Nanna (anxiously and affectionately).  Where now, my Hother?

Hother.  I soon shall find him!

[He goes in spite of Nanna’s endeavour to detain him.

Nanna.  Ah! he goes—­he rages;
And Balder yells with wrath.  Some serpent surely
Has breath’d to-day his poison in their bosoms. 
They hate, they seek each other!  Who asunder
Will hold the raging bears.  Ah! who will soften
The foaming ones?  I have this hour expected,
And long by art have I delay’d its coming;
But now is art, and prayer, and all else useless: 
E’en now they meet in conflict.  I am powerless! 
What can my tears avail?  Alas! blood only
Will satiate them and Heaven:  thine must trickle,
My Hother.  What art thou against a half-god? 
When thy fire, Ourath, but glimmers,
Tears can quench it instantly;
But it flames, and now ’twere wonder
Could the weak drops keep it under. 
Ah! thy blazes fierce and cruel
In the lov’d one’s grief find fuel,
And are fann’d by plaintive cry. 
Tear, with which mine eye is swelling,
Thou canst not remove the ill;
O keep in thou fruitless wailing,
Let my bosom hide thee still. [She goes.

ACT THE SECOND.

The three VALKRIER.  They are armed as war-maids, and besides the spears which hang over their shoulders, each has a short spear in her hand:  they take each other by the hands, and walk in a circle, singing.

All three.  O’er the hill, o’er the dell,
O’er the sea’s foamy waters,
Unweariedly ply,
Valhalla, thy daughters,
The blood-dropping wing: 
Die, battle, and die! 
Is the bidding they bring.

The first. Not fever’s foul pains.

The second.  Not hunger.

The third.  Not chains.

All three.  But fight and delight. 
For the brave ever brings,
Valhalla, thy daughters,
By light and by night,
O’er the land and the waters,
With blood-drooping wing.

The first. The crash of the spear,
In deadly career,
Is alone to me dear.

The second.  The feeble moan press’d
From the dying man’s breast
Is what pleases me best.

The third.  The cry on the plain
Round the corse of the slain
I list to most pain.

All three.  Die, battle, and die! 
O’er the hill, o’er the dell,
O’er the sea’s foamy waters,
Unweariedly ply,
Valhalla, thy daughters,
The blood-dropping wing: 
Die, battle, and die,
Is the bidding they bring.

The first. I hear the sound of arms; but now it ceases. 
How long will he delay, the noble warrior?

The second.  Whom wait’st thou for?

The first. And thou? what will my sister
In this wild spot which blood has never crimson’d?