Now little Roska ’gan to cower,
And closely grasp’d the hand of Thor.
Through many a winding gall’ry past,
They stumble on, or creep, or glide,
Until a flick’ring flame at last
Serves their ambiguous path to guide.
At length an opening towards the north
They find, and ’gainst it struggle forth;
To where the roof describes an arch,
And forms a vestibule, they march;