So men ride adown to the sea-strand, and the kings their hosts array
    When the high noon flooded heaven; and the men of the Volsungs lay,
    With King Eylimi’s shielded champions mid Lyngi’s hosts of war,
    As the brown pips lie in the apple when ye cut it through the core.

    But now when the kings were departed, from the King’s house Hiordis
      went,
    And before men joined the battle she came to a woody bent,
    Where she lay with one of her maidens the death and the deeds to
      behold.

    In the noon sun shone King Sigmund as an image all of gold,
    And he stood before the foremost and the banner of his fame,
    And many a thing he remembered, and he called on each earl by his name
    To do well for the house of the Volsungs, and the ages yet unborn. 
    Then he tossed up the sword of the Branstock, and blew on his
      father’s horn,
    Dread of so many a battle, doom-song of so many a man. 
    Then all the earth seemed moving as the hosts of Lyngi ran
    On the Volsung men and the Isle-folk like wolves upon the prey;
    But sore was their labour and toil ere the end of their harvesting day.

    On went the Volsung banners, and on went Sigmund before,
    And his sword was the flail of the tiller on the wheat of the
      wheat-thrashing floor,
    And his shield was rent from his arm, and his helm was sheared from
      his head: 
    But who may draw nigh him to smite for the heap and the rampart of
      dead? 
    White went his hair on the wind like the ragged drift of the cloud,
    And his dust-driven, blood-beaten harness was the death-storm’s
      angry shroud,
    When the summer sun is departing in the first of the night of wrack;
    And his sword was the cleaving lightning, that smites and is hurried
      aback
    Ere the hand may rise against it; and his voice was the following
      thunder.

    Then cold grew the battle before him, dead-chilled with the fear and
      the wonder: 
    For again in his ancient eyes the light of victory gleamed;
    From his mouth grown tuneful and sweet the song of his kindred
      streamed;
    And no more was he worn and weary, and no more his life seemed spent: 
    And with all the hope of his childhood was his wrath of battle blent;
    And he thought:  A little further, and the river of strife is passed,
    And I shall sit triumphant the king of the world at last.

    But lo, through the hedge of the war-shafts a mighty man there came,
    One-eyed and seeming ancient, but his visage shone like flame: 
    Gleaming-grey was his kirtle, and his hood was cloudy blue;
    And he bore a mighty twi-bill, as he waded the fight-sheaves through,
    And stood face to face with Sigmund, and upheaved the bill to smite. 
    Once more round the head of