Atli speaketh with the Niblungs 309

Of the Battle in Atli’s Hall 316

Of the Slaying of the Niblung Kings 323

The Ending of Gudrun 338

THE STORY
OF
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG
AND THE
FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS.

BOOK I.

SIGMUND.

     IN THIS BOOK IS TOLD OF THE EARLIER DAYS OF THE VOLSUNGS, AND OF
     SIGMUND THE FATHER OF SIGURD, AND OF HIS DEEDS, AND OF HOW HE DIED
     WHILE SIGURD WAS YET UNBORN IN HIS MOTHER’S WOMB.

    Of the dwelling of King Volsung, and the wedding of Signy his
    daughter.

    There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
    Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
    Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
    Earls’ wives were the weaving-women, queens’ daughters strewed its
      floors,
    And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
    The sails of the storm of battle adown the bickering blast. 
    There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
    Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate: 
    There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men. 
    Though e’en in that world’s beginning rose a murmur now and again
    Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
    And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People’s
      Praise.

    Thus was the dwelling of Volsung, the King of the Midworld’s Mark,
    As a rose in the winter season, a candle in the dark;
    And as in all other matters ‘twas all earthly houses’ crown,
    And the least of its wall-hung shields was a battle-world’s renown,
    So therein withal was a marvel and a glorious thing to see,
    For amidst of its midmost hall-floor sprang up a mighty tree,
    That reared its blessings roofward, and wreathed the roof-tree dear
    With the glory of the summer and the garland of the year. 
    I know not how they called it ere Volsung changed his life,
    But his dawning of fair promise, and his noontide of the strife,
    His eve of the battle-reaping and the garnering of his fame,
    Have bred us many a story and named us many a name;
    And when men tell of Volsung, they call that war-duke’s tree,
    That crowned stem, the Branstock; and so was it told unto me.

    So there was the throne of Volsung beneath its blossoming bower. 
    But high o’er the roof-crest red it rose ’twixt tower and tower,
    And therein were the wild hawks dwelling, abiding the dole of
      their lord;
    And they wailed high over the wine, and laughed to the waking sword.