"
And straightly thence
The bit-shaking steeds
Drew the hoard-warden,
The war-god to his death.
Atli the great king,
Rode upon Glaum,
With shields set round about,
And sharp thorns of battle:
Gudrun, bound by wedlock
To these, victory made gods of,
Held back her tears
As the hall she ran into.
"Let it fare with thee, Atli,
E'en after thine oaths sworn
To Gunnar fell often;
Yea, oaths sworn of old time,
By the sun sloping southward,
By the high burg of Sigry,
By the fair bed of rest,
By the red ring of Ull!"
Now a host of men
Cast the high king alive
Into a close
Crept o'er within
With most foul worms,
Fulfilled of all venom,
Ready grave to dig
In his doughty heart.
Wrathful-hearted he smote
The harp with his hand,
Gunnar laid there alone;
And loud rang the strings. --
In such wise ever
Should hardy ring-scatterer
Keep gold from all folk
In the garth of his foeman.
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