| ||
Home | Site Index | Heithinn Idea Contest | | ||
Viking Tales of the North Fridthjof's Saga
Page 1 The Reconciliation. I. Round it no palisade of wood Ran now as erst; A railing stronger, fairer than the first, And all of hammer’d iron — each bar Gold-tipp’d and regular — Walls Balder’s sacred house. Like some long line Of steel-clad champions, whose bright war-spears shine And golden helms afar — so stood This glitt’ring guard within the holy wood. And daring art, the massy pile was built, and there (A giant-work intended To last till time was ended) It rose like Upsal’s temple, where the North Saw Valhal’s hall fair imag’d here on earth. Reflected calmly on the sea’s bright-flowing wave; But around about, some girdle like of beauteous flow’rs, Went Balder’s dale, with all its groves soft murmur’d sighs, And all its birds’ sweet-twitter’d songs, — the home of peace! Of circling columns on their shoulders strong The dome’s arch’d round bore up; and fair as shows A gold shield bright All vaulted light, — So far, so light, above the fane that dome it hong. Hewn all of one sole block From northern marble rock; And round thereon tis scroll the serpent twisted, With solemn rune Each fold thick strewn. Whose words, from Hávamál and vala taken, Deep thoughts in ev’ry human bosom waken; While in the wall above A niche was seen, with stars of gold On dark-blue ground; and there, behold! All mild and gentle as the silver moon Stilling heav’n’s blue aboon, The silver image stand of Balder, god of love! Twelve temple virgins; vests of silver thread Adorn each slender form, and roses red O’er ev’ry innocent heart a fragrant, fair rose-bed, Before the White God’s image; and around The late-bless’d altar dancing, light they bound As spring-winds leap where rippling fount-waves sound, Skimming the high-grown grass Which morning’s dew Still hangs with sparkling gems of ev’ry hue; — Ah! how those jewels tremble as the fairies pass. Of Balder — that mild god — and how he was belov’d By ev’ry creature, till he fell by Hoder’s dart, And earth and ocean wide, and heav’n itself, sore wept! How pure, how tender that song it pealeth! Sure never sprang Such tuneful clang From mortal breast! No! heav’n revealeth Some tone from Breidablik, from out the god’s own hall, All soft as lonely maiden’s thoughts on him she loves, What time the quail calls deeply ‘mid the peace of night; The North’s tall birches bath’d i’ th’ moon’s pale-quiv’ring sheen. Shines far around, stood lost as in a trance, And charm’d, and silent, gaz’d upon the dance. Thereat his childhood’s mem’ries how they throng Before his raptur’d eye! A jocund train, and long, And innocent, and glad, and true, With eyes like heav’n’s own blue, And heads rich-circled by bright-golden tresses; His former youth-friend, each with some sweet sign addresses. Then all his viking life, With scenes of murd’rous strife And bold adventure rife, Like some dark, bloody shadow sinketh Fast down to night. Ah! glad he drinketh Forgetfulness’ sweet cup, and thinketh, “Repose at last those sea-king exploits have; I stand a flow’r-crown’d bauta-stone upon their grave.” << Previous Page Next Page >>
© 2004-2007 Northvegr. Most of the material on this site is in the public domain. However, many people have worked very hard to bring these texts to you so if you do use the work, we would appreciate it if you could give credit to both the Northvegr site and to the individuals who worked to bring you these texts. A small number of texts are copyrighted and cannot be used without the author's permission. Any text that is copyrighted will have a clear notation of such on the main index page for that text. Inquiries can be sent to info@northvegr.org. Northvegr™ and the Northvegr symbol are trademarks and service marks of the Northvegr Foundation. |
|