The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

The rune is woven, the spell is spoken,
And lo! the dream of the gods is broken,
And each pale throne is shaken.
They rise, they tremble against the sky,
They shriek an answer to Balder's cry
And white as death they waken!
Gods they glimmer in frozen mail,
Their faces are flashing marble pale,
They rise erect, and they wave their hands,
They scatter the shifting snows as sands,
And gaze in the face of the Father! . .

. . . Blacker, blacker, the night is growing,
Faster, faster, the snow is snowing—
Silently looking thro' the storm,
Towers the one gigantic Form,
And all around with a trumpet sound
The wintry winds are blowing.
The light of doom is in his eyes, his arms spread wide for slaughter,
He sits 'mid gleams of burning skies and wails of wind-blown water,
Behind the outline of his cheeks the pale aurora flashes,
He broods 'mid moveless mountain peaks and looks thro' fiery lashes:
On heaven and earth that round him float in whirls of snowy wonder,
He looks, and from his awful throat there comes the cry of thunder!

‘Balder! Balder!’

. . . ‘He cries on me—
He standeth yonder, and beckoneth!’
‘He looketh around, but he cannot see!
Answer him back with a gentle breath,
Now the air is still!’ . . .

‘I am here, I am here!’
. . . The cry went up to the godhead drear,
Like the cry of a lamb in the midst of the snow,
When the voices of tempest have sobbed their fill,
And the clouds are still
For a little space, and the winds lie low.
Then rose in answer a wail so loud
It roll'd as thunder from cloud to cloud,
And the gods arose in a wingëd crowd,
As oft 'mid desolate mountain-peaks,
With clangour of wings and hungry shrieks,
Great flocks of eagles gather.
Tearing asunder their frozen mail,
Smiting their breasts with a woful wail,
Looming with faces spectral pale,
They gazed in the eyes of the Father!
Then even as mighty eagles spread
Their wings and soar, they arose and fled

485

Crossing the gleam of the fiery north,
Facing the dark drift hurrying forth,
They flew on flashing pinions;
As wild clouds scatter'd across the sky,
They wing'd their way with a thundercry. . . .
But moveless there, when the rest had flown,
The Father sat on his silent throne,
Dreary, desolate, all alone,
In the midst of the white dominions.

‘Balder! Balder!’

‘He looks on me!
He stirreth now, with a sound like the sea,
And he calleth aloud!’

‘Then move no limb,
But crouch in thy place and answer him;—
Cry once more full loud and clear,
Now he pauseth again!’ . . .

‘I am here, I am here!’

Again the thunder rolling near,
Again the tumult of wind and ocean;
Around the throne with a serpent motion
The meteor snakes appear.
White in the midst He stands, the Spirit of God the Master,
Waving his wild white hands, urging his snows on faster;
But ever darker yet the troubled air grows o'er him,
And still with fierce face set he searcheth night before him,
And then again, all blind, with black robes blown asunder,
He gropeth down the wind, and calls aloud in thunder,

‘Balder, Balder.

. . . ‘I see him now,
The wrath of heaven is on his brow—
He stands in the circle of meteors white,
His white feet glimmer like cold moonlight—
I can feel his breath!’

‘Now hold my hand—
Rise erect on thy feet and stand—
Make answer!’

‘My Father, I am here!’
As an infant's cry, so faint, so clear,
As a young lamb's cry, so soft, so low,
Cometh the voice from the waste of snow,—
And silence deep as the sleep of ocean,
Stillness with no stir, no motion,
Follows the sound of the cry. . . .
Terrible, desolate, the Form
Stands and broods in the midst of the storm,
Beneath him wolves of the fierce frost swarm,
But quiet and hush'd they lie.
With his robe wind-rent and his form windblown
He gazeth round and round.
He seeth a snow amid the snow
And heareth a human sound.

‘Balder! Balder!’

‘O Father dear,
Turn thine eyes and behold me here—
Ev'n Balder thy Son!’

‘I see thee not—
Only a gleam on a darken'd spot,
And the ray of the light in thy hand!’

‘Ay me,
No light I carry that thou mayst see.
What wouldst thou, Father?’

‘Why hast thou risen?
We deem'd thee dead, and we slept in peace—
We deem'd thee dead with the snow for prison,
That the old sad fear might cease.
We deem'd thee dead, and our hearts were light,
For never more would thy beauty blight
The spirit of Me thy Father!’

Then answer'd Balder, ‘O Father dear,
Turn thine eyes, and behold me here—
Why hatest thou me?’

‘We hate thee all
For thy summer face, for thy soft footfall,
For thy beauty blended of star and flower,
For thine earthly love, for thine heavenly dower;
For the rune that was written, the rune that was read,
We cursed thee all, but our curse was said
Deepest and best when we read that rune
By thy love for men!’

486

As the rising moon
Creeping up from a cloudy place,
A glory grew upon Balder's face—
Again he murmur'd, ‘O Father dear,
Turn thine eyes and behold me here—
Why hatest thou me?’

‘We hate thee most
By the rune that was written, the rune that was lost,
By the doom that above thee hung sharp as a sword,
When thy feet stood there and thy voice implored
For pity of men; and we loved thee least
For loosing the yoke of man and beast,
For making the hearts of mortals tame,
For calming wild hawk-like men who came
To thy beck as doves; then we loathed to see
The light of thy name upon flower and tree,
The peace of thy name upon hill and vale,
The love of thy name on the faces pale
Of maidens and men; yea, for all these things,
For all thy life and the light it brings,
We have hated and hate thee unto death.’

But Balder answereth back and saith,
‘Why hatest thou me?’

‘For this the most!
Because thy coming is as the ghost
Of the coming doom that shall strike us dead.
For the rune was written, the rune was read,
And we knew no rest till we bought our breath
With the gentle boon of thy willing death.
Why hast thou risen? how hast thou risen?
We gave thee the frost and the snow for prison,
We heard thy sigh and we let thee die,
Yet thou criest again with a human cry
From the gates of life! . . . But I stoop at last
To sweep thee hence with my bitterest blast
Out to the heavens of pitiless air,
Where nevermore with a human care

That face of thine
May trouble the eyes of the gods divine!
Out 'mong the wingëd stars, deep down the dark abysses,
Beyond the black tomb's bars, far from the green Earth's kisses.
As dust thou shalt be cast, as snow thou shalt be drifted,
Seized by my fiercest blast thou shalt be now uplifted.
Call on all living things that stir in sun or shadow—
White flowers, sweet forms with wings, wild deer, or lambs o' the meadow;
Call on the moonlight now that mingled in thy making;
To heaven uplift thy brow, where the pale spheres are waking;
On water, air, and fire, on snow and on wind and on forest,
Call with a wild desire, now when thy need is sorest!
Call now on flower or bird to fill the plight they gave thee!
Call, let thy voice be heard, and see if Earth can save thee!’

Behind the back of the Shadow hoar,
There grew a trouble, a sullen roar,
Roar as of beasts that prepare to come,
Trouble like surges that flash to foam;
Faster and faster the drift whirl'd round,
Deeper and direr grew the sound,
And the four fierce winds are blowing!
Yet brighter, calmer grew Balder's face,
Till a light and a glory fill'd the place,
And he rose his height, like a lily white,
Like a lily white in the heart of the night,
With the flakes around him snowing!