ar the King, and Hogni hath wedded a wife;
Fair queens are those wives of the Niblungs, good helpmates in peace
and in strife
Sweet they sit on the golden high-seat, and Grimhild sitteth beside,
And the years have made her glorious, and the days have swollen her
pride;
She looketh down on the people, from on high she looketh down,
And her days have become a wonder, and her redes are wisdom's crown.
She saith: Where then are the Gods? what things have they shapen and
made
More of might than the days I have shapen? of whom shall our hearts be
afraid?

Now there was a King of the outlands, and Atli was his name,
The lord of a mighty people, a man of marvellous fame,
Who craved the utmost increase of all that kings desire;
Who would reach his hand to the gold as it ran in the ruddy fire,
Or go down to the ocean-pavement to harry the people beneath,
Or cast up his sword at the Gods, or bid the friendship of death.

By hap was the man unwedded, and wide in the world he sought
For a queen to increase his glory lest his name should come to nought;
And no kin like the kin of the Niblungs he found in all the earth.
No treasure like their treasure, no glory like their worth;
So he sendeth an ancient war-duke with a goodly company,
And three days they ride the mirk-wood and ten days they sail the sea,
And three days they ride the highways till they come to Gunnar's land;
And there on an even of summer in Gunnar's hall they stand,
And the spears of Welshland glitter, and the Southland garments gleam,
For those folk are fair apparelled as the people of a dream.

But the glorious Son of Giuki from amidst the high-seat spoke:
"Why stand ye mid men sitting, or fast mid feasting folk?
No meat nor drink there lacketh, and the hall is long and wide.
Three days in the peace of the Niblungs unquestioned shall ye bide,
Then timely do your message, and bid us peace or war."

But spake the Earl of Atli yet standing on the floor:
"All hail, O glorious Gunnar, O mighty King of men!
O'er-short is the life of man-folk, the three-score years and ten,
Long, long is the craft for the learning, and sore doth the right hand
waste:
Lo, lord, our spurs are bloody, and our brows besweat with haste;
Our gear is stained by the sea-spray and rent by bitter gales,
For we struck no mast