and drave the foe in vain;
    For the driven throng still thickened, till it might not give aback. 
    But fast abode King Volsung amid the shifting wrack
    In the place where once was the forefront:  for he said:  “My feet are
      old,
    And if I wend on further there is nought more to behold
    Than this that I see about me.”—­Whiles drew his foes away
    And stared across the corpses that before his sword-edge lay. 
    But nought he followed after:  then needs must they in front
    Thrust on by the thickening spear-throng come up to bear the brunt,
    Till all his limbs were weary and his body rent and torn: 
    Then he cried:  “Lo now, Allfather, is not the swathe well shorn? 
    Wouldst thou have me toil for ever, nor win the wages due?”

    And mid the hedge of foemen his blunted sword he threw,
    And, laid like the oars of a longship the level war-shafts pressed
    On ’gainst the unshielded elder, and clashed amidst his breast,
    And dead he fell, thrust backward, and rang on the dead men’s gear: 
    But still for a certain season durst no man draw anear. 
    For ’twas e’en as a great God’s slaying, and they feared the wrath
      of the sky;
    And they deemed their hearts might harden if awhile they should let
      him lie.

    Lo, now as the plotting was long, so short is the tale to tell
    How a mighty people’s leaders in the field of murder fell. 
    For but feebly burned the battle when Volsung fell to field,
    And all who yet were living were borne down before the shield: 
    So sinketh the din and the tumult; and the earls of the Goths ring
      round
    That crown of the Kings of battle laid low upon the ground,
    Looking up to the noon-tide heavens from the place where first he
      stood: 
    But the songful sing above him and they tell how his end is as good
    As the best of the days of his life-tide; and well as he was loved
    By his friends ere the time of his changing, so now are his foemen
      moved
    With a love that may never be worsened, since all the strife is o’er,
    And the warders look for his coming by Odin’s open door.

    But his sons, the stay of battle, alive with many a wound,
    Borne down to the earth by the shield-rush amid the dead lie bound,
    And belike a wearier journey must those lords of battle bide
    Ere once more in the Hall of Odin they sit by their father’s side. 
    Woe’s me for the boughs of the Branstock and the hawks that cried on
      the fight! 
    Woe’s me for the tireless hearthstones and the hangings of delight,
    That the women dare not look on lest they see them sweat with blood! 
    Woe’s me for the carven pillars where the spears of the Volsungs stood! 
    And who next shall shake the locks, or the silver door-rings meet? 
    Who shall pace the floor beloved, worn down by the Volsung feet? 
    Who shall fill the gold with the wine, or cry for the triumphing? 
    Shall it be kindred or foes, or thief, or thrall, or king?