Lord of the Plains of Trembling, Master of Bonds-men— Thor, 
Where are you sleeping, son of Earth, while the men go down to the war? 
Are the Giants slain and the Giants' Bane laid by, with its battles o'er? 

Do you sit by Sif and listen, O Thor the Thunderer, 
While she tunes her harp to a drowsy rhyme of woes and wars that were? 
Are the swords and slings forgotten things for love of the songs of her? 

Yet she is a God's own daughter, and the wild blood's in her, too — 
She has watched the young lives spilling, and trodden them down like dew: 
Does she not long for the seagull's song, and the ships in the midsea blue? 

Awake, O Sif, arise, O Sif, and bid thy lord up-stand, 
Draw close the belt about him, set Miolnir in his hand — 
Bid him rise and smite for Odin's right and the sake of Odin's land. 

For over the sleep of Bragi the fearless wild bees hum, 
And Frigga listens at her loom for steps that never come: 
And an ended story is Odin's glory, and the mouth of Mimir's dumb. 

Up, Thor, for Odin's honour: up, Sif, for the Thunderer's! 
Tho' Sigurd sleep at Brynhild's side, let sleep be his and hers! 
Open tho' late is Valhall gate, and the sleeping fire it stirs. 

Sing, Sif, till the heroes hear thee — and rise, and northward go 
Till the Warder wakes on Bifrost bridge and Balder wakes below; 
Till the Warder wakes and the sunrise breaks the frozen heart of the snow. 

Sing, Sif, till the ears of Odin hear thee, until Hel's door 
Be opened wide for Balder, and Frigga's watch be o'er — 
Sing, Gold-Hair, sing until Glasir ring with the steps of Tyr and Thor. 

Child of distress, who meet’st the bitter scorn
Of fellow-men to happier prospects born,
Doomed Art and Nature’s various stores to see
Flow in full cups of joy—and not for thee;
Who seest the rich, to heaven and fate resigned,
Bear thy afflictions with a patient mind;
Whose bursting heart disdains unjust control,
Who feel’st oppression’s iron in thy soul,
Who dragg’st the load of faint and feeble years,
Whose bread is anguish, and whose water tears;
Bear, bear thy wrongs—fulfill thy destined hour,
Bend thy meek neck beneath the foot of Power;
But when thou feel’st the great deliverer nigh,
And thy freed spirit mounting seeks the sky,
Let no vain fears thy parting hour molest,
No whispered terrors shake thy quiet breast:
Think not their threats can work thy future woe,
Nor deem the Lord above like lords below;—
Safe in the bosom of that love repose
By whom the sun gives light, the ocean flows;
Prepare to meet a Father undismayed,
Nor fear the God whom priests and kings have made.