CANTO XXI.

CONVERSATION BETWEEN SKIRNIR AND FREY.

But when the moon had fled the rock behind, Follow’d by Maanegarm the winged fiend, Who, constant in pursuit, to human eyes Mostly invisible, but in the skies Sometimes in form of wolf, when rain pours down, Protrudes his head amidst the vapours brown: From ocean’s bed the sun majestic rose, Like blushing Freya with her cheeks of rose, When from the bath outstepping, she displays (Alone, naught fearing indiscretion’s gaze) Her charms voluptuous to the morning chill, While on the trees the birds are slumb’ring still.

Skirnir the gallant courier mounts his steed; Fulla had fill’d his flask with Suttung’s mead; While fair Iduna, mindful of the brave, To guard his life and health, an apple gave. Lo! thus prepared, he cleaves the liquid sky Charged with a mission from Alfader high For on that very night was Hermod flown (Odin’s own courier) to a distant zone; There to avenge by punishment sublime, O Freya! thy perfidious consort’s crime.

Charged with his errand now must Skirnir ride To Dovre’s caverns, where the dwarfs reside; Those smiths ingenious, who with wondrous art Can to all metals various forms impart: By Odin’s order they were strict enjoin’d To forge a fetter, Fenris wolf to bind, Subtle and slight, but strong his force to quell, And proved and charm’d with many a mystic spell. For iron nought avail’d, nor copper chain The dangerous monster’s fury to restrain; For such, like singed threads, he burst in twain.

But as o’er Bifrost bridge he pass’d along, Thus Skirnir mused: “Methinks, it were not wrong, Before I leave the regions of the sky, To ascertain, if my own master Frey Hath not some mandate for his trusty swain; For though to Odin, king of gods and men, We all must bow, and own his sovereign might, Yet our own master claims an equal right.” Thus said, he spurr’d his courser toward the grove Of birch-trees, where the Asa loved to rove. There Frey, with chin reclining on his hand, Was wont to sit, and muse, while o’er the land The seed is sown, and with fond hopes elate, The husbandmen th’ approach of autumn wait. But when this time Skirnir his master found With pallid hue, immers’d in grief profound, He wonder’d much, and thus exclaim’d aloud: “How now? my sovereign! thus with sorrow bow’d, When all creation, deck’d in radiant vest, Indulges brightest hopes, which thy behest Alone can gratify; for in thy hand The Fates have placed the fecundating wand, Which spreads abundant harvests o’er the land.

But little would the sower’s pains avail, Didst thou not send unseen through mead and vale A swarm of Alfs, the labourer’s way to clear, The thieving sparrows with their darts to scare, And root out all the noxious insect race, Which lie in ambush in each furrow’s trace. But ’tis in autumn that we most admire Thy power, O Asa, when with looks of fire Thou gildest bright each waving field of corn: For when the reaper’s scythe at dawn of morn Blithesome resounds, thy greatest triumph then Is hail’d with rapture by the sons of men. ’Tis far more cheering to their hearts to hear The scythe’s shrill sound, than clang of shield and spear, To do Thor homage in his proud career.”

“Ah! what avails my boasted power and pride, If it can naught effect (thus Frey replied) Than causing trees to shoot and corn to grow? What boots my form divine and radiant brow, If I be not beloved? my power how vain!” “And art thou not beloved?” rejoin’d the swain: “Doth not all nature at thy altar bend? Doth not the mighty Odin call thee friend? For thee each Disa feels an ardent flame, And all the gods thy love fraternal claim.”

Now Frey began each circumstance to tell That him on Hlidskialf’s lofty tower befel: How in the mountain cavern he beheld A form, which every other form excell’d, An image of the fairest and the best, That stamp’d itself for ever in his breast.

Then Skirnir: “Now doth my loved master prove, I well perceive, the mighty power of love: Whoe’er of love’s keen arrows feels the smart, Freya with doubts and fears distracts his heart. With hand upon his breast, in wayward fits, Despairing of success, the lover sits: Yet could he once his soul to action strain, An easy triumph he, perhaps, might gain. Why thus despair? Is Gerda thy beloved? Cannot she, thinkst thou, by thy prayers be moved? Is she not young, and handsome, soft and mild, In the first spring of life a flow’ret wild? Thinkst thou a goblin bridegroom doom’d to prove The exquisite reward of Gerda’s love? Shame were it for a ruler of the skies, Should Horse-leg, the rough clown, bear off the prize; Or should a damsel of such wondrous charms Languish and pine in Goat-beard’s shaggy arms.”[77] Then Frey: “Could I the maid’s consent obtain, Yet fear I Odin, king of gods and men; He would refuse his sanction.” “Why suppose Said Skirnir, “Odin would thy views oppose? To bind the marriage knot consent he gave Whilom ’twixt Ægir, monarch of the wave, And the perfidious harsh ill-favour’d Ran, Who spreads her net to drown the race of man. And did he not his sanction too accord To bind fierce Skada with benignant Niord? How then could his impartial spirit blame A better suited match, a worthier flame ’Twixt thee and Gerda, loveliest mountain dame?

“Not always so austere and so sedate Trust me, is Odin, as when high in state He thrones amidst Valhalla’s champions grave: He too hath sometimes been love’s humblest slave; The lively Freya, with her cheeks of rose, Hath oft disturbed that prudent god’s repose: Then weary of the banquet, and the sight Of arm’d Einherier in the mimick’d fight, Disguised to earth he oft descends, and there Clasps in his fond embrace some mortal fair. “Hast thou forgot the time, when Odin, fired With love for Princess Rinda’s charms, attired As a laborious smith, once found his way To Garderike, where her sire held sway? First prudently he strove to gain the fair By gifts of iron, gold, and silver rare: But she rejected all; and with disdain She smote the cheek of the presumptuous swain. But nought rebuff’d, again he took the field, Like chieftain arm’d with brazen helm and shield; He urged his suit, and met with no success; A second blow chastised his eagerness. But since a blow from silken hand of dame With no dishonour soils a warrior’s name, Like oil it served to increase the Asa’s flame.

“Once more he to the charge return’d, array’d This time in guise of lowly waiting-maid: He sold his liberty, with fondest care And earnest zeal to serve his mistress fair: He wash’d her feet on each revolving night, And in the humblest duties felt delight: This moved her tender heart: and that relief, Which to the hardy smith and plume-clad chief She had refused, she voluntary gave To the profound devotion of a slave.

“Still more of Odin’s various loves, in spite Of Saga’s prudence, can I bring to light, Although she graves them on her sable shield In mystic runes, from vulgar ken conceal’d. When first was ratified the bond of peace Between the Asar and the Vaner race, Loud through the mountains of the eastern chain Was heard of love and bliss the jocund strain. The Vaner damsels with long streaming hair, Their forms voluptuous to the girdle bare, Join’d in the mazy dance and rais’d the song To crash of cymbals and the sound of gong. The vine’s rich juice their cheeks had colour’d high And gave fresh lustre to each flashing eye; Such thrilling accents from their pouting lips. Such melting tones were heard, as might eclipse The strain of nightingale, when to the grove He lures his mate with blandishments of love.

“Now to the deepest glen the nymphs withdrew; The Asar close th’ alluring prey pursue. Heimdal soon vanish’d; Vidar, too, the grave, Most taciturn of all the Asar brave, Who ne’er his prowess boasts; then Hermod flew Into the copse, and, some say, Odin too. Well, well! the transports of that blissful night The genial bard engender’d, Qvaser[78] hight; His mother was a damsel of sixteen, Fair-hair’d, blue-eyed, of loveliest shape and mien; She brought him forth amidst the myrtle grove, And gave him to the gods, a pledge of love.

“He grew to manhood fast, was wise and strong, And from his mother learn’d the art of song. With various talents blest and generous mind, He travell’d o’er the earth to serve mankind, And much he joy’d to place within their reach All that his wisdom or his skill could teach. But malice slumbers not; at close of day It lies in ambush to destroy its prey. Qvaser oft wander’d o’er the mountain steep; Two scowling dwarfs there kill’d him while asleep; Into a golden vase they pour’d his blood, From which, with honey mix’d, a drink they brew’d This drink the Scalds’ bright science could inspire, And fill man’s bosom with poetic fire. The vengeance of Valhalla to prevent And screen their guilt, the dwarfs a tale invent; They spread abroad that Qvaser they had found In the deep flood of his own wisdom drown’d. But to conceal their crime they strove in vain; And ample vengeance for his brother slain On those malignant dwarfs brave Suttung took; He seized them both and bound them to a rock; That rock, by stormy billows lash’d, doth stand In the mid ocean, distant far from land. As a still further punishment, he left The traitors life, of all its joys bereft: There haunts them still the ghost of Qvaser slain, And hunger gnaws them with eternal pain.” Frey sigh’d, young Skirnir smiled, and still his tale Continued sprightly: “Suttung did not fail To seize the vase fill’d with the precious juice, For well he knew its value and its use; The vase he trusted to no dragon’s care, But to his prudent daughter, Gunliod fair. Then Odin first conceived the project bold Of gaining mast’ry of that vase of gold: He mounted on his courser, Sleipner hight, And swift descending from Valhalla’s height, Soon reach’d a field, where arm’d with scythes he view’d Nine savage goblins of the Jotun brood, Intent, by the broad streaming northern light, To cut down all a peasant’s corn that night; And Odin knew their master, Bauge, dwell’d In a huge cave close bord’ring on the field. No deference pay to justice or to right The thievish giants; their sole law is might: They rove the world around and laugh to scorn The Asar’s golden rules; the peasant’s corn They carry off, while he lies fast asleep, And, what he sows, those ruthless robbers reap. Night of their force and fraud conceals each trace, For Night herself is of the giant race: Her sire, the giant Narf; an Asa bright, Delling, became her husband; then did Night Give birth to honest Day: thus oft arise Virtue and grace from ugliness and vice. But Night when she o’er earth her ride extends, Mounted on Hrimfax, whom she often lends To Skada, acts in concert with the brood Of giants, and conceals their deeds of blood. But Moon, the graceful child with golden hair About her temples, boasts a courage rare, And far beyond her sex and age; ’tis she Exposes oft the giants’ villany; And when from a dark cloud with radiant head Fair Moon emerges, to the rocks they speed To hide themselves; but soon commence again, And to their mountain lair bear off amain The fruits and treasures of the luckless swain. Then when the husbandman walks o’er the field At dawn of day, and views his harvest fell’d And all laid waste, he thinks the nightly frost Hath caused the mischief and his labours cross’d. Then he complains to Frey, but vain his prayer;” Frey sigh’d, and gaz’d around with vacant stare. Skirnir continued; still he hoped, forsooth, With tales and jests his master’s mind to sooth. “But not alone the giants mischief cause, The cunning dwarfs too oft infringe the laws; They, when the summer breeze embalms the air, In shape of ants and cockchafers repair To th’ field, and there devour the ears of corn, Laughing the wretched peasant’s plaint to scorn.

When Odin now the thievish giants view’d, Pity and indignation fired his blood; He took out from his pouch a polished stone,[79] Than which for sharp’ning scythes a better one Could not be found; then call’d out loud and blythe: ’Which of ye needs a stone to wet his scythe?’ He threw it high in air, but as it fell, The greedy giants had with rancour fell, Disputing for the stone, each other slain, And streams of blood incarnadined the plain.

“Then Odin towards the mountain hied him strait And knock’d, with Bolverk’s name, at Bauge’s gate; He there took service, and with nine men’s power For the nine reapers household labours bore; But this condition fix’d, Bauge a road Should find him to fair Gunliod’s abode. Now Bauge bored the rock, and Odin blew Into the hole, but the dust backward flew Into his eyes. The giant’s trick was plain; The hole was not made straight; but when again Bauge his borer used, the god applied Quickly his mouth and blew. To th’ other side Now flew the dust; the aperture was free; And Odin, in a serpent’s form, with glee Glides through the rock; the giant with his steel Strikes after, but in vain he strives the snake to kill. And Odin, when he reach’d the other side, Resumed his proper form with conscious pride. With snow-white arm beneath her cheek of rose, There Gunliod slumb’ring lay in deep repose; While the lamp spread a flick’ring ray around, Odin beheld the vase with garlands crown’d. Odin presents himself, not fiercely now Like a wild man, but with majestic brow He stands; then with a lover’s ardour kneels Before the maid, and all his soul reveals. His eloquence, his manly beauty gain’d Her heart; three nights with Gunliod he remain’d. And oft, while on his mistress’ form he gaz’d, She to her lover’s lips the mystic vessel rais’d. Right lustily he drank; then with his prize Triumphant he regain’d his native skies.”

Now Skirnir ceas’d his story, and awhile Gazed on his master with an artful smile; Then Frey his silence broke: “So! thus doth love An Asa! sensual joys alone their passion move! The sweeter fruit of sentiment, I trow, The race of Bor and Bure do not know. O Skirnir! did the Fates to Frey accord To dwell on Hlidskialf’s tower, like Valhall’s lord, How fortunate! then every morn the sight Of Gerda would my ravish’d soul delight. This would repay me amply for my sighs And for my nightly tears: alas! there lies A barrier insurmountable between My love and me: all I dare hope to glean Is her dear image, which can ne’er depart; Here, here, it lies, deep buried in my heart. Of her bright charms the deep imprinted trace Nor time nor circumstance can e’er efface. What greater pleasure, Skirnir! can we prove, Than to behold the darling maid we love? Oh yes! there is a pleasure far more sweet; When looks reciprocal our glances meet, And earnest give of future sympathy: Oh! ’tis the most enchanting melody, When the sweet voice of the beloved fair Whispers “I love thee” in her lover’s ear. Yet e’en the tongue can ne’er its happiness, With half the ardour, half the force express, As doth an eye, whose silent eloquence Reveals each thought, and beams with love intense.

“Now hie thee swift to the dark giant’s land, And execute Valfader’s stern command! Procure a fetter forged with mystic spell Fenris the wolf to chain, that monster fell! Not difficult the task will prove, methinks, For the dwarf’s science from no labour shrinks. But neither mystic spell nor magic chain Can to Valhalla bind my heart again: To Gerda solely it belongs; it flies With wings impetuous through the azure skies Over Ginnungagap, abyss profound, And hovers with delight the mountain fair around. But shouldst thou find the dear enchanting maid, Tell her what thou hast seen, what Frey hath said! Doubtless already me with scorn she views; The giant’s hate the Asar still pursues. As for the rest she is too wondrous fair, Too graceful in her manners, shape and air, Not to expect with sighs and homage meet A host of lovers kneeling at her feet. And if the swain, to whom she plights her vow, Is less esteem’d by the whole world below, Than is the god--should Gerda preference give To him--what then avails my proud prerogative?

“Farewell! Now hie thee hence, my Skirnir brave! To execute the order Odin gave. But on thy master’s woes be silent still! E’en could I hope to bend her father’s will, Could he, though giant-like to softness steel’d, From interested views be taught to yield, What then? but little comfort this would prove; The father’s power I court not, but the love Of his fair daughter. O thou Gerda dear! Couldst thou but view thy ardent lover here Immersed in grief profound, thy generous heart Some words of comfort would, perhaps, impart: Would give asylum to affection’s sighs, And learn a suitor thus sincere to prize. Thus doth the mountain’s summit wrapt in snow Melt by degrees before the summer’s glow, And to a plant gives birth, which scents the gale, More fragrant than the lily of the vale.”

Thus spoke the god, and sat him down beside The brook to weep; the waters onward glide, And, as they flow, receive the lover’s tears, While mirror-like the stream his beauteous image bears. But Skirnir, who in missions from the god So oft had visited the dwarfs’ abode, Had learnt their various arts; and now while Frey Sat gazing on the stream with mournful eye, Skirnir, I say, with sudden impulse took A handful of the water from the brook, Which the reflection of Frey’s image gave; Into his horn he quickly pour’d the wave, And stopp’d it with a cork; then to his side Made fast the horn, and gallop’d off with pride.

This artifice by Frey was noticed not; Gerda alone absorb’d his ev’ry thought.