That were wrought by the arm of Siegfried as he rode the surges of fight—
Ah, many a lady for dear ones slain shall bewail his might!
Went down before his onset the beloved of many a bride;
His giant strokes on the helmets o’er the field rang far and wide,
And forth of the gaping gashes the blood flowed fast and free:—
O yea, in all achievement the glory of knighthood is he!
Sooth, many a deed of valour wrought Ortwein, Metz’s Lord;
Whosoever was touched in the war-storm by the lightning of his sword
Fell back from his face sore wounded—yea, for the more part slain:
And thy brother withal to the foemen dealt the deadliest bane