Frightful clatt’ring round the hall.
But the clay-fashion’d chieftain was Mokkurcalf hight:
He struck on his shield, and presumed on his might;
But, pierced by the sword of young Tialf in the fray,
The horse-fiend fell down with a horrible neigh.
Now was heard the dying moan,
Many a shriek and many a groan!
Thor was dreadful in his ire;
Naught could tame his warlike fire.
Thousand giants round him lay,