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.”
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