To cheer him naught Valhalla’s joys avail:
The mead hath lost its wonted zest;
Sâhrimner’s flesh he scorns to taste.
Naught good his gloomy look betides;
The Asar he unceasingly derides.
Whene’er on Asa-Thor he thinks,
His dusky front in wrinkles sinks.
“On fresh adventure art thou started,
Thou mighty one!
And this time all alone;