“Far down below Valhalla, the golden palace of the gods, whither heroes are borne by Odin’s battle-maidens, the Valkyrs, on their winged steeds, lies the dread realm of shadows where abides the inexorable Hel. Loke is her father; her mother—the giantess Angurboda, is a sister of the frightful wolf Fenris and the earth-enveloping serpent. Woe, thrice woe to him who descends into the cold mist-kingdom of the goddess of death! Misery is her Hall, Ruin her Threshold, Pining Sickness her Bed, and Danger the Curtains thereof. Sloth is her Thrall, and Despair her Handmaiden. She eats from the Dish Hunger with the Knife of Famine. “To this terrible place Odin now took his way. The path, which no living man had ever trodden, led between frightful abysses and icy crags. But he heeded not these terrors nor the furious yelping and snapping of the death-hounds, intent only on learning what evil threatened his favorite son. At last he reached the spot where dwelt the goddesses of Fate, and at the first gray Rune-stone he swung himself from his steed. Below it had lain for a thousand years the Norn who reads the future; while about the desolate tomb the wind moaned through the leafless branches and whirled aloft the parching sand. Odin drew his sword and inscribed thrice with it a Runic sentence in the sand. Then he shouted thrice the Runic call which, uttered by the lips of a god, has power to wake the dead within their graves. In dull, hollow tones a voice answered from the depths: What mystic spell of sternest might Penetrates the dungeon’s night? Stirs me from my sleep of old? Who art thou, O stranger bold? Go! let me rest, for here below Through Winter’s snows and Summer’s glow, Through dripping dew and streaming rain, A thousand years I now have lain. Ruthless thou stirrest the dead’s deep rest— Who mayst thou be, thou stranger guest? “And Odin answered: A wanderer I, unknown my name; A warrior’s son, untold my fame; Of the upper world I would not know, But fain would seek of those below. For whom is the glittering table spread? For whom prepared the golden bed? “Again the hollow tones responded: Sawest thou not in beaker bright Draught of sweet mead, foaming light? O’er it hangs the golden shield Warrior’s arm no more shall wield! Balder’s coming these betoken; Balder’s death doom hath been spoken! This rede reluctant have I told— Now get thee gone, thou stranger bold. Leave the weary to her rest And come no more, whate’er thy quest.