spear; he then went in search of Hædur, twin-brother of Balder, and born blind. Having found him, he asked him, why he did not join in the general amusement, and cast a weapon at Balder. Hædur replied: I am blind, and have no weapon. Lok answered: You should not be the only one among the Asar, who does not do honour to Balder; here! take this lance (giving to him the spear made of the mistletoe), and run at him with it! Hædur did so, and Balder fell down dead. The gods were inconsolable at his loss, and sent Hermod, the messenger of Odin, to Hela, the queen of death and of the shades below, into whose hands Balder had fallen, in order to supplicate his release. Hermod mounted the steed of Odin, called Sleipner, and repaired to the abode of Hela, in order to demand the restitution of Balder. Hela at first refused to release him on any condition whatsoever; but at length relenting, she said: Now is the time to prove, if Balder be really so beloved by all creatures, as ye pretend. If, therefore, every thing in nature will shed tears for Balder’s death, and demand his release, I will grant it. Hermod returned to Asagard, satisfied with the success of his mission. The Asar sent messengers all over the earth, calling upon all creatures to weep for Balder’s death; and all creatures did grieve and join in the prayer for his release from the shades of Helheim, except an old witch, by name Thock, who was sitting by the entrance of a cavern. When called upon to join in the general lamentation, she answered spitefully:

and in consequence of this solitary refusal, Hela did retain her prey, and will do so until the end of time. It was now discovered that the witch Thock was no other than Lok himself in disguise; and the gods, enraged at his treachery, inflicted on him a summary vengeance. Changing his two sons into wolves, who devour each other, the gods make a chain from their intestines, and bind therewith Lok to a sharp rock in a subterranean abode. They then place over him two enormous serpents, who drop their venom on his limbs, and he is to remain exposed to this continual torture until the end of the world. But though Lok be thus punished, the calamity springing from Balder’s death cannot be averted; from it dates the entrance of crime and misery into the world, and a state of unceasing warfare in the heavens, on the earth, and under the earth; which state is to last until the great day of Ragnarok, called the twilight of the gods. On that awful day, which is to be preceded by a severe uninterrupted winter of three years’ duration, a great battle is to be fought between the gods and giants, in which dreadful conflict giants, gods, mankind, the whole universe, in fine, are to perish in a shower of fire and blood. After the destruction of the world, a new creation is to take place under the auspices of Vidar, the god of silence and wisdom, the sole being who survives the general conflagration. It is he who is to resuscitate the gods and the human race, and to lead them to dwell in the palace of Gimle on the plains of Ida, an abode of eternal joy and felicity, where virtue and love are to reign triumphant, and vice and hatred be extinguished for ever. As the details of the destruction of the world and of its reconstruction are given in the last canto of this poem, I need not dwell on them here.[8] Besides the alphabetical catalogue, explicatory of all that remains to be known, concerning the events and personages which figure in this poem, I have annexed to each canto notes, which give the hidden sense and meaning of most of the mythes and allegories; on which subjects I have borrowed all my information from the celebrated Danish antiquarian Finn Magnussen, now living in Copenhagen, which information is to be found in his two admirable works, the one called “The elder Edda, translated with copious notes and illustrations;” the other, “The Edda doctrine explained and elucidated.” These two works afford a complete key to the mythes and allegories of the Scandinavian mythology, intricate as it is; and armed thus with his (Finn Magnussen’s) magic wand, I too may fearlessly undertake the office of Hierophant.

With respect to this poem and its author,[9] it has been observed by a modern Danish writer of some eminence: “There have been various poetical works in all the northern languages based on the legends of the Edda; but no author has woven thereof a whole, nor has so happily and poetically embodied its genius, mythes and transformations, as Œhlenschläger in his celebrated poem, The Gods of the North.”

To me it seems that he has combined in an eminent degree the peculiar excellences of three distinguished poets, of three distinct ages, viz. those of Hesiod in his Theogony, of Ovid in his Metamorphoses, and of Ariosto in his Orlando Furioso. Œhlenschläger seems to possess all the inexhaustible genius, fertility of invention, playfulness, and sly, but not ill-natured, satire of the bard of Ferrara:

Of my translation, it befits not me to speak. Like my archetype, I have adopted various metres for the different cantos, not always the same as those of the original; for I wished to take a freer scope, and not to fetter myself by an invariable adoption of the self-same metres, which would have been attended with great difficulty, inasmuch as some of them are unsuitable to the genius of the English language, which is far less laconic than the Danish. I have likewise, in a few instances, amplified my archetype, for I was determined that nothing of his should be lost; yet I trust, that even in those parts where I have most amplified, I have never departed from the meaning and spirit of the author. I can therefore never admit, that my translation, though unshackled, should be termed “a free one,” or Bearbeitung, as the Germans express it.

With respect to my qualifications as a translator, they are as follows: from the early age of fifteen I have been engaged in the acquisition of the language and literature of Germany; for the last twelve years, I have closely studied the Danish and Swedish languages, and I have lately attempted the Icelandic.

About eight years ago, I made a summer tour in Denmark and Sweden, and when at Copenhagen, I became acquainted with Finn Magnussen, the celebrated antiquarian, and with the poet Œhlenschläger himself, most of whose works I had previously read with unbounded admiration and delight, and among which, this poem, “The Gods of the North,” had excited my peculiar attention. Thus prepared, I determined on undertaking a metrical version of the whole of this work, one canto of which (the 12th) I had previously translated, and published anonymously in a Parisian weekly review, in 1835.

In my translation, I was further encouraged by the idea that I was thereby contributing to spread among my countrymen a taste for