Then the deadened sound sweeps landward, and the hearts of the field-folk fail, And they say: Is there death in the Burg, that thence goeth the cry and the wail? Lo, lo, the feast-hall's windows! blood-red through the dark they shine: Why is weeping the song of the Niblungs, and blood the warrior's wine?
But therein are the torches tossing, and the shields of men upborne, And the death-blades yet unbloodied cast up 'twixt bowl and horn, And all rest of heart is departed as men speak of the mirk-wood's ways, And the fame of outland countries, and the green sea's troublous days.
But Gunnar arose o'er the people, as a mighty King he spake: "O ye of the house of Giuki that are joyous for my sake, What then shall be left to the Niblungs if we return no more? Then let the wolves be warders of the Niblungs' gathered store! On the hearth let the worm creep over where the fire now flares aloft! And the adder coil in the chambers where the Niblung wives sleep soft! Let the master of the pine-wood roll huge in the Niblung porch, And the moon through the broken rafters be the Niblungs' feastful torch!"
Glad they cried on the glorious Gunnar; for they saw the love in his eyes, And with joy and wine were they drunken, and his words passed over the wise, As oft o'er the garden lilies goes the rising thunder-wind, And they know no other summer, and no spring that was they mind.
But Hogni speaketh to Knefrud: "Lo, Gunnar's word is said: How fares it, lord, with Gudrun? remembereth she the dead?"
Then the liar laughed out and answered: "Ye shall go tomorrow morn; The man to turn back Gunnar shall never now be born: Each day-spring the white Gudrun on Sigurd's glory cries, All eves she wails on Sigurd when the fair sun sinks and dies!"
"Thou sayest sooth," said Hogni, "one day we twain shall wend To the gate of the Eastland Atli, that our tale may have an end. Long time have I looked for the journey, and marvelled at the day, With what eyes I shall look on Sigurd, what words his mouth shall say."
Then he raiseth the cup for Gunnar, and men see his glad face shine As he crieth hail and glory o'er the bubbles of the wine; And they drink to the lives of the brethren, and men of the latter earth May not think of the height of their hall-glee, or measure out their mirth: So they feast in the undark even to the midmost of the night. Till at last, with sleep unwearied, they weary with delight, And pass forth to the beds blue-covered, and leave the hearth acold: They sleep; in the hall grown silent scarce glimmereth now the gold: For the moon from the world is departed, and grey clouds draw across, To hide the dawn's first promise and deepen earthly loss. The lone night draws to its death, and never another shall fall On those sons of the feastful warriors in the Niblungs' holy hall.