 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
XIX.
You guess, my son, of all the listening throng,I understood the most of that strange song.
But what was evident to me alone,
How came it to the Saxon Minstrel known?
Had he indeed, as bard, the gifted eye,
Before whose sight both Past and Future lie?
I doubted not. How, otherwise, could he
Have any knowledge of my fate or me?
I called him to my side, that I might say
Such courteous word as Chieftain, praised, must pay
For courteous song. I bade the Minstrel take
A valued ring, and wear it for my sake;
Hinting the while, but in an under tone,
That it were wise to quit the camp anon.
He stole away, and well it was for him!
For loured had many a visage, darkly grim,
Upon the bard. I could but smile at those—
The scalds—whom rivalry had made his foes,
In gibe malicious, and in taunting jest.
“'Tis plain,” said Anlave, “that the man hath quaffed
The pure, the genuine, bard-creating draught.”
The Danish fable of the origin of poetry may be briefly given here. Kvásir, a being formed by the gods, was murdered, and his blood being mixed up with honey, composed a liquor of such surpassing excellence, that whoever drinks of it acquires the gift of song. Odin, by a stratagem, succeeded in getting possession of it, and having swallowed the whole, transformed himself into an eagle, and flew off as fast as his wings could carry him. But Suttung, from whom he had stolen the liquor, also took on himself the form of an eagle, and flew after him. The gods, on seeing Odin approach, set out in the yard all the jars they could find, which Odin filled by discharging through his beak the wonder-working liquor he had drunk. He was, however, so near being caught by Suttung, that some of the liquor escaped by an impurer vent, and as no care was taken of this—it fell to the share of the poetasters!
“Oh, doubtless,” Rolfe replied, “the thing's of course;
But then—'twere best say nothing of the source!”
But graver character the warrior's ire
Took 'gainst the Master of the Saxon Lyre:
“The wretch,” they deeply swore, “deserves to bleed,
For doing insult to our Country's creed!”
Even on me their gloomy looks they bent,
And muttered, audibly, their discontent,
That Danish bounty should a meed supply
To vagrant Nazarene—perchance a Spy!
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