THOR. Gods!
[He again casts his eyes upon the ground, like one who meditates deeply.
BALDER. Behind yon pine wood he built an altar unto thee and Odin,
There thou mayst see the roof of his still dwelling.
There lives the earthly Freia—cruel maiden—
There slumbers she, perhaps—the proud one rests in
Joy’s downy arms, undreaming aught of Balder!
As if I did not love, were not a half-god;
As if by Skalds my name were never chanted
As if I were a demon, bad as Loke!
Ha! if upon my tongue lurked bane and magic,
When fear enchains it and the pale lip trembles;
When broken words and a disordered wailing
Are all with which I can express my bosom’s
Desire intense, and dread unwonted torments.
Ha! were my voice like Find’s when he, distracted,
Goes over Horthedal; as when he bellows,
And wild at last, and blind with fury, splinters
The oaks, the glory of the sacred forest.
Ha! if the blood of maids and unarm’d wretches
Of harmless travellers, stained the hands of Balder—
If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers—
Then might’st thou well be pale;
And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!
THOR. Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!
BALDER. From Nanna! Yes, I ought—that see I plainly.
Ha! some accursed fiend my foot has fasten’d
To these wild mountains and to Nanna’s shadow!
And is there nothing then of hope remaining?
When did I first become so grim—so frightful?
When? Tell me, Thor, is breath of mine destructive?
Has death among my tears and smiles its dwelling?
What shall I do? Reply! But thou art silent,
And from thine eyeball flames contemptuous anger.
THOR (he rises). Ha! drivellest thou before the God of Thunder?
BALDER. To Thor, to Odin’s friend, I breathe my sorrow.
THOR. How long dost think, degenerate son of Odin,
Unmanly pining for a foolish maiden,
And all the weary train of love-sick follies,
Will move a bosom that is steeled by virtue?
Thou dotest! Dote and weep, in tears swim ever;
But by thy father’s arm, by Odin’s honour,
Haste, hide thy tears and thee in shades of alder!
Haste to the still, the peace-accustom’d valley,
Where lazy herdsmen dance amid the clover.
There wet each leaf which soft the west wind kisses,
Each plant which breathes around voluptuous odours,
With tears! There sigh and moan and the tired peasant
Shall hear thee, and, behind his ploughshare resting,
Shall wonder at thy grief, and pity Balder!
BALDER. And is this all the comfort thou canst offer?
THOR. I gave thee counsel: fly from her who flies thee!
What holds thee here, where thou canst hope for nothing?