Thegods held talk together, grouped in knots,Round Balder’s corpse, which they had thither borne;And Hermod came down towards them from the gate.And Lok, the father of the serpent, firstBeheld him come, and to his neighbor spake,—“See, here is Hermod, who comes single backFrom hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems?Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog,Some morn, at market, in a crowded town,—Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain,And follows this man after that, for hours;And late at evening, spent and panting, fallsBefore a stranger’s threshold, not his home,With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongueHangs quivering out between his dust-smeared jaws,And piteously he eyes the passers-by;But home his master comes to his own farm,Far in the country, wondering where he is,—So Hermod comes to-day unfollowed home.”And straight his neighbor, moved with wrath, replied,—“Deceiver! fair in form, but false in heart!Enemy, mocker, whom, though gods, we hate,—Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe!Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand,And bind thy carcass, like a bale, with cords,And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim!If clear from plotting Balder’s death, to swim;But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown,And perish, against fate, before thy day.”So they two soft to one another spake.But Odin looked toward the land, and sawHis messenger; and he stood forth, and cried.And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down,And in his father’s hand put Sleipner’s rein,And greeted Odin and the gods, and said,—“Odin, my father, and ye, gods of heaven!Lo, home, having performed your will, I come.Into the joyless kingdom have I been,Below, and looked upon the shadowy tribesOf ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen;And to your prayer she sends you this reply:—Show her through all the world the signs of grief!Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops!Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.So shall she know your loss was dear indeed,And bend her heart, and give you Balder back.”He spoke, and all the gods to Odin looked;And straight the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, these terms may keep another day.But now put on your arms, and mount your steeds,And in procession all come near, and weepBalder; for that is what the dead desire.When ye enough have wept, then build a pileOf the heaped wood, and burn his corpse with fireOut of our sight; that we may turn from grief,And lead, as erst, our daily life in heaven.”He spoke, and the gods armed; and Odin donnedHis dazzling corslet and his helm of gold,And led the way on Sleipner; and the restFollowed, in tears, their father and their king.And thrice in arms around the dead they rode,Weeping; the sands were wetted, and their arms,With their thick-falling tears,—so good a friendThey mourned that day, so bright, so loved a god.And Odin came, and laid his kingly handsOn Balder’s breast, and thus began the wail:—“Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son!In that great day, the twilight of the gods,When Muspel’s children shall beleaguer heaven,Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.”Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor!Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn,Swaying the long-haired goats with silvered rein;And over Balder’s corpse these words didst say:—“Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land,And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts,Now, and I know not how they prize thee there—But here, I know, thou wilt be missed and mourned.For haughty spirits and high wraths are rifeAmong the gods and heroes here in heaven,As among those whose joy and work is war;And daily strifes arise, and angry words.But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day,Heard no one ever an injurious wordTo god or hero, but thou keptest backThe others, laboring to compose their brawls.Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind!For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in heaven.”He spake, and all the gods assenting wailed.And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears;The loveliest goddess she in heaven, by allMost honored after Frea, Odin’s wife.Her long ago the wandering Oder tookTo mate, but left her to roam distant lands;Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold.Names hath she many; Vanadis on earthThey call her, Freya is her name in heaven;She in her hands took Balder’s head, and spake,—“Balder, my brother, thou art gone a roadUnknown and long, and haply on that wayMy long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met,For in the paths of heaven he is not found.Oh! if it be so, tell him what thou wastTo his neglected wife, and what he is,And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word!For he, my husband, left me here to pine,Not long a wife, when his unquiet heartFirst drove him from me into distant lands;Since then I vainly seek him through the world,And weep from shore to shore my golden tears,But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain.Thou only, Balder, wast forever kind,To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say,—Weep not, O Freya, weep no golden tears!One day the wandering Oder will return,Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search,On some great road, or resting in an inn,Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree.So Balder said; but Oder, well I know,My truant Oder I shall see no moreTo the world’s end; and Balder now is gone,And I am left uncomforted in heaven.”She spake, and all the goddesses bewailed.Last from among the heroes one came near,No god, but of the hero-troop the chief,—Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets,And ruled o’er Denmark and the heathy isles,Living; but Ella captured him and slew,—A king, whose fame then filled the vast of heaven:Now time obscures it, and men’s later deeds.He last approached the corpse, and spake and said,—“Balder, there yet are many scalds in heavenStill left, and that chief scald, thy brother Brage,Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone.And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear,After the feast is done, in Odin’s hall;But they harp ever on one string, and wakeRemembrance in our soul of wars alone,Such as on earth we valiantly have waged,And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death.But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strikeAnother note, and, like a bird in spring,Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth,And wife, and children, and our ancient home.Yes, and I too remembered then no moreMy dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead,Nor Ella’s victory on the English coast;But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle,And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tendHer flock along the white Norwegian beach.Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy.Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.”So Regner spake, and all the heroes groaned.But now the sun had passed the height of heaven,And soon had all that day been spent in wail;But then the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, there well may be too much of wail!Bring now the gathered wood to Balder’s ship;Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.”But when the gods and heroes heard, they broughtThe wood to Balder’s ship, and built a pile,Full the deck’s breadth, and lofty; then the corpseOf Balder on the highest top they laid,With Nanna on his right, and on his leftHoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew.And they set jars of wine and oil to leanAgainst the bodies, and stuck torches near,Splinters of pine-wood, soaked with turpentine;And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff,And slew the dogs who at his table fed,And his horse, Balder’s horse, whom most he loved,And threw them on the pyre; and Odin threwA last choice gift thereon, his golden ring.The mast they fixed, and hoisted up the sails;Then they put fire to the wood; and ThorSet his stout shoulder hard against the sternTo push the ship through the thick sand; sparks flewFrom the deep trench she ploughed, so strong a godFurrowed it; and the water gurgled in.And the ship floated on the waves, and rocked.But in the hills a strong east-wind arose,And came down moaning to the sea; first squallsRan black o’er the sea’s face, then steady rushedThe breeze, and filled the sails, and blew the fire.And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea.Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire,And the pile crackled; and between the logsSharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt,Curling and darting, higher, until they lickedThe summit of the pile, the dead, the mast,And ate the shrivelling sails; but still the shipDrove on, ablaze above her hull with fire.And the gods stood upon the beach, and gazed.And while they gazed, the sun went lurid downInto the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on.Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm;But through the dark they watched the burning shipStill carried o’er the distant waters on,Farther and farther, like an eye of fire.And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder’s pile;But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared;The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile.And as, in a decaying winter-fire,A charred log, falling, makes a shower of sparks,—So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in,Reddening the sea around; and all was dark.But the gods went by starlight up the shoreTo Asgard, and sate down in Odin’s hallAt table, and the funeral-feast began.All night they ate the boar Serimner’s flesh,And from their horns, with silver rimmed, drank mead,Silent, and waited for the sacred morn.And morning over all the world was spread.Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose,And took their horses, and set forth to rideO’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida’s plain.Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode.And they found Mimir sitting by his fountOf wisdom, which beneath the ash-tree springs;And saw the Nornies watering the rootsOf that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew.There came the gods, and sate them down on stones;And thus the Father of the ages said:—“Ye gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought.Accept them or reject them! both have grounds.Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfilled,To leave forever Balder in the grave,An unrecovered prisoner, shade with shades.But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail?—Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfilled;For dear-beloved was Balder while he livedIn heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears?But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come,These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud.Bethink ye, gods, is there no other way?Speak, were not this a way, the way for gods,—If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms,Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior ThorDrawn in his car beside me, and my sons,All the strong brood of heaven, to swell my train,Should make irruption into Hela’s realm,And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light,And bring in triumph Balder back to heaven?”He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud.But Frea, mother of the gods, arose,Daughter and wife of Odin; thus she said:—“Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this!Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine.For of all powers the mightiest far art thou,Lord over men on earth, and gods in heaven;Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheldOne thing,—to undo what thou thyself hast ruled.For all which hath been fixed was fixed by thee.In the beginning, ere the gods were born,Before the heavens were builded, thou didst slayThe giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth,—Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor,—And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void.But of his flesh and members thou didst buildThe earth and ocean, and above them heaven.And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns,Thou sent’st and fetchedst fire, and madest lights,Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in heaven,Dividing clear the paths of night and day.And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort;Then me thou mad’st; of us the gods were born.Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest sparsOf wood, and framedst men, who till the earth,Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail.And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown,Save one, Bergelmer: he on shipboard fledThy deluge, and from him the giants sprang.But all that brood thou hast removed far off,And set by ocean’s utmost marge to dwell.But Hela into Niflheim thou threw’st,And gav’st her nine unlighted worlds to rule,A queen, and empire over all the dead.That empire wilt thou now invade, light upHer darkness, from her grasp a subject tear?Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud.Nor do I merit, Odin, thou shouldst slightMe and my words, though thou be first in heaven;For I too am a goddess, born of thee,Thine eldest, and of me the gods are sprung;And all that is to come I know, but lockIn mine own breast, and have to none revealed.Come, then! since Hela holds by right her prey,But offers terms for his release to heaven,Accept the chance: thou canst no more obtain.Send through the world thy messengers; entreatAll living and unliving things to weepFor Balder: if thou haply thus may’st meltHela, and win the loved one back to heaven.”She spake, and on her face let fall her veil,And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands.Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word;Straightway he spake, and thus addressed the gods:—“Go quickly forth through all the world, and prayAll living and unliving things to weepBalder, if haply he may thus be won.”When the gods heard, they straight arose, and tookTheir horses, and rode forth through all the world.North, south, east, west, they struck, and roamed the world,Entreating all things to weep Balder’s death;And all that lived, and all without life, wept.And as in winter, when the frost breaks up,At winter’s end, before the spring begins,And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in,After an hour a dripping sound is heardIn all the forests, and the soft-strewn snowUnder the trees is dibbled thick with holes,And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down;And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plotsOf grass peep out amid surrounding snow,And widen, and the peasant’s heart is glad,—So through the world was heard a dripping noiseOf all things weeping to bring Balder back;And there fell joy upon the gods to hear.But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he tookTo show him spits and beaches of the seaFar off, where some unwarned might fail to weep,—Niord, the god of storms, whom fishers know;Not born in heaven, he was in Vanheim reared,With men, but lives a hostage with the gods;He knows each frith, and every rocky creekFringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,—They two scoured every coast, and all things wept.And they rode home together, through the woodOf Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard liesBordering the giants, where the trees are iron;There in the wood before a cave they came,Where sate, in the cave’s mouth, a skinny hag,Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by.Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape.She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,—“Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven,That ye come pleasuring to Thok’s iron wood?Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites.Look, as in some boor’s yard a sweet-breathed cow,Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay,Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her headTo chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,—So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!”She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,—“Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears.Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey,But will restore if all things give him tears.Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear.”Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,—“Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears?Thok with dry eyes will weep o’er Balder’s pyre.Weep him all other things, if weep they will:I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey.”She spake, and to the cavern’s depth she fled,Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.And as seafaring men, who long have wroughtIn the great deep for gain, at last come home,And towards evening see the headlands riseOf their dear country, and can plain descryA fire of withered furze which boys have litUpon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weedsOut of a tilled field inland: then the windCatches them, and drives out again to sea;And they go long days tossing up and downOver the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpseOf port they had makes bitterer far their toil,—So the gods’ cross was bitterer for their joy.Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake,—“It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all!Ride back, and tell in heaven this heavy news;I must again below, to Hela’s realm.”He spoke, and Niord set forth back to heaven.But northward Hermod rode, the way below,The way he knew; and traversed Giall’s stream,And down to ocean groped, and crossed the ice,And came beneath the wall, and found the grateStill lifted: well was his return foreknown.And once more Hermod saw around him spreadThe joyless plains, and heard the streams of hell.But as he entered, on the extremest boundOf Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near,Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid,—Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew.And Hermod looked, and knew his brother’s ghost,And called him by his name, and sternly said,—“Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes!Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulfOf the deep inner gloom, but flittest here,In twilight, on the lonely verge of hell,Far from the other ghosts, and Hela’s throne?Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder’s voice,Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.”He spoke; but Hoder answered him, and said,—“Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursueThe unhappy with reproach, even in the grave?For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom,Not daily to endure abhorring gods,Nor with a hateful presence cumber heaven;And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by?No less than Balder have I lost the lightOf heaven, and communion with my kin;I too had once a wife, and once a child,And substance, and a golden house in heaven:But all I left of my own act, and fledBelow; and dost thou hate me even here?Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all,Though he has cause, have any cause; but he,When that with downcast looks I hither came,Stretched forth his hand, and with benignant voice,Welcome, he said,if there be welcome here,Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to forceMy hated converse on thee, came I upFrom the deep gloom, where I will now return;But earnestly I longed to hover near,Not too far off, when that thou camest by;To feel the presence of a brother god,And hear the passage of a horse of heaven,For the last time—for here thou com’st no more.”He spake, and turned to go to the inner gloom.But Hermod stayed him with mild words, and said,—“Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind!Truly thou say’st, the planning guilty mindWas Lok’s: the unwitting hand alone was thine.But gods are like the sons of men in this:When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause.Howbeit stay, and be appeased; and tell,Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela’s side,Or is he mingled with the unnumbered dead?”And the blind Hoder answered him and spake,—“His place of state remains by Hela’s side,But empty; for his wife, for Nanna, cameLately below, and joined him; and the pairFrequent the still recesses of the realmOf Hela, and hold converse undisturbed.But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balmWhich floats before a visitant from heaven,And have drawn upward to this verge of hell.”He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of windRolled heavily the leaden mist asideRound where they stood, and they beheld two formsMake toward them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were,—Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said,—“Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare!Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodgeIn thy own house Breidablik, nor enjoyThe love all bear toward thee, nor train upForset, thy son, to be beloved like thee.Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!”He spake; and Balder answered him, and said,—“Hail and farewell! for here thou com’st no more.Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’stIn heaven, nor let the other gods lament,As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn.For Nanna hath rejoined me, who of old,In heaven, was seldom parted from my side;And still the acceptance follows me, which crownedMy former life, and cheers me even here.The iron frown of Hela is relaxedWhen I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of deadLove me, and gladly bring for my awardTheir ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,—Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.”And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply,—“Thou hast, then, all the solace death allows,—Esteem and function; and so far is well.Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground,Rusting forever; and the years roll on,The generations pass, the ages grow,And bring us nearer to the final dayWhen from the south shall march the fiery band,And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide,And Fenris at his heel with broken chain;While from the east the giant Rymer steersHis ship, and the great serpent makes to land;And all are marshalled in one flaming squareAgainst the gods, upon the plains of heaven.I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.”He spake; but Balder answered him, and said,—“Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods;Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven,Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day!The day will come, when fall shall Asgard’s towers,And Odin, and his sons, the seed of heaven;But what were I, to save them in that hour?If strength might save them, could not Odin save,My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor,Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr?I, what were I, when these can naught avail?Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes,And the two hosts are marshalled, and in heavenThe golden-crested cock shall sound alarm,And his black brother-bird from hence reply,And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour,—Longing will stir within my breast, though vain.But not to me so grievous as, I know,To other gods it were, is my enforcedAbsence from fields where I could nothing aid;For I am long since weary of your stormOf carnage, and find, Hermod, in your lifeSomething too much of war and broils, which makeLife one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;Mine ears are stunned with blows, and sick for calm.Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom,Unarmed, inglorious; I attend the courseOf ages, and my late return to light,In times less alien to a spirit mild,In new-recovered seats, the happier day.”He spake, and the fleet Hermod thus replied:—“Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.”And the ray-crownèd Balder answered him,—“Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreadsAnother heaven, the boundless. No one yetHath reached it. There hereafter shall ariseThe second Asgard, with another name.Thither, when o’er this present earth and heavensThe tempest of the latter days hath swept,And they from sight have disappeared and sunk,Shall a small remnant of the gods repair;Hoder and I shall join them from the grave.There re-assembling we shall see emergeFrom the bright ocean at our feet an earthMore fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruitsSelf-springing, and a seed of man preserved,Who then shall live in peace, as now in war.But we in heaven shall find again with joyThe ruined palaces of Odin, seatsFamiliar, halls where we have supped of old;Re-enter them with wonder, never fillOur eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears.And we shall tread once more the well-known plainOf Ida, and among the grass shall findThe golden dice wherewith we played of yore;And that will bring to mind the former lifeAnd pastime of the gods, the wise discourseOf Odin, the delights of other days.O Hermod, pray that thou may’st join us then!Such for the future is my hope; meanwhile,I rest the thrall of Hela, and endureDeath, and the gloom which round me even nowThickens, and to its inner gulf recalls.Farewell, for longer speech is not allowed!”He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his handTo Nanna; and she gave their brother blindHer hand, in turn, for guidance; and the threeDeparted o’er the cloudy plain, and soonFaded from sight into the interior gloom.But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse,Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain,Fain had he followed their receding steps,Though they to death were bound, and he to heaven,Then: but a power he could not break withheld.And as a stork which idle boys have trapped,And tied him in a yard, at autumn seesFlocks of his kind pass flying o’er his headTo warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun;He strains to join their flight, and from his shedFollows them with a long complaining cry,—So Hermod gazed, and yearned to join his kin.At last he sighed, and set forth back to heaven.
Thegods held talk together, grouped in knots,Round Balder’s corpse, which they had thither borne;And Hermod came down towards them from the gate.And Lok, the father of the serpent, firstBeheld him come, and to his neighbor spake,—“See, here is Hermod, who comes single backFrom hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems?Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog,Some morn, at market, in a crowded town,—Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain,And follows this man after that, for hours;And late at evening, spent and panting, fallsBefore a stranger’s threshold, not his home,With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongueHangs quivering out between his dust-smeared jaws,And piteously he eyes the passers-by;But home his master comes to his own farm,Far in the country, wondering where he is,—So Hermod comes to-day unfollowed home.”And straight his neighbor, moved with wrath, replied,—“Deceiver! fair in form, but false in heart!Enemy, mocker, whom, though gods, we hate,—Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe!Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand,And bind thy carcass, like a bale, with cords,And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim!If clear from plotting Balder’s death, to swim;But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown,And perish, against fate, before thy day.”So they two soft to one another spake.But Odin looked toward the land, and sawHis messenger; and he stood forth, and cried.And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down,And in his father’s hand put Sleipner’s rein,And greeted Odin and the gods, and said,—“Odin, my father, and ye, gods of heaven!Lo, home, having performed your will, I come.Into the joyless kingdom have I been,Below, and looked upon the shadowy tribesOf ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen;And to your prayer she sends you this reply:—Show her through all the world the signs of grief!Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops!Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.So shall she know your loss was dear indeed,And bend her heart, and give you Balder back.”He spoke, and all the gods to Odin looked;And straight the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, these terms may keep another day.But now put on your arms, and mount your steeds,And in procession all come near, and weepBalder; for that is what the dead desire.When ye enough have wept, then build a pileOf the heaped wood, and burn his corpse with fireOut of our sight; that we may turn from grief,And lead, as erst, our daily life in heaven.”He spoke, and the gods armed; and Odin donnedHis dazzling corslet and his helm of gold,And led the way on Sleipner; and the restFollowed, in tears, their father and their king.And thrice in arms around the dead they rode,Weeping; the sands were wetted, and their arms,With their thick-falling tears,—so good a friendThey mourned that day, so bright, so loved a god.And Odin came, and laid his kingly handsOn Balder’s breast, and thus began the wail:—“Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son!In that great day, the twilight of the gods,When Muspel’s children shall beleaguer heaven,Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.”Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor!Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn,Swaying the long-haired goats with silvered rein;And over Balder’s corpse these words didst say:—“Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land,And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts,Now, and I know not how they prize thee there—But here, I know, thou wilt be missed and mourned.For haughty spirits and high wraths are rifeAmong the gods and heroes here in heaven,As among those whose joy and work is war;And daily strifes arise, and angry words.But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day,Heard no one ever an injurious wordTo god or hero, but thou keptest backThe others, laboring to compose their brawls.Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind!For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in heaven.”He spake, and all the gods assenting wailed.And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears;The loveliest goddess she in heaven, by allMost honored after Frea, Odin’s wife.Her long ago the wandering Oder tookTo mate, but left her to roam distant lands;Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold.Names hath she many; Vanadis on earthThey call her, Freya is her name in heaven;She in her hands took Balder’s head, and spake,—“Balder, my brother, thou art gone a roadUnknown and long, and haply on that wayMy long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met,For in the paths of heaven he is not found.Oh! if it be so, tell him what thou wastTo his neglected wife, and what he is,And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word!For he, my husband, left me here to pine,Not long a wife, when his unquiet heartFirst drove him from me into distant lands;Since then I vainly seek him through the world,And weep from shore to shore my golden tears,But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain.Thou only, Balder, wast forever kind,To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say,—Weep not, O Freya, weep no golden tears!One day the wandering Oder will return,Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search,On some great road, or resting in an inn,Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree.So Balder said; but Oder, well I know,My truant Oder I shall see no moreTo the world’s end; and Balder now is gone,And I am left uncomforted in heaven.”She spake, and all the goddesses bewailed.Last from among the heroes one came near,No god, but of the hero-troop the chief,—Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets,And ruled o’er Denmark and the heathy isles,Living; but Ella captured him and slew,—A king, whose fame then filled the vast of heaven:Now time obscures it, and men’s later deeds.He last approached the corpse, and spake and said,—“Balder, there yet are many scalds in heavenStill left, and that chief scald, thy brother Brage,Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone.And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear,After the feast is done, in Odin’s hall;But they harp ever on one string, and wakeRemembrance in our soul of wars alone,Such as on earth we valiantly have waged,And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death.But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strikeAnother note, and, like a bird in spring,Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth,And wife, and children, and our ancient home.Yes, and I too remembered then no moreMy dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead,Nor Ella’s victory on the English coast;But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle,And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tendHer flock along the white Norwegian beach.Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy.Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.”So Regner spake, and all the heroes groaned.But now the sun had passed the height of heaven,And soon had all that day been spent in wail;But then the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, there well may be too much of wail!Bring now the gathered wood to Balder’s ship;Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.”But when the gods and heroes heard, they broughtThe wood to Balder’s ship, and built a pile,Full the deck’s breadth, and lofty; then the corpseOf Balder on the highest top they laid,With Nanna on his right, and on his leftHoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew.And they set jars of wine and oil to leanAgainst the bodies, and stuck torches near,Splinters of pine-wood, soaked with turpentine;And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff,And slew the dogs who at his table fed,And his horse, Balder’s horse, whom most he loved,And threw them on the pyre; and Odin threwA last choice gift thereon, his golden ring.The mast they fixed, and hoisted up the sails;Then they put fire to the wood; and ThorSet his stout shoulder hard against the sternTo push the ship through the thick sand; sparks flewFrom the deep trench she ploughed, so strong a godFurrowed it; and the water gurgled in.And the ship floated on the waves, and rocked.But in the hills a strong east-wind arose,And came down moaning to the sea; first squallsRan black o’er the sea’s face, then steady rushedThe breeze, and filled the sails, and blew the fire.And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea.Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire,And the pile crackled; and between the logsSharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt,Curling and darting, higher, until they lickedThe summit of the pile, the dead, the mast,And ate the shrivelling sails; but still the shipDrove on, ablaze above her hull with fire.And the gods stood upon the beach, and gazed.And while they gazed, the sun went lurid downInto the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on.Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm;But through the dark they watched the burning shipStill carried o’er the distant waters on,Farther and farther, like an eye of fire.And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder’s pile;But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared;The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile.And as, in a decaying winter-fire,A charred log, falling, makes a shower of sparks,—So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in,Reddening the sea around; and all was dark.But the gods went by starlight up the shoreTo Asgard, and sate down in Odin’s hallAt table, and the funeral-feast began.All night they ate the boar Serimner’s flesh,And from their horns, with silver rimmed, drank mead,Silent, and waited for the sacred morn.And morning over all the world was spread.Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose,And took their horses, and set forth to rideO’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida’s plain.Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode.And they found Mimir sitting by his fountOf wisdom, which beneath the ash-tree springs;And saw the Nornies watering the rootsOf that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew.There came the gods, and sate them down on stones;And thus the Father of the ages said:—“Ye gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought.Accept them or reject them! both have grounds.Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfilled,To leave forever Balder in the grave,An unrecovered prisoner, shade with shades.But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail?—Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfilled;For dear-beloved was Balder while he livedIn heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears?But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come,These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud.Bethink ye, gods, is there no other way?Speak, were not this a way, the way for gods,—If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms,Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior ThorDrawn in his car beside me, and my sons,All the strong brood of heaven, to swell my train,Should make irruption into Hela’s realm,And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light,And bring in triumph Balder back to heaven?”He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud.But Frea, mother of the gods, arose,Daughter and wife of Odin; thus she said:—“Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this!Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine.For of all powers the mightiest far art thou,Lord over men on earth, and gods in heaven;Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheldOne thing,—to undo what thou thyself hast ruled.For all which hath been fixed was fixed by thee.In the beginning, ere the gods were born,Before the heavens were builded, thou didst slayThe giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth,—Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor,—And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void.But of his flesh and members thou didst buildThe earth and ocean, and above them heaven.And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns,Thou sent’st and fetchedst fire, and madest lights,Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in heaven,Dividing clear the paths of night and day.And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort;Then me thou mad’st; of us the gods were born.Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest sparsOf wood, and framedst men, who till the earth,Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail.And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown,Save one, Bergelmer: he on shipboard fledThy deluge, and from him the giants sprang.But all that brood thou hast removed far off,And set by ocean’s utmost marge to dwell.But Hela into Niflheim thou threw’st,And gav’st her nine unlighted worlds to rule,A queen, and empire over all the dead.That empire wilt thou now invade, light upHer darkness, from her grasp a subject tear?Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud.Nor do I merit, Odin, thou shouldst slightMe and my words, though thou be first in heaven;For I too am a goddess, born of thee,Thine eldest, and of me the gods are sprung;And all that is to come I know, but lockIn mine own breast, and have to none revealed.Come, then! since Hela holds by right her prey,But offers terms for his release to heaven,Accept the chance: thou canst no more obtain.Send through the world thy messengers; entreatAll living and unliving things to weepFor Balder: if thou haply thus may’st meltHela, and win the loved one back to heaven.”She spake, and on her face let fall her veil,And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands.Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word;Straightway he spake, and thus addressed the gods:—“Go quickly forth through all the world, and prayAll living and unliving things to weepBalder, if haply he may thus be won.”When the gods heard, they straight arose, and tookTheir horses, and rode forth through all the world.North, south, east, west, they struck, and roamed the world,Entreating all things to weep Balder’s death;And all that lived, and all without life, wept.And as in winter, when the frost breaks up,At winter’s end, before the spring begins,And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in,After an hour a dripping sound is heardIn all the forests, and the soft-strewn snowUnder the trees is dibbled thick with holes,And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down;And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plotsOf grass peep out amid surrounding snow,And widen, and the peasant’s heart is glad,—So through the world was heard a dripping noiseOf all things weeping to bring Balder back;And there fell joy upon the gods to hear.But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he tookTo show him spits and beaches of the seaFar off, where some unwarned might fail to weep,—Niord, the god of storms, whom fishers know;Not born in heaven, he was in Vanheim reared,With men, but lives a hostage with the gods;He knows each frith, and every rocky creekFringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,—They two scoured every coast, and all things wept.And they rode home together, through the woodOf Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard liesBordering the giants, where the trees are iron;There in the wood before a cave they came,Where sate, in the cave’s mouth, a skinny hag,Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by.Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape.She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,—“Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven,That ye come pleasuring to Thok’s iron wood?Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites.Look, as in some boor’s yard a sweet-breathed cow,Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay,Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her headTo chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,—So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!”She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,—“Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears.Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey,But will restore if all things give him tears.Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear.”Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,—“Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears?Thok with dry eyes will weep o’er Balder’s pyre.Weep him all other things, if weep they will:I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey.”She spake, and to the cavern’s depth she fled,Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.And as seafaring men, who long have wroughtIn the great deep for gain, at last come home,And towards evening see the headlands riseOf their dear country, and can plain descryA fire of withered furze which boys have litUpon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weedsOut of a tilled field inland: then the windCatches them, and drives out again to sea;And they go long days tossing up and downOver the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpseOf port they had makes bitterer far their toil,—So the gods’ cross was bitterer for their joy.Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake,—“It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all!Ride back, and tell in heaven this heavy news;I must again below, to Hela’s realm.”He spoke, and Niord set forth back to heaven.But northward Hermod rode, the way below,The way he knew; and traversed Giall’s stream,And down to ocean groped, and crossed the ice,And came beneath the wall, and found the grateStill lifted: well was his return foreknown.And once more Hermod saw around him spreadThe joyless plains, and heard the streams of hell.But as he entered, on the extremest boundOf Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near,Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid,—Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew.And Hermod looked, and knew his brother’s ghost,And called him by his name, and sternly said,—“Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes!Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulfOf the deep inner gloom, but flittest here,In twilight, on the lonely verge of hell,Far from the other ghosts, and Hela’s throne?Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder’s voice,Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.”He spoke; but Hoder answered him, and said,—“Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursueThe unhappy with reproach, even in the grave?For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom,Not daily to endure abhorring gods,Nor with a hateful presence cumber heaven;And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by?No less than Balder have I lost the lightOf heaven, and communion with my kin;I too had once a wife, and once a child,And substance, and a golden house in heaven:But all I left of my own act, and fledBelow; and dost thou hate me even here?Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all,Though he has cause, have any cause; but he,When that with downcast looks I hither came,Stretched forth his hand, and with benignant voice,Welcome, he said,if there be welcome here,Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to forceMy hated converse on thee, came I upFrom the deep gloom, where I will now return;But earnestly I longed to hover near,Not too far off, when that thou camest by;To feel the presence of a brother god,And hear the passage of a horse of heaven,For the last time—for here thou com’st no more.”He spake, and turned to go to the inner gloom.But Hermod stayed him with mild words, and said,—“Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind!Truly thou say’st, the planning guilty mindWas Lok’s: the unwitting hand alone was thine.But gods are like the sons of men in this:When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause.Howbeit stay, and be appeased; and tell,Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela’s side,Or is he mingled with the unnumbered dead?”And the blind Hoder answered him and spake,—“His place of state remains by Hela’s side,But empty; for his wife, for Nanna, cameLately below, and joined him; and the pairFrequent the still recesses of the realmOf Hela, and hold converse undisturbed.But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balmWhich floats before a visitant from heaven,And have drawn upward to this verge of hell.”He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of windRolled heavily the leaden mist asideRound where they stood, and they beheld two formsMake toward them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were,—Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said,—“Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare!Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodgeIn thy own house Breidablik, nor enjoyThe love all bear toward thee, nor train upForset, thy son, to be beloved like thee.Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!”He spake; and Balder answered him, and said,—“Hail and farewell! for here thou com’st no more.Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’stIn heaven, nor let the other gods lament,As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn.For Nanna hath rejoined me, who of old,In heaven, was seldom parted from my side;And still the acceptance follows me, which crownedMy former life, and cheers me even here.The iron frown of Hela is relaxedWhen I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of deadLove me, and gladly bring for my awardTheir ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,—Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.”And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply,—“Thou hast, then, all the solace death allows,—Esteem and function; and so far is well.Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground,Rusting forever; and the years roll on,The generations pass, the ages grow,And bring us nearer to the final dayWhen from the south shall march the fiery band,And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide,And Fenris at his heel with broken chain;While from the east the giant Rymer steersHis ship, and the great serpent makes to land;And all are marshalled in one flaming squareAgainst the gods, upon the plains of heaven.I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.”He spake; but Balder answered him, and said,—“Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods;Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven,Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day!The day will come, when fall shall Asgard’s towers,And Odin, and his sons, the seed of heaven;But what were I, to save them in that hour?If strength might save them, could not Odin save,My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor,Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr?I, what were I, when these can naught avail?Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes,And the two hosts are marshalled, and in heavenThe golden-crested cock shall sound alarm,And his black brother-bird from hence reply,And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour,—Longing will stir within my breast, though vain.But not to me so grievous as, I know,To other gods it were, is my enforcedAbsence from fields where I could nothing aid;For I am long since weary of your stormOf carnage, and find, Hermod, in your lifeSomething too much of war and broils, which makeLife one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;Mine ears are stunned with blows, and sick for calm.Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom,Unarmed, inglorious; I attend the courseOf ages, and my late return to light,In times less alien to a spirit mild,In new-recovered seats, the happier day.”He spake, and the fleet Hermod thus replied:—“Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.”And the ray-crownèd Balder answered him,—“Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreadsAnother heaven, the boundless. No one yetHath reached it. There hereafter shall ariseThe second Asgard, with another name.Thither, when o’er this present earth and heavensThe tempest of the latter days hath swept,And they from sight have disappeared and sunk,Shall a small remnant of the gods repair;Hoder and I shall join them from the grave.There re-assembling we shall see emergeFrom the bright ocean at our feet an earthMore fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruitsSelf-springing, and a seed of man preserved,Who then shall live in peace, as now in war.But we in heaven shall find again with joyThe ruined palaces of Odin, seatsFamiliar, halls where we have supped of old;Re-enter them with wonder, never fillOur eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears.And we shall tread once more the well-known plainOf Ida, and among the grass shall findThe golden dice wherewith we played of yore;And that will bring to mind the former lifeAnd pastime of the gods, the wise discourseOf Odin, the delights of other days.O Hermod, pray that thou may’st join us then!Such for the future is my hope; meanwhile,I rest the thrall of Hela, and endureDeath, and the gloom which round me even nowThickens, and to its inner gulf recalls.Farewell, for longer speech is not allowed!”He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his handTo Nanna; and she gave their brother blindHer hand, in turn, for guidance; and the threeDeparted o’er the cloudy plain, and soonFaded from sight into the interior gloom.But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse,Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain,Fain had he followed their receding steps,Though they to death were bound, and he to heaven,Then: but a power he could not break withheld.And as a stork which idle boys have trapped,And tied him in a yard, at autumn seesFlocks of his kind pass flying o’er his headTo warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun;He strains to join their flight, and from his shedFollows them with a long complaining cry,—So Hermod gazed, and yearned to join his kin.At last he sighed, and set forth back to heaven.
Thegods held talk together, grouped in knots,Round Balder’s corpse, which they had thither borne;And Hermod came down towards them from the gate.And Lok, the father of the serpent, firstBeheld him come, and to his neighbor spake,—“See, here is Hermod, who comes single backFrom hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems?Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog,Some morn, at market, in a crowded town,—Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain,And follows this man after that, for hours;And late at evening, spent and panting, fallsBefore a stranger’s threshold, not his home,With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongueHangs quivering out between his dust-smeared jaws,And piteously he eyes the passers-by;But home his master comes to his own farm,Far in the country, wondering where he is,—So Hermod comes to-day unfollowed home.”And straight his neighbor, moved with wrath, replied,—“Deceiver! fair in form, but false in heart!Enemy, mocker, whom, though gods, we hate,—Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe!Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand,And bind thy carcass, like a bale, with cords,And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim!If clear from plotting Balder’s death, to swim;But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown,And perish, against fate, before thy day.”So they two soft to one another spake.But Odin looked toward the land, and sawHis messenger; and he stood forth, and cried.And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down,And in his father’s hand put Sleipner’s rein,And greeted Odin and the gods, and said,—“Odin, my father, and ye, gods of heaven!Lo, home, having performed your will, I come.Into the joyless kingdom have I been,Below, and looked upon the shadowy tribesOf ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen;And to your prayer she sends you this reply:—Show her through all the world the signs of grief!Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops!Let gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.So shall she know your loss was dear indeed,And bend her heart, and give you Balder back.”He spoke, and all the gods to Odin looked;And straight the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, these terms may keep another day.But now put on your arms, and mount your steeds,And in procession all come near, and weepBalder; for that is what the dead desire.When ye enough have wept, then build a pileOf the heaped wood, and burn his corpse with fireOut of our sight; that we may turn from grief,And lead, as erst, our daily life in heaven.”He spoke, and the gods armed; and Odin donnedHis dazzling corslet and his helm of gold,And led the way on Sleipner; and the restFollowed, in tears, their father and their king.And thrice in arms around the dead they rode,Weeping; the sands were wetted, and their arms,With their thick-falling tears,—so good a friendThey mourned that day, so bright, so loved a god.And Odin came, and laid his kingly handsOn Balder’s breast, and thus began the wail:—“Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son!In that great day, the twilight of the gods,When Muspel’s children shall beleaguer heaven,Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.”Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor!Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn,Swaying the long-haired goats with silvered rein;And over Balder’s corpse these words didst say:—“Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land,And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts,Now, and I know not how they prize thee there—But here, I know, thou wilt be missed and mourned.For haughty spirits and high wraths are rifeAmong the gods and heroes here in heaven,As among those whose joy and work is war;And daily strifes arise, and angry words.But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day,Heard no one ever an injurious wordTo god or hero, but thou keptest backThe others, laboring to compose their brawls.Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind!For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in heaven.”He spake, and all the gods assenting wailed.And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears;The loveliest goddess she in heaven, by allMost honored after Frea, Odin’s wife.Her long ago the wandering Oder tookTo mate, but left her to roam distant lands;Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold.Names hath she many; Vanadis on earthThey call her, Freya is her name in heaven;She in her hands took Balder’s head, and spake,—“Balder, my brother, thou art gone a roadUnknown and long, and haply on that wayMy long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met,For in the paths of heaven he is not found.Oh! if it be so, tell him what thou wastTo his neglected wife, and what he is,And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word!For he, my husband, left me here to pine,Not long a wife, when his unquiet heartFirst drove him from me into distant lands;Since then I vainly seek him through the world,And weep from shore to shore my golden tears,But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain.Thou only, Balder, wast forever kind,To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say,—Weep not, O Freya, weep no golden tears!One day the wandering Oder will return,Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search,On some great road, or resting in an inn,Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree.So Balder said; but Oder, well I know,My truant Oder I shall see no moreTo the world’s end; and Balder now is gone,And I am left uncomforted in heaven.”She spake, and all the goddesses bewailed.Last from among the heroes one came near,No god, but of the hero-troop the chief,—Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets,And ruled o’er Denmark and the heathy isles,Living; but Ella captured him and slew,—A king, whose fame then filled the vast of heaven:Now time obscures it, and men’s later deeds.He last approached the corpse, and spake and said,—“Balder, there yet are many scalds in heavenStill left, and that chief scald, thy brother Brage,Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone.And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear,After the feast is done, in Odin’s hall;But they harp ever on one string, and wakeRemembrance in our soul of wars alone,Such as on earth we valiantly have waged,And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death.But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strikeAnother note, and, like a bird in spring,Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth,And wife, and children, and our ancient home.Yes, and I too remembered then no moreMy dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead,Nor Ella’s victory on the English coast;But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle,And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tendHer flock along the white Norwegian beach.Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy.Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.”So Regner spake, and all the heroes groaned.But now the sun had passed the height of heaven,And soon had all that day been spent in wail;But then the Father of the ages said,—“Ye gods, there well may be too much of wail!Bring now the gathered wood to Balder’s ship;Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.”But when the gods and heroes heard, they broughtThe wood to Balder’s ship, and built a pile,Full the deck’s breadth, and lofty; then the corpseOf Balder on the highest top they laid,With Nanna on his right, and on his leftHoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew.And they set jars of wine and oil to leanAgainst the bodies, and stuck torches near,Splinters of pine-wood, soaked with turpentine;And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff,And slew the dogs who at his table fed,And his horse, Balder’s horse, whom most he loved,And threw them on the pyre; and Odin threwA last choice gift thereon, his golden ring.The mast they fixed, and hoisted up the sails;Then they put fire to the wood; and ThorSet his stout shoulder hard against the sternTo push the ship through the thick sand; sparks flewFrom the deep trench she ploughed, so strong a godFurrowed it; and the water gurgled in.And the ship floated on the waves, and rocked.But in the hills a strong east-wind arose,And came down moaning to the sea; first squallsRan black o’er the sea’s face, then steady rushedThe breeze, and filled the sails, and blew the fire.And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea.Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire,And the pile crackled; and between the logsSharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt,Curling and darting, higher, until they lickedThe summit of the pile, the dead, the mast,And ate the shrivelling sails; but still the shipDrove on, ablaze above her hull with fire.And the gods stood upon the beach, and gazed.And while they gazed, the sun went lurid downInto the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on.Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm;But through the dark they watched the burning shipStill carried o’er the distant waters on,Farther and farther, like an eye of fire.And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder’s pile;But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared;The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile.And as, in a decaying winter-fire,A charred log, falling, makes a shower of sparks,—So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in,Reddening the sea around; and all was dark.But the gods went by starlight up the shoreTo Asgard, and sate down in Odin’s hallAt table, and the funeral-feast began.All night they ate the boar Serimner’s flesh,And from their horns, with silver rimmed, drank mead,Silent, and waited for the sacred morn.And morning over all the world was spread.Then from their loathèd feast the gods arose,And took their horses, and set forth to rideO’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida’s plain.Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode.And they found Mimir sitting by his fountOf wisdom, which beneath the ash-tree springs;And saw the Nornies watering the rootsOf that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew.There came the gods, and sate them down on stones;And thus the Father of the ages said:—“Ye gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought.Accept them or reject them! both have grounds.Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfilled,To leave forever Balder in the grave,An unrecovered prisoner, shade with shades.But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail?—Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfilled;For dear-beloved was Balder while he livedIn heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears?But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come,These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud.Bethink ye, gods, is there no other way?Speak, were not this a way, the way for gods,—If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms,Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior ThorDrawn in his car beside me, and my sons,All the strong brood of heaven, to swell my train,Should make irruption into Hela’s realm,And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light,And bring in triumph Balder back to heaven?”He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud.But Frea, mother of the gods, arose,Daughter and wife of Odin; thus she said:—“Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this!Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine.For of all powers the mightiest far art thou,Lord over men on earth, and gods in heaven;Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheldOne thing,—to undo what thou thyself hast ruled.For all which hath been fixed was fixed by thee.In the beginning, ere the gods were born,Before the heavens were builded, thou didst slayThe giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth,—Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor,—And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void.But of his flesh and members thou didst buildThe earth and ocean, and above them heaven.And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns,Thou sent’st and fetchedst fire, and madest lights,Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in heaven,Dividing clear the paths of night and day.And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort;Then me thou mad’st; of us the gods were born.Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest sparsOf wood, and framedst men, who till the earth,Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail.And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown,Save one, Bergelmer: he on shipboard fledThy deluge, and from him the giants sprang.But all that brood thou hast removed far off,And set by ocean’s utmost marge to dwell.But Hela into Niflheim thou threw’st,And gav’st her nine unlighted worlds to rule,A queen, and empire over all the dead.That empire wilt thou now invade, light upHer darkness, from her grasp a subject tear?Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud.Nor do I merit, Odin, thou shouldst slightMe and my words, though thou be first in heaven;For I too am a goddess, born of thee,Thine eldest, and of me the gods are sprung;And all that is to come I know, but lockIn mine own breast, and have to none revealed.Come, then! since Hela holds by right her prey,But offers terms for his release to heaven,Accept the chance: thou canst no more obtain.Send through the world thy messengers; entreatAll living and unliving things to weepFor Balder: if thou haply thus may’st meltHela, and win the loved one back to heaven.”She spake, and on her face let fall her veil,And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands.Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word;Straightway he spake, and thus addressed the gods:—“Go quickly forth through all the world, and prayAll living and unliving things to weepBalder, if haply he may thus be won.”When the gods heard, they straight arose, and tookTheir horses, and rode forth through all the world.North, south, east, west, they struck, and roamed the world,Entreating all things to weep Balder’s death;And all that lived, and all without life, wept.And as in winter, when the frost breaks up,At winter’s end, before the spring begins,And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in,After an hour a dripping sound is heardIn all the forests, and the soft-strewn snowUnder the trees is dibbled thick with holes,And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down;And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plotsOf grass peep out amid surrounding snow,And widen, and the peasant’s heart is glad,—So through the world was heard a dripping noiseOf all things weeping to bring Balder back;And there fell joy upon the gods to hear.But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he tookTo show him spits and beaches of the seaFar off, where some unwarned might fail to weep,—Niord, the god of storms, whom fishers know;Not born in heaven, he was in Vanheim reared,With men, but lives a hostage with the gods;He knows each frith, and every rocky creekFringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,—They two scoured every coast, and all things wept.And they rode home together, through the woodOf Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard liesBordering the giants, where the trees are iron;There in the wood before a cave they came,Where sate, in the cave’s mouth, a skinny hag,Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by.Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape.She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,—“Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven,That ye come pleasuring to Thok’s iron wood?Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites.Look, as in some boor’s yard a sweet-breathed cow,Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay,Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her headTo chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,—So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!”She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,—“Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears.Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey,But will restore if all things give him tears.Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear.”Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,—“Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears?Thok with dry eyes will weep o’er Balder’s pyre.Weep him all other things, if weep they will:I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey.”She spake, and to the cavern’s depth she fled,Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.And as seafaring men, who long have wroughtIn the great deep for gain, at last come home,And towards evening see the headlands riseOf their dear country, and can plain descryA fire of withered furze which boys have litUpon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weedsOut of a tilled field inland: then the windCatches them, and drives out again to sea;And they go long days tossing up and downOver the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpseOf port they had makes bitterer far their toil,—So the gods’ cross was bitterer for their joy.Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake,—“It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all!Ride back, and tell in heaven this heavy news;I must again below, to Hela’s realm.”He spoke, and Niord set forth back to heaven.But northward Hermod rode, the way below,The way he knew; and traversed Giall’s stream,And down to ocean groped, and crossed the ice,And came beneath the wall, and found the grateStill lifted: well was his return foreknown.And once more Hermod saw around him spreadThe joyless plains, and heard the streams of hell.But as he entered, on the extremest boundOf Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near,Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid,—Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew.And Hermod looked, and knew his brother’s ghost,And called him by his name, and sternly said,—“Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes!Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulfOf the deep inner gloom, but flittest here,In twilight, on the lonely verge of hell,Far from the other ghosts, and Hela’s throne?Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder’s voice,Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.”He spoke; but Hoder answered him, and said,—“Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursueThe unhappy with reproach, even in the grave?For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom,Not daily to endure abhorring gods,Nor with a hateful presence cumber heaven;And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by?No less than Balder have I lost the lightOf heaven, and communion with my kin;I too had once a wife, and once a child,And substance, and a golden house in heaven:But all I left of my own act, and fledBelow; and dost thou hate me even here?Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all,Though he has cause, have any cause; but he,When that with downcast looks I hither came,Stretched forth his hand, and with benignant voice,Welcome, he said,if there be welcome here,Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to forceMy hated converse on thee, came I upFrom the deep gloom, where I will now return;But earnestly I longed to hover near,Not too far off, when that thou camest by;To feel the presence of a brother god,And hear the passage of a horse of heaven,For the last time—for here thou com’st no more.”He spake, and turned to go to the inner gloom.But Hermod stayed him with mild words, and said,—“Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind!Truly thou say’st, the planning guilty mindWas Lok’s: the unwitting hand alone was thine.But gods are like the sons of men in this:When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause.Howbeit stay, and be appeased; and tell,Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela’s side,Or is he mingled with the unnumbered dead?”And the blind Hoder answered him and spake,—“His place of state remains by Hela’s side,But empty; for his wife, for Nanna, cameLately below, and joined him; and the pairFrequent the still recesses of the realmOf Hela, and hold converse undisturbed.But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balmWhich floats before a visitant from heaven,And have drawn upward to this verge of hell.”He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of windRolled heavily the leaden mist asideRound where they stood, and they beheld two formsMake toward them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were,—Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said,—“Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare!Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodgeIn thy own house Breidablik, nor enjoyThe love all bear toward thee, nor train upForset, thy son, to be beloved like thee.Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!”He spake; and Balder answered him, and said,—“Hail and farewell! for here thou com’st no more.Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’stIn heaven, nor let the other gods lament,As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn.For Nanna hath rejoined me, who of old,In heaven, was seldom parted from my side;And still the acceptance follows me, which crownedMy former life, and cheers me even here.The iron frown of Hela is relaxedWhen I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of deadLove me, and gladly bring for my awardTheir ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,—Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.”And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply,—“Thou hast, then, all the solace death allows,—Esteem and function; and so far is well.Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground,Rusting forever; and the years roll on,The generations pass, the ages grow,And bring us nearer to the final dayWhen from the south shall march the fiery band,And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide,And Fenris at his heel with broken chain;While from the east the giant Rymer steersHis ship, and the great serpent makes to land;And all are marshalled in one flaming squareAgainst the gods, upon the plains of heaven.I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.”He spake; but Balder answered him, and said,—“Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods;Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven,Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day!The day will come, when fall shall Asgard’s towers,And Odin, and his sons, the seed of heaven;But what were I, to save them in that hour?If strength might save them, could not Odin save,My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor,Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr?I, what were I, when these can naught avail?Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes,And the two hosts are marshalled, and in heavenThe golden-crested cock shall sound alarm,And his black brother-bird from hence reply,And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour,—Longing will stir within my breast, though vain.But not to me so grievous as, I know,To other gods it were, is my enforcedAbsence from fields where I could nothing aid;For I am long since weary of your stormOf carnage, and find, Hermod, in your lifeSomething too much of war and broils, which makeLife one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;Mine ears are stunned with blows, and sick for calm.Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom,Unarmed, inglorious; I attend the courseOf ages, and my late return to light,In times less alien to a spirit mild,In new-recovered seats, the happier day.”He spake, and the fleet Hermod thus replied:—“Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.”And the ray-crownèd Balder answered him,—“Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreadsAnother heaven, the boundless. No one yetHath reached it. There hereafter shall ariseThe second Asgard, with another name.Thither, when o’er this present earth and heavensThe tempest of the latter days hath swept,And they from sight have disappeared and sunk,Shall a small remnant of the gods repair;Hoder and I shall join them from the grave.There re-assembling we shall see emergeFrom the bright ocean at our feet an earthMore fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruitsSelf-springing, and a seed of man preserved,Who then shall live in peace, as now in war.But we in heaven shall find again with joyThe ruined palaces of Odin, seatsFamiliar, halls where we have supped of old;Re-enter them with wonder, never fillOur eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears.And we shall tread once more the well-known plainOf Ida, and among the grass shall findThe golden dice wherewith we played of yore;And that will bring to mind the former lifeAnd pastime of the gods, the wise discourseOf Odin, the delights of other days.O Hermod, pray that thou may’st join us then!Such for the future is my hope; meanwhile,I rest the thrall of Hela, and endureDeath, and the gloom which round me even nowThickens, and to its inner gulf recalls.Farewell, for longer speech is not allowed!”He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his handTo Nanna; and she gave their brother blindHer hand, in turn, for guidance; and the threeDeparted o’er the cloudy plain, and soonFaded from sight into the interior gloom.But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse,Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain,Fain had he followed their receding steps,Though they to death were bound, and he to heaven,Then: but a power he could not break withheld.And as a stork which idle boys have trapped,And tied him in a yard, at autumn seesFlocks of his kind pass flying o’er his headTo warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun;He strains to join their flight, and from his shedFollows them with a long complaining cry,—So Hermod gazed, and yearned to join his kin.
At last he sighed, and set forth back to heaven.
TRISTRAM.Is she not come? The messenger was sure.Prop me upon the pillows once again.Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!What lights will those out to the northward be?THE PAGE.The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.TRISTRAM.Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?THE PAGE.Iseult.TRISTRAM.Ah! not the Iseult I desire.. . . . . . . . . .What knight is this so weak and pale,Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,Propped on pillows in his bed,Gazing seaward for the lightOf some ship that fights the galeOn this wild December night?Over the sick man’s feet is spreadA dark green forest-dress;A gold harp leans against the bed,Ruddy in the fire’s light.I know him by his harp of gold,Famous in Arthur’s court of old;I know him by his forest-dress,—The peerless hunter, harper, knight,Tristram of Lyoness.What lady is this, whose silk attireGleams so rich in the light of the fire?The ringlets on her shoulders lyingIn their flitting lustre vyingWith the clasp of burnished goldWhich her heavy robe doth hold.Her looks are mild, her fingers slightAs the driven snow are white;But her cheeks are sunk and pale.Is it that the bleak sea-galeBeating from the Atlantic seaOn this coast of Brittany,Nips too keenly the sweet flower?Is it that a deep fatigueHath come on her, a chilly fear,Passing all her youthful hourSpinning with her maidens here,Listlessly through the window-barsGazing seawards many a leagueFrom her lonely shore-built tower,While the knights are at the wars?Or, perhaps, has her young heartFelt already some deeper smart,Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?Who is this snowdrop by the sea?—I know her by her mildness rare,Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;I know her by her rich silk dress,And her fragile loveliness,—The sweetest Christian soul alive,Iseult of Brittany.Iseult of Brittany? but whereIs that other Iseult fair,That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen?She, whom Tristram’s ship of yoreFrom Ireland to Cornwall bore,To Tyntagel, to the sideOf King Marc, to be his bride?She who, as they voyaged, quaffedWith Tristram that spiced magic draughtWhich since then forever rollsThrough their blood, and binds their souls,Working love, but working teen?There were two Iseults who did swayEach her hour of Tristram’s day;But one possessed his waning time,The other his resplendent prime.Behold her here, the patient flower,Who possessed his darker hour!Iseult of the snow-white handWatches pale by Tristram’s bed.She is here who had his gloom:Where art thou who hadst his bloom?One such kiss as those of yoreMight thy dying knight restore!Does the love-draught work no more?Art thou cold, or false, or dead,Iseult of Ireland?. . . . . . . . . .Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain,And the knight sinks back on his pillows again;He is weak with fever and pain,And his spirit is not clear.Hark! he mutters in his sleep,As he wanders far from here,Changes place and time of year,And his closèd eye doth sweepO’er some fair unwintry sea,Not this fierce Atlantic deep,While he mutters brokenly,—TRISTRAM.The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails;Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales,And overhead the cloudless sky of May.“Ah! would I were in those green fields at play,Not pent on shipboard this delicious day!Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee,But pledge me in it first for courtesy.”Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like mineChild, ’tis no water this, ’tis poisoned wine!Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!Keep his eyelids; let him seemNot this fever-wasted wightThinned and paled before his time,But the brilliant youthful knightIn the glory of his prime,Sitting in the gilded barge,At thy side, thou lovely charge,Bending gayly o’er thy hand,Iseult of Ireland!And she too, that princess fair,If her bloom be now less rare,Let her have her youth again,Let her be as she was then!Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling handWith its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hairWith the old imperious air!As of old, so let her be,That first Iseult, princess bright,Chatting with her youthful knightAs he steers her o’er the sea,Quitting at her father’s willThe green isle where she was bred,And her bower in Ireland,For the surge-beat Cornish strand;Where the prince whom she must wedDwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill,High above the sounding sea.And that golden cup her motherGave her, that her future lord,Gave her, that King Marc and she,Might drink it on their marriage-day,And forever love each other,—Let her, as she sits on board,—Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly!—See it shine, and take it up,And to Tristram laughing say,—“Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy,Pledge me in my golden cup.”Let them drink it; let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flame,As they feel the fatal bandsOf a love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts again!Let the early summer beOnce more round them, and the seaBlue, and o’er its mirror kindLet the breath of the May-wind,Wandering through their drooping sails,Die on the green fields of Wales;Let a dream like this restoreWhat his eye must see no more.TRISTRAM.Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear:Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?Were feet like those made for so wild a way?The southern winter-parlor, by my fay,Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!—“Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!—Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betrayed—out-planned.Fly—save thyself—save me! I dare not stay.”One last kiss first!—“’Tis vain—to horse—away!”. . . . . . . . . .Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth moveFaster surely than it should,From the fever in his blood!All the spring-time of his loveIs already gone and past,And instead thereof is seenIts winter, which endureth still,—Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,The flying leaves, the straining blast,And that long, wild kiss,—their last.And this rough December-night,And his burning fever-pain,Mingle with his hurrying dream,Till they rule it; till he seemThe pressed fugitive again,The love-desperate, banished knight,With a fire in his brain,Flying o’er the stormy main.—Whither does he wander now?Haply in his dreams the windWafts him here, and lets him findThe lovely orphan child againIn her castle by the coast;The youngest, fairest chatelaine,That this realm of France can boast,Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,—Iseult of Brittany.And—for through the haggard air,The stained arms, the matted hair,Of that stranger-knight ill-starred,There gleamed something which recalledThe Tristram who in better daysWas Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard—Welcomed here, and here installed,Tended of his fever here,Haply he seems again to moveHis young guardian’s heart with love,In his exiled loneliness,In his stately, deep distress,Without a word, without a tear.—Ah! ’tis well he should retraceHis tranquil life in this lone place;His gentle bearing at the sideOf his timid youthful bride;His long rambles by the shoreOn winter-evenings, when the roarOf the near waves came, sadly grand,Through the dark, up the drowned sand;Or his endless reveriesIn the woods, where the gleams playOn the grass under the trees,Passing the long summer’s dayIdle as a mossy stoneIn the forest-depths alone,The chase neglected, and his houndCouched beside him on the ground.—Ah! what trouble’s on his brow?Hither let him wander now;Hither, to the quiet hoursPassed among these heaths of oursBy the gray Atlantic sea,—Hours, if not of ecstasy,From violent anguish surely free!TRISTRAM.All red with blood the whirling river flows,The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.Upon us are the chivalry of Rome;Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.“Up, Tristram, up!” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight!What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!”—Above the din, her voice is in my ears;I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah! he wanders forth again;We cannot keep him: now, as then,There’s a secret in his breastWhich will never let him rest.These musing fits in the green wood,They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!—His sword is sharp, his horse is good;Beyond the mountains will he seeThe famous towns of Italy,And label with the blessed signThe heathen Saxons on the Rhine.At Arthur’s side he fights once moreWith the Roman Emperor.There’s many a gay knight where he goesWill help him to forget his care;The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air,The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,—Sick pining comes not where these are.—Ah! what boots it, that the jestLightens every other brow,What, that every other breastDances as the trumpets blow,If one’s own heart beats not lightOn the waves of the tossed fight,If one’s self cannot get freeFrom the clog of misery?Thy lovely youthful wife grows paleWatching by the salt sea-tide,With her children at her side,For the gleam of thy white sail.Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!To our lonely sea complain,To our forests tell thy pain.TRISTRAM.All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade,But it is moonlight in the open glade;And in the bottom of the glade shine clearThe forest-chapel and the fountain near.—I think I have a fever in my blood;Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood,Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood.—Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light.God! ’tisherface plays in the waters bright!“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon,At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?”—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, poor soul! if this be so,Only death can balm thy woe.The solitudes of the green woodHad no medicine for thy mood;The rushing battle cleared thy bloodAs little as did solitude.—Ah! his eyelids slowly breakTheir hot seals, and let him wake;What new change shall we now see?A happier? Worse it cannot be.TRISTRAM.Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;The wind is down; but she’ll not come to-night.Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow.Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,Would take a score years from a strong man’s age;And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,Scant leisure for a second messenger.—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late!To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;To-night my page shall keep me company.Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I:This comes of nursing long and watching late.To bed—good night!. . . . . . . . . .She left the gleam-lit fireplace,She came to the bedside;She took his hands in hers, her tearsDown on her slender fingers rained.She raised her eyes upon his face,Not with a look of wounded pride,A look as if the heart complained;Her look was like a sad embrace,—The gaze of one who can divineA grief, and sympathize.Sweet flower! thy children’s eyesAre not more innocent than thine.But they sleep in sheltered rest,Like helpless birds in the warm nest,On the castle’s southern side;Where feebly comes the mournful roarOf buffeting wind and surging tideThrough many a room and corridor.—Full on their window the moon’s rayMakes their chamber as bright as day.It shines upon the blank white walls,And on the snowy pillow falls,And on two angel-heads doth playTurned to each other; the eyes closed,The lashes on the cheeks reposed.Round each sweet brow the cap close-setHardly lets peep the golden hair;Through the soft-opened lips, the airScarcely moves the coverlet.One little wandering arm is thrownAt random on the counterpane,And often the fingers close in hasteAs if their baby-owner chasedThe butterflies again.This stir they have, and this alone;But else they are so still!—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;But were you at the window now,To look forth on the fairy sightOf your illumined haunts by night,To see the park-glades where you playFar lovelier than they are by day,To see the sparkle on the eaves,And upon every giant-boughOf those old oaks, whose wet red leavesAre jewelled with bright drops of rain,—How would your voices run again!And far beyond the sparkling treesOf the castle-park, one seesThe bare heaths spreading, clear as day,Moor behind moor, far, far away,Into the heart of Brittany.And here and there, locked by the land,Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,And many a stretch of watery sandAll shining in the white moonbeams.But you see fairer in your dreams!What voices are these on the clear night air?What lights in the court, what steps on the stair?
TRISTRAM.Is she not come? The messenger was sure.Prop me upon the pillows once again.Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!What lights will those out to the northward be?THE PAGE.The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.TRISTRAM.Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?THE PAGE.Iseult.TRISTRAM.Ah! not the Iseult I desire.. . . . . . . . . .What knight is this so weak and pale,Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,Propped on pillows in his bed,Gazing seaward for the lightOf some ship that fights the galeOn this wild December night?Over the sick man’s feet is spreadA dark green forest-dress;A gold harp leans against the bed,Ruddy in the fire’s light.I know him by his harp of gold,Famous in Arthur’s court of old;I know him by his forest-dress,—The peerless hunter, harper, knight,Tristram of Lyoness.What lady is this, whose silk attireGleams so rich in the light of the fire?The ringlets on her shoulders lyingIn their flitting lustre vyingWith the clasp of burnished goldWhich her heavy robe doth hold.Her looks are mild, her fingers slightAs the driven snow are white;But her cheeks are sunk and pale.Is it that the bleak sea-galeBeating from the Atlantic seaOn this coast of Brittany,Nips too keenly the sweet flower?Is it that a deep fatigueHath come on her, a chilly fear,Passing all her youthful hourSpinning with her maidens here,Listlessly through the window-barsGazing seawards many a leagueFrom her lonely shore-built tower,While the knights are at the wars?Or, perhaps, has her young heartFelt already some deeper smart,Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?Who is this snowdrop by the sea?—I know her by her mildness rare,Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;I know her by her rich silk dress,And her fragile loveliness,—The sweetest Christian soul alive,Iseult of Brittany.Iseult of Brittany? but whereIs that other Iseult fair,That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen?She, whom Tristram’s ship of yoreFrom Ireland to Cornwall bore,To Tyntagel, to the sideOf King Marc, to be his bride?She who, as they voyaged, quaffedWith Tristram that spiced magic draughtWhich since then forever rollsThrough their blood, and binds their souls,Working love, but working teen?There were two Iseults who did swayEach her hour of Tristram’s day;But one possessed his waning time,The other his resplendent prime.Behold her here, the patient flower,Who possessed his darker hour!Iseult of the snow-white handWatches pale by Tristram’s bed.She is here who had his gloom:Where art thou who hadst his bloom?One such kiss as those of yoreMight thy dying knight restore!Does the love-draught work no more?Art thou cold, or false, or dead,Iseult of Ireland?. . . . . . . . . .Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain,And the knight sinks back on his pillows again;He is weak with fever and pain,And his spirit is not clear.Hark! he mutters in his sleep,As he wanders far from here,Changes place and time of year,And his closèd eye doth sweepO’er some fair unwintry sea,Not this fierce Atlantic deep,While he mutters brokenly,—TRISTRAM.The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails;Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales,And overhead the cloudless sky of May.“Ah! would I were in those green fields at play,Not pent on shipboard this delicious day!Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee,But pledge me in it first for courtesy.”Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like mineChild, ’tis no water this, ’tis poisoned wine!Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!Keep his eyelids; let him seemNot this fever-wasted wightThinned and paled before his time,But the brilliant youthful knightIn the glory of his prime,Sitting in the gilded barge,At thy side, thou lovely charge,Bending gayly o’er thy hand,Iseult of Ireland!And she too, that princess fair,If her bloom be now less rare,Let her have her youth again,Let her be as she was then!Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling handWith its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hairWith the old imperious air!As of old, so let her be,That first Iseult, princess bright,Chatting with her youthful knightAs he steers her o’er the sea,Quitting at her father’s willThe green isle where she was bred,And her bower in Ireland,For the surge-beat Cornish strand;Where the prince whom she must wedDwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill,High above the sounding sea.And that golden cup her motherGave her, that her future lord,Gave her, that King Marc and she,Might drink it on their marriage-day,And forever love each other,—Let her, as she sits on board,—Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly!—See it shine, and take it up,And to Tristram laughing say,—“Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy,Pledge me in my golden cup.”Let them drink it; let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flame,As they feel the fatal bandsOf a love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts again!Let the early summer beOnce more round them, and the seaBlue, and o’er its mirror kindLet the breath of the May-wind,Wandering through their drooping sails,Die on the green fields of Wales;Let a dream like this restoreWhat his eye must see no more.TRISTRAM.Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear:Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?Were feet like those made for so wild a way?The southern winter-parlor, by my fay,Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!—“Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!—Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betrayed—out-planned.Fly—save thyself—save me! I dare not stay.”One last kiss first!—“’Tis vain—to horse—away!”. . . . . . . . . .Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth moveFaster surely than it should,From the fever in his blood!All the spring-time of his loveIs already gone and past,And instead thereof is seenIts winter, which endureth still,—Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,The flying leaves, the straining blast,And that long, wild kiss,—their last.And this rough December-night,And his burning fever-pain,Mingle with his hurrying dream,Till they rule it; till he seemThe pressed fugitive again,The love-desperate, banished knight,With a fire in his brain,Flying o’er the stormy main.—Whither does he wander now?Haply in his dreams the windWafts him here, and lets him findThe lovely orphan child againIn her castle by the coast;The youngest, fairest chatelaine,That this realm of France can boast,Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,—Iseult of Brittany.And—for through the haggard air,The stained arms, the matted hair,Of that stranger-knight ill-starred,There gleamed something which recalledThe Tristram who in better daysWas Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard—Welcomed here, and here installed,Tended of his fever here,Haply he seems again to moveHis young guardian’s heart with love,In his exiled loneliness,In his stately, deep distress,Without a word, without a tear.—Ah! ’tis well he should retraceHis tranquil life in this lone place;His gentle bearing at the sideOf his timid youthful bride;His long rambles by the shoreOn winter-evenings, when the roarOf the near waves came, sadly grand,Through the dark, up the drowned sand;Or his endless reveriesIn the woods, where the gleams playOn the grass under the trees,Passing the long summer’s dayIdle as a mossy stoneIn the forest-depths alone,The chase neglected, and his houndCouched beside him on the ground.—Ah! what trouble’s on his brow?Hither let him wander now;Hither, to the quiet hoursPassed among these heaths of oursBy the gray Atlantic sea,—Hours, if not of ecstasy,From violent anguish surely free!TRISTRAM.All red with blood the whirling river flows,The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.Upon us are the chivalry of Rome;Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.“Up, Tristram, up!” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight!What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!”—Above the din, her voice is in my ears;I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah! he wanders forth again;We cannot keep him: now, as then,There’s a secret in his breastWhich will never let him rest.These musing fits in the green wood,They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!—His sword is sharp, his horse is good;Beyond the mountains will he seeThe famous towns of Italy,And label with the blessed signThe heathen Saxons on the Rhine.At Arthur’s side he fights once moreWith the Roman Emperor.There’s many a gay knight where he goesWill help him to forget his care;The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air,The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,—Sick pining comes not where these are.—Ah! what boots it, that the jestLightens every other brow,What, that every other breastDances as the trumpets blow,If one’s own heart beats not lightOn the waves of the tossed fight,If one’s self cannot get freeFrom the clog of misery?Thy lovely youthful wife grows paleWatching by the salt sea-tide,With her children at her side,For the gleam of thy white sail.Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!To our lonely sea complain,To our forests tell thy pain.TRISTRAM.All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade,But it is moonlight in the open glade;And in the bottom of the glade shine clearThe forest-chapel and the fountain near.—I think I have a fever in my blood;Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood,Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood.—Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light.God! ’tisherface plays in the waters bright!“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon,At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?”—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, poor soul! if this be so,Only death can balm thy woe.The solitudes of the green woodHad no medicine for thy mood;The rushing battle cleared thy bloodAs little as did solitude.—Ah! his eyelids slowly breakTheir hot seals, and let him wake;What new change shall we now see?A happier? Worse it cannot be.TRISTRAM.Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;The wind is down; but she’ll not come to-night.Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow.Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,Would take a score years from a strong man’s age;And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,Scant leisure for a second messenger.—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late!To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;To-night my page shall keep me company.Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I:This comes of nursing long and watching late.To bed—good night!. . . . . . . . . .She left the gleam-lit fireplace,She came to the bedside;She took his hands in hers, her tearsDown on her slender fingers rained.She raised her eyes upon his face,Not with a look of wounded pride,A look as if the heart complained;Her look was like a sad embrace,—The gaze of one who can divineA grief, and sympathize.Sweet flower! thy children’s eyesAre not more innocent than thine.But they sleep in sheltered rest,Like helpless birds in the warm nest,On the castle’s southern side;Where feebly comes the mournful roarOf buffeting wind and surging tideThrough many a room and corridor.—Full on their window the moon’s rayMakes their chamber as bright as day.It shines upon the blank white walls,And on the snowy pillow falls,And on two angel-heads doth playTurned to each other; the eyes closed,The lashes on the cheeks reposed.Round each sweet brow the cap close-setHardly lets peep the golden hair;Through the soft-opened lips, the airScarcely moves the coverlet.One little wandering arm is thrownAt random on the counterpane,And often the fingers close in hasteAs if their baby-owner chasedThe butterflies again.This stir they have, and this alone;But else they are so still!—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;But were you at the window now,To look forth on the fairy sightOf your illumined haunts by night,To see the park-glades where you playFar lovelier than they are by day,To see the sparkle on the eaves,And upon every giant-boughOf those old oaks, whose wet red leavesAre jewelled with bright drops of rain,—How would your voices run again!And far beyond the sparkling treesOf the castle-park, one seesThe bare heaths spreading, clear as day,Moor behind moor, far, far away,Into the heart of Brittany.And here and there, locked by the land,Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,And many a stretch of watery sandAll shining in the white moonbeams.But you see fairer in your dreams!What voices are these on the clear night air?What lights in the court, what steps on the stair?
TRISTRAM.
Is she not come? The messenger was sure.Prop me upon the pillows once again.Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!What lights will those out to the northward be?
THE PAGE.
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
TRISTRAM.
Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
THE PAGE.
Iseult.
TRISTRAM.
Ah! not the Iseult I desire.. . . . . . . . . .What knight is this so weak and pale,Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,Propped on pillows in his bed,Gazing seaward for the lightOf some ship that fights the galeOn this wild December night?Over the sick man’s feet is spreadA dark green forest-dress;A gold harp leans against the bed,Ruddy in the fire’s light.I know him by his harp of gold,Famous in Arthur’s court of old;I know him by his forest-dress,—The peerless hunter, harper, knight,Tristram of Lyoness.
What lady is this, whose silk attireGleams so rich in the light of the fire?The ringlets on her shoulders lyingIn their flitting lustre vyingWith the clasp of burnished goldWhich her heavy robe doth hold.Her looks are mild, her fingers slightAs the driven snow are white;But her cheeks are sunk and pale.Is it that the bleak sea-galeBeating from the Atlantic seaOn this coast of Brittany,Nips too keenly the sweet flower?Is it that a deep fatigueHath come on her, a chilly fear,Passing all her youthful hourSpinning with her maidens here,Listlessly through the window-barsGazing seawards many a leagueFrom her lonely shore-built tower,While the knights are at the wars?Or, perhaps, has her young heartFelt already some deeper smart,Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?Who is this snowdrop by the sea?—I know her by her mildness rare,Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;I know her by her rich silk dress,And her fragile loveliness,—The sweetest Christian soul alive,Iseult of Brittany.
Iseult of Brittany? but whereIs that other Iseult fair,That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen?She, whom Tristram’s ship of yoreFrom Ireland to Cornwall bore,To Tyntagel, to the sideOf King Marc, to be his bride?She who, as they voyaged, quaffedWith Tristram that spiced magic draughtWhich since then forever rollsThrough their blood, and binds their souls,Working love, but working teen?There were two Iseults who did swayEach her hour of Tristram’s day;But one possessed his waning time,The other his resplendent prime.Behold her here, the patient flower,Who possessed his darker hour!Iseult of the snow-white handWatches pale by Tristram’s bed.She is here who had his gloom:Where art thou who hadst his bloom?One such kiss as those of yoreMight thy dying knight restore!Does the love-draught work no more?Art thou cold, or false, or dead,Iseult of Ireland?. . . . . . . . . .Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain,And the knight sinks back on his pillows again;He is weak with fever and pain,And his spirit is not clear.Hark! he mutters in his sleep,As he wanders far from here,Changes place and time of year,And his closèd eye doth sweepO’er some fair unwintry sea,Not this fierce Atlantic deep,While he mutters brokenly,—
TRISTRAM.
The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails;Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales,And overhead the cloudless sky of May.“Ah! would I were in those green fields at play,Not pent on shipboard this delicious day!Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee,But pledge me in it first for courtesy.”Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like mineChild, ’tis no water this, ’tis poisoned wine!Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!Keep his eyelids; let him seemNot this fever-wasted wightThinned and paled before his time,But the brilliant youthful knightIn the glory of his prime,Sitting in the gilded barge,At thy side, thou lovely charge,Bending gayly o’er thy hand,Iseult of Ireland!And she too, that princess fair,If her bloom be now less rare,Let her have her youth again,Let her be as she was then!Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling handWith its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hairWith the old imperious air!As of old, so let her be,That first Iseult, princess bright,Chatting with her youthful knightAs he steers her o’er the sea,Quitting at her father’s willThe green isle where she was bred,And her bower in Ireland,For the surge-beat Cornish strand;Where the prince whom she must wedDwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill,High above the sounding sea.And that golden cup her motherGave her, that her future lord,Gave her, that King Marc and she,Might drink it on their marriage-day,And forever love each other,—Let her, as she sits on board,—Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly!—See it shine, and take it up,And to Tristram laughing say,—“Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy,Pledge me in my golden cup.”Let them drink it; let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flame,As they feel the fatal bandsOf a love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts again!Let the early summer beOnce more round them, and the seaBlue, and o’er its mirror kindLet the breath of the May-wind,Wandering through their drooping sails,Die on the green fields of Wales;Let a dream like this restoreWhat his eye must see no more.
TRISTRAM.
Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear:Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?Were feet like those made for so wild a way?The southern winter-parlor, by my fay,Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!—“Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!—Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betrayed—out-planned.Fly—save thyself—save me! I dare not stay.”One last kiss first!—“’Tis vain—to horse—away!”. . . . . . . . . .Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth moveFaster surely than it should,From the fever in his blood!All the spring-time of his loveIs already gone and past,And instead thereof is seenIts winter, which endureth still,—Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,The flying leaves, the straining blast,And that long, wild kiss,—their last.And this rough December-night,And his burning fever-pain,Mingle with his hurrying dream,Till they rule it; till he seemThe pressed fugitive again,The love-desperate, banished knight,With a fire in his brain,Flying o’er the stormy main.—Whither does he wander now?Haply in his dreams the windWafts him here, and lets him findThe lovely orphan child againIn her castle by the coast;The youngest, fairest chatelaine,That this realm of France can boast,Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,—Iseult of Brittany.And—for through the haggard air,The stained arms, the matted hair,Of that stranger-knight ill-starred,There gleamed something which recalledThe Tristram who in better daysWas Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard—Welcomed here, and here installed,Tended of his fever here,Haply he seems again to moveHis young guardian’s heart with love,In his exiled loneliness,In his stately, deep distress,Without a word, without a tear.—Ah! ’tis well he should retraceHis tranquil life in this lone place;His gentle bearing at the sideOf his timid youthful bride;His long rambles by the shoreOn winter-evenings, when the roarOf the near waves came, sadly grand,Through the dark, up the drowned sand;Or his endless reveriesIn the woods, where the gleams playOn the grass under the trees,Passing the long summer’s dayIdle as a mossy stoneIn the forest-depths alone,The chase neglected, and his houndCouched beside him on the ground.—Ah! what trouble’s on his brow?Hither let him wander now;Hither, to the quiet hoursPassed among these heaths of oursBy the gray Atlantic sea,—Hours, if not of ecstasy,From violent anguish surely free!
TRISTRAM.
All red with blood the whirling river flows,The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.Upon us are the chivalry of Rome;Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.“Up, Tristram, up!” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight!What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!”—Above the din, her voice is in my ears;I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah! he wanders forth again;We cannot keep him: now, as then,There’s a secret in his breastWhich will never let him rest.These musing fits in the green wood,They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!—His sword is sharp, his horse is good;Beyond the mountains will he seeThe famous towns of Italy,And label with the blessed signThe heathen Saxons on the Rhine.At Arthur’s side he fights once moreWith the Roman Emperor.There’s many a gay knight where he goesWill help him to forget his care;The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air,The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,—Sick pining comes not where these are.—Ah! what boots it, that the jestLightens every other brow,What, that every other breastDances as the trumpets blow,If one’s own heart beats not lightOn the waves of the tossed fight,If one’s self cannot get freeFrom the clog of misery?Thy lovely youthful wife grows paleWatching by the salt sea-tide,With her children at her side,For the gleam of thy white sail.Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!To our lonely sea complain,To our forests tell thy pain.
TRISTRAM.
All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade,But it is moonlight in the open glade;And in the bottom of the glade shine clearThe forest-chapel and the fountain near.—I think I have a fever in my blood;Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood,Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood.—Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light.God! ’tisherface plays in the waters bright!“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon,At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?”—Iseult!.... . . . . . . . . .Ah, poor soul! if this be so,Only death can balm thy woe.The solitudes of the green woodHad no medicine for thy mood;The rushing battle cleared thy bloodAs little as did solitude.—Ah! his eyelids slowly breakTheir hot seals, and let him wake;What new change shall we now see?A happier? Worse it cannot be.
TRISTRAM.
Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;The wind is down; but she’ll not come to-night.Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow.Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,Would take a score years from a strong man’s age;And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,Scant leisure for a second messenger.—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late!To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;To-night my page shall keep me company.Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I:This comes of nursing long and watching late.To bed—good night!. . . . . . . . . .She left the gleam-lit fireplace,She came to the bedside;She took his hands in hers, her tearsDown on her slender fingers rained.She raised her eyes upon his face,Not with a look of wounded pride,A look as if the heart complained;Her look was like a sad embrace,—The gaze of one who can divineA grief, and sympathize.Sweet flower! thy children’s eyesAre not more innocent than thine.
But they sleep in sheltered rest,Like helpless birds in the warm nest,On the castle’s southern side;Where feebly comes the mournful roarOf buffeting wind and surging tideThrough many a room and corridor.—Full on their window the moon’s rayMakes their chamber as bright as day.It shines upon the blank white walls,And on the snowy pillow falls,And on two angel-heads doth playTurned to each other; the eyes closed,The lashes on the cheeks reposed.Round each sweet brow the cap close-setHardly lets peep the golden hair;Through the soft-opened lips, the airScarcely moves the coverlet.One little wandering arm is thrownAt random on the counterpane,And often the fingers close in hasteAs if their baby-owner chasedThe butterflies again.This stir they have, and this alone;But else they are so still!—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;But were you at the window now,To look forth on the fairy sightOf your illumined haunts by night,To see the park-glades where you playFar lovelier than they are by day,To see the sparkle on the eaves,And upon every giant-boughOf those old oaks, whose wet red leavesAre jewelled with bright drops of rain,—How would your voices run again!And far beyond the sparkling treesOf the castle-park, one seesThe bare heaths spreading, clear as day,Moor behind moor, far, far away,Into the heart of Brittany.And here and there, locked by the land,Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,And many a stretch of watery sandAll shining in the white moonbeams.But you see fairer in your dreams!What voices are these on the clear night air?What lights in the court, what steps on the stair?