INTRODUCTION

For this obscurity of authorship there is, in the case of the Nibelungenlied, more reason than with the other epics. What is conjectural with respect to the Iliad and the Chanson, is indubitable with respect to the Lied, viz. that both in its origin and in its construction it was composite, that the elements of which it is a union are in date, perhaps in place of origin, widely remote from each other. The Saga of the Niblungs, of which the Nibelungenlied is the finished poetical development, is a union of mythical and historical elements.

Now this older version was a tale of a dateless past, when men lived who were near in birth to Gods, and when Gods came down to earth as freely as they do in Homer. It is suffused with a glamour of the supernatural, with a weird magnificence, both of nature and of man. Its actors are led on, or thrust on, by inevitable doom, their fates are foretold to them, and they go clear-eyed to the consummation of all. There is no pettiness about any of them, they are all moulded on the heroic scale, and the light about them is not the light of common day. But the poet of the Nibelungenlied, as we have it (however it may have been with the lost original form of the lay), essayed a practically impossible task, namely, to bring the essential characters of the old Saga into the scenes and social atmosphere of the twelfth century, with the supernatural elements left out. Hence he makes a different story of the early life of Siegfried, which has the effect of making his parents’ fears for his safety, on his departure for Burgundy, unreasonable in the light of his past exploits. He makes a different tale of the slaying of the dragon, and of the winning of the Hoard, the amount of which he enormously exaggerates, while omitting all mention of the curse attached to it, though it does work in the poem. He has to construct a different Brynhild, and a different wooing, while he leaves unexplained Siegfried’s previous acquaintance with her, and her antipathy to him from the beginning. These flaws in construction are not all; the characters also suffer. Deeds of violence and wrong, which are accepted in the old Saga much as we accept the incidents of a fairy-tale, especially as the actors are not masters of their own fate, are now transferred to men and women who are made as amenable to our judgment as, say, our early Norman Kings, and who, moreover, live in a Christian land of minsters, monasteries and priests. Hence they cannot but lose in moral dignity; and it needs a mediaevally constituted mind to admire or respect a man simply on the score of his unflinching courage and fidelity to a cause which he has made a tainted cause. This weakness of treatment, which we may fairly say was inevitable for any poet, however great, who undertook to transfer the original story into so alien a setting, is confined to the first half of the poem, which ends with the death of Siegfried and its immediate sequel. In this first part he redeems his work from failure, and (with its inevitable limitations) makes it a triumphant success, by his charm of description, his beauty of execution, his fertility in the invention of incident, and the unfailing vivacity and energy with which it is described, and by his command of pathos and power to stir the deepest springs of sympathy. In the second part, where the poet has no longer to mutilate an old-world giant, in order to fit him to a latter-day bed of Procrustes, he treads surely and strongly, and proceeds unfalteringly to his goal, steadily rising with his theme to its magnificent climax. It is in this second part that the mythical element is largely superseded by the historical.

2. The Historical Element. The Siegfried myth is supposed to have taken shape as a connected story, as a sort of primitive epic, somewhere about the fifth century, among that German tribe known as the Rhine Franks, who lived between the east of Belgium and the Rhine and Moselle, Cologne being about the middle of their territory. Their next neighbours up the Rhine were another Germanic tribe, the Burgundians, dwelling in a more mountainous district, of which Worms may have been the middle point. Among these the Niblungs of the original story seem to have been located; and it is curious that in ancient Burgundian records may be found the names of three kings, Gundahar, Godomer and Gislahar, the resemblance of whose names to those in the Lied is sufficiently suggestive. In the year 437 A.D. this Burgundian tribe, with its king, whose name (as latinized by the chronicler) was Gundicarius, was utterly defeated and practically annihilated by an invasion of the Huns in the reign of Attila. This disaster preceded, and perhaps gave the most powerful impulse to, that general break-up of the old Germanic settlements, and the period of stormy wanderings and wars, which lasted through nearly two hundred years, and is known as the Migration of the Peoples. The destruction of the Burgundians by Attila’s host became incorporated with the story as the destruction of the Niblungs by Atli. Its locality was shifted (perhaps for the honour of the race) from a German district invaded by Huns to the capital of Hunland into which the heroes are entrapped by treachery.

The story had reached this stage of development when the northward-wandering tribes carried it to Norway, and in due course to Iceland, where it underwent much less modification than it did among those who remained, or who finally settled down, in central Europe. What changes it underwent during the wanderings of the tribes, by what influences and by what steps a legend originally heathen and tribal was modified by Christianity and feudalism, till after some six hundred years it emerges to view in something approaching its present form—of all this we have no real knowledge, and no subject of literary criticism has been more fruitful of conjecture. We may assume that it was handed down by oral tradition until, with the development of chivalry, with its natural affinity for romance and poetry, there came in the 12th and 13th centuries a great revival of interest in the old heroic literature. Its cultivation became a passion with the nobility, who followed it on two main lines, leading to the production (or revival) of epic poetry of two classes:—(1) the Court Epic, which took for its subject the romance of knight-errantry, and (2) the National Epic, which took the old popular heroic tradition, and gave it permanence in a metrical form peculiar to itself. The Nibelungenlied is essentially, in its subject and spirit, a national epic; but, as it was remodelled by courtier-poets, their treatment of it made it approximate in some respects very closely to the court epic, especially in what we may call the veneer of chivalrous refinement laid over the more elemental characters of the original story. Hence it bears throughout, both in characters and incidents, evidences of the influence of feudalism and chivalry, on the one hand, and of Christianity on the other.

In his treatment of the supernatural, which so dominates the action of the old Saga, but which was based wholly upon that faith in the old Gods which the Christian poet not merely rejected, but ignored, he was far more successful. As Carlyle expresses it:

“Yet neither is the Nibelungen without its wonders; for it is poetry and not prose; here too a supernatural world encompasses the natural, and, though at rare intervals and in calm manner, reveals itself there. It is truly wonderful with what skill our simple untaught poet deals with the marvellous, admitting it without reluctance or criticism, yet precisely in the degree and shape that will best avail him. Here, if in no other respect, we should say that he has a decided superiority to Homer himself. The whole story of the Nibelungen is fateful, mysterious, guided on by unseen influences; yet the actual marvels are few, and done in the far distance: those Dwarfs, and Cloaks of Darkness, and charmed Treasure-caves, are heard of rather than beheld; the tidings of them seem to issue from unknown space. Vain were it to inquire where that Nibelungen-land specially is: its very name is Nebel-land or Nifl-land, the land of Darkness, of Invisibility. The Nibelungen Heroes, that muster in thousands and tens of thousands, though they march to the Rhine or Danube, and we see their strong limbs and shining armour, we could almost fancy to be children of the air. Far beyond the firm horizon, that wonder-bearing region swims on the infinite waters, unseen by bodily eye, or at most discerned as a faint streak, hanging in the blue depths, uncertain whether island or cloud. And thus the Nibelungen Song, though based on the bottomless foundations of Spirit, and not unvisited of skyey messengers, is a real, rounded, habitable earth, where we find firm footing, and the wondrous and the common live amicably together. Perhaps it would be difficult to find any poet, of ancient or modern times, who in this trying problem has steered his way with greater delicacy and success.”

As a drama of action and of destiny, the poem rises to real greatness. To quote Carlyle again:

“The Nibelungen has been called the Northern Epos; yet it has, in great part, a dramatic character: those thirty-nine Aventiuren (Adventures) which it consists of, might be so many scenes in a Tragedy. The catastrophe is dimly prophesied from the beginning; and, at every fresh step, rises more and more clearly into view. A shadow of coming Fate, as it were, a low inarticulate voice of Doom falls, from the first, out of that charmed Nibelungen-land: the discord of two women is as a little spark of evil passion, which ere long enlarges itself into a crime: foul murder is done; and now the Sin rolls on like a devouring fire, till the guilty and the innocent are alike encircled with it, and a whole land is ashes and a whole race is swept away.”

It is in the delineation of character that the poet is most embarrassed by the intractable nature of the old material which he must needs work up with the new. He had the same difficulty as Homer had in dealing with Achilles’ revenge on the body of Hector, or with Odysseus’ revenge on the faithless servants; and, if he made the best of a bad case, it must be admitted that in his best there is somewhat jarring. The poem has been called the Northern Iliad, but the all-round nobility of the heroes of Homer, and, indeed, of epics generally (in intention at least), is strangely lacking in the chief Nibelungs. Hagen is a treacherous murderer of his niece’s husband, whom he assassinates in expiation of an offence of which the victim has proved himself innocent; and he is a thief who robs the same helpless woman twice. Gunther is an accomplice and an ingrate. The other champions are fully conscious of the iniquity of those whose cause they support: their merit is that which in those times covered a multitude of sins—unflinching bravery and fidelity to their cause and to each other. Hagen shows a cynical disregard of righteousness and of honesty: he faces the consequences of his sin without a tremor: his callous contempt for the hearts he tramples on is matched by his reckless defiance of the retribution which involves a nation with himself. There is no word of repentance, no hint of remorse; and it is characteristic that none of his companions reproach him amid their ruin, and that even Rüdiger, the flower of chivalry, receives him as his most honoured guest, confers on him the most distinguished tokens of regard, and sympathizes with him to the end. The author shows less consideration for Kriemhild than for him in the final catastrophe; for, while the King and the stainless heroes lament his fall, no hand is raised to stay the vengeance upon Kriemhild that swiftly follows, no word of regret is uttered over her. This recalls to our mind certain characteristics of that period: first, the supreme importance of a great warrior and leader of men, whose life is held of more account, not merely to his party, but to the world, than that of many women. Secondly, we are reminded how thin was the veneer of courtesy to women in the so-called age of chivalry. It is significant that in the Volsunga-saga, which is instinct with the old unalloyed Teutonic spirit, no man thinks of taking vengeance on a woman: they may poison, betray, or assassinate, but they are always immune from the last penalty. The third characteristic here exemplified is well set forth by Dr. Arnold:

“Philip de Comines praises his master Louis XI as one of the best of princes, though he witnessed not only the crimes of his life, but the miserable fears and suspicions of his latter end, and has even faithfully recorded them. In this respect Philip de Comines is in no respect superior to Froissart, with whom the crimes committed by his knights and great lords never interfere with his general eulogies of them: the habit of deference and respect was too strong to be broken, and the facts which he himself relates to their discredit, appear to have produced on his mind no impression” (Lectures on Modern History, II).

In the historical characters which he introduced, the poet probably meant to adhere to historic truth, as he apprehended it; but we have to make large allowances for the utterly uncritical historic lore of the time, and for the probability, we might say the certainty, that some of the history was based on popular tradition, which is fruitful in confusion of personalities and in anachronisms. These characters are three:—

1. Attila, called Etzel in the Lied. The Atli of the Volsunga-saga much more nearly resembles the Attila of the historians of Rome and Constantinople than does Etzel. He here appears as a just and generous king, whose court is a rendezvous of foreign knights from every land, proud to enlist in his service. Not only is he no party to the treacherous entrapping of the Nibelungs, but he is utterly ignorant of it; and is only driven to countenance hostilities against them by their slaughter of his child and the intolerable insults they hurl at himself. The reason for this presentment of him may be, that Attila really was just, generous, and merciful to his own subjects, and to the large numbers of foreign mercenaries, many of them Germans, who took service under him. Some of these, on their return home, would always speak of him as a great king and a good master, whose court was magnificent; and this character of him might well persist in tradition through the generations, and be an essential part of the popular lays which formed the groundwork of the finished epic.

2. Theodoric, called in the Lied Dietrich of Bern, where Bern has nothing to do with Switzerland, but is the German form of Verona. The poet no doubt meant the great Theodoric the Ostrogoth, conqueror of Italy. But he (born 455 A.D.) lived a generation after Attila (died 453). Theodoric, king of the Visigoths, was indeed a contemporary of Attila, but he was an enemy, and died fighting against him in the great battle of Châlons, in 451. In Carlyle’s words, “some commentators have fished out another Theodoric, eighty years prior to him of Verona, and who actually served in Attila’s hosts with a retinue of Goths and Germans.” If this last be really historical, or was even traditional, he might have been the original Dietrich of the old lays who in the Lied serves in proud independence in Attila’s palace-guard. But popular tradition and the poets knew as their only Dietrich the great Theodoric, and were serenely unconscious that for him it was, on every ground, as possible to have served under Attila, as for our Alfred the Great to have served under Charlemagne.

3. Bishop Pilgrim. His introduction is a gross anachronism indeed, for he lived more than 500 years after Attila’s time. He owes his inclusion, or intrusion, to the fact that he had the Saga rendered into Latin verse by his secretary, Konrad, as he heard it from the lips of bards, some two hundred years before the poem took shape as a German epic. No doubt this Latin poem was used by the composers of the epic; and, if they were conscious at all of the anachronism, it would have troubled them as little as Walter Scott was troubled by the anachronisms, of which he cheerfully makes confession, in Ivanhoe.

We have spoken of a “poet”; but in truth there was a long succession of them. While the names of the authors of several of those trivial romances, the Court Epics, have been carefully handed down, there is no record of the authorship of the great National Epic; and this is the more remarkable, as, during the period of the Literary Revival, successive remodellings of it by different hands were produced, each, we may presume, regarded as an improvement on its predecessor; yet no trustworthy clue survives to the name of the composer of any one of them.

The following would appear to have been the different stages through which the Nibelungenlied, as a distinct poem, passed:—

I. The original form, in alliterative verse. (Not extant.) If we could recover this, we might find it, both in metrical form and in literary style, more like our Anglo-Saxon poem of Beowulf than the existing versions of the Lied.

II. The first 12th century version, cir. 1140, by an Austrian court poet (the Kürnberg Knight for whom Bartsch argues), in four-line stanzas, or “strophes,” of iambic basis, with assonant endings. (Not extant.)

III. The second 12th century version, cir. 1170, in which rhyme was partially substituted for assonance. (Not extant.)

IV. The third 12th century versions, of two contemporaneous poets, cir. 1190-1200, in which assonances are almost entirely superseded by rhymes. Extant in several MSS. which fall under two heads:—

1. MS. A. The Munich manuscript, of which only one single copy exists; this perhaps represents the poem just as this rédacteur left it. It is based on a good and ancient original, but is very carelessly written, and omits (apparently through oversight) a number of strophes. This, the shortest version, was adopted by Lachmann as the basis of his edition.

2. MS. B. The St. Gall manuscript. This represents the text as modified by later hands in the 13th and 14th centuries. Of this there are numerous copies. It was adopted by Bartsch as the basis of his edition.

V. MS. C. The fourth 12th century version, of about the same date as the preceding. It presents the same metrical characteristics, but aims

1. In its matter, at reconciling contradictions and inconsistencies in the original Saga;

2. At establishing a connexion between the Lied and Lament for the Niblungs (a poetically inferior continuation), which it does by a reference in the concluding strophe, and more especially by the insertion of a series of strophes at various points in the text, the tendency of which is to excite and maintain sympathy with Kriemhild, and to present her in the light of a righteous avenger. The author also, in the last line of the poem, changes the title from the original Nibelungen-nôt to Nibelungen-lied. Extant in the Donaueschingen manuscript, the additional strophes of which are included in Simrock’s modern German version.

The poem, after the Revival of Learning, suffered the same eclipse through the fascination and superior literary finish of classical literature, as did the Chanson de Roland in France. Its rescue from oblivion dates from the year 1757, when the first imperfect edition of it was published from an old manuscript by Prof. Bodmer. The labours of later scholars and critics produced more and more perfect editions; and the interest of the German public in it was gradually awakened, till it grew to an enthusiasm for what was at last recognised as a great national epic. It was not only a subject for patriotic pride, but, from its memories of old-time greatness, from its heroic spirit, and, from that soul of loyalty to fatherland and king which pervades it, and which is a fundamental trait of the German character, it became an inspiration to great effort and noble sacrifice, coming just at the time when these were pre-eminently called for. It was when the old spirit of freedom awoke with tenfold strength, and all Germany rose as one man against the Titanic tyranny of Napoleon, that this book became for Germans what the Iliad was for Greeks. It helped to fan patriotism into a flame of heroism; it was a voice crying from the past, a great battle-call that blended with the voices of such soldier-singers as Körner. In the year of Waterloo a cheap edition for the use of soldiers was issued—which reminds us of the claim Aeschylus (in Aristophanes’ Frogs) puts forth for his two dramas of war, that they made every spectator long to be a warrior, and nerved him to resolve to conquer or die. And the national instinct which then recognised and claimed for its own that spirit of loyalty to king and country, through evil report and good report, which takes for its watchword, “My country!—may she always be in the right; but my country, right or wrong!” is fundamentally sound. It recognises that he who sets up his private conscience against that of his country in the hour of her need, must himself beware lest he make himself a traitor in sinning against those to whom he owes the greatest earthly debt a man can owe. It recognises that a man may be committing a far deeper wrong by refusing to help his country in a cause in which he thinks he detects some flaw, still more by striving with word or pen to paralyse the efforts of those who are fighting for her, than if he fought in a cause of which his conscience disapproves. Hence United Germany has been no congenial foster-mother for “the friends of every country save their own”; and her scholars are not wrong in claiming for their great epic its share in thus moulding the patriotic conscience.

This translation is based on the text of Bartsch (edit. 1886), but the strophes of MS. C have been incorporated with it, so that it thus corresponds with the widely read modern German version of Simrock. For the English reader it may be explained that a marginal C denotes that the four lines which follow are taken from that source, and he will note that their ethical tendency is designed to be cumulative, to excite and maintain sympathy for the murdered hero and his widow, and to supply what justification can be found for her revenge. They appeal to the modern reader’s sense of justice, and are in themselves poetically not unworthy of being included, as they often elaborate a picturesque or stirring scene, and add touches of beauty, tenderness, or pathos which we could not wish away.

The metre adopted is that on which William Morris fixed, with true poetic instinct, for his Story of Sigurd, the great sister-poem to the Nibelungenlied, from which, indeed, he really seems to have taken it, as it preserves the “ringing caesura” of that original, and, accentually, the same measure. It is not in essentials different from that of the Middle High German text, for the basis of that is accentual and not numerical, though other translators have thought that it was best reproduced by rigidly adhering to an iambic structure. This, in a long poem, is apt to have a somewhat heavy, monotonous effect, whereas the anapaestic-iambic measure not only secures something of the lightness of the movement of the original, but has for English readers a variety, freedom and swiftness, a “lilt,” which has made it of late years widely popular.

The old division into “strophes” has been discarded. It has always seemed to me a literary offence so to print an epic as to convey the suggestion that it is but a long ballad. I cannot help thinking that this device was one adopted for convenience’ sake by the mediaeval reciters or chanters of the Lied, as was the gap in the line after the caesura, to mark artificially the cadence of the line. These, however, have a somewhat pedantic, formal, and so irritating effect on the modern reader who wants to enter into the spirit of an epic. The literary argument against the division into strophes is well stated by Bartsch: “I do not think that, fine as the Nibelungen strophe is in itself, and admirably as it lends itself to lyric treatment, its employment for the epic was a happy inspiration. A division into regular strophes is altogether antagonistic to the Epic: the even flow of the epic narrative does indeed require pauses, not, however, at prescribed, but at free intervals. And this principle we see invariably adhered to wherever a true epic has developed itself, in India, in Greece, in France.”

In dropping the strophic arrangement, I have of course dropped the extra two syllables which lengthened the fourth line of each strophe. I incline to think that their presence is another indication that the Lied was originally intended, not for reading, but for chanting or recitative, like the older lays on which it was founded. It is a common device of singers thus to lengthen the last line of a verse; it helps to the satisfaction of the ear: but the effect is quite different in reading. As a reviewer in the Athenæum says: “No doubt it is theoretically proper to follow the original form with absolute fidelity, but unfortunately the line in English, or even, for that matter, in Modern German, is very different from the line in Middle High German. It drags grievously, and though it breaks the monotony to a certain extent, and occasionally produces a fine effect, yet more often it is merely irritating.” The adoption of the principle laid down by the only English translator who has preserved this peculiarity, that “the very essence of a poem is its exact metrical quality,” would at once condemn all translations of Homer and Virgil into blank or heroic verse, or indeed, into anything but English hexameters, and all translations of the classical drama into anything but trimeter iambics and unrhymed choruses in the impossible metres of the originals—a theory which surely needs only to be stated to expose its untenability. The essence of a poem lies in its spirit more than its formal structure; and whatever jars on the reader, and puts a drag on the swift and easy movement of the verse, so far interferes with his entering into the spirit of that poem.

A. S. W.

October, 1911.

THE LAY OF THE NIBELUNG MEN

I. Of Kriemhild, and of her Dream

Many a marvellous story have the ancient singers told

Of heroes and their glory and their travail manifold,

Of great feasts splendour-flashing that with weeping and wailing ended,

Of the thunder of war-waves clashing—in the Lay shall ye hear all blended.

In the Land Burgundian nurtured was a maiden princely of birth;

Though ye searched, ye should find none fairer to the uttermost ends of the earth;

And her name far-sung was Kriemhild, she was sweeter than speech may tell.

Ah, many a valiant champion in battle for her sake fell!

There was no man whose pride had warded his breast against love’s dart

Shot from the eyes victorious, from the snare of many a heart:

She was lovely beyond all measure that speech or thought may find,

Yea, queenly withal and gracious, a glory of womankind.

Three high-born Kings and wealthy guarded and held her dear;

Gunther and Gernot, heroes in prowess without a peer,

And Giselher the youngest, unmatched in foughten field:

Their sister was she and their glory, and her sword were they and her shield.

Lords were they of noble lineage, and of courtesy the crown,

And their aweless might was matchless, and limitless their renown;

And over the Land Burgundian they stretched the sceptred hand,

Ere the strange, grim end of their story was told in Etzel’s land.

In the City of Worms by the Rhine-flood these Kings in their might abode,

And the best in the whole land served them, the proudest knights that rode,

With glory of homage served them through their life’s triumphant tide—

Till the day when in woeful battle through the Feud of the Queens they died.

And the mother that bare them was Uta, and the treasures of queens were hers,

And their father the old king Dankart, and he made them heritors

Of his realm in the hour of his dying, a champion mighty of old,

Who in days of his youth reaped harvest of glory manifold.

As the tale of their goodlihead telleth, such kings were they, these three,

Strong, fearless lords; and the vassals that bent before them the knee

Were the best of all of whose doings their songs have the minstrels made,

Stalwart and aweless of spirit, in battle unafraid.

For these were Hagen of Troneg, and Dankwart his brother withal

The battle-eager, and Ortwein the warder of Metz’s wall;

And with these stood Gere and Eckwart, lords of the marches twain,

And Volker the Knight Alsatian, the name without a stain;

And Rumold the feast-arrayer, a worship-worthy lord;

Sindold and Hunold, which ever kept heedful watch and ward

For the state of the palace royal, that all should be ordered well;

And with these were there knightly vassals whose tale no bard may tell.

Dankwart was their palace-marshal, and beside the feastful board

Waited his nephew Ortwein, of Metz was he overlord;

And Sindold bare them the wine-cup, a goodly baron he;

And Hunold was chamberlain, perfect in utterest courtesy.

But of all their palace-splendour, and their might renowned afar,

And the majesty of their worship, and their knightly deeds of war,

And the joy that the kingly heroes therein had all their days—

No minstrel hath wholly told it, no harp sung all their praise.

Now it fell, in the midst of their glory, that a dream unto Kriemhild appeared:

A strong, fair, tameless falcon in a bower of dreams she reared.

But before her eyes two eagles swooped upon him and slew—

Never a bitterer sorrow the heart of the maiden knew!

So she told to her mother the vision; but from Lady Uta’s eyes

Was it hid, that she could not interpret the dream save in halting wise:

“The falcon reared in thy dream-bower, a princely husband is this—

Now God from evil defend him, else swift dark doom shall be his!”

“What is this that thou talkest of husbands, heart’s dearest, mother, to me?

In the net of love untangled will I for ever be.

Unto my death in the beauty of maidenhood I will abide,

That I taste not the manifold sorrows that from love of man betide.”

But she answered: “Not wholly renounce it, for thy vow hath been spoken amiss:

For if ever on earth thou knowest a heart full-brimmed with bliss,

Of the love of a man shall this come; and a fair and happy bride

Shalt thou be, if a noble baron by God’s grace stand by thy side.”

“Let be, let be vain talking, heart’s dearest, mother mine.

In many a wife’s repentance have I read the warning sign,

How love hath sorrow for guerdon when the end of its journey is won:—

I will none of love nor of sorrow, I abide in my bliss alone.”

So Kriemhild in pride of her spirit was a rebel to Lord Love’s sway;

And her heart-peace flowed as a river through many a sunlit day;

And she looked upon earls and champions, but none might the heart of her move:

Yet her hour drew near, and the breaking of the glory-dawn of love.

For in flight even now was the Falcon, the fulfilment drew nigh and nigher

Of the dream half read of her mother—but woe for the vengeance-hire

That she paid to the eagles that slew him, her own blood-brethren they!

Woe for the sons of women untold whom his death should slay!

II. Of the Fostering and the Knighting of Siegfried

Now grew unto man in the Low Land the child of a line world-famed.

For Siegmund the King begat him, his mother was Siegelind named,

In a tower-engirdled stronghold renowned through the earth afar,

Where the Rhine and the sea meet: Xanten men named that burg of war.

Now telleth the tale of a hero, how fair and stately he grew,

How the shield of his heart was honour, nor taint of shame he knew,

How shone the star of his glory, how strong was that fearless lord:—

Ho for the harvest of honour that earth’s field gave to his sword!

And his far-sung name was Siegfried, the name of a noble Knight;

And he proved in his strength great-hearted full many a champion’s might,

And through many a strange land cleft he a path by his own right hand:—

Ho for the fiery warriors he found in Burgundia-land!

(C) Or ever this valiant champion to man was fully grown,

By deeds of such marvellous prowess had the might of his hands been shown

That the minstrel’s voice and the harpstrings rang ever with his praise:

Not a tithe thereof is remembered in these the latter days.

But the noontide of his glory, but the spring of his goodlihead—

How marvelled the world at his story, what things were of Siegfried said,

How bloomed as a bower his honour, how goodly he was to behold,

How dreamed of his love fair women, how their eyes the heart’s dream told!

As beseems that a hero be fostered was he nurtured with diligent heed;

But his own heart still was a wellspring of faith and of knightly deed,

That by him was the land of his father as with gold of a diadem crowned,

For in all the deeds of kingfolk all-kingly was he found.

And by this so great was he waxen that to halls of kings must he fare:

Glad-faced did the earls look on him, and dame and damsel there

Sore longed to behold him wending thitherward evermore,

And their eyes unto his shone welcome, and he knew the love they bore.

Ever that child of princes rode girt by a henchman-ring,

And in lovely-woven raiment of his mother’s fashioning;

And the wise and the lessoned in honour must teach him their lore, as one

For whom there waited a kingdom and a nation’s heart to be won.

So waxed he to strength of manhood, till sword and shield he swayed,

And in goodliest harness of battle were his mighty limbs arrayed.

Then his thoughts after fair dream-faces of maids flew questing wide—

And O for the bliss and the honour of her that should be his bride!

Then sent King Siegmund the bidding-word to his vassals all,

And to all friends loyal-hearted, for a high-tide festival;

And the tale thereof into kingdoms of other lords they bare

With gifts for the friend and the stranger, even steeds and raiment fair.

Wheresoever a strong young warrior high-born longed sore for the day

That should bring to him knighthood’s golden spurs, all such bade they

To come to the land of Siegmund, to Siegfried’s festal tide,

To be girt with the sword of knighthood, standing by Siegfried’s side.

Long shall men sing of the wonder of that crown of festal days,

How Siegmund and Siegelind won them the treasure-giver’s praise

For the gifts of cost uncounted that they gave with stintless hand,

How the rumour thereof drew strangers from afar into Siegmund’s land.

Came thither squires four hundred in knighthood’s vesture to be

Arrayed with the young prince Siegfried; and maidens comely to see

Sat fashioning goodly raiment, and their love with the threads was enwound,

As they laid the priceless gemstones thereon with the gold set round,

As their broidery-work on the robe-hems gleamed fair in coil on coil

For the strong young knights high-hearted—they were worthy the love-sped toil.

And the King bade dight the high-seats for the guests, for the thanes of pride,

At the feast of the knighting of Siegfried in the heart of the summer-tide.

Then fared they on to the minster, young squires of high degree

And noble knights full many; and in proud humility

Did the elder serve the younger, by the law that from old time came.

On their lips was mirth and laughter, in their eyes the hope of fame.

When they chanted the Mass to the honour of God in the highest height,

The mighty throngs surged inward to gaze on that gallant sight,

When after the ancient custom those squires with spur and brand

Were arrayed, and with honour never since seen in any land.

Then hasted they where harnessed were the steeds abiding their lords:

Then rose in the lists of Siegmund the clash of spears and swords:

Then the halls of the palace re-echoed, as in joyous combat they crashed,

When the mighty-hearted champions forth to the onset flashed.

From old knight and young warrior the clash and the clang rose high:

The splintered spear-shafts flying leapt up to the laughing sky,

The shards of the lances upsoaring to the roof of the palace-hall.

And the earls and the high-born ladies sat throned beholding all.

Then the King bade stay the combat, and they led the war-steeds thence,

From the field wide-strewn with the strong shields, the brave heart’s rifted fence,

Strewn with the costly gemstones wherewith was the grass bestarred

From the glittering shield-bands fallen in the grapple bitter-hard.

Then sat those guests in the feast-hall in their own ordained high-seats;

And the war-toil’s ache was banished like a dream by the goodly meats

And the wines of noble vintage that flowed as a fountain free.

There homeland guest and stranger had honour plenteously.

In gentle sports and joyous had they worn the long day out;

And now the song of the minstrels through the feast-hall went about;

And their singing had goodly guerdon of the ever-bounteous hand,

And their praise was a crown of glory upon all King Siegmund’s land.

Then the King bade Siegfried deliver in fee to his vassals true

Broad lands and stately castles, as himself had been wont to do.

And he gave with hand ungrudging to his fellows of the sword,

That their hearts were glad for his presence, for their coming thitherward.

So the feast sped on and the mirth-tide, till they saw the seventh sun rise;

And all in the olden fashion did the Queen give gifts of price;

Red gold for the love of Siegfried, and in Siegfried’s name she gave.

That to him as the giver of bounty the hearts of all men clave.

Not a wandering bard thereafter in need in the land abode:

Steeds, raiment on these were showered as though with gifts it snowed,

As though there should come no morrow, and men’s lives lack nothing more:

Never were palace-stewards that lavished so of their store.

So filled with the winning of honour that feast-tide fleeted by,

That whiles one heard the earl-folk each unto other cry:

“Well were we if but Prince Siegfried in his father’s stead were our lord!”

But a grief unto him was their longing, and his true heart loathed the word.

While endured the days of Siegmund and Siegelind, their son

Siegfried, the loved and the loving, would in no wise sit on the throne.

But he yearned in his fearless spirit to break the oppressor’s yoke,

And to rid of the fear of the spoiler the hearth of the lowly folk.

(C) No man might make him a mocking: since first the sword he drew,

The praise of the brave was his lodestar; but little rest he knew:

Ever he wooed war-perils, and his battle-triumphant hand

Bare the banner of his glory through many a far-off land.

III. How Siegfried rode to the City of Worms

Not often the heart of the hero had ache or sorrow known,

Till the tidings came of a fair-one on a wind of rumour blown.

Fair past all heart’s desiring was the Star of Burgundy—

She was doomed to be joy and anguish unto him in the days to be!

With the fame of her glorious beauty there flew forth far and wide

The tale of the queenly spirit, of the heart of tameless pride;

And the souls of princely champions were set on fire of the word,

That from lands afar to the guest-hall of Gunther the King they spurred.

But for all the love of the wooers, and their burning words thereof,

No whit were Kriemhild’s heart-strings once swept by the finger of love,

That she deigned to take of them any for the love of her life and her king.

In a strange land yet was her Falcon with the victory in his wing.

When borne down love’s dream-river was the heart of Siegelind’s son,

As an idle wind was the wooing of all save him alone.

Above all men was Siegfried worthy the chosen of women to wed:—

Now soon to the fair shall the fearless by the hand of love be led.

Then his friends took thought for Siegfried, and the wise in council met,

When they knew the heart of the hero on the love of woman set.

“Seek her for thy bride,” they counselled, “whose birth shall shame not thee.”

Answered the prince: “None other than Kriemhild this shall be!

Lo, she is a great king’s daughter, and the Star of Burgundia she is,

And she is the Queen of Beauty, and my heart knoweth certainly this—

Never Kaiser nor King is so mighty, but, if he would choose him a bride,

Kriemhild, the glory of women, for him were a crown of pride.”

Then was told the tale of his purpose unto Siegmund the ancient King,

For his people brought him the tidings, and so was he ware of the thing

Whereunto was his son’s mind steadfast; and the King was sore afraid

For the peril of Siegfried’s wooing of the haughty-hearted maid.

Yea also the selfsame rumour did the lady Siegelind hear;

And her heart was exceeding heavy with a burden of sorrow and fear;

For she wotted how grim was Gunther and the earls of his war-array:

And they laboured to turn Prince Siegfried from the perilous quest away.

Then answered the aweless Siegfried: “Heart’s dearest, father mine,

Never to love of woman shall the soul of me incline,

Except I may woo untrammelled where love leads forth mine heart!”

And never, for all their pleading, would he from the word depart.

“If thus thou abide unshaken,” the King made answer again,

“Know thou, of thine high-wrought purpose my soul is exceeding fain;

And with heart and hand will I aid thee to the uttermost of my might.

Yet mid King Gunther’s vassals is many a haughty knight:

Yea, had he none other than Hagen the stalwart to stand at his side,

That champion is so uplifted with overweening pride,

That I fear, I fear me sorely lest his malice bring us to bane

If we woo that high-born maiden, the Lady of Disdain.”

“Shall the pride of the haughty thwart us?” hot-hearted Siegfried cried.

“If they mock at the speech of friendship, if I be with scorn denied,

Then will I do my wooing with the strength of mine own right hand;

Yea, I will wrest from the proud ones their vassals and their land!”

Then answered and spake King Siegmund: “Woe’s me for this word of thine!

For if haply this thy defiance should be told by the waters of Rhine,

Never couldst thou thereafter to the land of Gunther ride;—

Long time have I known them, Gunther and Gernot, the children of pride.

By violence may no man win her, that the maiden should stoop to his love,”

Spake Siegmund the King, “assurance most utter have I thereof.

Yet if thou with a host of warriors wouldst thitherward spur the steed,

Lo, all our battle-helpers shall with thee into Rhineland speed.”

“Now nay, it shall nowise please me,” the son of Siegmund said,

“That a host of knights into Rhineland by my banner should be led

Arrayed in the ranks of battle; for my sorrow should it be

To constrain that daughter of princes to yield her love unto me.

I will woo her alone, unholpen of aught but mine own right hand:

With none save with twelve companions will I unto Gunther’s land.

Thus far and no further, my father, mine emprise shall ye aid,

That my knights be in bright-hued vesture and grey furs costly arrayed.”

Unto Siegelind his mother were the tidings borne anon,

And the queen brake forth into weeping for her well-beloved son:

“If he meet the hosts of Gunther, he is lost unto me!” she said.

Then wept that daughter of princes as women weep for the dead.

But Siegfried the knight beheld her weeping, and came to her side

With speech of loving comfort, and blithe of heart he cried:

“Nought hast thou to do with weeping, dear lady and queen, for my sake.

Though a host should arise against me, mine heart should in no wise quake.

Nay, help me thou on my journey when to Burgundy I fare,

And for me and my war-fellows fashion such goodly raiment to wear

As shall be for the praise and the honour of knights so gallant as they;

And so shall mine heart go singing its thanks unto thee alway.”

“If in sooth thou abidest unshaken,” the lady Siegelind said,

“Then, O my child, my beloved, of me shall thy journey be sped;

For the costliest raiment and fairest that ever good knight wore

Shall ye have, even thou and thy war-thanes, an exceeding plenteous store.”

Then lowly in thanks he bent him, Siegfried the fair and young;

And he spake: “For my journeying-fellows shall I take no mighty throng,

But only twelve of my champions: make ready their raiment thou;—

I am longing to learn, O mother, how fares it with Kriemhild now.”

Then nightlong, daylong toiling sat ladies lovely-eyed:

Was none that for rest or for pastime would lay her labour aside

Till the fingers of love had fashioned all Siegfried’s goodly gear:

For his heart was set on the journey, none other rede would he hear.

And his father bade make ready for the prince his knightly array

Wherein he should go forth riding from Siegmund’s land away;

And the warriors’ glittering hauberks withal were ready dight,

And their strong-knit helms and their war-shields broad and gleaming bright.

Now by this was the hour of their faring unto Burgundy drawn full near;

And the hearts of man and woman were heavy with boding fear

Lest never the cherished faces should be seen in the land again.

And they bade lade armour and raiment on the beasts of the sumpter-train.

Goodly to see were the horses in their trappings of ruddy gold.

Long should ye search and vainly more gallant sight to behold

Than Siegfried the knight and the warrior-henchmen ranged at his side.

Now for nought but the parting-blessing his feet for a space abide.

And the King and the Queen there mingled their blessing with many a tear;

But he spake to them words of comfort, and cried with loving cheer:

“Nought have ye to do with weeping for my peril in any strife:

Banish for aye foreboding as touching Siegfried’s life!”

Yet the earls were heavy-hearted, the maidens’ tears ran free;

Yea, the fear on their souls lay darkly that yet in the days to be

For the dear ones unreturning they should sorrow with hearts bowed low:—

Ah me, for their lamentation at the last was there cause enow!

So it fell on the seventh morning that to Worms by the Rhine-river shore

Those fearless knights came riding. What raiment soever they wore

Was all with the red gold broidered, and the harness glinted and shone

As their steeds went softly pacing as they followed Siegfried on.

New-wrought were the knights’ broad bucklers, bright without fleck or stain,

And their helms were a flashing splendour, as rode that gallant train

After the aweless Siegfried through the heart of Burgundia-land;

Never therein did heroes so goodly-apparelled stand.

Low as the spurs all-golden their mighty sword-points hung;

Sharp battle-spears those champions in their strong hands lightly swung.

Of two full spans was the blue blade of the lance that Siegfried bare;

Keen were the long cold edges, and the lightning of death slept there.

Starred reins all gold-embroidered swung light in the rider’s hand,

And the steeds’ breast-bands were silken: so rode they through the land;

And with parted lips of wonder around them all folk pressed.

Then Gunther’s palace-marshals sped forth to meet the guest.

They ran, the earls high-hearted; they hasted, henchman and knight,

Toward these of the lordly presence, even as was meet and right;

And they gave those guests fair greeting unto their liege-lord’s land;

And they grasped the good steed’s bridle, and would take the shield from the hand.

And they made as to lead the horses to the crib and the stall for their rest:

Then stayed them the voice of Siegfried, that dauntless warrior-guest:

“Let be the steeds; for a season still harnessed shall they stand,

For yet am I girt for the journey, and I ride full soon from your land.

Now if any man certainly knoweth, let him nowise hide the thing,

For this would I have one tell me, where may I light on your King,

Even Gunther the treasure-wealthy, Burgundia’s mighty lord.”

Then one that thereof well wotted spake out the answering word:

“If ye fain would behold that war-king, the wish may be lightly won.

In the wide fair hall of his palace I marked him a little agone

Begirt with his hero-vassals: thither to him go ye.

There many a noble warrior beside him shall ye see.”

But by this within his palace had the tale to the King been told

How there waited without by the gateway strange warriors aweless-bold

All-armed in sunbright hauberks and in royal-rich array,

Whose names and whose kindred no man in Burgundy might say.

Thereat was the King astonied, and he marvelled whence they came,

These lordly knights from whose raiment so shone the splendour-flame,

These wielders of goodly bucklers, broad shields and stainless-fair:

Yea, it misliked him that no man could say what folk they were.

Then to the King made answer Ortwein, Metz’s lord—

Stalwart he was, and a dauntless wielder of spear and sword:

“Forasmuch as in no wise we know them, bid one bring hither to thee

Mine uncle, even Hagen: let him look on their company.

Known unto him are kingdoms and strange lands far and wide.

Of him, if he know yon chieftains, shall we surely be certified.”

Then the King bade bring that baron and his knightly train therewithal.

Full soon was his lordly presence beheld in Gunther’s hall.

“For what cause,” then spake Hagen, “am I hitherward called of the King?”

“Lo, yonder unknown heroes to mine halls come journeying;

And no man knoweth to name them. Hast thou haply far away

In a strange land looked on their faces? I pray thee, Hagen, say.”

“That will I,” made answer Hagen. To the casement straight did he go,

And his glance like the swoop of an eagle flashed o’er those guests below.

With the warrior’s joy their war-gear and their goodly array he scanned;

Howbeit their faces he knew not: they were strangers in the land.

And he spake: “Whencesoever the warriors to Rhineflood hitherward fare,

Princes are they of a surety, or a message of princes they bear,

So goodly are their war-steeds, so royal is their array.

Sooth, whencesoe’er they have ridden, great-hearted heroes be they.”

Then a little pondered Hagen, and he spake: “It is sooth to say,

Upon Siegfried’s bodily presence have I looked not unto this day:

Yet indeed and in truth meseemeth, howsoever the thing may be,

That the knight who yonder beareth so princely a port, is he.

Great tales shall be told, if it be so, of his coming to this our land.

The lion-hearted Niblungs were slain by the hero’s hand,

Schilbung and Nibelung, scions of the King of the Golden Hoard;—

Marvels he wrought against them when his strong arm swung the sword!

For it chanced, when the hero was riding alone with no helpers near,

That he found by a misty mountain, as the tale hath been told in mine ear,

Enringing the Hoard of King Niblung a throng of fierce-eyed men:

He had seen not those strange faces till he lighted on them then.

There lay King Niblung’s Gold-hoard, haled forth from the dark abyss

Of the rifted heart of the mountain—a strange, wild tale is this

How the Niblung men were wrangling o’er the treasure’s portioning!

So came Knight Siegfried upon them, and he marvelled at that strange thing.

So nigh he drew unhindered that he saw each battle-lord,

And on him looked they: to his fellow a prince spake straightway the word:

“‘Lo, here cometh Siegfried the stalwart, the Low Land’s hero renowned!’—

Good sooth, a weird adventure mid the Niblung men he found!

Then Schilbung and Nibelung greeted the hero with courteous speech;

And now do the high-born princes that stranger knight beseech

That himself would consent between them that mighty treasure to share;

And they hung so sore upon him that he yielded at last to their prayer.

Such wealth of precious gemstones he beheld, as telleth the tale,

That fivescore wains had sufficed not that treasure thence to hale:

There were heaps yet huger of red gold, the wealth of the Niblung land:

And all that hoard must be portioned by the aweless Siegfried’s hand.

And for hire did they give to the hero King Niblung’s dwarf-wrought sword—

But, ere all was done, for their guerdon they won them an evil reward;

Yea, enforced was Siegfried to deal them therewith great slaughter and grim;

For his sharing might nowise content them, and they turned their fury on him.

(C) So there in the midst that treasure yet all unportioned lay;

And fell on the hero the war-thanes of either king’s array.

But he thrust and he hewed with Balmung, their sire’s enchanted sword,

Nor stayed, till his might had wrested from the Niblung men the Hoard.

Twelve fearful battle-helpers ’gainst that lone warrior fought,

Strong men, and in stature giants; but their might availed them nought,

For the hand of Siegfried smote them in his fury of battle-lust.

Seven hundred knights of the Niblung land he laid in the dust

With the Sword, the good sword Balmung of the world-renownèd name.

And the heart of many a champion for terror as water became,

Quelled by the lightning-flasher and its lord’s undaunted mood.

Yea, the Niblung land and her castles were under his might subdued.

Yea, those two kings in the battle he met, and he smote them dead;

Yet himself through the might of Albrich the Dwarf was sorely bestead;

For the vassal dwarf burned fiercely to avenge his liege-lords slain,

Till quelled by the might of Siegfried his purpose he needs must refrain.

That demon-dwarf all vainly strove with the hero’s might:

Like the grapple of raging lions round the mountain stormed their fight,

Till the Hood of Darkness was yielded by Albrich to this new lord,

And Siegfried the Terrible master was left of the Niblung Hoard,

For all which had dared to withstand him on that stricken field lay slain.

Then bade he bear that treasure to the mountain-fastness again

Whence the Niblung vassals had haled it forth as the dead kings bade;

And the warder of the treasure strong Alberich he made.

By an oath most mighty he bound him his thrall, to be faithful and true,

And ever in loyal service his uttermost bidding to do.”

So ended Hagen of Troneg—“All this hath the hero done:

Through the world in battle-prowess peer unto him is there none.

Men tell of another emprise—as I heard it, I tell it to you—

A Worm, a winged fen-dragon, the hand of the hero slew:

Then he bathed in the blood of the monster, and his skin became as horn,

That no weapon may wound him: witness thereof full many have borne.

Now wisely and well do I rede you—receive him in courteous wise,

That the fiery wrath of the hero by no deed of ours may arise.

Since utterly aweless his heart is, let no man do him despite.

Bethink you how many a marvel hath been wrought by his quenchless might.”

And the King of the land made answer: “Thy counsel is meet and right.

Mark ye how proudly he standeth, as defying peril of fight!

Dauntless they be, yon warrior and the vassals that follow him.

We will fare down unto the gateway, and greet yon champion grim.”

“Yea, greet him with worship and honour,” spake Hagen answering;

“For he cometh of noble lineage, and is son of a mighty king;

And his port, meseemeth, is princely—yea, by Christ the Lord!

Great tales shall be told of the issues of his riding hitherward.”

Then the lord of the land made answer: “Right welcome to us be he!

Valiant he is and noble, as well may mine own eyes see.

Yea, Burgundy-land shall hold him for a guest of passing worth.”

Unto where Prince Siegfried tarried then Gunther the King passed forth.

And the lord of the land and his earlfolk bade the hero welcome there

With greeting exceeding gracious, with courtesy passing fair;

And before them the Knight all-peerless bowed him in courtly wise

In thanks for their lovingkindness, and the worship in their eyes.

Spake Gunther the king: “I marvel, and fain would be certified,

Whence, O most noble Siegfried, unto this our land ye ride,

And what thing come ye seeking at Worms by the waters of Rhine.”

And the guest to the King made answer: “I hide no purpose of mine.

Afar in the land of my fathers the tidings have I heard

How that here, O King, in thy palace—and fain would I prove the word—

Be the knights in the world most valiant—yea, oft have I hearkened their fame—

And the best that king gat ever: and for this cause hither I came.

Yea, and I hear men praise thee for the Star of Chivalry.

‘Never was king so valiant unto this day seen,’ they cry.

Through all my land thy glory is blown upon rumour’s wind.

No rest may my spirit give me till the truth hereof I find.

Lo, I withal am a warrior; a crown must I wear one day;

And fain am I that all men of me in that hour should say

That I take the folk and the kingdom of right for mine heritage.

Lo, mine head and mine honour, I lay them in the lists for battle’s gage.

Thou then, if thou be so valiant as is sung by the lips of fame—

I ask no man of my challenge, if he joy or chafe at the same—

I challenge thee here, do battle for all thou accountest thine!

Thy land and thy castles, I claim them for spoil of this sword of mine!”

Then the King was exceeding astonied, amazed did the earl-folk stand,

As they hearkened to that strange challenge, to the champion’s haughty demand,

As he claimed for his victory-guerdon the people and land of their lord;

And as flame burst forth their anger to hear that arrogant word.

“Nay, how should it be for mine honour,” answered the King thereto,

“If I staked the realm that my father ruled nobly his whole life through

On a combat’s issue, to lose it or hold it by bodily might?

Sooth, this were a sorry maintaining of the name and the fame of a knight!”

“Nay, nought I abate of my challenge,” that aweless champion cried;

“If the peace of thy land safe warded by the strength of thine arm abide,

Now from thy grasp will I wrest it; and mine heritage withal,

If thou win it by battle-prowess, shall be held of thee in thrall.

Let thou and I stake straightway our land and throne and crown;

And whichsoever in combat shall strike the other down,

Unto him shall all be subject, the lands of twain and the folk.”

Then against it Hagen the mighty and Gernot the valiant spoke.

“Of a surety not so are we minded,” spake Gernot proudly and high,

“That for winning of new possessions should any good knights die

In the strife of warring heroes: lo, fair our heritage is,

And of right is it ours; and no man hath claim more righteous to this.”

In burning indignation there stood they, the friends of the King;

And the Lord of Metz, Knight Ortwein, stepped forth from the warrior-ring,

Crying, “Out upon these soft answers! My very heart have they wrung!

Lo, a causeless challenge Siegfried the strong at you all hath flung!

Though thou and thy brothers before him were standing with none to aid,

Though he brought a kingdom’s army against thee, my King, arrayed,

Yet would I maintain, I only, thy right against yon foe:

I would still his malapert vaunting, I would bring his high heart low!”

Outflamed the wrath of the hero, the lord of the Nether Land:

“Not against me may be measured the might of thy low-born hand!

I am the heir to a kingdom, a king’s mere vassal thou;

Yet twelve such as thou should vainly withstand me in battle, I trow!”

Then the Lord of Metz, Knight Ortwein, cried hotly, “Bring me a sword!”—

True son was he of the sister of Hagen Troneg’s lord!—

Sore vexed was the King that Hagen so long should silent stand.

Then for peace yet again spake Gernot, bold-hearted and ready of hand:

“Now nay, rein in thine anger”—with Ortwein so did he plead—

“Not yet hath the noble Siegfried done us any despiteful deed.

For kindness and reconciling still all my counsel is,

And for winning of his friendship: yea, more for our honour were this.”

At the last spake Hagen the stalwart: “There were reason enow for our wrath

And the good knights’ indignation, if he rode on the Rhineward path

For nought but for this defiance—what ailed him to do this thing?

Never so evil-entreated had he been of our lord the King.”

Then Siegfried the mighty hero flashed out all scornfully:

“If that I have said, Lord Hagen, in aught misliketh thee,

I will let it be seen of all men how ready is this mine hand

To maintain my words to the utmost in the face of Burgundia-land.”

“Nay, this thing, I trust, shall I hinder,” spake Gernot yet again;

And he gave command to be silent unto all his mighty men,

Howsoever they chafed, from saying one word that should chafe their guest.

Mid the hush flew a peace-dove, a vision of Kriemhild, to Siegfried’s breast.

“For what cause should we battle against thee?” yet again did Gernot cry:

“Yea, though a host of the good knights in the grapple of fight should die,

Small honour were ours, small profit were thine, of such strife unmeet!”

Yet again did the son of Siegmund, Siegfried, his challenge repeat:

“Why linger they, Hagen and Ortwein?—why hang they yet aback,

They and their friends, their champions, from the storm of the battle-wrack?

And of all Burgundia’s chosen is none to the combat stirred?”

But they heeded Gernot’s counsel, and they answered him not a word.

“Our guest shalt thou be full welcome,” the young lad Giselher cried,

“Thou and thy valiant champions which wait hereby at thy side.

We will joyfully do thee service, even all these friends of mine.”

Then they cried to the cupbearers, “Pour ye for the guests of King Gunther the wine!”

Spake the lord of the land yet further, “Lo, all that was ours hitherto,

Is yours, so in honour ye ask it; we will hold back nought from you.

Yea, ye shall with us be partners in our goods and our very blood!”

Then soft grew the eyes of Siegfried, and melted his angry mood.

Then they took from the warriors their war-gear, and heedfully laid it by;

And they sought for them stately chambers, and lodged them royally:

Yea, even Siegfried’s henchmen were housed in noble wise.

And in Burgundy nought met Siegfried thereafter save welcoming eyes.

All rendered to him high worship and honour day by day,

Yea, a thousandfold more richly than minstrel’s tongue may say.

All this was his valour’s guerdon—no marvel that so it should be,

For the hero was passing winsome, and sweet were his eyes to see.

Whensoever the kings and their vassals in knightly pastime strove,

Evermore was Siegfried the foremost, howsoever his strength they might prove.

There was none that with Siegfried could match him, so passing great was his might,

Or in hurling the massy rock-shard, or in speeding the lance’s flight.

In presence of high-born ladies full oft was their prowess tried,

And proved was the strength of the valiant before the lovely-eyed;

And the Netherland’s knight found favour still with the passing-fair:

But his love was set on the highest, his heart was otherwhere.

(C) Yea, lovely palace-ladies, as the knights rode flashing by,

Would ask of the warrior-stranger of bearing proud and high—

“How stately is his stature, how rich his arraying!” they cried.

“’Tis the hero of the Low Land!” full many a voice replied.

What deeds they essayed soever, still foremost Siegfried pressed:

But ever a lovely vision, a dream-face, haunted his breast;

And the eyes of his soul were yearning on an unbeholden face:

And she—her heart had received him, her lips low murmured his praise.

What time in the lists of the palace the good knights ran the course,

And the squires, and shivered the spear-shafts, ever on rider and horse

Unseen from the casement gazing was the daughter of kings, Kriemhild:

She craved none other pastime, in this was her joy fulfilled.

Had he known, had he known that she watched him, whom shrined in his heart he bore,

Content in those lists enchanted had he ridden evermore;

But ah, had his eyes but beheld her!—I know of a surety this,

Nought else upon earth had he longed for, whose soul had won to its bliss.

Whensoe’er in the castle-courtyard he chanced mid the knights to stand,

As amidst of their gallant pastime they are wont in every land,

How winsome then and how graceful he stood, Queen Siegelind’s child!

Ah, the heart of many a maiden unwares was love-beguiled.

But he, he was thinking, thinking, “Shall the day-dawn ever arise

In mine heart?—shall the Queen of women be ever beheld of mine eyes,

The love of my soul, my darling, my dream of long agone?

She is far from me, far; and with anguish of spirit I muse thereon!”

Whensoe’er those mighty war-kings rode through Burgundia-land,

Still did their knights attend them arrayed on either hand;

Rode Siegfried with these: at his going that lovely lady sighed;

And his heart the while was aching for her through a weary tide.

So abode he with those three war-lords—true is it, how strange soe’er—

In the land of Gunther the royal through all the space of a year;

Yet in all that season his heart’s love not once did he behold,

Of whom he should yet have gladness and sorrow manifold.

IV. How Siegfried warred against the Saxons

Then came to the land of Gunther tidings strange and dread;

For out of a far, far country were heralds to Burgundy sped

With a tale of unknown warriors and the hate they bare to the king;

And in passing great disquiet the brethren heard that thing.

Now these were they that had sent them:—the lord of the Saxon land,

King Lüdiger mighty in war-hosts, mighty in strength of hand;

And Lüdegast for his helper, the lord of the land of the Dane;

And warriors marched unnumbered ’neath the banners of these twain.

So they came to the land of Gunther, those bearers of threats of war,

Even they whom his adversaries had sent forth from afar.

And men looked on the unknown faces, and asked, “What tale do ye bring?”

And they led the heralds of war-storm to the presence of the King.

And he gave to them courteous greeting: “Welcome to me be ye.

What man hath sent you hither not yet hath been told unto me:

Speak out and utter your message,” said the noble king war-wise.

Then sank their hearts, as they looked on the flame in Gunther’s eyes.

“If thou, O King, wilt suffer that we speak”—the heralds replied—

“Unhindered all our message, no word from thee will we hide.

So name we to you the princes who have laid on us this command:

Lo, Lüdegast hitherward marcheth with Lüdiger unto your land.

Ye twain have provoked their anger: in our ears was spoken the word,

How that ye in the hearts of our liege-lords deadliest hate have stirred;

And they purpose to lead their battles unto Worms beside the Rhine.

See ye that your war-thanes help you! Lo, this is the warning-sign.

Within twelve weeks shall the thunder of the tramp of their hosts draw near.

If then ye have loyal vassals, let their fealty now appear:

Let them ward the peace of the castle, let them keep unharried the field.

Ha, here shall be fearful hewing of many a helm and shield!

Or if haply for peace ye will pray them, now let us be certified,

Or ever their ranks of battle across your marches ride,

Or ever your strong foes bow you in bitterness of soul.

Ha, many a champion shall perish when hither the war-waves roll!”

“Ye shall tarry a little season—my mind shall ye know ere long—

While I ponder upon this matter,” spake Gunther the valiant and strong.

“O yea, I have loyal vassals; to them will I bear this word,

And the tale of your war-defiance shall of all my friends be heard.”

Of a truth unto Gunther the mighty full heavy the tidings were,

And his innermost heart was burdened by the message that it bare;

And he bade to his presence Hagen and other his liegemen withal,

And he sent to summon Gernot in haste to his council-hall:

So gathered his best, all vassals unto whom came that command;

And he spake: “Lo, our foes be minded to march into Burgundy-land

With a mighty array—ye may well be indignation-stung

At the unprovoked defiance that these in our faces have flung!”

“From these shall our swords defend us!” Prince Gernot’s voice rang high.

“Men must die in the day of their dooming: in death e’en let them lie!

I will never forget mine honour for dread of what may befall!

We will welcome our adversaries to the War-god’s festival!”

Then answered Hagen of Troneg: “O’er-hasty, I trow, are thy words;

For the kings of the Danes and the Saxons be exceeding arrogant lords;

And so few days cannot suffice us for our war-host’s mustering.

It were good,” said the valiant warrior, “that we told unto Siegfried the thing.”

So they gave those war-denouncers for dwellings their city’s best,

How hateful they were soever, for such was the knightly hest

Of Gunther the noble-hearted—since thus fair honour bade—

Till the friends should be known who would fail not to bring their battle-aid.

Now the King in his heart was bearing a burden of sorrow and fear;

Then the hero, the swift war-helper, beheld him heavy of cheer,

And he marvelled thereat, for he knew not why he went ’neath a load of care.

And he spake, and he prayed King Gunther the cause thereof to declare.

“Exceeding sorely I marvel,” the hero Siegfried said,

“Wherefore thine olden joyance this day is utterly fled,

The gracious cheer that aforetime made the hearts that love thee light.”

Answered and spake to him Gunther, that royal-goodly knight:

“In sooth may I suffer not all men in my sorrow of soul to have part:

I must keep my grief deep-hidden, I must bear it alone in mine heart:

Unto tried friends only and steadfast may a man unveil his pain.”

Then pale grew the face of Siegfried, and anon waxed crimson again.

He spake to the King, and he answered: “Have I ever denied thee aught?

I will help thee to cast the burden of thy spirit sorrow-fraught.

If ye seek for friends true-hearted, lo, such an one even am I:

I will cleave unto thee and aid thee in honour till I die.”

“Now God requite thee, Siegfried, for thy words as music ring!

Yea, though thy might and thy valour no help unto me could bring,

Even so should thy love’s assurance make glad mine heart this day.

If I live on yet for a season, of a surety I will repay.

Thou therefore shalt hear the trouble wherewith mine heart is stirred:

Mine adversaries’ heralds have brought unto me this word,

That their kings be marching to seek us here with their war-array;—

Such outrage never warriors have dealt to us unto this day!”

“Let this not disquiet thy spirit,” spake the hero in answer thereto;

“Speak peace to thine heart, and according to this my counsel do:

Suffer me, even me, to win thee honour and goodly gain

Or ever thy foes to the marches of this thy land attain.

Yea, had those thy mighty foemen of battle-helpers arrayed

So many as thrice ten thousand, by me should their onset be stayed,

Had I at my side but a thousand. Commit thy cause unto me.”

Then spake unto him King Gunther: “I am bounden for ever to thee!”

“Give charge that a thousand riders shall follow me forth to the fray,

Inasmuch as of mine own warriors no more can I set in array

Here, than my twelve war-fellows: so will I ward your land,

And loyal service ever shall be done you by Siegfried’s hand.

Yea also let Hagen help us, and Ortwein fare to the fight,

Dankwart and Sindold, each man a well-belovèd knight,

Therewithal shall ride in our war-host Volker the aweless one,

And he shall be banner-bearer: better than he is none.

And let those war-denouncers to their own lords’ land ride back,

And cause them to bear this message, that we follow hard on their track:

So safe shall our castles be warded, and their peace no foe shall mar.”

Then the king bade summon the muster of his friends and his men of war.

So back to their lord went the bearers of Lüdiger’s command:

They were well content to be faring thence to their own home-land.

And Gunther the royal-hearted rich gifts on the men bestowed,

And therewithal safe-conduct; and with blithe hearts thence they rode.

“Say ye to my mighty foemen,” thus spake Burgundia’s Lord,

“Better for them unventured were their journey hitherward.

Howbeit, if here in mine own land to seek my face they be fain,

So my battle-helpers fail not, they shall find their bitter bane.”

Then goodly gifts to the heralds his treasure-warders bare;—

Good sooth, of the same had Gunther enow and withal to spare!—

Neither dared they refuse them, the bearers of Lüdiger’s command.

So took they their leave, and they journeyed with glad hearts forth of the land.

So then when the heralds to Denmark from Burgundy had passed,

And had spoken the tidings unlooked-for to their lord, King Lüdegast,

Had told him the word of the dwellers by Rhine, that message grim,

For that haughty-hearted defiance was the soul made bitter in him.

For they told him of many a valiant knight in the King’s war-band:—

“Yea, one we beheld with Gunther, and he stood at the king’s right hand,

And Siegfried they named him, a hero of Netherland.” Thus spake they.

Then Lüdegast’s heart at the tidings was filled with strange dismay.

So then when the tale of their message was heard all Denmark o’er,

They hasted to win war-helpers, yea, more than theretofore,

Till their lord, King Lüdegast, under his banner beheld enrolled

Warriors twice ten thousand, all war-thanes dauntless-souled.

Then Lüdiger, lord of the Saxons, gathered his war-array,

Till his battle-muster was two-score thousand, yea, more than they,

Who should join them with Denmark’s war-host, unto Burgundy to ride.

But in that land also had Gunther the King sent far and wide;

To his kinsmen-friends and the war-host of his brethren he sent his hest

To the end they should follow his banner as battleward he pressed;

And with these came the knights of Hagen: yea, sore was their need that day;

And the shadow of death already over many a warrior lay.

They addressed them unto their journey; for nought was their march delayed;

And Volker was banner-bearer, Volker the unafraid,

On the day that they went forth riding from Worms by the waters of Rhine;

And Hagen of Troneg marshalled Burgundia’s battle-line.

There in the ranks rode Sindold and Hunold the dauntless-souled,

Such warriors as earn rich guerdon when war-kings lavish their gold;

Rode Dankwart the brother of Hagen, and with these was Ortwein found.

So they marched on the path of honour, they marched to be glory-crowned.

“Lord King,” spake Siegfried, “I pray thee, at home do thou abide,

While the good knights after my banner forth to the battle shall ride;

Stay thou, that the hearts of the weak ones may be strong in thy fearlessness;

And I will guard thine honour and thy wealth in the battle’s stress.

And they that were fain to seek thee at Worms by the waters of Rhine,

With them will I take such order, that nought shall they harm that is thine.

Yea, we into their own homeland so far will ride in our raid,

That soon shall the overweening be with sorrow sore dismayed.”

From Rhine through the land of Hesse rode on that hero-host,

And over the Saxon marches, where the fight should be won and lost;

And they drave the spoil, and they harried with flame the land of the foe:

Ha, bitter straits and anguish did the robber war-kings know!

So they came to the Saxon marches, and the vanguard pressed on still.

Then Siegfried the mighty champion asked of the chieftains’ will:

“Whom now shall we make our warder of camp and of sumpter-train?”

—Ha, never of war-raid the Saxons suffered deadlier bane!

So they said, “Let the henchmen that follow the wielders of spear and brand

Be warded of Dankwart the valiant, of the swift death-dealing hand;

So shall our loss be the lesser from Lüdiger’s plundering horde.

Yea, leave with him Ortwein: our rear-guard shall these twain safely ward.”

“Then will myself ride onward,” spake Siegfried the knight straightway,

“To watch for the foe’s on-coming, and to spy out their array,

Until I shall know of a surety where now their warriors are.”

And with speed fair Siegelind’s scion stood sheathed in his harness of war.

So the host he committed to Hagen, or ever he rode on the quest,

Even to him and to Gernot, the knight of the dauntless breast.

So into the land of the Saxons rode he forward alone—

Yea, to fashion a tale for the minstrels, a tale of glory won!

Then spied he onward-surging o’er the plain a host of war,

So huge that Burgundia’s warriors by these were outnumbered far;

For their tale was two-score thousand, yea, more than this, I trow.

Then leapt his heart and lightened his eyes with the battle-glow.

Now afront of the host of the foemen there rode a goodly knight,

To watch for a battle-token, in shining harness dight.

And Siegfried the hero beheld him, and on him that champion gazed,

And the eyes of each upon other with the fury of battle blazed.

Now who was the keen war-eagle that on watching pinions hung?

A gleaming shield all-golden from his leftward shoulder was slung.

King Lüdegast was the warrior that thus o’er the host kept ward.

Lo, the noble stranger-hero against him is spurring hard!

And the wrath of the lord of the Danefolk by the battle-challenge is stirred,

And the mighty steeds to the onset are racing fierily spurred.

In their strong grip over the shield-rims they couched their lances low—

Ha, but the proud king knew not that he rode to his shame and his woe!

The war-steeds hearkened the spur-sting, and swift as arrows they leapt,

And the kings clashed like unto breakers by a tempest-blast on-swept;

And knightly they wheeled to the onset their reeling steeds with the rein,

And with swords they essayed the decision of strife, that terrible twain.

At each stroke of the hero Siegfried far round the whole plain rung,

And the helmet was flashing and flaming as with fire from a torch outflung;

Even so were the red sparks leaping ’neath the sword in the hero’s hand.

Lions both were the Dane-king and the Lord of the Nether Land,

For with many a furious sword-stroke did the king of the Daneland smite;

Yea, this one and that at the bucklers hewed with his uttermost might.

Now their strife was beheld of thirty knights of the king’s war-band:

But or ever these might reach him victor did Siegfried stand.

For with three wide-gaping gashes he made that war-king reel;

They sundered the shining harness, the welded links of steel;

On the great sword’s cleaving lightning swift followed the rain of blood;

Then groaned the king of the Danefolk in bitterness of mood.

For his life must he make supplication: “I will pay for my ransoming,”

He cried, “the land of Denmark! I am Lüdegast the king!”

But by this full nigh were his war-band, the knights that from far had seen

Betwixt these two fore-scouters what deadly strife had been.

Then Siegfried would lead the vanquished away; but they fell forthright

Upon him, those thirty warriors, yet his hand by its single might

Aye guarded his princely captive with strokes that fell like hail;

And soon to that king’s defenders had he dealt yet deadlier bale.

For he smote, that captive-warder, the thirty, till dead they lay,

Save one that turned his horse-rein, and swiftly fled away,

And bare the bitter tidings of all to the host of the Danes,

And his shattered helmet witnessed thereto with its bloody stains.

Then were the knights of Daneland shame-stricken and bitter-souled,

When the tale how their king was a captive that day in their ears was told.

And they bare to his brother the tidings, and the storm of his wrath outbrake

In madness of fury and anguish for his captive brother’s sake.

Now by this had the king of the Danefolk been led from the field of fight

Back to the host of Gunther by Siegfried’s resistless might;

And to Hagen’s hand did he give him: glad were his friends for the word

That the King of the land of Denmark was the spoil of Siegfried’s sword!

Then they cried through the host, “To the spear-staves bind ye the banners on!”

“Forward!” rang Siegfried’s war-cry: “great deeds this day shall be done

Ere the evenfall, if my sinews fail not, if I lose not life!

This day through the land of the Saxons shall be rued by many a wife!

Heroes of Rhineland, whither I press before, take heed!

To the heart of Lüdiger’s war-host cleaving your path will I lead:

Ye shall see brave hewing of helmets by many a hero’s hand!

Ere back from the battle we turn us, shall sorrow o’ercloud this land.”

Now on their steeds have Gernot and the men of his war-band sprung;

In the grasp of the warrior-minstrel is the battle-flag upflung;

Volker is bearing the banner afront of them all to the fray:—

Yea, the very hearts of the camp-folk leap to the onset to-day!

Now the host that they led to the war-shock in no more than a thousand was told,

Save for those twelve knights of Siegfried. In clouds was the dust uprolled

From the tramp of the mighty horse-hoofs as they charged across the field:

Ever gleamed through the eddying darkness the glint of many a shield.

Now nearer and nearer the Saxons drew, and the flashing was seen

Of the tossing sea of their broadswords—O, the edges thereof were keen!—

Swung up, as telleth the story, in many a champion’s hand.

They were fain to thrust back the aliens from castle and from land.

Onward the battle-marshals the ranks to the war-shock led,

Onward withal Prince Siegfried with those his twelve knights sped

Which companioning his journey afar from the Low Land went.

Many a hand in the war-storm that day saw blood-besprent.

Now Sindold and Hunold and Gernot in the forefront of battle smite,

And many a hero falleth before them dead in the fight;

Ere they could prove their valour they slept the iron sleep:—

Ah, for their fate must many a lovely lady weep!

Volker and Hagen and Ortwein with shattering strokes made dim

The splendour of many a helmet in the battle bitter-grim;

For the blood streamed over the morions where the aweless heroes fought:

Yea, many a marvel of prowess the hand of Dankwart wrought.

Now the Danes are essaying how mighty are the broadswords that they wield:

Loud rang the clashing and clanging of shield that shocked on shield;

And the griding glaives keen-whetted made the hot blood spurt through the mail;

Nor for nought did the battle-fearless Saxons their foes assail.

Onward the fierce Burgundians through that war-thicket clave,

And many a wound wide-gaping they dealt with the deadly glaive.

All over the saddle-housings the blood ran streaming down:

So strove those dauntless champions for the winning of renown.

Far afront rang out the clashing of the helmet-sundering brand

In the grasp of the mightiest champions, where the knights of Netherland

Pressed after their lord on-charging through the heart of the battle-din:

Those Twelve in knightly fashion, where Siegfried led, burst in.

No man of the warriors of Rhineland could follow where these rode:

From far they beheld the blood-streams as in sudden crimson they flowed

Through the bright helms riven asunder by Siegfried’s smiting hand,

Till he found where Lüdiger battled afront of his own war-band.

Three times through their reeling squadrons did the Son of Siegmund ride

From end to end of their war-host—now Hagen fights at his side;

Yea, mightily now doth he help him to accomplish his will in the fight.

Borne down by their onset perished full many a valiant knight.

But face to face with Siegfried at last strong Lüdiger came,

And saw in his hand upleaping the great sword’s battle-flame,

Saw the edges of Balmung cleaving through his knights a death-strewn path.

Then the heart of the dauntless Saxon was swept by a storm of wrath.

Then hurled were the surges of battle together with clash of swords,

As the war-bands closed in the grapple of fight around their lords,

And the two kings sought each other with uttermost desire.

Reeled squadrons sundered before them till they met, for their hate was as fire.

To the Lord of the land of the Saxons long since the tidings came

How his brother was taken captive, and for this was his wrath aflame;

But he wotted not who had achieved it: nought knew he of Siegelind’s son,

For the deed had been told for Gernot’s—but of him was the truth soon known!

Then rained from Lüdiger’s war-glaive such storm of blow on blow

That Siegfried’s steed ’neath the saddle sank on his haunches low;

But he sprang to his full height straightway, and the dauntless Siegfried’s might

Flashed forth in terrible lightnings through the tempest of that fight.

There beside him was Hagen smiting, and Gernot bare him well,

And Dankwart and Volker; before them the swaths of battle fell:

Hewed Sindold and Hunold and Ortwein, the war-triumphant lords:

Before them many a champion slept the sleep of swords.

In the battle’s heart close-grappling were Saxon and Lowland king,

And over their helm-crests ever did many a javelin sing;

Through glittering bucklers pierced they from the hands of heroes sped,

Till many a goodly shield-rim dripped with the life-stream red.

Mid the surges of battle-tempest sank many a good knight slain

From his steed to the earth: yet ever they clashed, those terrible twain

Hurling together, Siegfried and Lüdiger the king,

’Neath the splintered staves upsoaring and the javelins’ eager wing.

Lo, the sweep of the sword of Siegfried hath severed the King’s shield-band!

Now seeth the Netherland hero the victory hard at hand

Over the valiant Saxons—nigh these was the bitter end.

—Ha, how did the dauntless Dankwart the glittering mail-rings rend!—

Even then the King of the Saxons with sudden-cold despair

Beheld a crown emblazoned on the shield that Siegfried bare.

He saw it, he knew it—“None other than the Hero resistless is here!”

And he lifted his voice, through the clangour of battle his shout rang clear:

“Refrain you from fight, refrain you, all ye of my battle-aid!

Lo, here is the Son of Siegmund in the strife against us arrayed!

I have seen, I have known him, Siegfried, the all-resistless lord:

Of a truth hath the Foul Fiend sent him against us hitherward!

Let sink my battle-banners,” he cried, “the fight is done!”

For peace he made entreaty; peace was vouchsafed anon.

Yet himself must fare as hostage afar to Gunther’s land

Beneath the hard constraining of dauntless Siegfried’s hand.

So ceased the weary warriors with one consent from the fight;

And many a shattered helmet and shield to left and to right

Did they cast from their hands; nor any of all on the field that lay,

But blood-besprent from the hewing of Burgundia’s swords were they.

From the field, by the right of the victor, what captives they would did they lead:

And the swift war-helpers, Gernot and Hagen, took order with heed

That the wounded men upon litters be borne: so led they away,

Captives unto the Rhine-flood, five hundred men from the fray.

All empty-handed of triumph home rode each Danish knight,

Nor yet had the Saxons borne them so stoutly in that fight

That their people should sing their praises: in sorrow and shame went they

Mid wailing for dear ones fallen in the slaughter of that day.

Now their needless armour Rhineward the sumpter-beasts might bear,

For Siegfried the strong and his helpers had rid the land of the fear

Of foes from border to border: so had he accomplished this

That all King Gunther’s war-host must acclaim the deed for his.

Straightway to Worms Prince Gernot hasted the messengers’ feet

To bear unto friends in the homeland the tidings passing sweet,

That tale of the might triumphant of the Kings and their war-array,

The tale of the deeds of the valiant, of the dawn of glory’s day.

Fast, fast those victory-heralds sped, and the tale was told.

How leap their hearts for gladness that of late were sorrowful-souled,

For all those joyful tidings through the jubilant land that ring!

How instant are high-born ladies with eager questioning

How had it fared with their dear lords in the King’s war-host who fought!

Yea, into the presence of Kriemhild was a messenger straightway brought:

Yet the thing was done as in secret, and she would not that folk should know,

For the Hero’s sake in whose keeping was her heart from long ago.

When stood that victory-bringer in her bower before her eyes,

Kriemhild the lovely bespake him in exceeding gracious wise:

“Now tell me thy joyful tidings, and my gold shall thy guerdon be;

And, so nought of the truth be hidden, thou hast ever a friend in me.

Tell how hath my brother Gernot come forth of the battle-strife,

And other my friends and kinsmen. Be there many that lost their life?

Who in that day triumphant was in prowess chief?—say on!”

Spake the messenger true-hearted: “Sooth, battle-blencher was none;

But in that stern warrior-onset no champion rode so well,

O noble Daughter of Princes, if the truth my tongue must tell,

As the princely stranger-hero, which came from the Netherland;—

O the marvels of battle-prowess that were wrought by Siegfried’s hand!

What deeds soever the champions achieved in the battle-play,

Even Dankwart and Hagen, and other of Gunther’s war-array—

Their glory, their prowess, were even as an idle wind should sing,

Set by the deeds of Siegfried, the son of Siegmund the King.

O yea, in the storm of battle full many a hero they slew:

But whoso essayed could never tell all the marvels through

That were wrought by the arm of Siegfried as he rode the surges of fight—

Ah, many a lady for dear ones slain shall bewail his might!

Went down before his onset the beloved of many a bride;

His giant strokes on the helmets o’er the field rang far and wide,

And forth of the gaping gashes the blood flowed fast and free:—

O yea, in all achievement the glory of knighthood is he!

Sooth, many a deed of valour wrought Ortwein, Metz’s Lord;

Whosoever was touched in the war-storm by the lightning of his sword

Fell back from his face sore wounded—yea, for the more part slain:

And thy brother withal to the foemen dealt the deadliest bane

That ever in battle-tempest hath any champion wrought.

True witness were this of the chosen warriors there that fought,

That so mighty in war-achievement were our proud Burgundians found,

That shame shall touch them never: for aye are they glory-crowned.

For they smote, and they saw before them many a riderless selle:

O’er the echoing field their war-glaives rang many a foeman’s knell.

O yea, the knights of Rhineland rode through that stormy day

In such wise that their foes repent them that ever they dared the fray.

And the valiant brethren of Troneg withal dealt deadly bane

When the war-hosts clashed, when the nations wrestled with desperate strain:

So many were then hurled earthward by dauntless Hagen’s hand,

That thereof might a goodly story be told in Burgundia-land.

Sindold withal and Hunold, ’neath Gernot’s banner who warred,

These wrought such deeds of prowess, with Rumold the dauntless lord,

That Lüdiger, king of the Saxons, to his latest hour shall repent

The folly of that war-challenge to the Lords of Rhineland sent.

Yet of all the mightiest war-deeds that ever on earth have been,

From the least even unto the greatest that ever eye hath seen,

Never were such as Siegfried hath wrought with resistless hand.

And he bringeth royal captives hither to Gunther’s land;

Even these with his might overmastering the warrior-prince subdued.

Of a truth his self-sought evils hath Lüdegast bitterly rued,

And Lüdiger his brother, the lord of the Saxons, withal!