Frumtexti: „Guðrúnarhvöt“

Þá frá ek sennu
slíðrfengligsta,
trauð mál, talið
af trega stórum,
er harðhuguð
hvatti at vígi
grimmum orðum
Guðrún sonu:

"Hví sitið ér,
hví sofið lífi,
hví tregr-at ykkr
teiti at mæla,
er Jörmunrekkr
yðra systur,
unga at aldri,
jóm of traddi,
hvítum ok svörtum,
á hervegi,
grám, gangtömum
Gotna hrossum?

Urðu-a it glíkir
þeim Gunnari
né in heldr hugðir
sem var Högni;
hennar munduð it
hefna leita,
ef móð ættið
minna bræðra
eða harðan hug
Húnkonunga."

Þá kvað þat Hamðir
inn hugumstóri:
"Lítt myndir þú
leyfa dáð Högna,
þá er Sigurð vökðu
svefni ór;
bækr váru þínar
enar bláhvítu
roðnar í vers dreyra,
folgnar í valblóði.

Urðu þér beggja
bræðra hefndir
slíðrar ok sárar,
er þú sonu myrðir;
knættim allir
Jörmunrekki
samhyggjendr
systur hefna.

Berið hnossir fram
Húnkonunga;
hefir þú okkr hvatta
at hjörþingi."

Hlæjandi Guðrún
hvarf til skemmu,
kumbl konunga
ór kerum valði,
síðar brynjur,
ok sonum færði,
hlóðusk móðgir
á mara bógu.

Þá kvað þat Hamðir
inn hugumstóri:
"Svá kemsk meir aftr
móður at vitja
geir-Njörðr hniginn
á Goðþjóðu,
at þú erfi
at öll oss drykkir,
at Svanhildi
ok sonu þína."

Guðrún grátandi,
Gjúka dóttir,
gekk hon tregliga
á tái sitja
ok at telja
tárughlýra
móðug spjöll
á margan veg:

"Þrjá vissa ek elda,
þrjá vissa ek arna,
var ek þrimr verum
vegin at húsi;
einn var mér Sigurðr
öllum betri,
er bræðr mínir
at bana urðu.

Svárra sára
sák-at ek né kunna,
-- -- --
meir þóttusk
mér of stríða,
er mik öðlingar
Atla gáfu.

Húna hvassa
hét ek mér at rúnum;
máttig-a-k bölva
betr of vinna,
áðr ek hnóf höfuð
af Hniflungum.

Gekk ek til strandar,
gröm vark nornum,
vilda ek hrinda
stríð grið þeira;
hófu mik, né drekkðu,
hávar bárur,
því ek land of sték,
at lifa skyldak.

Gekk ek á beð,
hugðak mér fyr betra,
þriðja sinni
þjóðkonungi;
ól ek mér jóð,
erfivörðu,
erfivörðu,
Jónakrs sonum.

En um Svanhildi
sátu þýjar,
er ek minna barna
bazt fullhugðak;
svá var Svanhildr
í sal mínum
sem væri sæmleitr
sólar geisli.

Gædda ek gulli
ok guðvefjum,
áðr ek gæfak
Goðþjóðar til;
þat er mér harðast
harma minna
of þann inn hvíta
hadd Svanhildar,
auri tröddu
und jóa fótum.

En sá sárastr,
er þeir Sigurð minn,
sigri ræntan,
í sæing vágu,
en sá grimmastr,
er þeir Gunnari
fránir ormar
til fjörs skriðu,
en sá hvassastr,
er til hjarta
konung óblauðan
kvikvan skáru.

Fjölð man ek bölva,
-- -- --
Beittu, Siguðr,
inn blakka mar,
hest inn hraðfæra
láttu hinig renna;
sitr eigi hér
snör né dóttir,
sú er Guðrúnu
gæfi hnossir.

Minnsktu, Sigurðr,
hvat vit mæltum,
þá er vit á beð
bæði sátum,
at þú myndir mín,
móðugr, vitja,
halr, ór helju,
en ek þín ór heimi.

Hlaðið ér, jarlar,
eikiköstinn,
látið þann und hilmi
hæstan verða;
megi brenna brjóst
bölvafullt eldr,
þrungit um hjarta
þiðni sorgir."

Jörlum öllum
óðal batni,
snótum öllum
sorg at minni,
at þetta tregróf
of talit væri.

A word-strife I learned, most woeful of all,
A speech from the fullness of sorrow spoken,
When fierce of heart her sons to the fight
Did Guthrun whet with words full grim.

"Why sit ye idle, why sleep out your lives,
Why grieve ye not in gladness to speak?
Since Jormunrek your sister young
Beneath the hoofs of horses hath trodden,
(White and black on the battle-way,
Gray, road-wonted, the steeds of the Goths.)

"Not like are ye to Gunnar of yore,
Nor have ye hearts such as Hogni's was;
Vengeance for her ye soon would have
If brave ye were as my brothers of old,
Or hard your hearts as the Hunnish kings'."

Then Hamther spake, the high of heart:
"Little the deed of Hogni didst love, When Sigurth they wakened from his sleep;
Thy bed-covers white were red with blood
Of thy husband, drenched with gore from his heart.

"Bloody revenge didst have for thy brothers,
Evil and sore, when thy sons didst slay;
Else yet might we all on Jormunrek
Together our sister's slaying avenge.

"........ ........
The gear of the Hunnish kings now give us!
Thou hast whetted us so to the battle of swords."

Laughing did Guthrun go to her chamber,
The helms of the kings from the cupboards she took,
And mail-coats broad, to her sons she bore them;
On their horses' backs the heroes leaped.

Then Hamther spake, the high of heart: "Homeward no more his mother to see
Comes the spear-god, fallen mid Gothic folk;
One death-draught thou for us all shalt drink,
For Svanhild then and thy sons as well."

Weeping Guthrun, Gjuki's daughter,
Went sadly before the gate to sit,
And with tear-stained cheeks to tell the tale
Of her mighty griefs, so many in kind.

"Three home-fires knew I, three hearths I knew,
Home was I brought by husbands three;
But Sigurth only of all was dear,
He whom my brothers brought to his death.

"A greater sorrow I saw not nor knew,
Yet more it seemed I must suffer yet
When the princes great to Atli gave me.

"The brave boys I summoned to secret speech;
For my woes requital I might not win
Till off the heads of the Hniflungs I hewed.

"To the sea I went, my heart full sore
For the Norns, whose wrath I would now escape;
But the lofty billows bore me undrowned,
Till to land I came, so I longer must live.

"Then to the bed— of old was it better!—
Of a king of the folk a third time I came;
Boys I bore his heirs to be,
Heirs so young, the sons of Jonak.

"But round Svanhild handmaidens sat,
She was dearest ever of all my children;
So did Svanhild seem in my hall
As the ray of the sun is fair to see.

"Gold I gave her and garments bright,
Ere I let her go to the Gothic folk;
Of my heavy woes the hardest it was
When Svanhild's tresses fair were trodden
In the mire by hoofs of horses wild.

"The sorest it was when Sigurth mine On his couch, of victory robbed, they killed;
And grimmest of all when to Gunnar's heart
There crept the bright-hued crawling snakes.

"And keenest of all when they cut the heart
From the living breast of the king so brave;
Many woes I remember, ........
...............

"Bridle, Sigurth, thy steed so black,
Hither let run thy swift-faring horse;
Here there sits not son or daughter
Who yet to Guthrun gifts shall give.

"Remember, Sigurth, what once we said,
When together both on the bed we sat,
That mightily thou to me wouldst come
From hell and I from earth to thee.

"Pile ye up, jarls, the pyre of oak,
Make it the highest a hero e'er had;
Let the fire burn my grief-filled breast,
My sore-pressed heart, till my sorrows melt."

May nobles all less sorrow know,
And less the woes of women become,
Since the tale of this lament is told.