eve is Sigurd in the ancient Niblung hall,
Where the cloudy hangings waver and the flickering shadows fall,
And he sits by the Kings on the high-seat, and wise of men he seems,
And of many a hidden marvel past thought of man he dreams:
On the Head of Hindfell he thinketh, and how fair the woman was,
And how that his love hath blossomed, and the fruit shall come to pass;
And he thinks of the burg in Lymdale, and how hand met hand in love,
Nor deems him aught too feeble the heart of the world to move;
And more than a God he seemeth, and so steadfast and so great,
That the sea of chance wide-weltering 'neath his will must needs abate.

High riseth the glee of the people, and the song and the clank of the
cup
Beat back from pillar to pillar, to the cloud-blue roof go up;
And men's hearts rejoice in the battle, and the hope of coming days,
Till scarce may they think of their fathers, and the kings of bygone
praise.

But Giuki looketh on Sigurd and saith from heart grown fain:
"To sit by the silent wise-one, how mighty is the gain!
Yet we know this long while, Sigurd, that lovely is thy speech;
Wilt thou tell us the tales of the ancient, and the words of masters
teach?
For the joy of our hearts is stormy with mighty battles won,
And sweet shall be their lulling with thy tale of deeds agone."

Then they brought the harp to Sigurd, and he looked on the ancient man,
As his hand sank into the strings, and a ripple over them ran,
And he looked forth kind o'er the people, and all men on his glory
gazed,
And hearkened, hushed and happy, as the King his voice upraised;
There he sang of the works of Odin, and the hails of the heavenly
coast,
And the sons of God uprising, and the Wolflings' gathering host;
And he told of the birth of Rerir, and of Volsung yet unborn,
All the deeds of his father's father, and his battles overworn;
Then he told of Signy and Sigmund, and the changing of their lives;
Tales of great kings' departing, and their kindred and their wives.
But his song and his fond desire go up to the cloudy roof,
And blend with the eagles' shrilling in the windy night aloof.
So he made an end of his story, and he sat and longed full sore
That the days of all his longing as a story might be o'er:
But the wonder of the people, and their love of Sigurd grew,