CANTO XI.

CONVERSATION BETWEEN LOK AND SIF.

LOK.

Pardon the lowly slave of love, Whom thy enchanting form inspires Once more to plead in amorous strain! O that thy heart would deign to prove The fervour that my bosom fires, And urge thy will to soothe my pain!

SIF.

With cautious step draws near the thief, And dextrously he opes the door; The cunning mouse creeps through the hole: While Lok, the dark insidious chief, Steals to my couch at midnight hour, For never rests his lustful soul.

LOK.

To catch the fish the worm is held; The trap ensnares the artful fox: All to some tempting bait must yield; Lok is allured by female locks.

SIF.

To thy own wife, to Sigyn hie! In flowing locks descends her raven hair: Or Angurbod with fond caresses ply! She will not, sure, refuse thy couch to share.

LOK.

Whene’er with thirst we languish, And no delicious fruit is nigh, The sourest apple to assuage our anguish We pluck, and swallow greedily: But when such charms as thine, O Disa dear! Before our ravish’d eyes appear, Who would not?--but while thou in sleep Indulgest, Thor goes fishing on the deep: Thoughtless of home he braves the gale, And with the giant bobs for whale. While he that wild career pursues, Do thou a softer pastime chuse! With foliage soft is fill’d thy bower-- Love points--propitious smiles the hour.

SIF.

Hast thou forgot in Mimer’s fane The banquet held? with amorous pray’r My heart thou strovest to ensnare; What was my answer? cold disdain. I am not changed; and Sif bestows Once more contempt on all thy vows. But be advised, and quickly flee! Thor may return, and on a tree He’d quick suspend thy odious form, To dangle in the midnight storm.

The Disa spoke: indignant pride Inflamed her look; she turn’d aside. And reckless of her suitor’s pain To sleep address’d herself again. Her golden tresses in profusion From the bedside hung streaming down, While Lok with anger and confusion Beheld all chance of conquest flown. But when her forehead’s grove appears In sight, by vengeance fired, the shears He takes, and with malignant pleasure Lops from her head its golden treasure.

Aloft the caitiff bears away With outspread wings his gorgeous prey! How meteor-like the tresses gleam, As through the murky heavens they stream! And falling down, where’er he flew, Give to the corn its golden hue!

Where’er he flew, down fell the hair In flakes, and tinged with colour fair The peasant-maidens’ locks, who dwell On Hertha’s isle or Guldbrand’s dale. Their locks of yore were black as jet, As Finnish women bear them yet: But now their tresses’ golden die May well with Freya’s, or with Gefion’s vie.