death of gods, the fall of Asgara!
Hear, son of Odin, wretched slave of passion,
Think not that dreams, that magic’s foul deception,
That spectres of the night my brain bewilder;
And oh! think not that merely chance has led me
To Balder’s presence, and to these high forests!
I sought thee, came with speed to give thee warning:
Fear, then!  It is thy friend, ’tis Thor, who’s speaking!
And on my lips I bear the words of Odin.
Thou know’st there grows in night’s mysterious valley
A tree, as yet by men or gods seen never;
It bears a bough, which bough, when once ’tis harden’d
In Nastroud’s flames, can slay thee.

BALDER.  Yes, I know it.

THOR.  That knowest thou, friend!  And is it a mere slumber,
A fleeting trance, a pleasant dream of battle,
With which the spear’s impregnated in Nastroud?
Ha! whom it slays wakes never up in Valhall;
In mist and darkness must he lie for ever.
From gods and men alike for ever parted,
Must Balder be detested—Hæla’s booty,
Not Odin’s quest?

BALDER.  Aye; when the tree’s discover’d.

THOR.  Well, now, attend and heed a father’s warning!
When Odin high from Lidskialf saw thee raving,
In toils of love, ’mong Norway’s snowy mountains,
The speech of Mimmer on his heart fell heavy.
Hear it and tremble!  Not for death, O Balder!
Nor e’en for Hæla, but thy father’s anguish;
“The year”—such was his word (thou knowest Mimmer,
And scarce canst think he’d breathe the words of falsehood)—
“The year when Norway’s desert hills shall echo
The half-god’s wasted love-caus’d lamentations,
When he’s rejected by a prophet’s daughter,
That year shall see the spear which holds his ruin,
Shall see the gods in grief, and Odin weeping.”
Hear that and quake!  And fly, and spare thy father!
If not, dote on and die, for that’s thy fortune!

[He disappears among the trees.

BALDER (alone).  And must I die?  Ah well, I merely forfeit
A worthless breath, which is by Nanna hated.
Ha! hated.  How that thought that Nanna hates me
Torments my breast!  Death, only death, can drown it.
It burns, it scorches me, like Nastroud’s blazes.
Come, tenfold death, come quickly, and extinguish
The thought: destroy it, crush it, with this bosom.
Thanks be to Thor, for he my eyelids lifted,
Disclosing I had chance of rest—of dying!
E’en Surtur, he whose hostile fingers planted
The tree, the black tree, by the feeble starlight;
Who nurs’d its infant root with blood fresh taken
From slaughter’d babes, and drew a circle round it,
And mutter’d magic words, and gave it power
To shoot the bane of Nastroud in my bosom,
Was not so cruel as thyself, O Nanna!
What! cruel?  No, by Odin!  Pity drove him
To rear up remedy benign and grateful
For the dire wound with which thou torment’st me.
Ah, maid! thou mak’st me look to death with longing
And yet to die! and die from thee! and never—
Ha! my heart freezes!  The mere word would kill me!
But then, most likely thou wilt pity Balder,
And with a hot, a precious tear bedew him!

Say, O maid! when thou dost pour
From thine eyes the briny shower
O’er a lifeless lump of clay!
Cease thy weeping, cruel maiden:
All thy grief is vainly vented:
See the breast so long tormented
Which thy pity now should gladden,
Beats no more and rots away!
O Nanna!  Nanna!

[He sits down and holds both his hands before his eyes.

LOKE (in the shape of an old Finman).  Balder!

[He walks in a crooked attitude, and supports himself upon a knotted staff.  He enters so that his back is turned to BALDER.

Help, ye gods of heaven!
Oh, I unfortunate! that frost and hunger,
And fear of bears and wolves and evil spirits
Should now destroy me on these frightful mountains!
Oh, that I but beheld a smoke uprising,
A single trace of a bewildered hunter!
That I but heard a cheery horn resounding!
But nothing, nothing!  Never, never rises
A friendly sound among these wildernesses,
Which human feet till now has never trodden.
Ah! who will succour me?

BALDER (goes towards him and takes him kindly by the arm).  What ails thee, father?

LOKE (as if terrified).  Aha! I can no more!  Ah!

BALDER.  Come and rest thee!
Here lean upon my arm!

LOKE.  Ah!

BALDER.  How thou tremblest,
My hoary friend!  But cast thy terrors from thee—
There thou art safe: this breast is warmed by pity.

LOKE.  Forgive me, sir; forsooth, I was confounded!
Thou see’st in me a poor and ancient Finman.
Far, far away from these terrific mountains,
This year I built of flags and stones my hovel;
I sought for reindeer—all my wealth; they doubtless
Were captured by the bear!  I, wretched being!
My sight is feeble, and the night surprised me;
The wind, as I observe too late, has shifted,
And not a star is gleaming in the heavens:
Ah! far must be the way unto my hovel!
My feet are wearied out, for I have wandered
The long and chilly night among the mountains.

BALDER.  What wishest thou?

LOKE.  I die of frost and hunger.
Whoe’er thou art, and if thou feelest pity—
Excuse my doubt—yet wouldst thou save the remnant
Of life which trembles on my lips, conduct me
Straight to the cheering hearth where bask thy servants.

BALDER.  The way would prove for thee too far; but see’st thou
The lofty roof behind the forest yonder,
There, there resides of earth the fairest daughter:
Thither repair, thou fortunate old stranger!
There she resides.—Ah! thou wilt be to Nanna
A dear, a welcome guest!  She loves the wretched;
Her noble heart swells always with compassion
For every sufferer.  Only not—Thou stayest!
Why go’st thou not?

LOKE.  I go; but thou wast speaking,
Methinks, of Nanna?

BALDER.  Yes.

LOKE.  Of Gevar’s daughter?

BALDER (astonished).  Thou know’st her?

LOKE.  No; but oftentimes her bridegroom
Has come fatigued with hunting, to my hovel.

BALDER.  Ah who—

LOKE (turns away as if to depart).  She dwells there, does she?

BALDER (seizes him by the arm).  Stay! who is the bride-groom?
Speak, reptile, speak!  Who?  When?  Reply, thou traitor,
Or here thou diest!

LOKE.  Spare me, sir, in mercy!
I faint with terror!

BALDER.  Speak! by all the powers,
Thy smallest hair is sacred!  I have promised.
Now, speak!

LOKE.  I am an old and harmless creature.

BALDER.  But Nanna’s bridegroom?

LOKE.  Truly, sir, I wonder,
That one like thee, a dweller ’mongst these mountains,
Should know him not, the noblest and the bravest
Of all the sons of earth.

BALDER.  Ye gods of heaven!
And who?  His name?

LOKE.  One who is bold as Odin,
And strong as Thor, and beautiful as Balder.

BALDER.  Ha! kill me not, but answer: name him.

LOKE (with a loud voice).  Hother!

BALDER (with agitation).  What!  Who?  The Leire King?
The Skioldung Hother?

LOKE.  Who here is foster’d up by Nanna’s father.

BALDER.  Thou killest me!  Thou see’st how I tremble!
Yet, that I never saw him here!  Where is he?

LOKE.  At Gevar’s.

BALDER.  By the gods, it overcomes me!
What, under Nanna’s roof?

LOKE.  At night-time only,
As I believe; for ere the east hills redden,
Upstarts he, lovely as a young spring morning,
And griping firm his lusty spear, he wanders
Among the rocks.  Ah, master! thou