The Third monologue — The Death of Balder

So seems it. Ah! if it concern'd our Hother! Ye mind full well how high the Danish hero I ever lov'd--I saw him by a fountain, Dejected, weaponless, and half in slumber; But deep into the forest fled the savage, From whom he took his sword, the sharp-edged Mimer, And Hother's spear in his rude hands he carried. "Retain my falchion, thou ferocious warrior! Little in conflict shall it e'er avail thee!" So shouted he, and all the rocks resounded. Then straight I brought my choicest spear from Valhall-- Long since I cut it from a lonely wild beech, Which, hid from day, grew up in Lapland's deserts; A circle of grey stones stood round about it, On each was clotted blood, and bones, and ashes; Blood as I cut the spear the stem emitted-- It crushes stone, and steel, and giants' armour.