Forest, lake, their march pursuing,
The proud Jotun race subduing;
Gefion, as a bulrush strait,
Hied one summer evening late
To where Svea’s fountain flows,
Where the Jetter’s dwelling rose
Built of wood; where Gyllfe’s hand
Levied tribute from the land,
Far as the wave, whose stormy spray
Scoops through the hills a double bay.