BALDER DEAD.[6]

O mostjust vizier, send awayThe cloth-merchants, and let them be,Them and their dues, this day! the kingIs ill at ease, and calls for thee.

THE VIZIER.

O merchants, tarry yet a dayHere in Bokhara! but at noonTo-morrow come, and ye shall payEach fortieth web of cloth to me,As the law is, and go your way.O Hussein, lead me to the king!Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead!How is it with my lord?

O merchants, tarry yet a dayHere in Bokhara! but at noonTo-morrow come, and ye shall payEach fortieth web of cloth to me,As the law is, and go your way.

O Hussein, lead me to the king!Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead!How is it with my lord?

HUSSEIN.

Alone,Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,O vizier! without lying down,In the great window of the gate,Looking into the Registàn,Where through the sellers’ booths the slavesAre this way bringing the dead manO vizier, here is the king’s door!

THE KING.

O vizier, I may bury him?

THE VIZIER.

O king, thou know’st, I have been sickThese many days, and heard no thing(For Allah shut my ears and mind),Not even what thou dost, O king!Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make hasteTo speak in order what hath chanced.

THE KING.

O vizier, be it as thou say’st!

HUSSEIN.

Threedays since, at the time of prayer,A certain Moollah, with his robeAll rent, and dust upon his hair,Watched my lord’s coming forth, and pushedThe golden mace-bearers aside,And fell at the king’s feet, and cried,—“Justice, O king, and on myself!On this great sinner, who did breakThe law, and by the law must die!Vengeance, O king!”But the king spake:“What fool is this, that hurts our earsWith folly? or what drunken slave?My guards, what! prick him with your spears!Prick me the fellow from the path!”As the king said, so was it done,And to the mosque my lord passed on.But on the morrow, when the kingWent forth again, the holy bookCarried before him, as is right,And through the square his way he took;My man comes running, flecked with bloodFrom yesterday, and falling downCries out most earnestly, “O king,My lord, O king, do right, I pray!“How canst thou, ere thou hear, discernIf I speak folly? but a king,Whether a thing be great or small,Like Allah, hears and judges all.“Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierceIn these last days the sun hath burned;That the green water in the tanksIs to a putrid puddle turned;And the canal, that from the streamOf Samarcand is brought this way,Wastes and runs thinner every day.‘Now I at nightfall had gone forthAlone, and in a darksome placeUnder some mulberry-trees I foundA little pool; and in short spaceWith all the water that was thereI filled my pitcher, and stole homeUnseen; and having drink to spare,I hid the can behind the door,And went up on the roof to sleep.“But in the night, which was with windAnd burning dust, again I creepDown, having fever, for a drink.“Now, meanwhile had my brethren foundThe water-pitcher, where it stoodBehind the door upon the ground,And called my mother; and they all,As they were thirsty, and the nightMost sultry, drained the pitcher there;That they sate with it, in my sight,Their lips still wet, when I came down.“Now mark! I, being fevered, sick,(Most unblest also), at that sightBrake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—One was my mother.—— Now do right!”But my lord mused a space, and said,—“Send him away, sirs, and make on!It is some madman,” the king said.As the king bade, so was it done.The morrow, at the self-same hour,In the king’s path, behold, the man,Not kneeling, sternly fixed! He stoodRight opposite, and thus began,Frowning grim down: “Thou wicked king,Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!What! must I howl in the next world,Because thou wilt not listen here?“What! wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,And all grace shall to me be grudged?Nay, but I swear, from this thy pathI will not stir till I be judged!”Then they who stood about the kingDrew close together, and conferred;Till that the king stood forth, and said,“Before the priests thou shalt be heard.”But when the Ulemas were met,And the thing heard, they doubted not;But sentenced him, as the law is,To die by stoning on the spot.Now the king charged us secretly:“Stoned must he be, the law stands so.Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:Hinder him not, but let him go.”So saying, the king took a stone,And cast it softly; but the man,With a great joy upon his face,Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.So they, whose lot it was, cast stones,That they flew thick, and bruised him sore.But he praised Allah with loud voice,And remained kneeling as before.My lord had covered up his face;But when one told him, “He is dead,”Turning him quickly to go in,“Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said.And truly, while I speak, O king,I hear the bearers on the stair:Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

“Justice, O king, and on myself!On this great sinner, who did breakThe law, and by the law must die!Vengeance, O king!”

But the king spake:“What fool is this, that hurts our earsWith folly? or what drunken slave?My guards, what! prick him with your spears!Prick me the fellow from the path!”

As the king said, so was it done,And to the mosque my lord passed on.

But on the morrow, when the kingWent forth again, the holy bookCarried before him, as is right,And through the square his way he took;

My man comes running, flecked with bloodFrom yesterday, and falling downCries out most earnestly, “O king,My lord, O king, do right, I pray!

“How canst thou, ere thou hear, discernIf I speak folly? but a king,Whether a thing be great or small,Like Allah, hears and judges all.

“Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierceIn these last days the sun hath burned;That the green water in the tanksIs to a putrid puddle turned;And the canal, that from the streamOf Samarcand is brought this way,Wastes and runs thinner every day.

‘Now I at nightfall had gone forthAlone, and in a darksome placeUnder some mulberry-trees I foundA little pool; and in short spaceWith all the water that was thereI filled my pitcher, and stole homeUnseen; and having drink to spare,I hid the can behind the door,And went up on the roof to sleep.

“But in the night, which was with windAnd burning dust, again I creepDown, having fever, for a drink.

“Now, meanwhile had my brethren foundThe water-pitcher, where it stoodBehind the door upon the ground,And called my mother; and they all,As they were thirsty, and the nightMost sultry, drained the pitcher there;That they sate with it, in my sight,Their lips still wet, when I came down.

“Now mark! I, being fevered, sick,(Most unblest also), at that sightBrake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—One was my mother.—— Now do right!”

But my lord mused a space, and said,—“Send him away, sirs, and make on!It is some madman,” the king said.As the king bade, so was it done.

The morrow, at the self-same hour,In the king’s path, behold, the man,Not kneeling, sternly fixed! He stoodRight opposite, and thus began,Frowning grim down: “Thou wicked king,Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!What! must I howl in the next world,Because thou wilt not listen here?

“What! wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,And all grace shall to me be grudged?Nay, but I swear, from this thy pathI will not stir till I be judged!”

Then they who stood about the kingDrew close together, and conferred;Till that the king stood forth, and said,“Before the priests thou shalt be heard.”

But when the Ulemas were met,And the thing heard, they doubted not;But sentenced him, as the law is,To die by stoning on the spot.

Now the king charged us secretly:“Stoned must he be, the law stands so.Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:Hinder him not, but let him go.”

So saying, the king took a stone,And cast it softly; but the man,With a great joy upon his face,Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones,That they flew thick, and bruised him sore.But he praised Allah with loud voice,And remained kneeling as before.

My lord had covered up his face;But when one told him, “He is dead,”Turning him quickly to go in,“Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said.

And truly, while I speak, O king,I hear the bearers on the stair:Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

THE VIZIER.

O king, in this I praise thee not!Now must I call thy grief not wise.Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,To find such favor in thine eyes?Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,Still thou art king, and the law stands.It were not meet the balance swerved,The sword were broken in thy hands.But being nothing, as he is,Why for no cause make sad thy face?Lo, I am old! three kings ere theeHave I seen reigning in this place.But who, through all this length of time,Could bear the burden of his years,If he for strangers pained his heartNot less than those who merit tears?Fathers wemusthave, wife and child,And grievous is the grief for these;This pain alone, whichmustbe borne,Makes the head white, and bows the knees.But other loads than this his own,One man is not well made to bear.Besides, to each are his own friends,To mourn with him, and show him care.Look, this is but one single place,Though it be great; all the earth round,If a man bear to have it so,Things which might vex him shall be found.Upon the Russian frontier, whereThe watchers of two armies standNear one another, many a man,Seeking a prey unto his hand,Hath snatched a little fair-haired slave;They snatch also, towards Mervè,The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,And up from thence to Orgunjè.And these all, laboring for a lord,Eat not the fruit of their own hands;Which is the heaviest of all plagues,To that man’s mind who understands.The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)Vex one another, night and day;There are the lepers, and all sick;There are the poor, who faint alway.All these have sorrow, and keep still,Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.Wilt thou have pity on all these?No, nor on this dead dog, O king!

O king, in this I praise thee not!Now must I call thy grief not wise.Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,To find such favor in thine eyes?

Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,Still thou art king, and the law stands.It were not meet the balance swerved,The sword were broken in thy hands.

But being nothing, as he is,Why for no cause make sad thy face?Lo, I am old! three kings ere theeHave I seen reigning in this place.

But who, through all this length of time,Could bear the burden of his years,If he for strangers pained his heartNot less than those who merit tears?

Fathers wemusthave, wife and child,And grievous is the grief for these;This pain alone, whichmustbe borne,Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

But other loads than this his own,One man is not well made to bear.Besides, to each are his own friends,To mourn with him, and show him care.

Look, this is but one single place,Though it be great; all the earth round,If a man bear to have it so,Things which might vex him shall be found.

Upon the Russian frontier, whereThe watchers of two armies standNear one another, many a man,Seeking a prey unto his hand,

Hath snatched a little fair-haired slave;They snatch also, towards Mervè,The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,And up from thence to Orgunjè.

And these all, laboring for a lord,Eat not the fruit of their own hands;Which is the heaviest of all plagues,To that man’s mind who understands.

The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)Vex one another, night and day;There are the lepers, and all sick;There are the poor, who faint alway.

All these have sorrow, and keep still,Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.Wilt thou have pity on all these?No, nor on this dead dog, O king!

THE KING.

O vizier, thou art old, I young!Clear in these things I cannot see.My head is burning, and a heatIs in my skin which angers me.But hear ye this, ye sons of men!They that bear rule, and are obeyed,Unto a rule more strong than theirsAre in their turn obedient made.In vain therefore, with wistful eyesGazing up hither, the poor man,Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,Below there, in the Registàn,—Says, “Happy he who lodges there!With silken raiment, store of rice,And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,—“With cherries served in drifts of snow.”In vain hath a king power to buildHouses, arcades, enamelled mosques;And to make orchard-closes, filledWith curious fruit-trees brought from far,With cisterns for the winter-rain,And, in the desert, spacious innsIn divers places,—if that painIs not more lightened, which he feels,If his will be not satisfied;And that it be not, from all timeThe law is planted, to abide.Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,That, though we take what we desire,We must not snatch it eagerly.And I have meat and drink at will,And rooms of treasures, not a few.But I am sick, nor heed I these;And what I would, I cannot do.Even the great honor which I have,When I am dead, will soon grow still;So have I neither joy, nor fame.But what I can do, that I will.I have a fretted brick-work tombUpon a hill on the right hand,Hard by a close of apricots,Upon the road of Samarcand;Thither, O vizier, will I bearThis man my pity could not save,And, plucking up the marble flags,There lay his body in my grave.Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls!Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!Then say, “He was not wholly vile,Because a king shall bury him.”

O vizier, thou art old, I young!Clear in these things I cannot see.My head is burning, and a heatIs in my skin which angers me.

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!They that bear rule, and are obeyed,Unto a rule more strong than theirsAre in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyesGazing up hither, the poor man,Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,Below there, in the Registàn,—

Says, “Happy he who lodges there!With silken raiment, store of rice,And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,—

“With cherries served in drifts of snow.”In vain hath a king power to buildHouses, arcades, enamelled mosques;And to make orchard-closes, filled

With curious fruit-trees brought from far,With cisterns for the winter-rain,And, in the desert, spacious innsIn divers places,—if that pain

Is not more lightened, which he feels,If his will be not satisfied;And that it be not, from all timeThe law is planted, to abide.

Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,That, though we take what we desire,We must not snatch it eagerly.

And I have meat and drink at will,And rooms of treasures, not a few.But I am sick, nor heed I these;And what I would, I cannot do.

Even the great honor which I have,When I am dead, will soon grow still;So have I neither joy, nor fame.But what I can do, that I will.

I have a fretted brick-work tombUpon a hill on the right hand,Hard by a close of apricots,Upon the road of Samarcand;

Thither, O vizier, will I bearThis man my pity could not save,And, plucking up the marble flags,There lay his body in my grave.

Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls!Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!Then say, “He was not wholly vile,Because a king shall bury him.”

Soon the floor lay Balder dead; and roundLay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears,Which all the gods in sport had idly thrownAt Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove;But in his breast stood fixed the fatal boughOf mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gaveTo Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw threw—’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.And all the gods and all the heroes came,And stood round Balder on the bloody floor,Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rangUp to its golden roof with sobs and cries;And on the tables stood the untasted meats,And in the horns and gold-rimmed sculls the wine.And now would night have fallen, and found them yetWailing; but otherwise was Odin’s will.And thus the Father of the ages spake:—“Enough of tears, ye gods, enough of wail!Not to lament in was Valhalla made.If any here might weep for Balder’s death,I most might weep, his father; such a sonI lose to-day, so bright, so loved a god.But he has met that doom which long agoThe Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun,And fate set seal, that so his end must be.Balder has met his death, and ye survive.Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail?For ye yourselves, ye gods, shall meet your doom,—All ye who hear me, and inhabit heaven,And I too, Odin too, the lord of all.But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes,With women’s tears and weak complaining cries:Why should we meet another’s portion so?Rather it fits you, having wept your hour,With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern,To live, as erst, your daily life in heaven.By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok,The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate,Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day.Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns,Bring wood to the seashore to Balder’s ship,And on the deck build high a funeral pile,And on the top lay Balder’s corpse, and putFire to the wood, and send him out to seaTo burn; for that is what the dead desire.”So spake the king of gods, and straightway rose,And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode;And from the hall of heaven he rode awayTo Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne,The mount, from whence his eye surveys the world.And far from heaven he turned his shining orbsTo look on Midgard, and the earth, and men.And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze,Whom antlered reindeer pull over the snow;And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind,Fair men, who live in holes under the ground;Nor did he look once more to Ida’s plain,Nor toward Valhalla and the sorrowing gods;For well he knew the gods would heed his word,And cease to mourn, and think of Balder’s pyre.But in Valhalla all the gods went backFrom around Balder, all the heroes went;And left his body stretched upon the floor.And on their golden chairs they sate again,Beside the tables, in the hall of heaven;And before each the cooks who served them placedNew messes of the boar Serimner’s flesh,And the Valkyries crowned their horns with mead.So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes,Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank,While twilight fell, and sacred night came on.But the blind Hoder left the feasting godsIn Odin’s hall, and went through Asgard streets,And past the haven where the gods have mooredTheir ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall;Though sightless, yet his own mind led the god.Down to the margin of the roaring seaHe came, and sadly went along the sand,Between the waves and black o’erhanging cliffsWhere in and out the screaming seafowl fly;Until he came to where a gully breaksThrough the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs downFrom the high moors behind, and meets the sea.There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the houseOf Frea, honored mother of the gods,And shows its lighted windows to the main.There he went up, and passed the open doors;And in the hall he found those women old,The prophetesses, who by rite eterneOn Frea’s hearth feed high the sacred fireBoth night and day; and by the inner wallUpon her golden chair the mother sate,With folded hands, revolving things to come.To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said,—“Mother, a child of bale thou bar’st in me!For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes,Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in heaven;And, after that, of ignorant witless mindThou barest me, and unforeseeing soul;That I alone must take the branch from Lok,The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate,And cast it at the dear-loved Balder’s breast,At whom the gods in sport their weapons threw.’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly,For who will bear my hateful sight in heaven?Can I, O mother, bring them Balder back?Or—for thou know’st the fates, and things allowed—Can I with Hela’s power a compact strike,And make exchange, and give my life for his?”He spoke: the mother of the gods replied,—“Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son,Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these?That one, long portioned with his doom of death,Should change his lot, and fill another’s life,And Hela yield to this, and let him go!On Balder, Death hath laid her hand, not thee;Nor doth she count this life a price for that.For many gods in heaven, not thou alone,Would freely die to purchase Balder back,And wend themselves to Hela’s gloomy realm.For not so gladsome is that life in heavenWhich gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray,Waiting the darkness of the final times,That one should grudge its loss for Balder’s sake,—Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a god.But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way.Yet in my secret mind one way I know,Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail;But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.”And the blind Hoder answered her, and said,—“What way is this, O mother, that thou show’st?Is it a matter which a god might try?”And straight the mother of the gods replied,—“There is a way which leads to Hela’s realm,Untrodden, lonely, far from light and heaven.Who goes that way must take no other horseTo ride, but Sleipner, Odin’s horse, alone.Nor must he choose that common path of godsWhich every day they come and go in heaven,O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,Past Midgard fortress, down to earth and men.But he must tread a dark untravelled roadWhich branches from the north of heaven, and rideNine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice,Through valleys deep-ingulfed with roaring streams.And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridgeWhich spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps,Who tells the passing troops of dead their wayTo the low shore of ghosts, and Hela’s realm.And she will bid him northward steer his course.Then he will journey through no lighted land,Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set;But he must ever watch the northern Bear,Who from her frozen height with jealous eyeConfronts the Dog and Hunter in the south,And is alone not dipt in ocean’s stream;And straight he will come down to ocean’s strand,—Ocean, whose watery ring infolds the world,And on whose marge the ancient giants dwell.But he will reach its unknown northern shore,Far, far beyond the outmost giant’s home,At the chinked fields of ice, the wastes of snow.And he must fare across the dismal iceNorthward, until he meets a stretching wallBarring his way, and in the wall a grate.But then he must dismount, and on the iceTighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,And make him leap the grate, and come within.And he will see stretch round him Hela’s realm,The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,And hear the roaring of the streams of hell.And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes,And Balder sitting crowned, and Hela’s throne.Then must he not regard the wailful ghostsWho all will flit, like eddying leaves, around;But he must straight accost their solemn queen,And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers,Telling her all that grief they have in heavenFor Balder, whom she holds by right below;If haply he may melt her heart with words,And make her yield, and give him Balder back.”She spoke; but Hoder answered her and said,—“Mother, a dreadful way is this thou show’st;No journey for a sightless god to go!”And straight the mother of the gods replied,—“Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son.But he whom first thou meetest when thou com’stTo Asgard, and declar’st this hidden way,Shall go; and I will be his guide unseen.”She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil,And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands.But at the central hearth those women old,Who while the mother spake had ceased their toil,Began again to heap the sacred fire.And Hoder turned, and left his mother’s house,Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea;And came again down to the roaring waves,And back along the beach to Asgard went,Pondering on that which Frea said should be.But night came down, and darkened Asgard streets.Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose,And lighted torches, and took up the corpseOf Balder from the floor of Odin’s hall,And laid it on a bier, and bare him homeThrough the fast-darkening streets to his own houseBreidablik, on whose columns Balder gravedThe enchantments that recall the dead to life.For wise he was, and many curious arts,Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew;Unhappy! but that art he did not know,To keep his own life safe, and see the sun.There to his hall the gods brought Balder home,And each bespake him as he laid him down,—“Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borneHome to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin,So thou might’st live, and still delight the gods!”They spake, and each went home to his own house.But there was one, the first of all the godsFor speed, and Hermod was his name in heaven;Most fleet he was, but now he went the last,Heavy in heart for Balder, to his houseWhich he in Asgard built him, there to dwell,Against the harbor, by the city-wall.Him the blind Hoder met, as he came upFrom the sea cityward, and knew his step;Nor yet could Hermod see his brother’s face,For it grew dark; but Hoder touched his arm.And as a spray of honeysuckle-flowersBrushes across a tired traveller’s faceWho shuffles through the deep dew-moistened dust,On a May evening, in the darkened lanes,And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by,—So Hoder brushed by Hermod’s side, and said,—“Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawnTo Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back;And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.”He spake, and brushed soft by, and disappeared.And Hermod gazed into the night, and said,—“Who is it utters through the dark his bestSo quickly, and will wait for no reply?The voice was like the unhappy Hoder’s voice.Howbeit I will see, and do his hest;For there rang note divine in that command.”So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod cameHome, and lay down to sleep in his own house;And all the gods lay down in their own homes.And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief,Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other gods;And he went in, and shut the door, and fixedHis sword upright, and fell on it, and died.But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose,—The throne from which his eye surveys the world,—And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rodeTo Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven,High over Asgard, to light home the king.But fiercely Odin galloped, moved in heart;And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came;And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rangAlong the flinty floor of Asgard streets;And the gods trembled on their golden bedsHearing the wrathful Father coming home,—For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came.And to Valhalla’s gate he rode, and leftSleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall;And in Valhalla Odin laid him down.But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder’s wife,Came with the goddesses who wrought her will,And stood by Balder lying on his bier.And at his head and feet she stationed scaldsWho in their lives were famous for their song;These o’er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain,A dirge,—and Nanna and her train replied.And far into the night they wailed their dirge;But when their souls were satisfied with wail,They went, and laid them down, and Nanna wentInto an upper chamber, and lay down;And Frea sealed her tired lids with sleep.And ’twas when night is bordering hard on dawn,When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low;Then Balder’s spirit through the gloom drew near,In garb, in form, in feature, as he was,Alive; and still the rays were round his headWhich were his glorious mark in heaven; he stoodOver against the curtain of the bed,And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake,—“Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett’st thy woe!Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes,Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek; but thou,Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep.Sleep on; I watch thee, and am here to aid.Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul!Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead.For with to-morrow’s dawn the gods prepareTo gather wood, and build a funeral-pileUpon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire,That sad, sole honor of the dead; and theeThey think to burn, and all my choicest wealth,With me, for thus ordains the common rite.But it shall not be so; but mild, but swift,But painless, shall a stroke from Frea come,To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul,And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee.And well I know that by no stroke of death,Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die,So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side,Whom thou so well hast loved; but I can smoothThy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail.Yes, and I fain would altogether wardDeath from thy head, and with the gods in heavenProlong thy life, though not by thee desired;But right bars this, not only thy desire.Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they leadIn that dim world, in Hela’s mouldering realm;And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead,Whom Hela with austere control presides.For of the race of gods is no one there,Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen.For all the nobler souls of mortal menOn battle-field have met their death, and nowFeast in Valhalla, in my father’s hall:Only the inglorious sort are there below;The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,—Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay.But even there, O Nanna, we might findSome solace in each other’s look and speech,Wandering together through that gloomy world,And talking of the life we led in heaven,While we yet lived, among the other gods.”He spake, and straight his lineaments beganTo fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretched outHer arms towards him with a cry; but heMournfully shook his head, and disappeared.And as the woodman sees a little smokeHang in the air afield, and disappear,So Balder faded in the night away.And Nanna on her bed sank back; but thenFrea, the mother of the gods, with strokePainless and swift, set free her airy soul,Which took, on Balder’s track, the way below;And instantly the sacred morn appeared.

Forthfrom the east, up the ascent of heaven,Day drove his courser with the shining mane;And in Valhalla, from his gable-perch,The golden-crested cock began to crow.Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night,With shrill and dismal cries that bird shall crow,Warning the gods that foes draw nigh to heaven;But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note,To wake the gods and heroes to their tasks.And all the gods and all the heroes woke.And from their beds the heroes rose, and donnedTheir arms, and led their horses from the stall,And mounted them, and in Valhalla’s courtWere ranged; and then the daily fray began.And all day long they there are hacked and hewn’Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopped off, and blood;But all at night return to Odin’s hallWoundless and fresh: such lot is theirs in heaven.And the Valkyries on their steeds went forthToward earth and fights of men; and at their sideSkulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode;And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,Past Midgard fortress, down to earth they came;There through some battle-field, where men fall fast,Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride,And pick the bravest warriors out for death,Whom they bring back with them at night to heaven,To glad the gods, and feast in Odin’s hall.But the gods went not now, as otherwhile,Into the tilt-yard, where the heroes fought,To feast their eyes with looking on the fray;Nor did they to their judgment-place repairBy the ash Igdrasil, in Ida’s plain,Where they hold council, and give laws for men.But they went, Odin first, the rest behind,To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold;Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs,And in the midst one higher, Odin’s throne.There all the gods in silence sate them down;And thus the Father of the ages spake:—“Go quickly, gods, bring wood to the seashore,With all which it beseems the dead to have,And make a funeral-pile on Balder’s ship;On the twelfth day the gods shall burn his corpse.But, Hermod, thou take Sleipner, and ride downTo Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back.”So said he; and the gods arose, and tookAxes and ropes, and at their head came Thor,Shouldering his hammer, which the giants know.Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before.And up the dewy mountain tracks they faredTo the dark forests, in the early dawn;And up and down, and side and slant they roamed.And from the glens all day an echo cameOf crashing falls; for with his hammer ThorSmote ’mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines,And burst their roots, while to their tops the godsMade fast the woven ropes, and haled them down,And lopped their boughs, and clove them on the sward,And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw,And drave them homeward; and the snorting steedsWent straining through the crackling brushwood down,And by the darkling forest-paths the godsFollowed, and on their shoulders carried boughs.And they came out upon the plain, and passedAsgard, and led their horses to the beach,And loosed them of their loads on the seashore,And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder’s ship;And every god went home to his own house.But when the gods were to the forest gone,Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth,And saddled him: before that, Sleipner brookedNo meaner hand than Odin’s on his mane,On his broad back no lesser rider bore;Yet docile now he stood at Hermod’s side,Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode,Knowing the god they went to seek, how dear.But Hermod mounted him, and sadly faredIn silence up the dark untravelled roadWhich branches from the north of heaven, and wentAll day; and daylight waned, and night came on.And all that night he rode, and journeyed so,Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice,Through valleys deep-ingulfed, by roaring streams.And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridgeWhich spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,And on the bridge a damsel watching armed,In the strait passage, at the farther end,Where the road issues between walling rocks.Scant space that warder left for passers-by;But as when cowherds in October driveTheir kine across a snowy mountain passTo winter pasture on the southern side,And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way,Wedged in the snow; then painfully the hindsWith goad and shouting urge their cattle past,Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snowTo right and left, and warm steam fills the air,—So on the bridge that damsel blocked the way,And questioned Hermod as he came, and said,—“Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse,Under whose hoofs the bridge o’er Giall’s streamRumbles and shakes? Tell me thy race and home.But yester-morn, five troops of dead passed by,Bound on their way below to Hela’s realm,Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone.And thou hast flesh and color on thy cheeks,Like men who live, and draw the vital air;Nor look’st thou pale and wan, like men deceased,Souls bound below, my daily passers here.”And the fleet-footed Hermod answered her,—“O damsel, Hermod am I called, the sonOf Odin; and my high-roofed house is builtFar hence, in Asgard, in the city of gods;And Sleipner, Odin’s horse, is this I ride.And I come, sent this road on Balder’s track:Say, then, if he hath crossed thy bridge or no?”He spake; the warder of the bridge replied,—“O Hermod, rarely do the feet of godsOr of the horses of the gods resoundUpon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know.Balder hath gone this way, and ta’en the roadBelow there, to the north, toward Hela’s realm.From here the cold white mist can be discerned,Not lit with sun, but through the darksome airBy the dim vapor-blotted light of stars,Which hangs over the ice where lies the road.For in that ice are lost those northern streams,Freezing and ridging in their onward flow,Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run,The spring that bubbles up by Hela’s throne.There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts,Hela’s pale swarms; and there was Balder bound.Ride on! pass free! but he by this is there.”She spake, and stepped aside, and left him room.And Hermod greeted her, and galloped byAcross the bridge; then she took post again.But northward Hermod rode, the way below;And o’er a darksome tract, which knows no sun,But by the blotted light of stars, he fared.And he came down to ocean’s northern strand,At the drear ice, beyond the giants’ home.Thence on he journeyed o’er the fields of iceStill north, until he met a stretching wallBarring his way, and in the wall a grate.Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths,On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,And made him leap the grate, and came within.And he beheld spread round him Hela’s realm,The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,And heard the thunder of the streams of hell.For near the wall the river of Roaring flows,Outmost; the others near the centre run,—The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain;These flow by Hela’s throne, and near their spring.And from the dark flocked up the shadowy tribes;And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-bedsOf some clear river, issuing from a lake,On autumn-days, before they cross the sea;And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangsSwinging, and others skim the river-streams,And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores,—So around Hermod swarmed the twittering ghosts.Women, and infants, and young men who diedToo soon for fame, with white ungraven shields;And old men, known to glory, but their starBetrayed them, and of wasting age they died,Not wounds; yet, dying, they their armor wore,And now have chief regard in Hela’s realm.Behind flocked wrangling up a piteous crew,Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn,—Cowards, who were in sloughs interred alive;And round them still the wattled hurdles hungWherewith they stamped them down, and trod them deep,To hide their shameful memory from men.But all he passed unhailed, and reached the throneOf Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crowned,And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern;And thus bespake him first the solemn queen:—“Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leaveThe light, and journey to the cheerless landWhere idly flit about the feeble shades?How didst thou cross the bridge o’er Giall’s stream,Being alive, and come to ocean’s shore?Or how o’erleap the grate that bars the wall?”She spake; but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang,And fell before her feet, and clasped her knees;And spake, and mild entreated her, and said,—“O Hela, wherefore should the gods declareTheir errands to each other, or the waysThey go? the errand and the way is known.Thou know’st, thou know’st, what grief we have in heavenFor Balder, whom thou hold’st by right below.Restore him! for what part fulfils he here?Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats,And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy?Not for such end, O queen, thou hold’st thy realm.For heaven was Balder born, the city of godsAnd heroes, where they live in light and joy.Thither restore him, for his place is there!”He spoke; and grave replied the solemn queen,—“Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of heaven!A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine.Do the gods send to me to make them blest?Small bliss my race hath of the gods obtained.Three mighty children to my father LokDid Angerbode, the giantess, bring forth,—Fenris the wolf, the serpent huge, and me.Of these the serpent in the sea ye cast,Who since in your despite hath waxed amain,And now with gleaming ring infolds the world;Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw,And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule;While on his island in the lake afar,Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strengthSubdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound.Lok still subsists in heaven, our father wise,Your mate, though loathed, and feasts in Odin’s hall;But him too foes await, and netted snares,And in a cave a bed of needle-rocks,And o’er his visage serpents dropping gall.Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds,And with himself set us his offspring free,When he guides Muspel’s children to their bourne.Till then in peril or in pain we live,Wrought by the gods—and ask the gods our aid?Howbeit, we abide our day: till then,We do not as some feebler haters do,—Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs,Helpless to better us, or ruin them.Come, then! if Balder was so dear beloved,And this is true, and such a loss is heaven’s,—Hear how to heaven may Balder be restored.Show me through all the world the signs of grief!Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops!Let all that lives and moves upon the earthWeep him, and all that is without life weep;Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.So shall I know the lost was dear indeed,And bend my heart, and give him back to heaven.”She spake; and Hermod answered her, and said,—“Hela, such as thou say’st, the terms shall be.But come, declare me this, and truly tell:May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail,Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?”He spake; and straightway Hela answered him,—“Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and holdConverse; his speech remains, though he be dead.”And straight to Balder Hermod turned, and spake:“Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail!Thou hear’st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine,The terms of thy releasement hence to heaven;Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfilled.For not unmindful of thee are the gods,Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell;Even here they seek thee out, in Hela’s realm.And, sure, of all the happiest far art thouWho ever have been known in earth or heaven:Alive, thou wast of gods the most beloved;And now thou sittest crowned by Hela’s side,Here, and hast honor among all the dead.”He spake; and Balder uttered him reply,But feebly, as a voice far off; he said,—“Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death!Better to live a serf, a captured man,Who scatters rushes in a master’s hall,Than be a crowned king here, and rule the dead.And now I count not of these terms as safeTo be fulfilled, nor my return as sure,Though I be loved, and many mourn my death;For double-minded ever was the seedOf Lok, and double are the gifts they give.Howbeit, report thy message; and therewith,To Odin, to my father, take this ring,Memorial of me, whether saved or no;And tell the heaven-born gods how thou hast seenMe sitting here below by Hela’s side,Crowned, having honor among all the dead.”He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring.And with inscrutable regard the queenOf hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb.But Hermod took the ring, and yet once moreKneeled and did homage to the solemn queen;Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to rideBack, through the astonished tribes of dead, to heaven.And to the wall he came, and found the grateLifted, and issued on the fields of ice.And o’er the ice he fared to ocean’s strand,And up from thence, a wet and misty road,To the armed damsel’s bridge, and Giall’s stream.Worse was that way to go than to return,For him: for others, all return is barred.Nine days he took to go, two to return,And on the twelfth morn saw the light of heaven.And as a traveller in the early dawnTo the steep edge of some great valley comes,Through which a river flows, and sees, beneath,Clouds of white rolling vapors fill the vale,But o’er them, on the farther slope, descriesVineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun,—So Hermod, o’er the fog between, saw heaven.And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the airOf heaven; and mightily, as winged, he flew.And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise;And he drew near, and heard no living voiceIn Asgard; and the golden halls were dumb.Then Hermod knew what labor held the gods;And through the empty streets he rode, and passedUnder the gate-house to the sands, and foundThe gods on the seashore by Balder’s ship.

But when the gods were to the forest gone,Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth,And saddled him: before that, Sleipner brookedNo meaner hand than Odin’s on his mane,On his broad back no lesser rider bore;Yet docile now he stood at Hermod’s side,Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode,Knowing the god they went to seek, how dear.But Hermod mounted him, and sadly faredIn silence up the dark untravelled roadWhich branches from the north of heaven, and wentAll day; and daylight waned, and night came on.And all that night he rode, and journeyed so,Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice,Through valleys deep-ingulfed, by roaring streams.And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridgeWhich spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,And on the bridge a damsel watching armed,In the strait passage, at the farther end,Where the road issues between walling rocks.Scant space that warder left for passers-by;But as when cowherds in October driveTheir kine across a snowy mountain passTo winter pasture on the southern side,And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way,Wedged in the snow; then painfully the hindsWith goad and shouting urge their cattle past,Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snowTo right and left, and warm steam fills the air,—So on the bridge that damsel blocked the way,And questioned Hermod as he came, and said,—“Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse,Under whose hoofs the bridge o’er Giall’s streamRumbles and shakes? Tell me thy race and home.But yester-morn, five troops of dead passed by,Bound on their way below to Hela’s realm,Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone.And thou hast flesh and color on thy cheeks,Like men who live, and draw the vital air;Nor look’st thou pale and wan, like men deceased,Souls bound below, my daily passers here.”And the fleet-footed Hermod answered her,—“O damsel, Hermod am I called, the sonOf Odin; and my high-roofed house is builtFar hence, in Asgard, in the city of gods;And Sleipner, Odin’s horse, is this I ride.And I come, sent this road on Balder’s track:Say, then, if he hath crossed thy bridge or no?”He spake; the warder of the bridge replied,—“O Hermod, rarely do the feet of godsOr of the horses of the gods resoundUpon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know.Balder hath gone this way, and ta’en the roadBelow there, to the north, toward Hela’s realm.From here the cold white mist can be discerned,Not lit with sun, but through the darksome airBy the dim vapor-blotted light of stars,Which hangs over the ice where lies the road.For in that ice are lost those northern streams,Freezing and ridging in their onward flow,Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run,The spring that bubbles up by Hela’s throne.There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts,Hela’s pale swarms; and there was Balder bound.Ride on! pass free! but he by this is there.”She spake, and stepped aside, and left him room.And Hermod greeted her, and galloped byAcross the bridge; then she took post again.But northward Hermod rode, the way below;And o’er a darksome tract, which knows no sun,But by the blotted light of stars, he fared.And he came down to ocean’s northern strand,At the drear ice, beyond the giants’ home.Thence on he journeyed o’er the fields of iceStill north, until he met a stretching wallBarring his way, and in the wall a grate.Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths,On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,And made him leap the grate, and came within.And he beheld spread round him Hela’s realm,The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,And heard the thunder of the streams of hell.For near the wall the river of Roaring flows,Outmost; the others near the centre run,—The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain;These flow by Hela’s throne, and near their spring.And from the dark flocked up the shadowy tribes;And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-bedsOf some clear river, issuing from a lake,On autumn-days, before they cross the sea;And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangsSwinging, and others skim the river-streams,And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores,—So around Hermod swarmed the twittering ghosts.Women, and infants, and young men who diedToo soon for fame, with white ungraven shields;And old men, known to glory, but their starBetrayed them, and of wasting age they died,Not wounds; yet, dying, they their armor wore,And now have chief regard in Hela’s realm.Behind flocked wrangling up a piteous crew,Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn,—Cowards, who were in sloughs interred alive;And round them still the wattled hurdles hungWherewith they stamped them down, and trod them deep,To hide their shameful memory from men.But all he passed unhailed, and reached the throneOf Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crowned,And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern;And thus bespake him first the solemn queen:—“Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leaveThe light, and journey to the cheerless landWhere idly flit about the feeble shades?How didst thou cross the bridge o’er Giall’s stream,Being alive, and come to ocean’s shore?Or how o’erleap the grate that bars the wall?”She spake; but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang,And fell before her feet, and clasped her knees;And spake, and mild entreated her, and said,—“O Hela, wherefore should the gods declareTheir errands to each other, or the waysThey go? the errand and the way is known.Thou know’st, thou know’st, what grief we have in heavenFor Balder, whom thou hold’st by right below.Restore him! for what part fulfils he here?Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats,And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy?Not for such end, O queen, thou hold’st thy realm.For heaven was Balder born, the city of godsAnd heroes, where they live in light and joy.Thither restore him, for his place is there!”He spoke; and grave replied the solemn queen,—“Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of heaven!A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine.Do the gods send to me to make them blest?Small bliss my race hath of the gods obtained.Three mighty children to my father LokDid Angerbode, the giantess, bring forth,—Fenris the wolf, the serpent huge, and me.Of these the serpent in the sea ye cast,Who since in your despite hath waxed amain,And now with gleaming ring infolds the world;Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw,And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule;While on his island in the lake afar,Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strengthSubdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound.Lok still subsists in heaven, our father wise,Your mate, though loathed, and feasts in Odin’s hall;But him too foes await, and netted snares,And in a cave a bed of needle-rocks,And o’er his visage serpents dropping gall.Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds,And with himself set us his offspring free,When he guides Muspel’s children to their bourne.Till then in peril or in pain we live,Wrought by the gods—and ask the gods our aid?Howbeit, we abide our day: till then,We do not as some feebler haters do,—Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs,Helpless to better us, or ruin them.Come, then! if Balder was so dear beloved,And this is true, and such a loss is heaven’s,—Hear how to heaven may Balder be restored.Show me through all the world the signs of grief!Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops!Let all that lives and moves upon the earthWeep him, and all that is without life weep;Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.So shall I know the lost was dear indeed,And bend my heart, and give him back to heaven.”She spake; and Hermod answered her, and said,—“Hela, such as thou say’st, the terms shall be.But come, declare me this, and truly tell:May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail,Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?”He spake; and straightway Hela answered him,—“Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and holdConverse; his speech remains, though he be dead.”And straight to Balder Hermod turned, and spake:“Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail!Thou hear’st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine,The terms of thy releasement hence to heaven;Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfilled.For not unmindful of thee are the gods,Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell;Even here they seek thee out, in Hela’s realm.And, sure, of all the happiest far art thouWho ever have been known in earth or heaven:Alive, thou wast of gods the most beloved;And now thou sittest crowned by Hela’s side,Here, and hast honor among all the dead.”He spake; and Balder uttered him reply,But feebly, as a voice far off; he said,—“Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death!Better to live a serf, a captured man,Who scatters rushes in a master’s hall,Than be a crowned king here, and rule the dead.And now I count not of these terms as safeTo be fulfilled, nor my return as sure,Though I be loved, and many mourn my death;For double-minded ever was the seedOf Lok, and double are the gifts they give.Howbeit, report thy message; and therewith,To Odin, to my father, take this ring,Memorial of me, whether saved or no;And tell the heaven-born gods how thou hast seenMe sitting here below by Hela’s side,Crowned, having honor among all the dead.”He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring.And with inscrutable regard the queenOf hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb.But Hermod took the ring, and yet once moreKneeled and did homage to the solemn queen;Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to rideBack, through the astonished tribes of dead, to heaven.And to the wall he came, and found the grateLifted, and issued on the fields of ice.And o’er the ice he fared to ocean’s strand,And up from thence, a wet and misty road,To the armed damsel’s bridge, and Giall’s stream.Worse was that way to go than to return,For him: for others, all return is barred.Nine days he took to go, two to return,And on the twelfth morn saw the light of heaven.And as a traveller in the early dawnTo the steep edge of some great valley comes,Through which a river flows, and sees, beneath,Clouds of white rolling vapors fill the vale,But o’er them, on the farther slope, descriesVineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun,—So Hermod, o’er the fog between, saw heaven.And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the airOf heaven; and mightily, as winged, he flew.And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise;And he drew near, and heard no living voiceIn Asgard; and the golden halls were dumb.Then Hermod knew what labor held the gods;And through the empty streets he rode, and passedUnder the gate-house to the sands, and foundThe gods on the seashore by Balder’s ship.

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