The Death of Balder | Page 4

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, base doubt of Nanna's faith and Honour, would sully Hother's breast? I know thou Lovest me--thou hast avowed it: what shall then This wooer avail--this wooer who must not be Anger'd? Why the deception?
LOKE. Hail, thou son of Hothbrod!
HOTHER (astonished). Ha! scarcely do I know myself! By Odin, I look more like a rugged elf than Hother. And who art thou, that knowest me? who art thou?
LOKE. My name is Vanfred! When thy mother bore thee I was at hand and swore unto thee friendship.
HOTHER. Grim is thy visage, and thine eye doth promise, But little good. What dost thou seek?
LOKE. Whom, Skolding, Whom fearest thou? Why hide