They know not love’s soft blandishment, they prize not music’s tone,
Their only pastime is to hear the cascade rushing down.
Heavily slumbering like bears in gelid caverns drear,
What doth avail heroic strength, if th’ hero be a bear?
Shall I ne’er listen to again the sound of Bragur’s harp?
At times on the good bard, I own, I used my wit too sharp.
In Fensal shall my eyes no more the fair Asynior woo?
My impudence no longer tinge with red their skin of snow?
No longer now shall Odin sage be overreach’d by me?
’Twas my chief sport to disconcert his stiff formality.