and the fear of men she knew,
    But all this was a token unto her, and great pride within her grew,
    As she saw the days that were coming from the well-spring of her blood;
    Goodly and glorious and great by the kings of her kindred she stood,
    And faced the sorrow of Sigurd, and her soul of that hour was fain;
    For she thought:  I will heal the smitten, I will raise up the smitten
      and slain,
    And take heed where the Gods were heedless, and build on where they
      began,
    And frame hope for the unborn children and the coming days of man.

    Then she spake aloud to the Volsung:  “Hear this faithful word of mine! 
    For the draught thou hast drunken, O Sigurd, and my love was blent
      with the wine: 
    O Sigurd, son of the mighty, thy kin are passed away,
    But uplift thine heart and be merry, for new kin hast thou gotten
      today;
    Thy father is Giuki the King, and Grimhild thy mother is made,
    And thy brethren are Gunnar and Hogni and Guttorm the unafraid. 
    Rejoice for a kingly kindred, and a hope undreamed before! 
    For the folk shall be wax in the fire that withstandeth the Niblung
      war;
    The waste shall bloom as a garden in the Niblung glory and trust,
    And the wrack of the Niblung people shall burn the world to dust: 
    Our peace shall still the world, our joy shall replenish the earth;
    And of thee it cometh, O Sigurd, the gold and the garland of worth!”

    But the heart was changed in Sigurd; as though it ne’er had been
    His love of Brynhild perished as he gazed on the Niblung Queen: 
    Brynhild’s beloved body was e’en as a wasted hearth,
    No more for bale or blessing, for plenty or for dearth. 
    —­O ye that shall look hereafter, when the day of Sigurd is done,
    And the last of his deeds is accomplished, and his eyes are shut in
      the sun,
    When ye look and long for Sigurd, and the image of Sigurd behold,
    And his white sword still as the moon, and his strong hand heavy and
      cold,
    Then perchance shall ye think of this even, then perchance shall ye
      wonder and cry,
    “Twice over, King, are we smitten, and twice have we seen thee die.”

    As folk of the summer feasters, who have fallen to feast in the morn,
    And have wreathed their brows with roses ere the first of the clouds
      was born;
    Beneath the boughs were they sitting, and the long leaves twinkled
      about,
    And the wind with their laughter was mingled, nor held aback from
      their shout,
    Amidst of their harp it lingered, from the mouth of their horn went up,
    Round the reek of their roast was it breathing, o’er the flickering
      face of their cup—­
    —­Lo now, why sit they so heavy, and why is their joy-speech dead,
    Why are the long leaves drooping,