Völsunga Saga/The Whetting of Gudrun
THE WHETTING OF GUDRUN.
GUDRUN went down unto the sea whenas she had slain Atli, and she cast herself therein, for she was fain to end her life: but nowise might she drown. She drave over the firths to the land of King Jonakr, and he wedded her, and their sons were Sorli, and Erp, and Hamdir, and there was Swanhild, Sigurd’s daughter, nourished: and she was given to Jormunrek the Mighty. Now Bikki was a man of his, and gave such counsel to Randver, the king’s son, as that he should take her; and with that counsel were the young folk well content.
Then Bikki told the king, and the king let hang Randver, but bade Swanhild be trodden under horses’ feet. But when Gudrun heard thereof, she spake to her sons—
Words of strife heard I,Huger than any,Woeful words spoken,Sprung from all sorrow,When Gudrun fierce-heartedWith the grimmest of wordsWhetted her sonsUnto the slaying.
“Why are ye sitting here?Why sleep ye life away?Why doth it grieve you nought?Glad words to speak,Now when your sister—Young of years was she—Has Jormunrek troddenWith the treading of horses?—
“Black horses and whiteIn the highway of warriors;Grey horses that knowThe roads of the Goths.—
“Little like are ye grownTo that Gunnar of old days!Nought are your heartsAs the heart of Hogni!Well would ye seekVengeance to winIf your mood were in aughtAs the mood of my brethren,Or the hardy heartsOf the Kings of the Huns!”
Then spake Hamdir,The high-hearted—“Little didst thouPraise Hogni’s doings,When Sigurd wokeFrom out of sleep, And the blue-white bed-gearUpon thy bedGrew red with man’s blood—With the blood of thy mate!
“Too baleful vengeanceWroughtest thou for thy brethrenMost sore and evilWhen thy sons thou slewedst,Else all we togetherOn JormunrekHad wrought sore vengeanceFor that our sister.
“Come, bring forth quicklyThe Hun kings’ bright gear,Since thou hast urged usUnto the sword-Thing!”
Laughing went GudrunTo the bower of good gear,Kings’ crested helmsFrom chests she drew,And wide-wrought byrniesBore to her sons:Then on their horsesLoad laid the heroes.
Then spake Hamdir,The high-hearted—“Never cometh again
His mother to seeThe spear-god laid lowIn the land of the Goths.That one arvel mayst thouFor all of us drink,For sister Swanhild,And us thy sons.”
Greeted Gudrun,Giuki’s daughter;Sorrowing she wentIn the forecourt to sit,That she might tell,With cheeks tear-furrowed,Her weary wailIn many a wise.
“Three fires I knew,Three hearths I knew,To three husbands’ housesHave I been carried;And better than allHad been Sigurd alone,He whom my brethrenBrought to his bane.
“Such sore grief as thatMethought never should be,Yet more indeedWas left for my tormentThen, when the great onesGave me to Atli.
“My fair bright boysI bade unto speech,Nor yet might I winWeregild for my bale,Ere I had hewn offThose Niblungs’ heads.
“To the sea-strand I wentWith the Norns sorely wroth,For I would thrust from meThe storm of their torment;But the high billowsWould not drown, but bore meForth, till I stepped a-landLonger to live.
“Then I went a-bed——Ah, better in the old days,This was the third time!—To a king of the people;Offspring I brought forth,Props of a fair house,Props of a fair house,Jonakr’s fair sons.
“But around SwanhildBond-maidens sat,Her, that of all mineMost to my heart was;Such was my Swanhild,In my hall’s midmost,As is the sunbeamFair to behold.
“In gold I arrayed her,And goodly raiment,Or ever I gave herTo the folk of the Goths.That was the hardestOf my heavy woes,When the bright hair,—O the bright hair of Swanhild!—In the mire was troddenBy the treading of horses.
“This was the sorest,When my love, my Sigurd,Reft of gloryIn his bed gat ending:But this the grimmestWhen glittering wormsTore their wayThrough the heart of Gunnar.
“But this the keenestWhen they cut to the quickOf the hardy heartOf the unfeared Hogni.Of much of bale I mind me,Of many griefs I mind me;Why should I sit abidingYet more bale and more?
“Thy coal-black horse,O Sigurd, bridle,The swift on the highway!O let him speed hither! Here sitteth no longerSon or daughter,More good giftsTo give to Gudrun!
“Mindst thou not, Sigurd,Of the speech betwixt us,When on one bedWe both sat together,O my great king—That thou wouldst come to meE’en from the hall of Hell,I to thee from the fair earth?
“Pile high, O earls,The oaken pile,Let it be the highestThat ever queen had!Let the fire burn swift,My breast with woe laden,And thaw all my heart,Hard, heavy with sorrow!”
Now may all earlsBe bettered in mind,May the grief of all maidensEver be minished,For this tale of sorrowSo told to its ending.