aw,
Who should hew the wood if he lived, and for thralls the water should
draw,
A thrall-born servant of servants, begetter of thralls on the earth:
And they said: "If this one were away, scarce greater were waxen the
dearth
That this morning hath wrought on the Eastland; for the years shall
eke out his woe,
And no day his toil shall lessen, and worse and worse shall he grow."

They drew the steel new-whetted, on the thrall they laid the hand;
For they said: "All hearts be fashioned as the heart of the King of
the land."
But the thrall was bewildered with anguish, and wept and bewailed him
sore
For the loss of his life of labour, and the grief that long he bore.

But wroth was the son of Giuki and he spake: "It is idle and vain,
And two men for one shall perish, and the knife shall be whetted again.
It is better to die than be sorry, and to hear the trembling cry,
And to see the shame of the poor: O fools, must the lowly die
Because kings strove with swords? I bid you to hasten the end,
For my soul is sick with confusion, and fain on the way would I wend."

But the life of the thrall is over, and his fearful heart they set
On a fair wide golden platter, and bear it ruddy wet
To the throne of the triumphing East-King; he looketh, and feareth
withal
Lest the house should fail about him and the golden roof should fall:
But Gunnar laughed beside him, and spake o'er the laden gold:

"O heart of a feeble trembler, no heart of Hogni the bold!
A gold dish bears thee quaking, yet indeed thou quakedst more
When the breast of the helpless dastard the burden of thee bore."

The great hall was smitten silent and its mirth to fear was turned,
For the wrath of the King was kindled, and the eyes of Atli burned,
And he cried as they trembled before him: "Let me see the heart of my
foe!
Fear ye to mock King Atli till his head in the dust be alow!"

Then the sword-carles flee before him, and are angry with their dread,
For they fear the living East-King yet more than the Niblung dead:
They come to the pit and the death-house, and the whetted steel they
bear;
They are pale before King Hogni; as winter-wolves they glare
Whom the ravening hunger driveth, when the chapmen journey slow,
And their horses faint in the moon-dusk, and stumble through the snow.