Now a man of the Kings, called Gripir, in this land of peace abode: 
    The son of the Helper’s father, though never lay his load
    In the womb of the mother of Kings that the Helper’s brethren bore;
    But of Giant kin was his mother, of the folk that are seen no more;
    Though whiles as ye ride some fell-road across the heath there comes
    The voice of their lone lamenting o’er their changed and conquered
      homes. 
    A long way off from the sea-strand and beneath the mountains’ feet
    Is the high-built hall of Gripir, where the waste and the tillage meet;
    A noble and plentiful house, that a little men-folk fear. 
    But beloved of the crag-dwelling eagles and the kin of the woodland
      deer. 
    A man of few words was Gripir, but he knew of all deeds that had been,
    And times there came upon him, when the deeds to be were seen: 
    No sword had he held in his hand since his father fell to field,
    And against the life of the slayer he bore undinted shield: 
    Yet no fear in his heart abided, nor desired he aught at all,
    But he noted the deeds that had been, and looked for what should
      befall.

    Again, in the house of the Helper there dwelt a certain man
    Beardless and low of stature, of visage pinched and wan: 
    So exceeding old was Regin, that no son of man could tell
    In what year of the days passed over he came to that land to dwell: 
    But the youth of King Elf had he fostered, and the Helper’s youth
      thereto,
    Yea and his father’s father’s:  the lore of all men he knew,
    And was deft in every cunning, save the dealings of the sword: 
    So sweet was his tongue-speech fashioned, that men trowed his every
      word;
    His hand with the harp-strings blended was the mingler of delight
    With the latter days of sorrow; all tales he told aright;
    The Master of the Masters in the smithying craft was he;
    And he dealt with the wind and the weather and the stilling of the sea;
    Nor might any learn him leech-craft, for before that race was made,
    And that man-folk’s generation, all their life-days had he weighed.

    In this land abideth Hiordis amid all people’s praise
    Till cometh the time appointed:  in the fulness of the days
    Through the dark and the dusk she travailed, till at last in the
      dawning hour
    Have the deeds of the Volsungs blossomed, and born their latest flower;
    In the bed there lieth a man-child, and his eyes look straight on
      the sun,
    And lo, the hope of the people, and the days of a king are begun.