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.
Forth from the east, up the ascent of heaven,
