"Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears.

Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, But will restore, if all things give him tears.

Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear."

Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied:-

"Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears?

Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre,

Weep him all other things, if weep they will

I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey." She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled,

Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.

And as seafaring men, who long have wrought

In the great deep for gain, at last come home,

And towards evening see the headlands

rise

Of their dear country, and can plain descry

A fire of wither'd furze which boys have lit

Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds

Out of a till'd field inland;-then the wind

Catches them, and drives out again to

sea;

And they go long days tossing up and down

Over the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpse Of port they had makes bitterer far their

toil

So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their joy.

Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake :

"It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all! Ride back, and tell in Heaven this heavy

news:

I must again below, to Hela's realm."

He spoke; and Niord set forth back to Heaven.

But northward Hermod rode, the way below,

The way he knew; and traversed Giall's

stream,

And down to Ocean groped, and cross'd the ice,

And came beneath the wall, and found

the grate

didst slay."

He spoke; but Hoder answer'd him, and said:

"Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursue

The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave?

For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom,

Not daily to endure abhorring Gods,
Nor with a hateful presence cumber
Heaven;

And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by?

No less than Balder have I lost the light Of Heaven, and communion with my kin; I too had once a wife, and once a child, And substance, and a golden house in Heaven

But all I left of my own act, and fled Below, and dost thou hate me even here? Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all, Though he has cause, have any cause;

but he.

When that with downcast looks I hither came,

Stretch'd forth his hand, and with benignant voice,

Welcome, he said, if there be welcome here,

Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me!

And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to force

My hated converse on thee, came up From the deep gloom, where I will now return;

But earnestly I long'd to hover near,
Not too far off, when that thou camest by;
To feel the presence of a brother God,
And hear the passage of a horse of
Heaven,

For the last time-for here thou com'st no more."

He spake, and turn'd to go to the inner gloom.

But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, and said :

"Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind!

Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty mind

Was Lok's; the unwitting hand alone was thine.

But Gods are like the sons of men in this

When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause.

Howbeit stay, and be appeased! and tell:

Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side. Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd

dead?

And the blind Hoder answer'd him and spake :

"His place of state remains by Hela's side,

But empty; for his wife, for Nanna

came

Lately below, and join'd him; and the pair

Frequent the still recesses of the realm Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb’d. But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm,

Which floats before a visitant from Heaven,

And have drawn upward to this verge of Hell."

He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind

Roll'd heavily the leaden mist aside Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms

Make toward them o'er the stretching cloudy plain.

And Hermod straight perceived them,

who they were

Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said :"Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a snare!

Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.

No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge

In thy own house. Breidablik, nor enjoy The love all bear toward thee, nor train

up

Forset, thy son, to be beloved like thee. Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.

Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!"

He spake; and Balder answer'd him,

and said :

Hail and farewell! for here thou com'st no more.

Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt'st

In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament,

As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn. For Nanna hath rejoin'd me, who, of old, In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side;

And still the acceptance follows me, which crown'd

My former life, and cheers me even here.
The iron frown of Hela is relax'd
When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes
of dead

Love me. and gladly bring for my award
Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates-
Shadows of hates, but they distress
them still."

And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply:-

"Thou hast then all the solace death allows,

Esteem and function; and so far is well. Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground. Rusting for ever; and the years roll on, The generations pass, the ages grow, And bring us nearer to the final day When from the south shall marchi the fiery band

And cross the bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide,

And Fenris at his heel with broken chain;

While from the east the giant Rymer

steers

His ship, and the great serpent makes to

land;

And all are marshall'd in one flaming square

Against the Gods, upon the plains of Heaven.

I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then."

THROUGH Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain-side.

The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled
sound

Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods.

Over his boiling cauldron broods.

Swift rush the spectral vapors white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing-then blotting from

sight!

our

Halt-through the cloud-drift something shines!

High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear.

Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher

Mounts up the stony forest-way.
At last the encircling trees retire;

The chapel, where no organ's peal
Invests the stern and naked prayer-
With penitential cries they kneel
And wrestle: rising then, with bare
And white uplifted faces stand,
Passing the Host from hand to hand;

Each takes, and then his visage wan
Is buried in his cowl once more.
The cells!-the suffering Son of Man
Upon the wall--the knee-worn floor-
And where they sleep, that wooden bed,
Which shall their coffin be, when dead!

The library, where tract and tome
Not to feed priestly pride are there.
To hymn the conquering march of Rome,
Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!
They paint of souls the inner strife,
Their drops of blood, their death in life.

The garden, overgrown-yet mild,
See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!
Strong children of the Alpine wild
Whose culture is the brethren's care;
Of human tasks their only one,
And cheerful works beneath the sun.

Those halls, too, destined to contain
Each its own pilgrim-host of old,
From England, Germany, or Spain--
All are before me! I behold

The House, the Brotherhood austere !
-And what am I, that I am here?

For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire,

Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom;

What dost thou in this living tomb ?

Forgive me, masters of the mind!
At whose behest I long ago

So much unlearnt, so much resign'd-
I come not here to be your foe!
I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,
To curse and to deny your truth;

Not as their friend, or child, I speak!
But as, on some far northern strand,
Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek
In pity and mournful awe might stand
Before some fallen Runic stone-
For both were faiths, and both are gone.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,

The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride-
I come to shed them at their side.

Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,
Ye solemn seats of holy pain!

Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round

Till I possess my soul again;

Till free my thoughts before me roll,
Not chafed by hourly false control!

For the world cries your faith is now
But a dead time's exploded dream;
My melancholy, sciolists say,
Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme-
As if the world had ever had
A faith, or sciolists been sad!

Ah, if it be pass'd, take away,
At least, the restlessness, the pain;
Be man henceforth no more a prey
To these out-dated stings again!
The nobleness of grief is gone-
Ah, leave us not the fret aione!

But--if you cannot give us ease-
Last of the race of them who grieve
Here leave us to die out with these
Last of the people who believe!
Silent, while years engrave the brow;
Silent-the best are silent now.

Achilles ponders in his tent,

The kings of modern thought are dumb; Silent they are, though not content,

Or are we easier, to have read,
O Obermann! the sad, stern page,
Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy
head

From the fierce tempest of thine age
In the loue brakes of Fontainebleau,
Or chalets near the Alpine snow?

Ye slumber in your silent grave !—
The world, which for an idle day
Grace to your mood of sadness gave,
Long since hath flung her weeds away.
The eternal trifier breaks your spell;
But we we learned your lore too well!

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,
More fortunate, alas! than we,
Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity.

Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;
But, while we wait, allow our tears!

Allow them! We admire with awe
The exulting thunder of your race:
You give the universe your law,