O merchants, tarry yet a day
Here in Bokhara! but at noon
To-morrow come, and ye shall pay
Each fortieth web of cloth to me,
As the law is, and go your way.

O Hussein, lead me to the king!
Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,
Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead!
How is it with my lord?

Alone,
Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,
O vizier! without lying down,
In the great window of the gate,
Looking into the RegistÀn,
Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves
Are this way bringing the dead man
O vizier, here is the king’s door!

O king, thou know’st, I have been sick
These many days, and heard no thing
(For Allah shut my ears and mind),
Not even what thou dost, O king!
Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,
Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste
To speak in order what hath chanced.

Three days since, at the time of prayer,
A certain Moollah, with his robe
All rent, and dust upon his hair,
Watched my lord’s coming forth, and pushed
The golden mace-bearers aside,
And fell at the king’s feet, and cried,—

“Justice, O king, and on myself!
On this great sinner, who did break
The law, and by the law must die!
Vengeance, O king!”

But the king spake:
“What fool is this, that hurts our ears
With folly? or what drunken slave?
My guards, what! prick him with your spears!
Prick me the fellow from the path!”

As the king said, so was it done,
And to the mosque my lord passed on.

But on the morrow, when the king
Went forth again, the holy book
Carried before him, as is right,
And through the square his way he took;

My man comes running, flecked with blood
From yesterday, and falling down
Cries out most earnestly, “O king,
My lord, O king, do right, I pray!

“How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern
If I speak folly? but a king,
Whether a thing be great or small,
Like Allah, hears and judges all.

“Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierce
In these last days the sun hath burned;
That the green water in the tanks
Is to a putrid puddle turned;
And the canal, that from the stream
Of Samarcand is brought this way,
Wastes and runs thinner every day.

‘Now I at nightfall had gone forth
Alone, and in a darksome place
Under some mulberry-trees I found
A little pool; and in short space
With all the water that was there
I filled my pitcher, and stole home
Unseen; and having drink to spare,
I hid the can behind the door,
And went up on the roof to sleep.

“But in the night, which was with wind
And burning dust, again I creep
Down, having fever, for a drink.

“Now, meanwhile had my brethren found
The water-pitcher, where it stood
Behind the door upon the ground,
And called my mother; and they all,
As they were thirsty, and the night
Most sultry, drained the pitcher there;
That they sate with it, in my sight,
Their lips still wet, when I came down.

“Now mark! I, being fevered, sick,
(Most unblest also), at that sight
Brake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—
One was my mother.—— Now do right!”

But my lord mused a space, and said,—
“Send him away, sirs, and make on!
It is some madman,” the king said.
As the king bade, so was it done.

The morrow, at the self-same hour,
In the king’s path, behold, the man,
Not kneeling, sternly fixed! He stood
Right opposite, and thus began,
Frowning grim down: “Thou wicked king,
Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!
What! must I howl in the next world,
Because thou wilt not listen here?

“What! wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,
And all grace shall to me be grudged?
Nay, but I swear, from this thy path
I will not stir till I be judged!”

Then they who stood about the king
Drew close together, and conferred;
Till that the king stood forth, and said,
“Before the priests thou shalt be heard.”

But when the Ulemas were met,
And the thing heard, they doubted not;
But sentenced him, as the law is,
To die by stoning on the spot.

Now the king charged us secretly:
“Stoned must he be, the law stands so.
Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:
Hinder him not, but let him go.”

So saying, the king took a stone,
And cast it softly; but the man,
With a great joy upon his face,
Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones,
That they flew thick, and bruised him sore.
But he praised Allah with loud voice,
And remained kneeling as before.

My lord had covered up his face;
But when one told him, “He is dead,”
Turning him quickly to go in,
“Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said.

And truly, while I speak, O king,
I hear the bearers on the stair:
Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?
—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

O king, in this I praise thee not!
Now must I call thy grief not wise.
Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,
To find such favor in thine eyes?

Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,
Still thou art king, and the law stands.
It were not meet the balance swerved,
The sword were broken in thy hands.

But being nothing, as he is,
Why for no cause make sad thy face?
Lo, I am old! three kings ere thee
Have I seen reigning in this place.

But who, through all this length of time,
Could bear the burden of his years,
If he for strangers pained his heart
Not less than those who merit tears?

Fathers we must have, wife and child,
And grievous is the grief for these;
This pain alone, which must be borne,
Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

But other loads than this his own,
One man is not well made to bear.
Besides, to each are his own friends,
To mourn with him, and show him care.

Look, this is but one single place,
Though it be great; all the earth round,
If a man bear to have it so,
Things which might vex him shall be found.

Upon the Russian frontier, where
The watchers of two armies stand
Near one another, many a man,
Seeking a prey unto his hand,

Hath snatched a little fair-haired slave;
They snatch also, towards MervÈ,
The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,
And up from thence to OrgunjÈ.

And these all, laboring for a lord,
Eat not the fruit of their own hands;
Which is the heaviest of all plagues,
To that man’s mind who understands.

The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)
Vex one another, night and day;
There are the lepers, and all sick;
There are the poor, who faint alway.

All these have sorrow, and keep still,
Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.
Wilt thou have pity on all these?
No, nor on this dead dog, O king!

O vizier, thou art old, I young!
Clear in these things I cannot see.
My head is burning, and a heat
Is in my skin which angers me.

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!
They that bear rule, and are obeyed,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyes
Gazing up hither, the poor man,
Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,
Below there, in the RegistÀn,—

Says, “Happy he who lodges there!
With silken raiment, store of rice,
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,—

“With cherries served in drifts of snow.”
In vain hath a king power to build
Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques;
And to make orchard-closes, filled

With curious fruit-trees brought from far,
With cisterns for the winter-rain,
And, in the desert, spacious inns
In divers places,—if that pain

Is not more lightened, which he feels,
If his will be not satisfied;
And that it be not, from all time
The law is planted, to abide.

Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!
Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,
That, though we take what we desire,
We must not snatch it eagerly.

And I have meat and drink at will,
And rooms of treasures, not a few.
But I am sick, nor heed I these;
And what I would, I cannot do.

Even the great honor which I have,
When I am dead, will soon grow still;
So have I neither joy, nor fame.
But what I can do, that I will.

I have a fretted brick-work tomb
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand;

Thither, O vizier, will I bear
This man my pity could not save,
And, plucking up the marble flags,
There lay his body in my grave.

Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls!
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!
Then say, “He was not wholly vile,
Because a king shall bury him.”

So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round
Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears,
Which all the gods in sport had idly thrown
At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove;
But in his breast stood fixed the fatal bough
Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave
To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw threw—
’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.
And all the gods and all the heroes came,
And stood round Balder on the bloody floor,
Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang
Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries;
And on the tables stood the untasted meats,
And in the horns and gold-rimmed sculls the wine.
And now would night have fallen, and found them yet
Wailing; but otherwise was Odin’s will.
And thus the Father of the ages spake:—
“Enough of tears, ye gods, enough of wail!
Not to lament in was Valhalla made.
If any here might weep for Balder’s death,
I most might weep, his father; such a son
I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a god.
But he has met that doom which long ago
The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun,
And fate set seal, that so his end must be.
Balder has met his death, and ye survive.
Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail?
For ye yourselves, ye gods, shall meet your doom,—
All ye who hear me, and inhabit heaven,
And I too, Odin too, the lord of all.
But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes,
With women’s tears and weak complaining cries:
Why should we meet another’s portion so?
Rather it fits you, having wept your hour,
With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern,
To live, as erst, your daily life in heaven.
By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok,
The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate,
Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day.
Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns,
Bring wood to the seashore to Balder’s ship,
And on the deck build high a funeral pile,
And on the top lay Balder’s corpse, and put
Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea
To burn; for that is what the dead desire.”
So spake the king of gods, and straightway rose,
And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode;
And from the hall of heaven he rode away
To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne,
The mount, from whence his eye surveys the world.
And far from heaven he turned his shining orbs
To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men.
And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze,
Whom antlered reindeer pull over the snow;
And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind,
Fair men, who live in holes under the ground;
Nor did he look once more to Ida’s plain,
Nor toward Valhalla and the sorrowing gods;
For well he knew the gods would heed his word,
And cease to mourn, and think of Balder’s pyre.
But in Valhalla all the gods went back
From around Balder, all the heroes went;
And left his body stretched upon the floor.
And on their golden chairs they sate again,
Beside the tables, in the hall of heaven;
And before each the cooks who served them placed
New messes of the boar Serimner’s flesh,
And the Valkyries crowned their horns with mead.
So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes,
Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank,
While twilight fell, and sacred night came on.
But the blind Hoder left the feasting gods
In Odin’s hall, and went through Asgard streets,
And past the haven where the gods have moored
Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall;
Though sightless, yet his own mind led the god.
Down to the margin of the roaring sea
He came, and sadly went along the sand,
Between the waves and black o’erhanging cliffs
Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly;
Until he came to where a gully breaks
Through the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs down
From the high moors behind, and meets the sea.
There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the house
Of Frea, honored mother of the gods,
And shows its lighted windows to the main.
There he went up, and passed the open doors;
And in the hall he found those women old,
The prophetesses, who by rite eterne
On Frea’s hearth feed high the sacred fire
Both night and day; and by the inner wall
Upon her golden chair the mother sate,
With folded hands, revolving things to come.
To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said,—
“Mother, a child of bale thou bar’st in me!
For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes,
Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in heaven;
And, after that, of ignorant witless mind
Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul;
That I alone must take the branch from Lok,
The foe, the accuser, whom, though gods, we hate,
And cast it at the dear-loved Balder’s breast,
At whom the gods in sport their weapons threw.
’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.
Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly,
For who will bear my hateful sight in heaven?
Can I, O mother, bring them Balder back?
Or—for thou know’st the fates, and things allowed—
Can I with Hela’s power a compact strike,
And make exchange, and give my life for his?”
He spoke: the mother of the gods replied,—
“Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son,
Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these?
That one, long portioned with his doom of death,
Should change his lot, and fill another’s life,
And Hela yield to this, and let him go!
On Balder, Death hath laid her hand, not thee;
Nor doth she count this life a price for that.
For many gods in heaven, not thou alone,
Would freely die to purchase Balder back,
And wend themselves to Hela’s gloomy realm.
For not so gladsome is that life in heaven
Which gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray,
Waiting the darkness of the final times,
That one should grudge its loss for Balder’s sake,—
Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a god.
But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way.
Yet in my secret mind one way I know,
Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail;
But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.”
And the blind Hoder answered her, and said,—
“What way is this, O mother, that thou show’st?
Is it a matter which a god might try?”
And straight the mother of the gods replied,—
“There is a way which leads to Hela’s realm,
Untrodden, lonely, far from light and heaven.
Who goes that way must take no other horse
To ride, but Sleipner, Odin’s horse, alone.
Nor must he choose that common path of gods
Which every day they come and go in heaven,
O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,
Past Midgard fortress, down to earth and men.
But he must tread a dark untravelled road
Which branches from the north of heaven, and ride
Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice,
Through valleys deep-ingulfed with roaring streams.
And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge
Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,
Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps,
Who tells the passing troops of dead their way
To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela’s realm.
And she will bid him northward steer his course.
Then he will journey through no lighted land,
Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set;
But he must ever watch the northern Bear,
Who from her frozen height with jealous eye
Confronts the Dog and Hunter in the south,
And is alone not dipt in ocean’s stream;
And straight he will come down to ocean’s strand,—
Ocean, whose watery ring infolds the world,
And on whose marge the ancient giants dwell.
But he will reach its unknown northern shore,
Far, far beyond the outmost giant’s home,
At the chinked fields of ice, the wastes of snow.
And he must fare across the dismal ice
Northward, until he meets a stretching wall
Barring his way, and in the wall a grate.
But then he must dismount, and on the ice
Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,
And make him leap the grate, and come within.
And he will see stretch round him Hela’s realm,
The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,
And hear the roaring of the streams of hell.
And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes,
And Balder sitting crowned, and Hela’s throne.
Then must he not regard the wailful ghosts
Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around;
But he must straight accost their solemn queen,
And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers,
Telling her all that grief they have in heaven
For Balder, whom she holds by right below;
If haply he may melt her heart with words,
And make her yield, and give him Balder back.”
She spoke; but Hoder answered her and said,—
“Mother, a dreadful way is this thou show’st;
No journey for a sightless god to go!”
And straight the mother of the gods replied,—
“Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son.
But he whom first thou meetest when thou com’st
To Asgard, and declar’st this hidden way,
Shall go; and I will be his guide unseen.”
She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil,
And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands.
But at the central hearth those women old,
Who while the mother spake had ceased their toil,
Began again to heap the sacred fire.
And Hoder turned, and left his mother’s house,
Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea;
And came again down to the roaring waves,
And back along the beach to Asgard went,
Pondering on that which Frea said should be.
But night came down, and darkened Asgard streets.
Then from their loathÈd feast the gods arose,
And lighted torches, and took up the corpse
Of Balder from the floor of Odin’s hall,
And laid it on a bier, and bare him home
Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house
Breidablik, on whose columns Balder graved
The enchantments that recall the dead to life.
For wise he was, and many curious arts,
Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew;
Unhappy! but that art he did not know,
To keep his own life safe, and see the sun.
There to his hall the gods brought Balder home,
And each bespake him as he laid him down,—
“Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne
Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin,
So thou might’st live, and still delight the gods!”
They spake, and each went home to his own house.
But there was one, the first of all the gods
For speed, and Hermod was his name in heaven;
Most fleet he was, but now he went the last,
Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house
Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell,
Against the harbor, by the city-wall.
Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up
From the sea cityward, and knew his step;
Nor yet could Hermod see his brother’s face,
For it grew dark; but Hoder touched his arm.
And as a spray of honeysuckle-flowers
Brushes across a tired traveller’s face
Who shuffles through the deep dew-moistened dust,
On a May evening, in the darkened lanes,
And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by,—
So Hoder brushed by Hermod’s side, and said,—
“Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn
To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back;
And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.”
He spake, and brushed soft by, and disappeared.
And Hermod gazed into the night, and said,—
“Who is it utters through the dark his best
So quickly, and will wait for no reply?
The voice was like the unhappy Hoder’s voice.
Howbeit I will see, and do his hest;
For there rang note divine in that command.”
So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came
Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house;
And all the gods lay down in their own homes.
And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief,
Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other gods;
And he went in, and shut the door, and fixed
His sword upright, and fell on it, and died.
But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose,—
The throne from which his eye surveys the world,—
And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode
To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven,
High over Asgard, to light home the king.
But fiercely Odin galloped, moved in heart;
And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came;
And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang
Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets;
And the gods trembled on their golden beds
Hearing the wrathful Father coming home,—
For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came.
And to Valhalla’s gate he rode, and left
Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall;
And in Valhalla Odin laid him down.
But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder’s wife,
Came with the goddesses who wrought her will,
And stood by Balder lying on his bier.
And at his head and feet she stationed scalds
Who in their lives were famous for their song;
These o’er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain,
A dirge,—and Nanna and her train replied.
And far into the night they wailed their dirge;
But when their souls were satisfied with wail,
They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went
Into an upper chamber, and lay down;
And Frea sealed her tired lids with sleep.
And ’twas when night is bordering hard on dawn,
When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low;
Then Balder’s spirit through the gloom drew near,
In garb, in form, in feature, as he was,
Alive; and still the rays were round his head
Which were his glorious mark in heaven; he stood
Over against the curtain of the bed,
And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake,—
“Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett’st thy woe!
Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes,
Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek; but thou,
Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep.
Sleep on; I watch thee, and am here to aid.
Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul!
Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead.
For with to-morrow’s dawn the gods prepare
To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile
Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire,
That sad, sole honor of the dead; and thee
They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth,
With me, for thus ordains the common rite.
But it shall not be so; but mild, but swift,
But painless, shall a stroke from Frea come,
To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul,
And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee.
And well I know that by no stroke of death,
Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die,
So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side,
Whom thou so well hast loved; but I can smooth
Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail.
Yes, and I fain would altogether ward
Death from thy head, and with the gods in heaven
Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired;
But right bars this, not only thy desire.
Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead
In that dim world, in Hela’s mouldering realm;
And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead,
Whom Hela with austere control presides.
For of the race of gods is no one there,
Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen.
For all the nobler souls of mortal men
On battle-field have met their death, and now
Feast in Valhalla, in my father’s hall:
Only the inglorious sort are there below;
The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,—
Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay.
But even there, O Nanna, we might find
Some solace in each other’s look and speech,
Wandering together through that gloomy world,
And talking of the life we led in heaven,
While we yet lived, among the other gods.”
He spake, and straight his lineaments began
To fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretched out
Her arms towards him with a cry; but he
Mournfully shook his head, and disappeared.
And as the woodman sees a little smoke
Hang in the air afield, and disappear,
So Balder faded in the night away.
And Nanna on her bed sank back; but then
Frea, the mother of the gods, with stroke
Painless and swift, set free her airy soul,
Which took, on Balder’s track, the way below;
And instantly the sacred morn appeared.

Forth from the east, up the ascent of heaven,
Day drove his courser with the shining mane;
And in Valhalla, from his gable-perch,
The golden-crested cock began to crow.
Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night,
With shrill and dismal cries that bird shall crow,
Warning the gods that foes draw nigh to heaven;
But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note,
To wake the gods and heroes to their tasks.
And all the gods and all the heroes woke.
And from their beds the heroes rose, and donned
Their arms, and led their horses from the stall,
And mounted them, and in Valhalla’s court
Were ranged; and then the daily fray began.
And all day long they there are hacked and hewn
’Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopped off, and blood;
But all at night return to Odin’s hall
Woundless and fresh: such lot is theirs in heaven.
And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth
Toward earth and fights of men; and at their side
Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode;
And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,
Past Midgard fortress, down to earth they came;
There through some battle-field, where men fall fast,
Their horses f etlock-deep in blood, they ride,
And pick the bravest warriors out for death,
Whom they bring back with them at night to heaven,
To glad the gods, and feast in Odin’s hall.
But the gods went not now, as otherwhile,
Into the tilt-yard, where the heroes fought,
To feast their eyes with looking on the fray;
Nor did they to their judgment-place repair
By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida’s plain,
Where they hold council, and give laws for men.
But they went, Odin first, the rest behind,
To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold;
Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs,
And in the midst one higher, Odin’s throne.
There all the gods in silence sate them down;
And thus the Father of the ages spake:—
“Go quickly, gods, bring wood to the seashore,
With all which it beseems the dead to have,
And make a funeral-pile on Balder’s ship;
On the twelfth day the gods shall burn his corpse.
But, Hermod, thou take Sleipner, and ride down
To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back.”
So said he; and the gods arose, and took
Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor,
Shouldering his hammer, which the giants know.
Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before.
And up the dewy mountain tracks they fared
To the dark forests, in the early dawn;
And up and down, and side and slant they roamed.
And from the glens all day an echo came
Of crashing falls; for with his hammer Thor
Smote ’mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines,
And burst their roots, while to their tops the gods
Made fast the woven ropes, and haled them down,
And lopped their boughs, and clove them on the sward,
And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw,
And drave them homeward; and the snorting steeds
Went straining through the crackling brushwood down,
And by the darkling forest-paths the gods
Followed, and on their shoulders carried boughs.
And they came out upon the plain, and passed
Asgard, and led their horses to the beach,
And loosed them of their loads on the seashore,
And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder’s ship;
And every god went home to his own house.

But when the gods were to the forest gone,
Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth,
And saddled him: before that, Sleipner brooked
No meaner hand than Odin’s on his mane,
On his broad back no lesser rider bore;
Yet docile now he stood at Hermod’s side,
Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode,
Knowing the god they went to seek, how dear.
But Hermod mounted him, and sadly fared
In silence up the dark untravelled road
Which branches from the north of heaven, and went
All day; and daylight waned, and night came on.
And all that night he rode, and journeyed so,
Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice,
Through valleys deep-ingulfed, by roaring streams.
And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge
Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,
And on the bridge a damsel watching armed,
In the strait passage, at the farther end,
Where the road issues between walling rocks.
Scant space that warder left for passers-by;
But as when cowherds in October drive
Their kine across a snowy mountain pass
To winter pasture on the southern side,
And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way,
Wedged in the snow; then painfully the hinds
With goad and shouting urge their cattle past,
Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow
To right and left, and warm steam fills the air,—
So on the bridge that damsel blocked the way,
And questioned Hermod as he came, and said,—
“Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse,
Under whose hoofs the bridge o’er Giall’s stream
Rumbles and shakes? Tell me thy race and home.
But yester-morn, five troops of dead passed by,
Bound on their way below to Hela’s realm,
Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone.
And thou hast flesh and color on thy cheeks,
Like men who live, and draw the vital air;
Nor look’st thou pale and wan, like men deceased,
Souls bound below, my daily passers here.”
And the fleet-footed Hermod answered her,—
“O damsel, Hermod am I called, the son
Of Odin; and my high-roofed house is built
Far hence, in Asgard, in the city of gods;
And Sleipner, Odin’s horse, is this I ride.
And I come, sent this road on Balder’s track:
Say, then, if he hath crossed thy bridge or no?”
He spake; the warder of the bridge replied,—
“O Hermod, rarely do the feet of gods
Or of the horses of the gods resound
Upon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know.
Balder hath gone this way, and ta’en the road
Below there, to the north, toward Hela’s realm.
From here the cold white mist can be discerned,
Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air
By the dim vapor-blotted light of stars,
Which hangs over the ice where lies the road.
For in that ice are lost those northern streams,
Freezing and ridging in their onward flow,
Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run,
The spring that bubbles up by Hela’s throne.
There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts,
Hela’s pale swarms; and there was Balder bound.
Ride on! pass free! but he by this is there.”
She spake, and stepped aside, and left him room.
And Hermod greeted her, and galloped by
Across the bridge; then she took post again.
But northward Hermod rode, the way below;
And o’er a darksome tract, which knows no sun,
But by the blotted lig pan class="i0">Stretched forth his hand, and with benignant voice,
Welcome, he said, if there be welcome here,
Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!
And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to force
My hated converse on thee, came I up
From the deep gloom, where I will now return;
But earnestly I longed to hover near,
Not too far off, when that thou camest by;
To feel the presence of a brother god,
And hear the passage of a horse of heaven,
For the last time—for here thou com’st no more.”
He spake, and turned to go to the inner gloom.
But Hermod stayed him with mild words, and said,—
“Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind!
Truly thou say’st, the planning guilty mind
Was Lok’s: the unwitting hand alone was thine.
But gods are like the sons of men in this:
When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause.
Howbeit stay, and be appeased; and tell,
Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela’s side,
Or is he mingled with the unnumbered dead?”
And the blind Hoder answered him and spake,—
“His place of state remains by Hela’s side,
But empty; for his wife, for Nanna, came
Lately below, and joined him; and the pair
Frequent the still recesses of the realm
Of Hela, and hold converse undisturbed.
But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm
Which floats before a visitant from heaven,
And have drawn upward to this verge of hell.”
He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind
Rolled heavily the leaden mist aside
Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms
Make toward them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.
And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were,—
Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said,—
“Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare!
Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.
No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge
In thy own house Breidablik, nor enjoy
The love all bear toward thee, nor train up
Forset, thy son, to be beloved like thee.
Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.
Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!”
He spake; and Balder answered him, and said,—
“Hail and farewell! for here thou com’st no more.
Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’st
In heaven, nor let the other gods lament,
As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn.
For Nanna hath rejoined me, who of old,
In heaven, was seldom parted from my side;
And still the acceptance follows me, which crowned
My former life, and cheers me even here.
The iron frown of Hela is relaxed
When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead
Love me, and gladly bring for my award
Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,—
Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.”
And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply,—
“Thou hast, then, all the solace death allows,—
Esteem and function; and so far is well.
Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground,
Rusting forever; and the years roll on,
The generations pass, the ages grow,
And bring us nearer to the final day
When from the south shall march the fiery band,
And cross the bridge of heaven, with Lok for guide,
And Fenris at his heel with broken chain;
While from the east the giant Rymer steers
His ship, and the great serpent makes to land;
And all are marshalled in one flaming square
Against the gods, upon the plains of heaven.
I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.”
He spake; but Balder answered him, and said,—
“Mourn not for me! Mourn, Hermod, for the gods;
Mourn for the men on earth, the gods in heaven,
Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day!
The day will come, when fall shall Asgard’s towers,
And Odin, and his sons, the seed of heaven;
But what were I, to save them in that hour?
If strength might save them, could not Odin save,
My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor,
Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr?
I, what were I, when these can naught avail?
Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes,
And the two hosts are marshalled, and in heaven
The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm,
And his black brother-bird from hence reply,
And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour,—
Longing will stir within my breast, though vain.
But not to me so grievous as, I know,
To other gods it were, is my enforced
Absence from fields where I could nothing aid;
For I am long since weary of your storm
Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life
Something too much of war and broils, which make
Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.
Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;
Mine ears are stunned with blows, and sick for calm.
Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom,
Unarmed, inglorious; I attend the course
Of ages, and my late return to light,
In times less alien to a spirit mild,
In new-recovered seats, the happier day.”
He spake, and the fleet Hermod thus replied:—
“Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?
Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.”
And the ray-crownÈd Balder answered him,—
“Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads
Another heaven, the boundless. No one yet
Hath reached it. There hereafter shall arise
The second Asgard, with another name.
Thither, when o’er this present earth and heavens
The tempest of the latter days hath swept,
And they from sight have disappeared and sunk,
Shall a small remnant of the gods repair;
Hoder and I shall join them from th od! ’tis her face plays in the waters bright!
“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon,
At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?”—
Iseult!...
. . . . . . . . . .
Ah, poor soul! if this be so,
Only death can balm thy woe.
The solitudes of the green wood
Had no medicine for thy mood;
The rushing battle cleared thy blood
As little as did solitude.
—Ah! his eyelids slowly break
Their hot seals, and let him wake;
What new change shall we now see?
A happier? Worse it cannot be.

Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!
Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;
The wind is down; but she’ll not come to-night.
Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,
Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow.
Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.
—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,
Would take a score years from a strong man’s age;
And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,
Scant leisure for a second messenger.
—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late!
To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;
To-night my page shall keep me company.
Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I:
This comes of nursing long and watching late.
To bed—good night!
. . . . . . . . . .
She left the gleam-lit fireplace,
She came to the bedside;
She took his hands in hers, her tears
Down on her slender fingers rained.
She raised her eyes upon his face,
Not with a look of wounded pride,
A look as if the heart complained;
Her look was like a sad embrace,—
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathize.
Sweet flower! thy children’s eyes
Are not more innocent than thine.

But they sleep in sheltered rest,
Like helpless birds in the warm nest,
On the castle’s southern side;
Where feebly comes the mournful roar
Of buffeting wind and surging tide
Through many a room and corridor.
—Full on their window the moon’s ray
Makes their chamber as bright as day.
It shines upon the blank white walls,
And on the snowy pillow falls,
And on two angel-heads doth play
Turned to each other; the eyes closed,
The lashes on the cheeks reposed.
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set
Hardly lets peep the golden hair;
Through the soft-opened lips, the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet.
One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane,
And often the fingers close in haste
As if their baby-owner chased
The butterflies again.
This stir they have, and this alone;
But else they are so still!
—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;
But were you at the window now,
To look forth on the fairy sight
Of your illumined haunts by night,
To see the park-glades where you play
Far lovelier than they are by day,
To see the sparkle on the eaves,
And upon every giant-bough
Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves
Are jewelled with bright drops of rain,—
How would your voices run again!
And far beyond the sparkling trees
Of the castle-park, one sees
The bare heaths spreading, clear as day,
Moor behind moor, far, far away,
Into the heart of Brittany.
And here and there, locked by the land,
Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,
And many a stretch of watery sand
All shining in the white moonbeams.
But you see fairer in your dreams!
What voices are these on the clear night air?
What lights in the court, what steps on the stair?

Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhoods of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late! such storms! The saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas,
Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;
He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,
Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;
And now no bells, no convents more!
The hurtling Polar lights are neared,
The sea without a human shore.

At last (it was the Christmas-night;
Stars shone after a day of storm)
He sees float past an iceberg white,
And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,
Of hair that red and tufted fell,
It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—
The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;
The moon was bright, the iceberg near.
He hears a voice sigh humbly, “Wait!
By high permission I am here.

“One moment wait, thou holy man!
On earth my crime, my death, they knew;
My name is under all men’s ban:
Ah! tell them of my respite too.

“Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night
(It was the first after I came,
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,
To rue my guilt in endless flame),—

“I felt, as I in torment lay
’Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,
An angel touch mine arm, and say,—
Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!

“‘Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?’ I said.
The leper recollect, said he,
Who asked the passers-by for aid,
In Joppa, and thy charity.

“Then I remembered how I went,
In Joppa, through the public street,
One morn when the sirocco spent
Its storms of dust with burning heat;
“And in the street a leper sate,
Shivering with fever, naked, old;
Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,
The hot wind fevered him fivefold.

“He gazed upon me as I passed,
And murmured, Help me, or I die!
To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,
Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

“O Brandan! think what grace divine,
What blessing must full goodness shower,
When fragment of it small, like mine,
Hath such inestimable power!

“Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I
Did that chance act of good, that one!
Then went my way to kill and lie,
Forgot my good as soon as done.

“That germ of kindness, in the womb
Of mercy caught, did not expire;
Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom,
And friends me in the pit of fire.

“Once every year, when carols wake,
On earth, the Christmas-night’s repose,
Arising from the sinner’s lake,
I journey to these healing snows.

“I stanch with ice my burning breast,
With silence balm my whirling brain.
O Brandan! to this hour of rest,
That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.”

Tears started to Saint Brandan’s eyes;
He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,
Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!
The iceberg, and no Judas there!

In summer, on the headlands,
The Baltic Sea along,
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls, beneath the headlands,
Green rolls the Baltic Sea;
And there, below the Neckan’s feet,
His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean,
Its shells and roses pale:
Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings,
He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands,
And sings a mournful stave
Of all he saw and felt on earth,
Far from the kind sea-wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wandered
By castle, field, and town;
But earthly knights have harder hearts
Than the sea-children own.

Sings of his earthly bridal,
Priest, knights, and ladies gay.
“And who art thou,” the priest began,
“Sir Knight, who wedd’st to-day?”

“I am no knight,” he answered;
“From the sea-waves I come.”
The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,
The surpliced priest stood dumb.

He sings how from the chapel
He vanished with his bride,
And bore her down to the sea-halls,
Beneath the salt sea-tide.

He sings how she sits weeping
’Mid shells that round her lie.
“False Neckan shares my bed,” she weeps;
“No Christian mate have I.”

He sings how through the billows
He rose to earth again,
And sought a priest to sign the cross,
That Neckan heaven might gain.

He sings how, on an evening,
Beneath the birch-trees cool,
He sate and played his harp of gold,
Beside the river-pool.

Beside the pool sate Neckan,
Tears filled his mild blue eye.
On his white mule, across the bridge,
A cassocked priest rode by.

“Why sitt’st thou there, O Neckan,
And play’st thy harp of gold?
Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,
Than thou shalt heaven behold.”

But, lo! the staff, it budded;
It greened, it branched, it waved.
“O ruth of God!” the priest cried out,
“This lost sea-creature saved!”

The cassocked priest rode onwards,
And vanished with his mule;
And Neckan in the twilight gray
Wept by the river-pool.

He wept, “The earth hath kindness,
The sea, the starry poles;
Earth, sea, and sky, and God above,—
But, ah! not human souls!”

In summer, on the headlands,
The Baltic Sea along,
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
And sings this plaintive song.

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go,—
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know,—
“Margaret! Margaret!”
Children’s voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
Children’s voices, wild with pain,—
Surely she will come again!
Call her once, and come away;
This way, this way!
“Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret.”
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little gray church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come, though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay,—
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;
She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, merman! here with thee.”
I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!”
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, were we long alone?
“The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say;
Come!” I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town;
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
“Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.”
But, ah! she gave me never a look,
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun!”
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh,
For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;
Come, children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door:
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing, “Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.”

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side,
And then come back down,
Singing, “There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea.”