"In the fair garth methought Had saplings fallen E'en such as I would Should have waxen ever; Uprooted were these, And reddened with blood, And borne to the bench, And folk bade me eat of them. "Methought from my hand then Went hawks a-flying Lacking their meat To the land of all ill; Methought that their hearts Mingled with honey, Swollen with blood I ate amid sorrow. "Lo, next two whelps From my hands I loosened, Joyless were both, And both a-howling; And now their flesh Became naught but corpses, Whereof must I eat But sore against my will." "O'er the prey of the fishers Will folk give doom; From the bright white fish The heads will they take; Within a few nights, Fey as they are, A little ere day Of that draught will they eat." "Ne'er since lay I down, Ne'er since would I sleep, Hard of heart, in my bed:-- That deed have I to do. (4) ENDNOTES: (1) The original has "a vid lesa". "Leasing" is the word still used for gleaning in many country sides in England. (2) Son was the vessel into which was poured the blood of Quasir, the God of Poetry. (3) This means soot. (4) The whole of this latter part is fragmentary and obscure; there seems wanting to two of the dreams some trivial interpretation by Gudrun, like those given by Hogni to Kostbera in the Saga, of which nature, of course, the interpretation contained in the last stanza but one is, as we have rendered it: another rendering, from the different reading of the earlier edition of "Edda" (Copenhagen, 1818) would make this refer much more directly to the slaying of her sons by Gudrun. THE SONG OF ATLI. Gudrun, Giuki's daughter, avenger her brethren, as is told far and wide; first she slew the sons of Atli, and then Atli himself; and she burned the hall thereafter, and all the household with it: and about these matters is this song made:-- In days long gone Sent Atli to Gunnar A crafty one riding, Knefrud men called him; To Giuki's garth came he, To the hall of Gunnar, To the benches gay-dight, And the gladsome drinking. There drank the great folk 'Mid the guileful one's silence, Drank wine in their fair hall: The Huns' wrath they feared When Knefrud cried In his cold voice, As he sat on the high seat, That man of the Southland: "Atli has sent me Riding swift on his errands On the bit-griping steed Through dark woodways unbeaten, To bid thee, King Gunnar, Come to his fair bench With helm well-adorned, To the house of King Atli.