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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA
137
Like the god of rain doth Frithiof stand
High over beams and water,
And calmly gives each loud command
Midst flaming death’s disorder.
In vain! the flames gain the upper hand,
In smoke-wreaths rolled and swelled.
The gold drops into the glowing sand,
The plates of silver melt.
Now all is lost! From the half-burnt hall
His flight a red cock wingeth,
And he percheth high on the gable tall,
And there wing-flapping clingeth.
The morning wind from the north hath hied,
Far through the heavens blowing:
Balder’s grove is summer-dried,
The flame is greedy and growing.
Fiercely it speedeth from tree to tree,
A wide possession claiming:
Ha! what a fierce wild sight to see
Great Balder’s mighty flaming.
Down in each cleft root it crackleth still,
High in each summit gloweth;
’Gainst Muspel’s ruddy sons, what skill
Of man a barrier knoweth?
A sea of flame fills Balder’s ground,
Strandless its billows stream;
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