University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Works of the Hon. and Very Rev. William Herbert

... Excepting those on botany and natural history. With additions and corrections by the author

collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
HORÆ SCANDICÆ.
  
expand section 
  
  
  
expand section 

HORÆ SCANDICÆ.

OR WORKS RELATING TO OLD SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE.


3

HEDIN.

1820.

1

Thy steeps adorn'd with fir-trees evergreen,
Thy torrents roaring the huge rocks between,
Thy broken glens and crags sublimely piled,
O Norway, beauteous Nature's rudest child,
Who can survey, and lash'd by stormy wind
Mark thy bleak coast, and climate nothing mild,
Nor deem such scenes by Freedom's power design'd
To steel her sons with strength, and brace the generous mind!

2

And hast thou rued the fell invader's sword!
Has the Franc eagle to thine eyrie soar'd!
Have Sweden's hateful banners, floating wide,
Mock'd thy gray hills and valleys' rugged side,
As thy free honours, once fair Norway's boast,
Stoop'd to a foreign yoke in vain defied;
While Want assail'd thy desolated coast,
And ghastly Famine scowl'd on thy beleaguer'd host!

3

Sons of the rock, in strife and tempest brave,
Thine offspring roam'd, like seamews, o'er the wave;
Yet faithful Love, by the pure glowing light
Of thy bleak snows, with northern streamers bright,

4

And high-born Honour and chaste Truth abode.
Strong was thy race, and dauntless in the fight,
But none unrival'd as young Hedin strode,
Bold in the battle's surge, and first in glory's road.

4

Gay laugh'd the sun on Danish Issefiord,
And fast in Leyra's

Ledra, or Leiré, was the old capital of Denmark, situated on an inlet of the sea called Issefiord.

port the fleet was moor'd;

And lists for combat on the beach appear'd;
Twelve kingly thrones in awful order rear'd;
On each a prince, in gorgeous garb array'd,
Summon'd by him

Frode the Third, son of Dan, king of Denmark, is said by the Danish historians to have reigned over many tributary princes in the fourth century; but I apprehend there is no just ground for believing the name of Dane or Denmark to have existed on the shores of the Baltic at that period.

whose mandate they revered.

Great Frodé's word twice fifty kings obey'd,
Upheld his stately power, and flourish'd in its shade.

5

And there were two, in helm and hauberk clad,
On whom all looks were turn'd; the gaze was sad
And piteous, though they stood with bearing high,
Seeming the flower of that proud chivalry.
And there was one, a form of beauty rare,
By nuptial train attended; but her eye,
Fix'd in majestic sorrow, seem'd to wear
Less look of bridal joy, than of forlorn despair.

6

To them the monarch; “Princes of my realm,
“Shall kindred strife this goodly state o'erwhelm?
“Battle unauthorized and combat rude
“Have shiver'd Denmark's peace with civil feud.
“See the rash son defy the parent's brand!
“With hopeless wrath stern vengeance is pursued;
“Once blest in love, as now by hatred bann'd,
“Sworn comrades e'en to death,

It was not unusual amongst the northern nations for sworn feres or comrades to make a vow not to survive each other, the performance of which was religiously accomplished.

the twain before you stand.


5

7

“Them judge ye, Peers; if combat be decreed,
“Two chiefs are lost to Denmark; both must bleed.
“If fault in either worthy death be found,
“Let equal justice deal the deadly wound,
“So one be saved: and see yon beauteous form,
“Like a pale statue rooted to the ground,
“Daughter and bride, with torn affections warm,
“Plead for her spouse and sire, to ’scape this double storm.”

8

He ceased; through the deep crowd a murmur ran,
Then, silence made, stern Hagen thus began.
“I call to combat Hedin, and reclaim
“My daughter, his too fair, but guilty, dame.
“Is my head soil'd with treason? is the hand
“Of Hagen recreant to its earliest fame?
“So fall the axe on me! but if I stand
“Pure and untouch'd, I ask the battle with my brand.

9

“I had one gem preserved with precious care,
“My hope, my treasure. Who so fit to wear
“That jewel as my friend? with partial voice
“Him unsolicited I bade rejoice.
“My heart's best pride, the darling of my sight,
“Was freely proffer'd by a parent's choice;
“A form so perfect, and a mind so bright,
“She seem'd a living beam of heaven's immortal light.

10

“Nor linger'd long the hours: his vessels bore
“Hedin in tempest to his native shore.
“Swift at the call his northern clansmen hied
“To greet in Frodé's halls the willing bride.

6

“And ask ye now, high Peers, why I who led
“The virgin to those bonds in joyful pride,
“Tear the sad matron from her nuptial bed,
“And heap with bitter hate her lord's accursed head?

11

“I answer, he, who lives bold Hagen's fere,
“Must stand untouch'd, without reproach or fear;
“She, who my blood inherits, may not rest,
“Scorn of her kind, by a false traitor press'd.
“Traitor and false I name thee, Hedin; curst
“By who once hail'd thee to a brother's breast,
“But deems that act of his pure life the worst,
“Which knit those hallow'd bands that vengeful hate has burst.

12

“The living gods, who saw our

Those who took upon themselves the oaths of feres or companions in war, usually wounded themselves, and mingled their blood, in token of their indissoluble union.

mingled gore,

“The gods, dire witnesses of vows we swore,
“(Link'd to one being, by one interest bound,
“Since that dread moment on that hallow'd ground)
“Bear witness to our strife! Insatiate hate,
“Since love is rent, must deal its deadliest wound.
“Hedin, we may not live; to me the weight
“Of sharing thy disgrace is heavier than my fate.

13

“It boots not now, that where the northern tide
“Roars round its rocks, we vanquish'd side by side.
“I bore thee faint from Orkney's hostile plains,
“When weak thy limbs, and bloodless were thy veins.
“My daughter watch'd thee, skill'd to ease the smart
“Of thy keen wounds, and soothe their throbbing pains.
“The serpent, she had warm'd, with treacherous art
“Writhed its pernicious coil around her guileless heart.

7

14

“By me unhallow'd to the listening fair
“His secret voice had breathed its guilty prayer;
“The man my choice deem'd true, sincere, and brave,
“Had breathed corruption on the prize I gave.
“By the lone taper or the conscious moon
“He whisper'd love, foul love's dishonour'd slave;
“Freely I yielded the delightful boon,
“But his dark treason cull'd the precious flower too soon.

15

“The day was named; at Frodé's board I sate,
“Fearless of guile, improvident of hate.
“Nigh Jutland's coast the spotless Hilda lay,
“While he to bid his kindred braved the spray.
“No beam was in my halls, save one lone light,
“That pour'd from her chaste bower its trembling ray.
“The traitor mark'd it in the silent night,
“His anchor bit the sand, his footsteps shunn'd the sight.

16

“Now ask your hearts, why Hagen redemands
“The gift he trusted to a recreant's hands;
“Why my stout ships reclaim'd the guilty wife,
“Stunning the Baltic's wave with civil strife:
“And (but he fled defeated, half subdued)
“This arm ere now had quell'd the traitor's life.
“In vain that tongue for mercy might have sued,
“Which swore a guileful oath, and like a villain woo'd.”

17

He ceased; with swelling wrath the youth replied—
“For peace or mercy never Hedin cried;
“Nor fled I, save more stoutly to assail,
“Spreading fresh canvas to the shivering gale

8

“With force collected, sudden overta'en
“By thy fell rage and unsuspected sail.
“That arm, which seal'd our vows on Orkney's plain,
“Nor shuns the strife of swords, nor ever smites in vain.

18

“I ask but justice from your voice, O Peers!
“The fight proud Hedin neither seeks, nor fears.
“If to have loved be guilt, that guilt I own.
“Is virtue's breast unanimated stone?
“Our love was true, and secretly we pined
“O'er its uncertain hopes so deeply sown;
“But chaste desire was not to honour blind,
“And Hilda's virgin fame was stainless as her mind.

19

“Now hate has done its worst, and death is nigh;
“The dream of life has glided swiftly by.
“Come the red danger of the deadly fight,
“If Hedin falls, his friend must leave the light!
“But glory shines unfaded and the same,
“While love's best raptures yield us short delight;
“And that dire trial, which redeems our fame,
“Shall fire our souls again with friendship's purest flame.”

20

This said, a deep and solemn pause ensued,
Like the dead calm which coming tempests brood.
Each eye is fix'd, each turn'd in pity, where
Stands that bright form of motionless despair,
Hilda, the lovely, chaste as mountain snow,
Pure from her wedded couch; her flowing hair
From the white shoulder to the zone below
Hangs careless, and her eye seems tranced in settled woe.

9

21

A mien she wears of perfect majesty.
If the bright spirits of the glorious sky
E'er change for grief their heavenly garb of bliss,
Their shape of sorrow must be e'en like this,
So sad, yet so serene! how pale the hue
Of that sweet form, which scarce the winds dare kiss!
A vision fair, bewraying to the view
No glow of mortal love, but faith sublime and true!

22

Each look in wonder on that shape is bent;
To listen, if she breathes, each ear is lent;
When, with both arms outstretch'd, “My blood be spilt!
“Mine, mine alone, O princes! mine the guilt!
“Thrice-honour'd father, let my life atone!
“Save for God's blessing never Hilda knelt;
“Now proud I kneel before the justice-throne,
“Not for thy life, or his; I sue for death alone.

23

“Unheard, unseen, in Jutland's calm retreat
“My youthful breast with high emotion beat,
“And all that heaven on Hilda had bestow'd
“Of love and faith in faltering accents flow'd,
“What time, as evening's balm bedew'd the shore,
“The heart-rapt lover sought my lone abode:
“A parent's blessing on his lips he bore,
“And whisper'd dreams of joy, I wist not to explore.

24

“O pure endearments of that fatal eve!
“Sweets, that now bid the shuddering bosom grieve!
“I would not change in this unjust disgrace
“The guiltless blush which then suffused my face;

10

“For I have lived to be young Hedin's bride,
“Known the chaste rapture of his loved embrace,
“Nor is there joy untasted, save the pride,
“As we were one in bliss, to be in death allied.

25

“Has Hilda's bosom nursed a lawless flame?
“Has Hagen's stainless issue stoop'd to shame?
“As pure from wrong, as now of hope forlorn,
“I yield no answer to that charge but scorn.
“Or (if reply be meet) enough for me,
“From Hagen's glorious blood was Hilda born:
“Dishonour comes not of that stately tree,
“But like its princely stock the scyon's fruit must be.

26

“If kindred feuds require a forfeit life,
“Let Hilda fall, sole cause of civil strife!
“And thou, dread sire, if free, as now, from stain
“I ever sooth'd thee, sang to thee in pain,
“Winning with virgin skill the sprite of wo,
“Let thy proud daughter still small grace regain!
“Grant her with joy to meet the murderous blow,
“And o'er her cold cheek hear a parent's blessing flow.”

27

She ceased, and sound was none; as when the deep
Foretells a storm, and yet the whirlwinds sleep,
Sad Denmark seem'd in silence to presume
With fearful presage on the coming doom.
Mute expectation mingled with dismay,
Till the dread judgment broke the cheerless gloom,
And those stern lords, whom no one may gainsay,
Decreed the hopeless fight, and bade the trumpet bray.

11

28

It came on Hilda like the deadly throes,
Which sever life: stately and slow she rose;
Her lovely bosom, passing mortal mould,
Seem'd like a shape of marble still and cold;
It throbb'd not, moved not, stiffen'd by despair,
And whiter than her vestment's snowy fold.
So calm, so pale, so exquisitely fair,
She look'd like beauty's wraith, and scarce of life aware.

29

But long and loud the trumpet's fatal clang,
Of strife the parricidal summons rang.
The lists are measured, for

It was a common practice in the duels that were prevalent amongst the northern warriors, having drawn lots for the first blow, to receive alternate strokes of the sword without attempting to ward them off.

alternate blows

The dire swords bared; the iron vizors close,
And, each in cumbrous mail and harness dight,
Father and son firm foot to foot oppose.
Hagen draws first the lot, with vengeful might,
So heaven befriend his stroke, to end at once the fight.

30

High with both hands the gleaming blade he rear'd
O'er that young head that never shrank or fear'd;
And unresisted, like a bolt of hell,
On his strong casque the thundering falchion fell.
Far fly the helm's bright fragments; the dim eyes
In darkness swim, and the stunn'd senses reel.
Half bow'd to earth behold him prouder rise,
And yet he stands unharm'd, and yet his foe defies.

31

A mournful murmur through the admiring crowd
Wax'd faintly tremulous, more loud and loud.
Beauteous he smiled, and from his forehead bare
Smooth'd back the ringlets of his

The bravest warriors of the north took much pains to preserve the beauty of their long flowing ringlets. This may be well exemplified by a passage quoted from an old Saga, in Bartholinus's Danish Antiquities. “That young warrior was very beautiful to behold, and had long golden hair, which hung down far over his shoulders. Thorkill asked him, how he felt disposed for death. He answered, ‘ Well, because I have lived most honourably, and those are dead whom I think it better to perish with than to survive: but one thing I wish you to grant me, that no slave or person inferior to yourself shall lead me to execution, and that you will so hold up my hair, and strike my head so quickly from my neck, that my locks, concerning which I have long taken so much pains, may not be stained. And now the sooner my head is struck off the better.’”— Bart. p. 54.

flowing hair.


12

“My weapon cleaves not,” the old warrior cried;
“Strike now, strike firmly, Hedin, and beware!
“Thy strength, thy prowess shall not twice be tried;
“Ill may that youthful brow this blunted falchion bide.”

32

Hedin each nerve with force collected strains,
The hot blood throbbing in his swollen veins;
And loud, “Since sire or son,” he cries, “must bleed,
“Swift be the death, and worthy be the deed!”
He spoke, and instant the dire dint assay'd
Of his bright weapon with the lightning's speed;
From the slant helmet glanced the impetuous blade,
And a deep bloody cleft in the left shoulder made.

33

Now, fierce avenger, shall thy wrath be slow?
Serene the victim waits the fatal blow.
Hear the faint moan, the doubtful voice of dread,
As thy keen glaive shines threatening o'er his head!
Stay the fierce deed, and yet, O yet delay!
Hear the low sounds of shuddering pity spread!
Down his bare neck the unbound ringlets stray,
Waving in glossy curls, and o'er his shoulders play.

34

Stern father, hast thou mark'd that eye of youth,
That beam of loveliness, that ray of truth?
Shall calm reflection milder thoughts inspire?
Gaze, daughter, gaze! behold thy vengeful sire!
Mark his dire port, his high uplifted hand,
The arm's strong sinews braced by ruthless ire!
It stops!—Shriek out for joy !—Upon the sand
His proud relenting arm casts down the stainless brand.

13

35

Mute had she view'd each stroke of deadliest hate
Wing'd with a husband's or a father's fate;
Joy burst on her stunn'd senses, as the flow
Of deafening waters on the waste below:
For she had stood past hope, past wish or pain,
The nerves all strain'd to meet the shock of wo.
Her pale cheek flush'd not; 'mid her bridal train
A cold and senseless weight she sunk upon the plain.

36

Stout Hedin on the throng'd arena stood
Unmoved, as waiting still the work of blood.
And, “Lacks thine arm,” he cries, “the strength to smite?
“O recreant to fame, as void of right!
“Does mine eye quell thy soul? O nothing brave,
“Hedin's bare forehead scares thee from the fight!
“Hedin, who fled from thy victorious glaive,
“Nor dared thy prowess bide upon the Baltic wave!

37

“O heartless, now it galls me to have led
“A dastard's offspring to an honour'd bed,
“Pure though she be as light, and fair as heaven,
“Like the best gifts by gods to mortals given;
“It grieves my spirit, ever wont to stand
“Lord of the war, though life's best hope is riven,
“It grieves my soul to perish by a hand
“That unresisted shrinks and dreads to wield the brand.”

38

To him brave Hagen mildly sad replied:
“I would have spared thee, youth of fatal pride!
“O'er my stern heart the thoughts of other times
“Came as a fairy dream of distant climes,

14

“Stilling fierce passion, like the aërial strains
“Of gentlest music breathed to witching rhymes.
“I thought of Orkney's desolated plains,
“Where the red stream of blood flow'd jointly from our veins.

39

“Sweet memories of former friendship stole,
“Like some dear vision, o'er my troubled soul.
“Methought thine infant leap'd within the womb
“Of my pale daughter leaning on thy tomb.
“I would not that the child should tread the world
“Friendless and fatherless in utter gloom,
“Nor see the lance by his bold parent hurl'd,
“Nor view his gallant barque with death's red flag unfurl'd.

40

“Enough! Thy pride rejects the life I gave.
“Raise, Hilda, high thy lord's and parent's grave!
“The die is cast; together, as we fall,
“Receive us, Odin, in thy blissful hall!”
He said, and from his hoary locks unbound
The weighty helm that press'd his forehead tall;
And, smiling, cast it scornful on the ground,
Prepared to give and take at once the deadly wound.

41

No more; on rush they, prodigal of life,
Eager to die, and desperate in the strife.
'Tis done; in last convulsion, on the sand,
The parent grasps his comrade's dying hand;
“'Tis done!” he whispers, “from this bloody floor
“We go to glory, in that joyous land,
“Where never hate shall disunite us more,
“Or fell suspicion bathe our hands in kindred gore.”

15

42

On him pale Hedin raised his glassy eye,
And, “Hear me, sire,” he murmur'd, “ere we die!
“I, fearful of denial, dared not sue,
“But ne'er was Hedin to his friend untrue;
“Save that the captived heart, unused to bow,
“While the dear hope was ever in its view,
“With lingering passion breathed the secret vow,
“And hid the burning love, it trembled to avow.

43

“Hate has been quick the harvest to destroy,
“If it was guilt to reap that treacherous joy;
“To bear the pang of unfulfill'd desire
“In the soul's core, and nurse its hidden fire.
“Cold is the hand that grasps thee, and in night
“Float these dim eyes; but the proud spirit soars higher
“To heaven's eternal realms, and that pure light
“Whose glorious beams relume the warrior's dying sight.

44

“Friend, father, we have loved, as men whose blood
“Sprang from one fount, and mingled in one flood;
“Together have we dared each deadliest form,
“The battle's thunder, and the ocean's storm;
“Like one proud tree we flourish'd, now uptorn
“By hate's fell blast, as once by friendship warm.
“Some cheering balm, by love's sweet influence borne
“Stoleo'er my youthful thoughts, now ravish'd and forlorn.

45

“High souls, that kindle ardent in the fight,
“Know most of bliss, drink deepest of delight:
“To weaker spirits even joys belong,
“Love's pangs are fiercest to the proud and strong.

16

“Enough; thy course of full-earn'd fame is done;
“My years have quickly waned, more bright than long.
“We sink; we swim in darkness; but the sun
“Of glory still shall light us, though our course be run.

46

“And thou, chaste partner of a life too brief,
“To taste of half thy charms, or share thy grief,
“Place in one tomb the husband and the sire!
“The stern avenger of our fond desire,
“And thine heart's lord, whose thoughts, though dying, strive
“With thine in bliss united to expire;
“In joy too rich, and yet too proud to live
“Reft of the double meed that love and honour give.”

47

Dead, gory, stiff they lie; and she who bless'd
Their sight, while living, breathes in transient rest.
Sleep on, thou fair one, for thy soul too soon
Must start to horror from that joyful swoon!
O to have seen the sire the husband spare!
To wake all glowing at the unlook'd-for boon!
With eyes that love and gratitude declare,
To smile, to seek, to view—the sire and husband—where?

48

There is a sense which words can ne'er express,
That blunts the sufferings of keen distress;
A rapture e'en of wo, that drags the mind
Beyond the sphere of ills it leaves behind;
Opes a new heaven with no dark clouds o'ercast,
Where the thought roams sublime and unconfined;
A pride of grief, when earthly hopes are past,
That mounts above the storm, and soars upon the blast.

17

49

She did not rend with one wild shriek the air,
Nor gave her soul to frantic vain despair;
Nor did her bosom heave one piteous sigh.
Say, was she faithless to love's hallow'd tie?
Was her heart pangless? or her feelings light?
Could woman's cheek in such an hour be dry?
Or the keen anguish of that deadly sight
Pass like a troublous dream, and yield to new delight?

50

O never yet was sire more fondly loved!
Nor ever heaven's all-judging eye approved
A pair more closely link'd by nuptial band,
Then he, whose cold grasp holds his comrade's hand
In death united, and that beauteous fair,
Whose placid calmness does her soul command,
Still as the lake unmoved by breath of air,
And stately as the swan that sails unruffled there.

51

On her cheek glow'd love's bloom and living fire;
But, not unworthy of her valiant sire,
There was a proud endurance in her eye,
And in her veins heroic blood throbb'd high.
Honour's pure beam adorn'd each gentler grace,
Patience to bear, and fortitude to die.
Had

It was the highest pride of the northern nations to show not only fortitude and indifference, but even an appearance of pleasure in death, however violent or attended with cruel circumstances. The lines in Saxo Grammaticus, on the death of Agner, smiling in his agony, are very spirited.

Semivigil subsedit enim, cubitoque reclinis
Ridendo accepit letum, mortemque cachinno
Sprevit, et Elysium gaudens successit in orbem.
Magna viri virtus, quæ risu calluit uno
Supremam celare necem, summumque dolorem
Corporis ac mentis læto compescere vultu.

Many instances are mentioned in the old northern writings of the extraordinary exertion by which a blow was received upon the eyes without winking, and indeed the same thing is mentioned by Pliny concerning two remarkable gladiators. The soldiers of Harald Hildetand's body-guard were invariably cashiered if observed to wink on receiving a blow upon the face in a conflict. In the old history of Jomsburg another prisoner of the same Thorkill who is above mentioned, being asked by him how he was prepared for death, is said to have answered, “Well, but I entreat you not to let me be led like a sheep to the slaughter. Now I will sit down before you, and do you smite me with your sword on the face, and observe whether I either wink with my eyes, or show any sign of uneasiness: for we inhabitants of Jomsburg have habituated ourselves not to shrink from such a blow.” Thorkill consented, and stepped forward and smote him across the eyes; but no man could perceive him either wink or shrink from the blow.—

Bart. p. 51.
the keen sabre smote her lovely face,

She ne'er had shrunk or wink'd unworthy of her race.

52

Her gallant spirit, fearless of the smart,
Had met the death-stroke with a warrior's heart,
In anguish smiling like a joyful bride.
But deem not ye the feelings lightly tried,

18

Though the tear swell not, or the bosom sigh!
In stillest calm the deepest thoughts abide;
The pang suppress'd may never reach the eye,
But the fond soul within feels all its agony.

53

As the mild lustre of the glowing heaven,
When the calm hours draw on the silent even;
When shade is on the earth, but light on high,
Spread like a mantle o'er the cloudless sky:
So, though the heart is wrapp'd in deepest gloom,
Streams yet unchanged the lustre of the eye;
The patient soul obeys its heavy doom,
While glory shines above, and points beyond the tomb.

54

Pass we the gorgeous rites that graced the slain,
Pass we the hoary minstrel's funeral strain!
O'er them fair glory's deathless flower shall bloom,
Nursed by sweet song, and breathe forth fresh perfume.
They shall not lack soft beauty's pitying tear,
Alike their valour, and alike their doom!
Long, long shall Denmark's sons their mound revere,
And scalds shall deck their grave with laurel never sere.

55

The night was calm and murky; the soft gale
Seem'd to diffuse fair peace o'er hill and vale;
But Hilda slept not, whom the strong desire
Of her lost Hedin gnaw'd with secret fire.
To the still grave she bent her fearless way,
While her dark thoughts with nature's gloom conspire;
A while she seem'd in anguish to survey
The monumental pile that wrapp'd his mouldering clay.

19

56

But not to mourn she sought that mansion lone,
Or weep unseen upon the dreary stone,
And in her sorrow there was nothing meek;
Gloomy her eye, and lowering seem'd to speak
A soul by deep and struggling cares distraught;
And the bright hectic flush upon her cheek
Told the mind's fever, and the darkling thought
With haughty high designs and stedfast passion fraught.

57

Strange signs upon the tomb her hands did trace;
Then to the witching North she turn'd her face,
And in slow measure breathed that fatal strain,
Whose awful harmony can wake the slain,
Rive the cold grave, and work the charmer's will.
Thrice, as she call'd on Hedin, rang the plain;
Thrice echo'd the dread name from hill to hill!
Thrice the dark wold sent back the sound, and all was still.

58

Then shook the ground as by an earthquake rent,
And the deep bowels of the tomb upsent
A voice, a shriek, a terror; sounds that seem'd
Like those wild fancies by a sinner dream'd;
A clang of deadly weapons, and a shout:
With living strength the heaving granite teem'd,
Inward convulsion, and a fearful rout,
As if fiends fought with fiends, and hell was bursting out.

59

And then strange mirth broke frantic on her ear,
As if the evil one was lurking near;
While spectres wan, with visage pale and stark,
Peep'd ghastly through the curtain of the dark,

20

With such dire laugh as Phrenzy doth bewray.
It needs a gifted hand, with skill to mark
Hilda's proud features, which no dread betray,
Calm amid lonesome deeds and visions of dismay.

60

On her pale forehead stream'd an eyrie light
From that low mansion of infernal night,
Displaying her fair shape's majestic mould
In beauteous stillness; but an eye that told
More sense of inward rapture than of wo,
Thoughts of forbidden joy, and yearnings bold.
On the lone summits of eternal snow
So shines, in nature's calm, the pure sky's azure glow.

61

Speechless she gazed, as from the yawning tomb
Rose Hedin, clad as when he met his doom.
Dark was his brow, his armour little bright,
And dim the lustre of his joyless sight;
His habergeon with blood all sprinkled o'er,
Portentous traces of that deadly fight.
His pallid cheek a mournful sadness wore,
And his long flowing locks were all defiled with gore.

62

There have been those, who, longing for the dead,
Have gazed on vacancy till reason fled;
And some dark vision of the wandering mind
Had ta'en the airy shape of human kind,
Giving strange voice to echoes of the night,
And warning sounds by heaven's high will design'd:
But this was bodily which met her sight,
And palpable as once in days of young delight.

21

63

High throbb'd her heart; the pulse of youth swell'd high;
Love's ardent lightning kindled in her eye;
And she has sprung into the arms of death,
Clasp'd his cold limbs, in kisses drunk his breath;
In one wild trance of rapturous passion blest,
And reckless of the hell that yawn'd beneath.
On his dire corslet beats her heaving breast,
And by her burning mouth his icy lips are press'd.

64

Stop, fearless beauty! hope not that the grave
Will yield its wealth, which frantic passion gave!
Though spells accursed may rend the solid earth,
Hell's phantoms never wake for joy or mirth!
Hope not that love with death's cold hand can wed,
Or draw night's spirits to a second birth!
Mark the dire vision of the mound with dread,
Gaze on thy horrid work, and tremble for the dead!

65

All arm'd, behold her vengeful father rise,
And loud, “forbear, dishonour'd bride!” he cries.
With starting sinews from her grasp has sprung
The cold wan form, round which her arms were flung;
Again in panoply of warlike steel
They wake those echoes to which Leyra rung;
Fierce and more fierce each blow they seem to deal,
And smite with ruthless blade the limbs that nothing feel.

66

Darkling she stands beside the silent grave,
And sees them wield the visionary glaive.
What charm has life for her that can compare
With the deep thrill of that renew'd despair?

22

To raise the fatal ban, and gaze unseen,
As once in hope, on all her fondest care!
In death's own field life's trembling joys to glean,
And draw love's keen delight from that abhorred scene!

67

The paths of bliss are joyous, and the breast
Of thoughtless youth is easy to be blest.
There is a charm in the loved maiden's sigh;
There is sweet pleasure in the calm blue sky.
When nature smiles around; the mild control
Of buoyant fancy bids the pulse throb high;
But when strong passion has engross'd the soul,
All other joys are dead; that passion is its whole.

68

The beaming sun may wake the dewy spring,
The flowers may smile, and the blithe green wood ring;
Soft music's touch may pour its sweetest lay,
And young hearts kindle in their hour of May:
But not for Hilda shall life's visions glow;
One dark deep thought must on her bosom prey.
Her joys lie buried in the tomb below,
And from night's phantoms pale her deadly bliss must flow.

69

There still each eve,

The following account is given in Professor Suhm's Historie af Danmark. “Hogni or Hagen and Hedin were very celebrated in the reign of Frode the Third. Hedin, the son of Hiorvard, a Norwegian prince, came with 150 ships to King Frode. With 12 vessels he preceded the rest of his fleet, having placed a shield on his mast, as a token that his purpose was amicable: and friendly terms were speedily arranged. A tributary king in Jutland, named Hogni, had a daughter of exquisite beauty, called Hildur. She and Hedin, having been both prepossessed in favour of each other by previous report, met privately, and became exceedingly enamoured. Hedin and Hogni afterwards sailed together on maritime expeditions, the latter not being aware of Hedin's affection for his daughter. Hogni was a person of majestic carriage, and very imperious disposition; Hedin of inferior stature, but remarkably well made. Hogni offered his daughter in marriage to Hedin, and they pledged themselves by joint oaths to revenge the death of each other; after which they sailed against the Orkneys, which they subdued. After their return home, Hogni received information that Hedin had seduced his daughter before her marriage to him, which was looked upon as an heinous offence; and giving credit to the report he attacked Hedin, who was at sea under the king's orders, but, having an inferior force, took refuge in Jutland. When Frode heard this he summoned them, and tried to bring about a reconciliation; but Hogni was inflexible, and demanded the restitution of his daughter; whereupon the king gave orders for a duel, in which Hedin received a severe wound; but Hogni took compassion on his youth and beauty, and spared him. But sometime after they met again on Hithin's island, near Rogaland, in Norway, and slew each other. It was rumoured in those superstitious times, (A. D. 360), that Hildur so deeply regretted them, that by means of incantations she waked up the dead, who thereupon renewed their conflict; and that they would continue to do so every night till the end of the world. This story was the original cause of battle being called by the old Scalds the sport of Hilda.”— Suhm, tom. i. p. 168.

She has been called by modern writers the Goddess of War, or Bellona of the North, which was not exactly the case, though her name is found amongst the Valkyrier, or maids of slaughter. The Hilda of the Edda was the sister of Attila, and the occasion of his death, which is confirmed by the mention of her under the name Hildico by the Roman writers. I entertain no doubt that all the Scandian tales relating to her, are referable to the time of Attila or to a later period. It will be observed that in this as in all the Attilane tales, a slur thrown on the chastity of Hilda is the cause of the death of her husband. The name Hedin is nearly the same as Odin, who is sometimes almost identified with Attila, and Hagen or Hogni who kills him bears the same name as one of the Burgundian princes who were excited to attempt the life of Attila. I apprehend this tale to be a blending of the Attilane legend with some old story; and it is absurd to regard it as genuine history.

as northern stories tell,

By that lone mound her spirit wakes the spell;
Whereat those warriors, charmed by the lay,
Renew, as if in sport, the deadly fray:
Till, when as paler grows the gloom of night,
And faint begins to peer the morning's ray,
The spectre pageant fadeth from the sight,
And vanisheth each form before the eye of light.

26

HELGA.


27

CANTO I.

The board was spread in Ingva's hall;
Sat richly dight his courtiers all;
The shadow of great Ingva's name
Might give his vassals deathless fame.
With pomp he held the feast of Yule;

Iule or iöl was the principal festival amongst the northern nations and was held at Christmas.


And all who own'd his princely rule,
All who for Sweden drew the sword,
Were gather'd round his glittering board;
Where ancient Sigtune's turrets famed

Sigtun was an ancient town which stood nearly in the situation of Stockholm. It is said to have been founded by Odin, who was also called Sige, a name connected with Sigr victory, while that of Odin may have been assumed when he first attempted to usurp the character of a Deity, and to persuade the people of the north that he was the very god whom they had been accustomed to worship.


Frown'd proudly, from old Odin named.
Whilom had Ingva's honor'd form
Gleam'd foremost in the battle's storm,
And many a scald had sung his glory;
But now his locks with age were hoary.
Death's iron hand had quell'd the pride
Of those who conquer'd by his side:
But still he reign'd by all revered;
Still were his arms in battle fear'd:
To fill each lost companion's place
Rose scyons worthy of their race;
His men were stallwart, brave, and tall,
And one fair daughter graced his hall.
Fair Helga shone like vernal flower,
Nursed by the sun and dewy shower;

28

Her breast more pure than trackless snow,
With no fond passion seem'd to glow;
But haply love reign'd there conceal'd,
And scarcely to herself reveal'd.
For all in turn the virgin pour'd
The sparkling juice that deck'd the board;
Her cheek suffused with modest die
Shrunk from the gaze of warlike eye,
While all adored; but none might dare
To woo the hand of Helga fair.
Joyous they quaff'd the mantling bowl,
And the rich liquor fired the soul;
While the famed minstrel, blanch'd by time,
Pour'd the wild notes of Runic rhyme;
And sung of love, and war, and glory,
Of living worth and ancient story:
The King, delighted, heard the strains,
And younger throbb'd his swelling veins.
Why sudden cease the notes of pleasure?
Why, minstrel, stop thy flowing measure?
What sound along the pavement driven
Sweeps like an angry blast of heaven?
Back, back the rattling portals fly,
And every warrior's kindling eye
Glistens like flame, and every hand
Unconscious grasps the trusty brand.
But straight uncouth and strange surprise
Has quench'd the lightning of their eyes;
And every hand has loosed its hold,

The champions of the north were called Berserker in the old tongue, from ber, bare, and serkr, a garment; because they wore no armour in battle. I have given some account of them in the notes to the song of Thrym, in my volume of Icelandic translations. They are described by almost all the northern writers as men of extraordinary stature and force, subject to sudden and violent attacks of passion, under the influence of which their fury was ungovernable, and as formidable to their natural friends as to their enemies. At such times their bodily strength was almost super-natural, and they would vent their rage even upon inanimate objects, till they sunk down sick and weak with exhaustion after the most prodigious exertions. They were supposed by the first christians in the north to be possessed by devils, and baptism was esteemed to be a cure for this species of ferocious madness. Certain it is, that after the introduction of christianity the manners of the north began to assume a milder character, and the same tone of mind which could incline a heathen warrior to receive baptism, would at the same time enable him to repress such ungovernable paroxysms of temper.


And silent droops each warrior bold.

The aboriginal inhabitants of the north, before the irruption of Odin and his followers from the banks of the Tanais, appear to have clothed themselves with the skins of wolves, and they are frequently mentioned with abhorrence in the ancient writings under the name of Ulfhedner, as persons of very wolfish habits and disposition as well as appearance. Thus, in the old poet Hornklof, we read,

Einjado Ulfhedner, oc isarn glumdo,

i.e. The wolfish men howled, and the iron resounded.

The wolf's skin appears to have been looked upon as a badge of ferocity.


Twelve champions huge stalk'd proudly in;
Each wore a wolf's dark brindled skin;

29

But loftier, fiercer, statelier too,
Seem'd one, the leader of the crew;
Show'd strength of more gigantic mould,
And foremost strode, unask'd and bold.
On his vast limbs, of beauteous form,
Half bare, half shielded from the storm,
The shaggy wolfish skin he wore
Pinn'd by a polish'd bone before;
Nor other ornament he knew,
Save curling locks of raven hue,
Which like a glossy mantle hung
O'er his broad shoulders loosely flung.
No shield was held before his breast;
No burnish'd steel his bosom press'd;
No quaintly twisted iron shirt,
No coat of mail was round him girt:
With forehead bare the fight he tried,
On inborn force his heart relied.
Not stoutest kemp of modern days
His wonderous sword from earth might raise,
But swift as light the champion's arm
Could wield it to his foeman's harm.
His ponderous mace a knotty oak,
That ne'er had felt the woodman's stroke;

Kiölen, a high mountainous ridge so called.


Himself had torn it from the side
Of Kiölen in its leafy pride.
Yet was the champion mild and kind,
Save when the fury vex'd his mind,
Or some ungratified desire
Lit in his breast unhallow'd fire;
For then with more than mortal force
He urged amain his headlong course,

30

By strange internal phrensy driven,
Like an avenging scourge of heaven;
Till all exhausted with the fray,
And sickening, on the earth he lay;
His swollen eyes bloodstain'd and dim,
Life quivering in each strained limb.
But often in his milder day
Might infants with his wild locks play;
Oft would he list the minstrel's measure,
Or quaff the social cup of pleasure;
Waste in delight the peaceful hour,
And carp of love in maiden's bower.
But now strange passion lit his eye;

The dais was the upper part of the hall where the high table was placed, and it was more elevated than the rest of the room. It was called in the old tongue Aundveige.


It seem'd, who met its glance must die.
To the high dais with speed he pass'd;
His voice was like a killing blast.
“These are my brothers, Ingva, born
“Like me to meet proud men with scorn.
“Angantyr is the name I boast,
“Well famed in war, itself a host.”
The King, though ruffled by his pride,
Rein'd his high wrath, and mild replied:
“What brings ye to King Ingva's lands?
“What boon require ye from his hands?”
“Ask you mine errand, while the board
“Has only fed this subject horde?
“Discourteous man, supply the best
“Thy board can yield to greet thy guest!
“Let thy fair daughter's snowy hand
“Pour the bright mead at thy command;
“And bid this proud unmanner'd crew
“Yield us fit space and honor due.”

31

With food the table was o'erlaid;

It seems to have been the universal custom of the north for the daughters of princes and illustrious men to pour out the liquor, and hand the goblet round to all the warriors, who partook of the hospitality of their fathers. In heaven this was supposed to be one of the principal functions of the Valkyriur, or maids of slaughter, who returned every evening from the fields of warfare to administer the beverage of the gods to the souls of heroes; and therefore, with reference to the superstitions of their religious creed, it was looked upon as the natural and honorable employment of distinguished young females. It is mentioned in Volsunga Saga, as a particular mark of the masculine mind and disposition of the warlike Brynhilda, that she would never pour out beer or mead for any person in the hall of her father.


Due space was given, due honor paid,
And sparkling mead by Helga pour'd
Adorn'd the hospitable board;
But, as she near'd the giant chief,
She trembled like an aspen leaf:
And first he quaff'd the beverage rare,
Then gazed upon the timid Fair.
He has ta'en her by the slender waist,
And to his rugged bosom press'd.
He has laid his hand upon her face,
And held her in his strict embrace,
While the maid blush'd all scarlet red,
And strove to hide her weeping head.
He has placed her on his knee, and kiss'd
Her coral lips e'en as he list.
Then rising from his seat he cried,
“King Ingva, this must be my bride!”
The monarch look'd around the board,
But not one warrior grasp'd his sword:
Then, frowning, thus in hasty mood—
“Not thus, brave Lord, are damsels woo'd.”
But little reck'd that champion dire
Of maiden's blush, or monarch's ire;

Ledra, called in the old tongue Hledru, in Danish Leire, and by the Latin historians and commentators Lethra, was the ancient royal residence in Zeeland before the foundation of Copenhagen. It was situated on a river that flowed into the great inlet of sea called Issefiord. In consequence of the navigation having been obstructed by increasing sand banks, the royal residence, which was not established at Copenhagen till the middle of the fifteenth century, was removed in the first instance to Roeskilde, a place at no great distance from Ledra, which was so called from a spring of water which had been used by the old Danish king Roe, who reigned at the beginning of the sixth century. Saxo Grammaticus states that Ledra was built by Rolf Krake, the successor of Roe. Others call Roe the twenty-third king that reigned in Ledra, saying that it was founded a few years before the birth of Christ by Skiold, the son of Odin, and the seat of a long line of Danish kings, from that time until the ninth or the tenth century. King Harald Hildetand was buried there in the eighth century, and a mound is still pointed out as his grave. The name of Ledra is supposed to be derived from Leir, in English lair, meaning an abode or safe place, and probably the royal residence, in the days of king Skiold, was not very preferable to the lair of a wild beast. Rolf Krake embellished and made considerable additions to Ledra, on which account Saxo Grammaticus has called him its founder. The exact time when the royal residence was removed from Ledra to Roeskilde is not accurately known, but it was probably about the time of the introduction of christianity. Harald Blaatand, the first christian monarch in Denmark, built a wooden church at Roeskilde, and was buried there in the tenth century, and soon after, in the reign of Canute the Great, it became a place of more considerable importance: but Ledra was still a place of strength in the reign of Valdemar the first, in the twelfth century. Nothing now remains of the ancient capital of Denmark, but the vestiges which the eye of an antiquarian may still discover on the surface of the soil. The river on which the fleet of Denmark used to ride in safety has long been dried up and choked; and the name of Ledra can only be traced in a few miserable cottages within a mile of Roeskilde, and in the splendid mansion of an individual. Lethreborg, the house of Count Holstein, stands near the site of the once famous Ledra, and is celebrated for the beauty of its modern gardens. An engraving of it is given in the Atlas of Pontoppidan.


He cast his goblet on the floor,
He stamp'd, and with a fiendish roar—
“Sail'd I from Ledra's stately port
“To yield base homage at thy court?
“To praise the venison at thy board,
“Or mead, with which thy vaults are stored?

It was usual amongst the old northern warriors, for one who was about to undertake an arduous enterprise, at some festival, in the presence of the whole court, to lift up high the cup that was presented to him, and make a solemn vow, from the performance of which no considerations would afterwards deter him. This was called at strenga heit, to vow high, and nothing could release a warrior from the obligation which he had thus solemnly taken upon himself. After this manner Brynhilda made a solemn vow to marry no man who had ever been afraid; and Harald Haarfager, the founder of the Norwegian monarchy, never to cut or comb his hair till he should have reduced all the provinces of Norway under his dominion.


“King, I have vow'd to bear her hence;
“Nor leave I ask, nor shun offence.

32

“At solemn feast all Denmark heard
“My high sworn oath and plighted word,
“Never to comb my coal-black hair
“Till I have won this peerless fair.
“In Ledra reigns my royal sire
“O'er arms of might and hearts of fire;
“Ten thousand Danes, with sword and helm,
“A wait my word to waste thy realm;
“I turn not to my native land
“Ere thy best blood has dyed my brand.”
One moment was the King's cheek white,
The next was red as morning light.
I know not whether fear or wrath
Had chased the warm blood from its path;
But in that instant prouder far,
Than e'er his crest had gleam'd in war,
King Ingva started on his feet;
Behind him rang the gilded seat:
And,—“Lives not here one dauntless head,
“Of all my princely wealth has fed,
“To dare the combat?—Who shall free
“My daughter takes her hand from me!”
The long roof echo'd; as he spoke,
Mix'd feelings in his look awoke,
Of pride from ancient lineage flowing,
Of well-earn'd worth, and valour glowing,
Parental fondness stung with rage,
And conscious impotence of age.
O for a painter's hand to trace
The lineaments of every face
In the dread pause that follow'd!—Bright
Streaming from high the torches' light

33

Fell on Angantyr's savage brow,
Lent his stern cheek a fiercer glow,
And o'er his glossy raven hair
Glanced like a meteor in mid air.
And is it anger flashing high,
Or vengeful scorn that lights his eye?
That eye, which never rival found
Who dared to stand on listed ground!
That eye, which oft has shot dismay
Through legions in the battle-fray!
His left hand grasp'd the trembling maid,
His right upon his mace was laid;
As from King Ingva proudly turning,
(The while with unbless'd anger burning)
Scowl'd his fierce aspect on the ring
Of tongueless warriors and their king;
While all the honors, whilom gain'd
On fields with Finnish carnage stain'd,
Seem'd withering underneath the dread
Of that high-towering haughty head.
O Sweden! is thy glory low?
Must all thy well earn'd trophies bow?
Lives there not one of all thy sons,
Of all through whom thy life-blood runs,
Who dares to die for thy dear fame,
And dying gain a deathless name?
Lives there not one whose partial care
Turns to that jewel pure and rare?
That beauteous form with sorrow shrouded,
Those gentle eyes with tears o'erclouded!
To cheer with hope the troubled Fair,
That trembling, fainting, nigh despair,

34

Hangs like a pale and lifeless corse
In the rude grasp of ruthless force!
As some sweet floweret, born in spring
Beneath the sun and Zephyr's wing,
Shrinks weeping from the nightly frost,
And droops, and seems for ever lost,
Nor hopes that genial suns to-morrow
Will cheer its form and chase its sorrow.
Yes, there is one who pants for glory,
Whose name shall live in tuneful story!
Yes, there is one whose kindling eye
Beams with love-lighted sympathy!
It was a dreadful pause, I said,
But dreadful as the lightning sped.
The echo of King Ingva's call
Still linger'd through the vaulted hall,
When from the board a mailed man
Rose calm, collected, and began.
“Angantyr, I have known thy fame,
“Wide is the rumor of thy name.
“What warriors by thy prowess slain
“Have bow'd the head, and bit the plain,
“What bones lie whitening on the fell,
“The raven and the wolf can tell;
“Nor ever was it known or said
“That thou hast from the combat fled,
“Or shunn'd the call, when adverse lords
“Have dared thee to the strife of swords.
“Proud champion, thou hast told thy vow,
“And I am firm, and proud as thou.
“My name Hialmar, known as wide
“As battle spreads its bloody tide.

35

“When the young leaves adorn the spray,

Samsöe is an island in the Baltic, called by Latin writers Samos Baltica. It was a singular custom amongst the northern nations to fight their duels on the islands which abound upon their coasts, and on this account a duel was called Holm-gangr, i. e. an island-meeting. Perhaps this practice was adopted with an idea of fighting upon neutral ground, and in a place where no persons would interfere. The challenge thus given to fight in Samsöe is an historical fact.


“When vernal birds first pour their lay,
“I challenge thee to mortal fight;
“Samsoe the field; this maid our right.
“Which shall embrace her as his bride,
“Odin and our good swords decide!”
To him the champion scornful said:—
“Seek thou a bride amongst the dead!
“Shall the low vassal cull the prize
“Destined to charm a hero's eyes?
“And dares a puny man withstand
“The stroke of high Angantyr's brand?
“True, thou hast spoken passing fair,
“And noble seem thy words and air;
“Pity thou lack'st both force and might,
“And limbs by nature nerved for fight!
“Crush'd like a worm, without a blow,
“My trampling foot might lay thee low.
“But though my strength, by thee defied,
“Swells like a torrent's gather'd pride,
“And at one swoop might clear the board,
“Ingva, of all thy vassal horde,
“Revered the laws of combat stand,
“The bold defiance stays my hand.
“Short respite gain'd, the vernal ray
“Shall see thee torn by beasts of prey.
“Then, Helga, shall thy dainty charms
“Be clasp'd in proud Angantyr's arms;
“And those high joys for thee design'd
“Shall stamp thee first of womankind.
“Who shares Angantyr's honour'd bed
“Above all brides must rear the head.”

36

He ceased; old Ingva yields assent
To the dread fight's arbitrement.
“Whate'er,” he cries, “the virgin's lot,
“Spared be the peasant's peaceful cot!
“Save we the flower of northern might
“For Celtic wars and Finnish fight,
“Nor let wild havoc's ruthless flood
“Defile these sister realms with blood!
“Where barren Samsoe breasts the tide,
“Shall solemn proof of arms be tried.
“On brave Hialmar's trusty brand
“We dare to venture life and land;
“And, stranger, thus we pledge our faith,
“Thine be fair Helga's hand, or death!”
E'en as he spoke, the champion's ire
Flash'd from his savage eye like fire;
Little wont he to quell the tide
Of swelling wrath and boisterous pride;
Yet ere the hour of solemn strife
He may not harm his foeman's life:
So wills imperious Honor's creed,
For which bold Northmen toil and bleed.
But,—whether, furious, to assuage
The agony of inward rage,
As the clench'd hands of writhing pain
Strive by strain'd pressure ease to gain,
Or whether, scornful, to alarm
By some dire proof,—his sinewy arm
Round a huge shaft he threw, whose height
Bore the strong ceiling's ample weight,
And shook it nodding to its fall,
Till the vast fabric of the hall

37

Quaked to its base; trembled the roof,
Trembled each casement tempest-proof;
Rang every stone and carved beam,
Gaped every massive timber's seam;
Another touch had whelm'd in dust
Buttress, and arch, and beam of trust.
He smiled, and leaving all aghast
With wrathful step the threshold pass'd.
Him follow'd all that wolfish crew,
Eleven brothers firm and true;
And when they reach'd the forest hoar,
Mountain and dale sent back their roar.
Fury constrain'd must have its vent,
And rage, till its dread force is spent;
E'en things inanimate must know
Their brutish strength and vengeful blow.
Each snow-clad rock must feel the dint,
Huge fragments fly of stone and flint;
And, as the frenzy nerves their strength,
Uprooted lies the forest's length:
Then sated with the bootless fray
Homeward they wend their weary way.
In Ingva's hall the strife had ceased,
But mirth could not relume the feast;
She, who should deck the mantling bowl,
Clings to her sire with troubled soul,
And frequent turns her anxious eye,
While swells the tear and heaves the sigh.
The board with no blithe joyance rings;
The Harper strikes no tuneful strings;
Full four-score years have shed their snow
Upon the honor'd Minstrel's brow,

38

Yet on Yule's venerated night
His harp, each Swedish son's delight,
At monarch's board, or peasant's door,
Had never silent hung before.
A gloom, ere that dark hour unknown,
Broods sadly over Sweden's throne;
Asbiorn lies sick with nerveless hands,
And Orvarod fights on foreign lands:
In distant climes beneath the gleam
Of other suns his banners stream.

Nothing could exceed the romantic attachment of those northern warriors, who had associated themselves by a solemn compact of friendship, which was sanctified by the superstitious ceremony of drawing blood from their bodies, and mingling it in token of their inviolable union.

“Icturi fœdus veteres,” says Saxo Grammaticus, “vestigia sua mutui sanguinis aspersione perfundere con-“sueverant, amicitiarum pignus alterni cruoris commercio firmaturi.”

They were called Stallbrodre. It was not unusual upon those occasions to pledge themselves mutually not to survive each other, and the obligation of suicide which had been so contracted was invariably fulfilled. A singular circumstance of this nature is said to have happened in the reign of Frode the Third. Asuit and Asmund, two warriors of distinction, had bound themselves by such an engagement. Asuit died of an accidental illness, and his body, together with those of his horse and dog, were let down by a rope into a deep cavern; and Asmund, who had sworn not to live after him, descended also into the abyss with a considerable store of provisions. A long time after, Eric, the son of Regner, passing with his army, determined to ransack the tomb of Asuit in search of the treasures which were supposed to be concealed in it, and a strong young man was let down into the cave in a basket suspended by a rope. Asmund, who was still living, easily overpowered the man, who was terrified at his appearance, and jumping into the basket, was drawn up from the bottom of the dungeon, and the men of Eric, seeing his long hair and nails and squalid appearance, and thinking that he was the spirit of the dead whose tomb they were violating, fled with the utmost horror and consternation. Asmund probably considered himself to be released from the obligation of his vow by this unexpected resurrection, especially as he had left a substitute in the cavern.


Hialmar's strength with theirs combined
In holiest league had long been join'd;
Sworn brothers in the fight they dared
Each foe, and every peril shared.
Their arms round Sweden's honor'd head
A never-fading shadow spread;
And beauteously they seem'd to stand,
Bulwarks and glory of the land.
As three proud trees, together bred,
O'er-canopy the crystal bed
Of some unruffled holy spring,
Where Zephyr dares not wave his wing,
Nor the bright Sun's intrusive glare
The charm of peaceful silence scare.
Now must Hialmar's single arm
From Sweden ward this deadly harm.
The cloud of fearful sadness hung
O'er each bold head, and seal'd each tongue:
His heart alone with transport glows;
His breast no anxious presage knows.
Though dark and strange the peril seem,
Love bids it glow with dazzling gleam.

39

His ardent thoughts flow high and fast,
Too strong the tide of joy to last.
Fix'd on the fair his gazing sight
Anticipates unknown delight,
And hopeful deems a coming day
Shall years of silent love repay;
For though he ne'er had dared a sigh,
Nor taught his hopes to soar so high,
Yet oft the sad mind's feverish fit,
The fond glance by pale passion lit,
The pang suppress'd, had half betray'd
His secret to the gentle maid;
And Helga coy, she knew not why,
Shrunk from Hialmar's beaming eye.
Not that its glance could yield offence,
Or scare the doves of innocence;
But that it touch'd some tremulous string
That thrill'd e'en to life's secret spring,
And waked each sympathetic chord
To vibrate there in sweet accord.
Day after day had quickly flown;
Love unresisted and unknown
Had gain'd the incautious heart, and wound
His unsuspected chains around;
Unknown, till danger's fearful dream
Show'd how the tyrant reign'd supreme.
Nor less in Asbiorn's heart of fire
Stirr'd the high pulse of young desire;
Though now by chilling sickness staid
On lowly couch his strength was laid:
For he, with early passion warm,
Had boldly mark'd each growing charm

40

Of youthful Helga, and no less
His bosom wore the deep impress
Of all her virgin loveliness;
And sweetly oft his daring tongue
Soft notes of love to her had sung.
To Ingva's court a stripling sent,
There had his careless years been spent,
While sporting o'er the flowery green
He call'd the maid his elfin queen,
And wreathed with many a mystic flower
The garland for her summer bower.
There, with light foot and sparkling eye,
The sprightly maze of infancy,
Oft when the spring had deck'd the sod,
Together had they swiftly trod.
When first, as trumpets bray'd afar,
Young Asbiorn sought the distant war,
A sigh had heaved her infant heart,
That friends so passing dear must part;
A tear had dimm'd her glistening eye,
That oft in fight the bravest die.
But, though his form was fresh as May,
And his blithe words were ever gay,
On calm Hialmar's gentler mind
All her fond thoughts of bliss reclined;
By his her trembling heart was fired,
For him her secret vows aspired,
And all that she had own'd from heaven
Of love and faith to him were given.
Deep night in stillness veils the pole,
And silent hours unheeded roll.
Alone, where watchful tapers shine,
Young Helga's beauteous limbs recline.

41

Her couch is of the eider down,
Her coverlet a bear-skin brown
Trimm'd with soft ermine, and below
The claws with burnish'd metal glow;
And many an herb of sweet perfume
Breathes incense round the odorous room.
But what avail that spicy breeze,
Those soft appliances of ease!
While bodeful fears and anxious love
The restless thoughts to wildness move,
And the strange workings of the mind
Are like the storm of raging wind;
That ploughs the bosom of the sea
With fierce impetuous mastery,
Wave driving after wave, while those
Which big with fate and highest rose
Bearing all down before them, now
Lie buried in the abyss below.
So o'er sad Helga's troubled soul
The swelling waves of passion roll;
Thoughts after thoughts successive rise,

Vala or Volva, a prophetess; in the genitive singular, Vaulu or Völu, and in the nominative plural Vaulur. In Hyndlu-liod it is said that all the Vaulur were the children of Vidolfi.

Eru Vaulur allar frá Vidolfi.

There is in the unpublished Edda a curious ancient mythological poem, called Völospá hin skemre, or the ancient prophecy of Vala, from which several stanzas are quoted in Bartolinus. The whole may be found in manuscript in the British Museum. The beginning of Völospá is particularly poetical:

Hliodz bidium allar helgar kindur,
Meirre oc minne, maugu Heimdallar!
Vil ec Valfaudur vel umtelia,
Fornspiöll fyra tha ec fyrst ofnam!

i. e. I bid silence to all the holy beings, greater and smaller, children of the God of light! I will tell of the weal of the father of the slain (Odin), ancient prophecies, which I first learnt! The Vaulur, or prophetic spirits, are often mentioned in the plural, but there appears to have been one principal Vala, who is supposed to speak in Völospá, and whom Odin descended into hell to consult in her tomb concerning the fate of Balder.

Thá ræid Yggr fyri austan dyrr,
Thar ær han vissi Völu læidi.

i. e.

Then rode Odin before the eastern door,
Where he knew Vala's tomb.

The English reader has long been acquaintea with this passage in the northern mythology, through the means of Gray's beautiful translation of one of the most interesting relics of Scandinavian poetry, Vegtam's Quida, the song of the Traveller, or the descent of Odin. The descent into the lower regions, for the purpose of consulting the tomb of Vala, offered me some imagery, which I was unwilling to forego; and the few verses concerning the whelp of Hela are imitated from the fine lines in Vegtam's Quida.

Ræid han nidr thadan Niflheliar til;
Mætti han hvælpi theim ær or Hæliu kom.
Seá var blodugr um briost framan,
Kiapt vigfrekan ok kialka nedan:
Gó han a moti ok gein storum
Galldrs födr; gol um længi.
Framm ræid Odinn, folldvægr dudi;
Han kom at hafa Hæliar ranni,
Thar ær han vissi Völu læidi.

i. e.

He rode down thence to the lowest abyss of hell;
He met the whelp which came out from hell.
He was bloody on his breast before,
His chops eager for strife, and his nether jaw;
He bayed against (and opened his mouth wide)
The father of the spell; he howled long after.
On rode Odin, the foundation of the earth shook;
He rode to the lofty abode of Hela,
Where he knew was the tomb of Vala.

I am aware that, after Gray's beautiful translation, it was rather dangerous to meddle with this passage; but the dog of the infernal regions could not have been properly passed over in silence, and I trust that I have sufficiently diversified the expression.

I am aware that, after Gray's beautiful translation, it was rather dangerous to meddle with this passage; but the dog of the infernal regions could not have been properly over in silence, and I trust that I have snfficiently diversified the expression.


And each fond scheme unfinish'd dies,
But, rather than one season live
In doubtful anguish, she would give
Long years of hoped-for bliss, to know
The issue of her present wo.
END OF CANTO I.

42

CANTO II.

Hard by the eastern gate of Hell
In ancient time great Vala fell;
And there she lies in massive tomb
Shrouded by night's eternal gloom.
Fairer than Gods, and wiser, she
Held the strange keys of destiny;
And not one dark mysterious hour
Was veil'd from her all-searching power.
She knew what chanced, ere time began,
Ere world there was, or Gods, or man;
And, had she list, she might have told
Of things that would appal the bold.
No mortal tongue has ever said
What hand unknown laid Vala dead;
But yet, if rumor rightly tells,
In her cold bones the spirit dwells;
And, if intruder bold presume,
Her voice unfolds his hidden doom:
And oft the rugged ear of Death
Is soothed by her melodious breath,
Slow-rising from the hollow stone
In witching notes and solemn tone;
Immortal strains, that tell of things,
When the young down was on the wings
Of hoary Time, and sometimes swell
With such a wild enchanting spell,
As heard above would fix the eye
Of nature in sweet ecstacy,

43

Steal every sense from mortal clay,
And drag the willing soul away.
Dark is the path, and wild the road,
That leads unto that dread abode;
By shelving steeps, through brier and wood,
Through yawning cliff and cavern'd flood,
Where thousand treacherous spirits dwell,
Loose the huge stones, bid waters swell,
And guard the dire approach of Hell.
And none, since that high Lord of Heaven,
To whom the sword of death is given,
Stern Odin, for young Balder's sake,
Has dared the slumbering Vala wake.
But love can pass o'er brier and stone
Unharm'd, through floods and forests lone;
Love can defy the treacherous arm
Of spirits leagued to work its harm,
Pierce the dread silence of the tomb,
And smooth the way, and light the gloom.
Whence art thou? essence of delight!
Pure as the heavens, or dark as night!
Feeding the soul with fitful dreams,
And ever blending the extremes
Of joys so fearful, cares so sweet,
That wo and bliss together meet!
Thy touch can make the lion mild,
And the sweet ringdove fierce and wild.
Thy breath can rouse the gentlest maid
That e'er on couch of down was laid,
Brace her soft limbs to meet the cold,
And make her in the danger bold;
The breast, that heaves so lily-white,
Defy the storms and brave the night,

44

While the rude gales that toss her hair,
Seem whispers of the tremulous air,
And heaviest toils seem passing light,
And every peril new delight.
O whose is that love-lighted eye?
What form is that, slow gliding by?
Sweet Helga, risen from the bed
Where sleepless lay thy virgin head,
Thou darest explore that dread abyss,
To learn what tides thee, wo or bliss!
Whether it stand by fate decreed
That stern Angantyr's breast shall bleed,
Or he to whom in secret turn'd
Thy heart with gentle passion burn'd,
He whom thy soul had learn'd to cherish,
For thy dear sake untimely perish.
The night was calm; a pallid glow
Stream'd o'er the wide extended snow,
Which like a silvery mantle spread
O'er copse, and dale, and mountain's head.
O who has witness'd near the pole
The full-orb'd moon in glory roll!
More splendid shines her lustrous robe,
And larger seems the radiant globe;
And that serene unnumber'd choir,
That pave the heaven's blue arch with fire,
Shoot through the night with brighter gleam,
Like distant suns, their twinkling beam.
While in the north its streamers play,
Like mimic shafts of orient day;
The wonderous splendor fiery red
Round half the welkin seems to spread,

45

And flashes on the summits bleak
Of snowy crag or ice-clad peak,
Lending a feeble blush, to cheer
The twilight of the waning year.
The thoughtful eye undazzled there
May pierce the liquid realms of air,
And the rapt soul delighted gaze
On countless worlds that round it blaze.
No floating vapor dims the sight
That dives through the blue vault of night,
While distance yields to fancy's power,
And rapture rules the silent hour.
A calm so holy seem'd to brood
O'er white-robed hill and frozen flood,
A charm so solemn and so still,
That sure, if e'er the sprites of ill
Shrink from the face of nature, this
Must be the hallow'd hour of bliss,

Hela was the goddess of hell. She is said to have appeared in a vision to Balder on the eve of his death, to inform him that he would have the satisfaction of sleeping with her the next night.


When no dark elves or goblins rude
Dare on the walks of man intrude.
Pure as the night, at that calm hour,
Young Helga left her virgin bower;
And trod unseen the lonely road
To gloomy Hela's dire abode.
The broken path and toilsome way
Adown a sloping valley lay,
Where solid rocks on either side
Might have the hand of Time defied;
But some convulsion of old Earth
Had given the narrow passage birth.
Onward with laboring steps and slow
The virgin pass'd, nor fear'd a foe.

46

The moon threw gloriously bright
On the grey stones her streaming light;
Till now the valley wider grew,
And the scene scowl'd with dreariest hue.
From the steep crag a torrent pouring
Dash'd headlong down, with fury roaring,
Through frozen heaps that midway hung;
And, where the beams their radiance flung,
Columns of ice and massive stone
Blending and undistinguish'd shone;
While each dark shade their forms between
Lent deeper horror to the scene;
And gloomy pines, that far above
Lean'd from the high and rocky cove,
With frozen spray their heads besprent
Under the hoary burthen bent.
Before her spread a forest drear
Of antique trees with foliage sere;
Wreathed and fantastic were their roots,
And one way stretch'd their stunted shoots:
Each hollow trunk some beast might hide,
Or fiends more wily there abide.
She seem'd in that strange wilderness
A spirit sent to cheer and bless,
A beauteous form of radiant light
Charming the fearful brow of night.
The wind with a low whisper'd sigh
Came rushing through the branches dry;
Heavy and mournful was the sound,
And seem'd to sweep along the ground.
The virgin's heart throbb'd high; the blood
Beat at its doors with hastier flood:

47

But, firm of purpose, on she pass'd,
Nor heeded the low rustling blast.
A mist hung o'er the barren ground,
And soon she was all mantled round
In a thick gloom, so dark and dread,
That hardly wist she where to tread.
Mute horror brooded o'er the heath,
And all was dark and still as death:
When sudden a loud gust of wind,
Shaking the forest, roar'd behind,
And wolves seem'd howling in the brake,
And in her path the hissing snake.
Then all was hush'd; till swift and sheen
A meteor flash'd upon the scene;
A hoarse laugh burst upon her ear,
And then a hideous shriek of fear.
Dire phantoms, in the gloom conceal'd,
Were instant by that light reveal'd;
For, lurking sly, behind each tree
Strange faces peep'd with spiteful glee,
And ghastly forms and shapes obscene
Glided the hoary rocks between.
O who shall save thee, Helga! mark
The ambush'd spirits of the dark!
Those are the powers accurst, that ride
The blasting whirlwind, and preside
O'er nature's wrecks; whose hands delight
To weave the tempest of the night,
Spread the red pestilence, and throw
A deeper gloom o'er human wo!
Those are the fiends, that prompt the mind
To deeds of darkness, and behind

48

Send their fell crew with sickening breath,
Despair, and infamy, and death!
Nor yet unmoved the virgin gazed;
She trembled as that meteor blazed;
But high she spread her white arms sheen,
And thus she pray'd to beauty's Queen.
“Immortal Freya! if e'er my mind
“Has to thy gentle rites inclined;
“If e'er my hand fresh garlands wove
“Of flowers, the symbols of chaste love,
“And cull'd from all its blooming hoards
“The sweets which opening spring affords;
“If I have knit the silken twine
“To deck thy pure and honor'd shrine;
“Immortal Freya, attend my prayer!
“To a lone virgin succour bear!
“Give me to reach great Vala's grave,
“And from the powers of darkness save!”
Fair Helga spoke; and as she pray'd,
A charm descended on the maid,
Like the sweet fall of measured sound,
Or dew distill'd on holy ground;
And vanish'd seem'd the powers of ill,

Hafa Hæliar ranni, the lofty abode of Hela. Vegtam's Quida. The words “Portals nine of Hell,” which Gray has inserted in the descent of Odin, and the note saying that the hell of the gothic nations consisted of nine worlds, are erroneous. They reckoned that there were nine worlds or heavens, and that hell was below them.


And nature smiled serene and still.
The darksome mist was roll'd away,
And tranquil, as the fall of day,
A milder gloom imbrown'd the way;
While through that wild and barren scene
The lofty gates of Hell were seen.
A strain delightful pouring slowly
Breathed in soft cadence pure and holy:
And the strange voice she long'd to hear
Stole gently on her wondering ear.

49

Hark! the wild notes are sweetly swelling,
Now upon things unearthly dwelling,
And now of Time's old secrets telling.
To rapture charm'd, fair Helga long
Stood listening that immortal song;
But onward now she sprang with haste,
And thro' Hell's portals quickly paced.
Then, starting from his gory bed,
The whelp of Hela raised his head,
And, as he view'd the daring maid,
Gnash'd his keen fangs, and fiercely bay'd.
His glowing eyes with fury scowl'd,
And long and loud the monster howl'd:
For well he mark'd athwart the gloom
A living form by Vala's tomb.
But unappall'd the virgin stood,
And thus, in calm unalter'd mood:
“By the force of Runic song,
“By the might of Odin strong,
“By the lance and glittering shield
“Which the Maids of slaughter wield,
“By the gems whose wonderous light
“Beams in Freya's necklace bright,
“By the tomb of Balder bold,
“I adjure thine ashes cold.

The inhabitants of the north believed that the rocky regions were inhabited by dwarfs, who had secret forges in the caverns, and were most skilful artificers of all sorts of weapons, which by the force of magic they could endow with the most extraordinary powers. A long list of their names is given in Völospá. They were called in the old tongue Dvergar.—In almost all countries the superstition of the ruder natives has peopled the stones quarries, and caverns, and rocky solitudes, with supernatural inhabitants; and indeed it seems natural to have imagined, that those places which could afford shelter, and were yet from their desolation unfit for the abode of men, might be occupied by malicious spirits. I recollect having somewhere met with a tradition, that the Emperor Maximilian the First had been decoyed by an evil spirit amongst the rocks in the neighbourhood of Inspruck, though I forget from whence I derived the story. Maximilian goes out from Inspruck to the chase with a splendid retinue, and is led by the pursuit into the rocky mountains. A holy man meets them, and warns the Emperor to beware of the mountain spirits. He is scoffed at by the Emperor; but urges his admonitions, assuring him that nothing but the vigilance of the good spirits (who also dwell there, but assist only the faithful) can save those who entangle themselves amongst the haunted precipices. The Emperor pursues the chase, and at the foot of a stupendous rock he starts a beautiful chamois, at which he fires, but misses his aim, which he had not done for ten years before. He pursues the chamois, which frequently stops and looks at him. He fires at it repeatedly, but in vain. At evening the beast suddenly vanishes, and the Emperor finds himself alone and lost amongst the cavities of the rocks. He wanders two days there, living with difficulty upon wild berries. On the second night he bethinks himself of praying to the Holy Virgin for her protection, after which he falls into a sweet sleep, and in the morning is awakened by a beautiful youth dressed like a peasant, who brings him fruit and milk, and offers to conduct him out of the mountains. Maximilian joyfully follows him, till he arrives at the foot of the same stupendous rock where he had first seen the chamois; and there his conductor vanishes, and he immediately hears the horn of his huntsman. I believe that such superstitions are common to almost all rocky countries.


“Vala, list a virgin's prayer!
“Speak! Hialmar's doom declare!”
She ceased; when, breathing sad and slow,
Like some unwilling sound of wo,
A sweetly solemn voice was sent
Forth from that gloomy monument.

50

“Deep-bosom'd in the northern fells
“A pigmy race immortal dwells,
“Whose hands can forge the falchion well
“With many a wonderous mutter'd spell.
“If bold Hialmar's might can gain
“A weapon from their lone domain,
“Nor stone, nor iron shall withstand
“The dint of such a gifted brand;
“Its edge shall drink Angantyr's blood,
“And life's tide issue with the flood.
“Victorious, at night's silent hour,
“The chief shall reach fair Helga's bower.
“But thou, who darest with living tread
“Invade these realms, where rest the dead;
“Breaking the slumbers of the tomb
“With charms that rend Hell's awful gloom;
“Who seek'st to scan, with prescience bold,
“What Gods from mortal man withhold,
“Soon shall thine heart despairing rue
“The hour that gave these shades to view,
“And Odin's wrath thy steps pursue.”
It ceased; and straight a lurid flash
Burst through the gloom with thunder-crash.
It lighted all Death's dreary caves,
It glared on thousand thousand graves.
Hell's iron chambers rang withal,
And pale ghosts started at the call;
While, as the gather'd tempest spreads,
Rush'd the red terror o'er their heads.
And well I deem, those realms might show
Unnumber'd shapes of various wo;

51

Lamenting forms, a ghastly crew,
By the strange gleam were given to view;
And writhing Agony was there,
And sullen motionless Despair:
Sights, that might freeze life's swelling tide,
Blanch the warm cheek of throbbing pride,
And shake fair reason's frail defence,
Though strongly nerved by innocence.
Nor dared the breathless virgin gaze
On Hell's dread cells and devious ways;
Back rush'd unto her heart the blood,
And horror staid its curdling flood;
As fainting nigh the gates of Hell
In speechless trance young Helga fell.
Her glowing lips are pale and cold;
Her dainty limbs of heavenly mould,
Fashion'd for bliss and form'd to rest
On couch of down by love carest,
Lie by yon damp and mouldering tomb,
Faded, and stript of mortal bloom;
Like flowers on broken hawthorn bough,
Or snow-wreaths on the mountain's brow.
Shall e'er that bosom move again,
To know love's subtle bliss or pain?
Shall e'er those languid beauties stir?
Shall Heaven's pure light revisit her?
Or is she thus enveloped quite
By curtain of eternal night?
And ye, who in life's varied scene
Still its frail joys and sorrows glean,
Say, does her fate for pity cry,
Or were it best to sink and die,

52

While innocence is chaste and pure,
And flattering fancies yet allure,
To leave the hopes of youth half tasted,
To fly, before its dreams are blasted,
Its charms foredone, its treasures wasted?
Ere guilty bliss with secret smart
Has touch'd the yet untainted heart,
To shun the pleasure and the crime,
Nor trust the wintery storms of time?
True to the charge, some guardian power
Watch'd over Helga's deathlike hour;
Whether by pity moved and love
Bright Freya glided from above,
Spread round her limbs a viewless spell,
And snatch'd her from the jaws of Hell;
Or Odin's self reserved the fair
For other woes and worse despair;
For at the earliest dawn of day
In her still bower young Helga lay,
And waked, as from a feverish dream.
To hail the morning's orient beam.
END OF CANTO II

53

CANTO III.

Soft sleep, thou balm of every ill,
Thy touch the throbbing heart can still!
Thy downy wings of peace outspread
Can soothe the wretch's aching head,
Win from his brow grief's stern control,
And in sweet calmness lull the soul.
And thou hast stores, whose pure delight
Thrills through each sense and charms the sight;
Stirs the sad lover's pulse to joy,
Which waking truth will soon destroy;
Leads him through cloudless Chili's groves,
Or he in wild Guiana roves
Beneath thy shadow fancy-blest,
And, every thought of care at rest,
There lays him with his darling maid
Under the plantain's spreading shade,
Where wanton tendrils hung with bloom
Twining around distil perfume,
And thousand little warblers dwell
Sweeter than love-lorn Philomel.
But hast thou not thy terrors too?
Thy fearful shapes of ghastliest hue?
When the soul writhes beneath the load
That weighs upon its frail abode;
While horrors lurk behind thy shroud,
And visions on the fancy crowd
Of ills that falling still impend,
Of vain pursuits that never end,

54

Of woes that shake fair reason's seat,
Or at the door of conscience beat.
And hast thou ne'er to anxious mind,
Mid pictured scenes of wildest kind,
Dread warnings and things closely seal'd
In dark futurity reveal'd?
And sometimes e'en through visions strange
The wakeful thoughts distemper'd range,
While the mind's eye with troubled sight
Can scarcely read its path aright,
And memory but ill descry
The limits of reality?
Thus some have deem'd, that Helga lay
Brooding strange thoughts from eve till day,
Stretch'd on a feverish couch of down,
Nor saw in truth Hell's portals frown;
And that at morn her spirit vex'd
Was by wild fancies still perplex'd,
When full before her frighted eye
Stern Odin seem'd to stand, and cry—
“Adventurous maid, whose impious feet
“Have dared explore death's shadowy seat,

It was common among the northern nations to imagine that the recollection of love could for a time be entirely suspended by the force of incantations. This effect is said to have been frequently produced by Runic charms, that is, by incantations wrought by the means of letters, or by administering a love potion, which produced a transfer of affection and a total oblivion of the former attachment. In the history of Brynhilda, it is said that in consequence of her having offended Odin, he touched her with a wand which produced a supernatural slumber and oblivion. In the Appendix I have subjoined a short poem founded upon her history.


“Rifling the womb of hoary time,
“Hear the dark penance of thy crime!
“The vision of this night once told,
“Memory shall quit her sacred hold;
“And that fond love, which bade thee stray
“Down yawning Hell's forbidden way,
“That love, for which thou feign wouldst die,
“Shall in thy breast forgotten lie;
“Till anguish wake thy mind to know
“Joy's strange deceit, and hopeless wo.”

55

He said, and instant vanish'd seem'd;
Whether in sooth she saw or dream'd,
I hold the tale devoutly true,
And deem those terrors met her view.
Appall'd and motionless she sate,
Till summon'd to the hall of state.
The King had will'd a joyous day
Should chase the thoughts of yestrene's fray.
He had bid his men be trimly dight
Ere the first dawn of morning light,

Thar alma Uplendingar bendu: where the Uplanders bend the bow. Knytlinga Saga.


With torch and pike to rouse the bear
That slumber'd in his wintery lair.
“The chase is valor's school,” he cried,
And gallant to the forest hied.
The golden horn rings blithe and loud;
The many round their monarch crowd;
Some skill'd to bend the Upland bow,
Some taught the whizzing lance to throw,
Some proud to wield the falchion's weight
And closer deal the stroke of fate:
And dames of worth, and virgins fair,
Are clad to face the wintery air.
In many-color'd furs array'd
Hastes to the field each Swedish maid;
While the harsh winds, that round them rush,
Lend each young cheek a brighter blush,
And emulous of mountain snows
The polish'd forehead's lustre glows.
No lovelier forms, no sprightlier trains
E'er trod Cythera's hill-crown'd plains,
Or shook fair Delos' rocky shore,
Or roused the wolf and brindled boar,

56

Making the mountain echoes wake
Thro' every deep Mænalian brake.
Nor does the perfumed southern gale
More blithely breathe o'er hill and vale,

An engraving is given by Stephanius, in his notes on Saxo Grammaticus, of a pair of the snow-shoes used by the ancient Swedes and Norwegians, which he says that he preserved in his Museum. They were three yards long, pointed and turned up at both ends, but not much wider than the foot, to which they were fixed in the middle by strong thongs. They were made of wood, covered underneath with seal-skin. With the assistance of such shoes, the natives traversed the snow with great rapidity. They are thus described by Olaus Magnus:

Skydi sive Ondrur asseres sunt oblongi, et antrorsum sublevati, quinque vel ad summam sex ulnarum longitudine, latitudine verò transversam plantam non excedentes. His etiamnum pedibus inductis nostrates per superficiem profundissimam nivium et infirmæ glaciei, si aliàs corporis humani pondus non sustineat, ingrediuntur. Usi etiam veteres Norvagi In terrâ planâ et nudà ejusmodi Xylosoleis, subjectis rotulis, et sic plus itineris unâ die, quàm, absque illis, tribus confici potuit; habitusque est hic modus proficiscendi inter præcipuas agilitatis artes.”

In the song of Harald the Hardy, amongst the arts which he has acquired, he boasts that he can glide dexterously on show-shoes.


Nor bid the heart more warmly glow,
Nor the gay spirits lighter flow,
Than where the breeze of northern sky
Braces each limb and lights each eye.
Joy leads them on, o'er comb and glen,
To stir the monster's hoary den;
Some trooping on hot coursers past,
Some with long snow-shoes skaiting fast,
Some boldly on the beaked sledge
Gliding o'er precipice and ledge.
See how they scatter o'er the plain!
How laboring now the steep they gain!
Now circled in some rocky nook!
Now gliding down the frozen brook,
O'erhung with stone, and icicle
That brighter gleams than hunter's steel!
Now on yon crag, that strains the sight,
I see them file along the height
On giddy causeway, one by one;
Their weapons sparkle to the sun.
How many dreadful fathom deep
Shot from that high and rugged steep,
The foaming torrent roars beneath!
One slippery step were instant death!
But swift they press along the verge,
And soon mid broader wilds emerge.
The troop had reach'd a narrow pass
Half choked with thorns and wither'd grass.

57

Huge pines and pensile birch o'erhung
Its banks, round which the ivy clung;
And the rude clay-stone there peep'd through,
Like some old castle, to the view.
A spot so desolate and wild
Might charm sad fancy's mournful child:
On rush'd the rout, the deep glen rang
With sylvan shouts and martial clang;
But Helga, heartless for the chase,
Gazed long in that romantic place:
When from a rock which shades ingulf
Sprung sudden forth a brindled wolf.
The ruffian beast had mark'd his prey
Lingering defenceless on her way,
And his keen fangs already tore
Her dainty limbs distain'd with gore;
But instant as the bolt of Heaven
Through his dark sides a pike was driven,
And the blush glow'd on Helga's face,
Clasp'd in Hialmar's fond embrace.
Alone his eye had mark'd the Fair;
In hour of need his arm was there.
Slight was the hurt to life and limb,
But the pain'd bosom yearn'd to him,
And the full tide of love and grief
Burst forth to give the heart relief.
Her weeping thus the youth address'd,
As her soft palm he gently press'd.
“O sole on whom my fancy dwells,
“With whose chaste love my bosom swells!
“My life, my joy, in hours of peace!
“My hope when battle-storms increase!

58

“If ever I have raised my hand
“In fight to guard my native land,
“Thy gentle image, deep impress'd,
“Waked the bold phrensy of my breast,
“Lured me to tread the paths of fame,
“And win for thee a worthy name.
“Yet were my lips in silence closed;
“In trembling hope each wish reposed;
“And visionary joys alone
“To this deep-stricken heart were known.
“Now fortune smiles; a brighter day
“Beams on the warrior's blissful way;
“But dark as night his path, if thou
“Chase not the gloom that dims thy brow.
“By Helga's smile love's hopes were rear'd,
“By that must valor's arm be cheer'd.
“O give the willing heart to joy,
“Nor in the bud fond thoughts destroy!
“That smile from love new charms shall borrow,
“And light the languid gloom of sorrow.”
Smiled through her tears the virgin meek,
And all her soul blush'd on her cheek.
“The life, thou hast preserved, is thine;
“Thy joys or griefs must blend with mine.
“If my tears speak not, if the voice
“Faltering betray not love's fond choice,
“O read the guileless heart, and see
“Its anguish only wake for thee!
“Nor deem, if Heaven thy fall foredoom,
“That Helga will not share thy tomb!
“E'en like day's fleeting flower, that, born
“At the blithe call of orient morn,

59

“Weeps for the sun's departed gleam,
“Nor e'er shall see the morrow beam,
“To thy dear smiles my heart expands,
“Chain'd to thy lot my being stands.
“On thee, beloved, its hopes repose,
“Thy Helga's life, her joys, her woes.”
O now what bliss Hialmar shares!
Warrior, what fate with thine compares!
Say, who would change the melting mood
Of tender virgin fondly woo'd,
The beamy smile of weeping love
Whose gentle rays each doubt remove,
The timid blush, the bashful eye,
The sighs that half-exhaled die,
For those best raptures, which enjoy'd
Leave half the fancied charm destroy'd!
Fix'd on her hand a burning kiss
Glows, promise and sweet pledge of bliss;
And now he cheers her drooping form,
Bids her weak heart with joy be warm,
And points the hour, in glory's pride,
When love shall bloom by valor's side:
But sadness o'er her bosom stole,
And thus she pour'd her troubled soul.
“Speak not of bliss or joyous love,
“While the red vengeance wakes above!
“While o'er thine Helga's fated head
“The curse of angry Heaven is spread!
“Last night on restless couch I lay
“Praying for dawn of morning's ray,
“Though not the day could bring relief
“To anxious thoughts and trembling grief.

60

“If sleep I woo'd, upon mine ear
“Burst the wild shrieks of frantic fear,
“And all the joyous forms of light
“Seem'd vanishing in misty night;
“I woke, by inward power impell'd;
“I thought of thee, my fond heart swell'd:
“To learn thy doom my bosom yearn'd,
“And (chance what may!) that doom I learn'd.
“O best beloved, I may not say
“What terrors frown'd upon my way,
“Nor living tongue such sights reveal
“As I have met, to learn thy weal.
“Suffice, that death's dread bounds I pass'd,
“And reach'd great Vala's tomb at last.
“I pray'd her by each living thing,
“By Hell's abyss, by Heaven's high King,
“To speak thy fate; when sad and slow
“Breathed from her tomb the notes of wo.
“Thy hand shall conquer, if it gain
“A falchion from the drear domain
“Of that fell Pigmy race, that dwells
“Deep-bosom'd in the rugged fells.
“Go boldly forth, thy fortune try!
“Seek the dread caves that northward lie!
“But me, alas! what ills await,
“Pursued and struck by Odin's hate!
“What I have dared, did love inspire,
“Nor Heaven itself shall quench its fire.
“Thrice blest, if I might lay my head,
“Where the lone wild's deep shadows spread,
“And, clinging to my heart's desire,
“Mid fancy's brightest dreams expire!”

61

E'en as she spoke, her wandering eye
Seem'd sadly bent on vacancy;
O'er her pale cheek expiring play'd
A languid smile, and reason stray'd.
She saw the man her bosom loved,
But knew him not, and wildly moved.
She thought Hialmar was her foe,
And, nimbler than the mountain roe,
Burst from his grasp, and swift to fly
Was lost to his admiring eye.
As one amazed the warrior stood,
Wondering her mien and alter'd mood:
But she had breathed love's tenderest voice,
Which bade his inmost soul rejoice;
And bliss, prevailing o'er surprise,
Lit the young chief's exulting eyes.
But, not one look or word forgot,
He strove to scan his future lot.
Long o'er her speech the mind's eye pored,

Samsöe, called by Latin writers the Baltic Samos.


Seeking to win the mystic sword.
His purpose fix'd, he busk'd him straight
For journey perilous and great:
For, ere the wintery snows decay,
He must tread back the dangerous way,
And sail for that dark Samian shore
'Gainst which the Baltic billows roar.
To none the strange intention told,
Alone goes forth Hialmar bold;
O'er hills and rocks he takes his road
To the fell Pigmies' far abode.
But O what tongue the griefs shall tell
Which, mournful Helga, thee befel!

62

Thy wandering thoughts and timid breast
By thousand shapeless fears possest!
Who now the blithesome dance shall speed
In Ingva's hall, or pour the mead?
Who now with many a tender smile
The tedious hours of age beguile,
And bid the brow obscured by wo
Beam gladly through his locks of snow?
Joy of his heart, his bosom's pride,
Fond Helga stands not by his side;
Her hands no more shall crown the bowl,
Her voice no longer cheer his soul:
No more she dons her robe with care
The sports of festive Yule to share,
Where gallants breathe their secret flame
To willing maid or widow'd dame,
While glowing hearts and nimble feet
To the light strain responsive beat,
And youth with fresh delight inspires
Gay thoughts of bliss and new desires.
In her lone bower obscure she sits,
Mournful, despairing, strange by fits;
And thinks she views the vengeful form
Of Odin in each passing storm.
All to pale melancholy given
The pensive eye she lifts to heaven,
And sometimes warbles with sweet wail
Her wandering and imperfect tale,
And trills so sad the plaintive ditty,
Moving each listening ear with pity,
That e'en the sternest warrior's eye
Glistens with heartfelt sympathy.
END OF CANTO III.

63

CANTO IV.

O'er hill and vale, and woody dell,
From Thylemark to Dovre-fell,
From Kiölen's ridge to either sea,
To Bothnian Gulf and Helsingé,
Like one vast robe of glittering white
The deep snow strikes the dazzled sight.
The reindeer fleet as rushing wind
Scuds by, and leaves no trace behind;
The gorgeous elk so tall and strong
Prints it not, as he bounds along:
And he, who journeying o'er the brow
Of those huge mountains looks below,
(Like some keen falcon towering high)
Beneath him sees wild regions lie,
Strange waste of thicket, comb, and dell,
Bound by the frost's prevailing spell;
Save that, where woods on woods arise,
The gloomy pine its power defies,
And seems to stretch a rival reign
O'er the dread forest's drear domain.
There thousand famish'd wolves repair;
There slumbering lies the shaggy bear,
Who oft, when summer's dewy night
Smiles with the moon's reflected light,
Sly issues from his secret den
To cultured close in narrow glen,
To crop unseen the verdant ear,
Rifling the promise of the year.

64

Him shall the lurking boor await,
And wing the midnight shaft of fate:
But now he sleeps in hollow tree
Amid that gloomy scenery;
Where wood-crown'd rocks that frown around
Some huge expanse of waters bound,
Inlet of sea, or mountain lake
Whose ice-bound waves strange music make,
As through some rude defile they pour,
And, thundering, down the passage roar.
Through such rude scenes Hialmar went,
Upon his trackless journey bent.

A berry, which I believe is either the fruit of the Arbutus thymifolia, or of the Abutus uva ursi, is found in perfection under the snow in Norway towards the approach of spring, and is much sought by the rein-deer.


On toil'd he northward many a day,
And wilder wastes before him lay.
For need reserved the scanty store
Which in his leathern scrip he bore,
His only drink was mountain snow,
His food the berries hid below.
And now nor gloomy pines appear,
Nor vestige aught of foliage sere;
But, every sign of life effaced,
Stern frost usurps the barren waste;
Interminable winter's reign
Has bound it with an icy chain,
And rocks on rocks high-towering rear
Their foreheads, frozen all the year;
Nor frozen rocks alone; behold,
In regions of eternal cold,
Of mingled snow and dust and sand
The mimic architecture stand!
Above the crags that darkest lower,
Above the rocks that highest tower,

65

Points inaccessible arise,
And mock with varied hue the eyes.
Now like grey minarets they seem,
Now sparkling with the changeful gleam,
Now redder than a shaft of fire,
Ere the last beams of day expire.
Through the rough fell's romantic pile
Hialmar spied a deep defile.
It was a desert glen to view,
As fancy's pencil ever drew.
No bush was nigh; no shady trees
Spread their green honors to the breeze;
No flower, no verdant grass might hope
To spring upon the barren slope;
Not e'en the hardy ling might dare
To peep mid rocks so wild and bare:

Since Helga was sent to the press, I have seen my friend Mr. Walter Scott's Lord of the Isles, which has been lately published; and I have observed some similarity of expression in his description of the wild rocks in the isle of Skye, which is entirely accidental. The description of the rocky scenery in the fourth Canto of Helga was written five years ago, and not a single word has been altered in it since that time.


Scarce the dank moss and lichen grey
Could spread around their dismal sway.
Abruptly on the eastern side
Frown'd the huge steep in awful pride,
Like one vast wall; the summit hoar
With threatening fragments beetled o'er:
And many a hideous mass beneath
Time-sever'd from that crumbling wreath,
In the deep bosom of the dell
Might yet of ancient ruin tell.
High was the crag, and yet the land
Swell'd loftier on the other hand.
The ridge, that hid the western day,
Rose gradual, strewn with fragments grey;
And he, who look'd along the glen
Untrodden by the foot of men,

66

Might think he view'd a countless flock
Feeding beneath the barren rock.
But all is still; not e'en the deer
Have ever sought to harbour here.
The hollow mountain's hoary side
By mortal step was never tried;
Those are but scatter'd stones, that lie
Whitening beneath the inclement sky.
Above the hollow the proud fell
Rises more steeply from the dell;
Larger and ruder frowns each stone,
Its sides with lichen less o'ergrown;
And, where the highest summit towers,
Naked the rocky castle lowers.
The ridge's bold uneven sweep
Here sinking gives a vista deep
Of the blue heaven; now shooting high
Its giddy beacon strains the eye;
And, though in ruin, seems to stand
As if uprear'd by skilfulh and,
Stone upon stone piled wonderously,
With buttress, arch, and turrets high:
Self-poised the top-stone seems to rock;
But ages still have seen it mock
The winter's storm, the thunder's shock.
A broken path the steep behind
Midway seem'd indistinct to wind,
If path that be, which never knew
The tread of aught but the Elfish crew.
The track, I deem, if mortal wight
Could climb unto the dizzy height,

67

Would lead him where the slippery brow
Shelves o'er the sea, that far below
Dashes unheard its sullen waves
Beneath the cliff's o'erhanging caves.
The warrior gazed with growing wonder,
He deem'd some fiendish Power from under
Had push'd the solid heights asunder;
For well he mark'd the layers grey
Rise on each side in like array.
When sudden as from under ground
Stole on his ear a dulcet sound;
It seem'd a strain of sweetest tone
Warbled by female voice unknown.
The wondering chieftain gazed, and spied
A fissure in the mountain's side:
And listening close he seem'd to hear
Hammer and anvil sounding near;
And long and loud each heavy stroke
Resounded of that Pigmy folk,
That ever in the darksome cave
Forge the bright metal for the brave.
Of stature small, but mighty force,
Of cunning skill and deep resource,
They know each metal's secret birth,
And delve the bowels of the earth,
Tearing from every hidden cell
The treasures in its womb that dwell.
A spiteful race on mischief bent,
To whom man's wo is merriment;
Deaf to his prayer, and only made
By strong control to lend their aid.

68

The sounding forge Hialmar knew,
And forth his flaming falchion drew;
Then, sinking on his knee, raised high
To heaven his bright adoring eye;
And, as he pour'd the heartfelt vow,
Proud rapture lit his beauteous brow,
Triumphant love, unshaken truth,
And joy, and hope, and glowing youth.
“Bend, Odin, bend from heaven thine ear!
“And, God of war, a warrior hear!
“Beneath a humble cottage born

A very old Scandinavian poem, called Hamavál, or the High Song of Odin. It forms a part of the unprinted Edda, of which there is a manuscript in the British Museum. It is supposed to be spoken by Odin, and many persons have believed that it was actually written by him. It begins in this manner:

1.
Before thou goest forth, thou shalt look round every way;
Thou shalt examine:
For no man should be careless, while his foes
Lie in ambush for him.
2.
Hail to those who give! A guest is come in!
Where shall he find a seat?
Greatly he hastens, who wishes by the fire
To recruit his strength again.

And further on it proceeds thus:

Silent and highminded shall a king's son
And valiant be:
Gracious and gentle shall an honourable man
Continue until his death.
An unwise man thinks to live for ever,
If he keeps himself from warfare:
But old age to him grants not peace,
Although the spear may spare him.

And in a later part:

In the blast shall man fell trees;
In a calm on ocean row;
In the darkness talk with maids,
Many are the eyes of day.
With boats are fish taken; shields are for defence;
Swords to strike with, maids to kiss.
Fair shall he speak, and fair shall he give,
Who seeks a maiden's love to gain;
Praise the beautiful girl's white form;
Rich in words is he who woos.
No one shall grant love to another,
For beauty's sake alone.
Oft on fools is seen that which the wise lack,
A lovely delicate complexion.
I found a pure maid on her bed reclining,
Bright as the beaming sun;
And nothing better then seem'd to me
Than to dwell near such a form.
Late in the evening shalt thou come in,
If thou wilt speak with a maiden;
It is evil and unlucky if more than two know
What ye have together.
I went forth and thought,
That I had all her consent;
I truly believed that I entirely possessed
All her taste and fondness.
I came again, and immediately all
As if prepared for strife were awakened:
With shining torches and burning lights
My wild way was beset.
And in the morning when I came in
There lay all asleep;
I found there a hound instead of a beautiful maid
Tucked up in the bed.

This curious poem, which consists of a great many stanzas, is certainly of great antiquity; but it was probably attributed to Odin himself, merely because the words are supposed to be spoken by him.


“I learn'd ignoble ease to scorn;
“To wield the sword, the dart to throw;
“To bend the Dalecarlian bow,
“And where the snow-clad uplands rise,
“By prowess win each sylvan prize.
“An infant by my sire enured
“To early toils, by toils matured,
“I learn'd beneath his lone abode
“Thy lofty song, the warrior's code.
“When forth he sent me to the strife,
“He ask'd not for me length of life;
“‘Renown and glory be his share,’
“He said.—Great Odin grant his prayer!
“Give me to win Angantyr's bane,
“To triumph o'er that haughty Dane!
“And let my limbs victorious rest
“On Helga's bosom fondly prest!
“Grant this, and Fate ordain the rest!”
He spoke; and from the mountain's rent
A sudden gleam was upwards sent,
As if in token of assent;

69

And a loud clang was heard to sound
In the deep bowels of the ground.
“Praise to the Gods!” Hialmar cried,
And rush'd into the mountain side
Through that deep fissure; darkness dread
Closed on the warrior's dauntless head.
Silent he trod the winding cave,
Dark as the cloisters of the grave,
While, round, the dank imprison'd air
Sigh'd piteous, breathing chill despair;
Till, full display'd, a glorious light
Burst sudden on his wondering sight.
A vault immense before him lay,
Yet was the dungeon bright as day.
There high uprear'd on either hand
Compact basaltic columns stand,
Shaft above shaft, a monstrous pile,
Like that which girds fair Staffa's isle,
Or the huge mass whose giant pride
Breasts the full strength of Erin's tide.
Nor lacks there radiance to disclose
Their various shapes and magic rows.
Myriads of lights their lustre shed,
By secret exhalations fed;
And, as each alabaster lamp
Dispels the gloom and joyless damp,
The vaulted roof sends back their rays,
And stalactites and crystals blaze.
Around unnumber'd treasures lie,
Of every hue and changeful die;
The ore that gives each metal birth,
Torn from the fruitful womb of earth;

70

And countless gems, a brilliant heap,
And pearls and corals from the deep.
Next lie huge bars of metal sheen,
Then piles of weapons bright and keen;
And many an engine form'd for ill
By cunning workmanship and skill.
Beyond, through that long vista seen
The double row of steel between,
In a dread nook obscure and low
The distant furnace seem'd to glow.
A loathsome, wan, and meagre race,
With shaggy chin and sallow face,
Treading with steps demure and slow,
The Pigmy folk moved to and fro.
Some on their sturdy shoulders bore
The weight of rude unsmelted ore;
Some from huge stores of various hue
The ponderous bars of metal drew;
Near the hot furnace others staid,
And laboring smote the glowing blade;
Or, tempering the sharp steel, unheard
Mutter'd the powerful magic word.
In the full centre of the hall
Stood a dark statue, huge and tall;
Its form colossal, seen from far,
Show'd like the thunderous God of war,
The sinews strain'd for deadly strife,
The strong limbs starting into life.
Its left hand grasp'd an iron shield,
Its right was raised a sword to wield;
On the pure blade were written plain
These fatal words, “Angantyr's bane.”

71

Hialmar's eyes shone bright as fire,
Their keen glance spoke his soul's desire.
“Art thou,” he cried, “the thundering Thor,
“First of the Gods in strife and war?
“Or does thy marrowless strength in vain
“Those iron muscles seem to strain
“In threatening mockery, form'd to scare
“The coward from the Pigmies' lair?
“Whate'er thou art, Hialmar's hand
“Must tear from thine that flaming brand.”
Him answer'd straight with visage wan,
Smiling in spite, a dwarfish man.
“Go, boaster, seize the shining prize!
“But know, who wins that falchion, dies!
“Sage Dualin wrought the precious blade,
“Its edge on charmed anvil laid;
“And, as each stroke portentous rung,
“The magic strain old Durin sung,
“And Thorin and Nyrader wise
“Swell'd the fell chorus to the skies.
“They placed it in yon iron hand,
“And whisper'd low their dread command:
“No arm that ever shook with fear
“Shall wrest it from that grasp severe;
“And if by valor's dauntless son
“The fatal sword should e'er be won,
“For him the tomb will early yawn,
“And grief obscure hope's flattering dawn.”
The Pigmy ceased, and on his brow
Triumphant malice seem'd to glow;
But prouder wax'd the youth's desire,
And thus he wing'd his words of fire.

72

“To others preach of death and sorrow!
“I heed not what may fall to-morrow!
“Glory and bright renown be mine,
“And let my deeds, while living, shine!
“O! why should man, whose hours must tend
“To death, their necessary end,
“Unknown in torpid ease remain,
“And feed life's feeble flame in vain!
“Nor rather strive by worth to share
“High valor's guerdon great and rare!
“To gleam, like some famed meteor's blaze,
“The theme of wonder and of praise,
“Long chronicled in after times,
“And sung by bards in distant climes!”
He said, and with undaunted breast
To the high trial swiftly press'd:
And (for he knew that Pigmy spite
Forged many a snare with cunning sleight,
And wisely deem'd that iron hand
Might wield with power the charmed brand)
He raised his buckler for defence,
And, as 'gainst living strength and sense,
Strode to the combat; closing then,
That falchion, bane of stoutest men,
By its rich-studded hilt he seized,
And the cold iron fingers squeezed.
He pull'd, and stoop'd, and writhing strove
By strength that sturdy grasp to move;
And every nerve and sinew strain'd,
Till force at length the weapon gain'd.
Then back the hand of iron sprang,
And through the vault loud echoes rang;

73

For it had struck with might the shield
Which in its left that statue held:
And, sudden as the blow, were all
The lights extinguish'd in the hall;
And through the gloom no twinkling show'd,
Save where the distant furnace glow'd.
To gain the narrow winding cave,
The path which ready entrance gave,
Recover'd from his first surprise,
His treasure won, the warrior tries.
Easy the way for mortal wight
To plunge into those vaults of night,
But hard again from such abyss
To reach the realms of light and bliss.
The youth long labor'd to explore
In each dark nook the hidden door,
And every crevice vainly tried
In the huge cavern's massive side.
When sudden on his listening ear
Swell'd the sweet notes of music near.
He knew the same soft-warbled sound,
Which he had heard from under ground.
He spoke, but no response was given,
Save echoes through the long vault driven.
The voice melodious seem'd to fly,
And each soft note in distance die.
But, hoping thus with eager mind
Some issue from the gloom to find,

There were two descriptions of Elves or Alfar in the northern mythology: the radiant Elves, who were secondary divinities, and dwelt upon the earth, in Alfheim; and the dark Elves who dwelt under ground.


Through many a winding cavern he
Follow'd the floating symphony,
Till beams of sparkling light appear'd,
And plain the warbling voice was heard.

74

“Proud warrior, thou shalt dwell to-night
“With the fair queen of the Elves of light;
“My voice shall guide thee to the bower
“Where thou shalt spend the pleasant hour.
“A thousand Elves of swarthy hue
“In vain the wonderous virgin woo.
“O she is fair as diamond's ray,
“Pure as the hallow'd fount of day,
“Untouch'd as brilliant gems that lie
“Deep hid in earth from human eye!
“Then hie thee, hie thee, youth, to share
“Joy's best delights, love's daintiest fare!
“Think of fierce wars and strife hereafter,
“Here is sweet bliss, and mirth, and laughter!”
Well might the warrior marvel, while
The melting notes his ears beguile;
For issuing from that darksome place
As now he stood, an ample space
Show'd like a garden passing fair,
Though nurtured in that nether air.
The vaulted roof, all smooth and even,
Seem'd like a blue and cloudless heaven,
With that pure gem's translucence framed,
Which from the ocean's wave is named.
There, quaintly work'd of jewels rare
By nicest art and subtle care,
Thousand odorous shrubs disclose
Their mimic charms in varied rows;
Their branches deck'd with foliage sheen,
Their opening buds of glossy green,
And flowers of every brilliant hue
Sparkling as with the morning dew.

75

There hanging from the wanton vine
The amethystine bunches shine;
The plum with bloom untouch'd and new
There counterfeits the living hue;
And many a fruit of southern clime,
The orange bright, the yellow lime;
The citron weeping from its weight,
The shaddock huge, and golden date.
Beneath a wanton emerald bower,
Cluster'd with pendant fruit and flower,
A gorgeous couch was seen; the bed
With furs and silken tissue spread.
There in soft luxury reclined
The fairest of the elfin kind.
Stretch'd on the precious mantle warm
Unconscious lay her beauteous form
In gentlest slumber, and the eye
Might all her loveliness descry.
The moist red lips, on which the smile
Ready to kindle slept, the while
Soft beaming; and the polish'd brow
Hiding its pure and living snow
Beneath the parting locks, that stray'd
Down her smooth neck, or curling play'd
O'er the white shoulder, and below,
Where the soft bosom's beauties glow;
The tiny hands, the graceful arms,
That loosely rest on snowy charms,
Half seen, half veil'd by flowing vest;
The feet, by no bright sandal press'd;
Her beaming eyes alone conceal'd
Seem'd in deep slumber sweetly seal'd.

76

Say, gallants, ye who warm in youth
To your loved mistress boast of truth,
Did e'er such peril prove your faith,
And scaped ye without harm or scath?
Say, did Hialmar's wondering thought
Swell high with inward rapture fraught?
Did the blood mantle o'er his cheek?
Did to his soul strong passion speak?
Or stray'd his thoughts from that strange scene
To Sigtune's fir-trees evergreen,
Where deck'd with every tendril sweet
That dares the northern blast to meet,
With every freshest bud that blows,
His Helga's virgin bower arose?
He shrunk with half-averted eye;
He moved, he turn'd as if to fly;
(But the dank passage black as night
Frown'd dismal on his aching sight,)
Then cast his hurried glance around,
While the nymph started at the sound.
As the shy cushat on her nest
Beneath the embowering shade at rest,
If truant steps intrusive shake
The umbrageous boughs or rustling brake,
Spreads her swift pinion to the breeze,
And starts from the soft lap of ease:
So, beaming loveliness, the fair
Springs from her sleep with timid air,
And blushing like the new-blown rose
A silken mantle round her throws.
Then with a voice so sweet and clear.
It came like music on the ear:

77

“Fool that I was, to trust the charm
“That saved me long from fear and harm!
“While yon portentous sword remain'd
“In the firm iron grasp constrain'd,
“To this my chaste and secret bower,
“Where safe I spent the careless hour,
“Nor man nor gods could entrance gain,
“And force and cunning still were vain;
“And I had vow'd to be the bride
“Of him alone, whose daring pride
“Should wrest the spell-defended brand
“From that huge statue's charmed hand.
“Art thou the bravest of the brave?
“Or, say, did guile obtain the glaive?”
To her the warrior with a smile:
“Hialmar nothing wins by guile,
“Nor came I, led by brutish sense,
“To spurn the rights of innocence,
“Rifling with rude unhallow'd arms
“Defenceless beauty's secret charms.
“O, thou art more than heavenly fair!
“No mortal can with thee compare!
“The whole of man's short life would be
“Ill worth one rapturous hour with thee!
“But me, constrain'd by holiest bands,
“High vows recall to distant lands;
“Glory, the deathless crown of worth,
“And love, the warrior's meed on earth.”
He said; on one white arm reclined
The loveliest, fairest of her kind.
Her pensive look, demure and coy,
Seem'd to suppress the beam of joy,

78

While o'er her face a languid smile
Play'd gently, fraught with subtle guile;
And something like reproach was seen
In her mild look and glance serene;
Fond amorous fears, love's melting ray,
Aud sweet assent, and faint delay.
The while soft perfumes seem'd to breathe
From every shrub and flowery wreath;
Aërial music's mellow sound
With tenderest warblings floated round;
And seem'd all nature to conspire
Weaving the web of sweet desire.
By viewless forms the youth was led
Tow'rds that fair nymph's voluptuous bed.
Invisible guidance, gentle force,
That left the will without resource!
His mail was loosed by Elfin hands,
Unknit his armour's iron bands,
And some light finger strove in vain
From his tough grasp the sword to gain.
That instant waked to sense of shame
Sprang back the chief with eyes of flame,
Starting from that insidious spell
Which softly on his senses fell,
And swift on his unearthly foes
Pour'd the bright weapon's deadly blows.
Sudden strange cries assail his ear,
And shrieks of anguish and of fear;
Vanish'd the wanton fairy bower,
Each precious wreath and sparkling flower;
And, all the bright illusion fled,
He views nor nymph, nor gorgeous bed,

79

But skulking at the cavern's door
That spiteful dwarf who spoke before.
There, scaped from ill, the joyful youth
At the cave's dark and narrow mouth,
Stands in the wild and deep ravine
Those high romantic hills between.
Full well he knew the visage wan,
And at the treacherous dwarfish man,
Wing'd with swift vengeance, aim'd a blow
That might have laid a giant low;
But ne'er by vengeance overta'en
Through mortal force was Pigmy slain.
The trenchant metal cleaves the stone,
And the proud warrior stands alone.
END OF CANTO IV.

80

CANTO V.

'Twere sweet to lie on desert land,
Or where some lone and barren strand
Hears the Pacific waters roll,
And views the stars of Southern pole!
'Twere best to live where forests spread
Beyond fell man's deceitful tread,
Where hills on hills proud rising tower,
And native groves each wild embower,
Whose rocks but echo to the howl
Of wandering beast or clang of fowl!
The eagle there may strike and slay;
The tiger spring upon his prey;
The kayman watch in sedgy pool
The tribes that glide through waters cool;
The tender nestlings of the brake
May feed the slily coiling snake:
And the small worm or insect weak
May quiver in the warbler's beak:
All there at least their foes discern,
And each his prey may seize in turn.
But man, when passions fire the soul,
And reason stoops to love's control,
Deceitful deals the murderous blow
Alike on trustiest friend or foe:
And oft the venom'd hand of hate
Points not the bitterest shaft of fate:

81

But faithless friendship's secret fang
Tears the fond heart with keener pang,
And love demented weaves a spell
More dreadful than the pains of Hell.
From the red fields of distant fray
Fierce Orvarod homeward bent his way;
Fierce Orvarod, flush'd with glory's tide,
Sweden's strong bulwark and her pride.
E'en as he reach'd the frontier bound,
And set his foot to Swedish ground,
His ear had caught the rumor rife
Of outrage past and coming strife.
His men some smoother path might read;
He through the forest prick'd his steed,
Resolved with speedy arm to lend
Meet succour to his fere and friend.
Behind his brawny shoulders flung
The rattling bow and quiver hung;
Sure marksman he; the whizzing breath
Of every shaft was wing'd with death.
His face was gallant, open, free;
His heart was blithe, and bold his glee,
But nothing courteous: his delight
Death's iron field and bloodiest fight;
His was the soul of martial fire,
And thirst of fame his sole desire:
In honor firm, in friendship true,
His generous heart no hatred knew;
Though proud to strike, as proud to show
Fair mercy to the vanquish'd foe.
Women he scorn'd, and deem'd them toys
To charm the sense with transient joys,

82

To valor's worth a paltry boon,
Easy to win, forsaken soon;
And faithful love he call'd the dream
Of tender fools, an idle theme:
Shortlived he held the lover's pain,
And every fair one light and vain.
With gallant bearing now in haste
He trod the rough and trackless waste.
His cheek was flush'd with ruddy hue,
His crest was wet with morning dew,
As deck'd with foreign spoils he hied
To Sweden's court in warlike pride.
Sudden the loud applauding cries,
“Orvarod! Orvarod!” shook the skies;
And grateful to king Ingva's ear
Came the glad murmurs rising near;
For heaviest cares his heart oppress'd,
And deep the troubles of his breast.
Foremost in strength and beauty's pride
Stands Asbiorn by his comrade's side,
Hails his return to Swedish land,
And greets him with a brother's hand.
To balmy health at length restored,
Again the youth had girt his sword;
But, O! too late in Helga's cause
The flaming weapon now he draws.
Hialmar claims the high emprise,
And his by right the promised prize.
What conflict tears young Asbiorn's heart!
How act the friend's and lover's part!
Bound to Hialmar's warlike fate
By all that makes man good and great,

83

By generous friendship's holiest ties,
By that pure bond which never dies!
Say, shall the tyrant Love prevail,
And honor's voice and virtue fail?
Or sober reason's just control
Calm the hot passion of the soul?
By turns to either part inclined
Swells the strong tide of Asbiorn's mind:
Restless, at length the court he seeks,
And thus the fiery warrior speaks.
“Say, Prince, are Helga's matchless charms
“A boon too bright for Asbiorn's arms?
“Or does proud Sweden's haughty throne
“The service of those arms disown?
“Have not my banners floated wide
“To guard her coasts on either tide?
“Have I not roused from eyrie high
“The watchful eagle's ravening cry,
“And hewn in fight the gory food
“For Finnish wolves, a famish'd brood?
“Whatever deeds Hialmar dared,
“Asbiorn's firm breast the peril shared.
“He gains alone reward on earth,
“He reaps the harvest of his worth;
“While I, thus wedded to despair,
“The barren yoke of glory bear.
“Where bends he now his heedless way?
“Where does the loitering wanderer stray?
“Already fierce Angantyr's hand

I have used the name of Gete for the aboriginal inhabitants of the North before the irruption of Odin and his followers. They were men of larger stature than the Asiatic tribes which accompanied him, and were called Jotner and Jæter. Without entering into the question whether the Getæ were of the same race with the northern Jotuns or Jæts, the similarity of the name appears to warrant its application.


“Wields the stout mace and waves the brand:
“O grant that Asbiorn may sustain
“The shock of that insulting Daue!

84

“Return'd, by deeds of prowess tried,
“Which best deserves let worth decide!
“Whether in feats of strength and skill
“Mid peaceful vales and sylvan hill,
“Or whether thou shalt bid to meet
“Midst cavern'd rocks the giant Gete,
“Or fiery-tressed Celts that brave
“On beaked prow the northern wave.
“Then, if my faltering bosom quail,
“Let bold Hialmar's claim prevail!”
To him King Ingva firm replied:
“Thy worth, high chief, has long been tried;
“Nor lives there in the rolls of fame
“A fairer or a brighter name.
“But, though approved in hour of need
“Thy might deserves our richest meed,
“The word of Kings once duly given
“Is sacred as the voice of heaven.
“In him, whate'er his steps detain,
“We trust; nor shall that trust be vain.
“We charge thee by our high command
“Here to abide and ward our land,
“'Gainst foreign inroad, and the blow
“Of sudden unsuspected foe.
“With him shall Orvarod hoist his sail,

The inhabitants of the North had much communication with the South of Europe. Gardarike, or Garda kingdom, was a part of Russia which is very frequently mentioned in the northern writings. Austurvega is the old Scandinavian name for another portion of Russia It appears that Odin and his successors kept up a communication with the Asi, from whom they were descended, on the banks of the Tanais. Harald the Hardy, who was king of Norway, at a later period, after dwelling some time at the court of Jarisleif, king of Gardarike, proceeded to Constantinople, where he served with reputation in the imperial army, and carried his victorious arms into Sicily. But at a much earlier period the northern nations had much intercourse with Italy. Gudruna, the beautiful widow of Sigurd Sigmundson, who is so celebrated in the ancient northern writings and was murdered at the instigation of Brynhilda, was afterwards married to Attila, king of the Huns; and Thidrek or Theodoric, duke of Verona or Bern, Rodingeir, margrave of Bakalar, probably Basle, on the Rhine, and Rodgeir, earl of Salernum, are very much celebrated in Niflunga Saga, which relates the history of Sigurd and Brynhilda, the subsequent marriage of Gudruna with Attila, and the slaughter of her brothers who were killed by her perfidy at the court of Attila to gratify her revenge for the part they had borne in the murder of Sigurd. Concerning the identity of Sigurd and Attila, and the connexion between old Danish history and that of the Huns, the reader is referred to “Attila and his predecessors.”


“And Heaven forefend their arms should fail!”
He ceased; proud Asbiorn knit his brow,
Nor deign'd before his prince to bow:
But Orvarod laugh'd and mock'd his pain,
And bade him to the waves complain,
Sing some lone ditty on the strand,
Or woo a bride from foreign land;

85

Told him of many a melting fair
In soft Sicilia's southern air,
And many a nymph with sparkling eyes
Where Gardariké's mountains rise,
And amorous dames and willing maids
In distant Asia's spicy shades.
In vain; he turns with lowering eye;
He hears not, deigns not to reply:
But forth with folded arms he goes
A man of wrath and sullen woes;
His heart, no longer light and gay,
Owns a dread Power's imperious sway;
Wild jealous thoughts and fierce desires
Prevail, and love's resistless fires.
His was a wayward soul, design'd
Extremes of mirth and grief to find.
When flattering pleasure buoy'd his mind,
And beauty smiled, and love was kind,
No lark so blithe that sings in air
While suns are bright and skies are fair;
But, cross'd by fate in luckless hour,
More dark than blackest storms that lower.
In love impetuous and hot,
High swell'd the pang, but soon forgot.
Ardent in friendship, but too light
To hold the reins of honor tight.
Whate'er of vice obscured his mind,
Was passion's gust, not guilt design'd;
But, as he moved in honor's ray,
High pride, not virtue, led the way.
Still he had trod the paths of fame,
Panting to earn a deathless name;

86

While keen ambition fired his soul,
Romantic thoughts without control,
The flame of unrestrain'd desire,
Quick-kindled wrath and baleful ire.
His shape was symmetry and grace,
And finely form'd his manly face.
His eye was fire itself, so glowing,
So on each feature life bestowing;
There was a frankness in its beam,
Which, ere it ask'd, had gain'd esteem;
And in his lip's love-lighted smile
All charms that can a maid beguile.
Alas! that passion's cloud should e'er
Obscure a form so nobly fair!
His limbs were nimbler than the fawn,
That bounds o'er brake and level lawn;
And even from his childish days
Mid rural sports he won the praise.
His strength had oft in fight been tried,
His valor with the bravest vied;
In field of strife or peaceful dell,
Might youthful Asbiorn all excel;
Boldest to stem the battle's tide;
Swiftest through perilous pass to ride;
Blithest with maiden fair to carp;
And, when it list him strike the harp,
There was a wildness in his lay
That almost witch'd the sense away;
For he had learnt each peaceful art,
That charms the ear or sways the heart,
And often, stretch'd beneath the bower
Of shadowy woods in sultry hour,

87

He sweetly waked the mellow horn,
Or caroll'd like a bird of morn.
And bold his song; though Helga's form
Alike must every bosom warm,
He, only he, had pour'd the strain
Of rapturous love, and dared complain:
His fancy roved through dreams of bliss,
And boldly call'd that treasure his.
And oft his youth's unruly tide
Had ruffled Ingva's stately pride;
But still he bore a witching charm
That saved him from disgrace and harm.
Now o'er his proud desponding soul
Stern anger reign'd, and hopeless dole.
How shall he calm the pang of love,
Whose turbid thoughts resistless move?
How shall impetuous passion's child
Now check the stream of wishes wild?
With downcast brow, and face of wo
Sullen and fierce behold him go!
O how unlike that sprightly boy,
Whose eyes were mirth, whose looks were joy!
To that deep woodland lies his road,
Of mournful thoughts the dark abode,
Where oft he whiled the hours away,
Warbling some strange romantic lay,
Of castles storm'd by torches' light,
Of maidens rapt on bridal night,
Of frantic tears and wild delight.
O shall yon forest's silent gloom
Calm his harsh mind and soothe his doom?
Or is its lonely still retreat
Fitting dread thoughts and dark deceit?

88

Hear'st thou a voice cry, “Asbiorn, stay!
“Danger besets thy moody way!”
Stay, Asbiorn, stay! nor tread the path
To yon thick shades, while big with wrath!
Where in deep nook or rocky cell
Foul powers and tempting spirits dwell:
For innocence is bliss below,
Fair virtue's shield, the balm of wo.
Who wanders there with gentle mind
Will nought but soothing fancies find,
Sweet dales by peaceful shades imbrown'd,
And glens with tangled coppice crown'd;
But seek not thou the shadowy bower
While anger reigns and fiends have power!
Sell not for pleasure's transient joy
Pure sweets which Guilt's foul hands destroy,
The gem of youth, the untouch'd bloom
Of life, exhaling fresh perfume!
Ah me! he wists not where to turn;
Haughty and high his passions burn.
Unseen he seeks yon hoary tower;
He roams by Helga's mournful bower;
Mid the deep forest's lonely gloom
Where sad she sits and plies the loom,
Weaving with many a golden thread
The stories of the honor'd dead.
And now she lifts her pallid cheek,
Gazing with visage mild and meek.
She speaks not, but her languid eye
Seems wrapt in thoughtful ecstacy,
While in her heart love still supreme
Reigns like a visionary dream.

89

Its shadowy colors deep impress'd
Tinge each wild fancy of her breast;
She thinks her faith was pledged in heaven,
She deems her hand in marriage given;
But pledged to whom, or how, or where,
Weak reason may not well declare.
The images of past delight
Have fleeted from her troubled sight,
And left no perfect form behind
On the dim mirror of the mind:
But anguish for her absent lord
Breathes in each desultory word.
She thinks the spirits of the wold
Him in fell durance fiercely hold,
His beauteous limbs by torture strain'd
On cold obdurate granite chain'd,
Or scorch'd by subterraneous fire
That gleams through caverns dark and dire.
Her fancy hears his spirit wail,
His moan upon the dying gale;
But still she deems some friendly power
Will loose his chains in happier hour,
And lead the warrior's manly charms
To his lone bride's expecting arms:
On future bliss her hopes rely,
And a smile lights the mourner's eye.
The maid her father's court had left
To linger here of joy bereft,
Lonely and strange, and feed her mind
With phantasies of saddest kind.
The king, in pity for her grief
To give her secret wo relief,

90

Had warn'd that no intrusive eye
Should steal upon her privacy.
Here oft the lovely mourner staid
Till the deep close of evening shade;
Here oft in solitary bower
Wasted the tedious nightly hour.
And now her parting lips unclose,
Warbling the tale of fancied woes;
While the dark frowning rocks around
Pour the wild echo's plaintive sound.
The sweet and melancholy strain
Steals slowly over hill and plain;
It mourns upon the passing gale,
It winds along the narrow vale,
And now it strikes the listening ear
Of Asbiorn rashly stealing near.
“Beturn, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!
“For thee reserved the tender kiss,
“The melting pledge of promised bliss!
“For thee my willing hands entwine
“The blushing rose and chaste woodbine,
“The violet and primrose pale,
“The modest lily of the vale!
“Wild flowers around my bower are growing,
“And strains of sweetest music flowing;
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!
“O place me by some rippling stream,
“Where I may softly sleep and dream!
“And let my airy harp be laid
“Under the willow's mournful shade;

91

“That every breeze which summer brings,
“Sweeping its sweet accordant strings,

The word Elf has been generally applied in the English language to malicious spirits; but the Elves or Alfar of the North were of two sorts, the dark Elves, who dwelt under ground, and the Liosalfar, or radiant Elves, who were benevolent beings, and looked upon as secondary divinities, in amity with Odin and his followers.


“May some wild strain of music borrow,
“And waft the tenderest notes of sorrow:
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!
“Cold is the bed where Helga lies,
“And chaste and true thine Helga dies.
“On her pale cheek the dews descend,
“And cypress boughs around her bend;
“The weeping Elves shall strew her grave
“Beside the slowly gliding wave.
“Then, ere beneath the mournful willow
“The damp earth be thine Helga's pillow,
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!”
Young Asbiorn paused; and, as his ear
Drank the sweet strain that floated clear
On Eve's calm wing, his pensive eye
Seem'd lit by sudden witchery:
While love, imperious, unrestrain'd,
In his hot pulse and sinews reign'd,
And something fiercer than despair
To hear his friend her only care,
And that joy-kindling voice, that bade
His rival to her lonely shade.
The warrior from his steed has bounded;
Beneath his tread the steps have sounded;
And he has reach'd the yirgin bower
Of that sad maid in luckless hour;
And soon he placed him by her side,
And named her as his wedded bride,

92

And whisper'd much of faith and truth,
Of promised joys and meeting youth.
To momentary bliss betray'd,
She smiled, and wept, and doubtful pray'd,
Then glanced her wild enquiring eye,
And her breast heaved a piteous sigh;
A mist before her sight was spread,
And the faint sparks of reason fled.
The gazing look could not discern,
Nor the bewilder'd memory learn,
Whether in truth her honor'd lord
Return'd to claim her plighted word,
Or whether warrior strange and rude,
Breathing deceit, had dared intrude.
Her mantling blushes kindled bright,
And straight her cheek was wan and white.
She stirr'd not, but her hurried glance
Show'd life was in the speechless trance;
Then with a shriek, that seem'd to break
Life's tenement so frail and weak,
She, starting wildly from her seat,
Fell senseless at the warrior's feet.
If there are kindred spirits sent
By Heaven upon man's welfare bent,
With him his mortal race to run,
Their web of fate together spun;
If there are guardian powers on earth
That tend the helpless infant's birth,
And close beside him tread unseen
Through life's dark ways and varied scene,
To guide aright his erring will,
And wrestle with the powers of ill;

93

O, some pure form its arm extend,
And o'er the form of Helga bend!
The chaste disorder'd robe compose,
Whose ruffled folds her charms disclose!
Nor let unhallow'd thoughts assail
The beauties hid by modest veil!
Fame saith not whether Helga lay
In speechless trance till morning's ray;
For twilight's gloom was gathering fast,
The day's last beam was quickly past,
And the dark mantle of the night
Closed on the warrior's rapturous sight:
But the sun lit the forest tall
Long ere he reach'd King Ingva's hall.
END OF CANTO V.

94

CANTO VI.

Yestrene the mountain's rugged brow
Was mantled o'er with dreary snow;
The sun sat red behind the hill,
And every breath of wind was still:
But, ere he rose, the southern blast
A veil o'er heaven's blue arch had cast;
Thick roll'd the clouds, and genial rain
Pour'd the wide deluge o'er the plain.
Fair glens and verdant vales appear,
And warmth awakes the budding year.
O 'tis the touch of fairy hand
That wakes the spring of northern land!

The note of the snipe in the spring, when the breeding season approaches, is very different from his call in other seasons of the year. As soon as the mild weather of spring appears, he begins to rise high on the wing, crying, peet, peet, peet, and continues to sport in the air for many hours at a time, letting himself fall obliquely, or dive through the air from a great height as if he were about to alight; but suddenly stops his descent, and rises again to the same elevation. During the descent he makes no motion of the pinions, but by a singular contraction of the muscles, each individual quill of the wing is turned sideways, so as to meet the air and obstruct his descent, and the wind whistles in a most remarkable manner through the feathers, making a noise like the prolonged repetition of the letters dr. This noise has been called the snipe's drumming, with reference to the letters dr, though the noise has not the least resemblance to that of a drum.


It warms not there by slow degrees,
With changeful pulse, the uncertain breeze;
But sudden on the wondering sight
Bursts forth the beam of living light,
And instant verdure springs around,
And magic flowers bedeck the ground.
Return'd from regions far away
The red-wing'd throstle pours his lay;
The soaring snipe salutes the spring,
While the breeze whistles through his wing;
And, as he hails the melting snows,
The heathcock claps his wings and crows.
Bright shines the sun on Sigtune's towers,
And Spring leads on the fragrant hours.
The ice is loosed, and prosperous gales
Already fill the strutting sails.

95

Young Asbiorn looks to East and West,
His heart with anxious cares opprest:
He looks to spy if far or near
Hialmar's towering crest appear;
But still, as day succeeds to day,
He lingers on his distant way,
While Rumor shapes a thousand tales,
And each vague fame in turn prevails.
Wearied and vex'd, old Ingva brooks
Impatient Asbiorn's ireful looks,
The bold reproach, the fitful fire
Of young and passionate desire,
The proud request repeated still,
The challenge, and the threat of ill.
Nor Orvarod likes his friend's delay;
He pants to join the arduous fray;
And tow'rds the neighbouring port he hies,
Where moor'd the well-rigg'd vessel lies.
Advancing straight with hasty stride
He views a gallant warrior's pride;
Hialmar's princely port he knows,
And crest, the dread of Sweden's foes.
High towers his helm, and from his hand
Gleams far the wonderous elfish brand,
As swift he speeds tow'rds Sigtune's tower;
One sweet farewell in Helga's bower
He seeks, nor heeds the fleeting hour.
But Orvarod sternly chides his friend:
“Love must,” he cries, “to honor bend.
“Long has the zephyr fill'd our sails,
“The mariner greets the favoring gales.
“E'en now on Samsoe's dreary coast
“Angantyr and his savage host

96

“Insulting mock our long delay,
“And wanton in the eye of day.
“Thou strive a love-sick maid to please!
“Waste thy soft hours in silken ease!
“Go, change for pleasure's rosy crown
“Life's worth, the palm of fair renown!
“I stem the seas; where honor calls
“Undaunted Orvarod wins or falls.
“Fair deeds be mine, and deathless praise,
“And victory's never-fading bays!”
Most scornfully the hero spoke
Rough words, which painful thoughts awoke.
On young Hialmar's haughty brow
A frown like anger seem'd to grow,
Or pride, that struggled high with shame,
And conscious thoughts not free from blame.
'Tis passing hard for lovers true
To part without one sweet adieu!
To part, perchance to meet no more,
And distant lands and seas explore,
Nor bless again the longing sight
With the heart's fancy and delight!
One instant glance, one lingering kiss
Seems then worth years of future bliss;
One tender pledge mid fond tears given
Dearer than all the hopes of heaven.
High conflict rent the chieftain's heart,

Agnafit the present site of Stockholm.


From all he prized unseen to part;
But Honor calls, imperious name,
The crown of life, the warrior's fame.
One thought he murmur'd, and no more,
“Orvarod, thou wrong'st me!” to the shore

97

Then turn'd his dark expressive eye,
And onward moved right mournfully.
They came to where the surges beat
O'er the rude rocks of Agnafit,
And soon the ready keel unlash,
'Gainst which the swelling waters dash;
The sails are full; they cleave the spray,
And o'er the billows win their way;
Nor long their course: where Samsoe's isle
Rears its dark form, a dreary pile,
Their anchor bites the yellow sand;
The heroes spring upon the strand.
They gaze around; within the bay
A Danish bark at moorings lay,
Behind a jutting rock half hid

Thirteen of the Valkyriur or Maids of slaughter are enumerated in Grimnismál; but others are named in the Edda and in Haconarmál. I have never seen their exact number stated. In Völospá only six are named, and those appear to have been the most distinguished.

Sa hun Valkyriur vytt um komnar,
Giörvar at ryda til Godthiödar;
Skuld hielt Skylldi, enn Skögul onnur,
Gunnr, Hilldr, Göndul, or Geirskögul.
Nu ero taldar nönnor Herians,
Giörvar at ryda grund Valkyriur.

i e.

“She saw the Valkyriur come from afar,
Appointed to ride to the chosen people of Odin:
Skuld held her shield, and Skogul second,
Gunnr, Hilldr, Gondul, and Geirskogul:
Now are enumerated the maids of the God of war,
The Valkyriur appointed to ride over the field of battle.”

It was their province to choose out those who were to fall in battle, to bear the invitation of Odin to the most distinguished, and to pour out the beverage of the gods, ale or mead, for the souls of the heroes in Valhall.


Which loud the frothy waters chid;
And boldly swelling from the shore
Stretch'd wide around a barren moor.
They climb the toilsome height, to view
The vessel and her gallant crew.
I ween they had not paced a rood,
When close beside Hialmar stood,
On steeds that seem'd as fleet as light,
Six maids in complete armour dight.
Their chargers of ethereal birth
Paw'd with impatient hoof the earth,
And snorting fiercely 'gan to neigh,
As if they heard the battle bray,
And burn'd to join the bloody fray.
But they unmoved and silent sate,
With pensive brow and look sedate;

98

Proudly each couch'd her glittering spear,
And seem'd to know nor hope, nor fear:
So mildly firm their placid air,
So resolute, yet heavenly fair.
But not one ray of pity's beam
From their dark eyelids seem'd to gleam;
Nor gentle mercy's melting tear,
Nor love might ever harbour here:
Was never beauteous woman's face
So stern and yet so passionless!
They spake not, but in proud array
Moved onward, and a glorious ray
From their dark lashes as they pass'd
Full on Hialmar's face they cast.
Then wheeling round in gorgeous pride
They paused, and thus the foremost cried.
“Praise to the slain on battle plain!
“Glory to Odin's deathless train!
“They shall not sink in worthless ease
“Wasted by age or fell disease.
“In the bright chambers of the brave
“Gladly they wield the conquering glaive,
“Quaff the rich draught of gods, and hear
“The applauding thunders rolling near.
“Haste, Odin, haste! the bowl prepare!
“Man shall the glittering beverage share!
“Thy messengers of fate prevail!
“Hail to thy guest, high Odin, hail!”
She said; and spurring each her steed
O'er the dark moor they quickly speed.
Hialmar heard the fatal call,
Foredoom'd, alas! in youth to fall;

99

And mark'd with sad presaging eye
The visionary warriors fly.
They seem'd not as they pass'd to fling
The dewdrop from the humble ling;
The heathcock sprang not from his seat,
Nor bow'd the grass beneath their feet.
Bold Orvarod heard, though fast behind,
No voice save of the sighing wind;
Nor living form could he discorn,
Save the deer bounding from the fern.
Him with slow voice and grief repress'd
His mournful comrade thus address'd:
“Yestrene as on the poop we lay,
“I watch'd the sun's declining ray.
“In splendid form his glories shone,
“And all the welkin seem'd his own.
“Most radiant was the course he ran,
“Dimm'd by no cloud since morn began;
“And the smooth lap of ocean's tide
“Blushing received him, as a bride
“All-beauteous and serenely fair,
“With glowing cheek and golden hair.
“I saw, and hoped like him to rest
“With glory crown'd on beauty's breast;
“I hail'd the omen bright and dear,

Gondul was one of the Valkyriur. She is mentioned in Haconarmál, where she warns king Haco of his approaching death. Valkyriur or Valkyrior is the plural. Valkyrie is the singular, derived from Valr, the slain, and ec kiöri, I choose or select.


“And thought the hour of rapture near.
“But heaven forbids; these longing eyes
“Must never more behold the prize,
“Which my heart pants for! on the shore,
“Where the wild Baltic billows roar,
“Hopeless of love's delightful meed,
“Orvarod, thy friend must fall and bleed!

100

“Yet not Angantyr's force I fear,
“But Gondula's immortal spear.
“I see the stern Valkyriur nigh
“All arm'd, and pointing to the sky:
“Virgins of fate, that choose the slain,
“They bid me hence to Odin's train.”
Fierce Orvarod smiled with scornful mind,
To his friend's feelings little kind;
Deem'd him unnerved by woman's love,
And roughly 'gan his words reprove.
“Curse on the dimpled cheek,” he cried,
“That half unmans my comrade's pride!
“Not Odin's maid shall bow thy crest.
“But the soft woman in thy breast.
“Behold yon orb, whose setting beam
“Soothed thy fond bosom's wayward dream!
“See his bright steeds with equal pace
“Pursue their never-tiring race!
“They waste not in the morning's bower
“Mid dewy wreaths the fragrant hour;
“But ever at the call of day
“Spring forth and win their glittering way:
“Though storms assail their radiant heads,
“Eternal splendour round them spreads;
“Onward the wheels of glory roll;
“They pant, and struggle to the goal.
“And thou, like them, my fere, pursue
“Thy course to fame and honor true.

The occupation of the souls of heroes in the hall of Odin is set forth in the old poem Vafthrudnismál.

Allir einheriarOc rída vígi frá;
Odins tunomAul med A'som drecka,
Hauggvas hveriann dag;Oc sediaz Særhimni;
Val their kiósa,Sitia meirr um sáttir saman.

i. e. “All the heroes at the court of Odin fight every day. They choose the slain, and ride from the battle; drink ale with the gods, and eat the flesh of the boar. They sit most amicably together.” In the Edda, it is said, that every morning as soon as they are apparelled, they go out into the court and fight with each other till the close of the day, when they return to Valhall to drink beer or mead.


“All hopes beside are little worth,
“Man walks in sorrow from his birth;
“The fleeting charms that round him move
“Are vain, and chief frail woman's love.

101

“Fate comes at last, and then the brave
“To glory spring beyond the grave;
“With Odin quaff the godlike bowl,
“While round their feet the thunders roll,
“And in bright fields of azure light
“Each day renew the blissful fight,
“And joyous with immortal hand
“Thrust the strong lance and wave the brand.”
Scarce had he spoke, when on the shore
They heard the Danish champions roar,
Wielding their clubs, and with fierce glee
Already brawling victory.
Resistless, rushing fierce, they came,
Like those huge elks of mighty frame,
That oft by Ifa's echoing flood,
Or hill-crown'd Bergen's tangled wood,
Wake the wild echoes with their cry,
And through the crashing forest hie:
Foremost Angantyr rush'd, to view
More dire than all that savage crew.
He seem'd some angel of dismay
Scattering dread terror on his way,
Some flaming minister of wrath
With vengeful power the world to scath.
Bare was his breast, his forehead bare;
Nor habergeon of tissue rare,
Vantbrass, nor gauntlet there did shine,
Nor helm, nor trusty brigandine.
What need that wonderous son of might
His limbs with iron harness dight,
Whom native strength, gigantic power,
Might match with gods in deadly stour!

102

With placid eye and tranquil mien
Hialmar views the fearful scene,
Firm fix'd and dauntless to abide
The arm of strength, the brow of pride.
As one with self-devotion bent
Upon the fight's arbitrement
To peril fame, and, dearer far,
Love's joy that crowns fame earn'd in war,
And life, but valued for the meed
To glory and to love decreed;
Nor scornful, nor appall'd, his form
Radiant and fearless fronts the storm.
“Odin,” he cries, “I hear thy call!
“Hialmar's strength foreknows its fall;
“And each dear vision of delight
“Is fading from my hopeless sight;
“But yet, stern God, uphold my might!
“If I must draw my latest breath,
“Grant me but victory in death,
“And spare the virgin's gentle charms
“From the rude force of foreign arms!”
He spoke, and from its scabbard drew
His fairy brand of changeful hue.
Was never trenchant blade so bright;
It glitter'd like a beam of light.

The delight which an eagle shows in a storm of wind and rain is very remarkable, even when it is chained to a perch.


There was calm valor in his air,
And high resolve and proud despair;
The thought that looks beyond the tomb,
The firmness that provokes its doom.
Then kindled Orvarod's dark eye,
As it was wont when strife was nigh;
Like the gaunt eagle that surveys
With dauntless joy the lightning's blaze,

103

And, while the pitiless tempests beat
With wild uproar his rocky seat,
Flaps his strong wings with fierce delight,
And screaming hails the storms of night.
O, 'twas a gallant sight to see
Those proud twin stars of chivalry,
As down the steep they boldly move
'Gainst fearful odds their might to prove!
“My single arm in fight be tried
“With that fell chief!” (bold Orvarod cried)
“Thy falchion in this deadly strife
“May reave his brothers of their life.”
To him Hialmar proud replied,
“Angantyr was by me defied.
“He shall not bend to other hand,
“Nor bow his head to other brand.
“O where, or when in battle's hour,
“Orvarod, hast thou shown loftier power?
“Hast thou more firm in peril stood,
“Or died thy sword with nobler blood?
“Come the fierce champion, like the blast
“Of heaven with lowering storm o'ercast!
“Mine is the trial, mine the prize!
“Hialmar wins that hope, or dies!”
He cried, and with his valiant hand
Waved high in air his flaming brand,
Breathing defiance; at his look
The ruffian Dane with fury shook,
E'en as he mark'd the boastful word
Deep graven on the magic sword.
He paused not with bold speech to throw
A brave defiance at the foe,

104

But waxing fierce with scorn and hate
Strove by one blow to close his fate,
And headlong at Hialmar's face
Wielded amain his ponderous mace.
The rock that breasts the thundering main
Might ill such furious shock sustain,
But swift as thought yon crest of pride
Shuns the dire blow and springs aside,
While the slant falchion deftly cleaves
The fearful weight its edge receives.
Hissing in air the fragment flies,
On earth the headlong champion lies:
His furious unresisted hand,
By weight o'erborne, has struck the sand.
O, say, did brave Hialmar's brand

Angrim was the father of Angantyr. He killed in single combat Svafurlami, the grandson of Odin, and took from him his famous sword Tirfing, which had been made by the dwarfs; and he carried off his daughter Eyfur or Eyvora, who became the mother of Angantyr and his brothers. The particulars are related in Hervarar Saga.


Glitter like lightning o'er his head?
Is the swift stroke of vengeance sped?
That arm ne'er smote a fallen foe!
Ne'er hath it dealt a coward blow!
Collected, mild, with radiant eyes,
He bids the impetuous champion rise,
Fix his firm foot to earth, and wait
With strength entire the stroke of fate.
Fiercer, thus foil'd, the giant straight
Bright Tirfing grasp'd, of mighty weight
Portentous weapon, which of yore
His sire from Odin's offspring tore;
What time, her valiant father slain,
He joy'd Eyvora's charms to gain,
Sad mother of that giant brood
Mid shrieks of slaughter fiercely woo'd.
Dark is the tempest of his brow,
His flashing eyes their hate avow,

105

While conscious fury nerves his might,
To madness roused with vengeful spite.
High o'er each head the falchions gleam,
From each keen blade the lightnings stream;
And dreadful was the strife which then
Began between the first of men!
But, as the brothers huge came nigh,
Sudden has Orvarod turn'd to fly.
To fly! O never in the field
Before that hour did Orvarod yield,
Nor ever did his heart appear
To know the withering breath of fear;
He has stood foremost in the blast
Of battle, when all hope seem'd past,
And turn'd the bloody tide of war
Wielding his dauntless scimitar:

The name Orvarodd signifies the point of an arrow, which suggested the probability of his making use of that weapon in the combat. In Hervarar Saga, he is said to have killed all the brothers of Angantyr successively, but not with the bow and arrow.


But now he flies! the savage crew,
Shouting with hideous joy pursue;
While striving singly on the strand
Angantyr and Hialmar stand.
Headlong they follow; but the Swede,
Nimbler, outstrips them all in speed;
And they with vague unequal pace,
Like baffled hounds, toil in the chase.
Sudden he turns, as if to view
With various speed the foe pursue.
His bow is bent, and from the string
Behold the unerring arrow spring!
Long twangs the cord! again! again!
Proud Semingar has bit the plain,
Barri and Hervardur are slain!
Another whizzing shaft is sped!
Reitner, it strikes thy towering head!

106

Ah! what avails thy peerless strength,
Thy matchless weapon's weight and length;
For, ere thy hand can deal the blow,
Thou fall'st before a flying foe:
Again it sounds; the feathered dart
Quivers in Brani's fearless heart.
Short is the race those warriors run;
They fall unpitied, one by one;
Writhing upon the barren moor
They lie in blood to rise no more,
Nor one of all that kindred train
Shall ever see their native plain.
But he, the conqueror, firm and slow
Treads backward mid the dying foe,
To view beside the surgy main
His fere the arduous strife maintain.
He seats him there in silent pride
By the blue ocean's swelling tide,
And sees each fierce alternate blow
Dealt furiously by either foe.
The champion strives, but wastes his might,
While maddening fury blinds his sight;
He smites, and dire the weapon's weight;
But his lithe foeman shuns his fate,
Watches that ponderous arm, and still
Scapes the death-stroke by nimbler skill;
And swift, where'er the giant turns,
In his gall'd flesh the falchion burns.
The champion bleeds apace, but still
Hialmar seems to fare as ill.
His casque is riven; o'er his brow,
Clotted with blood, the ringlets flow;

107

And on his breast a gory star
Bewrays the stroke of ruthless war.
Foredone with strife and faint, the twain
Weakly and ill the fight sustain.
But on the breathless verge of fate
Angantyr glow'd with shame and hate,
And, gathering all his strength and pride,
One last but fatal effort tried.
Both arms upraised, his ponderous brand
He wielded high with either hand;
The keen point smote Hialmar's crest,
Glanced from his helm, and gored his breast.
But, as Angantyr struck, the blood
Gush'd from his side with hastier flood,
And that proud effort seem'd to force
Life's current from its inmost source.
He reels, he staggers; on the shore
His length distended lies in gore,
Gigantic; like a stately mast
On the bleak coast by tempest cast,
Shatter'd in battle from the deck
Of some huge ship, a blood-stain'd wreck.
In Ledra's court the serfs shall hear
With joy the fate of him they fear,
Whose violent and wayward arm
To friend or foe work'd equal harm;
No tender maid shall mourn his fall
In secret bower or lordly hall,
Nor e'en Eyvora drop a tear
To grace her son's abhorred bier:
He lies unpitied, unrevered,
And cursed by whom who once was fear'd.

108

But that proud youth, in battle bless'd,
Who bow'd to dust the giant crest,
Say, does he lift the swelling sail,
And love's rich prize with rapture hail?
Does his high port and haughty eye
Proclaim the tale of victory?
Dim, dim the lights whence joy has flow'd,
Where Love has beam'd and valor glow'd!
How faintly throbs the pulse of pride!
How sinks yon arm with life's-blood died!
Those limbs his frame but ill sustain,
And all his flattering dreams are vain.
Behold him sink upon the strand,
His sword's point buried in the sand!
O'er his wan cheek a ghastly hue
Steals slowly, wet with death's cold dew.
Fix'd on his friend his glassy eye
Seeks one fond beam of sympathy;
And thus despairing, fraught with love,
His last sad accents feebly move.
“Orvarod, the arm of fate prevails;
“Hialmar's hope and glory fails.
“The day shall dawn on Sweden's hills,
“And gild with joy her sparkling rills;
“The wild flowers in her forests green
“Shall laugh amidst the genial scene;
“And blithe to hail the morning ray
“The birds ring out their vernal lay:
“But cold and stark thy friend shall lie,
“Nor hear their music warbling nigh,
“Nor raise to light the sparkling eye.
“Thou bear me to my native land,
“From dreary Samsoe's fatal strand;

109

“Place my cold limbs by Helga's side,
“My hope in life, in death my bride!
“For, O! that perfect form, mature
“With every grace that can allure,
“Shall wither in its prime, and fall
“When hapless love and duty call;
“And scarce shall live to shed a tear
“O'er young Hialmar's honor'd bier.
“Thou, Orvarod, bid our ashes rest
“In one cold mound, together blest;
“And let the Scalds their music raise
“To thy friend's peace and Helga's praise.”
He ceased; nor ceased the voice alone;
The pulse is still, the feeling gone.
From the frail trunk of mortal clay
His spirit soars to brighter day;
And those resplendent Maids of war
Through misty regions stretching far,
Where the swift meteors gleam and die,

Huginn ok Muninn—Observation and Memory. —They are mentioned in the twentieth stanza of Grimnismál, as flying every day round the world.

Huginn ok MuninnOumc ec of Huginn,
Fliuga hverian dagAt han aptr ne comith,
Iörmun grund yfir.Thó siámc meirr um Muninn.

i. e. “Observation and Memory fly every day over the ground of the earth. I fear, concerning Observation, that he may not come back, but I look round more anxiously for Memory.”

In the prose Edda they are described as ravens.

Hrafnar sitia tveir a auxlum hans, ok segia honum oll tidindi i eyro hans thau er their sia ethr heyra. Their heita sva, Hugin ac Munin. Tha sendir Odin i daga at fliuga um heima alla ok koma aptr um dagverth. Thvi heitr han Hrafna Gud.

i. e. “Two ravens sit on his shoulders and tell in his ear all the tidings of what they see or hear. They are called thus, Hugin and Munin. Odin sends them every day to fly round the whole universe, and return at the decline of day. Hence he has been called the god of the ravens.”


And through yon pure ethereal sky,
Mid thousand orbs of radiant light
And suns with ceaseless splendor bright,
Guide him, to where, with fixed eye,
Amid the blaze of majesty,
Ecstatic Wonder sits alone,
Near the immortal thunderous throne.
There, shrined in glory, he descries
Odin, high ruler of the skies;
Near him two ravens black as night,
Memory and Observation hight.
On never-tiring pinion borne

Heimdallar, the god of light, is stated in the Edda to have the gift of hearing even the grass grow in the fields, and the wool on the flocks. By the nine sister virgins, who are said to have given him birth, are probably meant the nine heavens from which light proceeds. In the old poem Vafthrudnismál, Vafthrudnir says, that he has visited all the upper worlds, and that they are nine in number.

Frá Jotna runomHeim um komit:
Oc allra GodaNió kom ec heima
Ec kann segia satt;Fyr Niflhel nedan;
Thviat hvern hefi ecHinig deyia or Helio halir.

i. e. “I can speak truly of the incantations of the Jotuns and all the Gods; because I have travelled round every world. I have visited nine worlds above the abyss of hell. There men die by the power of Hela.”

And in Völospá hin skemre, the prophetess says:

Nyo nam ec heima, nyo i vide, Miötvid mæran fyr molld nedan.

i.e. “I have found nine worlds, and nine beams (or poles) in them. The largest pole through the earth beneath.”

He is called in Grimnismál Vörda Godom, the wardour of the gods. He is possessed of a horn, called Giallarhorn, which may be heard throughout the whole universe. This is the trumpet which will be heard at the end of the world, to apprize the gods of the approach of their enemies and the destruction which will envelope them.


The wonderous pair go forth at morn;

110

Through boundless space each day they sail,
At eve return to tell their tale,
And whisper soft in Odin's ear
The secrets of each rolling sphere.
Beneath the proud pavilion's shade
On the high dais the feast is laid;
And there alike in pomp divine
Heroes and blissful Powers recline.
There sits Heimdaller, God of light,
Robed in pure garb of lustrous white.
He, from nine wonderous virgins born,
Blows loud his bright celestial horn;
The golden horn, whose magic sound

Kona Braga heitr Idun. Hon vardveitr i eski sino epli thau er Gudin skulo a bita tha er thau elldaz. Ok verda tha allir ungir, ok sva mun verda til Ragnaraucks.

i. e. “The wife of Braga is called Idun. She preserves in her box those apples which the gods bite when they grow old, and they all become young again: and so it must be till the end of the world.”


Is heard by every world around,
Waking to life each thing that grows,
Each form that breathes, each rill that flows.
He hears each floweret burst the bud,
Each vapor rising from the flood;
His ear can mark the springing grass,
The silent waters slowly pass;
The curls that grace the neck of snow,
And on the cheek the soft down grow.
And there Iduna, Queen of youth,

Braga was the god of poetry.


With blushing face and rosy mouth,
Breathing sweet health: behold her bear,

Tyr was the god of victory.


In a rich casket pure and fair,

Thor was the son of Jord, the earth. He is celebrated for his military prowess and his voracity. He was held in great veneration as one of the most, powerful deities, and he is supposed to have been considered by some of the northern tribes as superior even to Odin. His hammer, which was shaped like a cross, was the symbol used to summon the chiefs to council, and the dependants to arms: and after the introduction of christianity the same cross continued to be used for that purpose.


That fragrant fruit of loveliest hue,

Nicrder was of the nation of the Vanir, a Grecian colony, who are always called in the old northern writings the wise Vanir. He is said to have been educated in Vanaheim, and to have been given up by the Vanir to the Gods or Goths in exchange for one of their number, as a hostage on the re-establishment of peace between them.

I VanaheimiI aldar rauc
Scopo hann vís Regin,Hann mun aptr coma
Oc seldu at gislingo Godum;Heim med vísom Vaunom.

i. e. “In Vanaheim, the wise deities created him, and gave him as a hostage to the gods. At the end of ages he must return home to the wise Vanir.”— Vafthrudnismal, 39.

The Edda says that he rules over the motion of the winds, can tranquillize the sea, winds, and fire; and that he is to be invoked by all seafaring men and hunters. He appears to have made a very uncomfortable marriage in Norway, where he espoused a mountain nymph, called Skada, the daughter of the giant Thiassa, at Drontheim. Niorder dwelt at Noatun by the sea-side; but Skada was an expert and active huntress, and could not be prevailed upon to dwell with her husband on the sea-coast; and it was at last agreed between them, that they should pass nine nights in the mountains of Drontheim, and three by the sea-side at Noatun. The dissatisfaction of both parties is whimsically expressed in the Edda, where Niorder, on his return after passing nine disagreeable nights in the mountains, says:

Heid erumz fioll.Ulfa thytr,
Varkada ek længiEr af vidi kemr
Hia nætr einar nio.Morgin hvern mer.

“The mountains are hateful, I have been sleepless these nine long nights. The wolves howl that come to me from the wood every morning.” To this Skada answers,

Safa ek makiSa mik vekr;
Sœvar bedium,Mer thotti illr vera
A fugls jarmi fyrir,Hia saungvi svana.

“Can I sleep easy on the bed of the seagod, amidst the wail of the sea-fowl that wakes me? To me it seems disagreeable to be near the song of the swans.” Niorder had two children, Freyr, the god of peace and plenty, and Freya, the goddess of beauty, by a former wife, while he dwelt amongst the Vanir.


Sprinkled with heaven's immortal dew,
Which tasted makes the wrinkled brow
Again like polish'd ivory glow!
And, near, her spouse, to whom belong
The warblings of each liquid song,

111

Braga, by bards adored; and he,
The blood-stain'd lord of victory,

Freya was the goddess of beauty, and has been generally called the northern Venus. She wears a necklace of the most brilliant stones, which is frequently mentioned as her peculiar ornament. The goddess of love in the northern mythology is properly Siofna, who is in fact a female Cupid: but she is not often mentioned, nor with any particular attributes or description.


All-glorious Tyr, in battle crown'd;
And Thor, for courage high renown'd,
With that huge hammer in his grasp,
Which made the bruised Jotuns gasp.
There sits Niorder, at whose voice
The unfetter'd waves and winds rejoice;

Vidar is the god of silence and retirement. It is said in the Edda, that he affords great consolation to the gods in all difficulties and dangers. At the end of the world, after the destruction of Odin and the other gods, Vidar, the god of silence, and Vali, the god of strength, will alone survive. Vidar is said in Grimnismál to dwell in a bower covered with willows and high grass.

Hrisi vexEnn thar maugr af læzc
Oc há grasiAf mars baki
Vidars land vidi;Fröcn ok hefna faudor.

i. e. “The habitation of Vidar grows with twigs, high grass, and willows. Yet from thence shall the youth spring from the horse's back valiant, and revenge his father.”


There Skada chaste, his mountain bride,
And Freyr, by whose all-bounteous side
Stands smiling peace to wealth allied:
And, near, his sister's blooming form,
With kindling love and beauty warm,
Freyia, from whom flows every bliss,
The willing smile, the melting kiss.
Voluptuous fragrance round her breathes,

The Edda says, Forseti was the son of Balder, and Nauna Nef's daughter. “All who come before him with disputes, depart reconciled; he is the best judge amongst gods and men.” In Grimnismál, stanza 15.

Glitnir er inn tiundi;Enn thar Forseti byggir
Han er gulli studdr,Flestan dag,
Ok silfri thactr id sama.Ok svæfer allar sakir.

i. e. “Glitnir is the tenth dwelling of the gods. It is propped with gold, and the same is covered with silver. And there Forseti dwells most days, and puts to rest all disputes.”


Her brows are twined with perfumed wreaths;

Vali the god of strength, son of Odin and Rinda. Hauder the blind god had slain Balder. Vali, on the very night of his birth, revenged the death of Balder, by killing Hauder. This wonderful feat, which has some analogy to the fable of Hercules strangling the serpents in his cradle, is foretold by the prophetess in the descent of Odin, which has been translated by Gray. Rinda came from the east of Russia. The lines,

“In the caverns of the west,
“A wonderous son shall Rinda bear,”

in Gray's translation mean that she had come from the east to dwell with Odin in the more western parts of Europe. In the original, the lines are:

Rindr berr sonSá man Odins son
I Væstr sölum;Æin-nættr vega.

i. e. “In the western halls, Rinda shall bear a son. He shall kill Odin's son (Hauder) when only one night old.”

The same account is given in Völospá. I have called Rinda the daughter of the Sun on the authority of a passage in Vafthrudnismál, Eina dóttur berr Alfrödull, i. e. “The Sun shall bear one daughter,” and of another passage in Hrafna-galldr Odins, where the sun is called Rindar módur, the mother of Rinda, as well as Alfraudul. It is remarkable that in the northern mythology the sun is a female, and the moon a male deity.


And round her neck, with sumptuous show,
Rich gems in magic order glow.
There silent Vidar, whose delight
Is the still gloom of peaceful night;
Who loves to haunt the margin green
Of some calm lake the rocks between,
And mark the lingering beam of day
Yield slowly to the twilight grey:
Beneath the willow's shadowy bower

His name was Hræsvelger. He is thus described in the thirty-seventh stanza of Vafthrudnismál.

Hræsvelger heiter,Af hans vengiom
Er sitr á himins enda,Qveda vind koma
Jotun i arnar ham;Alla menn yfir,

i. e. “He is called Hræsvelger, who sits at the extremity of the heavens, a giant in the clothing of an eagle. From his wings it is said that the winds proceed over all mankind.”


Alone he spends the pensive hour.
There wise Forseti, judge of right;
And he, whose wonderous infant might
Slew hateful Hauder reft of sight,

There is an account of this shield in the thirty-eighth stanza of Grimnismál.

Svalin heitir, han stendrBiörg ok brim ec veit
Solo fyri,At brenna scolo,
Sciöldr scinanda gudi,Ef han fellr i frá.

i. e. “Svalin is his name, he stands a shield before the sun, the shining deity. I know that the hills and the sea would burn, if it were to fall from its place.”


Vali, to Odin whom of yore
The ruddy Sun's bright daughter bore,

112

Chaste Rinda; and the self-same night
Saw his proud deeds, the baleful light
Of pyre funereal, and the slain

There are many other divinities enumerated in the northern mythology. Uller, the son of Sifia, who is said to have introduced the use of fire, and Frigga, the wife of Odin, who is called the first of the goddesses. Saga is mentioned in the Edda as the second goddess; but her attributes are not mentioned. In Grimnismál it is said, that her habitation is amongst waterfalls, and that she and Odin drink together out of golden vessels. Gefion was attended upon by females, who died in their virginity. Fulla, with long flowing hair and a gold band round her forehead, was the handmaid of Frigga. Vara presided over oaths, Lofen over friendships, Syn over closed doors and refusals, Hlin over childbirth. There were many others of less importance. I have only mentioned in the poem those whose attributes appeared to furnish the most poetical images.


Borne in slow pomp along the plain,
The curse of Gods, loved Balder's bane.
And he, at heaven's extremest verge,

The Valkyriur are mentioned in Grimnismál as bearing the horn in their hands, and offering the liquor to the heroes in Valhalla. The description of the hall of Odin is taken from Grimnismál.

Gladsheimir heitir enn fimti,Miöc er audkent
Thars hin gullbiartaTheim er til Odins koma
Valhaull víd of thrumir.Sal-kynni at sia.
Enn thar Hroptr kyssSkauptom er rann rept,
Hverian dagScioldom er salr thakidr,
Vapn-dauda vera.Bryniom um becki strád.

i. e. “Gladsheimr is the name of the fifth habitation. There bright with gold the wide Valhall (or hall of the slain) is firmly fixed; and there Odin chooses each day the men slain by weapons. It is easily distinguished by those who come to see the palace inhabited by Odin. The building is roofed with shafts of spears, the hall is covered (or thatched) with shields. Coats of mail are spread on the benches.”


Who broods o'er Ocean's swelling surge,
With giant form, and frequent flings
The tempest from his eagle wings:
And more benign, that mighty Power,
Who, in the hot meridian hour,
Spreads his broad shield thro' ample space
Before the Sun's refulgent face,
Screening from flame the liquid main,
Each shadowy hill and grassy plain.
Nor these alone, but all who boast

According to the northern mythology, the destruction of the world will be preceded by three winters of intense severity, without the intervention of any summer, the sun having lost its power; after which Surtur riding at the head of the sons of Muspell, will attack the gods (Muspellheim being, as it seems, the region or abode of fire, from whence it is said in the Edda, that the gods obtained the chariot of the sun), fire will blaze before and after the footsteps of Surtur, and his sword will glitter like the sun. Heimdaller will blow a loud blast with his horn to alarm the gods, who will go forth to the combat accompanied by all the souls of heroes. The gods, after slaying many of their opponents, will fall in the contest: after which Surtur will destroy the whole universe by fire. Vidar will avenge the death of Odin, and after the destruction of the world by fire, Vidar and Vali, the powers of silence and strength, will alone survive; and Majesty and Might, the sons of Thor (that is, of Fortitude) will put an end to the confusion.

Vidar oc ValiModi oc Magni
Byggia ve goda,Scolo Miöllni hafa,
Thá er slocnar Surta logi.Ok vinna at vigthroti.

i. e. “Silence and Strength shall inhabit the mansions of the gods, after the fire of Surtur shall have been extinguished. Majesty and Might will obtain the hammer of Thor, and put an end to the warfare by perseverance.”— Vafthrudnismál, 51.


Of might in heaven's ambrosial host,
And they whoe'er in battle slain
Did once on earth high honor gain.
The radiant Maids, whom oft the Lord
Of war sends forth with lance and sword,
There pour the mead and deck the board.
Glitters like fire the shining hall;
Helmets and banners deck the wall;
Of lances huge the dome is made,
And thousand shields above are laid:
The benches bright as burnish'd gold,
Are strewn with mail of warriors bold.
There shall they quaff the fragrant bowl,
Till round the flames of Surtur roll.
Then shall each banner be displaced,
Each helm and falchion seized in haste;

113

The golden horn shall sound afar,
Arousing all the gods to war;
In vain, for two alone shall live
To tell how fiends with Odin strive,
Vidar and Vali; for the day
Will come, when gods shall lose their sway,
When heaven itself shall melt away,
And, her dread banners wide unfurl'd,
Confusion stalk around the world.
Three long continuous winters past
Without one beam of radiance cast,
Around shall roar the fiery blast,
And gods shall fall; the flaming storm
Shall wither every living form;
But Might and Majesty shall stand
Stilling the strife with armed hand,
And, when old Odin's glories fail,
Silence and Strength alone prevail.
Now firm in war, to honor true,
Hialmar joins the blisful crew.
To meet him heaven's all-mighty Sire
And all that bright celestial choir
Rise from their thrones of light; but he,
Drawn back by mournful sympathy,
Looks piteous down on Helga's bower,
Heedless of each immortal Power,
And casts one glance on Samsoe's shore,
Where lie his cold remains in gore.
END OF CANTO VI.

114

CANTO VII.

Say, when the spirit fleets away
From its frail house of mortal clay,
When the cold limbs to earth return,
Or rest in proudly sculptured urn,
Does still oblivion quench the fire
That warm'd the heart with chaste desire?
Do all our fond affections lie
Buried in dark eternity?
Or may the souls of those we love
In darkness oft around us move,
Drawn back by faithful thoughts to earth,
Haunt the dear scenes that gave them birth,
And still of former ties aware,
Float on the gently sighing air?
It may not be, a flame so bright
Should ever sink in endless night;
And if, when fails the transient breath,
The soul can spurn the bonds of death,
Love's gentle spirit ne'er shall die,
But dove-like with it mount the sky!
O 'tis not sure the poet's dream,
Sweet fancy's visionary theme.
Where'er the fleeting soul shall go,
Still will our pure affections glow!
Though life's frail thoughts are past and vain,
The sense of good must still remain,
And Death, that conquers all, shall ne'er
From the delighted spirit tear
The memory of a mother's care!

115

That fond remembrance still shall cling
In heaven to life's immortal spring!
And thou, whose bright and cherish'd form,
Clasp'd to his heart with rapture warm,
Oft wakes the humble poet's eye
To more than mortal ecstacy,
Whose blooming cherubs, fresh as May,
In harmless sport around him play,
Say, does he dream! shall joy like this
Pass as a shadowy scene of bliss?
Or, when that beauteous shape shall fade,
And his cold tongue in dust be laid,
Shall the fond spirits ever glow
With love together link'd as now?
It is not false! Love's subtle fire
Shall live, though mortal limbs expire!
E'en now from heaven's etherial height
Hialmar turns his wistful sight,
To Sigtune's towers, where, bathed in tears,
Mid anxious hopes and throbbing fears,
He sees the lovely mourner lie
With pallid cheek and languid eye.
Ne'er shall her bold victorious lord
Return to breathe the blissful word;
By Samsoe's rocks his body lies,
To love a bleeding sacrifice:
And pensive there, though aid is vain,
And past the poignant throb of pain,
Friendship bends sadly to survey
The unconscious form and lifeless clay.
In the wild centre of the isle
Sad Orvarod heap'd a gloomy pile.

116

The vast and dreary mound look'd o'er
The foaming sea and desert moor.
Of huge rough stones in order rear'd,
Within, a hideous vault appear'd;
Above he piled the barren mould
Dug in that region bleak and cold,
And on the summit placed alone
A strangely graven Runic stone.
He did not give, so runs the fame,
The hostile bodies to the flame,

The history of the combat of Hialmar and Orvarodd with Angantyr and his eleven brothers, is related in Hervarar Saga and Orvarodds Saga, but with some variation. I have never been able to procure a copy of Orvarodds Saga, and am only acquainted with its contents through the medium of Danish writers, and especially a free translation, or at least a tale founded upon it, in the works of Professor Suhm. I have used the history where it suited my purpose, without considering myself bound to adhere to it; but I have been careful not to introduce any thing which would be at variance with the manners and superstitions of the northern nations at the period which I have chosen. It is said to be doubtful whether the history of Hialmar is referrible to the reign of Ingva, stated to have been king in Sweden sixty years before the birth of Christ, at Upsal or Sigtun, which was the site of Stockholm, or to a later king Ingva, in the latter part of the third century. Schöning reckons that Angantyr, the son of Eyfur or Eyvora, lived in the reign of the first Ingva, and that he has been confounded with Angantyr who fought with Hialmar in the reign of the second Ingva; and the mother of the second Angantyr seems to have been Gudruna, daughter of a Danish king who reigned at Ledra, the old royal residence in Zeeland. The exact date is of very little importance; for the manners of the two periods were, as far as we know, precisely similar. Angrim, the father of the first Angantyr, dwelt in Helgeland; but I have represented the father of Angantyr as king at Ledra in Zeeland, where his grandfather is reported to have reigned. Orvarodd, whose name signifies the point of an arrow, was an expert archer. He was a Norwegian, and Asbiorn is stated by Suhm to have been a Dane, brought by accidental circumstances to the court of king Ingva, but I have represented them all as Swedes. All that is related concerning Asbiorn in Suhm is, that he was the companion in arms of Hialmar and Orvarodd; that he was sick at the time of the challenge, and that, unwilling to survive his friend Hialmar, he killed himself upon his grave. The part which I have made him bear in the poem is fictitious, as indeed are the whole of the second, third, fourth, and fifth cantos. The real name of king Ingva's daughter was Ingebiorg, a name much too uncouth for English poetry; and as the main part of my story is fictitious, I did not think it desireable to retain it. The history, as it is given in Hervarar Saga, will be found in the first part of my Icelandic translations: it is there said that Orvarodd bore the dead body of Hialmar to Sigtun, and that Ingebiorg would not survive him, and destroyed herself. The two Angantyrs in the reigns of two Ingvas afford an instance of the reduplication of facts which serve to eke out the history of early periods concerning which there is no true record. It will be observed that the name Gudruna, belonging to the Attilane legends, occurs even here.


But ranged, in that dark tomb below,
Their ghastly forms in frightful row!
Placed magic Tirfing in its sheath
Angantyr's giant head beneath,
And by each livid brother's side
His weapon oft in battle tried.
The shepherd in night's fearful gloom
Shuns to approach that baleful tomb,
Where oft, if story tells aright,
Streams forth the glare of wonderous light,
And round the stony summit grey
The tremulous flame is seen to play.
The mariner spies the dreadful mark,
And silent steers aloof his bark.
Hialmar's limbs he did not lay
Where Samsoe breasts the Baltic spray;
But him, embalm'd with precious care,
Slow to the ship his vassals bear.
On a rich pall the chief is laid,
In panoply of steel array'd,
The iron gauntlet on his hand,
And in its grasp the elfish brand.

117

He seems like living there to lie,
Save the wan cheek and ravless eye.
Slow moving with the glassy tide
Behold the stately vessel glide!
The air is calm; the sky serene,
Reflected on the waters sheen,
Throws its blue mantle o'er the deep,
And the scarce-heaving billows sleep.
Beauteous she wins her noiseless way,
Nor dashes from her poop the spray,
Nor lets in air her streamers play.
Around, the sun's last splendors fade,
And gently falls mild evening's shade.
Then, as she nears the Swedish shore,
Steals softly o'er the waters hoar,
Borne with sweet breath on dewy wing,
The fragrance of the blooming spring.
Young Asbiorn treads the yellow sand,
Where rippling surges bathe the land.
Long had he mark'd the silvery sail
Gliding beneath the moonbeam pale.
His heart by various passions rent
Throbs high to learn the strife's event,
And panting almost dreads to see
The youth return with victory.
How shall that tongue that breathed deceit
His fere with generous welcome greet?
How shall he dare his glance to meet?
Who, sworn to guard his comrade's right
In peace, in peril, and in fight;
Before him like a shield to stand,
And save him with a brother's hand;

118

Yet, touch'd by passion, basely strove
To rob him of his treasured love;
To blast his soul's delight, and spoil
The beauteous guerdon of his toil.
Short is the bliss of sinful mind,
Its raptures leave their sting behind;
The rankling wound, the conscious thought,
And shame with secret misery fraught.
Restless he treads the frothy sand,
While the light shallop gains the land;
Nor long before his anxious eye
Wo's gloomy banners may descry.
The gorgeous signs of death appear,
The funeral pall, the pompous bier.
He sees, he listens, and hears all,
His comrade's glory, and his fall;
Views his pale shape and nerveless hands,
And fix'd with conscious horror stands.
Awe-struck he seems, like one distraught
By dark remorse and torturing thought,
Grasps Orvarod's hand with speechless pain,
And downcast joins the solemn train.
Onward with silent steps and slow
Behold the sad procession go!
O'er yellow sands whose level edge
Is stretch'd beside the rocky ledge,
Through wilds with vernal fragrance breathing,
Through flowery shades their sweet boughs wreathing,
And many a dew-bespangled brake
Where lone the plaintive night-birds wake,
Lit by the moon's serenest ray
To Helga's bower they bend their way;

119

And by the willow-bounded stream,
Where beauteous plays the silvery beam,
As now with solemn pace they go,
Soft rising swells her voice of wo,
And seems to charm the dying breeze,
Like the sweet calm of summer seas.
“Hard is the hopeless damsel's lot,
“At eve adored, at morn forgot!
“Man reaps with pride the blissful hour,
“Then leaves in wo the wither'd flower.
“Nay tell me nought of faithful loves,
“Of joys that Heaven itself approves;
“Nay, feign not tales of fond despair;
“Man's faith is light as summer air.
“O if you climb the mountain's height,
“The quarry slain shall yield delight,
“And, as ye rouse each lair with glee,
“Blithe pleasure chase each thought of me!
“O if you seek the greenwood gay,
“Each lingering care shall melt away!
“Where quivers ring and archers vie,
“Frail passion's charm will quickly die.
“The nymph forlorn shall mourn the hour
“That gave to grief her short-lived flower;
“In silent sorrow waste the day,
“And pour by night her plaintive lay.”
The strain was hush'd; and now they stood
Silent beneath the embowering wood,
Where the wild rose and woodbine sweet
Cluster'd round Helga's lone retreat.
Stern Orvarod listening waited near
His pale and breathless comrade's bier;

120

Then with stout arm he raised upright
The corse in shining armour dight.
Short space he paused in thoughtful mood;
The wan form face to face he view'd;
While those, who wondering stood nigh,
Thought a tear swell'd his glistening eye;
But never pity's dewdrop weak
Stole down that proud and martial cheek.
Then without sign, or word exprest,
To make his meaning manifest,
He bore it, sheathed in warlike steel,
As if alive to breathe and feel,
Though ghastly was the hue, and dread
The visage, of the speechless dead.
Thus burthen'd, to the lone abode
Of that despairing nymph he strode,
And entering, sudden as the shock
Of heaven that rives the senseless rock,
To the distracted mourner's side
With unrelenting purpose hied;
And, clinging to the firm
That woman's love is frail and brief,
Death's ghastly features he display'd
Unveil'd before the astonied maid;
Against her bosom throbbing warm
Placed the loved champion's lifeless form,
And, with appalling silence, press'd
The icy gauntlet to her breast.
It came upon her, like a blast
Withering life's blossom as it pass'd,
A frightful overwhelming flood,
Nor seen, nor felt, nor understood;

121

Then hot and sear'd the heart's blood burn'd,
As memory and sense return'd,
And like a horrid dream the past
Came rushing o'er her soul at last.
The dead stood there without his shroud
Surrounded by the mourning crowd;
But she did not with one embrace
Her lord's beloved relics grace,
Nor dare to lay her cheek on his,
Nor print on his cold lips a kiss,
But slowly sunk unto the ground
Unconscious of the forms around,
And horror-struck without a sigh
Gazed upon Asbiorn dreadfully.
It was a look that chill'd his blood,
And seem'd to freeze life's secret flood.
Her spirit pass'd without a groan,
And she was dead and cold as stone;
But her strange look and glazed eye
Still fix'd him as in agony;
Nor evermore was voice or word
Thenceforth from wretched Asbiorn heard.
With many a sigh and many a tear
They placed her on Hialmar's bier,
And to one melancholy grave
They bore the beauteous and the brave.
Sad Asbiorn follow'd, and behind
Stepp'd slow with self-corroded mind;
He saw them render'd to the earth
That gave their pride and beauty birth;
He mark'd the monumental heap
Piled o'er the limbs that silent sleep;

122

He saw without a tear or groan
Fix'd on its top the Runic stone:
Then on the gloomy mound he placed
The sword that long his side had graced,
And, falling on the edge, he press'd
Its death-point through his manly breast.
Well may old Ingva wail, and tear
The honors of his hoary hair;
While Sweden's loveliest virgins spread
Fresh flowers to deck the honor'd dead,
And warlike Scalds bid gently flow
From golden harps their notes of wo:
Not that such duties sadly paid
May hope to soothe the silent shade;
Not that the plaint or pious wreath
Can charm the dull cold power of death;
But that such tribute duly given
Lifts the weak mourner's thoughts to heaven,
And round the venerated tomb
Bids infant virtues rise and bloom.
Well may the serfs o'er them that sleep
Uprear the monumental heap,
Gigantic mound, which there shall raise
Its structure to Earth's latest days,
A huge memorial! not to tell
How bled the brave, how beauty fell;
But that, as cold Oblivion's hand
Blots their frail glories from the land,
The great, the fair, whate'er their lot,
Sleep undistinguish'd and forgot.
The mound, the massive stones remain
To frown on the surrounding plain;

123

The peasant oft shall check the plough
To gaze upon its lofty brow,
To think of wars and beacon fires,
Strange tales transmitted by his sires;
But none shall live, in sooth to tell
Who sleeps within that gloomy cell.
THE END.

143

THE SONG OF VALA.

This song was written with an idea of inserting it in the second Canto of Helga, but it is more properly thrown into the Appendix. Many parts of it are freely imitated from a curious old poem called Völospá hin skemre, or the ancient Prophecy of Vala, which forms a part of the unpublished Edda. The name of its author is unknown.

Silence all ye sons of glory!
Silence all ye powers of light!
While I sing of ancient story,
Wonders wrapt in mystic night!
I was rock'd in giant's cradle,
Giant's lore my wisdom gave;
I have known both good and evil,
Now I lie in lowly grave.
Long before the birth of Odin,
Mute was thunderous ocean's roar;
Stillness o'er the huge earth brooding,
Strand was none or rocky shore.
Neither grass, nor green tree growing,
Vernal shower, nor wintery storm;
Nor those horses bright and glowing
Dragg'd the sun's refulgent form.
He who rules by night the heaven

The Moon, a male deity in the northern mythology.


Wist not where his beams to throw;
All to barren darkness given,
There confusion, hell below.
Imir sat with lonely sadness

In Völospá the prophetess says,

Ar var allda tha Imir bygde,
Varat sandr, ne sær, ne svaler unnir;
Jord faunz eva, ne upp himin;
Gab var Gynunga, enn grass hverge.

i. e. “First of all things was the age when Imir lived, there was no sand, nor sea, nor swelling waves; earth was found nowhere, nor heaven above; there was a deep abyss, but grass nowhere.”


Watching o'er the fruitless globe;
Never morning beam'd with gladness,
Never eve with dewy robe.

144

Who are those in pride advancing
Through the barren tract of night?
Mark their steel divinely glancing!
Imir falls in holy fight!
Of his bones the rocks high swelling,
Of his flesh the glebe is made,
From his veins the tide is welling,
And his locks are verdant shade.
See the gods on lofty Ida,

Hittust Æser a Idavelli. The Gods or Asiatics were convened on mount Ida.—Völospá, stanza 7. This line is very singular, when we recollect Jupiter sitting on mount Ida, and consider that Völospá is perhaps the most ancient relic of northern poetry, and that Odin and his followers are supposed to have been driven from Asia by Mithridates. I do not think that Ida is mentioned in any other of the northern writings, and I have nothing to produce in illustration of this remarkable line, excepting another line at the end of Völospá, where it is said, that when the world shall be renovated again after its destruction by fire, the Gods or Asi shall again meet on mount Ida.


All convened in council bright!
There dark Sleipner's warlike rider,

Sleipner was the horse of Odin.


There each blissful son of light!
Hark! his crest with gold adorning,
Chanticleer on Odin calls!
Gol um Asom gullinkambe,
Sá vekur hölda at heria födurs,
Enn annar gielur fyrer jord nedan
Sotraudur hane at saulom heliar,

i. e. “The golden-combed bird has sung amongst the Gods, which wakes men in the abode of the father of battle; but another sings underneath the earth, a ruddy fowl in the halls of Hela.”— Völospá.


Hark! another bird of morning
Claps his wings in Hela's halls!
Nature shines in glory beaming,
Elves are born, and man is form'd;
Every hill with gladness teeming,
Every shape with life is warm'd.
Mark yon tree by Urdra's fountain!
Ask veit ec standa, heitr Ygdrasil,
Thadan koma dögvar thærs i dale falla.

i. e. “I know where an ash stands: it is called Ygdrasil; from it come the dews, that fall in the valleys.”— Völospá.


From its spreading boughs distil
Mists that clothe each verdant mountain,
Dews that feed each gurgling rill.
Who is he by heaven's high portal,
Beaming like the light of morn?
'Tis Heimdallar's form immortal;
Shrill resounds his golden horn.

145

Say, proud wardour robed in glory,
Are the foes of nature nigh?
Have they climb'd the mountains hoary?
Have they storm'd the vaulted sky?
On the wings of tempest riding,
Surtur spreads his fiery spell;
Elves in secret caves are hiding;
Odin meets the wolf of hell.

Before Surtur destroys the world by fire, Odin is to be devoured by the wolf Fenris, which will break loose from hell.


She must taste a second sorrow,
She who wept when Balder bled;
Fate demands a nobler quarry;
Death must light on Odin's head.
See ye not yon silent stranger?
Proud he moves with lowering eyes.
Odin, mark thy stern avenger!

Vidar will avenge the death of Odin by slaying the wolf.


Slain the shaggy monster lies!
See the serpent weakly crawling!

Thor will slay the serpent of Midgard, but die immediately in consequence of its venomous bite.


Thor has bruised its loathsome head!
Lo! the stars from heaven are falling!
Sol tor sortna, sigr folld i mar,
Hverfa af himni heidar stiornor,
Geisar eimi vid alldar nara,
Leikr har hiti vid himin sialfan.

i. e. “The sun shall grow dark; the earth sinks in the sea; the serene stars fall from the heaven; the fire rages at the end of ages; the high heat licks the heaven itself.”— Völospá.


Earth has sunk in Ocean's bed!
Glorious sun, thy beams are shrouded,
Vapours dank around thee sail;
Nature's eye with mists is clouded;
Shall the powers of ill prevail?
Say, shall Earth, with freshness beaming,

Ser hun uppkoma odro sinni Jord or ægi idia græna.

i.e. “She sees the earth all green rise again from the sea.”


Once again from Ocean rise?
Shall the dawn of glory streaming
Wake us to immortal joys?

146

Once again, where Ida towering
Proudly crowns the verdant plain,
Sacred shades their walks imbowering,
Gods shall meet, a blissful train.
Fields untill'd shall wave with treasure,

Muno osatir akrar vaxa; Bauls man allz batna.

i. e. “The fields unsown shall yield increase, And contention all shall cease.”

After the renovation of the earth, the gods will again assemble on mount Ida. Then (as is said in Völospá) shall come from above the powerful one who rules over every thing, to give divine judgment. The good shall inhabit a dwelling brighter than the sun, and live in joy throughout all eternity; but the wicked shall wade through rapid rivers to an abode dropping with poison and surrounded by serpents, where they shall never behold the sun.

There is something very remarkable in this conclusion of the creed of the old Scandinavian nations, which acknowledges the mortality and looks for the resurrection of those whom they had dignified with the title of gods, and holds out the expectation of a time when some greater unknown power would come in majesty to judge the world.


Wo and war and strife shall cease;
Wide shall flow the stream of pleasure,
Endless joy and holy peace.
He shall come in might eternal,
He whom eye hath never seen!
Earth, and Heaven, and Powers infernal,
Mark his port and awful mien!
He shall judge, and he shall sever
Shame from glory, ill from good!
These shall live in light for ever,
Those shall wade the chilling flood;
Dark to dwell, in grief reclining,
Far beyond the path of day;
In that bower, where serpents twining,
Loathsome spit their venom'd spray!
 

Odin, Vili, and Ve, the sons of Bör, who slew Imir, and of his body created the world.

Frigga, the wife of Odin.—The avenger of Odin, mentioned in the next stanza, is Vidar the god of silence.


149

BRYNHILDA.

O strange is the bower where Brynhilda reclines,
Around it the watchfire high bickering shines!
Her couch is of iron, her pillow a shield,
And the maiden's chaste eyes are in deep slumber seal'd.
Thy charm, dreadful Odin, around her is spread,
From thy wand the dread slumber was pour'd on her head.
The bridegroom must pass thro' the furnace and flame,
The boldest in fight, without fear, without blame.
O whilom, in battle so bold and so free,
Like a pirate victorious she roved o'er the sea.
The helmet has oft bound the ringlets, that now
Adown her smooth shoulder so carelessly flow;
And that snowy bosom, thus lovely reveal'd,
Has been oft by the breastplate's tough iron conceal'd.
The love-lighting eyes, which are fetter'd by sleep,
Have seen the sea-fight raging fierce o'er the deep,
And mid the dread wounds of the dying and slain
The tide of destruction pour'd wide o'er the plain.
Those soft-rounded arms now defenceless and bare,
Those rosy-tipp'd fingers so graceful and fair,
Have rein'd the hot courser, and oft bathed in gore
The merciless edge of the dreaded claymore.
Who is it that spurs his dark steed at the fire?
Who is it, whose wishes thus boldly aspire
To the chamber of shields, where the beautiful maid
By the spell of the mighty defenceless is laid?

150

Is it Sigurd the valiant, the slayer of kings,
With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings?
Or is it bold Gunnar, who vainly assays
On the horse of good Sigurd to rush thro' the blaze?
The steed knows his rider in field and in stall;
No other hands rein him, no other spurs gall.
He brooks not the warrior that pricks his dark side,
Be he prince, be he chieftain of might and of pride.
How he neighs! how he plunges, and tosses his mane!
How he foams! how he lashes his flank with disdain!
O crest-fallen Gunnar, thou liest on the plain!
Through the furnace no warrior, save Sigurd, may ride;
Let his valor for thee win the spell-guarded bride!
He has mounted his war-horse, the beauteous and bold;
His buckler and harness are studded with gold.
A dragon all writhing in gore is his crest;
A dragon is burnish'd in gold on his breast.
The furnace glows redder, the flames crackle round,
But the horse and the rider plunge thro' at one bound.
He has reach'd the dark canopy's shield-cover'd shade,
Where spell-bound the beautiful damsel is laid;
He has kiss'd her closed eyelids, and call'd her his bride;
He has stretch'd his bold limbs in the gloom by her side.
“My name is bold Gunnar, and Grana my steed;
“Through the bickering furnace I prick'd him with speed.”
The maiden all languidly lifts up her head,
She seems in her trance half awaked from the dead;
Like a swan on the salt-lake she mournfully cries,
“Does the bravest of warriors claim me as his prize?”
O know'st thou, young Sigurd, who lies by thy side?
O kenn'st thou, Brynhilda, who calls thee his bride?

151

On the gay hills of France dwells thy proud foster-sire,
And there thy chaste bower was guarded by fire.
It was mantled with ivy and luscious woodbine,
It was shrouded with jasmine and sweet eglantine.
O mind'st thou, when darkling thou sat'st in thy bower,
What courser came fleet by thy charm-circled tower?
Whose hawk on thy casement perch'd saucy and free?
What warrior pursued it? Whose crest didst thou see?
Did the gold-burnish'd dragon gleam bright to thy view?
Did thy spells hold him back, or did Sigurd break through?
For whom the bright mead did thy snowy hands pour,
Which never for man crown'd the goblet before?
On the wonders of nature, the stories of eld,
On the secrets of magic high converse ye held:
He sat by thy side, and he gazed on thy face,
He hail'd thee most worthy of Sigurd's embrace;
The wisest of women, the loveliest maid,
The bravest that ever in battle outrade:
And there, in the gloom of that mystic alcove,
Ye pledged to each other the firm oath of love.
Now spell-bound thou canst not his features descry,
Thy charms in the gloom do not meet his keen eye.
For Sigurd had hied to defend Giuka's crown,
He dwelt there with glory, he fought with renown;
At the court of good Giuka his warriors among
None bore him so gallant, so brave, and so strong.
Gudruna beheld him with eyes of desire,
The noblest of knights at the court of her sire.
She mix'd the love-potion with charm and with spell,
And all his frail oaths from his memory fell.
She conquer'd his faith by the treacherous snare;
He led to the altar Gudruna the fair:

152

And now with her brother unconscious he came,
Who dared the chaste hand of Brynhilda to claim.
But Gunnar the bold could not break through the spell;
The flame bicker'd high, on the ground as he fell:
And Sigurd the glorious, the mighty, must lend
His valor to gain the fair prize for his friend.
All night there he tarried, but ever between
The maid and the knight lay his sword bright and sheen.
The morrow he rode to the battle afar,
And changed the maid's couch for the turmoil of war.
His friend reaps the harvest his valor has won,
And claims the fair guerdon ere fall of the sun.
With pomp to the altar he leads the young bride,
She deems him the knight who had lain by her side;
Forgotten the vows she had made in gay France,
Ere Odin cast o'er her the magical trance.
With gorgeous carousal, with dance and with song,
With wassail his liegemen the nuptials prolong;
He revels in rapture and bliss through the night,
And the swift hours are pass'd in the arms of delight:
But when the bright morning first dawn'd on their bed,
The bride raised with anguish her grief-stricken head;
For the thoughts of the past rose with force, and too late
She remember'd young Sigurd, and cursed her sad fate.
Three days and three nights there in silence she lay,
To sullen despair and dark horror a prey.
She tasted no food, and to none she replied,
But spurn'd the sad bridegroom with hate from her side.
Shall the words of young Sigurd now bid her rejoice?
Does she hear his known accents, and start at his voice?
“A wake, fair Brynhilda, behold the bright ray!
“The flowers in the forest are laughing and gay.

153

“Full long hast thou slept on the bosom of wo;
“Awake, fair Brynhilda, and see the sun glow!”
She heard him with anguish, and raising her head
She gazed on his features, then proudly she said:
“I choose not two husbands, and marvel that rude
“In my chamber of wo thou shouldst dare thus intrude.
“Heaven witness, proud Sigurd, how firmly I loved!
“My fancy adored thee, my reason approved.
“Thou saw'st me in bloom of my glory and youth,
“And our hearts interchanged the chaste promise of truth.
“Of the damsels of Hlyndale I then was the flower,
“So dreaded in battle, so courted in bower;
“Like a Virgin of slaughter I roved o'er the sea,
“My arm was victorious, my valor was free.
“By prowess, by Runic enchantment and song,
“I raised up the weak, and I beat down the strong.
“I held the young prince mid the hurly of war,
“My arm waved around him the charm'd scimitar;
“I saved him in battle, I crown'd him in hall,
“Though Odin and fate had foredoom'd him to fall.
“Hence Odin's dread curses were pour'd on my head;
“He doom'd the undaunted Brynhilda to wed.
“But I vow'd the high-vow which gods dare not gainsay,
“That the bravest in warfare should bear me away:
“And full well I knew, that thou, Sigurd, alone
“Of mortals the boldest in battle hast shone.
“I knew that none other the furnace could stem,
“(So wrought was the spell, and so fierce was the flame)
“Save Sigurd the glorious, the slayer of kings,
“With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings,
“Now thy treason has marr'd me, to Gunnar resign'd
“By the force of the spell, when my reason was blind.

154

“At my nuptials I loathed the embrace of his lust,
“But I smother'd my hate and conceal'd my disgust;
“And sooner than forfeit the faith which I gave
“At the altar to him, will I sink in my grave.
“Like a brother thou slept'st in the gloom by my side,
“And pure as the day-star was Gunnar's young bride.
“Yet hence did Gudruna revile me, and say
“In the arms of proud Sigurd despoiled I lay.
“Now, Prince, shalt thou perish, if vengeance be due
“To love disappointed, though faithful and true!
“Though gallant thou ridest to the battle afar,
“Though foremost thy steed in the red fields of war,
“Like the death-breathing blast of the pestilent night
“My hate shall o'ertake thee, my fury shall smite!”
He left her desponding; then sadly she rose,
Like a lily all pale, from the couch of her woes:
Stream'd loosely the ringlets of jet o'er her breast,
And her eyes' ray was languid, with sorrow opprest;
Yet lovely she moved, like the silvery beam
Of the moon-light that kisses the slow-gliding stream.
She sought Gunnar's chamber, awhile by his side
Stood mournfully pensive, then sternly she cried:
“To thee have I pledged my firm oath as thy bride,
“And, Gunnar, I hate thee! Yet be it not said
“That Budla's proud daughter her faith has betray'd.
“To thee (wo the hour!) by the vengeance of heaven
“The flower of my youth and my fealty was given.
“Nor mortal shall dare with the breath of frail love
“The heart of ill-fated Brynhilda to move.
“But never again shall I rest on thy bed,
“And ne'er on my breast shalt thou pillow thy head,
“Till slain by thy steel in the silence of night
“The treacherous Sigurd lies stiff in my sight;

155

“Till by treason he falls, who by treason has left
“Brynhilda of joy and of honour bereft.”
Sad Gunnar, what strife thy fond bosom must rend!
First gaze on her beauty, then think of thy friend!
The slumber of midnight has sealed his bold eyes,
In the arms of Gudruna defenceless he lies.
'Tis done; in his blood the cold warrior is found,
But breathless his murderer lies on the ground.
Though gored and expiring, ere lifeless he fell,
Stout Sigurd's arm sent his assassin to hell.
Mid the night's baneful gloom, see the torches that glare!
The mourners that give their wild locks to the air!
She has mounted the funeral pile with the slain,
With her slaves, with her women, a loud shrieking train.
Most fair and most famed for her honour and truth,
In the prime of her glory, the bloom of her youth.
The fire shall consume both the living and dead,
And a mound be heap'd high where their ashes are shed.

The particulars of the history of Sigurd and Brynhilda are related at length in the notes to my Icelandic Translations.

I have just had an opportunity of reading an interesting work, called Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, produced by the joint labors of Mr. Weber and Mr Jamieson. It contains, amongst other curious articles, an epitome of an ancient Teutonic lay, called Der Nibelungen Lied, answering to the Niflunga Saga of the Scandinavians, which professes to have been in part digested from ancient German songs. The Teutonic lay contains an account of part of the history of Sigurd and Brynhilda, the marriage of the widow of Sigurd with king Attila, and the events that followed, with some variations from the Icelandic Saga, but with a general resemblance as to the leading circumstances. Mr. Weber mentions (p. 27.) that, “in Volsunga and Norna Gests Sagas, Brynhildr is a mythological personage, one of the Valkyriur, and not a mere mortal virgin as in the Teutonic romances.” With all deference to his usual accuracy, I can by no means concur in this observation. It is undoubtedly founded upon a single expression in one of the above mentioned Sagas (in Volsunga Saga, if I recollect rightly) “Hun var Valkyrie, she was a Valkyrie,” to which it is added that she had the power of transporting herself through the air. All the Scandinavian accounts of Brynhildr concur in representing her as a mortal, the daughter of king Budla, who in her youth being of a very masculine disposition had sailed upon piratical expeditions, and become very renowned in war. She was skilled in incantations (a faculty which, I imagine, was attributed to all who were adepts in writing and reading the Runic characters), and she is said to have incurred the resentment of Odin in consequence of her having given victory to Audbroder in opposition to the intentions of the deity, on which account she is figuratively called a Valkyrie in that single passage: but she is nowhere mentioned as being one of the immortal Valkyriur who were deities acting under the directions of Odin, or as having performed any one of the usual acts of their ministry. After revenging herself by the murder of Sigurd, whom she still loved above all mankind, she ascended his funeral pile together with her slaves, and was burnt to death for the purpose of honoring his obsequies. Her tragic history is that of a proud and distinguished woman, endowed, according to the ideas of the period at which she lived, with every accomplishment, and punished by the deity for the excess of her presumption. I see no reason to doubt her having really existed, although her history is blended with the fabulous and supernatural; and at least there is no more reason for calling her a mythological personage than Medea, with whose character that of Brynhildr bears some analogy. Mortal she is certainly represented to have been, for her death is particularly detailed.

Postscript.—For the identification of Attila and Sigurd, and the opinion I hold concerning Hilda, here called Bryn-hilda, the Hildico of Jornandes, see Attila king of the Huns, p. 518, &c.

SIR EBBA.

The ballad of Sir Ebba is translated from an old Danish song printed in Suhms Nye Samlinger til de Danske Historie from a manuscript of Dr. Deichman's, who lived at the close of the seventeenth century, and travelled through Germany, Holland, and England; during which excursions he kept a literary journal, and continued it after his return to Denmark. The ballad is extracted from this journal with the following account. “Mr. Peter Wiskinge communicated to me the following old song, which has never been printed, and is founded upon a story still preserved in the traditions of the old people of Höybye; where the hill is shewn, upon which divine service was performed during seven years, while the church was under the Pope's ban.” It is in metre and expression, as well as in the conduct of the story, exactly similar to our old ballads; and on that account I have been desirous of translating it closely. After every stanza in the original a short verse is repeated, of which the English would be “So merrily they went.” It has no meaning in its place, but was used as a burthen, like “Bonny St. Johnson stands upon Tay,” and other lines of that sort. This ballad is named “An old song about Sir Ebba, who dwelt upon an island called Buuröe in the parish of Höybye in the lordship of Aad.” The lordship of Aad is in Seeland, not very distant from Copenhagen. The names Ebba, Bonda, and Trunda, are spelt in the Danish with a final e, which is pronounced almost like a short a in English.

[_]

Translated from the old Danish.

Sir Ebba let bigg a bower so tall,

In the original it stands, “Lod bygge saa höje en buure.” The similarity of expression in the old Danish and old English is here remarkable. The verb let is frequently used as an auxiliary by the old English writers, as in the mort d'Arthur, c. 127, “Sir Galahalt the haute prince let cry, what knight somever he was, that smote down Sir Palomides, should have his damosel to himself,” c. 128,“Sir Launcelot let blow unto lodging,” and c. 131,“Sir Galahalt the haute prince let blow unto lodging.” To bigg is common for to build or construct; as in the minstrelsy of the Scottish border, v.2. p. 7, “And he's bigged a bour on gude green wood.” Buur or bur in Danish means a cage; but I have ventured in this place to translate it by the word bower, of which I am persuaded this is the origin. Johnson gives a very unsatisfactory etymology of our word bower, or bour, deriving it from the boughs of trees, with which he supposes it to be constructed, or from the verb to bow, or bend. The most frequent sense of the word in old writings is a chamber, or the apartment of a lady; and meaning (as I have observed) in the Danish, a cage to keep birds in, it seems to have had a metaphorical allusion to the old word burd or byrd, which is frequently used for a maid; as for instance in the beautiful song of Helen of Kirkonell Lee, “When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me.” In this ballad the thrush and nightingale seem to be used metaphorically for the damsels. It appears in a note by Bussæus to king Alfred's Periplus Outheri, that the species of whale, which is called by the Norwegians Huus-vhal, was formerly known by the name of Burhvalr. Olaus Magnus, lib. 21, c. 22 and 23, relates, that the inhabitants of the northern coasts made their huts of the skeletons of whales covered over with skins; and this had induced me to imagine, that the name alluded to this custom: but in the notes to Speculum Regale, p. 127, it is stated to be derived from the particular structure of the whale itself.

“Det navn Buurhval, som dem gives af det Buur eller Forraads-Kammer (cellâ cibariâ), som er i deres hoved.”

i. e. “The name Buurhval, which is given them from Buur or provisionchamber, which is in their head.” I find that Bur is used in the Anglosaxon for a hut, or chamber; as it is likewise in the Icelandic. Bur is also used in the Icelandic for a larder; and in compound fata-bur, a clothes-press; so that it appears to be the root of bureau, as well as bower. Bua, Island. and boe, Dan. is to inhabit, from whence Bu, bo, bol, boepœl, Isl. Swed. and Dan. for a habitation, and By, or bye, a town, whence our word bye-laws. Jomfrue-bur is still used in Danish for a maiden's chamber.


The site each native knows,
The nightbird sings there and the mavis small,
Two damsels within it repose.
Sir Ebba he must to Iceland sail,
And bear his lord's behest:
His daughters within shall have cause to wail,
They will find it no place of rest.
Leagued with their evil mother, there
Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild came,
To harm Sir Ebba's daughters fair,
And work them scath and shame.
The younger brother trembled sore
To work the damsel's shame.
“Comes Sir Ebba in peace to his native shore,
“He venges his daughters' fame.”
Then pale and wan grew his mother's face,
And savage wax'd her heart:
“Thou bear'st not the soul of thy father's race,
“But play'st a coward's part.

158

“There's none within to check your might
“Beside two varlets small;
“And, were they both in iron dight,
“They must before ye fall.”
Early in the morning they
Whet each his shining spear;
Darkling at the close of day
Before that bower appear.
Beneath the lofty chamber's tier
In rush'd the knights amain;
They ask no leave, they know no fear,
But straight the chamber gain.
Up then awoke those ladies fair
To guard their maiden pride;
Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild there
Lay that night by their side.
The damsels wept full bitterly
With many a maiden tear;
And pray'd them for their modesty
To dread their father dear.
Up rose the knights, and went forth, ere
Day lit the mountain's side;
They thank'd for what they gain'd by fear,
But dared not longer bide.
The younger sister wailed free,
For she fell first to shame;
“Let us sink with a stone in the billowy sea,
“And bury our blighted fame.”

159

The elder sister answered straight;
“Nay, gentle sister, nay,
“Our sire from Iceland we'll await;
“He'll venge us, if he may.”
It was the good Sir Ebba there,
From Iceland home he came:
To meet him both his daughters fair
All weeping went with shame.
“Now welcome, welcome, father dear;
“So sore for you we cried;
“Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild here
“Have stain'd our maiden pride.”
Sir Ebba's heart wax'd sore with wo,
To hear their mournful plight;
And, “Ill to Iceland did I go;
“Now come the deadly fight!”
“You must not for our ravish'd fame
“Bear helm and weapon keen;
“We will by craft avenge our shame,
“Since reft of honor sheen.”
It falls upon a Christmas night,
To mass the people hies;
Betimes to whet their daggers bright
Sir Ebba's daughters rise.
Now shall Sir Ebba's daughters do
A deed of scath, I ween:
But they must not to the altar go
Without their weapons keen.

160

Lady Metelill smiled, and a glowing hue

Metelill seems to be the mother of the two knights, and she speaks here ironically.


Gleam'd under her rosy skin;
And, “Stand ye up, like ladies true!
“Let the brides of my children in!”
Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild there
To join the mass have sped;
And Trunda young, and Zenild fair,
Behind them closely tread.
North within the armory bright

In the original it is Vaaben-huus, or Arm-house. Anglo-saxon, Wæpenhus. It must mean a part of the church, in which the public weapons were deposited. It is still the custom in Denmark to have an armory in most parishes, either in or attached to the church. I find in a Swedish book Wapenhus interpreted the porch of a church; and this is probably the meaning of Vaabenhuus in this ballad, the arms being suspended in the entrance of the church.


Young Trunda drew her blade;
South before the altar's light
Sir Bonda's fallen dead.
South beside the altar's ledge
Fair Zenild drew her knife;
North upon the grunsel edge
Sir Schinnild lost his life.
“Here stand we both as widows true,
“For neither is now a maid;
“And, lady, take your children two
“To eat with salt and bread!”
Seven winters o'er that church's door,
Sad interdiction hung;
Nor priest, nor chorister trod the floor,
Nor holy mass was sung.
A chapel on Helen's hill was built,
And there went woman and man;
Till the Pope absolved the church from guilt
And loosed the mournful ban.
 

Let bigg, caused to be built.

Sheen, bright.

Grunsel, threshold.