make the most of his advantage, he drank so deep that not a drop was left in the vessels. Transforming himself into an eagle, he then flew off as fast as his wings could carry him, but Suttung becoming aware of the stratagem, also took upon himself an eagle's guise and flew after him. The gods, on seeing him approach Asgard, set out in the yard all the jars they could lay their hands on, which Odin filled by disgorging through his beak the wonder-working liquor he had drunk. He was however so near being caught by Suttung, that he sent some of the mead after him backwards, and as no care was taken of this it fell to the share of poetasters. It is called the drink of silly poets. But the mead discharged into the jars was kept for the gods and for those men who have sufficient wit to make a right use of it. Hence poetry is called Odin's booty, Odin's gift, the beverage of the gods, etc.
But let us look at this myth in its older and purer form. Thus the Elder Edda, in Hávamál:
Oblivion's heron 't is called
That over potations hovers;
He steals the minds of men.
With this bird's pinions
I was fettered
In Gunlad's dwelling.
Drunk I was,
I was over-drunk
At that cunning Fjalar's.
It's the best drunkenness
When every one after it
Regains his reason.
This passage then refers to the effects of the strong drink of poetry, and Odin recommends us to use it with moderation. Would it not be well for some of our poets to heed the advice?
