Then cold grew the battle before him, dead-chilled with the fear and the
       wonder: 
  For again in his ancient eyes the light of victory gleamed;
  From his mouth grown tuneful and sweet the song of his kindred streamed;
  And no more was he worn and weary, and no more his life seemed spent: 
  And with all the hope of his childhood was his wrath of battle blent;
  And he thought:  A little further, and the river of strife is passed,
  And I shall sit triumphant the king of the world at last.

  But lo, through the hedge of the war-shafts a mighty man there came,
  One-eyed and seeming ancient, but his visage shone like flame: 
  Gleaming-grey was his kirtle, and his hood was cloudy blue;
  And he bore a mighty twi-bill, as he waded the fight-sheaves through,
  And stood face to face with Sigmund, and upheaved the bill to smite. 
  Once more round the head of the Volsung fierce glittered the Branstock’s
       light,
  The sword that came from Odin; and Sigmund’s cry once more
  Rang out to the very heavens above the din of war. 
  Then clashed the meeting edges with Sigmund’s latest stroke,
  And in shivering shards fell earthward that fear of worldly folk. 
  But changed were the eyes of Sigmund, and the war-wrath left his face;
  For that grey-clad mighty helper was gone, and in his place
  Drave on the unbroken spear-wood ’gainst the Volsung’s empty hands: 
  And there they smote down Sigmund, the wonder of all lands,
  On the foemen, on the death-heap his deeds had piled that day.

  Ill hour for Sigmund’s fellows! they fall like the seeded hay
  Before the brown scythes’ sweeping, and there the Isle-king fell
  In the fore-front of his battle, wherein he wrought right well,
  And soon they were nought but foemen who stand upon their feet
  On the isle-strand by the ocean where the grass and the sea-sand meet.

  And now hath the conquering War-king another deed to do,
  And he saith:  “Who now gainsayeth King Lyngi come to woo,
  The lord and the overcomer and the bane of the Volsung kin?”
  So he fares to the Isle-king’s dwelling a wife of the kings to win;
  And the host is gathered together, and they leave the field of the dead;
  And round as a targe of the Goth-folk the moon ariseth red.

  And so when the last is departed, and she deems they will come not aback,
  Fares Hiordis forth from the thicket to the field of the fateful wrack,
  And half-dead was her heart for sorrow as she waded the swathes of the
       sword. 
  Not far did she search the death-field ere she found her king and lord
  On the heap that his glaive had fashioned:  not yet was his spirit past,
  Though his hurts were many and grievous, and his life-blood ebbing fast;
  And glad were his eyes and open as her wan face over him hung,
  And he spake: 
               “Thou art sick with sorrow, and I would thou wert not so young;
  Yet as my days passed shall thine pass; and a short while now it seems
  Since my hand first gripped the sword-hilt, and my glory was but in dreams.”