Even the great honor which I have,
When I am dead, will soon grow still;
So have I neither joy, nor fame.
But what I can do, that I will.
I have a fretted brick-work tomb
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand;
Thither, O vizier, will I bear
This man my pity could not save,
And, plucking up the marble flags,
There lay his body in my grave.
Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls!
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!
Then say, "He was not wholly vile,
Because a king shall bury him."
BALDER DEAD.6
I. SENDING.
So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round
Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears,
Which all the gods in sport had idly thrown
At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove;
But in his breast stood fixed the fatal bough
Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave
To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw—
'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm.
