he hands of Balder--
If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers--
Then might'st thou well be pale;
And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!

THOR. Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!

BALDER. From Nanna! Yes, I ought--that see I plainly.
Ha! some accursed fiend my foot has fasten'd
To these wild mountains and to Nanna's shadow!
And is there nothing then of hope remaining?
When did I first become so grim--so frightful?
When? Tell me, Thor, is breath of mine destructive?
Has death among my tears and smiles its dwelling?
What shall I do? Reply! But thou art silent,
And from thine eyeball flames contemptuous anger.

THOR (he rises). Ha! drivellest thou before the God of Thunder?

BALDER. To Thor, to Odin's friend, I breathe my sorrow.

THOR. How long dost think, degenerate son of Odin,
Unmanly pining for a foolish maiden,
And all the weary train of love-sick follies,
Will move a bosom that is steeled by virtue?
Thou dotest! Dote and weep, in tears swim ever;
But by thy father's arm, by Odin's honour,
Haste, hide thy tears and thee in shades of alder!
Haste to the still, the peace-accustom'd valley,
Where lazy herdsmen dance amid the clover.
There wet each leaf which soft the west wind kisses,
Each plant which breathes around voluptuous odours,
With tears! There sigh and moan and the tired peasant
Shall hear thee, and, behind his ploughshare resting,
Shall wonder at thy grief, and pity Balder!

BALDER. And is this all the comfort thou canst offer?

THOR. I gave thee counsel: fly from her who flies thee!
What holds thee here, where thou canst hope for nothing?

BALDER. And can I? Ah, my friend, that is my duty!
But fly! And never, never see thee, Nanna!
And ne'er again behold the roof where under
Thou sleepest! Honour the mere thought destroyeth!
Ere that, I'll perish here, unfamed, forgotten!

THOR. Well, perish, then! I see too plain 'tis useless
Against a harsh, eternal fate to struggle!

The hill fiend dreads my hammer's might
Before it turns the Jotun white,
And rocks, whereon I strike, give way.
But nothing cruel fate can move;
And what Allfather there above
Resolves upon, stands firm for aye.

Know, son of Odin, thou whom reason, friendship,
Whom scorn--e'en scorn--to move are all unable,
Know that prophetic were thy words! Fate hastens!
The Valkyrie prepares the spear already,
Its deadly point already does she sharpen.
Ah, see! the prin