Till I came to the house of Giuki and the hallowed Niblung hearth? 
    Count up the deeds and forbearings, count up the words of the days
    That show forth the love of the Niblungs and the ancient people’s
      praise. 
    Nay, number the waves of the sea, and the grains of the yellow sand,
    And the drops of the rain in the April, and the blades of the grassy
      land! 
    And what if one heart of the Niblungs had stored and treasured it all,
    And hushed, and moved but softly, lest one grain thereof should fall? 
    If she feared the barren garden, and the sunless fallow field? 
    How then should the spring-tide labour, and the summer toil to yield! 
    And so may the high Gods help me, as I from this day forth
    Shall toil for her exalting to the height of worldly worth,
    If thou stretch thine hands forth, Giuki, and hail me for thy son: 
    Then there as thou sitt’st in thy grave-mound when thine earthly day
      is done,
    Thou shalt hear of our children’s children, and the crowned kin of
      kings,
    And the peace of the Niblung people in the day of better things;
    And then mayst thou be merry of the eve when Sigurd came,
    In the day of the deeds of the Niblungs and the blossom of their fame,
    Stretch forth thine hands to thy son:  for I bid thy daughter to wife,
    And her life shall withhold my death-day, and her death shall stay my
      life.”

    Then spoke the ancient Giuki:  “Hail, Sigurd, son of mine eld! 
    And I bless the Gods for the day that mine ancient eyes have beheld: 
    Now let me depart in peace, since I know for very sooth
    That waxen e’en as the God-folk shall the Niblungs blossom in youth. 
    Come, take thy mother’s greeting, and let thy brethren say
    How well they love thee, Sigurd, and how fair they deem the day.”

    Then lowly bendeth Sigurd ’neath the guileful Grimhild’s hand,
    And he kisseth the Kings of the Niblungs, and about him there they
      stand,
    The war-fain, darkling kindred; and all their words are praise,
    And the love of the tide triumphant, and the hope of the latter days.

    Hark now, on the morrow morning how the blast of the mighty horn
    From the builded Burg of the Niblungs goes over the acres shorn,
    And the roads are gay with the riders, and the bull in the stall is
      left,
    And the plough is alone in the furrow, and the wedge in the hole
      half-cleft;
    And late shall the ewes be folded, and the kine come home to the pail,
    And late shall the fires be litten in the outmost treeless dale: 
    For men fare to the gate of Giuki and the ancient cloudy hall,
    And therein are the earls assembled and the kings wear purple and pall,
    And the flowers are spread beneath them, and the bench-cloths beaten
      with gold;