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    The Death of Balder
    The Death of Balder
    The Death of Balder
    Ebook103 pages1 hour

    The Death of Balder

    By George Henry Borrow and Johannes Ewald

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    The Death of Balder

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      Book preview

      The Death of Balder - George Henry Borrow

      The Death of Balder, by Johannes Ewald

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Death of Balder, by Johannes Ewald,

      Translated by George Borrow

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Death of Balder

      Author: Johannes Ewald

      Release Date: October 27, 2004 [eBook #13879]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEATH OF BALDER***

      Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

      An Edition of 250 Copies only will be printed.

      No more will be published.

      THE DEATH OF BALDER

      FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EWALD

      (1773)

      TRANSLATED BY GEORGE BORROW

      Author of Bible in Spain, Lavengro, Wild Wales, etc.

      LONDON

      JARROLD & SONS, 3 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.

      1889

      PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION.

      The works of the late poet Ewald are deservedly popular in Denmark.  The present tragedy, and the opera of The Fishermen (Fiskerne), in which occurs the bold lyric which has become the national song of the Danes, are esteemed his best productions.

      For the fidelity with which the present version has been made I appeal to those of my countrymen who understand the original, and demand whether I have given a thought or expression equivalents to which are not to be found in the Danish tragedy.

      I have imitated the peculiar species of blank verse in which the original is composed, in order that the English reader may form an exact idea thereof, and though by having done so my poetry may have somewhat of a cramped, embarrassed gait, I have a firm hope that I shall not meet very severe reprehension for having sacrificed elegance to fidelity.

      GEORGE BORROW.

      THE PERSONS.

      Balder.  Hother.

      Thor.  Nanna.

      Loke.  The Three Valkyrier.

      The place of action is a pine-wood on the Norwegian mountains.  Round about it are seen steep and uneven rocks.  The top of the hindermost and highest is covered with snow.

      ACT THE FIRST.

      BALDER and THOR are seated upon stones at some distance from each other.  Both are armed—THOR with his hammer, and BALDER with spear and sword.

      BALDER.  Land whose proud and rocky bosom

      Braves the sky continually!

      THOR.  Where should strength and valour blossom,

      Land of rocks, if not in thee?

      BALDER.  Odin’s shafts of ruddy levin

      Back from thy hard sides are driven;

      Never sun thy snow dispels.

      THOR.  Sure, he’ll joy in deeds of daring,

      Ne’er for ease voluptuous caring,

      Who upon the mountain dwells.

      BOTH.  Land whose proud and rocky bosom

      Braves the sky continually!

      Where should strength and valour blossom,

      Land of rocks, if not in thee?

      BALDER (he springs up, but THOR remains sitting, like one in deep thought).  Ha!  I will quickly fly from thee for ever,

      Thou hated land, where everything so proudly

      Upbraids me for my weakness—for my fetters:

      Where I, pursu’d by pains of hopeless passion,

      The live-long nights among deaf rocks do wander—

      Whose echoes sport with Balder’s lamentations,

      Each cold, each feelingless, as Nanna’s bosom,

      The fair, unpitying savage!

      THOR.  Son of Odin!

      BALDER.  Speak, mighty Thor!

      THOR.  Thou sighest, then—and vainly?

      BALDER.  Vainly: without a glimpse of hope; bewildered.

      What, what have I not promised, vow’d, attempted?

      How oft have I, O Thor!—I blush, but hear it—

      To tears debas’d myself: my tears have trickled—

      Have vainly trickled—before Gevar’s daughter.

      THOR.  Ha!  Gevar’s daughter?

      BALDER.  Yes, the haughty Nanna.

      THOR.  Dost mean the daughter of the wise King Gevar,

      Who reads the actions of the unborn hero,

      The will of Fate, malicious foemen’s projects,

      And war and death of warriors in the planets:

      Dost mean his daughter?

      BALDER.  Think’st thou other fathers possess a Nanna?

      THOR.  Gods!

      [He again casts his eyes upon the ground, like one who meditates deeply.

      BALDER.  Behind yon pine wood he built an altar unto thee and Odin,

      There thou mayst see the roof of his still dwelling.

      There lives the earthly Freia—cruel maiden—

      There slumbers she, perhaps—the proud one rests in

      Joy’s downy arms, undreaming aught of Balder!

      As if I did not love, were not a half-god;

      As if by Skalds my name were never chanted

      As if I were a demon, bad as Loke!

      Ha! if upon my tongue lurked bane and magic,

      When fear enchains it and the pale lip trembles;

      When broken words and a disordered wailing

      Are all with which I can express my bosom’s

      Desire intense, and dread unwonted torments.

      Ha! were my voice like Find’s when he, distracted,

      Goes over Horthedal; as when he bellows,

      And wild at last, and blind with fury, splinters

      The oaks, the glory of the sacred forest.

      Ha! if the blood of maids and unarm’d wretches

      Of harmless travellers, stained the hands of Balder—

      If ruddy lightnings burnt between these fingers—

      Then might’st thou well be pale;

      And thou wert right to fly from me, O Nanna!

      THOR.  Now, Balder, hear my word, and fly from Nanna!

      BALDER.  From Nanna!  Yes, I ought—that see I plainly.

      Ha! some accursed fiend my foot has fasten’d

      To these wild mountains and to Nanna’s shadow!

      And is there nothing then of hope remaining?

      When did I first become so grim—so frightful?

      When? 

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