Here shall ye find none waiting save them whom death is to win!”
Soon were the bucklers heavy with the spears that quivered therein.
What shall I more say?—hundreds twelve, with toil and strain
Of mightiest sword-strokes battled to break through once and again;
But with gaping wounds the defenders cooled their fiery mood.
By none could their strife be parted: rushed in torrents the blood
Out of the death-deep gashes: fast, fast men fell and died.
Lamentation for dear friends perished shrieked up on every side.
So fought they, till all those champions of Etzel the mighty fell,
And nought was heard but the wailing of them that loved them well.