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.