Now a chain is knit to the strand,
Not a link is missing;
Flies the billow from hand to hand
Against the fire-brands hissing.
Fridthjof sits like the god of rain
High o'er beam and water,
Gives to all his orders plain,
Calm amid the slaughter.
Vain! the fire has the upper hand,
Smoke-clouds dense are growing,
Gold falls first on the red-hot sand,
Silver streams are flowing.
All is lost! to the half-burned hall
A fire-red cock is clinging,
He sits and crows on the roof-peak tall,
His loosened pinions swinging.
The wind-blown flame mounts the vaulted sky,
Everything it levels,
Balder's grove is summer dry,
The hungry fire-king revels.
Fiercely leaping from height to height
Aiming yet still higher;
O, what wild and terrific light!
Strong is Balder's pyre!
Hark, it crackles! the roots now burn,
The tops are fiery showers;
Muspel's ruddy children spurn
Man's mere human powers.
A fire-sea billows in Balder's grove,
Strandless breaks and hisses,
The sun is up, but bay and cove
Mirror flaming abysses.
Soon in smoldering ashes lay
Grove and temple's adorning;
Sadly then Fridthjof turned away,—
Wept in the light of morning.