  A daughter of Winter, Skade, a giantess, One twisting serpent hung above his head, So that its blistering venom, roping down, Beat on his upturned face and tortured him. Him had the gods of Asgard, Odin and Thor, Weary of all his wiles and evil ways, Followed, and after many stormy moons, Within the land of giants overcome, In Jotunheim, and dragged beneath the world, Into a cave the earthquake's hands had built, A cavern vast and terrible as that, They tell of Hel's, whose ceiling is of snakes, That hang, a torrent torture, yawning slime, In whose slow stream eternal anguish wades. And for his crimes they chained him to a rock, His lips still sneering and his eyes all scorn, And left him with the serpent over him, And, gathering round him from their larvÆ lairs, Monsters, huge-warted, eyed with wells of fire. But Sigyn, LokÉ's wife, stole in to him, And sate herself beside his writhen limbs, And held a cup of gold against the mouth Of ceaseless poison dripping in the gloom. Was it her voice lamenting? or the sound Of far abysmal waters falling, falling Down tortured labyrinths of hollow rock? Or was't the StrÖmkarl? he whose hoary harp Is heard remote; who, syllabling strange runes, Sits gray behind the crashing cataract, Within a grotto dim with mist and foam; His long thin beard, white as the flying spray, Slow-swinging in the wind and keeping time To his wild harp's notes, murmuring, whispering Beneath the talons of his hands of foam. Was it the voice of Sigyn? whose sad sound Soft from the deathless hush detached itself, As some pale star from darkness that reveals The heavens in its fall; or but the deeps Of silence speaking to the deeps of night? Sad, sad, and slow, yea slower than sad tears That fall from blinded eyes, her sad words fell:— "O Love! O LokÉ! turn on me thine eyes! Thy motionless eyes that woe has changed to stone; That slumber will not seal nor any dream. Yea, I will woo her down; woo Slumber down, From her fair far-off skies, with some old song, The croonÉd syllables of some refrain, Sung unto childhood by the mothers of men. Or shall I soothe thine eyes shut with my hair, The fluttered amber of deep curls, until They shall forget their stone stolidity, And sleep creep in between the linÉd lids And summon memory and pain away? "Pale, pale thy face, that seems to stain the night With pallor; hueless as the brows of death. So pale, that knew we Death, as mortals know, I'd say that he, mysterious, had laid hands Of talons on thee and had left thee so. So still! and all the night is in my heart. So tired! and sleep is not for thee or me, Never again for our o'erweary limbs! Around, the shadows crouch; vague, obscene shapes, In horrible attitudes; and all the night, Above, below, seems so much choking fog, That clogs my tongue, or with devouring maw Swallows my words and makes them sound far off, Remote, deep down, emboweled of the Earth. And then again it hounds them from my tongue To sound as wildly clamorous as the hills Sound when Earth shakes with armies; men that meet With Berserk fury, shouting, and the hurl And shock of iron spears on iron shields, And all the world is one wild wave of helms, And all the air is one wild wind of swords, On which the wild Valkyries ride and scream. Dread cliffs, dread chasms of rocks howl back my words While yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought; And all the vermin, huddled in their holes, Creep forth to glare and hiss them back again. "How long! how long ago since we beheld The rose of morning and the lily of noon, The great red rhododendron of the eve! How long! how long ago since we beheld Those thoughts of God, the stars, that set their flowers Imperishably in the fields of heaven, And the still changing yet unchanging moon! So long, that I unto myself seem grown, As thou, long since, to rock; in sympathy With all the rock above us and around. My countenance hath won, long since, with thee, The reflex of an alabaster black That builds vast walls around us, and whose frown Makes stone thy brow as mine. O woe! O woe! And now that Idun's apples are denied, Are not for lips of thee nor lips of me,— The apples of gold that still keep young the gods,— The years shall cleave this beautiful brow of thine With myriad wrinkles; and, in time, this hair, Brown, brown, and softer than the fur of seals, Shall lose its lustre and instead shall lie, A drift of winter in a winter cave, A feeble gray seen in the glimmering gloom. But I shall age, too, even as thou dost age. Yet, yet we can not die; the immortal gods Can never die! what punishment to know! What pain to know we age yet can not die! Death will not come except with Ragnarok.— That thought be near! take comfort from the word, The dark word Ragnarok, which is thyself; Thy vast revenge; thy monster synonym; Thy banquet of destruction. Thou, whom fate, The Norns, reserve to war and waste the worlds Of gods and men, with thy two henchmen huge, The wolf and snake, the Fenris, that devours, The Midgard, that engulfs the universe. O joy! O joy! then shall those stars, that glue Their blinking scales unto old Ymer's skull,— The dome of heaven,—shudder from their spheres, A streaming fire; and thou, O LokÉ, thou, Elected annihilation, shalt arise, To devastate the Earth and Asaheim. And as this darkness now, this heavy night, Clings to and chokes us till we, strangling, strive With purple lips for light, and feel the dark Drag freezing down the throat to swell the weight That houses in our hearts and peoples our veins, So shall thy hate insuff |
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