_Sigurd rideth with the Niblungs, and wooeth Brynhild for King Gunnar._
Now it fell on a day of the spring-tide that followed on these things, That Sigurd fares to the meadows with Gunnar and Hogni the Kings; For afar is Guttorm the youngest, and he sails the Eastern Seas, And fares with war-shield hoisted to win him fame's increase. So come the Kings to the Doom-ring, and the people's Hallowed Field, And no dwelling of man is anigh it, and no acre forced to yield; There stay those Kings of the people alone in weed of war, And they cut a strip of the greensward on the meadow's daisied floor, And loosen it clean in the midst, while its ends in the earth abide; Then they heave its midmost aloft, and set on either side An ancient spear of battle writ round with words of worth; And these are the posts of the door, whose threshold is of the earth And the skin of the earth is its lintel: but with war-glaives gleaming bare The Niblung Kings and Sigurd beneath the earth-yoke fare; Then each an arm-vein openeth, and their blended blood falls down On Earth the fruitful Mother where they rent her turfy gown: And then, when the blood of the Volsungs hath run with the Niblung blood, They kneel with their hands upon it and swear the brotherhood: Each man at his brother's bidding to come with the blade in his hand, Though the fire and the flood should sunder, and the very Gods withstand: Each man to love and cherish his brother's hope and will; Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill: And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they sworn As the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born. But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same, And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame.
So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife, And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of life; And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise: To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace, And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the Kings, For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crookèd things. But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young, And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung. Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best; And men say: Is the king's heart mighty beyond all hope of rest? Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown! So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone.