How I forbid with fatal ban
This maid the joys, the fruit of man.
Cold Grimner is that giant hight
Who you shall hold in realms of might;
Where slaves in cups of twisted roots
Shall bring foul beverage from the goats;
Nor sweeter draught, nor blither fare
Shall you, sad virgin, ever share.
’Tis done! I wind the mystic charm;
Thus, thus I trace the giant form;