Sadly Eric watched and waited, Passed in fast and prayer the time, Till at last, o’er rippling water, Pealed St. Magnus’ midnight chime. Then he rose, and hastened to her; Found her on the lonely sands, Lying with the Cross of Jesus Claspèd in her folded hands. To the Islands of the Blessed Margaret’s ransomed soul had fled, And a smile of victory lingered On her lips, though cold and dead. ALICE L. DUNDAS (The Honourable Mrs. John Dundas). [1] Boray Island, or Holm of Boray, off Millburn Bay in Gairsay. [2] Midsummer Eve. [Illustration] SONGS OF THE GODS. The Challenge of Thor. I am the God Thor, I am the War God, I am the Thunderer! Here in my Northland, My fastness and fortress, Reign I for ever! Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations. This is my hammer, Miölner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it! These are the gauntlets Wherewith I wield it And hurl it afar off. This is my girdle; Whenever I brace it Strength is redoubled! The light thou beholdest Stream through the heavens In flashes of crimson Is but my red beard Blown by the night-wind, Affrighting the nations! Jove is my brother; Mine eyes are the lightning; The wheels of my chariot Roll in the thunder, The blows of my hammer Ring in the earthquake! Force rules the world still, Has ruled it, shall rule it; Meekness is weakness, Strength is triumphant, Over the whole earth Still is it Thor’s Day! Thou art a God too. O Galilean! And thus single-handed Unto the combat, Gauntlet or Gospel, Here I defy Thee! LONGFELLOW. Tegner’s Drapa.[3] I heard a voice that cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes. I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice for ever cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair. Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods! Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior’s sword. All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm; Even the plants and stones— All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe! Hœder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe!