Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,—
They two scoured every coast, and all things wept.
And they rode home together, through the wood
Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies
Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron;
There in the wood before a cave they came,
Where sate, in the cave's mouth, a skinny hag,
Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by.
Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape.
She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,—
"Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven,
That ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron wood?
Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites.
Look, as in some boor's yard a sweet-breathed cow,
Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay,
Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head
To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,—
So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!"
She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,—
"Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears.
Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey,
But will restore if all things give him tears.
Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear."
Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,—
"Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears?
Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre.
Weep him all other things, if weep they will:
I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey."
She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled,
Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain.
And as seafaring men, who long have wrought
In the great deep for gain, at last come home,
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BALDER DEAD.
