Ildegarda scarce waited fully to throw off the fetters of sleep ere she descended to the marble hall, and instantly gave the signal which used to summon Brandomann to her presence, and which he had never neglected; now it was unheeded. Alarmed, she repeated it more strongly—Brandomann replied not to the call; half-distracted she hurried through the palace and harrowed her own feelings by recalling to mind his mournful prediction of the fate which awaited him, should she exceed her allotted time. She shuddered to reflect how long that time had elapsed. From the palace she traversed the gardens, running wildly with an aching heart and burning brow to every quarter, and asking every object she met for tidings of her lamented Brandomann: the birds and the echoes alone replied to her mournful queries, and disconsolate and despairing she threw herself upon the sod to give vent to the bitterness of her sorrow, and lament undisturbed her affliction. “Brandomann!” she exclaimed; “Brandomann! where art thou? friend of my soul, art thou yet in existence, or hath my ingratitude destroyed thee? Oh, if thou hearest, if thou beholdest these tears, have pity on thy wretched Ildegarda, and hasten to relieve her agony, and pardon her involuntary crime.” She started up in a sudden ecstasy, for a low groan at no great distance from her seemed to be an answer to her question; she rushed forward in that direction, and soon beheld the hapless Brandomann stretched upon the earth, and apparently in the agonies of death; but her beloved voice, the touch of her gentle hand, the glance of her worshipped eye, either of these would have recalled him to life, and now all were lavishly employed to restore him: he looked up for a moment. Mournfully he said, “Beloved, thou art come to see me die!” and then relapsed into stupor and forgetfulness. Ildegarda wept in agony—she was hanging over him in listless sorrow, when her thoughts were aroused by the appearance of Heidruna. “Brandomann is dying,” said the white goat, “and from grief at your neglect; but you have returned, and, in compassion to your sufferings, I am permitted to restore him to you: take the bowl you see yonder, draw forth a portion of my milk, and give it to his lips; the hydromel of heaven will call him back to life.” Ildegarda obeyed—she gave the miraculous draught to Brandomann, who as instantly recovered his reason and his strength; with tears of joy she expressed her gratitude to Heidruna; and the Moskoe chief observing her delight, and too happy once more to behold her, readily forgave her all he had suffered in her absence. There was much happiness that night in the marble palace; Sleipner bowed down his arched neck to receive a pat from her snowy hand; Serimnor grinned till his huge tusks were completely visible; the ravens presented her the tips of their wings, and flew screaming about, as if they had been drinking the hydromel of Valhalla. Ildegarda was happy, and Brandomann dared not trust his feelings to words. Sunny walks and moonlight musings were now the pursuits of the imprisoned pair; for instead of retiring to rest, as formerly, when the Valhalla people went to their party, they roamed over the island, contemplating the stars, and talking tenderly of course, for when were love and moonshine separated? It is true, in this instance, the tenderness was all on one side; for though Ildegarda permitted it, since she saw the happiness it gave to Brandomann, she yet could not prevail upon herself to return it, or say the words he wished to hear from her lips. One evening, as thus, in the tranquil moonlight, they sat alone in the summery isle, Ildegarda was astonished, by the appearance of a wonder she had never yet remarked in the island; the moon was suddenly eclipsed by a light so glorious, yet so soft, that every object around her was visible in the brightness of beaming gold, yet without giving pain to the sense. Brandomann remarked her admiration. “This beauteous light,” said he, “is a mark of the approbation of the father of the gods, at some virtuous action of a favourite of heaven; it is Odin’s fire, dear Ildegarda, the light of his glorious smile; and shining now as it does upon thee, and our lonely isle, it comes to tell thee he is satisfied with thy past conduct, and approves thy present.” Scarcely was this explanation given, ere the beauteous light died away from the mountains and the palace, and night wore again her solemn robe of darkness. As they prepared to return, the star-studded sky, the jewel-paved floor of the palaces of Asgard, sparkling with its unnumbered lights, and shining in its soft blue glory, struck on their souls with delight; and, while they were gazing in rapture, a large and brilliant star shot from its place in the heaven and vanished rapidly from their sight. “Some noble warrior or virtuous sage has closed his eyes upon this mortal scene,” said Brandomann, tenderly: “that was the star of his destiny; it fell from its seat in the heaven when he quitted his on the earth: this is the sign that tells to the survivors his fate, if it is fulfilled in the night; by day it is the vision of the rainbow bridge, the sacred arch that connects this earth with heaven, and over which the spirits of the just must pass.” “I have heard that it is only visible to mortal sight, when the peculiarly brave and virtuous ascend its brilliant road,” said Ildegarda. “And you have heard aright, dearest,” replied Brandomann; “it is only then that the guardian spirit of the bridge, Heimdaller of the radiant brow, descends from his abode on its top to meet and welcome the traveller; then it is, that the light from his rushing wings, and the gems which compose his jewelled crown, shine so strongly on the arch, as to render it visible to mortal sight, clad in the reflected glories of its guardian’s diadem.”
On the morrow Brandomann relieved her anxiety, which had been awakened by the sight of the falling star, lest her father’s should no more have a seat in the heavens, nor himself a name on the earth. “A mild and gracious being hath left us,” said he, “for the happier scenes of Asgard; Sevald is dead—the virtuous son of the abandoned Frotho is no more—he fell, as became his race, in the battle-field, contending against your victorious father and his kinsman Harold, against whom the tyrant rages and vows destruction, as now the only rival he has to fear.” The princess was satisfied by this explanation, the more especially as the first day of the month again presented the person of her father, though surrounded by the bustle of war.
PART V.
ODIN.
He hath borne all things well.
Shakspeare—Macbeth.
“Whence is it, Brandomann,” said Sleipner one evening to the Scaldre, “that among those of the heroes whose virtues and glories you are nightly celebrating, I never heard the actions of Odin; why, while thus honouring his friends, are you neglectful of the great father of our race? Surely he, from whom all inspiration flows, deserves the best, ay, and the finest fruits of your genius!” “It was only because I feared my feeble strains would not do justice to the lofty subject,” replied Brandomann; “the glory of the father of gods and men requires a mightier hand than mine to celebrate it; Brage alone should strike the golden chord to his honour—alone should sing of deeds beyond the feeble thought of mortality; that which I can, I will; I dare not wake the voice of song, but I will speak of his wondrous deeds, that to-night, in Valhalla, thou mayest tell bright Asgard’s king that I have instructed this lovely maiden what honours and love are due to the first of her race, and the friend of her father. Will it please thee, Ildegarda, to listen to the legend of Sigge?” “Beyond all other things,” replied the princess, pleasedly: and Brandomann, smiling, began—
From his high and everlasting throne in Valhalla, had Odin, the dispenser of good, poured forth, with unsparing hand, innumerable benefits upon his attendant spirits. In the burning benevolence of his heart he forgot, or he disregarded, that to some essences obligation is pain, and gratitude a toil; so high did he raise some of those bright creations that stood nearest to his throne, that they became too great for obedience, and impatient of the most gentle restraint. Lok, the most glorious of these glorious things, seated on the lowest step of the throne of light, saw but one between him and the highest; and once on that, what should restrain from him the throne of the universe? Thus he thought, and thus he did: by his eloquence he seduced the higher spirits from their duty—by his beauty and promises the lower. The worlds of Asgard sent their governing spirits forth to fight under his banner, and Surter brought myriads to his side. For the first time since the creation, the standards of revolt flew in the cities of Asgard, and the proud Lok drove back, with contempt, the interceding ministers of Odin, who came to remonstrate upon his madness. Confident in his power, the giant spirit entered Valasciolf, the city of the king, and dared even advance to Valhalla: the immortal beings who surround the diamond throne shuddered at his presumption, and, veiling their bright heads from the terrible glances of Odin, wept the approaching destiny of companions once so beloved, which they read in the eye of their master: the sovereign of the universe gave no command to his people—he uttered no reproach—he suffered his faithful spirits to fly before the sword of Lok and the devouring fires of Surter—he even permitted the lost ones to approach the steps of his eternal throne—then, when with proud exultation they advanced to seize upon him whose power they believed departed, he calmly arose from his seat and stretched out his right hand, armed with its invincible falchion, towards his enemies: at that tremendous signal Niord let loose the oceans of heaven, and, in terrific grandeur they came rolling down upon the revolted; the winds from all the worlds were summoned up to heaven to aid their master, and rend and scatter his offenders. Balder deserted his throne in the orb of day,—and the mad and governless globe flew up into Asgard, and burst its destructive flames upon the rebels. Thor, the first-born of Odin, threw by his star-formed diadem, girded his brow with the thunder, and, wielding the red bolt of vengeance, rushed upon them. The sightless horror rose in his terrible strength, and the arrows of Vile, unerring as the lance of Hela, flew among the foes: all was confusion, terror, and despair—cries of anguish polluted the happy city—Odin recalled his warriors, and plunged their enemies in the burning lake, bidding the proud Lok and the ambitious Surter obtain their wish and seat themselves on thrones.
But though the power of the infernal spirits was thus curbed, it was not destroyed; and, still invincible in malice, they resolved to wound Odin through his favourite, man. Lok gave birth to the snaky sin, whose folds encircle the earth, and bade him breathe from his poisonous jaws upon her surface the blast of contention and hate: he obeyed; and man, no longer beneficent and kind, rose up against his brother; with bitter words he poured curses on the father who called him into life, and smote on the bosom that had nourished him in helplessness. The father of evil beheld and smiled—his work was half accomplished—and he called into existence death, to finish the deeds begun: the pale shadow stalked over the earth and drank the crimson blood till she grew wanton in her mirth, and besought her father for a companion: he heard, and sent Fenris up to follow her steps, and exult in her multiplied victims. The fiends in hell heard the sounds of their triumph, and shouted responsive, when the shivering spirits of the slain were hurled weeping into Niftheim. At length their cruel joy was heard in Asgard, at the same moment that sounds of sorrow ascended from the earth, from the few who still remembered his name. It was from Scythia the plaining voice arose, and the monarch, looking down from his throne, beheld the last remnant of his people sinking beneath the power of the Roman. Now then he determined to descend to the earth, not only to lead them to conquest, but teach them wisdom and virtue. Frea, the mother of the gods, resolved to partake the toils of her husband; and Thor, the eldest born of Odin, the ruler of the air, forsook his palace of nine hundred and forty halls, laid by his terrific thunderbolt, and his diadem of twelve stars, and, debasing his giant frame to the standard of humanity, descended with his father to the earth. Cased in the armour of Scythians, they joined the troops of that beloved people, and the father god bidding them contend no longer against the power of the Romans, to whom Odin had given their country, promised to lead them to other fields, and give them other lands for their inheritance. The fierce Scythians yielded to the persuasive voice of him whom they only knew as the warrior Sigge, and, rather than submit to the slavery they abhorred, they forsook the tombs of their fathers, and sought an empire in the north.
In vain the inhabitants of these regions sought to oppose the establishment of the heaven-conducted Scythians; in every battle they were defeated and driven with loss from their cities: the arrows of Frea carried destruction to the enemy—the mallet of Thor crushed thousands—and Odin, raging through their ranks, now as a warrior, now as a ferocious lion, spread devastation through their armies, and drove them from the field. The Scythians saw these wonders, and secretly acknowledged Valhalla’s lord beneath the form of Sigge. When the rage of battle was past, he lulled the wounded to repose, and arrested the parting spirits of the dying with the celestial strains of his harp; the wounds of his people were cured, and their strength restored by his celestial power, while, from the same cause, his enemies were bereft of courage and of vigour. Sweden and Norway yielded to the matchless warrior, and received with joy the unknown Sigge for their king, but the Danes refused to acknowledge the leader of armies; and Mimer, their prince, an enchanter, and the friend of Lok, opposed himself against the victorious prince of Scythia. Before the assembled Danes he contended with the stranger in eloquence and poetry, and in these his own people were compelled, by the severe laws of truth, to yield the palm to his rival. Mimer was wise, eloquent, and brave; the strains of his harp were only inferior to those of Sigge, and he felt deeply the injury which he had sustained by the decision against him. Determined to recover, with his sword, the glory he had lost, he called his armies together, and bade defiance to the Scythians: the opposing bands drew near; furious was the contest, for now, like a tiger sprung Mimer on his foes—now as a fiery serpent stung their hearts, or crushed them in his mighty folds. As terrible raged Odin in various forms, carrying dismay around him, and thinning the ranks of the valiant Danes. At length the monarchs met—in human form stood Mimer—in human form, prepared to oppose him, stood Valhalla’s mighty king: but momentary was the contest, the terrible blow of the Scythian brought the head of the Dane to his feet, as its faltering tongue pronounced the name of Odin. The foe fled to the camp, while the father of men again raised to life his beloved Scythians who had fallen in this, the greatest of his fields. At length, wishing to give peace to the weary land, he summoned the Danish chiefs to meet him in conference. Seated on a throne, he received the warriors: in one hand he held the sceptre of his power, the other rested on a golden dish, in which, now richly embalmed, and adorned with a crown of gold, lay the head of the wretched Mimer. The chiefs gazed in silence—a silence unbroken by human sounds, but disturbed by the voice of the dead, for the ghastly head opened its closed lips, fixed its eyes, and bade, in hollow but authoritative tones, its countrymen no longer oppose the will of the gods, but receive for their prince and lawgiver him who was master of the world! Again it sunk into silence, and the astonished Danes, obeying its dictates, fell at the feet of the conqueror of Mimer. And now, seated in peace on the thrones of the north, more brightly shone the unmatched virtues of Sigge. He taught his subjects husbandry—he taught them to plough the waters—he opened to them the riches of commerce—and he dug from the earth the treasures which ages had concealed in her bosom;—he punished vice with severity—he rewarded virtue with munificence—he taught them letters, instructed them in the mysteries of the Runic—and obliged them to cultivate the milder graces of music and verse;—he allured men to obey by the charms of his eloquence and the splendour of his glory; and he spoke to their reason by his divine Hovamaal, which he gave them as his best gift—his richest legacy. In this he bade them do no wrong to each other—to honour the eternal gods—and to render up life at the command of their country. When he beheld the good effect of his regulations, and saw his people firmly attached to his laws, he called around him his children, born of his mortal wives, of the daughters of Scythia, and, dividing his dominions among them, taught them to govern according to his ordinances and example. Satisfied with his work, he called Frea and Thor to his side, and, blessing once more his mortal children, ascended with them into the regions of light. Then loudly the Danes acknowledged Odin, and paid their homage to his glory; to his race they have ever been faithful, for they still fill the earthly thrones of their father, who, from his abode in Asgard, looks down upon his children, and crowns their lives with prosperity: and thus shall he do till the long night which is to witness the last battle of the gods—the last attack of Lok and his allies, and which for ages they have been preparing—against Odin and the happy spirits of Asgard. In the dreadful conflict, men and demons, oceans, earths, Niftheim, nay, even Asgard itself, shall be involved in one general wreck—one entire and undistinguished ruin; the infernal spirits shall fall in the convulsions—evil shall be no more—and from the ashes of the universe shall arise a brighter heaven—a gloomier hell, than those which have passed away. To the glorious seats of Gimle, the city of burnished gold—to its diamond-studded palaces and star-paved courts—shall the spirits of the just ascend, with Odin and his triumphant sons, to the enjoyment of one endless festival; while the cowards and wicked of the earth shall sink with their infernal allies—the revolted of heaven—into the caves of Nastronde, an abode more horrible than Niftheim—a den built up of the carcasses of snakes, and illuminated by devouring flames, where ever-enduring sorrow shall be the punishment of the lost, from which they shall have no power to escape, again to disturb the repose of the just.
Honour and praise to Frea—victory to Thor—glory to Odin, the greatest, and the best—hail to the master of gods and men!
Happily for his hearers, it was here, at length, that the merciless Brandomann terminated his long-winded history. Sleipner had for some time been his only auditor—Ildegarda had been nodding repeatedly—Heidruna fidgetily trotting backwards and forwards to the portal, watching the clouds—Serimnor had given two or three most portentous yawns—while the two ravens who did every thing in concert, had tucked their heads under their wings, and gone fairly to sleep:—but they all started up when the hum of his voice had ceased, and thanked the good Brandomann as sincerely as if they had been excessively delighted, for they were grateful that he had finished at last, and were besides too well bred not to be charmed with what had been done entirely for their amusement.