merry, Maid of the Niblungs; for these are the prayers that win!"

He drank, and the soul within him to the love and the glory turned,
And all unmoved was her visage, howso her heart-strings yearned.

But again when the bolt of battle on the sleeping kings had been
hurled,
And the gold-tipped cloud of the Niblungs had been sped on the winter
world,
And once more in that hall of the stories was dight triumphant feast,
And in joy of soul past telling sat all men most and least,
There stood the daughter of Giuki by the king-folk's happy board,
And grave and stern was Gudrun as the wine of kings she poured:
But Sigurd smiled upon her, and he said:
"O maid, rejoice
For thy pledge's fair redeeming, and the hope of thy kindly voice!
Thou hast prayed for the guest and the stranger, and, lo, from the
battle and wrack
Is the hope of the Niblungs blossomed, and thy brethren's lives come
back."

She turned and looked upon him, and the flush ran over her face,
And died out as the summer lightning, that scarce endureth a space;
But still was her visage troubled, as she said: "Hast thou called me
kind
Because I feared for earth's glory when point and edge are blind?
But now is the night as the day, when thou bringest my brethren home,
And back in the arms of thy glory the Niblung hope has come."

But his eyes look kind upon her, and the trouble passeth away,
And there in the hall of the Niblungs is dark night as glorious day.

Now spring o'er the winter prevaileth, and the blossoms brighten the
field;
But lo, in the flowery lealands the gleam of spear and shield,
For swift to the tidings of warfare speeds on the Niblung folk,
And the Kings to the sea are riding, and the battle-laden oak.
Now the isle-abiders tremble, and the dwellers by the sea
And the nesses flare with the beacons, and the shepherds leave the lea,
As the tale of the golden warrior speeds on from isle to isle.
Now spread is the snare of treason, and cast is the net of guile,
And the mirk-wood gleams with the ambush, and venom lurks at the board;
And whiles and again for a little the fair fields gleam with the sword,
And the host of the isle-folk gather, nigh numberless of tale:
But how shall its bulk and its writhing the willow-log avail
When the red