They droop, but Thor cries out aloud:
“Now, by yon moon’s benignant rays,
“We may some dwelling find at last;
Let us inland our course pursue!”
O’er sand and ice they struggle fast,
While cold and bleak the north-wind blew.
Roska at length, with marching spent,
Implored her fellow-trav’llers’ aid;
Lok carried now the damsel faint,
Lok ever lov’d a beauteous maid.