eep,
And they enter the treasure-houses, and come to their midmost heap;
But so rich in the night it glimmers that the brethren hold their
breath,
While Hogni laugheth upon it:--long it lay on the Glittering Heath,
Long it lay in the house of Reidmar, long it lay 'neath the waters wan;
But no long while hath it tarried in the houses and dwellings of man.

Nor long these linger before it; they set their hands to the toil,
And uplift the Bed of the Serpent, the Seed of murder and broil;
No word they speak in their labour, but bear out load on load
To great wains that out in the fore-court for the coming Gold abode:
Most huge were the men, far mightier than the mightiest fashioned now,
But the salt sweat dimmed their eyesight and flooded cheek and brow
Ere half the work was accomplished; and by then the laden wains
Came groaning forth from the gateway, dawn drew on o'er the plains;
And the ramparts of the people, those walls high-built of old,
Stood grey as the bones of a battle in a dale few folk behold:
But in haste they goad the yoke-beasts, and press on and make no
speech,
Though the hearts are proud within them and their eyes laugh each at
each.

No great way down from the burg-gate, anigh to the hallowed field,
There lieth a lake in the river as round as Odin's shield,
A black pool huge and awful: ten long-ships of the most
Therein might wager battle, and the sunken should be lost
Beyond all hope of diver, yea, beyond the plunging lead;
On either side its rock-walls rise up to a mighty head,
But by green slopes from the meadows 'tis easy drawing near
To the brow whence the dark-grey rampart to the water goeth sheer:
'Tis as if the Niblung River had cleft the grave-mound through
Of the mightiest of all Giants ere the Gods' work was to do;
And indeed men well might deem it, that fearful sights lie hid
Beneath the unfathomed waters, the place to all forbid;
No stream the black deep showeth, few winds may search its face,
And the silver-scaled sea-farers love nought its barren space.

There now the Niblung War-king and the foster-brethren twain
Lead up their golden harvest and stay it wain by wain,
Till they hang o'er the rim scarce balanced: no glance they cast below
To the black and awful waters well known from long ago,
But they cut the yoke-beasts' trac