Be soil’d by the disgusting kiss of such a goblin foul?
Shall eyes, whose soul-subduing rays a power resistless prove,
Be doom’d to contemplate a form impossible to love?
No! rather let Yggdrassil’s top in Nastrond’s marsh corrode,
Or Bifrost sink dissolv’d in dew to Ægir’s deep abode!
Myself, who on the brink of heaven must watchful stand in arms,
I can but catch a fleeting glimpse of Freya’s matchless charms:
But when, each morning, crown’d with flowers she o’er my bridge doth pass,
With fecundating smile the realm of mother Earth to grace,
With tenfold zeal inspired, in hand my Gialler-horn I take;