THE WOLF FENRIS AND TYR.
What joys Valhalla’s realm pervade!
In brilliant nuptial dress array’d,
A last farewell bids Gerda now
To forest, rock, and vale below.
Towards Bifrost bridge ascends the fair;
Like shooting star she cleaves the air.
On heaven’s exterior bulwark stand
In pride of place th’ Asynior bland:
And when their scrutinizing eye
Survey’d the darling choice of Frey,
As full in Asgard’s view she came,
Vanish’d at once each latent flame
Of envy, sullenness, and pride,
And all admired the graceful bride.
Her glossy ringlets ebon dark
A contrast not unpleasing mark
With the bright locks of golden hue,
Which down the Disar’s shoulders flow.
They welcome her with tones of love,
And lead her straight to Freya’s grove:
Gluing to Gerda’s lips of rose
Her own, what joy each Disa shows!
And every Asa courts the bliss
Her well-turned lily hand to kiss.
Of Frey’s content I need not speak,
Therein must fail my harpings weak.
He who hath courted, and hath known
What ’tis to call his maid his own,
He knows and feels it too; while naught
Can by the art of Scald be taught.
But such sensation, youth! if thou
Yet knowest not, go learn it now!
And when in thy fond maiden’s arms,
Thou gloatest on her radiant charms,
And feelst ’twere primest ecstacy
Or thus to live, or thus to die,
Then wouldst thou know, and couldst reveal
The joys that Frey and Gerda feel.
Here ends my song of love; too soon
My harp must sound with diff’rent tone:
Oft from the lay sweet echoes spring,
As from the little bird in spring,
When, flutt’ring through the beechen grove,
He fills the air with notes of love.
Oft too its tones the ear assail
With sound as harsh as that of whale,
When he, through ice-bergs struggling, blows
And snorts amain with giant throes.
Like foam, the words then hurried fly,
Which from his nostrils mounts the sky,
And forms a column gleaming bright
Amidst the lurid clouds of night.
The sweetest plant of joy beneath
Lurks oft, alas! the germ of death!
Misfortune soon its power assumes;
And ’midst the liveliest joys and fumes
Of pleasure on the marriage night
Intrudes with livid face, Affright!
True, shouts of joy Valhalla shook;
But sudden, springing from a nook,
Fenris the wolf, with eye of flame,
Unwelcome guest, to the banquet came:
He paced around with fiendish grin,
Snapping at every Asa’s chin:
And oft with unremitting spite
The Disar’s legs he strove to bite.
But Odin, weary of this bane,
Possessing now the mystic chain
Wherewith to bind the hateful beast,
To Heimdal whisper’d his behest;
And quick transferr’d the magic band
Into that faithful Asa’s hand.
Heimdal, he knew, had skill and wit;
To cope with Fenris none more fit:
And next to Lok he boasts the pow’r
In jesting to beguile the hour.
The wit of Heimdal, void of hate
Or malice, bloom’d like violet:
But not innocuous Loptur’s jest,
Like thorn, it lacerates the breast.
Heimdaller, holding now the band
Slender as bowstring in his hand,
Approach’d the wolf, and with a smile:
“Let us,” said he, “the time beguile,
Since, banish’d to the realm of Hel,
Sorrow and hate have bid farewell
For ever to Valhalla’s court,
With some diverting manly sport!
In honour of Frey’s nuptial feast
Let each some art that suits him best
Exert to please the gods! and thou,
My wolf! thy feats of strength mayst show:
For deeds of strength they all admire;
And thou must, sure, the prize acquire.”
“Yes!” grinn’d maliciously the wolf:
“What thou hast said is true enough:
The hammer, when by strength or skill
Unexercised, is useless still.
But first allow me to demand,
What means that fetter in thy hand?
Thou Asa with the golden tooth!
Wouldst bind me like a dog, forsooth?”
“He, who hath power himself to free,
Cannot be fetter’d easily:
The slave is bound; but in the hand
Of strength an honourable band
Becomes the fetter:” (thus replied
Heimdaller.) “And since ’tis thy pride
The strongest iron bars to gnaw
In two, as if ’twere so much straw,
Permit me, to afford delight
To Odin and the Disar bright,
To bind thee with this brittle chain,
Which thou canst surely bite in twain.”
And now the wolf began to look
Around him for his father Lok;
But all in vain; no Lok was there;
The hateful beast then scowl’d with fear,
And sunk his tail, and show’d his tooth,
And loll’d his tongue from his frothy mouth.
Then howl’d he forth in tones of spite:
“I will not thus be bound to-night:
Go thy way, artful Heimdal! go!
Methinks, it is not needful now
On such a cord my strength to use,
Thor, Frey, and Odin to amuse.
On bars of brass or iron they
Have seen me oft my strength display.
If forged by common art that cord,
No pleasure would such feat afford:
But if by magic spell ’twere made,
Then foully were the wolf betray’d.”
Heimdaller blush’d: but Asa-Tyr,
The youthful page devoid of fear,
When Heimdal’s cheek so red he view’d,
In anger bit his lips to blood.
He griev’d to see an Asa droop,
Unable with the wolf to cope,
And from the contest forced to fly
In silence and humility.
To humble the malignant beast,
Himself now enter’d in the list,
And cried aloud: “Come, wolf! behold!
My hand as hostage thou shalt hold!
While round thy limbs the cord is laced,
Within thy mouth shall it be placed,
And lying at thy mercy there,
Nor trick nor fraud hast thou to fear.”
On Tyr’s presumption every god
Astonish’d look’d: he tranquil stood.
Now Thor thus whisper’d: “Youthful friend!
What rashness! what dost thou pretend?
Thy courage, certes, I admire,
But naught a hero can aspire
To do without his hand.” “No fear
I feel, thou cautious one!” said Tyr.
“Thy counsel sage I need not now;
Two hands, perhaps, requirest thou,
But thou shalt see, and frankly own,
That Tyr can do with one alone.”
Thus said, his dexter hand the youth
Into the wolf’s wide-gaping mouth
Undaunted thrust: the wolf is bound
With the dwarfs’ cord his limbs around.
And now to loose or burst the chain
He struggles hard, but all in vain:
Since naught his utmost powers avail,
The Asar laugh to see him quail.
All laugh’d, excepting Asa-Tyr;
The sport, alas! hath cost him dear,
For, bitten from the wrist, his hand
In Fenris’ bloody jaws remain’d!
But the youth, still undaunted, thrust
The stump into a heap of dust,
And stretching out his arm on high,
He shouts with voice that rends the sky:
“Now first my strength innate I feel;
Hard was the trial, yet ’tis well.
Now to Vaulunder’s forge I’ll go,
And he will make for Tyr, I know,
A hand of iron, fit to wield
Or glaive or mace i’ th’ bloody field:
What foes will dare the chief environ,
Whose hand and glaive are both of iron?”
Thus said, he left in haste the hall,
Much pitied by the Disar all.
They thought: “O what a valiant youth!
Thor’s fame he will eclipse, forsooth.”
But Gerda’s thoughts alone on Frey
Were fix’d; both breath’d a tender sigh,
And hied them to the shady grove
To revel in the joys of love.
On Thor now Odin cast a look;
Thor silent stood; then Odin spoke:
“This is too much! is’t then our doom
Brutal as giants to become?
O rueful act! what boots, my friend,
Courage by reason unrestrain’d?
Lost is thy hammer in the wave,
And Frey hath giv’n away his glaive,
That glaive which caused a mortal chill,
And whose bare look sufficed to kill;
Now in the mountain cave it lies,
And giants learn its worth to prize.
True, the wolf Fenris is trepann’d,
But Tyr hath lost his dexter hand;
Ran in the ocean rules her lord,
And Skada shares the power with Niord.”
Thus said, As-Odin slowly rose;
His robe around his limbs he throws:
Vingolf he leaves with gloomy mind,
But Asa-Thor remains behind.
He sits with hand beneath his chin,
And eyes the wolf with looks of spleen,
But both keep silence: in the hall
The waiting-damsels enter all,
To quench the lights; in darkness now
The god must sit with wrinkled brow:
Yet still he fix’d with looks of ire
The wolf, whose eye-balls vomit fire.
Now to a burst of laughter wild
The god gave vent, which Hlidskialf fill’d
With terror; then the hall he left,
And bang’d the door, with fury chaf’d.
He doffs his helmet; through the air
Shines, meteor-like, his streaming hair!
He mounts his car; through heaven he rolls,
And awful thunders shake the poles.
Down on the earth all night he threw
His lightnings; many a one he slew:
Here towns and villages became
A prey to th’ all-devouring flame;
A forest there of oak-trees fum’d,
Down to their very roots consum’d.
The children scream’d; the mothers tore
Their hair; Thor foam’d like angry boar:
And he, who whilom lov’d to save,
Prov’d unrelenting as the grave.
But when at length shone forth the day,
Towards Trudvang’s gate he bent his way;
There Sif receiv’d him in her arms,
And strove to sooth his wild alarms.
The goddess well knew how t’assuage
With bland caress his utmost rage;
She knew his wrath would soon be o’er,
And tenderness resume its power.
Then smiled the earth with tears of dew,
Such as an infant’s face bedew,
Whose father too much wrath has shown
And struck too hard his little one.
Repentance now Thor’s looks bespeak,
And tears roll down his manly cheek,
For he, when calm, was good and kind.
He then sent down on th’ morning wind
Roska and Tialf to Gefion’s[91] strand,
And every circumjacent land,
With gold and silver, to divide
’Mongst those whose dwellings were destroy’d.
The dead he to Valhalla brought,
And next the helpless infants sought
Who perish’d on that fatal night;
And bearing them to Folkvang’s height,
He bless’d them all in Freya’s name,
And chang’d to Alfs they straight became.
Now wings upon their shoulders grew,
And ’midst delights so strange and new,
Meeting again, assembled there
In Freya’s grove, their parents dear,
They sport and play the trees beneath,
Unconscious they had suffer’d death.