Of Sigurd’s warfaring in the company of the Niblungs, and of his
    great fame and glory.

    Now gone is the summer season and the harvest of the year,
    And amid the winter weather the deeds of the Niblungs wear;
    But nought is their joyance worsened, or their mirth-tide waxen less,
    Though the swooping mountain tempest howl round their ridgy ness,
    Though a house of the windy battle their streeted burg be grown,
    Though the heaped-up, huddled cloud-drift be their very hall-roofs
      crown,
    Though the rivers bear the burden, and the Rime-Gods grip and strive,
    And the snow in the mirky midnoon across the lealand drive.

    But lo, in the stark midwinter how the war is smitten awake,
    And the blue-clad Niblung warriors the spears from the wall-nook take,
    And gird the dusky hauberk, and the ruddy fur-coat don,
    And draw the yellowing ermine o’er the steel from Welshland won. 
    Then they show their tokened war-shields to the moon-dog and the stars,
    For the hurrying wind of the mountains has borne them tale of wars. 
    Lo now, in the court of the warriors they gather for the fray,
    Before the sun’s uprising, in the moonless morn of day;
    And the spears by the dusk gate glimmer, and the torches shine on
      the wall,
    And the murmuring voice of women comes faint from the cloudy hall: 
    Then the grey dawn beats on the mountains mid a drift of frosty snow,
    And all men the face of Sigurd mid the swart-haired Niblungs know;
    And they see his gold gear glittering mid the red fur and the white,
    And high are the hearts uplifted by the hope of happy fight;
    And they see the sheathed Wrath shimmer mid the restless Welsh-wrought
      swords,
    And their hearts rejoice beforehand o’er the fall of conquered lords;
    And they see the Helm of Aweing and the awful eyes beneath,
    And they deem the victory glorious, and fair the warrior’s death.

    So forth through that cave of the gate from the Niblung Burg they fare,
    And they turn their backs on the plain, and the mountain-slopes they
      dare,
    And the place of the slaked earth-forges, as the eastering wind shall
      lead,
    And but few swords bide behind them the Niblung Burg to heed. 
    But lo, in the jaws of the mountains how few and small they seem,
    As dusky-strange in the snow-drifts their knitted hauberks gleam: 
    Lo, now at the mountains’ outmost ’neath Sigurd’s gleaming eyes
    How wide in the winter season the citied lealand lies: 
    Lo, how the beacons are flaring, and the bell-swayed steeples rock,
    And the gates of cities are shaken with the back-swung door-leaves’
      shock: 
    And, lo, the terror of towns, and the land that the winter wards,
    And over the streets snow-muffled the clash of the Niblung swords.