Woe's me! how the house of the Niblungs by another cry was rent, The wakening wail of Gudrun, as she shrank in the river of blood From the breast of the mighty Sigurd: he heard it and understood, And rose up on the sword of Guttorm, and turned from the country of death, And spake words of loving-kindness as he strove for life and breath: "Wail not, O child of the Niblungs! I am smitten, but thou shall live, In remembrance of our glory, mid the gifts the Gods shall give!" She stayed her cry to hearken, and her heart well nigh stood still: But he spake: "Mourn not, O Gudrun, this stroke is the last of ill; Fear leaveth the House of the Niblungs on this breaking of the morn; Mayst thou live, O woman beloved, unforsaken, unforlorn!" Then he sank aback on the sword, and down to his lips she bent If some sound therefrom she might hearken; for his breath was well-nigh spent: "It is Brynhild's deed," he murmured, "and the woman that loves me well; Nought now is left to repent of, and the tale abides to tell. I have done many deeds in my life-days, and all these, and my love, they lie In the hollow hand of Odin till the day of the world go by. I have done and I may not undo, I have given and I take not again: Art thou other than I, Allfather, wilt thou gather my glory in vain?" There was silence then in the chamber, as the dawn spread wide and grey, And hushed was the hall of the Niblungs at the entering-in of day. Long Gudrun hung o'er the Volsung and waited the coming word; Then she stretched out her hand to Sigurd and touched her love and her lord, And the broad day fell on his visage, and she knew she was there alone, And her heart was wrung with anguish and she uttered a weary moan: Then Brynhild laughed in the hall, and the first of men's voices was that Since when on yester-even the kings in the high-seat had sat. * * * * *