When the strings thrilled under his fingers and the soul of the viol woke,
Low murmured their thanks unto Volker the proud, the homeless folk.
The walls and the rafters echoed as the chords pealed loud and clear—
In might and in music-cunning was the hero without a peer:—
Then sweeter and softer they whispered like the ripple of murmuring streams,
And so were the heavy-hearted lulled into happy dreams.
So when all slumbered, and Volker was ware that their cares were stilled,
Then over his arm the warrior drew once more his shield;
And forth he strode from the portal, and afront of the door he stood
To ward his friends and kinsmen from Kriemhild’s avengers of blood.