Now towards the earth: he rolls along the sky,
And vapours foul, and howlings horrible
Conglomerate around his dusky brow.
But who ’gainst Surtur rushes to the fight?
’Tis Frey; but he turns pale, for now his sword
He hath not: hark! a trampling loud is heard
Of horses’ hoofs: ’tis Odin; see! he hastes
To join the combat, boldly piercing through
The thickest of the fight: upon his front
The scars of Geirsodd bleed afresh: his steed