On the drifting ice the courser sped

Across the stream, although it was dead.

GESTUR.

Who is it in ashes sleeps like a slave,

And seems neither life nor vigour to have?

Yet when ’tis angry, and throws off its mask,

O! then its mercy ’tis vain to ask.

SKIRNIR.

In the midst of ashes the glimmering spark

No one ever deigns to notice or mark: