Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die, So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side, Whom thou so well hast loved; but I can smooth Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail. Yes, and I fain would altogether ward Death from thy head, and with the gods in heaven Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired; But right bars this, not only thy desire. Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead In that dim world, in Hela’s mouldering realm; And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, Whom Hela with austere control presides. For of the race of gods is no one there, Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen. For all the nobler souls of mortal men On battle-field have met their death, and now Feast in Valhalla, in my father’s hall: Only the inglorious sort are there below; The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,-- Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay. But even there, O Nanna, we might find Some solace in each other’s look and speech, Wandering together through that gloomy world, And talking of the life we led in heaven, While we yet lived, among the other gods.” He spake, and straight his lineaments began To fade; and Nanna in her sleep stretched out Her arms towards him with a cry; but he Mournfully shook his head, and disappeared. And as the woodman sees a little smoke Hang in the air afield, and disappear, So Balder faded in the night away. And Nanna on her bed sank back; but then Frea, the mother of the gods, with stroke Painless and swift, set free her airy soul, Which took, on Balder’s track, the way below; And instantly the sacred morn appeared. II. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD.