The Death of Balder | Page 2

The
oaks, the glory of the sacred forest. Ha! if the blood of maids and
unarm'd wretches Of harmless travellers, stained the hands of Balder--
If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers-- Then might'st thou
well be pale; And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!
THOR. Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!

BALDER. From Nanna! Yes, I ought--that see I plainly. Ha! some
accursed fiend my foot has fasten'd To these wild mountains and to
Nanna's shadow! And is there nothing then of hope remaining? When
did I first become so grim--so frightful? When? Tell me, Thor, is breath
of mine destructive? Has death among my tears and smiles its dwelling?
What shall I do? Reply! But thou art silent, And from thine eyeball
flames contemptuous anger.
THOR (he rises). Ha! drivellest thou before the God of Thunder?
BALDER. To Thor, to Odin's friend, I breathe my sorrow.
THOR. How long dost think, degenerate son of Odin, Unmanly pining
for a foolish maiden, And all the weary train of love-sick follies, Will
move a bosom that is steeled by virtue? Thou dotest! Dote and weep, in
tears swim ever; But by thy father's arm, by Odin's honour, Haste, hide
thy tears and thee in shades of alder! Haste to the still, the
peace-accustom'd valley, Where lazy herdsmen dance amid the clover.
There wet each leaf which soft the west wind kisses, Each plant which
breathes around voluptuous odours, With tears! There sigh and moan
and the tired peasant Shall hear thee, and, behind his ploughshare
resting, Shall wonder at thy grief, and pity Balder!
BALDER. And is this all the comfort thou canst offer?
THOR. I gave thee counsel: fly from her who flies thee! What holds
thee here, where thou canst hope for nothing?
BALDER. And can I? Ah, my friend, that is my duty! But fly! And
never, never see thee, Nanna! And ne'er again behold the roof where
under Thou sleepest! Honour the mere thought destroyeth! Ere that, I'll
perish here, unfamed, forgotten!
THOR. Well, perish, then! I see too plain 'tis useless Against a harsh,
eternal fate to struggle!
The hill fiend dreads my hammer's might Before it turns the Jotun
white, And rocks, whereon I strike, give way. But nothing cruel fate

can move; And what Allfather there above Resolves upon, stands firm
for aye.
Know, son of Odin, thou whom reason, friendship, Whom scorn--e'en
scorn--to move are all unable, Know that prophetic were thy words!
Fate hastens! The Valkyrie prepares the spear already, Its deadly point
already does she sharpen. Ah, see! the prince of battle holds it
brandish'd; He strikes! he strikes! and all the Aser sorrow.
BALDER. Dark is thy speech, O Thor! dark as thy visage.
THOR. Before my eyes are murky shadows flitting. A mortal youth,
with blood of Asa crimson'd! The fight and death of gods, the fall of
Asgara! Hear, son of Odin, wretched slave of passion, Think not that
dreams, that magic's foul deception, That spectres of the night my brain
bewilder; And oh! think not that merely chance has led me To Balder's
presence, and to these high forests! I sought thee, came with speed to
give thee warning: Fear, then! It is thy friend, 'tis Thor, who's speaking!
And on my lips I bear the words of Odin. Thou know'st there grows in
night's mysterious valley A tree, as yet by men or gods seen never; It
bears a bough, which bough, when once 'tis harden'd In Nastroud's
flames, can slay thee.
BALDER. Yes, I know it.
THOR. That knowest thou, friend! And is it a mere slumber, A fleeting
trance, a pleasant dream of battle, With which the spear's impregnated
in Nastroud? Ha! whom it slays wakes never up in Valhall; In mist and
darkness must he lie for ever. From gods and men alike for ever parted,
Must Balder be detested--Haela's booty, Not Odin's quest?
BALDER. Aye; when the tree's discover'd.
THOR. Well, now, attend and heed a father's warning! When Odin high
from Lidskialf saw thee raving, In toils of love, 'mong Norway's snowy
mountains, The speech of Mimmer on his heart fell heavy. Hear it and
tremble! Not for death, O Balder! Nor e'en for Haela, but thy father's
anguish; "The year"--such was his word (thou knowest Mimmer, And

scarce canst think he'd breathe the words of falsehood)-- "The year
when Norway's desert hills shall echo The half-god's wasted
love-caus'd lamentations, When he's rejected by a prophet's daughter,
That year shall see the spear which holds his ruin, Shall see the gods in
grief, and Odin weeping." Hear that and quake! And fly, and spare thy
father! If not, dote on and die, for that's thy fortune!
[He disappears among the trees.
BALDER (alone). And must I die?