The pure bev’rage of the bee;
O’er it hangs the shield of gold;
‘Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder’s head to death is giv’n.
Pain can reach the Sons of Heav’n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me to repose.
O.—Once again my call obey!
Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin’s Child await,