“Nay whiles have I heeded the horse-kind,” then spake that elder of days,
  “And sooth do the sages say, when the beasts of my breeding they praise. 
  There is one thereof in the meadow, and, wouldst thou cull him out,
  Thou shalt follow an elder’s counsel, who hath brought strange things about,
  Who hath known thy father aforetime, and other kings of thy kin.”

  So Sigurd said, “I am ready; and what is the deed to win?”
  He said:  “We shall drive the horses adown to the water-side,
  That cometh forth from the mountains, and note what next shall betide.”

  Then the twain sped on together, and they drave the horses on
  Till they came to a rushing river, a water wide and wan;
  And the white mews hovered o’er it; but none might hear their cry
  For the rush and the rattle of waters, as the downlong flood swept by. 
  So the whole herd took the river and strove the stream to stem,
  And many a brave steed was there; but the flood o’ermastered them: 
  And some, it swept them down-ward, and some won back to bank,
  Some, caught by the net of the eddies, in the swirling hubbub sank;
  But one of all swam over, and they saw his mane of grey
  Toss over the flowery meadows, a bright thing far away: 
  Wide then he wheeled about them, then took the stream again
  And with the waves’ white horses mingled his cloudy mane.

  Then spake the elder of days:  “Hearken now, Sigurd, and hear;
  Time was when I gave thy father a gift thou shalt yet deem dear,
  And this horse is a gift of my giving:—­heed nought where thou mayst ride: 
  For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide,
  And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to give;
  Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live.”

  Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd now. 
  To ask him many a matter:  but dim did his bright shape grow,
  As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night;
  And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright.

  So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand,
  And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland,
  And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good. 
  And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir’s blood,
  The tireless horse of Odin:  cloud-grey he was of hue,
  And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund’s son he knew,
  So glad he went beneath him.  Then the youngling’s song arose
  As he brushed through the noontide blossoms of Gripir’s mighty close,
  Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave,
  Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling wave.

Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold that was accursed from ancient days.

  Now yet the days pass over, and more than words may tell
  Grows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love him well. 
  But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time is fain
  To know of what lies beyond them, and learn of the wide world’s gain.