Skáldskaparmál

125

     Against the maid, kinswoman
     Of the sedge-cowled giant.

     And the honor-lessener
     Of the Lady of the Sea-Crag
     Won foot-hold in the surging
     Of the hail-rolled leaping hill-spate;
     The rock-knave's swift Pursuer
     Passed the broad stream of his staff's road,
     Where the foam-flecked mighty rivers
     Frothed with raging venom.

     There they set the staves before them
     In the streaming grove of dogfish;
     The wind-wood's slippery pebbles,
     Smitten to speech, slept not;
     The clashing rod did rattle
     'Gainst the worn rocks, and the rapid
     Of the fells howled, storm-smitten,
     On the river's stony anvil.

     The Weaver of the Girdle
     Beheld the washing slope-stream
     Fall on his hard-grown shoulders:
     No help he found to save him;
     The Minisher of hill-folk
     Caused Might to grow within him
     Even to the roof of heaven,
     Till the rushing flood should ebb.

     The fair warriors of the Æsir,
     In battle wise, fast waded,



126

     And the surging pool, sward-sweeping,
     Streamed: the earth-drift's billow,
     Blown by the mighty tempest,
     Tugged with monstrous fury
     At the terrible oppressor
     Of the earth-born tribe of cave-folk.

     Till Thjálfi came uplifted
     On his lord Thor's wide shield-strap:
     That was a mighty thew-test
     For the Prop of Heaven; the maidens
     Of the harmful giant stiffly
     Held the stream stubborn against them;
     The Giantess-Destroyer
     With Grídr's staff fared sternly.

     Nor did their hearts of rancor
     Droop in the men unblemished,
     Nor courage 'gainst the headlong
     Fall of the current fail them:
     A fiercer-daring spirit
     Flamed in the dauntless God's breast,
     - With terror Thor's staunch heart-stone
     Trembled not, nor Thjálfi's.

     And afterward the haters
     Of the host of sword-companions,
     The shatterers of bucklers,
     Dinned on the shield of giants,
     Ere the destroying peoples
     Of the shingle-drift of monsters



127

     Wrought the helm-play of Hedinn
     'Gainst the rock-dwelling marksmen.

     The hostile folk of sea-heights
     Fled before the Oppressor
     Of headland tribes; the dalesmen
     Of the hill-tops, imperilled,
     Fled, when Odin's kindred
     Stood, enduring staunchly;
     The Danes of the flood-reef's border
     Bowed down to the Flame-Shaker.

     Where the chiefs, with thoughts of valor
     Imbued, marched into Thorn's house,
     A mighty crash resounded
     Of the cave's ring-wall; the slayer
     Of the mountain-reindeer-people
     On the giant-maiden's wide hood
     Was brought in bitter peril:
     There was baleful peace-talk.

     And they pressed the high head, bearing
     The piercing brow-moon's eye-flame
     Against the hill-hall's rafters;
     On the high roof-tree broken
     He crushed those raging women:
     The swinging Storm-car's Guider
     Burst the stout, ancient back-ridge
     And breast-bones of both women.

     Earth's Son became familiar
     With knowledge strange; the cave-men



128

     Of the land of stone o'ercame not,
     Nor long with ale were merry:
     The frightful elm-string's plucker,
     The friend of Sudri, hurtled
     The hot bar, in the forge fused,
     into the hand of Odin's Gladdener.

     So that Gunnr's Swift-Speeder
     Seized (the Friend of Freyja),
     With quick hand-gulps, the molten
     High-raised draught of metal,
     When the fire-brand, glowing,
     Flew with maddened fury
     From the giant's gripping fingers
     To the grim Sire of Thrúdr.

     The hall of the doughty trembled
     When he dashed the massy forehead
     Of the hill-wight 'gainst the bottom
     Of the house-wall's ancient column;
     Ulir's glorious step-sire
     With the glowing bar of mischief
     Struck with his whole strength downward
     At the hill-knave's mid-girdle.

     The God with gory hammer
     Crushed utterly Glaumr's lineage;
     The Hunter of the Kindred
     Of the hearth-dame was victorious;
     The Plucker of the Bow-String
     Lacked not his people's valor,-




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