Thor.  How long dost think, degenerate son of Odin,
Unmanly pining for a foolish maiden,
And all the weary train of love-sick follies,
Will move a bosom that is steeled by virtue? 
Thou dotest!  Dote and weep, in tears swim ever;
But by thy father’s arm, by Odin’s honour,
Haste, hide thy tears and thee in shades of alder! 
Haste to the still, the peace-accustom’d valley,
Where lazy herdsmen dance amid the clover. 
There wet each leaf which soft the west wind kisses,
Each plant which breathes around voluptuous odours,
With tears!  There sigh and moan and the tired peasant
Shall hear thee, and, behind his ploughshare resting,
Shall wonder at thy grief, and pity Balder!

Balder.  And is this all the comfort thou canst offer?

Thor.  I gave thee counsel:  fly from her who flies thee! 
What holds thee here, where thou canst hope for nothing?

Balder.  And can I?  Ah, my friend, that is my duty! 
But fly!  And never, never see thee, Nanna! 
And ne’er again behold the roof where under
Thou sleepest!  Honour the mere thought destroyeth! 
Ere that, I’ll perish here, unfamed, forgotten!

Thor.  Well, perish, then!  I see too plain ’tis useless
Against a harsh, eternal fate to struggle!

   The hill fiend dreads my hammer’s might
   Before it turns the Jotun white,
   And rocks, whereon I strike, give way. 
   But nothing cruel fate can move;
   And what Allfather there above
   Resolves upon, stands firm for aye.

Know, son of Odin, thou whom reason, friendship,
Whom scorn—­e’en scorn—­to move are all unable,
Know that prophetic were thy words!  Fate hastens! 
The Valkyrie prepares the spear already,
Its deadly point already does she sharpen. 
Ah, see! the prince of battle holds it brandish’d;
He strikes! he strikes! and all the Aser sorrow.

Balder.  Dark is thy speech, O Thor! dark as thy visage.

Thor.  Before my eyes are murky shadows flitting. 
A mortal youth, with blood of Asa crimson’d! 
The fight and death of gods, the fall of Asgara! 
Hear, son of Odin, wretched slave of passion,
Think not that dreams, that magic’s foul deception,
That spectres of the night my brain bewilder;
And oh! think not that merely chance has led me
To Balder’s presence, and to these high forests! 
I sought thee, came with speed to give thee warning: 
Fear, then!  It is thy friend, ’tis Thor, who’s speaking! 
And on my lips I bear the words of Odin. 
Thou know’st there grows in night’s mysterious valley
A tree, as yet by men or gods seen never;
It bears a bough, which bough, when once ’tis harden’d
In Nastroud’s flames, can slay thee.

Balder.  Yes, I know it.

Thor.  That knowest thou, friend!  And is it a mere slumber,
A fleeting trance, a pleasant dream of battle,
With which the spear’s impregnated in Nastroud? 
Ha! whom it slays wakes never up in Valhall;
In mist and darkness must he lie for ever. 
From gods and men alike for ever parted,
Must Balder be detested—­Haela’s booty,
Not Odin’s quest?