BALDR’S DRAUMAR
(Baldr's Dreams)
The
gods hurried to their hall of council,
Gathered
together, goddesses with them,
All-powerful,
eager to unriddle
Baldur's
dream that such dread portended.
Up
rose Odhinn, unaging magician,
Harnesses
Sleipnir, the eight-legged,
Sped
down from Asgard to Hel's Deep.
The
blood-dabbled hound of Hel faced him,
Howling
in frenzy at the father of runes.
The
High One halted at the eastern gate,
Where
loomed a tumulus, tomb of a witch.
Runes
he chanted, charms of power:
Her
spectre rose whom his spell commanded
To
enlighten the god with the lore of the dead.
Who
is he that on Hel intrudes?
Who
calls me up, increasing my grief.?
Drenched
by hail, driven by storm,
Dew-frozen,
I am dead long.
I
am Struggler's Son, Strider, Way-Tamer,
Your
secrets I ask: all earth's I know.
Why
are Hel's halls hung with jewels,
Her
chambers rivers of red gold?
For
Baldur our mead is brewed strong
In
a shining cauldron, a shield over it.
Odhinn
on high in heart despairs.
Unwilling
my words: I would no more.
Far-seeing
witch, your words unriddle.
More
will I ask: all will I know.
Who
shall slay Baldur, best of the gods,
Who
suck the life from the son of Odhinn?
Hodur
the blind the branch shall throw,
From
his brother's body the blood to drain,
Sucking
the life from the son of Odhinn.
Unwilling
my words: I would no more.
Far-seeing
witch, your words unriddle.
More
will I ask: all will I know.
By
whose hand shall Hodur fall
And
Baldur's bane be burned with fire?
Rindur
the blessed shall bring forth Vali.
Though
but a night old, he shall be the avenger,
His
hands he shall wash not nor his hair comb
Till
Baldur's bane is borne to the pyre:
Unwilling
my words: I would no more.
Far-seeing
witch, your words unriddle.
More
will I ask: all will I know.
Who
are the maidens who shall mourn then,
Toss
up to Asgard their trailing scarves?
Way-Tamer
you are not, nor are you Strider:
You
are Odhinn the wily, unaging magician.
Witch
you are not, nor woman either:
Womb
of monsters, you have mothered three.
Go
home, Odhinn: air your triumph.
No
guest shall again my grave visit,
Till
wild Loki tear loose from his bonds
And
the World - Wasters on the war-path come.
(From
‘Norse Poems’ translated by W. H. Auden and P. B. Taylor)
Read about Asatru and
Heathenry