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.

Now Giuki the king was long grown old, and he died and was buried beneath a great earth-mound high on the mountains.

  So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold,
  As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled: 
  But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land;
  A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand;
  A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom,
  A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom.

  On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son: 
  “O Gunnar, King beloved, a fair life hast thou won;
  On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers with
       gold;
  Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told: 
  Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth,
  Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth. 
  If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings,
  No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings.”

  He said:  “Meseemeth, mother, thou speakest not in haste,
  But hast sought and found beforehand, lest thy fair words fall to waste.”

  She said:  “Thou sayest the sooth; I have found the thing I sought: 
  A Maid for thee is shapen, and a Queen for thee is wrought: 
  In the waste land hard by Lymdale a marvellous hall is built,
  With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt: 
  Afar o’er the heath men see it, but no man draweth nigher,
  For the garth that goeth about it is nought but the roaring fire,
  A white wall waving aloft; and no window nor wicket is there,
  Whereby the shielded earl-folk or the sons of the merchants may fare: 
  But few things from me are hidden, and I know in that hall of gold
  Sits Brynhild, white as a wild-swan where the foamless seas are rolled;
  And the daughter of Kings of the world, and the sister of Queens is she,
  And wise, and Odin’s Chooser, and the Breath of Victory: 
  But for this cause sitteth she thus in the ring of the Wavering Flame,
  That no son of the Kings will she wed save the mightiest master of fame,
  And the man who knoweth not fear, and the man foredoomed of fate
  To ride through her Wavering Fire to the door of her golden gate: 
  And for him she sitteth and waiteth, and him shall she cherish and love,
  Though the Kings of the world should withstand it, and the Gods that sit
       above. 
  Speak thou, O mighty Gunnar!—­nay rather, Sigurd my son,
  Say who but the lord of the Niblungs should wed with this glorious one?”