GRIM

Beside the blaze of forty fires

Giant Grim doth sit,

Roasting a thick-woolled mountain sheep

Upon an iron spit.

Above him wheels the winter sky,

Beneath him, fathoms deep,

Lies hidden in the valley mists

A village fast asleep — -

Save for one restive hungry dog

That, snuffing towards the height,

Smells Grim's broiled supper-meat, and spies

His watch-fire twinkling bright.