Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Page 2
And upward as its warbled harm’nies roll,
The hero’s soul
Wings glad its flight
To Valaskjalf the bright,
From earth’s low valleys far, far, far away!
As from the mountain’s breast,
In ice-mail drest,
Its winter-cuirass melts and falls
When back again
To gods and men
Spring’s sun life’s joy recalls;
So human vengeance vanishes,
So human hate he banishes;
And, as he stands in silent ecstasy,
His hero-bosom swells with peace’s sun-lit sea.
Responsive it his own; as if, deep-mov’d he’d press
In brotherly embrace Heimskringla’s orb, and peace
Straight make with all creation — while the god looks on.
Then up the temple trod great Balder’s priest supreme,
Not young and fair, the White God Like, but tall of mien,
With heav’nly mildness on his noble features stamp’d,
And grac’d with silver beard that down to his girdle flow’d.
Unwonted rev’rence Fridthjof’s haughty soul now felt,
and the eagle-pinions on his helm he bended deep
As the age-crown’d seer advanc’d, who words of peace thus spoke:
That thou shouldst come, — for force, ‘tis true, still wanders
Round land and sea afar, wild berserk like,
That pale with rage the shield’s hard border biteth;
But yet at last it home returns again,
Out wearied and call calm. The strong-armed Thor
Full oft against giant Jotunheim did wend,
But Spite his belt celestial, spite his gauntlets,
Utgard-Loke still his throne retains;
Evil, itself a force, to force yields never!
On Æger’s bosom so the sun shines prettily;
But fickle as the flood the graspless splendor see,
As sink or rise the billows — thus, all changeably,
The fairy brightness flitteth, moving endlessly,
And force, from goodness sever’d, surely dies;
Self-eating, self-consume’d, as sword that lies
In some damp cairn — black rust corrodes the prize!
Yes! life’s debauch fierce strength’s mad riot is!
But ah! oblivion’s heron flutters still
O’er goblet-brim that traitorous sweet draughts fill,
And deep’s the waken’d drunkard’s shame for deeds of ill!
The wild tumultous waters are its veins,
Its ev’ry sinew is of smithied brass;
But still ‘tis empty all, and bare, and barren, —
Till heav’n’s bright goodness rise,
Till fruitful sun-beams stream from laughing skies;
Then blooms the grass, then purple flow’rs their broid’ry weave,
Then rounds the gold fruit, fresh crowns the forest leave,
And men and animals from mother earth new life receive.
Of ev’ry human life Allfather placeth
Two weights, each other balancing when right
The beam is pos’d; and earthly strength we call
The one, while th’ other hight is heav’nly goodness.
Strong is great Thor, no doubt, when Megingarder
He braces tightly o’er his rock-firm loins
And strikes his best; and Odin too, I trow,
Is wise enough, by Urd’s bright silver wave
Sitting and gazing downward, while his eagles,
Swift messengers, come flying from afar
And tell to th’ asas’ sire this round world’s tidings; —
But, son! they both grew pale, the vivid brightness
Of both their crowns half faded, when white Balder,
The gentle deity, the banding gem
In Valhal’s wreath divine all sudden fell!
Then on Time’s wide-stretched tree its leaf-crown’s glory
Fast wither’d, while grim Nidhug bit triumphant
Its deep-torn roots! Then old Night’s prison’d forces
Broke loose at once, while Midgard’s serpent dash’d
With venom’d tail the far-empoison’d skies,
And Fenris howl’d and roar’d, and Surt’s old fire blade
From Muspelheim blaz’d bright. Wherever, since,
Thy vision gazes, still through all creation
The rocking battle goes! The gold-comb’d cock
The gods in Valhal loudly crow’d to arms;
The blood-red cock as shrilly summons all
On earth and down beneath it.
Sat thron’d in Valhal, — sat enthron’d ‘mong men, —
In human bosom, and in each god’s breast
Breth’d heav’nly rest!
On a still grander scale above us. Man’s
But Valhal img’d faintly, — heav’n’s soft light
Reflected dim in Saga’s rune-grav’d shield.
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