gu­drun Giu­ki’s daugh­ter; Sor­row­ing she went In the fore­court to sit, That she might tell, With cheeks tear-​fur­rowed, Her weary wail In many a wise.

“Three fires I knew, Three hearths I knew, To three hus­bands’ hous­es Have I been car­ried; And bet­ter than all Had been Sig­urd alone, He whom my brethren Brought to his bane.

“Such sore grief as that Methought nev­er should be, Yet more in­deed Was left for my tor­ment Then, when the great ones Gave me to Atli.

“My fair bright boys I bade un­to speech, Nor yet might I win Weregild for my bale, Ere I had hewn off Those Niblungs’ heads.

“To the sea-​strand I went With the Norns sore­ly wroth, For I would thrust from me The storm of their tor­ment; But the high bil­lows Would not drown, but bore me Forth, till I stepped a-​land Longer to live.

“Then I went a-​bed — — Ah, bet­ter in the old days, This was the third time! — To a king of the peo­ple; Off­spring I brought forth, Props of a fair house, Props of a fair house, Jon­akr’s fair sons.

“But around Swan­hild Bond-​maid­ens sat, Her, that of all mine Most to my heart was; Such was my Swan­hild, In my hall’s mid­most, As is the sun­beam Fair to be­held.

“In gold I ar­rayed her, And good­ly rai­ment, Or ev­er I gave her To the folk of the Goths. That was the hard­est Of my heavy woes, When the bright hair, — O the bright hair of Swan­hild! — In the mire was trod­den By the tread­ing of hors­es.

“This was the sor­est, When my love, my Sig­urd, Reft of glo­ry In his bed gat end­ing: But this the grimmest When glit­ter­ing worms Tore their way Through the heart of Gun­nar.

“But this the keen­est When they cut to the quick Of the hardy heart Of the un­feared Hog­ni. Of much of bale I mind me, Of many griefs I mind me; Why should I sit abid­ing Yet more bale and more?

“Thy coal-​black horse, O Sig­urd, bri­dle, The swift on the high­way! O let him speed hith­er! Here sit­teth no longer Son or daugh­ter, More good gifts To give to Gu­drun!

“Mindst thou not, Sig­urd, Of the speech be­twixt us, When on one bed We both sat to­geth­er, O my great king — That thou wouldst come to me E’en from the hall of Hell, I to thee from the fair earth?

“Pile high, O earls The oak­en pile, Let it be the high­est That ev­er queen had! Let the fire burn swift, My breast with woe laden, And thaw all my heart, Hard, heavy with sor­row!”

Now may all earls Be bet­tered in mind, May the grief of all maid­ens Ev­er be min­ished, For this tale of sor­row So told to its end­ing.

THE LAY OF HAMDIR

Great deeds of bale In the garth be­gan, At the sad dawn­ing The tide of Elves’ sor­row When day is a-​wax­ing And man’s grief awaketh, And the sor­row of each one The ear­ly day quick­eneth.

Not now, not now, Nor yes­ter­day, But long ago Has that day worn by, That an­cien­test time, The first time to tell of, Then, whenas Gu­drun, Born of Giu­ki, Whet­ter her sons To Swan­hild’s aveng­ing.

“Your sis­ter’s name Was naught but Swan­hild, Whom Jor­munrek With hors­es has trod­den! — White hors­es and black On the war-​beat­en way, Grey hors­es that go On the roads of the Goths.

“All alone am I now As in holt is the as­pen; As the fir-​tree of boughs, So of kin am I bare; As bare of things longed for As the wil­low of leaves When the bough-​break­ing wind The warm day en­deth.

“Few, sad, are ye left O kings of my folk! Yet alone liv­ing Last shreds of my kin!

“Ah, naught are ye grown As that Gun­nar of old days; Naught are your hearts As the heart of Hog­ni! Well would ye seek Vengeance to win If your hearts were in aught As the hearts of my brethren!”

Then spake Hamdir The high-​heart­ed: “Nought hadst thou to praise The do­ings of Hog­ni, When they woke up Sig­urd From out of slum­ber, And in bed thou sat’st up ‘Mid the banes-​men’s laugh­ter.

“Then when thy bed=gear, Blue-​white, well wo­ven By art of crafts­men All swam with thy king’s blood; The Sig­urd died, O’er his dead corpse thou sat­test, Not heed­ing aught glad­some, Since Gun­nar so willed it.

“Great grief for Atli Gatst thou by Erp’s mur­der, And the end of thine Eitil, But worse grief for thy­self. Good to use sword For the slay­ing of oth­ers In such wise that its edge Shall not turn on our­selves!”

Then well spake Sor­li From a heart full of wis­dom: “No words will I Make with my moth­er, Though both ye twain Need words be­like — What ask­est thou, Gu­drun, To let thee go greet­ing?

“Weep for thy brethren, Weep for thy sweet sons, And thy nigh­est kins­folk Laid by the fight-​side! Yea, and thou Gu­drun, May’st greet for us twain Sit­ting fey on our steeds Doomed in far lands to die.”

From the garth forth they went With hearts full of fury, Sor­li and Hamdir, The sons of Gu­drun, And they met on the way The wise in all wiles: “And thou lit­tle Erp, What help­ing from thee?”

He of alien womb Spake out in such wise: “Good help for my kin, Such as foot gives to foot, Or flesh-​cov­ered hand Gives un­to hand!”

“What help­ing for foot That help that foot giveth, Or for flesh-​cov­ered hand The help­ing of hand?”

Then spake Erp Yet once again Mock spake the prince As he sat on his steed: “Fool’s deed to show The way to a das­tard!” “Bold be­yond mea­sure,” Quoth they, “is the base-​born!”

Out from the sheath Drew they the sheath-​steel, And the glaives’ edges played For the plea­sure of hell; By the third part they min­ished The might that they had, Their young kin they let lie A-​cold on the earth.

Then their fur-​cloaks they shook And bound fast their swords, In webs good­ly wo­ven Those great ones were clad; Young they went o’er the fells Where the dew was new-​fall­en Swift, on steeds of the Huns, Heavy vengeance to wreak.

Forth stretched the ways, And an ill way they found, Yea, their sis­ter’s son (1) Hang­ing slain up­on tree — Wolf-​trees by the wind made cold At the town’s west­ward Loud with cranes’ clat­ter — Ill abid­ing there long!

Din in the king’s hall Of men mer­ry with drink, And none might hear­ken The hors­es’ tramp­ing Or ev­er the warders Their great horn wind­ed.

Then men went forth To Jor­munrek To tell of the heed­ing Of men un­der helm: “Give ye good coun­sel! Great ones are come hith­er, For the wrong of men mighty Was the may to death trod­den.”

“Loud Jor­munrek laughed, And laid hand to his beard, Nor bade bring his byrny, But with the wine fight­ing, Shook his red locks, On his white shield sat star­ing, And in his hand Swung the gold cup on high.

“Sweet sight for me Those twain to set eyes on, Sor­li and Hamdir, Here in my hall! Then with bow­strings Would I bind them, And hang the good Giuk­ings Aloft on the gal­lows!”

***** *****

Then spake Hroth­glod From off the high steps, Spake the slim-​fin­gered Un­to her son, — — For a threat was cast forth Of what ne’er should fall — “Shall two men alone Two hun­dred Goth­folk Bind or bear down In the midst of their burg?”

***** *****

Strife and din in the hall, Cups smit­ten asun­der Men lay low in blood From the breasts of Goths flow­ing.

Then spake Hamdir, The high-​heart­ed: “Thou cravedst, O king, From the com­ing of us, The sons of one moth­er, Amid­most thine hall — Look on these hands of thine, Look on these feet of thine, Cast by us, Jor­munrek, On to the flame!”

Then cried aloud The high Gods’ kins­man (2) Bold un­der byrny, — Roared he as bears roar; “Stones to the stout ones That the spears bite not, Nor the edges of steel, These sons of Jon­akr!”

***** *****

QUOTH SOR­LI: “Bale, broth­er, wroughtst thou By that bag’s (3) open­ing, Oft from that bag Rede of bale cometh! Heart hast thou, Hamdir, If thou hadst heart’s wis­dom Great lack in a man Who lacks wis­dom and lore!”

HAMDIR SAID: “Yes, off were the head If Erp were alive yet, Our broth­er the bold Whom we slew by the way; The far-​famed through the world — Ah, the fares drave me on, And the man war made holy, There must I slay!”

SOR­LI SAID: “Un­meet we should do As the do­ings of wolves are, Rais­ing wrong each ‘gainst oth­er As the dogs of the Norns, The greedy ones nour­ished In waste steads of the world.

In strong wise have we fought, On Goths’ corpses we stand, Beat down by our edges, E’en as ernes on the bough. Great fame our might win­neth, Die we now, or to-​mor­row, — No man lives till eve Whom the fates doom at morn­ing.” At the hall’s gable-​end Fell Sor­li to earth, But Hamdir lay low At the back of the hous­es.

Now this is called the An­cient Lay of Hamdir.

END­NOTES: (1) Rand­ver, the son of their sis­ter’s hus­band. (2) Odin, name­ly. (3) “Bag”, his mouth.

THE LAMENT OF ODD­RUN.

There was a king hight Hei­drik, and his daugh­ter was called Borgny, and the name of her lover was Vil­mund. Now she might no­wise be made lighter of a child she tra­vailed with, be­fore Odd­run, Atil’s sis­ter, came to her, — she who had been the love of Gun­nar, Giu­ki’s son. But of their speech to­geth­er has this been sung:

I have hear tell In an­cient tales How a may there came To Mor­na-​land, Be­cause no man On mould abid­ing For Hei­drik’s daugh­ter Might win heal­ing.

All that heard Odd­run, Atil’s sis­ter, How that the damsel Had heavy sick­ness, So she led from stall Her bri­dled steed, And on the swart one Laid the sad­dle.

She made her horse wend O’er smooth ways of earth, Un­til to a high-​built Hall she came; Then the sad­dle she had From the hun­gry horse, And her ways wend­ed In along the wide hall, And this word first Spake forth there­with:

“What is most famed, Afield in Hun­land, Or what may be Blithest in Hun­land?”

QUOTH THE HAND­MAID: “Here li­eth Borgny, Borne down by trou­ble, Thy sweet friend, O Odd­run, See to her help­ing!”

ODD­RUN SAID: “Who of the lords Hath laid this grief on her, Why is the an­guish Of Borgny so weary?”

THE HAND­MAID SAID: “He is hight Vil­mund, Friend of hawk-​bear­ers, He wrapped the damsel In the warm bed-​gear Five win­ters long With­out her fa­ther’s wot­ting.”

No more than this They spake me­thinks; Kind sat she down By the damsel’s knee; Might­ily sand Odd­run, Sharp pierc­ing songs By Borgny’s side:

Till a maid and a boy Might tread on the world’s ways, Blithe babes and sweet Of Hog­ni’s bane: Then the damsel forewea­ried The word took up, The first word of all That had won from her:

“So may help thee All help­ful things, Fey and Freyia, And all the fair Gods, As thou hast thrust This tor­ment from me!”

ODD­RUN SAID: “Yet no heart had I For thy help­ing, Since nev­er wert thou Wor­thy of help­ing, But my word I held to, That of old was spo­ken When the high lords Dealt out the her­itage, That ev­ery soul I would ev­er help.”

BORGNY SAID: “Right mad art thou, Odd­run, And reft of thy wits, Where­as thou speak­est Hard words to me Thy fel­low ev­er Up­on the earth As of broth­ers twain, We had been born.”

ODD­RUN SAID: “Well I mind me yet, What thou saidst that evening, Whenas I bore forth Fair drink for Gun­nar; Such a thing, saidst thou, Should fall out nev­er, For any may Save for me alone.”

Mind had the damsel Of the weary day Whenas the high lords Dealt out the her­itage, And she sat her down, The sor­row­ful wom­an, To tell of the bale, And the heavy trou­ble.

“Nour­ished was I In the hall of kings — Most folk were glad — ‘Mid the coun­cil of great ones: In fair life lived I, And the wealth of my fa­ther For five win­ters on­ly, While yet he had life.

“Such were the last words That ev­er he spake, The king forewea­ried, Ere his ways he went; For be bade folk give me The gold red-​gleam­ing, And give me in South­lands To the son of Grimhild.

“But Bryn­hild he bade To the helm to be­take her, And said that Death-​choos­er She should be­come; And that no bet­ter Might ev­er be born In­to the world, If fate would not spoil it.

“Bryn­hild in bow­er Sewed at her broi­dery, Folk she had And fair lands about her; Earth lay a-​sleep­ing, Slept the heav­ens aloft When Fafnir’s-​bane The burg first saw.

“Then was war waged With the Welsh-​wrought sword And the burg all bro­ken That Bryn­hild owned; Nor wore long space, E’en as well might be, Ere all those wiles Full well she knew.

“Hard and dread­ful Was the vengeance she drew down, So that all we Have woe enow. Through all lands of the world Shall that sto­ry fare forth How she did her to death For the death of Sig­urd.

“But there­with­al Gun­nar The gold-​scat­ter­er Did I fall to lov­ing And should have loved him. Rings of red gold Would they give to Atli, Would give to my broth­er Things good­ly and great.

“Yea, fif­teen steads Would they give for me, And the load of Grani To have as a gift; But then spake Atli, That such was his will, Nev­er gift to take From the sons of Giu­ki.

“But we in no­wise Might love with­stand, And mine head must I lay On my love, the ring-​break­er; And many there were Among my kin, Who said that they Had seen us to­geth­er.

“Then Atli said That I sure­ly nev­er Would fall to crime Or shame­ful fol­ly: But now let no one For any oth­er, That shame de­ny Where love has deal­ing.

“For Atli sent His serv­ing-​folk Wide through the murk­wood Proof to win of me, And thith­er they came Where they ne’er should have come, Where one bed we twain Had dight be­twixt us.

“To those men had we giv­en Rings of red gold, Naught to tell There­of to Atli, But straight they has­tened Home to the house, And all the tale To Atli told.

‘Where­as from Gu­drun Well they hid it, Though bet­ter by half Had she have known it.

***** *****

“Din was there to hear Of the hoofs gold-​shod, When in­to the garth Rode the sons of Giu­ki.

“There from Hog­ni The heart they cut, But in­to the worm-​close Cast the oth­er. There the king, the wise-​heart­ed, Swept his harp-​strings, For the might king Had ev­er mind That I to his help­ing Soon should come.

“But now was I gone Yet once again Un­to Geir­mund, Good feast to make; Yet had I hear­ing, E’en out from Hle­sey, How of sore trou­ble The harp-​strings sang.

“So I bade the bond­maids Be ready swift­ly, For I list­ed to save The life of the king, And we let our ship Swim over the sound, Till Atli’s dwelling We saw all clear­ly.

Then came the wretch (1) Crawl­ing out, E’en Atli’s moth­er, All sor­row up­on her! A grave gat her sting In the heart of Gun­nar, So that no help­ing Was left for my hero.

“O gold-​clad wom­an, Full oft I won­der How I my life Still hold there­after, For methought I loved That light in bat­tle, The swift with the sword, As my very self.

“Thou hast sat and hear­kened As I have told thee Of many an ill-​fate, Mine and theirs — Each man liveth E’en as he may live — Now hath gone forth The greet­ing of Odd­run.”

END­NOTES: (1) Atli’s moth­er took the form of the on­ly adder that was not lulled to sleep by Gun­nar’s harp-​play­ing, and who slew him.

End of The Project Guten­berg Etext of The Sto­ry of the Vol­sungs