The Death of Balder, by Johannes Ewald

Transcribed by David Price, email [email protected]

An Edition of 250 Copies only will be printed.
No more will be published.

THE DEATH OF BALDER
FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EWALD
(1773)
TRANSLATED BY GEORGE BORROW

Author of “Bible in Spain,” “Lavengro,” “Wild Wales,” etc.

LONDON
JARROLD & SONS, 3 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.
1889

PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION.

The works of the late poet Ewald are deservedly popular in Denmark.  The present tragedy, and the opera of “The Fishermen” (“Fiskerne”), in which occurs the bold lyric which has become the national song of the Danes, are esteemed his best productions.

For the fidelity with which the present version has been made I appeal to those of my countrymen who understand the original, and demand whether I have given a thought or expression equivalents to which are not to be found in the Danish tragedy.

I have imitated the peculiar species of blank verse in which the original is composed, in order that the English reader may form an exact idea thereof, and though by having done so my poetry may have somewhat of a cramped, embarrassed gait, I have a firm hope that I shall not meet very severe reprehension for having sacrificed elegance to fidelity.

GEORGE BORROW.

THE PERSONS.

Balder.  Hother.
Thor.  Nanna.
Loke.  The Three Valkyrier.

The place of action is a pine-wood on the Norwegian mountains.  Round about it are seen steep and uneven rocks.  The top of the hindermost and highest is covered with snow.

ACT THE FIRST.

BALDER and THOR are seated upon stones at some distance from each other.  Both are armed—THOR with his hammer, and BALDER with spear and sword.

BALDER.  Land whose proud and rocky bosom
Braves the sky continually!

THOR.  Where should strength and valour blossom,
Land of rocks, if not in thee?

BALDER.  Odin’s shafts of ruddy levin
Back from thy hard sides are driven;
Never sun thy snow dispels.

THOR.  Sure, he’ll joy in deeds of daring,
Ne’er for ease voluptuous caring,
Who upon the mountain dwells.

BOTH.  Land whose proud and rocky bosom
Braves the sky continually!
Where should strength and valour blossom,
Land of rocks, if not in thee?

BALDER (he springs up, but THOR remains sitting, like one in deep thought).  Ha!  I will quickly fly from thee for ever,
Thou hated land, where everything so proudly
Upbraids me for my weakness—for my fetters:
Where I, pursu’d by pains of hopeless passion,
The live-long nights among deaf rocks do wander—
Whose echoes sport with Balder’s lamentations,
Each cold, each feelingless, as Nanna’s bosom,
The fair, unpitying savage!

THOR.  Son of Odin!

BALDER.  Speak, mighty Thor!

THOR.  Thou sighest, then—and vainly?

BALDER.  Vainly: without a glimpse of hope; bewildered.
What, what have I not promised, vow’d, attempted?
How oft have I, O Thor!—I blush, but hear it—
To tears debas’d myself: my tears have trickled—
Have vainly trickled—before Gevar’s daughter.

THOR.  Ha!  Gevar’s daughter?

BALDER.  Yes, the haughty Nanna.

THOR.  Dost mean the daughter of the wise King Gevar,
Who reads the actions of the unborn hero,
The will of Fate, malicious foemen’s projects,
And war and death of warriors in the planets:
Dost mean his daughter?

BALDER.  Think’st thou other fathers possess a Nanna?

THOR.  Gods!

[He again casts his eyes upon the ground, like one who meditates deeply.

BALDER.  Behind yon pine wood he built an altar unto thee and Odin,
There thou mayst see the roof of his still dwelling.
There lives the earthly Freia—cruel maiden—
There slumbers she, perhaps—the proud one rests in
Joy’s downy arms, undreaming aught of Balder!
As if I did not love, were not a half-god;
As if by Skalds my name were never chanted
As if I were a demon, bad as Loke!
Ha! if upon my tongue lurked bane and magic,
When fear enchains it and the pale lip trembles;
When broken words and a disordered wailing
Are all with which I can express my bosom’s
Desire intense, and dread unwonted torments.
Ha! were my voice like Find’s when he, distracted,
Goes over Horthedal; as when he bellows,
And wild at last, and blind with fury, splinters
The oaks, the glory of the sacred forest.
Ha! if the blood of maids and unarm’d wretches
Of harmless travellers, stained the hands of Balder—
If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers—
Then might’st thou well be pale;
And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!

THOR.  Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!

BALDER.  From Nanna!  Yes, I ought—that see I plainly.
Ha! some accursed fiend my foot has fasten’d
To these wild mountains and to Nanna’s shadow!
And is there nothing then of hope remaining?
When did I first become so grim—so frightful?
When?  Tell me, Thor, is breath of mine destructive?
Has death among my tears and smiles its dwelling?
What shall I do?  Reply!  But thou art silent,
And from thine eyeball flames contemptuous anger.

THOR (he rises).  Ha! drivellest thou before the God of Thunder?

BALDER.  To Thor, to Odin’s friend, I breathe my sorrow.

THOR.  How long dost think, degenerate son of Odin,
Unmanly pining for a foolish maiden,
And all the weary train of love-sick follies,
Will move a bosom that is steeled by virtue?
Thou dotest!  Dote and weep, in tears swim ever;
But by thy father’s arm, by Odin’s honour,
Haste, hide thy tears and thee in shades of alder!
Haste to the still, the peace-accustom’d valley,
Where lazy herdsmen dance amid the clover.
There wet each leaf which soft the west wind kisses,
Each plant which breathes around voluptuous odours,
With tears!  There sigh and moan and the tired peasant
Shall hear thee, and, behind his ploughshare resting,
Shall wonder at thy grief, and pity Balder!

BALDER.  And is this all the comfort thou canst offer?

THOR.  I gave thee counsel: fly from her who flies thee!
What holds thee here, where thou canst hope for nothing?

BALDER.  And can I?  Ah, my friend, that is my duty!
But fly!  And never, never see thee, Nanna!
And ne’er again behold the roof where under
Thou sleepest!  Honour the mere thought destroyeth!
Ere that, I’ll perish here, unfamed, forgotten!

THOR.  Well, perish, then!  I see too plain ’tis useless
Against a harsh, eternal fate to struggle!

The hill fiend dreads my hammer’s might
Before it turns the Jotun white,
And rocks, whereon I strike, give way.
But nothing cruel fate can move;
And what Allfather there above
Resolves upon, stands firm for aye.

Know, son of Odin, thou whom reason, friendship,
Whom scorn—e’en scorn—to move are all unable,
Know that prophetic were thy words!  Fate hastens!
The Valkyrie prepares the spear already,
Its deadly point already does she sharpen.
Ah, see! the prince of battle holds it brandish’d;
He strikes! he strikes! and all the Aser sorrow.

BALDER.  Dark is thy speech, O Thor! dark as thy visage.

THOR.  Before my eyes are murky shadows flitting.
A mortal youth, with blood of Asa crimson’d!
The fight and