As telleth the olden story, through three days weary-long Never an hour of respite from holy chant and song {P. 144} Had any singer of masses. What wealth of offerings Poured in! Then even the poorest could give like very kings. For they sought out the poor and needy, and into their hands was poured By Kriemhild's treasure-warders gold from the dead king's hoard; So brought they of their abundance--ay, now that he lived no more, Thousands of marks for his soul's rest were given from a fathomless store. Lands and their revenues gave she through the whole land everywhere Unto many a hallowed cloister, unto many a man of prayer. Silver they gave unstinted, and raiment unto the poor. So showed she before all people what love to the dead she bore. When rang the bells unto high-mass on that third morning-tide, There were seen all round the minster in the churchyard great and wide The folk of the country weeping; they thronged it from end to end. Yea, in death did they do him service, as unto a dear-loved friend. In these four days of their mourning, as the old bards sang unto me, Marks full thirty thousand, yea, more, it well may be, To the poor were freely given, that all for his soul might pray, Now that all his life and his beauty as a shadow had passed away. The service of God was ended, into silence sank the song. With a storm of weeping shaken was all that mighty throng. Then out of the dim-lit minster forth to the grave was he borne-- Oh wail of the hungry-hearted, oh voice of them that mourn! On moved that endless procession with cries of lamenting loud; No face that was glad, or of woman or man, was in all that crowd. Ere earth to earth they committed, once more did they pray and sing. What countless holy fathers were seen at his burying!