ask or water-newt, or something else which still less readily conveys the meaning. In poems composed in this style, it seems to have been the object of the poet to convert every line into a sort of riddle, for the exercise of the ingenuity of the hearer, who was thus obliged to fight his way from one verse to another, having, for his sole reward, the pleasure of penetrating mystery, and conquering studied obscurity. Great part of the Edda of Sæmund is involved in this artificial darkness, and is therefore positively untranslateable. But in the more popular poetry, the romances, war-odes, and songs sung to the great in their festivals, when their Honours, like Mungo in the farce, probably wished to hear something which they could understand, another and more simple kind of poetry was adopted. The following very singular poem affords a curious specimen of this latter kind of composition; for though the personages are mythological, yet the tale is romantic, and the style of a simple kind, adapted to general comprehension. It is called the song of Thrym, or the Recovery of the Hammer, from the principal personage and incident. This hammer was a sort of sceptre or mace, used by Thor, the Mars of the Scandinavians, and on which much of his power depended. It was probably like those maces of arms which were used in war as low as the middle of the seventeenth century.* The translation is so admirably executed, that it might be mistaken for an original.

"Wrath waxed Thor, when his sleep was flown,
And he found his trusty hammer gone;
He smote his brow, his beard he shook,
The son of earth 'gan round him look;

And this the first word that he spoke;

Now listen what I tell thee, Loke:

Which neither on earth below is known,
Nor in Heaven above; my hammer's gone.'
Their way to Freyia's bower they took,
And this the first word that he spoke;
Thou, Freyia, must lend a winged robe,
To seek my hammer round the globe.'

*Lithgow, the Scottish traveller, mentions maces as used by the English at the siege of

With it shall no one homeward tread,
Till he bring me Freyia to share my bed.'
Away flew Loke; the wing'd robe sounds,
Ere he has left the Jotunheim bounds,
And ere he has reach'd the Asgard grounds.
At Midgard Thor met crafty Loke,
And this the first word that he spoke;
'Have you your errand and labour done?
Tell from aloft the course, you run.
For setting oft the story fails,
And lying oft the lie prevails.'

LOKE sung.

My labor is past, mine errand I bring;
Thrym has thine hammer, the giant king;
With it shall no one homeward tread,
Till he bear him Freyia to share his bed.'
Their way to lovely Freyia they took,
And this the first word that he spoke;.
Now, Freyia, busk, as a blooming bride;
Together, we must, to Jotunheim ride.'
Wrath waxed Freyia with ireful look;
All Asgard's hall with wonder shook;
Her great bright necklace started wide.
'Well may ye call me a wanton bride,
If I with ye to Jotunheim ride'
The Asi did all to council crowd,
The Asiniæ all talk'd fast and loud;

This they debated, and this they sought,

How the hammer of Thor should home be brought.

Up then and spoke Heimdallar free,

Like the Vani, wise was he;

Now busk me Thor as a bride so fair;

Let him that great bright necklace wear;
Round him let ring the spousal keys,
And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees,
And on his bosom jewels rare;

And high and quaintly braid his hair.'
Wrath waxed Thor with godlike pride;
Well may the Asi me deride,

If I let me be dight as a blooming bride.'
Then up spoke Loke, Laufeyia's son;
"Now hush thee, Thor; this must be done:
The giants will strait in Asgard reign:
If thou thine hammer dost not regain.'
Then busk'd they Thor as a bride so fair,

And the great bright necklace gave him to wear;
Round him let ring the spousal keys,

And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees,

And on his bosom jewels rare:

And high and quaintly braided his hair.

Up then arose the crafty Loke,

Laufeyia's son, and thus he spoke;

A servant I thy steps will tend,

Together we must to Jotunheim wend.'
Now home the goats together hie
Yoked to the axle they swiftly fly.

The mountains shook, the earth burn'd red,

As Odin's son to Jotunheim sped.

Then I hrym the king of the Thursi said;
Giants, stand up; let the seats be spread:
Bring Freyia Niorder's daughter down
To share my bed from Noatun.
With horns all gilt each coal-black beast
Is led to deck the giant's feast;

Large wealth and jewels have I stored;
1 lack but Freyia to grace my board.'
Betimes at evening they approach'd,
And the mantling ale the giants broach'd.
The spouse of Sisia ate alone

Eight salmons, and an ox full grown,
And all the cates, on which women feed;

Then Thrym the king of the Thursi said;
Where have ye beheld such a hungry maid ?
Ne'er saw I bride so keenly feed,

Nor drink so deep of the sparkling mead.'
Then forward lent the crafty Loke,
And thus the giant he bespoke:

'Nought has she eat for eight long nights,
So did she long for the nuptial rites.'
He stoop'd beneath her veil to kiss,
But he started the length of the hall, I'wiss.
'Why are the looks of Freyia so dire?
It seems, as her eyeballs glisten'd with fire.'
Then forward lent the craft Loke,
And thus the giant he bespoke;

Nought has she slept for eight long nights,
So did she long for the nuptial rites.'
Then in the giant's sister came,
Who dared a bridal gift to claim;
"Those rings of gold from thee I crave,
If thou wilt all my fondness have,
All my love and fondness have.'

Then Thrym the king of the Thursi said;

Bear in the hammer to plight the maid;

Upon her lap the bruizer lay,

And firmly plight our hands and fay.'

The thunderer's soul smiled in his breast,

When the hammer hard on his lap was placed;

Thyrm first the king of the Thursi he slew,
And slaughter'd all the giant crew.
He slew that giant's sister old,
Who pray'd for bridal gifts so bold.
Instead of money and rings, I wot,
The hammer's bruises were her lot,
Thus Odin's son his hammer got."

*Faith.

Vol. i. p. 1-8.

In this little tale, the genius of the rude people, for whom it was composed, may easily be recognised. We were very much amused with the brutal stupidity of the giant, a quality which seems always to have been an attribute of the sons of Anak, with the rival obtuseness of intellect displayed by the godlike Thor, who, like Ajax, seems to have "worn his brains in his belly, and his guts in his head;" and above all, with the insinuating address of the crafty Loke, who devised such marvellous good apologies for the circumstances in the bride's conduct, which excited poor Thrym's astonishment. The whole is a very curious specimen of the Northern romance. notes upon it, and indeed throughout, display an intimate acquaintance with Scandinavian lore, and lead us to expect with anxiety a promised dissertation upon the ancient history and literature of Iceland.

The

The other translations are less generally interesting than those from the Icelandic. There is, however, one poem from the Danish, which we transcribe as an instance how very closely the ancient popular ballad of that country corresponds with our own. It is said to have been taken down in the 17th century from oral recitation, and that the old people at Hoybye then pointed out the scene of the disastrous event, and the hill upon which divine service was per

"Sir Ebba lett bigg a bower so tall,

As still each native knows, There sing the small thrush and the gale,

Two damsels within it repose.

Sir Ebba he must to Iceland go

To bear his lord's behest;

It was the good Sir Ebba there,
From Iceland home he came ;
nightin-To meet him both his daughters fair
All weeping went with shame.

That bower, 1 ween, his daughters two
Will find no place of rest.

Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild there

Leagued with their mother came,
To harm Sir Ebba's daughters fair,
And work them scatch and shame.

The younger brother trembled sore
To work the damsels' shame,

'Now welcome, welcome, father dear;
So sore for you we cried;
Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild here

Have stained our maiden pride.'

Sir Ebba's heart wax'd sore with wo,
To hear their mournful plight;
And, Ill to Iceland did 1 go;

Now come the deadly fight!'

You must not for our ravish'd fame
Bear helm and weapons keen;
We will by craft avenge our shame,

'Come Sir Ebba in peace to his native shore, Though reft of honor sheen.'
He venges his daughter's fame.'

Then pale and wan grew his mother's face,
And savage wax'd her heart.

Thou bear'st not the soul of thy father's race,
But play'st a coward's part.

There's none within to check your might
Beside two varlets small;
And, were they both in iron dight,
They must before you fall.'

Early in the morning

They whet the shining spear; At the close of evening

Before the bower appear.

Under the lofty chamber's tier

In rush'd the knights amain;
They ask no leave, they know no fear,
But fast the chamber gain.

Up then awoke those ladies fair

To guard their maiden pride;
Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild there
Lay by their snowy side.

The damsels wept fall bitterly
With many a maiden tear;
And pray'd them for their modesty
To dread their father dear.

Up rose the knights, and went forth, ere
Day lit the mountain's side;
They thank'd for what they gain'd by fear,
But dared not longer bide.

The younger sister wailed soon,

For she fell first to shame;

'Let us sink with a stone in the billows down, And bury our blighted fame.'

The elder sister answer'd strait;
'Nay, gentle sister, nay,

Our sire from Iceland we'll await.
He'll venge us, if he may.'

It falls upon a Christmas night,
To mass the people hies;
Betimes to whet their daggers bright
Sir Ebba's daughters rise.

Now shall Sir Ebba's daughters do
A deed of scath, I ween;
But they must not to the altar go
Without their weapons keen.

Lady Metelill smiled, and a glowing hue
Gleam'd under her rosy skin;
And, Stand ye up, like ladies true!
Let the brides of my children in!'

Sir Bonda and Sir Schinnild there
To join the mass had sped;
And Trunda young, and Zenild fair,
Did fast behind them tread.

North within the armory bright
Young Trunda drew her blade;
South before the altar's light

Sir Bonda's fallen dead.

South beside the altar's ledge!
Fair Zenild drew her knife;
North upon the grunsel edge
Sir Schinnild lost his life..

Here stand we now as widows two,
For neither is now a maid;
And, lady, take your children two
To eat with salt and bread!'

Seven winters o'er that mournful place
Sad interdiction hung;
Nor rite was done, nor holy mass,
Nor funeral anthem sung.

On Helen's hill was a chapel built,
And there went woman and man;
Till the Pope absolved the church from guilt,
And loosed the fatal ban."-Vol. i. p. 22-28.

In this curious specimen of the Northern ballad the traces of a very rude age may be discovered. The nature of the vengeance which Lady Metelill stimulates her sons to take upon the defenceless daughters of Sir Ebba, and the exulting insults with which she re

mote period of antiquity, and almost a savage state of manners. But we were most struck with its extreme resemblance, in style and structure, to the old ballads of our own country, which has been very dexterously preserved by the translator. We hope Mr Herbert will not confine his future researches to the Icelandic poetry, but will extend them to the popular poetry of Scandinavia, which we cannot help thinking is the real source of many of the tales of our minstrels. That there was a ready intercourse between the Northern romancers, and their brethren of the South, is evident from the titles of many of I the MSS. which Wanley enumerates in his catalogue, as, for example, Sagan af Kerla Magnuse og Koppum Hans, i. e. the History of Charlemagne, and his Paladins ; Sagan af Ivant Einglands Kappe, that is, the Adventures of Sir Ywain, a Champion of the Round Table, and others, whose titles obviously denote an English or French original. But on the other hand, we suspect that our stock of popular poetry, and even that of the Anglo-Normans, was much enriched by the Northern traditions. Ugger, or Ogier the Dane, as he is called by the French romancers, however he came to be accounted one of Charlemagne's Paladins, has evidently derived his original renown from some Northern saga. In King Lear, among other scraps of old songs quoted by Edgar, in his assumed madness, we have this fragment:

"Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

The word was still fee faw fum,

I smell the blood of a Christian man."

The ballad or romance to which this quotation belongs is to be found in the Kæmpe Visier, a Danish collection of ancient popular poetry, which we would beg leave to recommend particularly to the learned translator of Sir Ebba. Proud Ellen Lyle had been carried off by a sort of sea-monster or demon, called Rosmer; and, like Chrystalline la Curieuse, in Count Hamilton's tales, was immured by him in an enchanted dwelling. Her brother, Rowland, having traversed the seas in quest of her, at length arrives at the place of her confinement, and she conceals him to prevent his being put to death by Rosmer. When that demon arrives, he greets his affrighted spouse with the two last lines of gigantic ejaculation

"Fee faw fum!

I smell the blood of a Christian man."

This curious old ballad has been lately translated by Mr Robert Jamieson of Riga, and published in a collection of Scottish ballads, with one or two others, which tend strongly to prove, that much of our popular minstrelsy was of Danish, at least of Scandinavian origin.

We have been so copious in our extracts from the Northern Poems,