Were the fierce death-whetted edges thereof on either side.
Of the weight of that fearful javelin be marvellous stories told.
Of five-score pounds of iron was forged its massy mould:
Three of the warriors of Brunhild staggering bare that spear.
Then the heart of the noble Gunther grew heavy with his fear.
Under his breath he whispered: “What task have I now in hand?
Though the Foul Fiend rose out of Hell’s Pit, against her how should he stand?
Were I, with my life delivered, once more beside the Rhine,
Long should she bide untroubled by any wooing of mine!”
(C) Well may ye deem what burden of disquiet his spirit bare.