THE RETURN.
Wilt thou begone?
SHAKSPEARE.
ONE night when the conversation particularly turned upon the exploits of
the ancestors of Ildegarda, Sleipner, who possessed a natural love of
noble actions, inquired of the boar whether king Uffon was constant in
his attendance upon the nightly festival of the hall of Odin? “He is so,
frequently,” replied Serimnor; “but he takes more delight in the combat
of the morning—from that he is never absent:—but what an extraordinary
history is his!” continued the boar; “it is necessary that he should be
in Asgard, for its inhabitants to believe it.” Ildegarda’s attention was
aroused; she had never heard of her ancestor, and she entreated
Brandomann to indulge her curiosity. He took up his harp immediately—for
he appeared to have no occupation so delightful as to obey her slightest
wish—and thus related to her the legend of Uffon the Merciful:—
LEGEND OF UFFON.
I.
There was a halo round
The golden crown which shone on Vermund’s brow,
The light of many noble deeds—
Some deathless flowers
From heaven’s immortal tree,
(The abode of changeless destiny,)
Were wreathed
Around his conquering sword:
But years rolled on, and age
Silvered his golden locks—
And then a darkness fell
Heavily on him,
Veiling the beauty of his later day—
For Lok in hate,
Or envy, breathed on him a withering curse—
And he grew blind!
II.
He was a childless man,
And to the gods he prayed
That his own royal diadem might fall
Upon a kindred brow.
He asked a son—
And Odin granted to his agony
The son he craved.
Again the evil one
Blighted the bud of joy—
He laid his dark hand on the infant’s head,
And left its evil shadow on his brain—
He grew an idiot boy!
III.
The Saxon king,
A wild, fierce warrior, heard of Vermund’s grief,
And he did rage to snatch, with greedy hand,
The sceptre of the blind.
Madly he poured
His thousands o’er the land;
The red steel clashed—
The curling fire ran—
The ravens fed
On beauty, and the eagles gorged on strength.
The blind prince trembling heard
His people’s dying groan!
IV.
The Saxon king
Rode, like the thunderbolt, his mighty steed
To the sad Danish camp.
He mocked the king—
And to his peers, with haughty action, said,
“Doth it become
The noble sons of Odin thus to bend
The knee before a blind man, and a fool?”
V.
“Out on thee, wretch!”
The sightless prince exclaimed;
“It more becomes the warrior to protect
Than scorn the weak and aged!—
Mighty!—to thee—
Thee! whom we fear to name—
Thee! strongest pillar of great Odin’s throne—
Thee! dark, but terrible!—whose woe I bear—
Thee! whose most awful name
The reckless echo dares not repeat, and we
Shudder as we pronounce!
HODER!—I call on thee!—
Be thou the judge
Between this wretch and me!”
VI.
The Saxon heard
And shrunk at that dread name—
The nobles groaned—
The father wept, and clasped,
To his chilled heart, his dumb and idiot boy.
When, lo! a wonder!—
His sacred tears fell on the youthful brow
Like holy rain upon the scorched up earth,
And upward to the sun of glory sprung
The buried seeds of intellect—
He spoke!—
VII.
“Ha! scoffer!” said the boy, “didst thou not know
The blind and weak are sacred?”—
His eye shone
With a miraculous light—
“Hark! Saxon churl!
I summon thee unto the field of death—
_I_, the dumb idiot—_I_ will meet thee there,
And on thy craven bosom write a truth,
That Vermund hath a son—Denmark a prince,
Who _will_ protect their glories!”
VIII.
The day came—
And Uffon’s fiery chariot bore him forth
Unto the battle field—
Less bright—less beautiful
Is Balder when, from Lidscialf’s diamond steps,
He rises to illuminate the worlds
Which wheel caressingly around him—and
Gallantly rode the Saxon.
But the king—
The blind—the father—where is he? He sits
On yonder rock, high o’er the foaming sea,
There to await the battle.
Should _he_ fall—
His own—his only one—
Ocean will catch his form,
And hide his griefs for ever.
IX.
It was a deadly fight
Between the Saxon and the Dane;
And once
There was a scream, as if the inspired boy
Was lost, for he had sunk upon his knee—
But he beheld his father’s sightless eye
Upturned in agony—
And he arose—and then
Another sound was heard—a mighty shout—
The scorner of the blind was slain!
X.
The son—he flew,
A bounding reindeer, to his father’s arms—
He paused—
_They_ were upraised,
In attitude of thankfulness;
His lips
Were pale, and still, and smiling—
But—his heart
Had broke in that fierce struggle—
He was gone—
Heimdaller’s wings were shadowing him, as o’er
The wondrous bridge he trod;
Valkyries bore
His spirit to the foot of Odin’s throne,
To tell of Uffon’s glory.
XI.
Nameless one!
This justice was thy deed—
We worship thee,
Although we love thee not!
“No, truly,” said Serimnor, on the conclusion of the legend; “that would
be quite impossible either for heaven or earth: but glory to the good
Uffon—few warriors in Valhalla are more esteemed than he. The skull of
the impious Saxon is now his drinking cup; and his father, restored to
sight, beholds the pledge of victory with undying felicity: and, in the
combats and martial sports of the morning, the battle between his noble
son and the Saxon is daily renewed, to gladden him with the sound of
conquest and triumph over his shadowy foe.” “Look, Serimnor,” said the
horse of Odin, interrupting him impatiently, as a bright flash of
lightning darted into the hall and played against his head for a moment;
“Look, we are again outstaying our time—the son of Rinda is shooting his
brilliant arrows, and one has already touched you: let us obey the
summons, and not provoke him to make his fatal shafts unerring.” “Away,
then!” cried Heidruna. The ravens flapped their wings—Brandomann
rose—and the hall was cleared in a moment.
Ildegarda had hitherto been happy in the reports of the magic mirror, and
satisfied with its assurances of her father’s safety. On the first of
the tenth month of her residence on the island, she again withdrew the
curtain,—but a different spectacle awaited her; Haquin was lying wounded
upon his couch, pale and insensible, while his attendants were anxiously
endeavouring to stanch the blood which flowed from his injured side. The
princess became wild with apprehension; instantly she sought her faithful
Brandomann, to pour into his bosom the grief which distracted hers. He
listened with tender sympathy. “There has been a battle between your
father and Frotho, no doubt,” he replied; “but though I am not informed
of all the particulars, I know that Haquin will not die of this wound:
take comfort from this assurance, for when did I ever deceive you?” But
Ildegarda refused all consolation, and persisted in thinking and making
herself the most miserable of all human beings. Her father was
ill—wounded—in need of her assistance—and she herself uncertain of his
fate for a whole month at least. Her anxiety hourly increased, and her
grief, too powerful to be concealed from Brandomann, affected him no less
painfully than herself. It was in vain he exerted his talents to divert
her anguish; she was grateful for his kindness, but did not shed one tear
the less: his conversation had lost its charms, his tales and songs their
interest. Brandomann discovered this, and, after a terrible struggle,
his generous nature overmastered every selfish and interested feeling.
“I cannot,” said he at length to the weeping princess; “I cannot bear to
witness your sorrow, and know that I am the cause. For your sake I will
again disobey the command of Odin, which had decreed your captivity to be
perpetual; you shall go to your father: promise me that you will return
hither, and you shall be swiftly conveyed to his tent—and remain with him
seven days; at the close of that period you must return, or my life will
pay the forfeit of my fault, and be demanded to appease the anger of
Odin. Go, then, beloved princess,—but sometimes think of Brandomann, and
what he will suffer for your sake.” The princess could scarcely believe
what she heard: in a rapture of joy she accepted the offer, and was most
fervent in her promises to return at the expiration of the seven days.
Brandomann sighed heavily, but made no reply to her frequent
protestations of their soon meeting again. “You shall be with your
father to-morrow morning,” said he: “merely take this ring—put it upon
your finger when you go to rest to-night, and do the same thing when you
wish to return to me; but do not wear it at any other time.” The
princess joyfully accepted the gift—took an affectionate leave of her
admired monster—and retired to rest full of hope and
expectation—expectations which were fully realised on her awaking in the
morning; for she found her couch in her father’s tent, and he himself
gazing upon her with tender anxiety and wonder.
The joy of Haquin, at again folding his beloved child to his bosom, was
considerably damped by the narrative of her adventures, and the promise
which she had given to Brandomann to return. As he did not deem it
possible that she intended to keep her word, he was not a little
astonished at her declaration, when she assured him she could remain with
him only during the seven days. He argued strongly against her
intention; and she at present, unwilling to distress him, ceased to
oppose his opinions, and occupied herself entirely with the care of his
health, knowing that it would always be in her power to return whenever
she felt the inclination. Her tender attention was fully appreciated by
Haquin, but she herself was far from being at ease in the midst of a
tumultuous camp, where her wishes were not anticipated with the swift and
delighted obedience of her island attendants: she had no change of dress
either; a circumstance peculiarly vexatious, as she was daily surrounded
by admiring warriors, who constantly paid homage to her charms,—and among
whom prince Harold was not the least fervent in his expressions of
devotion to her beauty. Awakening one morning after many regrets upon
this subject to herself overnight, she was surprised to see the chest
which ornamented her chamber at Moskoe, and which contained her superb
wardrobe, standing by the side of her couch: she opened it hastily:
“Kind, generous Brandomann, always alike solicitous for my happiness and
pleasure,” she exclaimed; “how much do I not owe thee!” She immediately
decorated her lovely person and returned to her father, who, cheered by
her presence and renovated by her care, was quickly recovering from the
effects of his wound: he now informed her that Haldane was universally
said to have been murdered by his uncle; and that, in consequence of
their disgust at this act of cruelty, many noble Danes had resorted to
the standard of Harold, whom they had unanimously called to the throne,
though they held not the gentle boy in the same estimation as his more
valiant brother. To this he added, that as the young king had declared a
passion for Ildegarda, he had determined to unite them despite of the
wrath of Frotho, and thus repay her long captivity by placing her upon a
throne. His daughter had many objections to this arrangement, but her
father’s heart appeared to joy so deeply in its contemplation that
Ildegarda had not the courage to undeceive him: the tenderness of Haquin,
the novelty of again seeing human faces, and the pleasure of listening to
the gallant praises of the noble Danes, at length rendered Ildegarda
forgetful of her promise, and not only seven days, but twice that number
slipped away, ere she called to mind the probable anxiety of Brandomann.
She now determined to repair her fault and hasten back to the island, but
when, upon retiring to rest, she sought her ring to place it upon her
finger, the talisman was no where to be found. In great distress she
hastened to her father, expecting him perhaps to sympathise in her
misfortune, but, unlike the gentle monster of the Maelstrom, he laughed
at her anxiety, and congratulated her upon her loss; he bade her be under
no apprehension respecting her ring, since it was safe in his
possession—he had stolen it on being informed of its virtue, in order to
secure her company,—“which,” he continued, “it appears, without this
precaution I should have lost.” He observed that he could not permit
such a preposterous union between beauty and a beast, who, instead of
being a descendant of Odin, was doubtless a member of the infernal royal
family of Lok, and consequently some diabolical sorcerer, who had thus
bought her, body and soul, of Frotho: he would give her, he remarked, a
husband better suited to her rank and beauty, and commanded her to
prepare to espouse her royal cousin Harold, within at least ten days.
Ildegarda was much startled by this conversation; and she who in the
desolate island had mourned over the idea of perpetual captivity, now
wept with more bitterness her recovered liberty, and the prospect of
never more returning to her prison; she thought of the tender obedience
of Brandomann to her lightest wish, and his generous self-denial upon all
occasions respecting her. She lamented the kind-hearted Serimnor, the
chivalrous horse, the affectionate goat, and even the ravens and
rein-deer received the tribute of her tears; but the idea of the probable
suffering of Brandomann for his devotion to her, and disobedience in her
favour, filled her heart with the most poignant regret; she hated Harold,
and she esteemed her Maelstrom friend, and not a day passed without the
severest search for the ring that was to convey her back to his
territories. At length Rinda, in pity, heard her prayers. In her
father’s bosom, during his sleep, she found her glittering ring, which
she hastily secured as her dearest treasure, and instantly retired to
rest; and when morning again looked upon her, it was in her chamber of
the desolate isle.
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.