Home they brought her warrior dead:
 She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry:
 All her maidens, watching, said,
 "She must weep or she will die."
 Then they praised him, soft and low,
 Call'd him worthy to be loved,
 Truest friend and noblest foe;
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
 Stole a maiden from her place,
 Lightly to the warrior stepped,
 Took the face-cloth from the face;
 Yet she neither moved nor wept.

 Rose a nurse of ninety years,
 Set his child upon her knee--
 Like summer tempest came her tears--
 "Sweet my child, I live for thee."