Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Fridthjof on His Father’s Barrow.
I.
From branch to branch her mildy-soften’d beam!
In ev’ning’s dews Allfather’s look bright glances,
As in his ocean-deeps, with pure clear gleam!
How red the dye that o’er yon hill advances,
On Balder’s altar-stone all blood its stream!
Soon sleeps the buried land on night’s black pillow.
Soon she, you golden shield, sinks ‘neath the billow.
My childhood’s friends, where charm’d so oft I’ve stood.
The self-same flow’rs still scent the eve, and yonder
The self-same birds’ soft music fills the woods;
And round that rock the tumbling waves still wander. —
O happy he who ne’er has plough’d their flood!
To fame and name and exploits false waves wake thee
But far, ah! far from home-land’s vales they take thee!
Unblighted yet, I brav’d thy waters clear.
Dale! well I know thee; there we swore, weak madness!
An endless faith — such faith we find not here!
Ye birches, too! whose bark in love’s young gladness
I carv’d with many a rune, unchang’d appear, —
With silv’ry stems, and leaf-crowns graceful bended
All, all’s the same, ‘tis my fond dream that’s ended!
No Balder’s temple gems the sacred strand.
Yes! fair they were, my childhood’s vales and bowers,
Now waste and spoil’d by sword and flaming brand;
Man’s vengeance, and the wrath of Valhal’s powers
Dark warning speak form thois black fire-brent land, —
Hence, pilgrim! here no pious step abideth,
For Blader’s grove wild forest-creatures hideth!
The cruel Nidhug from the world below.
He hates that asa-light, whose rays benignant
On th’ hero’s brow and glit’ring sword bright glow.
Each scoundrel-deed which passion’s rage indigant
Prompts, he commits, curs’d tax to realms of woe;
And when successful, when the temple blazes,
His coal-black hands the fiend loud-clapping arises!
Mild blue-eyed Balder, wilt thou take no fine?
Blood-fines take we when kinsmen fall; th’ undaunted
High gods themselves are sooth’d when altars shine.
O thou, of all the gods for love most vaunted,
Some off’ring ask, — whate’er thou wilt is thine.
Could Fridthjof dream the flames would upward muster?
Give back, then, hero-god, my shield’s stain’d lustre.
Extinguish in my soul these specters drear.
Repentance sues. The crime one moment saw me
Dare, let a glorious life atone. Though here
The light’ner stood, I swear he would not awe me!
The pale-blue Hel herself I would not fear!
At thee, whose looks the moon’s white beams resemble,
And thy revenge, O gentle god, I tremble!
Ah! thither rode whence returneth none!
You starry tent his home, the shield’s loud thunder
Now hears the glad, or mead-draughts has begun.
From heav’n’s fields look, thou asa-guest, nor wonder —
Thy son invokes thee, Thorstein, Viking’s son!
Nor runes I have, nor spells, nor wizard-token, —
But say how Asa-Balder’s rage is broken.” . . .
Spake strong-arm’d Angantyr for sword of steel;
But what was Tirfing’s price, though like swift arrow
It struck, to what I ask? No sword reveal,
An isle-fight such will give, — but wounds that harrow
The soul, Oh teach me, Asgard-chief, to heal!
My uncertain gaze direct; Oh lead my guesses!
Sore, Balder wrath a noble mind distresses.
The billow murmurs; let its words be thine!
The storm-wind rises, on his wings suspended,
Oh whisper ere he go, some hint divine
Like golden rings the sunset clouds are bended.
Let one of them thy thought’s bright herald shine!
No word! — no sign! — thy son’s distresses heed’st thou,
Dear father? Ah! poor death! What pity need’st thou? . . .
To the earth’s tir’d race its cloud-sprung lullaby;
And ev’ning’s blush drives up, her chariot rolling,
With rose-red wheels along the dark’ning sky;
Like some fair Valhal-vision, men consoling,
She flies blue-tinted hills and valleys by.
Then sudden, o’er the western waters pendent,
An image comes, with gold and flames resplendent.
(In Valhal sounds its name more fair, I ween:)
O’er Balder’s groves it hovers, night’s clouds under,
Like gold-crown resting on a bed of green.
Above, below, — tis’ riche hues Valhal’s plunder, —
It glows with pomp ne’er ‘fore by mortal seen.
At last, to a temple settling, firm ‘tis grounded. —
Where Balder’s stood, another temple’s founded.
And cavern’d cliff high walls like silver shone.
The steel-cut pillars deep-blue tints quick shifted,
One splendid jewel was its altar-stone
Light hung the dome, as though by sprites uplifted,
And clear and pure as winter’s starry zone;
And high therein, rich sky-blue dresses wearing,
Sat Valhal’s deities, bright gold-crowns bearing.
On rune-carv’d shields supported gallantly;
Three rose-buds in one urn the group resembled, —
All solemn sweetness, charming dignity.
And Urd all silent, points where th’ ruins trembled,
But Skuld doth show the new fane’s majesty,
And scarce had Fridthjof, glad and wond’ring, banish’d
His troublous dread — when straight the pageant vanish’d!
Thy sign it was, O hero-father good!
The ruin’d temple shall again, o’erbending
The steep as erst, stand beauteous where it stood.
How sweet — with peaceful exploits thus contending —
To stone the impetuous rage of youth’s hot blood!
Once more the fierce-rejected hopeful liveth;
Appeas’d and mild — the White God now forgiveth!
Your silent courses glad I see once more!
Hail, northern-lights! up yonder flaming brightly;
Red temple-fires ye were for me before!
Green flourish, cairn! — and, from the wave trill’d lightly
Again, thou wondrous song, soft music pour! —
Here on my shield I’ll sleep, and dreaming wonder
How man’s appeas’d, and gods forget their thunder!”
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