Complete Works of William Morris, page 603
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,
