Which lies midst Dovre’s rocks so bleak,
Where fir-trees undulate with many a spire:
Her robes resuming quick, the Disa veils
Each charm, while passion Loptur’s breast assails
With still increasing fire.
She claps her helm her golden locks upon,
Which, moisten’d by the wave, less brilliant shone.
Now far inland she climbs the mountain steep:
Lok follows after cautious and unseen.
Arrived at her abode in the sequester’d glen,