“Ho, Thor!” said the mighty Odin, “our omens are all of ill, For the dragon gnaweth sharply at the roots of Yggdrasill; I hear the wild Valkyrien, as they shriek on the battle-plain, And the moans of the faithful Nornen, as they weep over Baldur slain. A woe to the serpent Loké, and to Hörder’s reckless ruth, For Goodness is slain of Evil, and Falsehood hath conquered Truth! Now call thou on mystic Vala, as she sleeps in the grave of Time, Where the hoary age hath written her name in a frosty rime; She can tell when the sun will darken, when the stars shall cease to burn, When the sleeping dead shall waken, and when Baldur shall return.” A sound like the rushing tempest, and the wondrous hammer fell, And the great Heimskringla shuddered, and swayed like a mighty bell. There were mingled murmurs and discords, like the wailing of troubled souls; Like the gnomes at their fiery forges--like the bowlings of restless ghouls. Then out of the fiery covert of the tempest and the storm, Like a vision of troubled slumber, came a woman’s stately form. There fell a hush as at midnight, when the sheeted dead awake, And even the silence shuddered, as her words of power she spake: “Mighty Odin, I am Vala, I have heard your thunder-call, I have heard the woful wailing Sounding forth from Wingolf’s hall; And I know that beauteous Baldur, Loved of all the gods, is slain-- That the evil Loké triumphs, And on Hörder rests the stain. But my words shall fail to tell you Aught concerning him you mourn, For the leaves that bear the record From the Tree of Life are torn; And while Hecla’s fires shall glow, Or the bubbling Geysers flow, Of his fate no one shall know-- Understand you this, or no? “I will sing a solemn Saga, I will chant a Runic rhyme, Weave a wild, prophetic Edda, From the scattered threads of time: Know, O Odin,--mighty Odin,-- That thy sons shall all be slain, Where the wild Valkyrien gather, On the bloody battle plain; And thy throne itself shall tremble With the stern, resistless shock, Which shall rend the world asunder At the day of Ragnaroc. Other stars the night shall know, From the rock shall waters flow, And from ruin beauty grow. Understand you this, or no?