Iii

Here well might Thor, the god of war, Harness the whirlwinds to his car, While, mailed in storm, his iron arm Heaves high his hammer's lava-form, And red and black his beard streams back, Like some fierce torrent scoriac, Whose earthquake light glares through the night Around some dark volcanic height; And through the skies Valkyrian cries Trumpet, as battleward he flies, Death in his hair and havoc in his eyes.