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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA 193
On Ida’s plains, by Valhall’s reconciled race.
Thus, death is but an ordeal for fallen good,
And its atonement, birth into a better life;
So, purified, it flieth thither, whence it came,
Rejoicing guileless, as a child on parent’s knees.
Alas! that all that noblest is must lie beyond
The grave—the grassy gate of heaven; and all that dwells
Beneath the stars be base, by evil maculate.—
Yet some atonement still may here on earth be found,
A partial, gentle prelude to the perfect one;
Like hand of minstrel straying o’er his harp, before,
With skilful fingers, he awake the voice of song;
By gentle proof he tries the tuned accord, and then
His bold hand striketh mightily the golden strings,
From out the grave invoking memories of yore,
And Valhall’s brightness flasheth from his tranced eyes.
So earth the shadow seems of heaven above; and like
The entrance court to Balder’s temple in the skies;
And sacrifice to gods is made; by purple rein
The steed is led in golden trappings to their shrines.
Therein a figure, deep of meaning, lies; for blood
Must be the morning-dawn of all atonement-days.
But neither type nor figure can themselves atone;
Thy deeds of evil done can none make good for thee.
Atonement for the dead is in Allfather’s breast;
Atonement for the living in each living heart.
One sacrifice I know, in heaven above more dear
Than smoke of slaughtered oxen; ’t is to offer up
Thine own heart’s angry rage, thine own revenge.
Canst thou not blunt the edge of passion, and forgive ?
Then, Frithiof, naught hast thou to do in Balder’s house:
And vain must be the temple which thou here hast reared.
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