But Hogni looketh on Gudrun, and no change in her face he sees,
    And no stir in her folded linen and the deedless hands on her knees: 
    Then from Gunnar’s side he hasteneth; and lo, the open door,
    And a foeman treadeth the pavement, and his lips are on Atli’s floor,
    For Hogni is death in the doorway:  then the Niblungs turn on the foe,
    And the hosts are mingled together, and blow cries out on blow.

    Still the song goeth up from Gunnar, though his harp to earth be laid;
    But he fighteth exceeding wisely, and is many a warrior’s aid,
    And he shieldeth and delivereth, and his eyes search through the hall,
    And woe is he for his fellows, as his battle-brethren fall;
    For the turmoil hideth little from that glorious folk-king’s eyes,
    And o’er all he beholdeth Gudrun, and his soul is waxen wise,
    And he saith:  We shall look on Sigurd, and Sigmund of old days,
    And see the boughs of the Branstock o’er the ancient Volsung’s praise.

    Woe’s me for the wrath of Hogni!  From the door he giveth aback
    That the Eastland slayers may enter to the murder and the wrack: 
    Then he rageth and driveth the battle to the golden kingly seat,
    And the last of the foes he slayeth by Gudrun’s very feet,
    That the red blood splasheth her raiment; and his own blood therewithal
    He casteth aloft before her, and the drops on her white hands fall: 
    But nought she seeth or heedeth, and again he turns to the fight,
    Nor heedeth stroke nor wounding so he a foe may smite: 
    Then the battle opens before him, and the Niblungs draw to his side;
    As Death in the world first fashioned, through the feast-hall doth he
      stride. 
    And so once more do the Niblungs sweep that murder-flood of men
    From the hall of toils and treason, and the doors swing to again.

    Then again is there peace for a little within the fateful fold;
    But the Niblungs look about them, and but few folk they behold
    Upright on their feet for the battle:  now they climb aloft no more. 
    Nor cast the dead from the windows; but they raise a rampart of war,
    And its stones are the fallen East-folk, and no lowly wall is that.

    Therein was Gunnar the mighty:  on the shields of men he sat,
    And the sons of his people hearkened, for his hand through the
      harp-strings ran,
    And he sang in the hall of his foeman of the Gods and the making of
      man,
    And how season was sundered from season in the days of the fashioning,
    And became the Summer and Autumn, and became the Winter and Spring;
    He sang of men’s hunger and labour, and their love and their breeding
      of broil,
    And their hope that is fostered of famine, and their rest that is
      fashioned of toil: 
    Fame then and the sword he