Classic Poem

Now was the work completed, and the temple
Of Balder built anew; not as before,
With palisade of wood surrounded, but
With iron railing; representing spears
With gilded points, like steel-clad men, with helms
Of brass, who stand around to guard the fane.
The cupola of massy granite rock
Was form'd, and with consummate skill erected.
It was indeed a work gigantic, built
To bid to time defiance, like the temple
In Upsala, where the astonished North
In its terrestrial form beholds Valhalla.
Proudly it stood upon the mountain's brow,
And in the silver wave beneath reflected
Its front majestic; while on every side
The grove of Balder, like a belt of flowers,
Extended lay, the calm abode of peace.
High was the portal, and of chissel'd bronze:
A double row of columns stands within
Of marble, bearing on their lofty shoulders
The vaulted dome, which o'er the temple hangs
In guise of golden shield: of marble also
The altar of the God next meets the eye
A serpent, beautifully sculptur'd, winds
Its folds around the altar, and each fold
Contains the runes of virtue and of wisdom,
Glean'd from the Vala or the Havamal.
High on the wall, above the altar, shines
A niche with golden stars, on ground of blue;
And in that niche the silver image stands
Of Balder, god of piety and light,
Beauteous and mild in aspect, like the moon
Of argent on the dark blue vault of heaven.
Such was the temple. Now in pairs there enter'd
Twelve consecrated virgins, clad in vestments
Of silver tissue, roses in their cheeks,
And roses in their uncorrupted hearts.
Before the statue of the God they danced,
As vernal winds dance o'er the fountain stream,
Or forest elves, upon the high-grown grass,
With morning dew still glittering. While they dance,
They chaunt in choir a holy hymn of Balder
The pious; how by all created beings
He dearly was beloved; how he fell
Beneath the dart of Hœder; how his fate
Was deeply mourn'd by earth, and sea, and heaven.
Not mortal sound their voices, but like tones
From Breidablik, the Gods' abode, proceeding;
Or like the thought of maiden when alone
Musing upon her lover, absent far,
When Philomel tunes her nocturnal lay,
And the moon shineth on the beechen grove.
Silent stood Frithiof, leaning on his sword,
And gazed upon the dance: when lo! a host
Of recollections from his early days
Peer'd 'fore his brain; a jocund train were they,
And innocent: with locks of gold, and eyes
Of azure, beaming love, they bade him “Hail!”
And like a bloody shade his Viking life,
With all its battles, its adventures all,
Sank into night's abyss: and to himself
A Bautastén he seem'd, with garlands crown'd,
Standing beside their grave: and as the song
Continued, towards Valhalla rose in thought
His spirit, freed from all the lowly cares
Which haunt the valley of this earthly life:
And every sentiment of human hate
And human vengeance melted from his breast,
As the ice melts upon the mountains steep,
When vernal zephyrs blow: a sea of joy
And peace his soul heroic overwhelm'd.
He felt as if all nature's heart did beat
Against his own: and in his fond embrace
The universe itself he fain would hold,
And peace restore 'mongst all created beings.
But now the Priest Supreme of Balder's rite
Into the temple enter'd; young he was not,
Nor handsome, as the God; but tall in stature:
His silver beard down to his girdle flow'd,
And o'er his features heavenly mildness play'd.
A reverence unwonted overpower'd
The haughty soul of Frithiof: from his helm
Down sank the lofty eagle plumes before
The venerable man, who thus address'd him,
Benevolent and calm, with words of peace.

“Welcome here, Frithiof, O my son! 'tis long
I have expected thee. Round sea and land
Force, uncontroll'd, like Berserk loves to rove,
Who in the bitter combat bites the shield.
Weary at length, and by experience cooled,
Homeward it bends its course: full many a time
The mighty Thor hath gone to Jotunheim;
Yet, spite of his steel gauntlets, and his belt
Of power divine, Lok still upon his throne
In Utgard sits, and smiles at Thor defiance.
Evil yields not to Strength, itself being strong;
Virtue, when not with Force combin'd, is powerless
As a child's play: 'tis like the solar ray
Upon bright Agir's bosom; a mere image,
A graspless shadow, which alternate sinks
Or rises with the wave: but, without Virtue,
Force can effectuate naught or good or lasting
It doth consume itself, as doth the sword
Which rusteth in the sheath: 'tis the debauch
Of life, when the dark heron of oblivion
O'er the fill'd goblet its broad wings extends;
And when the hour of drunkeness is past,
And reason re-assumes her wonted sway,
We blush and sicken at the deeds we've done.
All force comes from the earth, from Ymer's limbs;
The yeasty waves spring from that giant's veins,
And brass and iron each tough sinew yields;
Yet barren still, and empty, and unfruitful
Doth it remain, until celestial Virtue,
Sun-like, its rays thereon benignant sheds.
The grass then groweth green; the flowers put on
Their many-colored die; its spacious crown
The tree extends aloft; the fruit assumes
Its golden hue; and man and beast alike
Their nourishment from mother earth receive.
E'en so it is with Asker's race. Alfader
Placeth two weights for every human life
Into his scales, which one another balance,
When just the scales are poised; and these are called
Celestial Goodness and terrestrial Force.
Thor's force is great indeed, when round his waist
The belt of Megingard he bindeth fast,
And proudly stalks to battle: 'Odin's wisdom
Is likewise great, when he casts down his look
On Urda's silver wave, and from the earth
His ravens twain, ascending to the skies,
Bring him the tidings of the nether world.
Yet pale they both became; their antique crowns
Their wonted splendor lost when Balder fell.
For Balder was the fillet of the garland
That binds Valhalla's powers: the tree of time
Then withering fell into the yellow leaf,
And Nidhog gnaw'd its root: then broke their chain
The powers of gloomy Night, the ancient anarch.
Then Midgard's serpent struck th'affrighted sky
With venom-swelter'd tail; then Fenris howled;
And Surtur's sword of flame from Muspelheim
Like lightning blazed: since then eternal rage
Throughout the whole creation war and strife.
In Valhall crows the cock; with crest of gold,
The blood-red cock, provoking Gods and men
To never-ceasing combat, o'er the earth
And eke beneath. Before that time peace reigned.
Not merely in the realm of Asagard,
But also upon Earth; in every bösom
Of Mortal, or Immortal, peace then reign'd
With undisputed sway: for what on earth
Occurs, hath happen'd in the world above
In grander scale already: but an image
Of Valhall is the life of man; 'tis heaven's
Splendor serene, which doth reflect itself
In Saga's brilliant rune-incrusted shield
Every heart hath its Balder: dost thou not
Remember well the time, when in thy breast
Peace reigned, and glad and joyous was thy life,
Tranquil as heaven, or dream of tuneful birds,
When winds nocturnal on a summer's eve
Blow gently o'er each blooming flower and plant?
Then Balder lived in thy pure soul, thou son
Of Asas, wandering image of Valhalla!
The God is not dead for the child; and Hela,
As oft as man is born, restores her prey.
But with this Balder in each human soul
Hœder, his brother blind, coeval grows:
For, like young bears, all Evil is born blind,
And wears night's livery; but the Good is clad in light.
Now Lok the tempter from his lurking place
Steals along silent; and with hateful zeal
Directs the blind one's hand: the sword then pierces
The heart of Balder, sanctuary of love.
Then Hate awakens! Violence springs up
Impatient! then the sword, like hungry wolf,
Stalks around hill and vale! then ships engage
In battle, and the waves discolor'd roll
With blood! for like a powerless shade sits Goodness,
Dead 'mongst the Dead, in pale-blue Hela's cave;
And Balder's temple lies consumed in ashes.
Thus is the Asas' life, in heaven above,
A prototype of human life on earth:
Both are the offspring of the tranquil thought
Of great Alfader, and they never change.
What has been, what shall happen, that alone
The fatal Vala's song profound reveals,
The cradle hymn of Time, its Drapa too.
To the same tune in that mysterious song
Rises Heimkringlas' edifice; while man
His proper destiny therein can read.
Dost thou well understand or not? the Vala asks thee.

Thou wouldst fain make atonement: dost thou, youth,
Know what atonement means? look in my face,
Stedfast, and falter not! the earth around
Atonement wanders, and its name is ‘Death.’
All time is from its cradle—mark me well—
Eternity perverted: earthly life
Revolt and scission from Alfader's throne.
And Expiation means returning thither
Pure, undefiled: the high and mighty Asas
Themselves have fallen: their day of expiation
Is Ragnarok—a day of blood on Vigrid's plain.
There do they fall; yet fall not unrevenged;
The Evil perishes for ever; but
The Good that falls, doth from the world's vast wreck,
Rise again, purified to better life.
The earth one day shall sink beneath the main;
The brilliant army of the stars on high
Shall disappear from heaven; and nature all
In one vast sea of flame be overwhelm'd.
Yet will the Earth again more beauteous rise,
And lift from out the waves its flower-crown'd head.
And every star, with life and light renew'd,
Its radiance spread o'er all the new creation.
Then over the green hills will Balder lead
The new born Asas, and the new formed men
And tablets bright with golden runes, once lost
In th' earliest dawn of time will there be found
By the new race on Idavallen's plain.
Thus is the death of all the sons of Good
Their proof of fire, their expiation merely,
And birth to better life, that flies again
Rejoicing to its old abode, and smiling
Sits like a child upon its father's knee.
For know, all that is great and glorious lies
Beyond the grave, the verdant gate of Gimle!
And all that dwelleth under the bright stars
Is vile and worthless: but e'en in this life
There's room for Expiation, though a copy
Imperfect of the higher one: 'tis like
The prelude of the Scald upon his harp,
When with experienced hand he tunes the chords,
And rectifies the tones, until at length
He strikes the golden strings, and chaunts aloud
The glories of the olden time, and all
Valhalla's splendor peers across his brain.
For earth is but the shade of heaven; and life
Of man the type of Balder's fane above:
The vulgar to the Asas sacrifice
That which they hold most dear; the courser proud,
Gold-saddled, purple-hous'd, is oft led forth
A victim to the Gods: that is a sign,
And deep its meaning; for the blood that's spilled
Is Morning's blush to Expiation's day.
But still the sign is not the thing itself,
And doth not make atonement: no one can
Do penance in thy stead, for what thyself
Hath done. The Dead their grand atonement make
In Alfader's pure bosom: but the Living
In their own breasts must make their expiation,
I know an offering to the Gods far dearer
Than smoke of entrails on th'ensanguined altar;
And 'tis the sacrifice the heart doth make
Of its own hate and vengeance: canst thou not
Quench their suggestions, canst thou not forgive?
Then art thou come in vain to Balder's temple.
What didst thou mean, when thou didst reconstruct
This glorious building? Surely not by stones
Can Balder be appeas'd: for Expiation
Can only dwell where peace and love do dwell.
Be reconciled then with thy enemies,
And with thyself! then will the God of Light
His hand extend, in pledge of peace and pardon.

Rumour hath reach'd me of a southern Balder,
Son of a virgin, by Alfader sent
T' expound the runes mysterious, that are graven
On the fates' sable buckler, yet unravell'd.
Peace was his end and aim; his falchion, love;
And like a dove, sat innocence upon
His silver helmet: piously he lived,
And pious taught; but preach'd forgiveness too
And under distant palm trees lies his tomb.
His doctrine, so 'tis said, from vale to vale
Wanders triumphant, melteth stony hearts;
Joins hands together; and constructs on earth
A realm of peace and charity and love.
I do not rightly comprehend his law,
But in my better hours, methinks, I feel
A distant glimmering of its holy fire;
And at such times all hearts must feel like mine.
The day will come, and I foresee it clear,
When o'er the rugged mountains of the North
'Twill spread its dove-like pinions, and on high
Will wave victoriously its sacred banner.
But ere that day arrives, the North will be
For us no more; and oft the oak shall wave
Its branches o'er our long forgotten graves.
All hail, ye generations yet unborn!
Than us far happier, ye shall one day drink
That cup of consolation, and behold
The torch of truth illuminate the world!
This will disperse each murky vaporous cloud,
Which threat'ning o'er the sun of life impends.
Yet do not us despise, for we have sought
With earnest zeal, and unaverted eye,
To catch one ray of that ethereal light.
Alfader still is one, and still the same;
But many are his messengers divine.

Thou hatest Bele's sons: whence springs this hate?
Because to thee, an Odalbonde's son,
Their sister they refuse, of Sening's blood
Descended from the Asas; and therefrom
Proceeds their pride: but a mere chance is birth,
And not a merit, is thy prompt reply.
Of his own merit let no man be proud;
For merit too is fortune's gift: the best
Is given by the Gods: art thou not proud
Thyself of thy heroic deeds and potent strength?
Didst thou this strength give to thyself? are not
Thy nerves, as firm and strong as gnarled oak,
The gift of Asa Thor? Is not the courage,
That palpitates within thy breast and burns
For action, also given thee by Thor?
Is't not the lightning of that God that flashes
From thy undaunted eye? to thee the Nornas
Did also at thy cradle sing the song
Of fame and empire: wherefore then shouldst thou
Be prouder of this boon, than the King's sons
Of regal birth? do not too harshly blame
Another's pride, lest thou be blamed thyself!
King Helge now hath fallen.”—“Helge fallen?
(Here interrupted Frithiof) when and where?”—
“Thou knowest thyself, since thou hast tarried here,
He took the field against the Finlanders.
Upon a wild and desolate heath there stands
An ancient temple, sacred to Jumala:
That temple hath been long abandon'd, all
Its rites neglected: but above the gate
There was an ancient image of that God
Renowned far and wide, though menacing
To fall from its antiquity: among
The people was the saying handed down,
From race to race, that he who first should visit
That temple, would behold Jumala's self.
Helge heard of this story, and with purpose
Of fell destruction, to the temple he flew
Of the detested God: when he approached,
The gate was fasten'd close, and therein lay
A rusty key unfit for use: the King,
By passion and by hatred blinded, grasp'd
One of the wooden columns which supported
The roof, and shook it with his utmost force.
The column, rotten within, gave way, and down
Fell with tremendous crash the fatal statue,
And crush'd King Helge in it's ponderous fall!
Thus did the son of Bele see Jumala.
A messenger last night hath brought the news
Of this event: now Halfdan sits sole regent
On Bele's throne. Offer to him thy hand,
In pledge of peace, and sacrifice thy wrath
In homage to the Asas! Balder's self
This sacrifice commands, and I, his priest,
Demand it, as a proof of wish sincere
To expiate thy faults at Balder's shrine.
Dost thou refuse? then was this glorious temple
In vain rebuilt, and I have preach'd in vain,”

Now Halfdan enter'd by the gate of bronze;
And with uncertain look, when he beheld
His formidable foe, he hesitated,
And silent stood. But Frithiof from his loins
His belt unbuckling, placed the corslet-hater,
And gilded buckler at the altar's base:
And, thus unarmed, advanc'd to meet his foe:
“In such a strife,” said he with friendly mien,
“He is the worthiest, who the first presents
His hand in pledge of peace.” King Halfdan blushed,
Drew off his glove of steel, an