the Wrath’s flame sings and leaps,
    And the unsteered manless dragons drift down the weltering deeps,
    And the waves toss up a shield-foam, and hushed are the clamorous
      throats
    And dead in the summer even the raven-banner floats,
    And the Niblung song goes upward, as the sea-burgs long accursed
    Are swept toward the field-folk’s houses, and the shores they saddened
      erst: 
    Lo there on the poop stands Sigurd mid the black-haired Niblung kings,
    And his heart goes forth before him toward the day of better things,
    And the burg in the land of Lymdale, and the hands that bide him there.

    But now with the spoil of the spoilers mid the Niblungs doth he fare,
    When the Kings have dight the beacons and the warders of the coast,
    That fire may call to fire for the swift redeeming host. 
    Then they fare to the Burg of the people, and leave that lealand free
    That a maid may wend untroubled by the edges of the sea;
    And glad in the autumn season they sit them down again
    By the shrines of the Gods of the Niblungs, and the hallowed hearths
      of men.

    So there on an eve is Sigurd in the ancient Niblung hall,
    Where the cloudy hangings waver and the flickering shadows fall,
    And he sits by the Kings on the high-seat, and wise of men he seems,
    And of many a hidden marvel past thought of man he dreams: 
    On the Head of Hindfell he thinketh, and how fair the woman was,
    And how that his love hath blossomed, and the fruit shall come to pass;
    And he thinks of the burg in Lymdale, and how hand met hand in love,
    Nor deems him aught too feeble the heart of the world to move;
    And more than a God he seemeth, and so steadfast and so great,
    That the sea of chance wide-weltering ’neath his will must needs abate.

    High riseth the glee of the people, and the song and the clank of the
      cup
    Beat back from pillar to pillar, to the cloud-blue roof go up;
    And men’s hearts rejoice in the battle, and the hope of coming days,
    Till scarce may they think of their fathers, and the kings of bygone
      praise.

    But Giuki looketh on Sigurd and saith from heart grown fain: 
    “To sit by the silent wise-one, how mighty is the gain! 
    Yet we know this long while, Sigurd, that lovely is thy speech;
    Wilt thou tell us the tales of the ancient, and the words of masters
      teach? 
    For the joy of our hearts is stormy with mighty battles won,
    And sweet shall be their lulling with thy tale of deeds agone.”

    Then they brought the harp to Sigurd, and he looked on the ancient man,
    As his hand sank into the strings, and a ripple over them ran,
    And he looked forth kind o’er the people, and all men on his glory
      gazed,
    And hearkened, hushed and