of the heaven the Helm of Aweing gleamed,
    Then clashed the red rings of the Treasure, as Sigurd stood on his
      feet,
    And went through the echoing chambers, as the winds in the wall-nook
      beat;
    And there in the earliest morning while the lords of the Niblungs lie
    ’Twixt light sleep and awakening they hear the clash go by,
    And their dreams are of happy battle, and the songs that follow fame,
    And the hope of the Gods accomplished, and the tales of the ancient
      name,
    Ere Sigurd came to the Niblungs and faced their gathered foes. 
    But on to the chamber of Brynhild alone in the morning he goes,
    And the sun lieth broad across it, and the door is open wide
    As the last of the women had left it; then he lifted his voice and
      cried: 

    “Awake, arise, O Brynhild! for the house is smitten through
    With the light of the sun awakened, and the hope of deeds to do.”

    She spake:  “Art thou come to behold me? thou, the mightiest and the
      worst
    Of the pitiless betrayers, that the hope of my life hath nursed.”

    He said:  “It is I that awake thee, and I give thee the life and the
      days
    For fulfilling the deedful measure, and the cup of the people’s
      praise.”

    She cried:  “O the gifts of Sigurd!—­Ah why didst thou cast me aside,
    That we twain should be dwelling, the strangers, in the house of the
      Niblung pride? 
    What life is the death in life? what deeds—­where the shame cometh up
    Betwixt the speech of the wise-ones and the draught of the welcoming
      cup;
    And the shame and repentance awaketh when the song in the harp is
      awake? 
    Where we rise in the morning for nothing, and lie down for no love’s
      sake? 
    Where thou ridest forth to the battle and the dead hope dulleth thy
      light,
    And with shame thy hand is cumbered when the sword is uplifted to
      smite? 
    O Sigurd, what hast thou done, that the gifts are cast aback? 
    —­O nay, no life of repentance!—­but the bitter sword and the wrack!”

    “O Brynhild, live!” said the Volsung, “for what shall the world be then
    When thou from the earth art departed, and the hallowed hearths of
      men?”

    She said:  “Woe worth the while for the word that hath come from thy
      mouth! 
    As the bitter weltering ocean to the shipman dying of drouth,
    E’en so is the life thou biddest, since thou pitiedst not thine own,
    Nor thy love, nor the hope of thy life-days, but must dwell as a glory
      alone!”