The fight and death of gods, the fall of Asgara!
Hear, son of Odin, wretched slave of passion,
Think not that dreams, that magic's foul deception,
That spectres of the night my brain bewilder;
And oh! think not that merely chance has led me
To Balder's presence, and to these high forests!
I sought thee, came with speed to give thee warning:
Fear, then! It is thy friend, 'tis Thor, who's speaking!
And on my lips I bear the words of Odin.
Thou know'st there grows in night's mysterious valley
A tree, as yet by men or gods seen never;
It bears a bough, which bough, when once 'tis harden'd
In Nastroud's flames, can slay thee.

BALDER. Yes, I know it.

THOR. That knowest thou, friend! And is it a mere slumber,
A fleeting trance, a pleasant dream of battle,
With which the spear's impregnated in Nastroud?
Ha! whom it slays wakes never up in Valhall;
In mist and darkness must he lie for ever.
From gods and men alike for ever parted,
Must Balder be detested--Haela's booty,
Not Odin's quest?

BALDER. Aye; when the tree's discover'd.

THOR. Well, now, attend and heed a father's warning!
When Odin high from Lidskialf saw thee raving,
In toils of love, 'mong Norway's snowy mountains,