In turmoil titanic and toil without end.
O, woe to the ship that the pitiless clutch
Of those crushing ice-demons drags down to her doom!
The path to the pole is o’er-scattered with such,
And deep sleep the heroes the tempests entomb.
Beneath the wan moon of the long arctic night
The frost-smitten sea stretches boundless and lone;
The Shores of the Dead Men loom spectral and white,
In Helheim, the death-goddess waits for her own.
But ho, to her hatred! the soul of the brave