  [Freya, in the Scandinavian mythology, was the goddess of Youth and Hope. While she remained with the gods and fed them daily with her golden apples they were all-powerful; but when Wodin parted with her as the price for the building of Walhalla, they suddenly became weak and weary, and a shadow rested over the world. Walhalla was of no worth without Freya.] THE towers are strong and the towers are fair As they rise and gleam in the sunlit air, With bastion and battlement and spire Built for one rule and one desire; Fain would we enter there and sway, But the giant builder the door secures, And mutters his price as he bars the way: “Give up Freya, and all is yours.” There in the citadel fancy built Are the riches of ages heaped and spilt; Diamonds glitter and rubies gleam, And moon-like pearls front the pale moonbeam. Golden the roof and gold the floor; The glittering splendor woos and lures; And the tempting voice repeats once more: “Give up Freya, and all is yours.” What! give up hope with its rainbow sheen, Give up the sparkle, the song, the jest, The vision of something dreamed, not seen, Which is sweeter by far than the thing possessed? The flowers of May and the roses of June, The sweet spring-breath of the April breeze, The dew of morn and the light of noon— When we give up Freya, must we give all these? But we give; and we enter the towers of pride, And we thread our gems and we count our gold; And we bid our hearts to be satisfied With so much to have and so much to hold. But the smile is faded from the day; Our drink is bitter, our bread is stone— And amid the shadows we sit and say: “Nothing is worth with Freya gone.” |
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