Whom Wittich had slain; and rekindled was the olden grief and moan.
To the thane made answer the mother: “O yea, the shield will I give.
Ah, would to God in Heaven that yet on the earth he might live
Who bare it of old! In battle he slept the iron sleep.
I must needs evermore lament him: sore cause have I to weep.”
Then the noble wife of the Margrave rose up from her carven chair,
And she took down the shield of the dear dead with her own white hands, and bare
And gave it, her gift unto Hagen: he received in his hands the same;
Ay, and he won for the buckler new glory of deathless fame!
A cover of bright-hued loomwork enfolded its blazonries.