Gunther the dauntless hero on the tiller hath laid his hand:
So the glorious war-swift champions swung out clear from the land.
Of meats they bare rich plenty, and therewithal good wine,
The best that from foaming wine-fats was pressed beside the Rhine;
The while their horses rested each tethered safe in stall:
The keel slid onward so smoothly, no hurt might to these befall.
The wind in the strong-twined sail-ropes drew with unresting might:
Twice ten miles onward they fleeted ere sank over earth the night;
Down stream so slid they seaward with a breeze that followed fast.
—Ah me, but their stalwart labour brought sorrow enow at the last!