They cease the glaive to brandish; their blood no longer flows;
They spring not up with laughter from the well-levell’d blows:
Nor roast flesh of Sâhrimner with appetite assail;
Nor drain the horn capacious, brimming with mead or ale.
No more in Freya’s garden are faithful lovers seen,
In ecstacy conversing under the bowers so green:
By passion warm’d no longer, they to the fountain throng,
Nor listen by the moonlight to Philomela’s song.
No more Hagbarth and Signe, when the blue wave beneath
The sun descends, now descant on their heroic death,