Classic Poem

The midnight sun on the mountain rests,
Its disk of a bloody hue;
It is not day, it is not night,
But something between the two.

Now, type of the sun, fair Balder's pyre
In his shrine doth brightly gleam;
The red steel smokes with victim blood;
Hœder reigns o'er earth supreme.

And watching the sacred fire, around
See the priestly circle stands!
Those wan old men, with their silver beards,
And knives in their bloody hands.

Helge is there; and with pomp he fain
Would share in the sacred rite
But hark! from the grove there bursts a sound
As of arms upon the night!

“Biorn! look well to the outer gate;
Thus our captives they remain;
And whosoever would come or go,
Cleave him, I say, in twain.”

The king turn'd pale, for too well he knew
That voice, ere he saw the form:
'Tis Frithiof comes, with his soul on fire,
And speech like an autumn storm!

“Here! see the treasure you bade me seek
In the Isles of the West—'tis thine;
And now for a combat of life and death
Between us at Balder's shrine;

“With buckler on back, with naked breast,
And let none disturb the fight.
As king the first blow be thine—but mark!
The next will be mine of right.

“Nay! cast not thy craven looks around,
In his corner the fox I hold;
Think, tyrant, on Framnæs' ashes! think
On thy sister with hair of gold!”

Thus spake he out with a hero's pride,
And straight from his girdle drew
The purse, which madly and fiercely then
In the face of the king he threw.

From his mouth the blood is flowing fast,
A mist is before his eyes;
And sorely hurt at the altar's foot
The Asas' proud kinsman lies.

“What! canst thou not bear thine own vile gold,
Thou basest of Niddings base?
Fear not! to strike such a wretch as thee,
Angurvadel would disgrace.

“Ha! back ye priests! your knives restrain!
Pale sorcerers at dim moonlight!
Or perchance it may cost ye dear; my sword
Is athirst for blood to-night.

“Balder the fair! nay, never frown,
Nor such angry aspect wear!
That bracelet, upon your arm, so brave,
By your leave, has no business there.

“'Twas not for thee, as I wot, in it
That Vaulunder's skill was shown:
Force stole away that which love bestow'd,
I come to reclaim mine own.”

Fierce was his grasp, but bracelet and arm
Into one, as it were, had grown—
A fiercer still, lo! the god himself
On his blazing shrine is thrown!

The flame how it cracks, as on cornice and roof
It fastens its tooth of gold!
Pale as death stands Biorn at the outer gate,
As pale as his chieftain bold.

“Fling wide the door, let the people pass,—
No sentinel now need I,
For the temple burns;—pour water, pour,
Till ocean itself be dry.”

From temple to sea now a chain is form'd
Of buckets, that swiftly pass
From arm to arm, till the waters hiss,
And steam on the burning mass.

Frithiof, on high, like the rain-god drench'd,
In the midst of the danger stands;
And stern, in face of the growing death,
He issues his calm commands.

'Tis vain! for like a red bird of prey
Is the flame, as it upward springs,
That flies to the roof, and screams, and flaps
With joy its victorious wings.

The morning wind from the north blows strong,
As it blows over Balder's bower,
Which, parch'd and dry in its summer drought,
How the hungry flames devour!

The trees at their roots how they crack, the while
The flames o'er their summits climb!
Ah! little can human strength avail
'Gainst the children of Muspelheim!

How it rustles and cracks through brier and brake
The fierce all-devouring fire!
What a wild and fearful light it sheds!
Oh! powerful is Balder's pyre?

On, on, through the grove the fire-surge rolls!
No limits its waves can bound!
The sun is up! still the red abyss
Throws its awful glare around!

A heap of ashes the temple lies!
The grove to the flame's a prey!
Desolation reigns; and Frithiof turns
With horror and grief away!