The Death of Balder | Page 4

And strong as Thor, and beautiful as
Balder.
BALDER. Ha! kill me not, but answer: name him.
LOKE (with a loud voice). Hother!
BALDER (with agitation). What! Who? The Leire King? The
Skioldung Hother?
LOKE. Who here is foster'd up by Nanna's father.
BALDER. Thou killest me! Thou see'st how I tremble! Yet, that I never
saw him here! Where is he?
LOKE. At Gevar's.
BALDER. By the gods, it overcomes me! What, under Nanna's roof?
LOKE. At night-time only, As I believe; for ere the east hills redden,
Upstarts he, lovely as a young spring morning, And griping firm his
lusty spear, he wanders Among the rocks. Ah, master! thou hast seen
him-- Withouten doubt thou hast. 'Tis true he hideth For some time past
his god-like form in wadmal, {1} And rolls beneath a rugged cap his
tresses-- I wonder, wherefore.
BALDER. Ha! thou flash of lightning, Which clear'st all up at once! I,
wretched madman! How senseless was I, and by pride how blinded To
sons of earth my eyes I never lower'd. Ah! is my proud solicitude thus
baffled? But she can only love the gods, I'm certain!
LOKE. Excuse me, sir, I do not understand thee. She loves not Odin
half so much as Hother.
BALDER. Fly, slave--begone! for Udgaard, Loke's poison, Is on thy
tongue! That foe of gods has sent thee: Thou art his messenger, thou
art--thou art, thou traitor! Dost dare to linger? But thou art in safety,
For, worm, thy weakness and my oath protect thee. Ha! I myself will
fly before my fury. [He goes.

LOKE (he looks contemptuously after BALDER, then raises himself to
his full height, discards at once his assumed figure, and appears as
LOKE). My weakness, mighty Balder? Do not scorn it! To dust and
ashes, boaster, it shall crush thee. Not Loke's messenger, but Loke,
stung thee. Already bellows the young god with torment: Hear, Odin!
hear thy lov'd one, hear him howling! Delay thee not! enjoy his voice
and feel it! Harmonious is it to the ears of Loke. Quick, quick! thou
ne'er again, perchance, will hear it. Survey him near: how swells each
vein with poison, Which I have poured into his breast with cunning!
Soon Odin, soon will thy beloved be silent; Soon from thy sight will
Balder flit for ever; Then will it be thy turn to mourn, O tyrant! It
comes--the long-protracted day of vengeance! It comes--the sigh'd-for
hour of retribution! How long hast thou not tortur'd Loke's bowels, And
fearless trampled 'neath thy feet his offspring? Hear Hael and Fenris'
Wolf, and Midgaard's Serpent-- Loud howl they!--hear them night and
day proclaiming Thy unmatched cruelty with frightful voices! Each of
them was a god, and fair as Balder, But now to earth and heaven, and to
myself, a horror: Each is a monster, bow'd with chains of darkness. The
hour's at hand, the tardy hour of vengeance: Already blow I in war's
horn: to combat, Up, up ye mighty gods, and rescue Balder! There see I
him, the hero youth, who only, Arm'd with the tree of death by Odin's
maidens, Can be--so Fate decrees--this Balder's slayer. And he shall be
it: quickly shall he brandish The life-destroying bough, if Asa Loke, By
mighty art and wonderful delusions, Knows how to work the maidens
to his purpose. He comes! I will conceal myself, and listen.
HOTHER, and presently LOKE--the first dressed like a Norwegian
peasant, with a hunting-spear in his hand; the other undistinguished.
HOTHER (he comes down from the rocks and unbinds the skiers {2}
from his feet ere he steps forward on the scene).
Upon the oak's summit, A squirrel at play Deceives with a rustle The
hunter so gay; He starts, and, low crouching, His spear he grasps tight,
And, swelling up, boundeth His hand with delight.
Now quick--be not daunted! He's coming--take heed! The bold bear,
the old bear, Doth hitherward speed. Oh, sound the most pleasant This

ear ever knew! He cometh--a bigger This weapon ne'er slew.
Thou sovereign of forests! Thou pride of thy race! Oh, fortunate
hunter-- Oh, glorious chase! Now quick! be not daunted, He comes--be
prepared! Where is he, the savage? His bellow, who heard?
No more on the oak-top The squirrel doth play; Deceived has a rustle
The hunter so gay; No sound as he listens His hearing assails, Save the
pattering of leaves That are moved by the gales.
There comes he--where? Oh, what a foolish stripling Am I, who here
about four days have wandered In quest of a mere phantom! Surely,
Nanna, Thou dost deceive me--dost but prove thy lover; And think'st
thou, virtuous one, that if a godhead Came down in light effulgent, and
before thee Knelt and laid heaven at thy feet--Ha! think'st Thou that
fear,