Nor knit were the brows of Gunnar, nor his songspeech overworn;

But Hogni's mouth kept silence, and oft his heart went forth

To the long, long day of the darkness, and the end of worldly worth.

Loud rose the roar of the East-folk, and the end was coming at last:

Now the foremost locked their shield-rims and the hindmost over them cast,

And nigher they drew and nigher, and their fear was fading away,

For every man of the Niblungs on the shaft-strewn pavement lay,

Save Gunnar the King and Hogni: still the glorious King up-bore

The cloudy shield of the Niblungs set full of shafts

of war;

But Hogni's hands had fainted, and his shield had sunk adown,

So thick with the Eastland spearwood was that rampart of renown;

And hacked and dull were the edges that had rent the wall of foes:

Yet he stood upright by Gunnar before that shielded

close,

Nor looked on the foeman's faces as their wild eyes

drew anear,

And their faltering shield-rims clattered with the remnant of their fear;

But he gazed on the Niblung woman, and the daughter of his folk,

Who sat o'er all unchanging ere the war-cloud over them broke.

Now nothing might men hearken in the house of Atli's weal,

Save the feet slow tramping onward, and the rattling of the steel,

And the song of the glorious Gunnar, that rang as clearly now

As the speckled storm-cock singeth from the scantleaved hawthorn-bough,

When the sun is dusking over and the March snow pelts the land.

There stood the mighty Gunnar with sword and shield in hand,

There stood the shieldless Hogni with set unangry

eyes,

And watched the wall of war-shields o'er the dead men's rampart rise,

And the white blades flickering nigher, and the quavering points of war.

Then the heavy air of the feast-hall was rent with a fearful roar,

And the turmoil came and the tangle, as the wall together ran:

But aloft yet towered the Niblungs, and man toppled

over man,

And leapt and struggled to tear them; as whiles amidst the sea

The doomed ship strives its utmost with mid-ocean's

mastery,

And the tall masts whip the cordage, while the welter whirls and leaps,

And they rise and reel and waver, and sink amid the deeps:

So before the little-hearted in King Atli's murder-hall Did the glorious sons of Giuki 'neath the shielded onrush fall:

Sore wounded, bound and helpless, but living yet, they lie

Till the afternoon and the even in the first of night shall die.

CXIV

William Morris.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING

Is life worth living? Yes, so long
As Spring revives the year,
And hails us with the cuckoo's song,
To show that she is here;

So long as May of April takes,

In smiles and tears, farewell,

And windflowers dapple all the brakes,

And primroses the dell;

While children in the woodlands yet
Adorn their little laps
With ladysmock and violet,

And daisy-chain their caps;
While over orchard daffodils
Cloud-shadows float and fleet,

And ousel pipes and laverock trills,
And young lambs buck and bleat;
So long as that which bursts the bud
And swells and tunes the rill

Makes springtime in the maiden's blood,
Life is worth living still.

Life not worth living! Come with me,
Now that, through vanishing veil,
Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea,
And milk foams in the pail;
Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes
With sweat the striplings lithe,

As fall the long straight scented swathes
Over the crescent scythe;

Now that the throstle never stops

His self-sufficing strain,

And woodbine-trails festoon the copse,

And eglantine the lane;
Now rustic labour seems as sweet
As leisure, and blithe herds
Wend homeward with unweary feet,
Carolling like the birds;

Now all, except the lover's vow,

And nightingale, is still;
Here, in the twilight hour, allow,

Life is worth living still.

When Summer, lingering half-forlorn,

On Autumn loves to lean,

And fields of slowly yellowing corn

Are girt by woods still green;

When hazel-nuts wax brown and plump,
And apples rosy-red,

And the owlet hoots from hollow stump,
And the dormouse makes its bed;
When crammed are all the granary floors,
And the Hunter's moon is bright,
And life again is sweet indoors,
And logs again alight;

Ay, even when the houseless wind
Waileth through cleft and chink,
And in the twilight maids grow kind,
And jugs are filled and clink;
When children clasp their hands and pray

'Be done Thy Heavenly will!' Who doth not lift his voice, and say, 'Life is worth living still '?

Is life worth living? Yes, so long
As there is wrong to right,

Wail of the weak against the strong,

Or tyranny to fight;

Long as there lingers gloom to chase,
Or streaming tear to dry,

One kindred woe, one sorrowing face
That smiles as we draw nigh;

Long as at tale of anguish swells
The heart, and lids grow wet,
And at the sound of Christmas bells
We pardon and forget;

So long as Faith with Freedom reigns,
And loyal Hope survives,