“Who art thou?—of the elves? Or of the Aser sons? Or of the wiser Vaner? Why comest thou hither, alone, Through raging flames To visit our hall?”
He replied that he was not an Elf, nor an Aser, nor a Vanir; and he offered her eleven apples,—no doubt those of immortality, stolen from the treasury of Iduna,[100]—if she would bestow her love on Freyr, the most agreeable of all beings. She rejected the apples with scorn, declaring that she would never live with Freyr. He then offered her the ring—the very ring—which was laid on the funeral pyre with Balder, the son of Odin—that ring which every ninth night produced eight other rings of the same weight. It too she scorned; she had gold enough in her father’s house. He then bade her look at the sword which he held in his hand, and threatened to behead her unless she would love Freyr. Still she refused; and said that if he and her father met, there would be bloodshed. Other threats he employed, and commenced a charm which was for ever to deprive her of beauty, of happiness, of worldly esteem, and consign her to the most direful woes. In the midst of the charm, she interrupted him; she could resist no longer; she offered him a cup of mead; and at length named the very night on which she would meet Freyr in the grove of Barre.—Skirnir now returned in great joy. He is met by Freyr, who will not allow him to dismount until he has said what success has attended him. The news, which ought to fill him with joy, makes him impatient. One night seems long; nine seems an age. The giant-maiden kept her promise; and for a reward, Skirnir received the sword of Freyr.[101]
Freya, the sister of Freyr, and the goddess of love, is thus described by Ohlenschlager:—
——Freya’s hall With precious gems o’erlaid, Stands in a lonely vale, Which rose-tree forests shade; Swans, white as virgin snow, There on the calm lakes sail, Lovers, who ne’er brake vow, Tell there their ardent tale.
But in Folkvangur’s bower Nought like its matchless queen; Mid many a beauteous flower No flower like her, I ween. Her form so round and slight, Her look which love doth beam, Her step as Zephyr’s light, Exceeds e’en poet’s dream.
Each small, white, taper hand, A blushing rose doth bear, Which through her faery land Breathe forth their fragrant air. Their sweets no guardian thorn From rude touch needs defend, ’Tis they to even and morn The roseate tints which lend.