Three high-born Kings and wealthy guarded and held her dear;
Gunther and Gernot, heroes in prowess without a peer,
And Giselher the youngest, unmatched in foughten field:
Their sister was she and their glory, and her sword were they and her shield.
Lords were they of noble lineage, and of courtesy the crown,
And their aweless might was matchless, and limitless their renown;
And over the Land Burgundian they stretched the sceptred hand,
Ere the strange, grim end of their story was told in Etzel’s land.
In the City of Worms by the Rhine-flood these Kings in their might abode,
And the best in the whole land served them, the proudest knights that rode,
With glory of homage served them through their life’s triumphant tide—
Till the day when in woeful battle through the Feud of the Queens they died.
And the mother that bare them was Uta, and the treasures of queens were hers,
And their father the old king Dankart, and he made them heritors
Of his realm in the hour of his dying, a champion mighty of old,
Who in days of his youth reaped harvest of glory manifold.
As the tale of their goodlihead telleth, such kings were they, these three,
Strong, fearless lords; and the vassals that bent before them the knee
Were the best of all of whose doings their songs have the minstrels made,
Stalwart and aweless of spirit, in battle unafraid.
For these were Hagen of Troneg, and Dankwart his brother withal
The battle-eager, and Ortwein the warder of Metz’s wall;
And with these stood Gere and Eckwart, lords of the marches twain,
And Volker the Knight Alsatian, the name without a stain;
And Rumold the feast-arrayer, a worship-worthy lord;
Sindold and Hunold, which ever kept heedful watch and ward
For the state of the palace royal, that all should be ordered well;
And with these were there knightly vassals whose tale no bard may tell.
Dankwart was their palace-marshal, and beside the feastful board
Waited his nephew Ortwein, of Metz was he overlord;
And Sindold bare them the wine-cup, a goodly baron he;
And Hunold was chamberlain, perfect in utterest courtesy.
But of all their palace-splendour, and their might renowned afar,
And the majesty of their worship, and their knightly deeds of war,
And the joy that the kingly heroes therein had all their days—
No minstrel hath wholly told it, no harp sung all their praise.
Now it fell, in the midst of their glory, that a dream unto Kriemhild appeared:
A strong, fair, tameless falcon in a bower of dreams she reared.
But before her eyes two eagles swooped upon him and slew—
Never a bitterer sorrow the heart of the maiden knew!
So she told to her mother the vision; but from Lady Uta’s eyes
Was it hid, that she could not interpret the dream save in halting wise:
“The falcon reared in thy dream-bower, a princely husband is this—
Now God from evil defend him, else swift dark doom shall be his!”
“What is this that thou talkest of husbands, heart’s dearest, mother, to me?
In the net of love untangled will I for ever be.
Unto my death in the beauty of maidenhood I will abide,
That I taste not the manifold sorrows that from love of man betide.”
But she answered: “Not wholly renounce it, for thy vow hath been spoken amiss:
For if ever on earth thou knowest a heart full-brimmed with bliss,
Of the love of a man shall this come; and a fair and happy bride
Shalt thou be, if a noble baron by God’s grace stand by thy side.”
“Let be, let be vain talking, heart’s dearest, mother mine.
In many a wife’s repentance have I read the warning sign,
How love hath sorrow for guerdon when the end of its journey is won:—
I will none of love nor of sorrow, I abide in my bliss alone.”
So Kriemhild in pride of her spirit was a rebel to Lord Love’s sway;
And her heart-peace flowed as a river through many a sunlit day;
And she looked upon earls and champions, but none might the heart of her move:
Yet her hour drew near, and the breaking of the glory-dawn of love.
For in flight even now was the Falcon, the fulfilment drew nigh and nigher
Of the dream half read of her mother—but woe for the vengeance-hire
That she paid to the eagles that slew him, her own blood-brethren they!
Woe for the sons of women untold whom his death should slay!
II.
Of the Fostering and the Knighting of Siegfried
Now grew unto man in the Low Land the child of a line world-famed.
For Siegmund the King begat him, his mother was Siegelind named,
In a tower-engirdled stronghold renowned through the earth afar,
Where the Rhine and the sea meet: Xanten men named that burg of war.
Now
