Gaunt Fenris, Loptur’s son, Who loves to prowl the night, Bewilder’d travellers down Hurling from rocky height: When bloody treason’s rife, When for some murder foul The bandit whets his knife, The wolf for joy doth howl. All who delight in blood From him beginning have; From him the tiger brood, The hyæna’s traitor laugh; The like each robber beast, Which from the fair light shrinks, Fitchet of plunderers least, Marten, and fox, and lynx. For nought hath Fenris ruth, When midnight winds blow hoarse, His sacrilegious tooth Tears from its grave the corse— Still ’twere my chiefest joy The foul worm and his brood Of reptiles to destroy. Grieves me that man the food Of crawling worms should be: This slain, his life should pass, From loathsome sickness free, In years of happiness. And, when th’ o’erpeopled earth No more her sons could feed, The bravest should stand forth, And like good warriors bleed. Not hatred should unsheath Their swords, nor lust of power, But a soul-warming wrath, Gone when the fight was o’er. From some dark cloud the fray I’d watch, my bolts in hand The boldest on their way To Odin’s hall to send.” Thus mused the Aser Thor, And pull’d with all his might, Each time he struck his oar The dark-green wave turn’d white. The more his anger burn’d The huge boat sped the more, Seem’d as the waves it spurn’d Skimming like Dolphin o’er— So swiftly on it flew, The sides began to split, The sea so fast came through, The twain in water sit. Quick Hymir sprang to bale It out, and loud to roar, (His giant-heart ’gan fail) ‘Avast there! back your oar.