Classic Poem

“Bright sets the sun, and sweet it is to view
Its mild rays quiver through the foliage green!
Alfader's look! as pure in evening dew
As in his ocean's wave, and as serene.
Tinged are the hill-tops with its rosy light,
Ah! still it tells of blood in Balder's fane.
Soon will the landscape be enwrapp'd in night,
And, like a golden shield, the sun sink in the main.

“Pleased I behold each well-remembered field,
Friend of my boyhood, dear to childish love
Still the same flowers their evening perfume yield,
And the same songsters through the forest rove.
Still on the reefs the foaming billows break;
Too happy he who o'er them never sails!
Of war, of fame perfidious hopes they wake,
'Tis but to lure us far from our our paternal vales.

“Bright waves! I know ye, for ye often bore
Th' intrepid swimmer on your breasts of blue:
I know thee, valley, where we long since swore
Eternal fealty such as earth ne'er knew.
And you, ye birch-trees, in whose bark I scored
Full many a rune of love, ye stand, I see,
With silver trunks, and boughs with foliage stored;
And all is as it was; no change,—except in me.

“But is all as it was? and Framnæs where?
Where Balder's temple on the sacred strand?
And you, ye vales, my boyhood knew so fair,
How are ye wasted by the steel and brand!
Now human vengeance and the Asas' wrath
Call to the pilgrim from the fire-scathed soil
O pious pilgrim, bend not here thy path!
For now the wild beasts prowl through Balder's grove for spoil.

“A cruel tempter doth life's path infest,
Grim Nidhog, issued from the realm of shades:
He hates the Asas' light, which is impress'd
On heroes' foreheads, and their falchion blades;
His work, each crime that stains the hour of ire,
Each demon-whisper prompting to destroy
And when he tempts us, when we temples fire,
He claps his coal-black hands in extasy of joy.

“Is there no grace for me in Odin's hall?
Will blue-eyed Balder no atonement heed?
Man takes the were-gilt, when his kinsmen fall;
The high Gods shrive us when their victims bleed;
And thou, of these the mildest, as we're taught,
What canst thou ask, I would not gladly yield?
To fire thy shrine was far from Frithiof's thought;
Ah! then, efface the stain from my else spotless shield!

“Remove this burden! quench this inward strife!
Protect my soul from memory's rude assault!
Reject not my remorse! but let a life
Of honor weigh against a moment's fault.
I would not blanch, though Thor himself were near;
Not pale-blue Hela could my proud glance lower.
But thee, mild God, with aspect calm and clear,
'Tis thee alone I dread, thy vengeance I deplore.

“My father's tomb!—and does the hero sleep?
Gone never to return, he dwells within
A starry tent, they say, and oft and deep
He drains his mead-cup midst the bucklers' din:
Oh, Asas' guest! Oh, Thorsten Vikingson!
Look on thy son, from out those fields of bliss!
With runes, with groans I come not; but alone
To soothe the God I seek, oh! father, teach me this!

“Is the tomb dumb? yet Angantyr of yore
Broke for a sword the silence of the grave:
The sword was good, but Thirsing's worth scarce more
Than Frithiof's prayer, who never begg'd a glaive.
Wish'd I a sword, the Holm-gang should supply:
From thee the Asas' pardon I require:
Speak of my anguish'd thought, my grief-dimm'd eye,
And say, a noble soul still shrinks from Balder's ire.

“Still silent? hark! it is the wild wave sings;
A gentle music! come! thine ear apply!
The storm is stirring; place thee on its wings,
And whisper to me as it passes by.
High in the west unnumber'd gold rings shine;
Charg'd with thy thought let one a herald speed,
What! canst thou not? what! neither word nor sign
For thy despairing son! the dead are poor indeed!”

The sun grows dim; the night-wind from on high
To all earth's children sings its cradle song;
And evening's blush ascends, and o'er the sky
Its rosy wheels it gently rolls along;
Valhalla's lovely child it brightly waves
O'er azure hills and vales its pinions bold;
But lo!—where floating o'er the western wave
A vision draweth near of mingled fire and gold!

A Hægring well that prodigy denotes;
Its name in Valhall boasts a loftier sound:
And gently now o'er Balder's bower it floats,
A crown of gold upon a verdant ground.
It shines above—below—and bursts there forth
To mortal eyes a splendor all unknown:
And now it stops, and now descends to earth
Where once the temple stood, itself a temple grown.

On the cliff's edge the lofty wall uprears,
Image of Breidablik, its burnish'd side:
Each column wrought of deep blue steel appears:
The altar by one gorgeous gem supplied.
And, as if spirit-borne, the dome hangs high,
A winter heaven, with starry radiance lit,
And bright around, in robes of heavenly die,
On thrones, with golden crowns, Valhalla's monarchs sit!

And see, where leaning on their shields, they pause,
The solemn Nornas at the portal's base!
Like three fair roses in a single vase,
A serious beauty beaming from each face;
Urda, with outstretch'd finger, to the fane
In ashes, points; and Skulda to the new;
And Frithiof gazed confused; and when again
With eager joy he look'd, away that vision flew!

“Daughters of earliest time, your meaning's clear,
Father, in this I read thy guiding sign;
Proud, o'er the self same spot, you hid me rear
The prostrate fane. I hail the glad task mine.
By deeds of peace to yield repentance scope
For youthful crimes, a new born courage gives:
The deeply sinning still may cherish hope,
For see, the fair god yields, and softens, and forgives.

“All hail! ye stars, that blaze athwart the sky,
Once more, with joy, your silent course I view;
All hail! ye northern lights, no more my eye
With horror sees a temple's flames in you.
Grow green, ancestral tombs! from out the deep,
Sweet as of old, come forth, thou wond'rous strain!
For I would rest me on my shield, and sleep,
To dream of crimes atoned, and Gods appeased again.”