far more pleasing and convincing than any additional arguments we might be able to produce. Here they are: THOR’S FISHING. On the dark bottom of the great salt lake Imprisoned lay the giant snake, With naught his sullen sleep to break. Huge whales disported amorous o’er his neck; Little their sports the worm did reck, Nor his dark, vengeful thoughts would check. To move his iron fins he has no power, Nor yet to harm the trembling shore, With scaly rings he is covered o’er. His head he seeks ’mid coral rocks to hide, Nor e’er hath man his eye espied, Nor could its deadly glare abide. His eye-lids half in drowsy stupor close, But short and troubled his repose, As his quick heavy breathing shows. Muscles and crabs, and all the shelly race, In spacious banks still crowd for place A grisly beard, around his face. When Midgard’s worm his fetters strives to break, Riseth the sea, the mountains quake; The fiends in Naastrand merry make Rejoicing flames from Hecla’s caldron flash, Huge molten stones with deafening crash Fly out,—its scathed sides fire-streams wash. The affrighted sons of Ask do feel the shock, As the worm doth lie and rock, And sullen waiteth Ragnarok. To his foul craving maw naught e’er came ill; It never he doth cease to fill; Nath’ more his hungry pain can still. Upward by chance he turns his sleepy eye, And, over him suspended nigh, The gory head he doth espy. The serpent taken with his own deceit, Suspecting naught the daring cheat, Ravenous gulps down the bait. His leathern jaws the barbed steel compress, His ponderous head must leave the abyss; Dire was Jormungander’s hiss. In giant coils he writhes his length about, Poisonous streams he speweth out, But his struggles help him naught. The mighty Thor knoweth no peer in fight, The loathsome worm, his strength despite, Now o’ermatched must yield the fight. His grisly head Thor heaveth o’er the tide, No mortal eye the sight may hide, The scared waves haste i’ th’ sands to hide. As when accursed Naastrand yawns and burns, His impious throat ’gainst heaven he turns And with his tail the ocean spurns. The parched sky droops, darkness enwraps the sun; Now the matchless strength is shown Of the god whom warriors own. Around his loins he draws his girdle tight, His eye with triumph flashes bright, The frail boat splits aneath his weight; The frail boat splits,—but on the ocean’s ground Thor again hath footing found; Within his arms the worm is bound.