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 440
Frequent the still recesses of the realm
Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb’d.
But they too doubtless, will have breath’d the balm
Which floats before a visitant from Heaven,
And have drawn upwards to this verge of Hell.’ 445
He spake; and, as he ceas’d, a puff of wind
Roll’d heavily the leaden mist aside
Round where they stood, and they beheld Two Forms
Make towards them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.
And Hermod straight perceiv’d them, who they were, 450
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 455
The love all bear towards thee, nor train up
Forset, thy son, to be belov’d 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: — 460
‘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, 465
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 470
Trust 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, 475
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 480
When from the south shall march 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; 485
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.’
He spake; but Balder answer’d him and said: —
‘Mourn not for me: Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods: 490
Mourn for the men on Earth, the Gods in Heaven,
Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day.
The day will come, when Asgard’s towers shall fall,
And Odin, and his Sons, the seed of Heaven:
But what were I, to save them in that hour? 495
If strength could save them, could not Odin save,
My Father, and his pride, the Warrior Thor,
Vidar the Silent, the Impetuous Tyr?
I, what were I, when these can naught avail?
Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, 500
And the two Hosts are marshall’d, and in Heaven
The golden-crested Cock shall sound alarm,
And his black Brother-Bird from hence reply,
And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour —
Longing will stir within my breast, though vain 505
But not to me so grievous, as, I know,
To other Gods it were, is my enforc’d
Absence from fields where I could nothing aid:
For I am long since weary of your storm
Of carnage, and find, Hermond, in your life 510
Something too much of war and broils, which make
Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.
Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;
Mine ears are stunn’d with blows, and sick for calm.
Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 515
Unarm’d, inglorious: I attend the course
Of ages, and my late return to light,
In times less alien to a spirit mild,
In new-recover’d seats, the happier day.’
He spake; and the fleet Hermond thus replied: — 520
‘Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?
Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.’
And the ray-crowned Balder answer’d him: —
‘Far to the south, beyond The Blue, there spreads
Another Heaven, The Boundless: no one yet 525
Hath reach’d it: there hereafter shall arise
The second Asgard, with another name.
Thither, when o’er this present Earth and Heavens
The tempest of the latter days hath swept,
And they from sight have disappear’d, and sunk, 530
Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair:
Hoder and I shall join them from the grave.
There re-assembling we shall see emerge
From the bright Ocean at our feet an Earth
More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits 535
Self-springing, and a seed of man preserv’d,
Who then shall live in peace, as now in war.
But we in Heaven shall find again with joy
The ruin’d palaces of Odin, seats
Familiar, halls where we have supp’d of old; 540
Re-enter them with wonder, never fill
Our eyes with fazing, and rebuilt with tears.
And we shall tread once more the well-known plain
Of Ida, and among the grass shall find
The golden dice with which we play’d of yore; 545
And that will bring to mind the former life
And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse
Of Odin, the delights of other days.
O Hermod, pray that thou mayst join us then!
Such for the future is my hope: meanwhile, 550
I rest the thrall of Hela, and endure
Death, and the gloom which round me even now
Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls.
Farewell, for longer speech is not allow’d.’
He spoke, and wav’d farewell, and gave his hand 555
To Nanna; and she gave their brother blind
Her hand, in turn, for guidance; and The Three
Departed o’er the cloudy pain, and soon
Faded from sight into the interior gloom
But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, 560
Mute, gazing after them in tears: and fain,
Fain had he follow’d their receding steps,
Though they to Death were bound, and he to Heaven,
Then; but a Power he could not break withheld.
And as a stork which idle boys have trapp’d, 565
And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees
Flocks of his kind pass flying o’er his head
To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun;
He strains to join their flight, and, from his shed,
Follows them with a long complaining cry — 570
So, Hermod gaz’d, and yearn’d to join his kin.
At last he sigh’d, and set forth back to Heaven.
Separation
STOP — Not to me, at this bitter departing,
Speak of the sure consolations of Time.
>
Fresh be the wound, still-renew’d be its smarting,
So but thy image endure in its prime.
But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature 5
Wills that remembrance should always decay;
If the lov’d form and the deep-cherish’d feature
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away —
Me let no half-effac’d memories cumber!
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee — 10
Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber —
Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me,
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there, —
Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me, 15
With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?
Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse
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, 5
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 Guiers’ stream complain, 10
Where that wet smoke among the woods
Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing — then blotting from our sight. 15
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. 20
At last the encircling trees retire;
Look! through the showery twilight grey
What pointed roofs are these advance?
A palace of the Kings of France?
Approach, for what we seek is here. 25
Alight and sparely sup and wait
For rest in this outbuilding near;
Then cross the sward and reach that gate;
Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come
To the Carthusians’ world-famed home. 30
The silent courts, where night and day
Into their stone-carved basins cold
The splashing icy fountains play,
The humid corridors behold,
Where ghostlike in the deepening night 35
Cowl’d forms brush by in gleaming white.
The chapel, where no organ’s peal
Invests the stern and naked prayer.
With penitential cries they kneel
And wrestle; rising then, with bare 40
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 45
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, 50
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 55
Those 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. 60
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! 65
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; 70
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! 75
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, 80
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, 85
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. 90
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, 95
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 — 100
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 105
To these out-dated stings again!
The nobleness of grief is gone —
Ah, leave us not the fret alone!
But, if you cannot give us ease,
Last of the race of them who grieve 110
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, 115
The kings of modern thought are dumb;
Silent they are, though not content,
And wait to see the future come.
They have the grief men had of yore,
But they contend and cry no more. 120
Our fathers water’d with their tears
This sea of time whereon we sail;
Their voices were in all men’s ears
Who pass’d within their puissant hail.
Still the same Ocean round us raves, 125
But we stand mute and watch the waves.
For what avail’d it, all the noise
And outcry of the former men?
Say, have their sons obtain’d more joys?
Say, is life lighter now than then? 130
The sufferers died, they left their pain;
The pangs which tortured them remain.
What helps it now, that Byron bore,
With haughty scorn which mock’d the smart,
Through Europe to the Aetolian shore 135
The pageant of his bleeding heart?
That thousands counted every groan,
And Europe made his woe her own?
What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze
Carried thy lovely wail away, 140
Musical through Italian trees
That fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?
Inheritors of thy dist
ress
Have restless hearts one throb the less?
Or are we easier, to have read, 145
O Obermann! the sad, stern page,
Which tells us how thou hidd’st thy head
From the fierce tempest of thine age
In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,
Or chalets near the Alpine snow? 150
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 trifler breaks your spell; 155
But we — we learnt your lore too well!
There may, perhaps, yet dawn an age,
More fortunate, alas! than we,
Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity. 160
Sons of the world, oh, haste those years;
But, till they rise, allow our tears!
Allow them! We admire with awe
The exulting thunder of your race;
You give the universe your law, 165
You triumph over time and space.
Your pride of life, your tireless powers,
We mark them, but they are not ours.
We are like children rear’d in shade
Beneath some old-world abbey wall 170
Forgotten in a forest-glade
And secret from the eyes of all;
Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,
Their abbey, and its close of graves.
But where the road runs near the stream, 175
Oft through the trees they catch a glance
Of passing troops in the sun’s beam —
Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance!
Forth to the world those soldiers fare,
To life, to cities, and to war. 180
And through the woods, another way,
Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,
Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,
Round some old forest-lodge at morn;
Gay dames are there in sylvan green, 185
Laughter and cries — those notes between!
The banners flashing through the trees
Make their blood dance and chain their eyes;
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Page 25
