C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Reconciliation
By Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846)
F
Round it no palisade of wood
Ran now as erst:
A railing stronger, fairer than the first,
And all of hammered iron,—each bar
Gold-tipped and regular,—
Walls Balder’s sacred house. Like some long line
Of steel-clad champions, whose bright war-spears shine
And golden helms afar, so stood
This glittering guard within the holy wood!…
Reflected calmly on the sea’s bright-flowing wave.
But round about, some girdle like of beauteous flowers,
Went Balder’s dale, with all its groves’ soft-murmured sighs,
And all its birds’ sweet twittered songs,—the home of peace….
Hewn all of one sole block
From Northern marble rock;
And round thereon its scroll the serpent twisted,
With solemn rune
Each fold thick strewn,
Whose words from Havamal and Vala taken
Deep thoughts in every human bosom waken,—
While in the wall above
A niche was seen with stars of gold
On dark-blue ground; and there, behold!
All mild and gentle as the silver moon
Sitting heaven’s blue aboon,
The silver image stands of Balder, God of Love!—
Twelve temple virgins; vests of silver thread
Adorn each slender form, and roses red
O’er ev’ry cheek soft graces shed,
And spread
O’er ev’ry innocent heart a fragrant fair rose-bed.—
Before the White God’s image, and around
The late-blessed altar, dancing, light they bound
As spring winds leap where rippling fount waves sound.
As woodland elves that skip along the ground,
Skimming the high-grown grass
Which morning’s dew
Still hangs with sparkling gems of every hue;—
Ah! how those jewels tremble as the fairies pass!
Of Balder, that mild god, and how he was beloved
By every creature, till he fell by Höder’s dart,
And earth and ocean wide, and heaven itself, sore wept!
How pure, how tender that song it pealeth!
Sure never sprang
Such tuneful clang
From mortal breast! No,—heaven revealeth
Some tone from Breidablick, from out the gods’ own hall,
All soft as lonely maiden’s thoughts on him she loves,
What time the quail calls deeply ’mid the peace of night;
The North’s tall birches bathed i’ th’ moon’s pale-quivering sheen.
Shines far around, stood lost as in a trance,
And charmed and silent gazed upon the dance!—
Thereat his childhood’s memories, how they throng
Before his raptured eye!—A jocund train, and long,
And innocent and glad and true,
With eyes like heaven’s own blue,
And heads rich circled by bright-golden tresses,—
His former youth-friend each with some sign addresses;
Then all his Viking life,
With scenes of murderous strife
And bold adventures rife,
Like some dark bloody shadow sinketh
Fast down to night.—Ah! glad he drinketh
Forgetfulness’s sweet cup, and thinketh,
“Repose at last those sea-king exploits have,—
I stand a flower-crowned Bauta-Stone upon their grave!”…
That thou shouldst come;—for force, ’tis true, still wanders
Round land and sea afar, wild Berserk like
That pale with rage the shield’s hard border biteth;
But yet at last it home returns again,
Outwearied and all calm.—The strong-armed Thor
Full oft ’gainst giant Jotunheim did wend;
But spite his belt celestial, spite his gauntlets,
Utgårda-Loke still his throne retains;—
Evil, itself a force, to force yields never!
Goodness, not joined with strength, must child’s-play be;—
On Ägir’s bosom so, the sun shines prettily;
But fickle as the flood the graspless splendor see!
As sink or rise the billows, thus all changeably
The fairy brightness flitteth, moving endlessly.
And force, from goodness severed, surely dies;
Self-eating, self-consumed, as sword that lies
In some damp cairn, black rust corrodes the prize:
Yes! Life’s debauch fierce strength’s mad riot is!
But ah! Oblivion’s heron flutters still
O’er goblet-brim that traitorous sweet draughts fill,
And deep’s the wakened drunkard’s shame for deeds of ill!…
“King Helge, he,” said Frithiof,—“when, where, how?”
This temple to the god, King Helge marched
On painful foray ’mong the heathen Fins,
Scaling each mountain wall. In Finland’s borders,
Raised on a barren time-worn peak, there stood
An ancient temple consecrate to Jumala:
Abandoned and fast-shut, for many ages
This desolate fane had been, its every rite
Long since forgotten; but above the portal
An old and monstrous idol of the god
Stood, frail-supported, trembling to its fall.
This temple none dared enter, scarce approach;
For down from sire to son an eld tradition
Went dimly warning, that whoever first
The temple visited should Jumala view!
This Helge heard, and in his blind fierce rage,
The pathless wilds trod ’gainst this deity
So hated from of old, all bent on razing
The temple’s heathen walls. But when he’d marched
Up where the ruin threatened, lo! all fast
The massy moss-grown door was closed; and, covered
With thick brown rust, the key still sat within it.
Grim Helge then, the door-posts griping hard,
With rude uncivil strain the moldering pillars
Fierce shook, and straightway—with tremendous crash
The sculptured image fell, burying beneath it
Valhalla’s impious son; and so dread Jumala
His eyes behold.—A messenger in haste
These tidings brought ere yet last night was ended.
Thy hand, brave Frithiof, offer him! Revenge
And passion sacrifice to heaven’s high gods:
This Balder’s shrine demandeth;—I demand, too,
As Balder’s highest priest, in token meet
That peace’s gentle chief thou hast not mocked
With vain professions and an empty homage.—
Decide, my son!—shall Balder’s peace be broken?
If so, in vain thou’st built this fane, the token
Of mild forgiveness, and in vain aged priest hath spoken!”
With pallid brow
And fearful fitful glance, advanceth slow
Tow’rds yonder tow’ring ever-dreaded foe,
And, silent, at a distance stands.
Then Frithiof, with quick hands,
The corslet-hater, Angurvadel, from his thigh
Unbuckleth, and his bright shield’s golden round
Leaning ’gainst the altar, thus draws nigh;
While his cowed enemy
He thus accosts, with pleasant dignity:—
“Most noble in this strife will he be found
Who first his right hand good
Offers in pledge of peaceful brotherhood!”
Then Halfdan, deeply blushing, doffs with haste
His iron gauntlet, and—with hearty grasp embraced—
Each long, long severed hand
Its friend-foe hails, steadfast as mountain-bases stand!
The curse that rested on the varg I veum,
Frithiof the outlaw; and as the last deep accents
Of reconcilement and of blessing sounded—
Lo! Ing’borg sudden enters, rich adorned
With bridal ornaments, and all enrobed
In gorgeous ermine, and by bright-eyed maidens
Slow followed, as on heaven’s broad canopy
Attending star-trains guard the regent moon!
But the young bride’s fair eyes,
Those two blue skies,
Fill quick with tears,
And to her brother’s heart she trembling sinketh;—
He, with his sister’s fears
Deep-moved, her hand all tenderly in Frithiof’s linketh,
His burden soft transferring to that hero’s breast,
Its long-tried faith fit place for Ing’borg’s rest.
Then, to her heart’s first, best beloved, her childhood’s friend,
In nuptial band
She gives her lily hand,
As before pardoning Balder’s altar both low bend!