his brother’s hope and will;
    Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill: 
    And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they sworn
    As the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born. 
    But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same,
    And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame.

    So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife,
    And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of
      life;
    And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise: 
    To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace,
    And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the
      Kings,
    For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crooked
      things. 
    But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young,
    And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung. 
    Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best;
    And men say:  Is the king’s heart mighty beyond all hope of rest? 
    Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown! 
    So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone.

    Now Giuki the King of the Niblungs must change his life at the last,
    And they lay him down in the mountains and a great mound over him cast: 
    For thus had he said in his life-days:  “When my hand from the people
      shall fade,
    Up there on the side of the mountains shall the King of the Niblungs
      be laid,
    Whence one seeth the plain of the tillage and the fields where
      man-folk go;
    Then whiles in the dawn’s awakening, when the day-wind riseth to blow,
    Shall I see the war-gates opening, and the joy of my shielded men
    As they look to the field of the dooming:  and whiles in the even again
    Shall I see the spoil come homeward, and the host of the Niblungs pour
    Through the gates that the Dwarf-folk builded and the well-beloved
      door.”

    So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold,
    As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled: 
    But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land;
    A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand;
    A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom,
    A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom.

    On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son: 
    “O Gunnar, King beloved, a fair life hast thou won;
    On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers
      with gold;
    Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told: 
    Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth,
    Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth. 
    If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings,
    No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings.”