 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE LEGEND OF SKADI.
Through the leaves of the Edda there rustles a tale
Of Skadi, the daughter of torrent and gale,
Who, leaving her snow-summits, breezy and free,
Went down to be wedded to Njörd of the sea.
Of Skadi, the daughter of torrent and gale,
Who, leaving her snow-summits, breezy and free,
Went down to be wedded to Njörd of the sea.
Though bright was the ocean as now, in the day
When Vanir and Æsir held nature in sway,
Of gods though her bridegroom was reckoned the third,
In Skadi's new mansion a murmur was heard.
When Vanir and Æsir held nature in sway,
Of gods though her bridegroom was reckoned the third,
In Skadi's new mansion a murmur was heard.
“O Njörd, I am homesick! the gull's tiresome note,
The moan of the breakers, the tide's endless rote,
They hold my eyes sleepless; I never can stay
By the wide-staring ocean. Come, let us away!
The moan of the breakers, the tide's endless rote,
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By the wide-staring ocean. Come, let us away!
“Away to my mountains, my home in the height,
To the glens and the gorges, the summits of light!”
And Njörd could but listen, and go with his bride;
But there for his sea-haunts he drearily sighed.
To the glens and the gorges, the summits of light!”
And Njörd could but listen, and go with his bride;
But there for his sea-haunts he drearily sighed.
“O Skadi, come back to the warm, sunny surf!
The beach-sand is smoother than frost-bitten turf;
I like not, at midnight, the wolf's hungry howl,
The bear's stealthy footstep, the shriek of the owl.
The beach-sand is smoother than frost-bitten turf;
I like not, at midnight, the wolf's hungry howl,
The bear's stealthy footstep, the shriek of the owl.
“Nine sunsets, my Skadi, from sole love of thee,
I will give to the mountains, if only for three
With me thou wilt linger the blue wave beside;
The billows shall lull thee, my wild one, my bride!”
I will give to the mountains, if only for three
With me thou wilt linger the blue wave beside;
The billows shall lull thee, my wild one, my bride!”
Then down the steep gorges went Skadi and Njörd;
Like wind through the pine-woods they swept to the fiord;
And back in three mornings they hurried again,
Bearing up to the hill-tops the sigh of the main.
Like wind through the pine-woods they swept to the fiord;
And back in three mornings they hurried again,
Bearing up to the hill-tops the sigh of the main.
So hither and thither awhile swayed the pair:
But Njörd sickened soon of the fresh inland air;
And once, as he scented afar the salt sea,
“No more of the mountains,” he shouted, “for me!”
But Njörd sickened soon of the fresh inland air;
And once, as he scented afar the salt sea,
“No more of the mountains,” he shouted, “for me!”
“I am nine times too weary of cavern and cliff;
All the pine-groves of Norway I 'd give for my skiff.
The twilight, that buries the white, solemn hills,
My blood like the coming of Ragnarök chills.”
All the pine-groves of Norway I 'd give for my skiff.
The twilight, that buries the white, solemn hills,
My blood like the coming of Ragnarök chills.”
“Three days and three nights are too many for me
To waste on the ocean, O dull Njörd, and thee!”—
And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on,
And back to her mountains alone she has gone.
To waste on the ocean, O dull Njörd, and thee!”—
And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on,
And back to her mountains alone she has gone.
The red, climbing sunrise, the rosy-fringed mist,
Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed;
And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky
With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.
Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed;
And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky
With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.
She tightens her bowstring, she bounds from the rock;
The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock;
The waterfall's rush to the tarn by the crag,
And the leap of the reindeer, behind her both lag.
The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock;
The waterfall's rush to the tarn by the crag,
And the leap of the reindeer, behind her both lag.
But still, as she chases the wolf and the boar,
By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,
That surge through the forest, and whisper, and rave;—
'T is Njörd, who is calling her back to the wave.
By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,
That surge through the forest, and whisper, and rave;—
'T is Njörd, who is calling her back to the wave.
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And Njörd hears a hill-note borne in on the tide,
When soft through the sunset the lazy waves glide,
Or tranced in the moonlight the weird water shines;—
'T is Skadi, whose singing floats down from her pines.
When soft through the sunset the lazy waves glide,
Or tranced in the moonlight the weird water shines;—
'T is Skadi, whose singing floats down from her pines.
He calls, but she leaves not her rock-ranges free;
She chants from her woodlands, he stays by the sea:
A wail thrills the harp-strings of heart lost to heart,
Neither happy together, nor joyous apart.
She chants from her woodlands, he stays by the sea:
A wail thrills the harp-strings of heart lost to heart,
Neither happy together, nor joyous apart.
Of sea-god and hill-maid remains not a sign,
Save the marriage of music in billow and pine:
Still sound the Norse mountains, the tide in the fiord
With the singing of Skadi, the echo of Njörd.
Save the marriage of music in billow and pine:
Still sound the Norse mountains, the tide in the fiord
With the singing of Skadi, the echo of Njörd.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |