Then the voice of Gunnar the war-king cried out o’er the weeping hall: 
    “Wail on, O women forsaken, for the mightiest woman born! 
    Now the hearth is cold and joyless, and the waste bed lieth forlorn. 
    Wail on, but amid your weeping lay hand to the glorious dead,
    That not alone for an hour may lie Queen Brynhild’s head: 
    For here have been heavy tidings, and the Mightiest under shield
    Is laid on the bale high-builded in the Niblungs’ hallowed field. 
    Fare forth! for he abideth, and we do Allfather wrong,
    If the shining Valhall’s pavement await their feet o’erlong.”

    Then they took the body of Brynhild in the raiment that she wore,
    And out through the gate of the Niblungs the holy corpse they bore,
    And thence forth to the mead of the people, and the high-built
      shielded bale;
    Then afresh in the open meadows breaks forth the women’s wail
    When they see the bed of Sigurd and the glittering of his gear;
    And fresh is the wail of the people as Brynhild draweth anear,
    And the tidings go before her that for twain the bale is built,
    That for twain is the oak-wood shielded and the pleasant odours spilt.

    There is peace on the bale of Sigurd, and the Gods look down from on
      high,
    And they see the lids of the Volsung close shut against the sky,
    As he lies with his shield beside him in the Hauberk all of gold,
    That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told;
    And forth from the Helm of Aweing are the sunbeams flashing wide,
    And the sheathed Wrath of Sigurd lies still by his mighty side. 
    Then cometh an elder of days, a man of the ancient times,
    Who is long past sorrow and joy, and the steep of the bale he climbs;
    And he kneeleth down by Sigurd, and bareth the Wrath to the sun
    That the beams are gathered about it, and from hilt to blood-point run,
    And wide o’er the plain of the Niblungs doth the Light of the
      Branstock glare,
    Till the wondering mountain-shepherds on that star of noontide stare,
    And fear for many an evil; but the ancient man stands still
    With the war-flame on his shoulder, nor thinks of good or of ill,
    Till the feet of Brynhild’s bearers on the topmost bale are laid,
    And her bed is dight by Sigurd’s; then he sinks the pale white blade
    And lays it ’twixt the sleepers, and leaves them there alone—­
    He, the last that shall ever behold them,—­and his days are well nigh
      done.

    Then is silence over the plain; in the noon shine the torches pale
    As the best of the Niblung Earl-folk bear fire to the builded bale: 
    Then a wind in the west ariseth, and the white flames leap on highs
    And with one voice crieth the people a great and mighty cry,
    And men cast up hands to the Heavens, and pray without a word,
    As they that have seen God’s visage, and the face of the Father have
      heard.