Page:Icelandic Poetry or the Edda of Sæmund (1797).pdf/237

Place that dread Contunder there,
Safe in the soft lap of my fair.
Now the bridal bed array—
Haste my children—no delay.

XXXI.
Safe the Mallet thus to view,
Elorrid’s joy to rapture grew.
Ere another word he spoke,
First the giant Thrim he smote;
Then with indignation warm,
Thrim’s descendants felt his arm.
Bravely he the mallet us’d,
And ev’ry chief to atoms bruis’d.

XXXII.
Prostrate all the giant crew—
Swift to the sordid dame he flew.
That she the portion should require,
With tenfold fury edg’d his ire.
Instead of jingling ore he throws,
Round her head fierce clatt’ring blows;