Because no God beside their sorrow went
    Turning to flowery sward the rock-strewn way,
    Weakness to strength, or darkness into day. 
    Therefore, no marvels hath my tale to tell,
    But deals with such things as men know too well;
    All that I have herein your hearts to move,
    Is but the seed and fruit of bitter love.

It is aside from our purpose to tell this story here.  The more we study this marvelous work, the more it is impressed upon us that in the reign of love all men and all literatures are one.  To the Englishman this description of an Iceland maiden is no stranger than it was to the men who sat about the spluttering fire in the Icelander’s hall.  It is the form of Gudrun that is here described: 

    That spring was she just come to her full height,
    Low-bosomed yet she was, and slim and light,
    Yet scarce might she grow fairer from that day;
    Gold were the locks wherewith the wind did play,
    Finer than silk, waved softly like the sea
    After a three days’ calm, and to her knee
    Wellnigh they reached; fair were the white hands laid
    Upon the door posts where the dragons played;
    Her brow was smooth now, and a smile began
    To cross her delicate mouth, the snare of man.

(Earthly Paradise, Vol.  II, p. 247.)

Not less accustomed are we to such heroes as Kiartan: 

    And now in every mouth was Kiartan’s name,
    And daily now must Gudrun’s dull ears bear
    Tales of the prowess of his youth to hear,
    While in his cairn forgotten lay her love. 
    For this man, said they, all men’s hearts did move,
    Nor yet might envy cling to such an one,
    So far beyond all dwellers ’neath the sun;
    Great was he, yet so fair of face and limb
    That all folk wondered much, beholding him,
    How such a man could be; no fear he knew,
    And all in manly deeds he could outdo;
    Fleet-foot, a swimmer strong, an archer good,
    Keen-eyed to know the dark waves’ changing mood;
    Sure on the crag, and with the sword so skilled,
    That when he played therewith the air seemed filled
    With light of gleaming blades; therewith was he
    Of noble speech, though says not certainly
    My tale, that aught of his he left behind
    With rhyme and measure deftly intertwined.

(P. 266.)

The Old Norse touch here is in the last three lines which intimate that the warrior was often a bard; but be it remembered that the Elizabethan warrior could turn a sonnet, too.