Of Sigurd’s riding to the Niblungs.

    What aileth the men of Lymdale, that their house is all astir? 
    Shall the hunt be up in the forest, or hath the shield-hung fir
    Brought war from the outer ocean to their fish-beloved stream? 
    Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleam
    Adown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars grey
    Have the neat-herds seen the banners of the drivers of the prey?

    No, the forest shall be empty of the Lymdale men this morn,
    And the wells of the Lymdale river have heard no battle-horn,
    Nor the sheep in the flowery hollows seen any painted shield,
    And nought from the fear of warriors bide the neat-herds from the
      field;
    Yet full is the hall of Heimir with eager earls of war,
    And the long-locked happy shepherds are gathered round the door,
    And the smith has left his stithy, and the wife has left her rock,
    And the bright thrums hang unwinded by the maiden’s weaving-stock: 
    And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy;
    And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy.

    But lo, as they gather and hearken by the door of Heimir’s hall,
    The wave of a mighty music on the souls of men doth fall,
    And they bow their heads and hush them, because for a dear guest’s sake
    Is Heimir’s hand in the harp-strings and the ancient song is awake,
    And the words of the Gods’ own fellow, and the hope of days gone by;
    Then deep is that song-speech laden with the deeds that draw anigh,
    And many a hope accomplished, and many an unhoped change,
    And things of all once spoken, now grown exceeding strange;
    Then keen as the battle-piercer the stringed speech arose,
    And the hearts of men went with it, as of them that meet the foes;
    Then soared the song triumphant as o’er the world well won,
    Till sweet and soft it ended as a rose falls ’neath the sun;
    But thereafter was there silence till the earls cast up the shout,
    And the whole house clashed and glittered as the tramp of men bore out,
    And folk fell back before them; then forth the earl-folk pour,
    And forth comes Heimir the Ancient and stands by his fathers’ door: 
    And then is the feast-hall empty and none therein abides: 
    For forth on the cloudy Greyfell the Son of Sigmund rides,
    And the Helm of Awe he beareth, and the Mail-coat all of gold,
    That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told,
    And the Wrath to his side is girded, though the peace-strings wind it
      round,
    Yet oft and again it singeth, and strange is its sheathed sound: 
    But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous Sword
    Are the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari’s Hoard,
    And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o’er again
    He neighs out hope of battle, for the heart of the beast is fain.