So sinketh the din and the tumult; and the earls of the Goths ring
round
That crown of the Kings of battle laid low upon the ground,
Looking up to the noon-tide heavens from the place where first he
stood:
But the songful sing above him and they tell how his end is as good
As the best of the days of his life-tide; and well as he was loved
By his friends ere the time of his changing, so now are his foemen
moved
With a love that may never be worsened, since all the strife is o'er,
And the warders look for his coming by Odin's open door.

But his sons, the stay of battle, alive with many a wound,
Borne down to the earth by the shield-rush amid the dead lie bound,
And belike a wearier journey must those lords of battle bide
Ere once more in the Hall of Odin they sit by their father's side.
Woe's me for the boughs of the Branstock and the hawks that cried on
the fight!
Woe's me for the tireless hearthstones and the hangings of delight,
That the women dare not look on lest they see them sweat with blood!
Woe's me for the carven pillars where the spears of the Volsungs stood!
And who next shall shake the locks, or the silver door-rings meet?
Who shall pace the floor beloved, worn down by the Volsung feet?
Who shall fill the gold with the wine, or cry for the triumphing?
Shall it be kindred or foes, or thief, or thrall, or king?


_Of the ending of all Volsung's Sons save Sigmund only, and of how he
abideth in the wild wood._