While proudly riding o'er the azure realm,

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,

They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

don's height,

Uprose the King of Men with speed, And saddled straight his coal-black steed; Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to Hela's drear abode. 5 Him the Dog of Darkness spied; His shaggy throat he open'd wide, While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd, Foam and human gore distill'd, Hoarse he bays with hideous din, 10 Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin; And long pursues with fruitless yell, The Father of the powerful spell. Onward still his way he takes

(The groaning earth beneath him shakes), 15 Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,1 By the moss-grown pile he sate, Where long of yore to sleep was laid 20 The dust of the prophetic maid.2 Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he trac'd the Runic3 rhyme; Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead; 25 Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

40 Tell me what is done below;

For whom yon glitt 'ring board is spread, Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?

Prophetess. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee;2

45 O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is giv'n;
Pain can reach the sons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:

50 Leave me, leave me to repose!

Odin. Once again my call obey:
Prophetess, arise, and say
What dangers Odin's child await;
Who the author of his fate?

55 Prophetess. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;

His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose!

Odin. Prophetess, my spell obey: 60 Once again arise, and say

Who th' avenger of his guilt;
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?

Prophetess. In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace comprest, 65 A wond'rous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam, Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile 70 Flaming on the fun'ral pile. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose!

Odin. Yet a while my call obey:
Prophetess, awake, and say

75 What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose;

80 Then I leave thee to repose.

Prophetess. Ha! no traveller art thou! King of Men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line

Odin. No boding maid of skill divine 85 Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood!

1 taking on a froth

2 mead, a fermented drink made of honey