Page:Icelandic Poetry or the Edda of Sæmund (1797).pdf/140

At morning’s dawn—at even’s close:
Despair shall round thy soul be twin’d,
And drink the vigor of thy mind;
As round the oak rank ivy cleaves,
Steals all its sap, and blasts its leaves.

An unshorn mountain’s brow I sought,
Where never lonely woodman wrought;
There the magic wand I found,
And pluck’d it joyful from the ground.

Thy cruelty hath Odin spied;
Thundering Thor beheld thy pride;
E’en Freyer now has felt disdain—
But e’er, O Maiden! you obtain,
The veng’ance due from Gods on high,

Giants shall thy doom descry;
Hrimthursar shall thy wailings hear;
Suttungi sons shall freeze with fear;
And godlike heroes shudd’ring see,
The horrors of thy destiny.