The Dole Of Jarl Thorkell

The land was pale with famine     And racked with fever-pain;     The frozen fiords were fishless,     The earth withheld her grain.     Men saw the boding Fylgja     Before them come and go,     And, through their dreams, the Urdarmoon     From west to east sailed slow.     Jarl Thorkell of Thevera     At Yule-time made his vow;     On Rykdal's holy Doom-stone     He slew to Frey his cow.     To bounteous Frey he slew her;     To Skuld, the younger Norn,     Who watches over birth and death,     He gave her calf unborn.     And his little gold-haired daughter     Took up the sprinkling-rod,     And smeared with blood the temple     And the wide lips of the god.     Hoarse below, the winter water     Ground its ice-blocks o'er and o'er;     Jets of foam, like ghosts of dead waves,     Rose and fell along the shore.     The red torch of the Jokul,     Aloft in icy space,     Shone down on the bloody Horg-stones     And the statue's carven face.     And closer round and grimmer     Beneath its baleful light     The Jotun shapes of mountains     Came crowding through the night.     The gray-haired Hersir trembled     As a flame by wind is blown;     A weird power moved his white lips,     And their voice was not his own.     "The AEsir thirst!" he muttered;     "The gods must have more blood     Before the tun shall blossom     Or fish shall fill the flood.     "The AEsir thirst and hunger,     And hence our blight and ban;     The mouths of the strong gods water     For the flesh and blood of man!     "Whom shall we give the strong ones?     Not warriors, sword on thigh;     But let the nursling infant     And bedrid old man die."     "So be it!" cried the young men,     "There needs nor doubt nor parle."     But, knitting hard his red brows,     In silence stood the Jarl.     A sound of woman's weeping     At the temple door was heard,     But the old men bowed their white heads,     And answered not a word.     Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla,     A Vala young and fair,     Sang softly, stirring with her breath     The veil of her loose hair.     She sang: "The winds from Alfheim     Bring never sound of strife;     The gifts for Frey the meetest     Are not of death, but life.     "He loves the grass-green meadows,     The grazing kine's sweet breath;     He loathes your bloody Horg-stones,     Your gifts that smell of death.     "No wrong by wrong is righted,     No pain is cured by pain;     The blood that smokes from Doom-rings     Falls back in redder rain.     "The gods are what you make them,     As earth shall Asgard prove;     And hate will come of hating,     And love will come of love.     "Make dole of skyr and black bread     That old and young may live;     And look to Frey for favor     When first like Frey you give.     "Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows     The summer dawn begins     The tun shall have its harvest,     The fiord its glancing fins."     Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell     "By Gimli and by Hel,     O Vala of Thingvalla,     Thou singest wise and well!     "Too dear the AEsir's favors     Bought with our children's lives;     Better die than shame in living     Our mothers and our wives.     "The full shall give his portion     To him who hath most need;     Of curdled skyr and black bread,     Be daily dole decreed."     He broke from off his neck-chain     Three links of beaten gold;     And each man, at his bidding,     Brought gifts for young and old.     Then mothers nursed their children,     And daughters fed their sires,     And Health sat down with Plenty     Before the next Yule fires.     The Horg-stones stand in Rykdal;     The Doom-ring still remains;     But the snows of a thousand winters     Have washed away the stains.     Christ ruleth now; the Asir     Have found their twilight dim;     And, wiser than she dreamed, of old     The Vala sang of Hi