Fridthjof sits like the god of rain
High o'er beam and water,
Gives to all his orders plain,
Calm amid the slaughter.

Vain! the fire has the upper hand,
Smoke-clouds dense are growing,
Gold falls first on the red-hot sand,
Silver streams are flowing.

All is lost! to the half-burned hall
A fire-red cock is clinging,
He sits and crows on the roof-peak tall,
His loosened pinions swinging.

The wind-blown flame mounts the vaulted sky,
Everything it levels,
Balder's grove is summer dry,
The hungry fire-king revels.

Fiercely leaping from height to height
Aiming yet still higher;
O, what wild and terrific light!
Strong is Balder's pyre!

Hark, it crackles! the roots now burn,
The tops are fiery showers;
Muspel's ruddy children spurn
Man's mere human powers.