Chapter III: A Storm

At times I am fast confined by my Master,
Who sendeth forth under the fertile plain
My broad bosom, but bridles me in.
He drives in the dark a dangerous power
5 To a narrow cave, where crushing my back
Sits the weight of the world. No way of escape
Can I find from the torment; so I tumble about
The homes of heroes. The halls with their gables,
The tribe-dwellings tremble; the trusty walls shake,
10 Steep over the head. Still seems the air
Over all the country and calm the waters,
Till I press in my fury from my prison below,
Obeying His bidding who bound me fast
In fetters at first when he fashioned the world,
15 In bonds and in chains, with no chance of escape
From his power who points out the paths I must follow.
Downward at times I drive the waves,
Stir up the streams; to the strand I press
The flint-gray flood: the foamy wave
20 Lashes the wall. A lurid mountain
Rises on the deep; dark in its trail
Stirred up with the sea a second one comes,
And close to the coast it clashes and strikes
On the lofty hills. Loud soundeth the boat,
25 The shouting of shipmen. Unshaken abide
The stone cliffs steep through the strife of the waters,
The dashing of waves, when the deadly tumult
Crowds to the coast. Of cruel strife
The sailors are certain if the sea drive their craft
30 With its terrified guests on the grim rolling tide;
They are sure that the ship will be shorn of its power,
Be deprived of its rule, and will ride foam-covered
On the ridge of the waves. Then ariseth a panic,
Fear among folk of the force that commands me,
35 Strong on my storm-track. Who shall still that power?
At times I drive through the dark wave-vessels
That ride on my back, and wrench them asunder
And lash them with sea-streams; or I let them again
Glide back together. It is the greatest of noises,
40 Of clamoring crowds, of crashes the loudest,
When clouds as they strive in their courses shall strike
Edge against edge; inky of hue
In flight o'er the folk bright fire they sweat,
A stream of flame; destruction they carry
45 Dark over men with a mighty din.
Fighting they fare. They let fall from their bosom
A deafening rain of rattling liquid,
Of storm from their bellies. In battle they strive,
The awful army; anguish arises,
50 Terror of mind to the tribes of men,
Distress in the strongholds, when the stalking goblins,
The pale ghosts shoot with their sharp weapons.
The fool alone fears not their fatal spears;
But he perishes too if the true God send
55 Straight from above in streams of rain,
Whizzing and whistling the whirlwind's arrows,
The flying death. Few shall survive
Whom that violent guest in his grimness shall visit.
I always stir up that strife and commotion;
60 Then I bear my course to the battle of clouds,
Powerfully strive and press through the tumult,
Over the bosom of the billows; bursteth loudly
The gathering of elements. Then again I descend
In my helmet of air and hover near the land,
65 And lift on my back the load I must bear,
Minding the mandates of the mighty Lord.
So I, a tried servant, sometimes contend:
Now under the earth; now from over the waves
I drive to the depths; now dropping from heaven,
70 I stir up the streams, or strive to the skies,
Where I war with the welkin. Wide do I travel,
Swift and noisily. Say now my name,
Or who raises me up when rest is denied me,
Or who stays my course when stillness comes to me?