The Punishment Of Loke.

The gods of Asaheim, incensed with Loke,     A whirlwind yoked with thunder-footed steeds,     And, carried thus, boomed o'er the booming seas,     Far as the teeming wastes of Jotunheim,     To punish Loke for all his wily crimes.      They found him sitting nigh a mountain-force,     Which flashing roared from crags of ribbed snow,     Lamenting strange and weird in rushing notes     Of the old Strmkarl, who therein smote a harp     And sang in mystic syllables of runes.     For 'tis the wild man's harp and voice you hear:     He sits behind the crackling cataract     Within a grotto dim of mist and foam,     His long, thin beard, white as the flying spray     Flung to the midnight in a sounding cave     By the blind fish that leap against the winds;     Gemmed with the large dews of the cataract,     Swings in the sucking breeze, and swinging beats     Time to his harp's strains quav'ring soft and sad     Beneath the talons of his pale, lean hand.     And all the waters, leaping, tingling shake     Like shivering stars within the frozen skies,     When as the Giants of Frost rule o'er the deep,     And nip their buds with fingers hoar of ice.      Here banished found they mischief-making Loke     Beneath the faint arch of young Bifrost sate,     His foxy face between large, naked knees;     Deep, wily eyes fixed on the darting fish     In seeming thought, but aye one corner wan     Flashed at the Asas where they clustered fair,     Soft on a mountain's aged locks of snow,     Their tawny tresses ruddy in the wind.      Then great-limbed Thor sprang wind-like forth: -     Red was his beard forked with the livid light,     That clings among the tempest's locks of bale,     Or fillets her tumultuous temples black.     And drops with wild confusion on the hills;     And thro' his beard, like to the storm's strong voice,     His sullen words were strained, and when he spake     The oldest forests bowed their crowns of leaves,     And barmy skulls of mead half-raised were stayed     Within Valhalla, and heroes great were dumb.      As when, the horror of the spear-shock o'er,     And all the plains and skies of Thule are gorged     With gore and screams of those that fight or die,     The Valkyries in their far-glimmering helms     Flash from the windy sunset's mists of red     Unto the chalk-faced dead, - whose beaten casques     And sea-swol'n shields, with sapless, red-hewn limbs,     Wave 'mid the dead-green billows, stormy-browed,     That roar along the Baltic's wintry coast,     And wail amid the iron-circled coves, -     To cull dead heroes for the hall of shields, -     Where yells the toast and rings the tournament, -     A dumbness falls upon the shattered field;     The clinging billows 'mid the restless dead     Moan o'er their wide-stretched eyes and glassy sleep;     And all the blood-blurred banners, gustless, dark     Hard ashen faces waiting for the choice.      The thunderer did Loke shrewd ensnare,     Incensed for pristine evil wrought on him.     When erst dark Loke deflowered his spouse, fair Sif     The blue eyed, of her golden, baby locks.     Him the Asas dragged beneath a burning mount     Into a cavern black, by earthquakes rent     When Earth was young to heave her spawn of Trolls,     The vermin which engendered in the corpse     Of Ymer huge, whose flesh did make the world.     Here where the stars ne'er shone, nor nature's strains     Of legendary woodlands, peaks, and streams     Ere came, they pinned him supine to the rocks,     Whose frigid touch filed at his brittle bones,     And tore a groan from lips of quiv'ring froth,     That made the warty reptiles cold and huge     Hiss from their midnight lairs and blaze great eyes.      Lone in the night he heard the white bear roar     From some green-glancing berge that stemmed dark seas     With all its moan of torrents foaming down     The ice-crags of its crystal mountain crests.     And 'neath the firry steep a wild swine shrieked,     And fought the snarling wolf; his midriff ripped     With spume-flaked ivories where the moss was brok'n     Far down within the horror of a gorge;     And once he saw souls of dead mortals whirl     With red-strown hair within the Arctic skies,     And all his stolid face was eddied o'er     By one faint smile, which grimly flash'd and pass'd,     And he knew not its stonyness had changed.     And all was rock above him, rock beneath:     And all the clammy crawling things that spat     Black venom at him from deep dens of rock,     And that swart boundless flood of flowing death,     Which with its sooty spray clung to a cliff     And slid beside his marble gaze, to him     Were as the rock that curled above and hung;     Were as the rock that spread beneath and pierced;     For as to the blind to him were lidless eyes.      And pity 'twas not darker than it was,     And crammed with terrors populous as Hel's     Or that cursed dome of corpses, Naastrand dire,     Whose roofs and walls of yawning serpents slick     Hang writhing down, flat heads - reed-beds of snakes -     From whose red, hissing fangs flow slimy streams     Of blist'ring venom, gath'ring to a flood,     Wherein the basest shades eternal wade     And feel the anguish crawling down the neck,     Or glue the hair, or glut the dull, dead ear,     Or choke the blasted eye until it swims     In lurid pain and blazes 'gainst the source.     The roar of waters and the wail of pines     When whirlwinds roll the granite bowlders down     From flinty crags of storm to bellowing seas -     On noisome winds the howls of torture roll,     And rising die, cause the live dome to writhe,     And swift pour down a tempest steep of woe.      Huge Skade, of Winter daughter, giantess,     One twisting serpent hung above Loke's head,     So that the blistering slaver might splash down     Upon his chalky face, and torture him, -     For so the Asas willed for his vast crimes.      But Loke's wife, Sigin, endured not this,     And brooked not to behold her husband's pain.     She sate herself beside his writhen limbs,     And held a cup to cull the venomed dew     Which flamed the scowling blackness as it fell.     To him she spake, who swelled his breast and groaned     E'en as some mighty sea, when 'neath its waves     The huge leviathan by whalers chased, -     Cleaving thick waters in his spinning flight,     The barbd harpoon feasting on his life, -     Rolls up pale mounded billows o'er black fins     Far in the North Atlantic's sounding seas: -      "O Loke! lock those wide-drawn eyes of thine,     And let white silver-lidded slumber fall     In the soft utterance of my low speech!     And I will flutter all my amber curls     To cast wind currents o'er thy pallid brow! -     Drink deepest sleep, for, see, I catch thy doom! -     So pale thy face which glimmers thro' the night!     So pale! and knew I death as mortals know     I'd say that he mysterious had on thee     Laid hands of talons and so slain thy soul!     So still! and all the night bears down my heart!     So pale! - and sleep is lost to thee and me! -     Sleep, that were welcome in this heavy gloom! -     It clings to me like pestilential fogs!     I seem but clodded filth and float in filth!     It chokes my words and claws them from my tongue     To sound as dull confusd as the boom     Heard thro' the stagnant earth when armies meet     With ring of war-ax on the brazen helms,     And all the mountains clash unto the sound     Of shocking spears that splinter on gray ore!     For by dead banks of stone my words are yelled     While yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought;     And all the creatures huddled in their holes     Creep forth to glare and hiss them back again!     Yet, for thy love, O Loke, could I brave     All trebled horrors that wise Odin may     Heap on, and, suff'ring, love thee all the more!      "For thou dost love me, and this life is naught     Without thy majesty of form and mind,     For, dark to all, alone art fair to me!     And to thy level and thy passions all     I raise the puny hillock of my soul,     Tho' oft it droops below thy lofty height,     Far 'mid the crimson clouds of windless dawns     Reaching the ruby of a glorious crest.     And then aspire I not, but cower in awe     Down 'mid low, printless winds that take no morn. -      "At least my countenance may win from thee     A reflex of that alabaster cold     That stones thy brow, and pale in kindred woe!     And when this stony brow of thine is cleft     By myriad furrows, tortures of slow Time,     And all the beauties of thy locks are past,     Now glossy as the brown seal's velvet fur,     Their drifts of winter strown around this cave     To gray the glutton gloom that hangs like lead, -     For Idunn's fruit is now debarred thy lips,     And thou shalt age e'en as I age with thee! -     Then will the thought of that dread twilight cheer     The burthen of thy anguish; for wilt thou     Not in the great annihilation aid     Of gods and worlds, that roll thro' misty grooves     Of cycled ages to wild Ragnaroke?     Then shalt thou joy! for all those stars which glue     Their blinking scales unto old Ymer's skull     In clots shall fall! and as this brooding night     Sticks to and gluts us till we strangling clutch     With purple lips for air - and feel but frost     Drag laboring down the throat to swell the freight     That cuddles to the heart and clogs its life,     So shall those falling flakes spread sea-like far     In lakes of flame and foggy pestilence     O'er the hot earth, and drown all men and gods.      "But, oh, thy face! pale, pale its marble gleams     Thro' the thick night! and low the serpent wreathes     And twists his scaly coils that livid hang     Above thee alabaster as a shrine! -     Oh, could I kiss the lips toward which he writhes     And yield them the last spark of living flame     That burns in my wan blood, and, yielding - die!     Oh, could I gaze once more into large eyes     Whose liquid depths glassed domes of molten stars,     And see them as they glowed when Morning danced     O'er scattered flowers from the rosy hills     That lined the orient skies beneath one star!     When first we met and loved among the pines,     The melancholy pines that plumed the cliffs     And rocked and sang unto the smooth fiords     Like old wild women to their sleeping babes!     Then could I die e'en as the mortals die,     And smile in dying! - But the reptile baulks     All effort to behold, or on white lips     To feast the ardor of my vain desire!     Thy face alone shines on my straining sight     Like some dim moon beneath a night of mist, -     And now the creatures come to feel at me -     The serpent swings above and darts his fang,     And I can naught but hold the cup and breathe."      Then thro' the blackness of the dripping cave     Tumultuous spake he, rage his utterance;     Large as the thunder when it lunging rolls,     Heavy with earthquake and portending ruin,     Tempestuous words o'er everlasting seas     Dumb with the silence of eternal ice;     His eyes in horrid spasms, and his throat,     Corded and gnarled with veins of boisterous blood,     Swollen with fury, and stern, wintery lips     Flaked with rebellious foam and agony     For thwarted rage and baulkment of designs.     Rash vaunter of loud wrath, one brawny fist,     Convulsed with clenchment in its gyve of ore,     Clutched mad defiance and bold blasphemy,     Headlong for battle-launching at all gods     That bow meek necks before high Odin's throne;     Yet all unhurled and vain as mists of morn,     Or foam wind-wasted on the sterile sands     Of rainy seas where Ran, from whistling caves     Watching the tempest ravened dragon wreck,     Feels 'twixt lean miser fingers slippery     Already oily gold of Vikings' drowned.     Reverberated, the loud-scoffing rock     All his unburdened blasphemies again     Flung back a million fold from riotous throats     In which demoniac laughter howled and roared,     Bellowing tremendous tumult, till his ears,     Flooded and gorged with maniac curses, grew     Stunned, deaf and senseless, and the rebel words,     Erst rolled and thundered in his godly speech,     Recoiled in oaths that, shrunk in serpent loops,     Coiled mad anathemas of violence,     Voluminous-ringed, about his heart of ice,     That now in wasted wrath of bitter foam, -     Which burst and bare big ineffectual groans,     Wretched and huge with infinite weariness, -     Spent all its storm of ponderous misery.      Her sorrow found some vent in rain of tears,     And all the cave was dumb and dead with night,     Unbroken save of Sigin's heaving sobs,     Or the baulked god's deep groans where chain'd he lay     To see the spotted serpent crisp above     And aye gape poison at his lidless eyes.      And when her bowl was brimmed till one more drop     Had cast the fifth white o'er the scorching edge,     Into the black, deep flood beside she poured     Its stagnant torture; one second's tithe the time -     The reptile's bale blurs all his milky cheek,     Burns to his bones; he starting fell, stiff twists     The sinewy steel that hugs his massive limbs     And shrieks so loud within those solitudes,     The caverns yawn unto the stormy skies,     The orey mountains rock and groan for fear,     High spew their fiery thunders, smoke, and stones.      And this all in a mist-land dim and numb,     Where giants reign, rude kings in holds of ice     Based crag-like on high vivid frozen cliffs,     The bandit castles of the Northern wastes.     Beneath the shimmering dance of Arctic lights,     Which lamp them on, they storm to fight the gods;     Swathed in their stubborn mail of sleet and snow,     Embattled 'mid the clouds with fiends of ruin,     In militant throng-legions scorn the gods;     From yawning trumpets wrought of whirling clouds     Snarl war to Thor, who, in his goat-dragged wain,     Hurls thundering forth to fight their lowering troops,     That lift black 'scutcheons of tempests orbed,     Great brands of wind, and slings of whistling storm,     From which are flung their hurricanes of hail.     With such they oft withstand the strength of Thor's     Dwarf-stithied mace, Mjolner, when he rings     To find admittance to their brains of mist,     And, cleaving, drives them to their barren realms,     Where echoes of lost wars and wars to be     Rumble 'mid ruined icebergs to the caves,     Or clang with northern shock of icy spears;     While Balder, from the abyss of deathful fogs     Restored, smiles kindlier on the whit'ning lands.      Here Loke is doomed to lie in tortures chained     Until that last dread twilight of the gods,     Wild Ragnaroke, when Odin's self shall pass:     The moon and sun consumed, the fiery host     From Muspelheim shall flaming split the heavens,     Blot out the stars with lustre of their arms;     And down the squard legions led by Surt     Swift whirl in fogs of flame to war with gods;     Nor Thor avail, but suffocated fall     In contest with the Midgard serpent vast.     All men and gods abolished with the world,     Which into an abyss of fume and flame     Sinks like a meteor of the Summer night,     That slides into the gold of burning eve     And with eve's gold is burning, blent and lost.     But, like an exhalation, from the wreck     A new and lovelier world with juster gods     And better men shall rise, and soar away     On wings of Love thro' skies where Truth displays     The glory of her form, Wisdom her eyes. -     Behold! the Golden Age again returns!