and the Gold and its waxing curse,
    I shall brood on them both together, let my life grow better or worse. 
    And I am a King henceforward and long shall be my life,
    And the Gold shall grow with my longing, for I shall hide it from
      strife,
    And hoard up the Ring of Andvari in the house thine hand hath built. 
    O thou, wilt thou tarry and tarry, till I cast thy blood on the guilt? 
    Lo, I am a King for ever, and alone on the Gold shall I dwell
    And do no deed to repent of and leave no tale to tell.’

    “More awful grew his visage as he spake the word of dread,
    And no more durst I behold him, but with heart a-cold I fled;
    I fled from the glorious house my hands had made so fair,
    As poor as the new-born baby with nought of raiment or gear: 
    I fled from the heaps of gold, and my goods were the eager will,
    And the heart that remembereth all, and the hand that may never be
      still.

    “Then unto this land I came, and that was long ago
    As men-folk count the years; and I taught them to reap and to sow,
    And a famous man I became:  but that generation died,
    And they said that Frey had taught them, and a God my name did hide. 
    Then I taught them the craft of metals, and the sailing of the sea,
    And the taming of the horse-kind, and the yoke-beasts’ husbandry,
    And the building up of houses; and that race of men went by,
    And they said that Thor had taught them; and a smithying-carle was I.
    Then I gave their maidens the needle and I bade them hold the rock,
    And the shuttle-race gaped for them as they sat at the weaving-stock. 
    But by then these were waxen crones to sit dim-eyed by the door,
    It was Freyia had come among them to teach the weaving-lore. 
    Then I taught them the tales of old, and fair songs fashioned and true,
    And their speech grew into music of measured time and due,
    And they smote the harp to my bidding, and the land grew soft and
      sweet: 
    But ere the grass of their grave-mounds rose up above my feet,
    It was Bragi had made them sweet-mouthed, and I was the wandering
      scald;
    Yet green did my cunning flourish by whatso name I was called,
    And I grew the master of masters—­Think thou how strange it is
    That the sword in the hands of a stripling shall one day end all this!

    “Yet oft mid all my wisdom did I long for my brother’s part,
    And Fafnir’s mighty kingship weighed heavy on my heart
    When the Kings of the earthly kingdoms would give me golden gifts
    From out of their scanty treasures, due pay for my cunning shifts. 
    And once—­didst thou number the years thou wouldst think it long ago—­
    I wandered away to the country from whence our stem did grow. 
    There methought the fells grown greater, but waste did the meadows lie,