After a while he turned slowly from looking at Otter to gaze upon Thiodolf, and his body trembled as he looked, and he opened his mouth to speak; but no word came from it; and he sat down upon the edge of the bier, and the tears began to gush out of his old eyes, and he wept aloud.  Then they that saw him wondered; for all knew the stoutness of his heart, and how he had borne more burdens than that of eld, and had not cowered down under them.  But at last he arose again, and stood firmly on his feet, and faced the folk-mote, and in a voice more like the voice of a man in his prime than of an old man, he sang: 

      “Wild the storm is abroad
      Of the edge of the sword! 
      Far on runneth the path
      Of the war-stride of wrath! 
      The Gods hearken and hear
      The long rumour of fear
      From the meadows beneath
      Running fierce o’er the heath,
   Till it beats round their dwelling-place builded aloof
   And at last all up-swelling breaks wild o’er their roof,
   And quencheth their laughter and crieth on all,
   As it rolleth round rafter and beam of the Hall,
   Like the speech of the thunder-cloud tangled on high,
   When the mountain-halls sunder as dread goeth by.

      “So they throw the door wide
      Of the Hall where they bide,
      And to murmuring song
      Turns that voice of the wrong,
      And the Gods wait a-gaze
      For that Wearer of Ways: 
      For they know he hath gone
      A long journey alone. 
   Now his feet are they hearkening, and now is he come,
   With his battle-wounds darkening the door of his home,
   Unbyrnied, unshielded, and lonely he stands,
   And the sword that he wielded is gone from his hands—­
   Hands outstretched and bearing no spoil of the fight,
   As speechless, unfearing, he stands in their sight.

      “War-father gleams
      Where the white light streams
      Round kings of old
      All red with gold,
      And the Gods of the name
      With joy aflame. 
      All the ancient of men
      Grown glorious again: 
   Till the Slains-father crieth aloud at the last: 
   ’Here is one that belieth no hope of the past! 
   No weapon, no treasure of earth doth he bear,
   No gift for the pleasure of Godhome to share;
   But life his hand bringeth, well cherished, most sweet;
   And hark! the Hall singeth the Folk-wolf to greet!’

      “As the rain of May
      On earth’s happiest day,
      So the fair flowers fall
      On the sun-bright Hall
      As the Gods rise up
      With the greeting-cup,
      And the welcoming crowd
      Falls to murmur aloud. 
   Then the God of Earth speaketh; sweet-worded he saith,
   ’Lo, the Sun ever seeketh Life fashioned of death;
   And to-day as he turneth the wide world about
   On Wolf-stead he yearneth; for there without doubt
   Dwells the death-fashioned story, the flower of all fame. 
   Come hither new Glory, come Crown of the Name!’”