University of Virginia Library


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,

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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.”

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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.

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“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

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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,

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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.

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“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.”

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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

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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,

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.