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. 

The sole true Something—This! In Limbo's Den
It frightens Ghosts, as here Ghosts frighten men.
Thence cross'd unseiz'd—and shall some fated hour
Be pulveris'd by Demogorgon's power,
And given as poison to annihilate souls—
Even now it shrinks them—they shrink in as Moles
(Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground)
Creep back from Light—then listen for its sound;—
See but to dread, and dread they know not why—
The natural alien of their negative eye.

'Tis a strange place, this Limbo!— not a Place,
Yet name it so;— where Time and weary Space
Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing,
Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;—
Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands
Barren and soundless as the measuring sands,
Not mark'd by flit of Shades,—unmeaning they
As moonlight on the dial of the day!
But that is lovely—looks like Human Time,—
An Old Man with a steady look sublime,
That stops his earthly task to watch the skies;
But he is blind—a Statue hath such eyes;—
Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance,
Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,
With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high,
He gazes still, — his eyeless face all eye;—
As 'twere an organ full of silent sight,
His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light!
Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb—
He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him!
No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure,
Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure,
By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all,
Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral.
A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation,
Yet that is but a Purgatory curse;
Hell knows a fear far worse,
A fear—a future state;— 'tis positive Negation!