For there rang note divine in that command.” So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house; And all the gods lay down in their own homes. And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other gods; And he went in, and shut the door, and fixed His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose,-- The throne from which his eye surveys the world,-- And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, High over Asgard, to light home the king. But fiercely Odin galloped, moved in heart; And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came; And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets; And the gods trembled on their golden beds Hearing the wrathful Father coming home,-- For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came. And to Valhalla’s gate he rode, and left Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall; And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder’s wife, Came with the goddesses who wrought her will, And stood by Balder lying on his bier. And at his head and feet she stationed scalds Who in their lives were famous for their song; These o’er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain, A dirge,--and Nanna and her train replied. And far into the night they wailed their dirge; But when their souls were satisfied with wail, They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went Into an upper chamber, and lay down; And Frea sealed her tired lids with sleep. And ’twas when night is bordering hard on dawn, When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low; Then Balder’s spirit through the gloom drew near, In garb, in form, in feature, as he was, Alive; and still the rays were round his head Which were his glorious mark in heaven; he stood Over against the curtain of the bed, And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake,-- “Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett’st thy woe! Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes, Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek; but thou, Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. Sleep on; I watch thee, and am here to aid. Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul! Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead. For with to-morrow’s dawn the gods prepare To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire, That sad, sole honor of the dead; and thee They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, With me, for thus ordains the common rite. But it shall not be so; but mild, but swift, But painless, shall a stroke from Frea come, To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul, And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. And well I know that by no stroke of death,