University of Virginia Library

There close to the earth she waited, crouching down
'Mid the cold ashes of the sunken City,
While closing round her like to prison walls
The deep impenetrable darkness grew.
And soon it shed a heavy, weary rain,
That clung upon her, chilling soul and sense,
Cold as a corpse's lips; and all the while,
As a bird listens from its folded wings,
She listen'd!

But the only sound she heard
Was the low murmur of that weary rain,
Which spread wet fingers o'er the shuddering heavens,
And drearily drew down the rainy lids
Over the gentle eyes of all the stars.

Silent she lay and hearken'd, till her soul
Had lost all count of time and faded back
Into its own sad, dumb eternity. . . .

At last she stirred like one that wakes from sleep.
The rain had ceased, the darkness to the north
Had lifted, and her eyes beheld afar,
Beneath the glimmer of the northern night,
The brightness of the god's returning feet.

Slowly, like one whose heart is heavy; slowly,
Like one that muses sadly as he moves;
Slowly, with darkness brooding at his back,
Came Balder, and his coming far away
Was ev'n as moonlight when the moon is sad
On misty nights of March; and when again
He pass'd across the ashes of the City,
And she who bare him could behold his face,
'Twas spectral white, and in his heavenly eyes
There dwelt a shadowy pain. Ev'n as a man
Who passing thro' the barrows of the slain
Hath seen the corpses sit at dead of night
Gazing in silence from their own green graves;
Or as a maiden who hath seen a wraith
And knoweth that her shroud is being woven,
Came Balder out of heaven: still divine,
And beautiful, but ah! how sorrowful;
Still bright, but with a light as sadly fair,
Compared to that first splendour of the dawn,
As moonshine is to sunshine; on his brow
The shade of some new sorrow, in his eyes
The birth of some new pity; as a god,
Yet ghost-like, with deep glamour in his gaze,
Slowly, with faltering footsteps, Balder came.

Then Frea rose in silence, very pale,
For on her soul beholding Balder's face
Some desolate anticipation fell,
And turn'd her eyes on his, stretching her hands
To hold him and to embrace him, keen to hear
His message; but he spake not when her arms
Were wound about him and upon his brow
Her soft kiss fell; vacant his sad eyes seem'd,
As if they gazed on something far away.
Then Frea sobbed in agony of heart,
‘Son, hast thou seen thy brethren?’ and again,
‘Son, hast thou seen thy Father?’ Yet a space
His lips were silent, and his eyes were blank,
But when again and yet again her tongue
Had framed the same fond question, Balder said,
In a low voice and a weary, ‘I have seen
My brethren and my Father!’ Like a man
Smit thro' and thro' with sudden sense of cold,
He shiver'd.

Then the goddess, mad to see
The light of agony on that well-loved face,
Clung to him wailing, ‘Balder! my Son Balder!
Why is thy look so sick, thy soul so weary?
What hast thou done and seen? what sight of heaven
Hath made thee sad?’—and Balder answer'd low,
‘O Mother! I have dream'd another dream—
I have seen my brethren in a dream—have seen
My brethren and my Father; and it seems
From that strange trance I have not waken'd yet,
But that I still am darkling in my dream,
The breath of gods about me, and the eyes
Of gods upon me! Patience—question not—
The light is coming, and my soul is waking—
My dream grows clear, and I shall soon remember
All that mine eyes have seen, mine ears have heard.’

Then on that City's ashes side by side
Sat son and mother, two colossal shapes,
Silent, in shadow; but the eyes of heaven
Were opening above, and to the south
They saw the white seas flash with glittering bergs
In fitful glimmers to the windy night.
And when a little space had pass'd away
The god spake softly, saying, ‘All is clear,
My sorrow and my dream; and Mother, now
I know those things which seem'd so sad and dark.
Ah! woe is me that I was ever born
To be a terror and a grief to gods!’

Then Frea cried, ‘O Balder, unto whom
Can all the promise of thy beauty bring
Terror or grief? Nay, 'twas with looks serene
To win the heart of heaven, that its wrath
Might never turn against thee, and to mock
With glory of thy human gentleness
The prophecy of that ancestral rune,
I bade thee go up beauteous and alone
Before the darkness of the Father's face.
Yet thou returnest barren of such joy
As thou a god shouldst snatch from gods thy kin,
First in thy plenitude beholding them;
And on thy brow is sadness, not such peace
As comes from consecration of a kiss
Given by a Father to a son beloved
In whom he is well pleased!’

Then once again
Like a man smitten to the bone with cold,
Bright Balder shiver'd, and his beautiful face
Grew gray as any mortal's fix'd in death;
And suddenly he cried, ‘O come away!
Come back to those green woods where I was born.
The ways of heaven are dreary, and the winds
Of heaven blow chilly, and I fain would find
A refuge and a home!’

But Frea moan'd,
Turning her fair face northward in quick wrath,
‘Ay me thy dream—I read it, from mine own
Most bitterly awaking. Woe to them!
Woe to the Father and the gods thy kin!
Out of thy mansion have they cast thee forth,
Denying thee thy birthright and thy seat
Up yonder at thy heavenly Father's side!’
But Balder, in a feeble voice and low,
Said, ‘They denied me nought, those Shapes I saw
Strangely as in a sleep; nay, but meseem'd
They pointed at me with their spectral hands
And waved me back, some with their raiment hems
Hiding their faces; in their eyes I saw
Not love but protestation absolute;
And when I rose and named my Father's name,
It seem'd creation rock'd beneath my feet
And all the cloudy void above my head
Trembled; and when I named my name, a voice
Shriek'd “Balder!” and the naked vaults of heaven
Prolong'd in desolation and despair
The echoes of the word till it became
As thunder! Then meseem'd I saw a hand,
Gripping the fiery lightning suddenly,
Strike at my head as if to smite me down;
But tho' my frame was wrapt about with fire,
I stood unscathed; and as I paused I saw,
Confused as stormy shadows in the sea,
Thrones gleaming, faces fading, starry shapes
Coming and going darkly; and each time
I call'd upon my Father, that great hand
Flash'd down the fierce darts of the crimson levin,
And from that darkness which I knew was he
A voice came, and a cry that seem'd a curse,
Until my soul was sicken'd and afraid.
Then, for my heart was heavy, yearning still
To look upon him and to feel at last
The welcome of his consecrating kiss,
I fell upon my knees, folded my hands
Together, and I blest him;—when methought
The voice wail'd, and the cry that seem'd a curse
Re-echoed. Then came blackness more intense;
And for a space my sense and sight seem'd lost,
And when I woke I stood beside thee here,
Holding thy hand and looking in thine eyes.’

Then Frea wail'd, ‘'Tis o'er! my hope is o'er!
Thy Father loves thee not, but casts thee forth—
Where wilt thou find a place to rest thy feet?’
But Balder answer'd, ‘Where the cushat builds
Her nest amid green leaves, and where wild roses
Hang lamps to light the dewy feet of dawn,
And where the starlight and the moonlight slumber,
Ev'n there, upon the balmy lap of Earth,
Shall I not sleep again? O Mother, Mother!
Pray to my Father that his soul may learn
To love me in due season, while again
Earthward we fare; and Mother, bless thou me,
Me whom my heavenly Father blesseth not,
With ministering hands before we go!’

Then Frea cried, blessing and kissing Balder,
‘Go thou,—the green Earth loves thee, and thy face
Is as a lamp to all the gentle things
Which mingled in thy making—Go thou down,
But I will journey upward till I find
The footstool of the Father. Night and day
With prayers, with intercession of deep tears,
With ministering murmurs, I will plead,
Low-lying like a cloud around his feet,
Thy cause, and the green Earth's which foster'd thee:
That in a later season love may come
In answer, and the Father fear no more
To seat thee 'mong Immortals at his side.
Go down, my child, my sunbeam, my bestborn,
My Balder, who art still deem'd beautiful
Save only in the heavenly Father's sight!
And when all things have blest thee; when all forms
Have gladden'd in thy glory; when all voices,
The mountains and the rivers and the seas,
The white clouds and the stars upon their thrones,
Have known thy face and syllabled thy name;
Come back again under the arch of heaven,
Not as a suppliant but a conqueror,
And take thy throne!’

The darkness far away
Groan'd: and the great void answer'd; overhead
Cluster'd the countless spheres of night, like eyes
Downgazing; but beneath the goddess' feet
Shot up dim gleams of dawn.

Then bright as day
Grew Balder, while his face, composed to peace,
Turn'd earthward; and he stretch'd out eager arms
To that belovëd land where he was born.
‘Farewell!’ he said, and softly kiss'd the mother;
Then, while the goddess glided like a cloud
Up heavenward, down to the dim Earth he pass'd
Slowly, with luminous feet.

. . . And when he came
To that cold realm which belts the Frozen Sea,
Behind his back the trumpets of the light
Were faintly blown; a sudden sheen was thrown
Behind him and around him, wondrously;
Bright shone the lonely waste of plain and berg;
And reaching that great cape of porphyry
Which points with shadowy finger at the pole,
He turn'd his shining face once more, and watch'd;
While far away in the remotest north
Bright Asgard, mystic City of the Gods,
Was rising from its ashes till its spires
Burnt golden in the rose-red arch of heaven.