And she shrieked as the woe gathered on her, and the sun rose over her
      head: 
    “Wake, wake, O men of this house, for Sigurd the Volsung is dead!”

    In the house rose rumour and stir, and men stood up in the morn,
    And their hearts with doubt were shaken, as if with the Uttermost Horn: 
    The cry and the calling spread, and shields clashed down from the wall,
    And swords in the chamber glittered, and men ran apace to the hall. 
    Nor knew what man to question, nor who had tidings to give,
    Nor what were the days thenceforward wherein the folk should live. 
    But ever the word is amongst them that Sigurd the Volsung is slain,
    And the spears in the hall were tossing as the rye in the windy plain. 
    But they look aloft to the high-seat and they see the gleam of the
      gold: 
    And Gunnar the King of battle, and Hogni wise and cold,
    And Brynhild the wonder of women; and her face is deadly pale,
    And the Kings are clad in their war-gear, and bared are the edges of
      bale. 
    Then cold fear falleth upon them, but the noise and the clamour abate,
    And they look on the war-wise Gunnar and awhile for his word they wait;
    But e’en as he riseth above them, doth a shriek through the tumult
      ring: 

    “Awake, O House of the Niblungs, for slain is Sigurd the King!”

    Then nothing faltered Gunnar, but he stood o’er the Niblung folk,
    And over the hall woe-stricken the words of pride he spoke: 

    “Mourn now, O Niblung people, for gone is Sigurd our guest,
    And Guttorm the King is departed, and this is our day of unrest;
    But all this of the Norns was fore-ordered, and herein is Odin’s hand;
    Cast down are the mighty of men-folk, but the Niblung house shall
      stand: 
    Mourn then today and tomorrow, but the third day waken and live,
    For the Gods died not this morning, and great gifts they have to give.”

    He spake and awhile was silence, and then did the cry outbreak,
    And many there were of the Earl-folk that wept for Sigurd’s sake;
    And they wept for their little children, and they wept for those
      unborn,
    Who should know the earth without him and the world of his worth
      forlorn. 
    But wild is the wailing of women as they fare to the place of the dead,
    Where cold is Gudrun sitting mid the waste of Sigurd’s bed. 
    Then they take the man beloved, and bear him forth to the hall,
    And spread the linen above him, and cloth of purple and pall;
    And meekly Gudrun followeth, and she sitteth down thereby,
    But mute is her mouth henceforward, and she giveth forth no cry,
    And no word of lamentation, though far abroad they weep
    For the gift of the Gods departed, and the golden Sigurd’s sleep.

    Meanwhile elsewhere the women and the wives of the Niblungs wail
    O’er the body of King Guttorm and array him for the bale,
    And Grimhild opens her treasure and bears forth plenteous gold
    And goodly things for his journey, and the land of Death acold.