CANTO VII.

THE RETURN HOME.

Girding his belt still closer round His loins, the chief his way pursued: Towards eve a meadow vast he found, Where herds of cattle grazing stood. Still moving on with soul on fire, His eyes a distant dwelling reach, The humble cot of Tialfe’s sire Embosom’d in a grove of beech.

Then Tialfe blush’d, and towards the cot Ran lustily along the grass: Him follow’d Roska light of foot With streaming hair and rosy face. To view the spot how great their joy, Where first the breath of life they drew! Shouts of delight reveal the boy; Roska shed tears like morning dew.

Close to the cottage-door outspread A linden-tree its branches wide: The peasant there beneath its shade Sat with his consort by his side. Soon as the children met their eyes, High beat their hearts with ecstacy; “Lo! there is Tialf!” the Gaffer cries: “Lo! there is Roska!” echoes she.

The dame gave vent to many a tear, When clasping Roska in her arms: Much wonder caused the shield and spear, And eye that spoke of war’s alarms. The ancient dame felt never tired Upon her daughter’s charms to dwell; Her size improved she much admired, Her slender waist, and bosom’s swell.

“I scarcely can believe, that I Gave birth to such a daughter brave: Whence gottest thou that flashing eye? And who that shining corslet gave?” Young Roska gravely thus replied: “My gracious master Asa-Thor The corslet shield and sword supplied: His lessons fit my soul for war.”

Then the old man with locks so grey In close embrace his Tialfe held: The youth with self-esteem swell’d high, Proud of his casque, his lance and shield. “My darling boy! in truth, ’tis strange,” Thus sobbing did the parent say: “Whence comes so wonderful a change? Thou wert a child but yesterday.

“Whence gottest thou that martial brow, And strength the toils of war to brave? Who gave thee force to bend the bow, And who that glitt’ring armour gave?” Then Tialfe: “Thor my gracious lord Gave me these arms; the art of war From him I learn; to wield the sword, And poise the lance, and mount the car.”

When to his parents Tialf reveal’d The presence of the puissant Thor, The old man and his consort kneel’d, Inspired with awe, the god before: With timid sigh the old man said: “O god! whose fame the world doth fill, Thy car is safe beneath my shed, And thy two goats are living still.”

This speech the Asa’s nerves restored; His wrath quick vanish’d like the wind: Reflecting on the giant’s word, He felt consoled in heart and mind. Now to the stable straight he goes, And opes the door: with joy he swell’d, And quick forgot all cares and woes, When he his goats and car beheld.

And now the giant queller took (His custom ’twas) his hammer bright; A well directed blow he struck, And slew his goats of colour white. Now jump’d th’ old woman up in haste, Upon the board to spread the cloth; While Lok began the meat to baste, And feed the fire, and mix the broth.

Lo! from the wood the peasant’s son, Laden with faggots, now appears; He piles them on the hearth: anon The smoking flesh the trav’llers cheers: No dish had they; Thor’s buckler broad This want supplied: and now they feed With hearty zest, while the goats’ blood Furnish’d, as wont, delicious mead.

No sooner was the supper past, Thor rose observant of his rite; The bones within the skins he cast: But Tialfe’s father at the sight, Mindful of what before was done, Quits hastily the festive hearth, And grasping by the arm his son, Into the forest leads him forth.

Then Thor, the mighty, cried aloud: “Why dost thou lead that youth away?” But the old peasant only bow’d, And to the grove pursued his way: “What once he did, I recollect,” Quoth he; “I must not hesitate; I’m fearful, if he be not check’d, He may his former trick repeat.”

The giant-queller laugh’d amain: “Nay, father! leave the youth alone; I wager, Tialfe will ne’er again Be tempted by a marrow-bone: To renovate his strength he now No longer needs to suck the marrow, As whilom, when he drove the plough, Or fell’d the wood, or wheel’d the barrow.

Cheer’d by the Asa’s blithesome mood, The old man let Tialf’s kirtle go: The trav’llers now, with savoury food Refresh’d, their thoughts on sleep bestow. But Thor, the mighty god of war, Whose soul with thoughts heroick glows, Doff’d not his armour; in his car He stepp’d, and there enjoy’d repose.

The morning dawn’d: with choral lay The feather’d songsters fill the skies: The sun ascends; the trav’llers gay From slumbers light refresh’d arise. To war and bold adventure prone, Each buckles on his armour strait, And whets his weapon on the stone, That stands without the cottage gate.

On the goats’ feet Thor went to nail The shoes of gold; the silken reins He fasten’d, and prepared to sail Across the vast celestial plains. He grasps his hammer; in the car His followers place them by his side: ’Midst thunder’s crash and lightning’s glare They mount, and skyward rapid glide.

The car swift rolling through the sky The peasant views with mute amaze: The more he marks them mounting high, The more he stares with stupid gaze. Soaring aloft, what words can paint Roska’s and Tialf’s extreme surprize, When stretching cross the firmament The rainbow ring salutes their eyes?

When Asa Thor, the god renown’d, Arrived within his bright domain, Behold a purple blush around Spread itself o’er the azure plain: Heimdaller, when he view’d the car, Sounded his horn in glorious style; And the seven Virgins greeted Thor With wave of hand and gracious smile.

Then said the Miölner-brandisher To the young Roska lily-white: “’Twere best I bring thee strait to her, Who rules in Folkvang, Freya hight; For never since the world has been The world, was female, wife, or maid, In Trudvang’s warlike castle seen; Nor will I now that rule evade.”

The dome of Freya, queen of love, The fairest of the Disar fair, Stands in a vale, where many a grove Of rose-trees sweet embalms the air. From earthly sorrow and annoy For ever freed, each constant youth And faithful maid doth there enjoy The guerdon bright of love and truth.

In that abode of joy and bliss, Where many a graceful form is seen, The greatest ornament, I wis, Is Freya’s self, the lovely queen. Her golden hair, her eyes deep blue, Her bosom turn’d with finest swell, Her slender waist, her skin’s soft hue, Her teeth which brightest pearls excel,

Her breath of sweetest flower perfume, Her soul-enchanting smile, her cheek Which emulates the peach’s bloom,[37] All these to sing my voice is weak. In either hand she holds a rose; Each doth delicious odour spread: Each with the liveliest colour glows; One tinges morn, one eve with red.

So gentle is her soul and mind, All painful cares and griefs she heals: Her breath, which forms the vernal wind, The earth with vegetation fills. When morn displays its roseate hue, Tears glisten in her orbs so bright; These fall to earth in shape of dew, And fill each flow’ret with delight.

Two daughters claim her tend’rest care, Their faultless forms what graces deck! Like waterfall, their radiant hair Streams down their alabaster neck! Hnos, who the moon’s bright chariot guides, The paragon of children shines: Siofna, who over sleep presides, All hearts to peace and love inclines.

“Folkvangur is the place, methinks. Most suitable to Roska fair; From danger, oft I’ve seen, she shrinks, And fails in strength the shield to bear.” Thus Thor in disappointment said, Then from the girl her armour takes: “Give up thy sword! thou peasant maid! Such weapons ill become thy sex.

“I’ll lead thee strait to Freya’s grove, Where every female loves to dwell: Better wilt thou in sports of love, Than in the toils of war excel.[38] Good will and spirit too thou hast, But oft thy vigour fails at proof: For thy soft-fibred hand ’twere best To hold the harp, or weave the woof.”

Thereat to Freya’s blest abode He march’d, with Roska by his side; The maid accompanied the god, With confidence of joy and pride. The goddess praised her graceful air, Her shape, her eyes, her youthful bloom And from that moment Roska fair Remain’d for aye in Folkvang’s dome.

Now Thor to Valhall hastens on, With Tialf his swain in armour clad; Odin beholds him from his throne, And hails his son with accents glad. Now the Valkyrior bright advance With brimming cups of hydromel: Th’ Einherier all with horse and lance Now charges make, and now repel.