And grumble of the gear within ;
While o'er the roof that dull'd that din
The doves sat crooning half the day,
And round the half-cut stack of hay
The sparrows flutter'd twittering.

There smiling stay'd the joyous king,
And since the autumn noon was hot
Thought good anigh that pleasant spot
To dine that day, and therewith sent
To tell the miller his intent:
Who held the stirrup of the king,
Bareheaded, joyful at the thing,
While from his horse he lit adown,
Then led him o'er an elm-beam brown,
New cut in February tide,

That cross'd the stream from side to side;
So underneath the apple trees
The king sat careless, well at ease,
And ate and drank right merrily.

To whom the miller drew anigh
Among the courtiers, bringing there
Such as he could of country fare,
Green yellowing plums from off his wall,
Wasp-bitten pears, the first to fall
From off the wavering spire-like tree,
Junkets, and cream and fresh honey.

ACROSS the sea a land there is,
Where, if fate will, men may have bliss,
For it is fair as any land:
There hath the reaper a full hand,
While in the orchard hangs aloft
The purple fig, a-growing soft;
And fair the trellis'd vine-bunches
Are swung across the high elm-trees;
And in the rivers great fish play,
While over them pass day by day
The laden barges to their place.
There maids are straight, and fair of face,
And men are stout for husbandry,
And all is well as it can be
Upon this earth where all has end.

For on them God is pleas'd to send
The gift of Death down from above,
That envy, hatred, and hot love.
Knowledge with hunger by his side,
And avarice and deadly pride,

There may have end like everything
Both to the shepherd and the king:
Lest this green earth become but hell
If folk thereon should ever dwell.

Full little most men think of this,
But half in woe and half in bliss
They pass their lives, and die at last
Unwilling, though their lot be cast
In wretched places of the earth,
Where men have little joy from birth
Until they die ;-in no such case
Were those who till'd this pleasant place.
There soothly men were loth to die,
Though sometimes in his misery

A man would say "Would I were dead!" Alas! full little likelyhead

That he should live forever there.

So folk within that country fair
Liv'd on unable to forget

The long'd-for things they could not get,
And without need tormenting still
Each other with some bitter ill;
Yea, and themselves too, growing gray
With dread of some long-lingering day,
That never came ere they were dead
With green sods growing on the head;
Nowise content with what they had,
But falling still from good to bad
While hard they sought the hopeless best;
And seldom happy or at rest
Until at last with lessening blood
One foot within the grave they stood.

ANTIPHONY

Hæc

IN the white-flower'd hawthorn brake, Love, be merry for my sake; Twine the blossoms in my hair, Kiss me where I am most fairKiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?

Ille

Nay, the garlanded gold hair Hides thee where thou art most fair; Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow — Ah, sweet love, I have thee now ! Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?

Нас

Shall we weep for a dead day, Or set Sorrow in our way?

Hidden by my golden hair,

Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

Ille

Weep, O Love, the days that flit, Now, while I can feel thy breath; Then may I remember it

Sad and old, and near my death. Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?

FROM "SIGURD THE VOLSUNG"

OF THE PASSING AWAY OF BRYNHILD

THEY look'd on each other and spake not; but Gunnar gat him gone,

And came to his brother Hogni, the wiseheart Giuki's son,

:

And spake "Thou art wise, O Hogni ; go in to Brynhild the queen,

And stay her swift departing; or the last of her days hath she seen."

"It is nought, thy word," said Hogni; "wilt thou bring dead men aback, Or the souls of kings departed midst the battle and the wrack?

Yet this shall be easier to thee than the turning Brynhild's heart;

She came to dwell among us, but in us she had no part;

Let her go her ways from the Niblungs with her hand in Sigurd's

hand.

So they spake, and their hearts were heavy, and they long'd for the morrow

morn,

And the morrow of to-morrow, and the new day yet to be born.

But Brynhild cried to her maidens: "Now open ark and chest,

And draw forth queenly raiment of the loveliest and the best,

Red things that the Dwarf-lords fashion'd, fair cloths that queens have sew'd To array the bride for the mighty, and the traveller for the road."

They wept as they wrought her bidding

and did on her goodliest gear; But she laugh'd mid the dainty linen, and the gold-rings fashion'd fair : She arose from the bed of the Niblungs, and her face no more was wan; As a star in the dawn-tide heavens, mid the dusky house she shone;

And they that stood about her, their hearts were rais'd aloft

Amid their fear and wonder: then she spake them kind and soft:

"Now give me the sword, O maidens, wherewith I shear'd the wind When the Kings of Earth were gather'd to know the Chooser's mind.'

All sheath'd the maidens brought it, and fear'd the hidden blade,

But the naked blue-white edges across her knees she laid,

And spake: "The heap'd-up riches, the gear my fathers left,

All dear-bought woven wonders, all rings from battle reft,

All goods of men desired, now strew them on the floor,

And so share among you, maidens, the

gifts of Brynhild's store."

They brought them mid their weeping, but none put forth a hand

To take that wealth desired, the spoils of many a land :

There they stand and weep before her, and some are mov'd to speech,

And they cast their arms about her and strive with her, and beseech

Then upright by the bed of the Niblungs for a moment doth she stand,

And the blade flasheth bright in the chamber, but no more they hinder her hand

Than if a God were smiting to rend the world in two:

Then dull'd are the glittering edges, and the bitter point cleaves through The breast of the all-wise Brynhild, and her feet from the pavement fail, And the sigh of her heart is hearken'd mid the hush of the maidens' wail. Chill, deep is the fear upon them, but they bring her aback to the bed, And her hand is yet on the hilt, and sidelong droopeth her head.

Ye have hung the shields about it, and the Southland hangings spread,

There lay me adown by Sigurd and my head beside his head :

But ere you leave us sleeping, draw his Wrath from out the sheath,

For here have been heavy tidings, and the Mightiest under shield

Is laid on the bale high-builded in the Niblungs' hallow'd field.

Fare forth for he abideth, and we do Allfather wrong,

the blade that frighted death Betwixt my side and Sigurd's, as it lay that while agone,

When once in one bed together we twain were laid alone :

How then when the flames flare upward

may I be left behind?

How then may the road he wendeth be hard for my feet to find?

How then in the gates of Valhall may the door of the gleaming ring Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on my king?"

Then she rais'd herself on her elbow, but again her eyelids sank,

And the wound by the sword-edge whisper'd, as her heart from the iron shrank, And she moan'd: "O lives of man-folk, for unrest all overlong

By the Father were ye fashion'd; and what hope amendeth wrong?

Now at last, O my beloved, all is gone; none else is near,

Through the ages of all ages, never sunder'd, shall we wear.

Scarce more than a sigh was the word, as back on the bed she fell,

Nor was there need in the chamber of the passing of Brynhild to tell ; And no more their lamentation might the maidens hold aback,

But the sound of their bitter mourning was as if red-handed wrack

Ran wild in the Burg of the Niblungs, and the fire were master of all.

Then the voice of Gunnar the war-king cried out o'er the weeping hall : "Wail on, O women forsaken, for the mightiest woman born!

Now the hearth is cold and joyless, and the waste bed lieth forlorn,

Wail on, but amid your weeping lay hand to the glorious dead,

That not alone for an hour may lie Queen Brynhild's head :

Then they took the body of Brynhild in the raiment that she wore,

And out through the gate of the Niblungs the holy corpse they bore. And thence forth to the mead of the people, and the high-built shielded bale; Then afresh in the open meadows breaks forth the women's wail

When they see the bed of Sigurd, and the glittering of his gear ;

And fresh is the wail of the people as Brynhild draweth anear,

And the tidings go before her that for twain the bale is built,

That for twain is the oak-wood shielded and the pleasant odors spilt.

There is peace on the bale of Sigurd, and the Gods look down from on high, And they see the lids of the Volsung close shut against the sky,

As he lies with his shield beside him in the Hauberk all of gold,

That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told;

And forth from the Helm of Aweing are the sunbeams flashing wide,

And the sheathed Wrath of Sigurd lies still by his mighty side.

Then cometh an elder of days, a man of the ancient times,

Who is long past sorrow and joy, and the steep of the bale he climbs ; And he kneeleth down by Sigurd, and bareth the Wrath to the sun That the beams are gather'd about it, and from hilt to blood-point run,

And wide o'er the plain of the Niblungs doth the Light of the Branstock glare,

Till the wondering mountain-shepherds on that star of noontide stare,

And fear for many an evil; but the ancient man stands still

With the war-flame on his shoulder, nor thinks of good or of ill,

The shadows of the fruitéd close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore

Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play :
And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market's o'er!

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,

Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built? Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,
Now we return no more?

New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise ;
For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill,
Unlike what once they bore,

And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.

Remember how, beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,

And sow'd this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o'er ;

Heave sword about the Running Ox !
For we return no more.

A DEATH SONG

WHAT Cometh here from west to east a-wending?

And who are these, the marchers stern and

slow ?

We bear the message that the rich are

sending

Aback to those who bade them wake and know.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.