In Voluspa the gods' history is reviewed once more from beginning to end, this time by one who sees it in its truest light the artist. Just touched, as it seems, by later influence and new ideals, this poem cannot be taken as primitive, or as the work of one who held the mythical fancies as religious beliefs. The old gods have had their day, their story is complete; but once more it is told before it is forgotten, in an age when their nature and strivings are yet understood. Some poet, who has seen truth in the beauty of these old-world tales, has endeavoured to give them a unity which is still retained in spite of all after meddling with his work. It is seen in the thread which runs like a guiding principle throughout the bond of Weird which weaves itself inch by inch out of the acts of gods and men. As we have shown, this poem is the conscious recognition of a principle which must exist in any mythology founded on a religion of nature. For this reason it needs to be read both first and last first, because it sums up and interprets the other poems; and last, because without a previous knowledge of its myths the Vala's words can scarcely be understood. Even with such knowledge as we have already gathered some passages cannot be explained, owing to lost connections and forgotten incidents ; others because their difficulty arises from the nature of mythology itself, with its rational and irrational ideas, its blendings of poetry and superstition, and the thoughts of one age with those of another. But, as the poet himself has seen, little beauty and no truth can be revealed in the detailed rehearsal of myths by which men have sought to represent the mysteries of life. He has given rather the spirit in which they tried to grasp them. The Old Norsemen turned a serious face towards life, and refused to regard it either as a playground or a home of rest ; it was essentially a field of endeavour and of strife between man and nature, god and Jotun,  powers of good and evil. All this is echoed in the struggle of the gods with Weird, the power and deep war-notes of the poem, the solemnity of tone which is relieved at times by a quiet rejoicing in the mere movement and activities of life. Peculiar, too, was the attitude of the Norseman towards the supernatural. Mysteries to him were not further mystified by speculation or emotion, but as such they were left and took their place among the factors of his daily life, where all else was tangible and definite to the eye. We can well imagine such an attitude of mind arising among men who had been brought to dwell in a land where nature is full of mystery, and who were forced to live a practical and strenuous life in conflict with powers only half understood. Loneliness and dim perils of ice and snow became a part of their every-day existence. Hence the atmosphere and setting of the poem its background, dim and misty, grey and subdued in tone, lit only by aurora gleams of imagination; and its foreground, with the well-defined and vivid pictures.

Characteristic, too, is the figure of the Vala, so called probably, although the point is much disputed, from the staff which she carried.

She was a wandering prophetess, who, clad in her fur cap and her dark robes, went from house to house, foretelling and divining hidden things. The power of second sight which she claimed was common, not only to such as she, but to many a good housewife in Icelandic sagas. But while those so gifted knew only of trivial matters, interpreted dreams and omens, advised and warned, this Vala, addressing all kindreds of the earth, reveals the fate and history of the world. Like the witch in Baldr's Dreams, she has been called up from the dead, and, like the Mighty Weaver, she is one of those primaeval beings who remember all things ; and she recalls in visionary scenes, one by one, the great events of time. Snorri has vainly attempted to bring sequence and order into his corresponding description, and has invented details which spoil the grandeur of that given by the Vala. For want of better authority, however, we are often obliged to rely upon him for explanations.

She tells first of the creation. In the beginning was chaos, when as yet there was no heaven or earth only, in the north, a region of snow and ice; and, in the south, one of fire and heat, with a yawning gap between, from which life arose in the form of Ymir, the stirring, rustling, sounding Jotun, followed by others of his kind, born out of the elements, and as yet hardly to be distinguished from them. Then the gods were born, who forthwith made war upon these giant powers, and, half subduing them, they ordered the universe with its worlds of gods and elves, of dwarfs and giants, of men the living in Midgarth, the dead in Hel, all held in the sheltering embrace of a great World Tree; but from whence sprang this Tree, or when and how it grew, not even the giants could tell. Sun, Moon, and stars were set in heaven, and when Sun turned her face towards Earth, and shone upon its "threshold" stones,

it brought forth fruit, and its bare surface was overspread with green. But as yet the paths of the heavenly bodies had not been decreed. What did Sun do in her perplexity? How did she fling her right hand over the rim of heaven? Did she appear to the spectator to glide cm towards the right, and linger in the northern heavens without knowing the hall of her setting ? Did she face round from the south, and marching back eastward, fling her own right hand over the horizon, and set in the east? Or have we in St. 5 a description of the midnight sun dipping for a moment below the horizon, and then rising to put to shame Moon, who had not yet learned his secret influence over the destiny of man, and the stars, who knew not their courses?

For the first time the gods gathered in council in their holy place by the Well of Weird to order this matter; again they met to rescue the humble dwarf folk, who had been left half created as the maggots which crawled out of Ymir's flesh. They were given human form and a share in creative power, but all their work, the forging of secret treasures, they must do beneath the ground.

Then followed the greatest act of creation, concerning which the gods held no council, for it came to pass in the course of destiny. When Sun, obeying the law of her own being, had first shone upon the world, vegetative life was quickened in the earthy matter now the gods once faring on their homeward way bestowed, each after his own nature, gifts upon two barren trees, and human life was awakened, with individuality and a soul. Odin, as the Wind god, gave them breath, which has ever been held as the emblem of the spirit, or even as spirit itself. Hoenir, of whom little is known, except that he was wise (see below), gave an understanding mind. Loki (here called Lodur), the fire-god, gave warm blood and the bright hue of life, Meanwhile, what Snorri calls the "golden age" was passing, when the gods were building the fair homes mentioned by Grimnir, rejoicing

in their work, in their play, and doubtless, too, in their love. It must have been then that Bragi wooed Idun with fluent tongue, that Baldr wedded Nanna, that Thor's heart was given to Sif the golden-haired, the most guileless among all the goddesses.

But soon this peaceful age was broken. The first shadow of Doom fell as three mighty maidens passed from Jotunheim, and sat them down beneath the tree Yggdrasil. These fair Norns, who wrote the past and present on their tables and laid down the future lots of men, are later forms of Weird, personified as a grim goddess of fate, and known to all Germanic races.

Then swiftly followed the first war among kindred races of the gods, the Æsir and the Wanes. From the last more cultured tribe there came a witch called Golden-draught among the warlike Æsir. Two things she taught this simple folk the lust for gold, and the use of magic. The last was deemed an unpardonable sin among Germanic nations, and was punished by burning. In like manner the Æsir sought to destroy Golden-draught by burning her in Odin's hall ; but in vain, for as many times as they burned her she was born anew (p. liv). War broke out and the Wanes demanded were-gild, and a council of peace was held ; but the War-father arose, and hurling his spear gave the signal for strife to rage anew. It ended in the storming and destruction of Asgarth by the Wanes. Here a gap in the poem or a timely clouding of the Vala's vision hides the shame and defeat of the gods. In 'Ynglinga Saga (iv.) it is told as legendary history that after a while both sides became weary of a war in which victory fell now to the one and now to the other, and in which the countries of both were spoiled. So they held a peace meeting, and made a truce and exchanged chieftains. The Wanes sent their noblest, Njord, with his children Frey and Freyja; and the Æsir sent Hcenir, who was deemed well fitted -to be a ruler, and with him they sent also one of great understanding, Mimir, in exchange for Kvasir, the wisest among the Wanes. Hoenir was made a chief in Wane-home. When the people found that he could give no counsel without Mimir, but said on all occasions "Let others decide," they thought themselves cheated by the Æsir, and cut off Mimir's head and sent it to Odin. He smeared it with herbs, and sang rune-songs and gave it power of speech, through which he learned many secret things. According to Snorri, Kvasir was a wondrous being fashioned by all the gods, from whose blood the Song-mead was brewed (p. xxviii.). In both accounts the details are evidently of late invention. This war between strength and valour on the one side, art and skill on the other, is like a shadowy recollection of a time in history, when the barbaric children of the North were dazzled by Roman gold and Roman civilisation. But such a strife, with the first weakening of the war powers, was inevitable in the story of the gods.

Immediately following this incident, it would seem from the allusion of the Vala (st. 25), took place an event which Snorri recounts a fierce struggle with the Jotuns, and a crafty attempt on their part to win Freyja, the summer-goddess, who had just been brought to Asgarth. The gods were in need of a builder to raise anew the walls of their dismantled city, which by the last war had been left open to the inroads of Frost and Mountain-giants. A craftsman appeared and offered to do the work in three half years, but asked as his payment Freyja, and with her the Sun and Moon. At the evil counsel of Loki, and seemingly in the absence ot Thor, they agreed to his demands if he could finish the work in a single winter, before the first day of summer, otherwise his reward would be forfeited. He worked night and day with the help of his giant horse Svadilfari, and the walls were well nigh complete when it still wanted three days before the summer.

Then the gods took counsel, and questioned one another "who had thus planned to send Freyja as bride into Jotunheim, who had filled all the sky and heaven with darkness by taking thence the sun and moon? "It is this scene which the poem describes, but it tells nothing of what is learned from Snorri that "the gods knew, one and all, that he must have counselled this, who ever counsels ill, Loki, the son of Leaf-isle." Then they laid hands upon him, and made him swear to deliver them out of their plight ; and he did this by changing himself into a mare, and enticing Svadilfari away into the woods." And when the craftsman saw that he could not finish the work he flew into a Jotun-rage, and the gods knew now for certain that it was one of the Mountain-giants who had come among them; and oaths were disregarded and Thor was called, who came even as swiftly.

Then was Mjollnir raised aloft, and the craftsman received his wage; but he returned not into Jotunheim with the Sun and Moon, for at the first blow his skull was broken into pieces, and he was sent down to Mist-hel beneath." Once more a scene of shame is veiled, for the gods had broken faith with the Jotuns in trying to undo their own lolly.

When the Vala resumes, a new part of the poem has begun, and her words become more mysterious. She is revealing now no longer old tidings heard or things remembered, but secret knowledge which she has won at night time when she "sat out" enchanting and holding commune with the spirits of nature. On some such occasion, it seems that Odin has come to consult with her, but when this occurred or whether she is rehearsing a past incident is not made clear.

She proves first her power to foretell the future by showing that her knowledge penetrates to the holiest secrets of the gods. She knows of their pledges Heimdal's hearing, Odin's eye, and Baldr's life. Heimdal can hear grass growing in the earth, and wool on the back of sheep. Is it his ear which he has hidden in the sacred well beneath Yggdrasil to obtain this wonderful power which he needs in his watch against the Mountain-giants ? And why has Odin pledged his eye to Mimir ? This last question can be answered only by tracing back the history of Mimir. In German tradition he is a wise teacher and wonderful smith, who instructed Siegfried and Veland; according to Snorri, he is Hoenir's companion, whom the Wanes beheaded, and who became the friend and counsellor of Odin ; in the Poetic Edda he is also closely associated with the god, whose wisdom, as we have seen, is not the natural attribute of his divinity, but is drawn from all sources. Giants, Valas from Hel, ravens in the air instruct him, but his friend of friends is Mimir, the Deep-thinker, with whom he takes counsel at the Doom. Mimir is a giant in the older Edda, and guardian of a sacred well of Wisdom, or rather, at an earlier date, that well itself, from whose source or head flowed the moisture used in the writing of the runes (p. xxxi.), and in whose waters Odin has pledged his eye to gain insight into hidden things. A further interpretation, which Müllenhoff suggests, belongs to a still older stratum of thought a nature myth of the sun drawing precious moisture from the sea, and in return casting its own reflection, its second eye, into the deep. Sun and sea, thus mutually dependent together, give nourishment to the world, as Odin and Mimir together bestow their wisdom. In st. 32 is mentioned the third and yet more mysterious pledge, Baldr's life and fate, which are bound up with the mistletoe (p. lxiv.). But the description of the Vala is now growing more and more visualised, and she herself can scarce interpret the floating pictures which represent now some future, now some present scene. She is looking into all the different worlds Earth, where the Valkyries are speeding to the battlefields of men; Asgarth, where beside Valholl the fateful mistletoe is already high upgrown ; the cave where she foresees the torment of Loki ; Hel, where evil men are suffering the penalty of their misdeeds; Jotunheim, with, its feasting-hall of giants ; dark dwarf-land, where no sun nor moon can penetrate, lit only by the glowing forge fires of these active beings; and again eastward into Jotunheim, where Skoll was fostered, the dark wolf-son of Fenrir, who follows the fleeing Sun goddess across the heavens until he clutches her in the west, and stains all the sky at sunset with crimson like the blood of men (p. xvi.).

All these grim sights have in them something fearful and ill-omened ; the shadow of fate is growing darker, the Weird motive is heard more and more clearly. Now the true “spaedom" of the Vala begins ; she has turned to the future, and foretells the Doom of the gods. But she grows less visionary; the scene is a twilight glimpse of dawn ; she can only see dimly, and she is listening to the crowing of the cocks in Giant-land, in Asgarth, and in Hel, and following the long expected signals of alarm she hears a rumbling through all Jotunheim as the giant-enemies of the gods bestir themselves for battle ; the clashing of weapons in Valholl as the War-sons of Odin awake and pour forth through the five hundred doorways, while the gods are gathering at the doomstead and holding speech together ; in Hel, the rending of chains Fenrir has broken loose, Loki is free. She hears the gleeful song of the giants' warder answered by Heimdal with the roaring blast of Gjalla-horn, which sounds through all the worlds.

In the earth, too, among men, she hears wars and rumours of wars, crashing of shields and swords ; from below comes the groaning of the imprisoned dwarfs ; and throughout, at intervals, waxing louder and wilder, the deep baying of the Hel-hound, Garm. Amid this tumult she catches another sound, more fearful still, the shivering and rustling of the great Ash, the Tree of Fate, as it quivers, but does not fall and yet one other sound, a voice in the storm, the murmur of words: Odin is holding speech with Mimir. Now light falls ; once more the Vala can see; the foes are gathering from all quarters on the great battlefield, which measures a hundred miles each way. From the east come Frost and Mountaingiants; from the south come Fire-giants; from the north the Helhosts, and Loki; from the west must come the gods, led by Odin, with all his Chosen warriors.

In single combats the last battle is depicted. Weird is triumphant. A second time must the Heaven-goddess weep, when the War-father is devoured by Fenrir, though vengeance quickly follows, and the Wolf falls before Vidar ; Frey, who has parted with the sword which waged itself, is destroyed by the Fire-giant Surt ; Thor meets once more with the World Serpent, and still glorious in defeat, he slays and is slain. Thus the war-gods perish, and fire consumes the world.

Throughout this passage the tone of the poem has changed. Solemn and meditative at first, or rippling blithely on through each fresh disclosure of life, it has grown abrupt and stormy with the strivings of Weird to fulfil itself. Now again it changes to a tone of peaceful exultation, which heralds the restitution of all things. There is nothing visionary now, or mystic, in the scene. It is a calm, fresh morning after the night of storm ; all nature is at rest ; life is resumed. Seldom do we find in old poetry so realistic a description the green earth is still bathed with moisture; the rushing of waterfalls is heard; the living eagles, in contrast to the pale-beaked monster of st. 50, seek their wonted food in mountain pools. The gods are come again, but not all, for the rule of the war-gods is at an end, and their home of battle will henceforth be the dwelling-place of peace. It is a continuation of a former existence, without labour and without strife; old sports are renewed, old achievements are not forgotten, old mysteries are disclosed. Powers of evil depart, and there comes a new god. But here fresh mysteries appear, and must wait for solution by a later poet who seeks, like the present one, to explain existent myths in the light of a higher creed.

   

The Translation