But Sigurd sitteth by Gudrun, and his heart is soft and kind,
    And the pity swelleth within it for the days when he was blind;
    And with yet another pity, lest his sorrow seen o’erweigh
    Her fond desire’s fulfilment, and her fair soul’s blooming-day: 
    And many a word he frameth his kingly fear to hide,
    And the tangle of his trouble, that her joy may well abide. 
    But the joy so filleth Gudrun and the triumph of her bliss,
    That oft she sayeth within her:  How durst I dream of this? 
    How durst I hope for the days wherein I now shall dwell,
    And that assured joyance whereof no tongue may tell?

    So fares the feast in glory till thin the night doth grow,
    And joy hath wearied the people, and to rest and sleep they go: 
    Then dight is the fateful bride-bed, and the Norns will hinder nought
    That the feet of the Niblung Maiden to the chamber of Kings be brought,
    And the troth is pledged and wedded, and the Norns cast nought before
    The feet of Sigurd the Volsung and the bridal chamber-door. 
    All hushed was the house of the Niblungs, and they two were left alone,
    And kind as a man made happy was the golden Sigurd grown,
    As there in the arms of the mighty he clasped the Niblung Maid;
    But her spirit fainted within her, and her very soul was afraid,
    And her mouth was empty of words when their lips were sundered a space,
    And in awe and utter wonder she gazed upon his face;
    As one who hath prayed for a God in the dwelling of man to abide,
    And he comes, and the face unfashioned his ruth and his mercy must
      hide. 
    She trembled and wept before him, till at last amidst her tears
    The joy and the hope of women fell on her unawares,
    And she sought the hands that had held her, and the face that her face
      had blessed,
    And the bosom of Sigurd the Mighty, the hope of her earthly rest.

    Then he spake as she hearkened and wondered:  “With the Kings of men I
      rode,
    And none but the men of the war-fain our coming swords abode: 
    O, dear was the day of the riding, and the hope of the clashing swords! 
    O, dear were the deeds of battle, and the fall of Odin’s lords,
    When I met the overcomers, and beheld them overcome,
    When we rent the spoil from the spoilers, and led the chasers home! 
    O, sweet was the day of the summer when we won the ancient towns,
    And we stood in the golden bowers and took and gave the crowns! 
    And sweet were the suppliant faces, and the gifts and the grace we
      gave,
    And the life and the wealth unhoped for, and the hope to heal and save: 
    And sweet was the praise of the Niblungs, and dear was the song that
      arose
    O’er the deed assured, accomplished, and the death of the people’s
      foes! 
    O joyful deeds of the mighty!  O wondrous life of a King! 
    Unto thee alone will I tell it, and his fond imagining,
    That but few of the people wot of, as he sits with face unmoved
    In the place where kings have perished, in the seat of kings beloved!”