Then he laughed on the huddled East-folk, and against their
      war-shields drave
    While the white swords tossed about him, and that archer’s skull he
      clave
    Whom Atli had bought in the Southlands for many a pound of gold;
    And the dark-skinned fell upon Gunnar and over his war-shield rolled
    And cumbered his sword for a season, and the many blades fell on,
    And sheared the cloudy helm-crest and rents in his hauberk won,
    And the red blood ran from Gunnar; till that Giuki’s sword outburst,
    As the fire-tongue from the smoulder that the leafy heap hath nursed,
    And unshielded smote King Gunnar, and sent the Niblung song
    Through the quaking stems of battle in the hall of Atli’s wrong: 
    Then he rent the knitted war-hedge till by Hogni’s side he stood,
    And kissed him amidst of the spear-hail, and their cheeks were wet
      with blood.

    Then on came the Niblung bucklers, and they drave the East-folk home
    As the bows of the oar-driven long-ship beat off the waves in foam: 
    They leave their dead behind them, and they come to the doors and the
      wall,
    And a few last spears from the fleeing amidst their shield-hedge fall: 
    But the doors clash to in their faces, as the fleeing rout they drive,
    And fain would follow after; and none is left alive
    In the feast-hall of King Atli, save those fishes of the net,
    And the white and silent woman above the slaughter set.

    Then biddeth the heart-wise Hogni, and men to the windows climb,
    And uplift the war-grey corpses, dead drift of the stormy time,
    And cast them adown to their people:  thence they come aback and say
    That scarce shall ye see the houses, and no whit the wheel-worn way
    For the spears and shields of the Eastlands that the merchant city
      throng: 
    And back to the Niblung burg-gate the way seemed weary-long.

    Yet passeth hour on hour, and the doors they watch and ward,
    But a long while hear no mail-clash, nor the ringing of the sword;
    Then droop the Niblung children, and their wounds are waxen chill,
    And they think of the Burg by the river, and the builded holy hill,
    And their eyes are set on Gudrun as of men who would beseech;
    But unlearned are they in craving and know not dastard’s speech. 
    Then doth Giuki’s first-begotten a deed most fair to be told,
    For his fair harp Gunnar taketh, and the warp of silver and gold;
    With the hand of a cunning harper he dealeth with the strings,
    And his voice in their midst goeth upward, as of ancient days he sings,
    Of the days before the Niblungs, and the days that shall be yet;
    Till the hour of toil and smiting the warrior hearts forget,
    Nor hear the gathering foemen, nor the sound of swords aloof: 
    Then clear the song of Gunnar goes up to the dusky roof;
    And the coming spear-host tarries, and the bearers of the woe
    Through the cloisters of King Atli with lingering footsteps go.