By his hands’ resistless smiting was Hagen hurled to the ground:
With the clang of that mighty buffet the wood-lawn echoed round.
Had he gripped in his hand but his war-glaive, surely had Hagen been slain.
Maddened him now that death-wound, a very torment of pain.
Now fled from his face all colour, he was reeling on tottering feet:
Fainted his strength from his body as when earth-spilt waters fleet:
Death set on his brow his token, his lips were ashen-grey.
—Ah, many a comely woman for this mourned many a day!
On flowers with red dew sprinkled the belovèd of Kriemhild fell,
With the blood from his wound outbursting as the streams from a spring outwell.