Now Sigurd backeth Greyfell on the first of the morrow morn, And he rideth fair and softly through the acres of the corn; The Wrath to his side is girded, but hid are the edges blue, As he wendeth his ways to the mountains, and rideth the horse-mead through. His wide grey eyes are happy, and his voice is sweet and soft, As amid the mead-lark's singing he casteth song aloft: Lo, lo, the horse and the rider! So once maybe it was, When over the Earth unpeopled the youngest God would pass; But never again meseemeth shall such a sight betide, Till over a world unwrongful new-born shall Baldur ride. So he comes to that ness of the mountains, and Gripir's garden steep, That bravely Greyfell breasteth, and adown by the door doth he leap And his war-gear rattleth upon him; there is none to ask or forbid As he wendeth the house clear-lighted, where no mote of the dust is hid, Though the sunlight hath not entered: the walls are clear and bright, For they cast back each to other the golden Sigurd's light; Through the echoing ways of the house bright-eyed he wendeth along, And the mountain-wind is with him, and the hovering eagles' song; But no sound of the children of men may the ears of the Volsung hear, And no sign of their ways in the world, or their will, or their hope or their fear. So he comes to the hall of Gripir, and gleaming-green is it built As the house of under-ocean where the wealth of the greedy is spilt; Gleaming and green as the sea, and rich as its rock-strewn floor, And fresh as the autumn morning when the burning of summer is o'er. There he looks and beholdeth the high-seat, and he sees it strangely wrought, Of the tooth of the sea-beast fashioned ere the Dwarf-kind came to nought; And he looks, and thereon is Gripir, the King exceeding old, With the sword of his fathers girded, and his raiment wrought of gold; With the ivory rod in his right-hand, with his left on the crystal laid, That is round as the world of men-folk, and after its image made, And clear is it wrought to the eyen that may read therein of Fate Though little indeed be its sea, and its earth not wondrous great. There Sigurd stands in the hall, on the sheathed Wrath doth he lean, All his golden light is mirrored in the gleaming floor and green; But the smile in his face upriseth as he looks on the ancient King, And their glad eyes meet and their laughter, and sweet is the welcoming: And Gripir saith: "Hail Sigurd! for my bidding hast thou done, And here in the mountain-dwelling are two Kings of men alone." But Sigurd spake: "Hail father! I am girt with the fateful sword And my face is set to the highway, and I come for thy latest word." Said Gripir: "What wouldst thou hearken ere we sit and drink the wine?" "Thy word and the Norns'," said Sigurd, "but never a word of mine." "What sights wouldst thou see," said Gripir, "ere mine hand shall take thine hand?"