THE FIRST. Thou knowest that the morning sun illumines
Ten thousand spears on Scotland’s heathy mountains;
High beats with joy each warrior’s heart. In silence,
They forward press, and only wait my on-cry.
Thither would I—but hear the strange adventure
Which stopp’d my flight upon these rocks. Envelop’d
In a black, tempest, I a Finman follow’d,
Who boldly climb’d the mountain summits,
And sprang o’er every yawning rift undaunted:
Then saw I Hothbrod’s valiant son. I saw him
As in the brook he cleans from dust his armour,
And sharp’d laboriously his rusty dagger,
And prov’d upon the pine’s thick stem his falchion;
Then brandish’d he his hunting-spear: far backward
He drew his nervous arm; I heard the weapon
Hiss, but my eye beheld it scarce a moment,
For like the lightning which the black clouds swallow
It vanished, and the heir vainly sought it.
Then look’d I round about, and saw my Finman,
Who held the spear and laugh’d; I storm’d with fury.
Then down he plung’d within a midnight chasm;
And from the deep uprose a voice like thunder
Which slowly booms among the Finnish deserts.
“Unarm’d,” it bellow’d, “shall the warrior perish?
Wither shall he of age, and deep in Hælheim
Be hidden, far from Odin, far from Valhall.”
Angry, I rooted up the oaks in search of
A spear for battle’s friend—and this I fix’d on;
I gave it tempest’s speed and strength to humble
Each warrior whom it smiteth, when with wonder
Of thy fast sounding voice I heard an echo.
THE SECOND. Ye stars! what sorcery! But to me now listen!
I hasten’d unto Hortha’s gloomy forests,
To glut myself in Roman blood; then look’d I
Down from the thunder-cloud in which I journey’d,
And on these towering hills my eyes I fastened;
Then saw I Denmark’s Hother, prince of battle,
Like the rock-pine, which o’er the ocean beetles;
He stood, and storm-winds with his locks were playing,
Then from the brake a wolf sprang, grim and frightful,
And big as Fenri’s Wolf: the Skoldung saw it,
And brandish’d high his spear. Forth went it booming,
As booming goes from the cold North a whirlwind;
Straight vanished wolf and spear; but deep a-forest
Was heard as from a thousand wolves a howling.
“See, see,” it howl’d, “the Skoldung Hother loses
His spear, and in his hand the sword is fragile.
Now have we peace, and Norway’s Kemps may slumber.”
Disturb’d at such dark sorcery, I seiz’d on
The spear of steel thou see’st, and laid lightning
And fiends’ death on its point, when I beheld thee.
THE THIRD (who hitherto has stood in deep thought). Sharp is my sight in war; but here is darkness.
But do not think that chance and magic
Here assembled battle’s angry daughters.
Allfather for the fight prepares; Allfather
Assembles us with murky wink: I saw him,
The mighty Thor; wroth was he, and his hammer
Was in his hand. He stood by Gevar’s dwelling:
He spoke to me, and soon as e’er I answer’d
He vanished, thundering in the eastern heavens.
It is not sport, nor any childish quarrel,
Be ye assured, makes Thor descend from Asgaard.
THE FIRST. He spake to thee?
THE THIRD. As when the warriors slumber,
And suddenly are wak’d to thousand dangers
By din of shields and mingled squadrons’ tumult,
So tower’d he up and shouted when he saw me,
And dread and hollow as the ocean’s bellow,
As moan of forests in the nightly tempest,
Sounded his voice unto my ear!
“What, Rota!” he shouted; Rota here! “Ye gods of heaven!
Whom seekest thou, where unclomb rocks engirdle
Peace, smiling peace? O say! whom, sent by Skulda,
Wilt thou devote upon the stilly mountains?
But ah! what light had I the power to kindle?
Dark is my spirit. The terrific Norna,
She who allots to time, ere it approaches,
It’s luck, and binds it with determined fingers
Unto Fate’s will, is silent, and drives Rota
Far from each plain belov’d where battle rages.
Yet shook the fatal spear with which conflicting
Monarchs I greet, at sunrise thrice it trembled;
And death lies heavy in my arm—that know I,
But for the victim.
THE FIRST. Threatens Fate our Hother?
THE SECOND. Thor’s fear and even thine betoken danger.
THE THIRD. So seems it. Ah! if it concern’d our Hother!
Ye mind full well how high the Danish hero
I ever lov’d—I saw him by a fountain,
Dejected, weaponless, and half in slumber;
But deep into the forest fled the savage,
From whom he took his sword, the sharp-edged Mimer,
And Hother’s spear in his rude hands he carried.
“Retain my falchion, thou ferocious warrior!
Little in conflict shall it e’er avail thee!”
So shouted he, and all the rocks resounded.
Then straight I brought my choicest spear from Valhall—
Long since I cut it from a lonely wild beech,
Which, hid from day, grew up in Lapland’s deserts;
A circle of grey stones stood round about it,
On each was clotted blood, and bones, and ashes;
Blood as I cut the spear the stem emitted—
It crushes stone, and steel, and giants’ armour.
HOTHER, THE OTHERS.
HOTHER (he is armed, but without a spear). Where is this prince of beauty, Nanna’s half-god?