Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/144

106 In that dim world, in Hela's mouldering realm:

And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead,

Whom Hela with austere control presides.

For of the race of gods is no one there,

Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen.

For all the nobler souls of mortal men

On battle-field have met their death, and now

Feast in Valhalla, in my father's hall:

Only the inglorious sort are there below;

The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,—

Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay.

But even there, O Nanna, we might find

Some solace in each other's look and speech,

Wandering together through that gloomy world,

And talking of the life we led in heaven,

While we yet lived, among the other gods."

He spake, and straight his lineaments began

To fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretched out

Her arms towards him with a cry; but he

Mournfully shook his head, and disappeared.

And as the woodman sees a little smoke

Hang in the air afield, and disappear,

So Balder faded in the night away.

And Nanna on her bed sank back; but then

Frea, the mother of the gods, with stroke

Painless and swift, set free her airy soul,

Which took, on Balder's track, the way below;

And instantly the sacred morn appeared.

from the east, up the ascent of heaven,

Day drove his courser with the shining mane;