Men say of the serving-women, when they cried on the joy of the morn,
    When they handled the linen raiment, and washed the king new-born,
    When they bore him back unto Hiordis, and the weary and happy breast,
    And bade her be glad to behold it, how the best was sprung from the
      best,
    Yet they shrank in their rejoicing before the eyes of the child,
    So bright and dreadful were they; yea though the spring morn smiled,
    And a thousand birds were singing round the fair familiar home,
    And still as on other mornings they saw folk go and come,
    Yet the hour seemed awful to them, and the hearts within them burned
    As though of fateful matters their souls were newly learned.

    But Hiordis looked on the Volsung, on her grief and her fond desire,
    And the hope of her heart was quickened, and her joy was a living fire;
    And she said:  “Now one of the earthly on the eyes of my child hath
      gazed
    Nor shrunk before their glory, nor stayed her love amazed: 
    I behold thee as Sigmund beholdeth,—­and I was the home of thine
      heart—­
    Woe’s me for the day when thou wert not, and the hour when we shall
      part!”

    Then she held him a little season on her weary and happy breast
    And she told him of Sigmund and Volsung and the best sprung forth
      from the best: 
    She spake to the new-born baby as one who might understand,
    And told him of Sigmund’s battle, and the dead by the sea-flood’s
      strand,
    And of all the wars passed over, and the light with darkness blent.

    So she spake, and the sun rose higher, and her speech at last was
      spent,
    And she gave him back to the women to bear forth to the people’s kings,
    That they too may rejoice in her glory and her day of happy things.

    But there sat the Helper of Men with King Elf and his Earls in the
      hall,
    And they spake of the deeds that had been, and told of the times to
      befall,
    And they hearkened and heard sweet voices and the sound of harps
      draw nigh,
    Till their hearts were exceeding merry and they knew not wherefore
      or why: 
    Then, lo, in the hall white raiment, as thither the damsels came,
    And amid the hands of the foremost was the woven gold aflame.

    “O daughters of earls,” said the Helper, “what tidings then do ye bear? 
    Is it grief in the merry morning, or joy or wonder or fear?”

    Quoth the first:  “It is grief for the foemen that the Masters of
      God-home would grieve.”

    Said the next:  “’Tis a wonder of wonders, that the hearkening world
      shall believe.”

    “A fear of all fears,” said the third, “for the sword is uplifted on
      men.”

    “A joy of all joys,” said the fourth, “once come, and it comes not
      again!”