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BALDUR THE BEAUTIFUL: THE DEATH OF BALDUR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Long aeons past, ere yet was count of time
Last Line: The Æsir's shout still thundered down the dark.
Subject(s): Death; Goddesses & Gods; Heaven; Judgment Day; Mythology; Odin (norse God); Dead, The; Paradise; End Of The World; Doomsday; Fall Of Man


LONG æons past, ere yet was count of time,
At Asgard, silver city of the gods,
Bright-built, midway among the blazing suns,
By Urdar Fount, 'neath mighty Yggdrasil,
The Ash-tree Yggdrasil, whose branches stretch
As high as Heaven, whose roots strike deep as Hel,
The Æsir held their court.
There, on a throne
Set higher than the highest leap of thought,
Was Odin, the All-Father, king of gods;
Whence, at a glance, his vast omniscient eye,
Midgard, the realm of mortals, overswept
As 't were a graven tablet at his feet;
Thence, too, from Heaven's most southern edge, betimes
Caught the swift flash, intolerably bright,
Of a flaming falchion, where, by Gimli's Hall,
Gold-roofed, Surtur, the Mighty, patient sat,
Guardian of Muspell, ageless Land of Light—
Muspell, the supreme Heaven, whence at the last
Should flow the devastating fires of death.
And Odin, the All-Father, inly sighed,
By that fell gleam foreseeing Ragnarök,
The Dusk-Day of the gods.
A space below,
His sons, the lesser gods, the Æsir, sat;
First Thor, the Thunderer, with belt unloosed,
His giant mallet like a feather weight
Reclined across his knee; him following, Njörd,
Who held the master secret of the seas
And drove the winds in leash; intrepid Tyr,
Who lost his bold right hand 'twixt Fenrir's jaws;
Hermod the Swift, whose foot no dart outsped;
Bragi the Silver-Mouthed, whose spouse, Idun,
Stored the gold apples whereof fed the gods
When hoary age o'ertook them, to renew
The lustre of their Spring; Silent Vidar,
Sandalled with noiselessness; Hödur the Blind,
Stronger than seven; Frey, the God of Peace,
And Heimdall the White God, the Vigilant,
Warder of Heaven and of the Gjallar Horn,
Who heard the grass-blade split the buried seed,
And saw by night, a score of leagues away,
Clear as by noon; there, too, dread God of Fire,
Loki, the false of tongue, falser of heart,
The fair-faced sire of monsters—of the wolf
Fenrir, of Hela and of Jörmungard;
And there, best, brightest, wisest, of them all
The dearest loved, amid his brother gods
Baldur the Beautiful, surnamed the Good,
Moved, dazzling, like a flame.
What favoured tongue,
Wonted to godly measures, should avail
To tell his loveliness, his strength, his grace—
Baldur the Beautiful? No whitest flower
So white was as his brow. No snow that lay
New fallen in the sun so lucent showed.
Moulded of light he was. His radiant soul
Shone through him star-like. Day broke when he came,
And Night was not, nor memory of gloom.
As silver rays trembling on twilight seas
Follow the flying moon, so shadowed him
A Heaven of love and joy, and the Æsir all,
Save one, the Dread Destroyer, held him dear
Beyond their breath of being.
Ages thus
Uncounted passed in Asgard, where the gods
Each day held council, dauntless galloping
Their fiery coursers, moonstone white, uncurbed
Over the Bridge Bifröst, the Rainbow Bridge
That spanned the cloudy gulf 'twixt Earth and Heaven.
And there, the convocation at an end,
Supine beneath deep-branching Yggdrasil,
Content they hearkened, while, to pleasure them,
Baldur the Beautiful sang songs more sweet
Than his who moved the stones of Thebes in line,
Or his whose loftier lyre built lofty Troy.
Of middays Baldur sang—of hot noontides
Thrilled through with pulsing gold; of silver streams
Set thick with diamonds that mocked the sun;
Of ivory blossoms gleaming 'mid the green
Like drifted summer snow; of marshalled clouds—
The sunset's standard bearers; of white gulls
Like jewelled arrows shot across the blue;
Of stars; of mellow moons; of all things bright
And warm and glad. Entranced the Æsir heard;
And as a hummingbird above the bloom
Light poised on murmuring wing, with accurate thrust
Of rapier-beak straight to its luscious heart
Gathers its one sweet drop, so breath by breath
They drank the honey of each dulcet song.
Then, on a day, there broke across the strain,
Marring its ecstasy, discordant notes
Of conflict and of darkness, that on ears
Used but to joy struck wonder, as when rain
Drops from an undimmed sky. Thus Baldur sang:

DAYBREAK

Arouse thee, O Day, and reconquer thy world!
Night's challenging banners, triumphant unfurled,
Float wide on the somnolent breeze.
The valleys lie muffled and misty in sleep.
Grey shadows, like dream-ghosts, uncertainly creep
O 'er the face of the shuddering seas.
Arouse thee! Undo the enchantments of Night!
With tremulous pulsings and breathings of light,
Pursue as he fainting retires.
Pluck the reddening rays from thine opaline quivers!
Slant them up at the last of the stars where it shivers
In the ash of its faltering fires.
Unfasten thy curtainings, fold upon fold.
Set wider thy floodgates of billowy gold.
Lo, the lark is awake. He is calling thy name
From the quivering heights where the clouds are aflame,
Ere follow the full-throated choirs.
The tops of the listening trees are athrill
With desire for the stir of thy step on the hill,
For thy quickening glance o'er the hush of the plain.
Come, crowned and engirdled with uttermost splendour,
Thy glorious soul undismayed to surrender
In a breathless outburst of magnificent pain.
Re-kindle the worlds with thy limitless light.
Stand forth in unparalleled lustre and might,
Every fear to dispel, every shadow to slay,
O invincible Day!

Then peerless Odin, bending from above,
Asked whence those melancholy notes of dread
And gloom came, darkling, to the canticle?
And Baldur, all unwilling, yet compelled
By that vast eye that had his soul in bonds,
Of haunting visions told that teased his rest,
Dire dreams, foretelling peril even of life,
Whispered by Elves of Darkness in the hours
When Sleep unlocks the inner ear to sounds
Day overspeaks—dreams ill beyond concept,
Eclipsing the sweet light of all his noons
With hideous portents, laying malignant spell
Athwart life's secret tides. Blood ebbed, breath failed
Before his menaced doom, though whence the threat,
Or what the unnatural skill should compass it,
He nothing knew.
The Æsir, sore perplext,
Pondered the monstrous tale. As when a wind
Strikes the calm sea, wrinkling its satin plane
With casual ripples that confusedly
Quiver and cross, till met and intermixt,
In gradual waves the tangled lines press on
Under one impulse goaded, each from each
So gathering impetus that, at the last,
Grown into billows swollen to giant strength,
From shore to shore they plough the ocean's heart—
Thus dread of boded harm to Baldur, first
Uneasily the Æsir's senses stirred,
Then waxed to full possession.
Now again
Spake Odin the All-Father, king of gods;
And as through angry mutterings of storm
The solemn roll of thunder breaks afar,
Resolving all sounds else to silence, so
His voice fell o'er them, and they hushed to hear.

Thus he decreed; that straightway should be had
From fire, air, water, ether, iron, stone—
From Earth and every ore within her keep—
From all that crawled, or walked, or flew—from all
That being had on land, in sea, or air,
In each and every star—from all wherein
Flowed blood, stirred sap, coursed ichor—yea, from all
That moved or moved not, breathed or breathed not, was
Or was not—oath that none would work him harm,
Baldur the Beautiful. Thus should his days
Be free from motived ill. And since of all
Love's manifested fashionings, motherhood
Most unalloyed, most flawless, swiftest was
To see and do, nor spare itself in doing,
The mission this commandment to proclaim
Accorded should be Frigga—her who bore
With gladsome throes to Odin this his son,
Baldur, the best beloved.
The Æsir heard
Rejoicing, while, as ice melts under noon,
Their fear went from them. Then, as fallen leaves
In drear dead ranks, whipped by a sudden gust,
Swirl from the ground instinct with wingèd life,
So swept they forth on that behest, to seek
The goddess in her dwelling—Fensalir,
Built of red gold, roofed o'er with silver shields—
Breathless o'ersprang the threshold, breathless told
Their message where she sat serene and still,
Her face the face of perfect motherhood,
Her deep eyes glowing with love satisfied
And full. Ere yet the rush of words was done,
Her heart had sucked it dry of argument,
Leaving but sterile sounds. And lo! before
Their anxious eyes could look again, the place
Was bare of her as of a light blown out,
And she had touched the extremest of the stars,
Bent on her wondrous task. So swift of wing
Is mother-love.
Then Baldur sang of her
This slender song—for that which fills the heart
Must voice itself, or turn to heaviness—
Though fain his insufficient lute had found
A fuller measure, fitted to the theme.

FRIGGA

Great Mother-Heart, one with infinity,
And old when stars were young,
Though all the gods together sang of thee,
The best were still unsung.

The surge of myriad seas is in thy veins.
Thy rhythmic pulses beat
Harmonious with Heaven's eternal strains.
Its winds are in thy feet.

Ruthless as Fate thou art; a fierce typhoon
When worlds thy path defy;
Yet tender as the touch of summer moon
Where sleeping lilies lie.

Oh, love transcendent, vast as breadth and length
Of space beyond the spheres,
And mighty with the garnered grace and strength
Of all the mingled years!

As o'er the land 'twixt widest east and west
The wings of Day are spread,
So life lies folded to thine ample breast,
Nourished and comforted.

The weighty oath thus had and Baldur free,
Once more was joy in Asgard. There, for sport
Meet for high mirth, yet more to honour him
Naught now might harm, in laughter and in love
His brother gods set Baldur in their midst,
A mark against their weapons' seasoned skill.
"Stretch forth thine arm," cried one, "that I may speed
My lance between thy fingers." "Stand secure,"
Another cried. "This cunning stroke of mine
Shall lift yon lock from thy resplendent brow."
"Hold fast!" cried yet a third. "My sword shall cleave
The shadow from thy body." Thus they tried
Their various worth, and where by chance they missed
Their purposed goal, the weapon fell on him
Harmless as leaf on pool, or mist on flower.
And Baldur's smile shone o'er them like a star.

One only was there 'mid the jocund throng
Who loved not Baldur—Loki, false of tongue,
Falser of heart. Doth Night love Day? Doth Hate
Love Love? Rage shook him as his sharpened blade
Shivered and brake against that shining breast,
Nor left a scar to point how true the aim;
And hurled he rock an Ajax might have doomed,
It fell as light from that uplifted brow
As 't were a shaken dewdrop. Blind with wrath
That like red coals upon his eyelids lay,
He hastened thence, put off his godly form
And tricked him as a woman bent with years;
So sought out Fensalir where Frigga sat
Serene and still, with eyes that looked afar
And saw but what was good.
"Know'st thou," he said,
"The Æsir hold their concourse?"
"Ay. What then?"
Asked Frigga, and her voice was like a chime
Of silver bells rung in the eventide.

"Lo, this," he answered her. "A prodigy.
Their darts they fling at Baldur—nay, forsooth,
Naught leave untried, whate'er the weapon chance—
With vigour of the best, and varied aim,
Yet harm him not."
"Ay ay," the goddess said;
And her face lightened like the sunlit sea.
"Naught lives may harm him, for I have the oath."

"The oath?" cried Loki, and with careful ear
Waited her word. "The oath? Who then hath sworn?"

"All things," quoth Frigga, "saving one alone."

"That one?" craved Loki, and breathed not for thirst
Of coming knowledge. "Prithee, name it me."

Calm as the light of moon on mountain fiord,
When summer sleeps, relaxed, upon the hills,
Was Frigga's smile. "A little shrub," she said,
"That grows beside Valhalla—mistletoe
They call it."
'And it dared withhold the oath?"

The deep eyes of the goddess shone with love
Wide as the universe. "So young it was—
So pale and weak—I spared its feebleness
The waste of breath."
"It was well done," avowed
The false of heart; exultant sallied forth,
Took back his birthright shape, and straight him hied
Thither where by Valhalla faintly grew
The little shrub, scarce lifted from the root
That gave it life, too young, too weak to flower.

Ruthless he brake it from its pliant stem,
Close hid it in the hollow of his palm,
And sped him where the Æsir jubilant
Their sport pursued, Baldur its goal and crown—
Baldur the perfect, fashioned all of love,
Baldur the Beautiful, surnamed the Good.

An arrow's flight away, sad-browed, as one
By Fate from common joyance set apart,
Hödur the Blind, stronger than seven, stood,
His sinewy arms light crossed above his breast.
Him Loki swift discerned and swifter sought.
"What dost thou here?" quoth he. "Would'st thou alone

Spare Baldur meed of honour?"
"Nay, in truth,"
Hödur made answer, "for I love him well;
He is mine only day, and all my light.
But weapon have I none; or had I such,
How should these futile eyes find way to him,
That see not their own path?"
"Stay," Loki urged.
"Take thine allotted pleasure. Lo, this twig—
Though small, 't is somewhat, truly. Here thou hast't.
Thy pole star I. Put forth thy matchless strength—
Thine uttermost. Accord him thus much grace."

Thereat Hödur the Blind, stronger than seven,
His shadowed countenance relit and glad,
Cried out in voice new-tuned to joy: "I, too,
O Baldur, dearer holding thee than all,
I fain would show my pride in thee." So crying,
As Loki guided him, struck out his arm—
His sinewy right arm—with strength of seven,
Speeding the puny missile on its way,
Unwitting whither. And before the breath
That shaped the words had spent its gentleness,
Pierced through and through to the great heart of him,
Baldur the Beautiful lay dead.
Woe! Woe!
Ah, woe in Asgard! Woe to all the worlds!
Death the unconquerable has entered Heaven.
Black horror shook the air. Chaos uprose
From farthest Hel, distort and monstrous. Fear
Froze every breath, cast every limb in stone.
Aghast, undone, the Æsir palsied stood,
With anguished eyes fast fixt where Baldur lay—
A fallen star, in his own light enshrouded,
And coffined in the darkness of the world.
Hödur, alone amid them undistraught,
Still smiling soft, joy not yet gone from him,
Hearkened, anticipant, for answering sign,
Till suddenly the silence smote on him
As it had been a blow. Doubt, dread, despair
Gripped him and drave him forward. Thus he came,
Precipitate, with stumbling, senseless feet,
On Baldur prostrate, bent down groping hands,
And in the agony of knowledge gave
His being up, with clamorous groans that rang
Reverberant through the wide vaults of Heaven.

Then such a cry went out from all the gods
As shook the Hel-bound root of Yggdrasil,
And tore the embedded anchors of the skies
From every mooring loose. "Woe! Woe!" they cried.
"Baldur the Beautiful! Baldur the Good!
Baldur, our Brother!" And the universe
Rocked like a leaf, while on his lonely throne,
Odin, the All-Father, veiled his stricken face.

Lo, then, like mariners on Northern seas,
Who through the rift of storm-rent clouds behold
The midnight sun, so were the Æsir ware
Of Frigga in their midst, stiller than death,
Mantled in such divinity of grief
That awe fell on them like a mailèd hand
Compelling them to silence, while her words
So reached their consciousness as if to each
His own voice whispered to him in his soul.
"That son most swift, most sure, let him take steed
And spare not spur, nor stay him day nor night
For love nor hate, for life nor death, until
He slacken rein in Hel, and there demand
Ransom for Baldur, so he come again
To Asgard, that again the worlds have light,
That Yggdrasil bear leaves, and Heaven be Heaven."

As lightning leaps amid the brooding clouds,
Out from the Æsir Hermod leapt forthwith—
Hermod the Fleet, whose foot no wing outflew—
And swore by Odin's puissant scimitar
To sate nor thirst nor hunger, nor to seek
Sleep's intimate refreshment, ere in Hel,
From Hela, odious ruler of the nine
Unhappy lands, he won great Baldur back.
And as at stir of spring's awakening sap
Boughs bare as bones, flaming to sudden bloom
Are wreathèd halls for hidden choristers
That fill the air with ecstasy, so Hope
Flowed re-creating through the Æsir's veins
At Hermod's oath, and all their blood ran wine.

From Odin's throne imperious command
Then came that ash-grey Sleipnir, first of steeds,
For Frigga's envoy should accoutred be—
Sleipnir, whom none but Odin yet bestrode—
Sleipnir the marvellous, the double-limbed,
Who trod the ether as't were pastured earth—
The swift beyond compare, each leap a flight
Immeasurable, each breath a molten flame.
Joyous sprang Hermod to the massive back;
So, for a pulse beat, in his brothers' sight
Stood imaged straight as fir on mountain top,
While to the goddess suppliant eyes he bent,
Mutely petitioning a signalled grace.
Then by the look she gave him panoplied
Against aught ill, he spake in Sleipnir's ear,
Dropped the loose line upon his stormy mane,
Struck spur, and vanished like a meteor, whilst
The Æsir's shout still thundered down the dark.





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