I.

 

The mead now quaff I deep to learn

Of one who utters not a word.

 

Beside a lush lea’s dewy lap

Were first united his two halves:

 

’Twas there, where rills ran in the light,

All-Father took young Grid to wife:

 

Where springs break ope upon the stones,

That giantess conceived his soul

 

Who forth amid the Asgard range

Was soon too swift to catch or tame,

 

But wild across that home of gods

Ran dauntless and with ne’er a pause,

 

And wrestled with the hungry bear,

And raced the rabbit to his lair,

 

And hunted elk, and stag, and boar.

Not once passed he through Valhall’s door,

 

And hardly e’er was glimpsed by eyes

Of those great lords who dwelt inside,

 

But made the mountain cave his home,

And with keen dart roamed off alone

 

’Cross desolations infinite, 

Across the bright-hued continents

 

That are an earth that rolls above,

A sky-land that remains unsung

 

By any tale, and hides its stretch 

From any but bold Vidar’s step:

 

The Asgard cloud-tracts; and their rains

Blew underneath, o’er Midgard’s plains

 

Until, where sky and earth converged,

He saw the boundary of his world

 

And viewed, below, daughters of Jord –

Daughters of Earth, a dreaming horde,

 

In rivers bathing, washing down

On streams that throbbed without a sound,

 

Singing in tones so silent, odd,

Which seemed to cause his mind to nod

 

And live no more where was its wont,

But rather ’midst those welling fonts

 

And ’midst those daughters… Vidar stood

Upon that bourne, that edge – and swooned,

 

And waked no more ’til brilliant Dag

No more his warmth spilt o’er the lands.

 

 

II.

 

“Oh Bragi,” said that youth one day,

Once to the bard he’d made his way –

 

Made back towards gardens of the gods,

Towards wall-girt realm of holy laws –

 

“Oh poet learned,” youth implored,

“Who owns of sweet song endless store,

 

“Who supply strums the sacred strings

And chants so fair of subtlest things,

 

“Who with thy Idunn in this bower

Intones of virtues in the flower

 

“What ope the petals, cast the dusts,

And quicken spores of flow’ry lusts –

 

“I beg thee: lend thy harp, for I

Such gorgeous creatures did espy

 

“Far off from here, where sky and land

Enclose, and wrap their resting hands:

 

“The daughters of this teeming Earth,

Fair daughters whom the rich lands birthed –

 

“Who sport amid the dashing rills,

Who sing where frothing waters spill,

 

“And in that strange place spread their song

That lasts as long as world is long…

 

“I plead thee: lend thy sparkling harp!

And in my hands invest thine art,

 

“And in my throat bestow thy voice:

Thy timbre, what makes gods rejoice –

 

“That I might cross vast welkin-world

Once more, to find that place of girls

 

“Who seem half-dream, and so might add

My poem and descant to their chants

 

“And woo them, each and every – or

Decide on one who charms me more

 

“Than all her sisters, and give chase

With music’s steps, with winning grace,

 

“So that I’d meet her in such spot

As garden this – such rich green plot,

 

“Where all of life like gems doth flash,

And marriage thine with Idunn lasts

 

“Until that far-off age of fire 

(Which may not come, if Norns are liars) –

 

“And in such place, perform sweet rites,

That nymph and I should firm unite:

 

“A merging marriage – goddess, god;

And for our bed, take soft earth’s lawn…

 

“Therefore, oh poet, I request

Thy instrument, thy skills so blessed –

 

“And if thou lendest me these things,

Thy kindness evermore I’ll sing

 

“E’en after mine own warbling strain,

So poor, is all I’ve left again.”

 

 

III.

 

Now on this plea did Bragi muse,

That poet to whom Idunn drew

 

An age and more ago, and wed,

And who looked now with kindly head

 

Upon such wild boy wishing keen

To join in music’s loving dream.

 

The subtle harp-god stroked his beard

And gazed down with a look severe

 

Upon the youth, and thus did speak:

“My harp I’ll willing lend to thee –

 

“But thou must know: no means have I

To thee imbue with skill that’s mine –

 

“No strength to bittersweetness set

Inside a soul that’s callow yet;

 

“And therefore shall my words and notes

Live in this harp itself: the strokes

 

“Across these strings shall sweep themselves;

And thou mayst from its head compel 

 

“Unearthly voice, to sing for thine.

Without thy work shall song and rhyme

 

“Proceed, unmarred by erring hands

Or by false notes on which might land

 

“Thy tongue unpracticed. Bear my harp,

Oh Vidar, where those sweet ones are,

 

“And let their fair souls be seduced

By living harp, and not by you

 

“Who’re all unskilled… But I shall need,”

Said Bragi, “something dear to thee

 

“As surety whilst ye roam abroad,

Wooing the maidens with my song:

 

“Some guarantee that you’ll bring back

What garden this would mourn to lack,

 

“And weep, for missing music’s grace.

Think, youth, and tell me what thou’lt place

 

“Into these hands, once harp’s received.”

Then youth: “Naught can I give to thee,

 

“For naught I own! Oh, woful plight!

I’m poor, and bare, and wealthless, quite.

 

“I think, and think… Spear’s all I own

By which I might secure this loan –

 

“But ’tis no more than sharpened stake:

A thing that’s facile to remake,

 

“And nothing what thou wouldst accept!”

And nearly then that poor boy wept –

 

But Bragi held a secret grin,

And told him: “As thou art my kin,

 

“And worthy more of trust than those

Who from a foreign land might row

 

“Or hike, gods’ blessings for to chase,

I’ll make proposal in thy case –

 

“That thou giv’st me what’s in thy mouth:

Thy tongue. I’ll keep it whilst thou’rt out

 

“Winning thy love; and thou’lt speak words

Again, once harp to me’s returned.

 

“Indeed, ’tis wise to lose thy tongue

Whilst thou art courting one who’ll judge

 

“Thy song’s perfection – for one squeak

Out from thy lips might mar the piece

 

“And break the spell what holds her fast;

And thus thou mightst release sweet lass,

 

“And lose her ever! and ne’er breathe

Her perfumes in a loving scene.

 

“Therefore I think ’tis trade full wise

If thou loan’st tongue, while I loan rhymes

 

“And notes, and harp – dost nod to this?”

And Vidar seemed’st at porch of bliss

 

To hear such scheme, and grasped the knees

Of god of bards, and said: “I’ll cede

 

“What thou dost ask – what need have I

For my poor voice whilst I shall try

 

“A nymph to win? No more I’ll speak,

But now reach in to pluck my speech

 

“And place it in thy hands – oh kind,

How thy sweet voice shall speak for mine!”

 

 

IV.

 

At summit’s top he stood once more,

Nigh unto earth and heaven’s bourne,

 

And viewed that hot land of desire,

The eager youth with eager lyre –

 

A land of damp-root woods and winds

Corpse-Gulper blew from tips of wings,

 

And saw where pours the flashing spray,

And strained to glimpse where nymphs might play,

 

And strained to hear again their tones –

But noticed he seemed full alone,

 

Save one strange damsel far beneath

Who from great ferns did strangely creep

 

With goddess-stride, and stared on him

With far-fixed eyes and upturned chin

 

And sang no music, but did wait

For what the youth might do, or state –

 

And in that moment, ’midst strong winds

The eagle flapped, the magic strings

 

In Vidar’s arms began to sound

With marv’lous pureness – not much loud,

 

But with bold strums the maiden sensed;

And words as well that charmed harp sent

 

Which Vidar misremembered soon,

Or missed completely ’midst their tune…

 

And straight enchanted seemed that maid

While Vidar, breathless, let harp play,

 

Giving such music as once rolled

O’er this far spot at end of all;

 

And after minutes – hours – who knows? –

The harp’s sweeps fell to meek and low

 

And so trailed off, still quiv’ring air.

Now youth of subtle change was ware:

 

The breeze dropped, gentle; falls and streams

Grew less; the shaking boughs and leaves

 

Fell nigh to still… Oh young god grasped

By frantic dreams: then Love did clasp   

 

Its arms about thy neck! Thou sawst

How graceful maiden stepped back, lost

 

Herself in forest. Then thou went’st

Down slope and into bright woods dense

 

With vines and boughs, and saw her feet

And legs just vanish through thick green –

 

And followed long that rustle of

The e’er-concealing foliage,

 

Walking in trail that she did blaze,

Walking a path through nature’s maze

 

As sun spurred high then tumbled down;

And twilight thy sweet longing found

 

Gazing across a black lake wide

And watching thy fair love inside

 

A boat half on the sands… Then she 

Did beckon, saying: “Come with me.”

 

 

V.

 

A white sail was the bird that flew

Fast ’bove those waves, and bore ye two

 

Across dark combers towards an isle

That beamed beneath the sunlight mild –

 

Across black waters towards a shore 

Of murm’ring reefs, secluded more

 

Than any place Sol views on high.

With yearning impulse did it glide,

 

That skimming skiff, and ground the sand.

The maiden took thee by the hand

 

And led thee then through thorny brush

That rustled in the gloaming’s hush,

 

And walked and walked, while eve held still,

Not ceding yet to nighttime’s will –

 

And in some hour, thou sawst a stream

That oozed across that land with speed,

 

And sawst nearby an orchard’s rows,

In which, from twigs, each tree did grow

 

No flowers, but the foods of men:

Spiced meats and sweet, and honeyed breads –

 

But thou couldst nothing eat, thou knew’st,

For thy tongue lay in Bragi’s purse;

 

And still the unknown maiden led

Thy steps across that earth, and said:

 

“Now still I bid ye walk with me

Where’er I go.” She smiled at thee,

 

Moving along the winding shore

Of that thick flow which foamed and poured,

 

And then, to blank place soundless paced…

’Twas then thou sawst a sight full strange –

 

And frightful, more and more! as reached’st

The head of one huge gaping beast

 

Whose mouth was held ope by a sword,

And fettered was, at forelimbs four:

 

A wolf of black and yawning maw,

Of squirming tongue and twitching paws,

 

Whose drool ran out and formed that creek

That towards the black lake ever seeped;

 

And eyes of that bound creature rolled

And seemed to famish for thy soul!

 

Still led thee maiden by her grasp…

But thou gav’st up her hold at last –

 

Though strong she’d held thee – as she strode

Right down grim path those fangs enclosed;

 

And without glance behind, she slipped

With unconcern down darksome pit –

 

And then it was thy harp did fall,

And nothing more thou knew’st at all.

 

 

V.

 

So strange it was, how Vidar waked

In some remote and nameless place,

 

No harp beside him, and no hint

Of wind in air, of day no glint –

 

Far from the wolf, the stream, and trees

Granting each good food ’midst their leaves –

 

Far from the lake that blackly glowed:

So far, he trod for weeks untold,

 

Wand’ring, finding not those waves

Or new-blazed paths by which he came – 

 

’Til more and more, he found him near

Dark haunts where oft bold beasts he’d speared…

 

Then not long was it ’til he gained

The Asgard trails that lead to plain

 

Of Idavoll, and thence to house

Where Bragi, by his elfin spouse,

 

Composes poems of wandering stars

And songs that muse whether ’tis far

 

To grasp those gems… Now Vidar went

Inside the threshold, and he bent

 

His knee to him of mystic strains,

O’ercome by loss, regret, and pain,

 

Unable to express how slipped

The bard-god’s harp from his firm grip –

 

Could only moan, and wrench his hands;

And slowly from his seat did stand

 

The skald so grave. Poor Idunn wept

To see young god by grief beset;

 

But Bragi kept his look severe,

And stayed unmoved by Vidar’s tears,

 

And said: “Mine instrument thou’st lost,

Oh foolish boy! And so the cost

 

“Thou’lt bear for aye: thy tongue I’ll keep

E’en as new strings I’ll pluck and sweep:

 

“Strings strung by elves, a harp whose song

Shall charm again this yard ere long –

 

“Half-charm, perhaps; for now’s mislaid

Some part of me my harp contained…

 

“But ever thou a mute shalt go,

Utt’ring nothing more than moans,

 

“For tongue of thine shall not return

Into thy mouth, ’til worlds shall burn…

 

“And may ye pine, and waste in gloom,

And rue harp’s loss until thy doom.”

 

 

VI.

 

Of late this happened, tale of grief,

This cause why Vidar cannot speak –

 

Hard languishes poor Odin’s son,

And wanders he in wilds alone,

 

Unable now to woo at all,

Or e’en to speak – a horrid fall

 

To loneliness! He knows not where

To seek some home, to find some lair;

 

And so across grim dreary wastes

He trudges, scorning every place

 

As site of torment, anxiousness –

Some grievous pit no god might bless…

 

But ’midst his weeping, soon he finds

Himself upon a plain much wide

 

Where many shrubs are, and tall grass,

And not a single friendly path:

 

The Vigrid flat land, isle in air,

Nigh barren as the sea is bare;

 

And here at last he stops, and sits,

For blankness is a balm to him –

 

And long he at horizon stares,

And lists to sparrows high in air.

 

His feet are worn from walking much:

All blistered, blue, all calloused, tough.

 

He sleeps – and once awoken, finds

The birds attend him on each side:

 

So many gentle helpers he

Would ne’er have guessed that he might see.

 

They wait upon his wish… He thinks,

Then points to feet. The swallows bring

 

In beaks, from far, long lengths of thread,

Small needles, and all scraps and shreds

 

Of leather that the cobblers leave –

Those little bits they do not need:

 

And soon hath god enough to make 

Two comfy shoes, so shall not ache

 

His feet as treads he o’er the plain

To hunt his supper, bathe in rain,

 

Or sip from creeks… Yet still he asks,

In wordless way, for yet more scraps

 

To bulk e’en further right foot’s boot:

To make it heavy, fat, and huge.

 

The little birds, they flutter swift,

From all parts bringing leather bits.

 

His tongue god longs for, but soon learns

To do without heart’s vent of words –

 

At least until some far-off hour

When once again, when speech hath power,

 

He’ll cry his darkened soul’s full hurt –

Or ecstasy. Meantime he works:

 

He cannot make his shoe too thick –

He doth not cease to stitch and stitch.

 

And wingèd minions muse it round

Why not their task hath ended now;

 

But to this day he labors hard,

That man who dwells upon those jaws

 

’Twixt which his love passed, nightmare scene:

That wide mouth which consumes his dreams.