Thor.  Son of Odin!

Balder.  Speak, mighty Thor!

Thor.  Thou sighest, then—­and vainly?

Balder.  Vainly:  without a glimpse of hope; bewildered. 
What, what have I not promised, vow’d, attempted? 
How oft have I, O Thor!—­I blush, but hear it—­
To tears debas’d myself:  my tears have trickled—­
Have vainly trickled—­before Gevar’s daughter.

Thor.  Ha!  Gevar’s daughter?

Balder.  Yes, the haughty Nanna.

Thor.  Dost mean the daughter of the wise King Gevar,
Who reads the actions of the unborn hero,
The will of Fate, malicious foemen’s projects,
And war and death of warriors in the planets: 
Dost mean his daughter?

Balder.  Think’st thou other fathers possess a Nanna?

Thor.  Gods!

[He again casts his eyes upon the ground, like one who meditates deeply.

Balder.  Behind yon pine wood he built an altar unto thee and Odin,
There thou mayst see the roof of his still dwelling. 
There lives the earthly Freia—­cruel maiden—­
There slumbers she, perhaps—­the proud one rests in
Joy’s downy arms, undreaming aught of Balder! 
As if I did not love, were not a half-god;
As if by Skalds my name were never chanted
As if I were a demon, bad as Loke! 
Ha! if upon my tongue lurked bane and magic,
When fear enchains it and the pale lip trembles;
When broken words and a disordered wailing
Are all with which I can express my bosom’s
Desire intense, and dread unwonted torments. 
Ha! were my voice like Find’s when he, distracted,
Goes over Horthedal; as when he bellows,
And wild at last, and blind with fury, splinters
The oaks, the glory of the sacred forest. 
Ha! if the blood of maids and unarm’d wretches
Of harmless travellers, stained the hands of Balder—­
If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers—­
Then might’st thou well be pale;
And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!

Thor.  Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!

Balder.  From Nanna!  Yes, I ought—­that see I plainly. 
Ha! some accursed fiend my foot has fasten’d
To these wild mountains and to Nanna’s shadow! 
And is there nothing then of hope remaining? 
When did I first become so grim—­so frightful? 
When?  Tell me, Thor, is breath of mine destructive? 
Has death among my tears and smiles its dwelling? 
What shall I do?  Reply!  But thou art silent,
And from thine eyeball flames contemptuous anger.

Thor (he rises).  Ha! drivellest thou before the God of Thunder?

Balder.  To Thor, to Odin’s friend, I breathe my sorrow.