We keep our music's virtue undefiled: While summer lasts we fight; by winter hearths, Or ranged in sunny coves by winter seas, Betwixt the snow-plains and the hills of fire, Singing we feed on legends of the Gods: Ye sing but triumphs of the hour that fleets; Ye build you kingdoms: next ye dash them down: Ye bow to idols! O that song of mine Might heal this people's wound!' Then rose the bard And took his harp, and smote it like a man; And sang full-blooded songs of Gods who spurn Their heaven to war against that giant race Throned 'mid the mountains of old Joetunheim That girdle still the unmeasured seas of ice With horror and strange dread. Innumerable, In ever-winding labyrinths, glacier-thronged, Those mountains raise their heads among the stars, That palsied glimmer 'twixt their sunless bulks, O'er-shadowing seas and lands. O'er Joetunheim The glittering car of day hath never shone: There endless twilight broods. Beneath it sit The huge Frost-Giants, sons of Oergelmir, Themselves like mountains, solitary now, Now grouped, with knees drawn up, and heads low bent Plotting new wars. Those wars the Northman sang; And thunder-like rang out the vast applause. That hour Birinus whispered one close by: 'Not casual this! Ill spirits, be sure, this day, And impious men will launch their fiercest bolts To crush Christ's Faith for ever!' Jocund songs The bard sang next: how Thor had roamed disguised Through Joetunheim, and found the giant-brood Feasting; and how their king gave challenge thus: 'Sir, since you deign us visit, show us feats! Behold yon drinking horn! with us a child Drains it at draught.' The God inclined his head And swelled his lips; and three times drank: yet lo! Nigh full that horn remained, the dusky mead In mockery winking! Spake once more the king: 'Behold my youngest daughter's chief delight, Yon wild-cat grey! She lifts it: lift it thou!' The God beneath it slipped his arm and tugged, And tugging, ever higher rose and higher; The wild cat arched her back and with him rose;-- But one foot left the ground! Last, forward stept A haggard, lame, decrepid, toothless crone, And cried, 'Canst wrestle, friend?' He closed upon her: Firm stood she as a mountain: she in turn Closed upon Thor, and brought him to one knee: Lower she could not bend him. Thor for rage Clenched both his fists until his finger-joints Grew white as snow late fallen! Loud and long The laughter rose: the minstrel frowned dislike: 'I have against you somewhat, Wessex men! In laughter spasms ye reel, or shout applause, Music surceased. Like rocks your fathers sat; In every song they knew some mystery lay, Mystery of man or nature.