See the grisly texture grow, Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, Mista black, terrific maid, Ere the ruddy sun be set, (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread O'er the youthful King your shield. We the reins to slaughter give, They, whom once the desert-beach Low the dauntless Earl is laid, Long his loss shall Eirin weep, Horror, covers all the heath, Hail the task, and hail the hands! Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: ་་་་ ODE IX. THE DESCENT OF ODIN.S FROM THE NORSE TONGUE. UP rose the King of men with speed, d That leads to HELA's drear abode. Him the Dog of Darkness spied, + (The groaning earth beneath him shakes,) The portals nine of hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme; The original is to be found in BARTHOLINUS, de causis contemnendæ mortis; HAFNIE, 1689, quarto. UPREIS ODINN ALLDA GAUTR, &c. d Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided HELA, the Goddess of Death. Thrice pronounc'd in accents dread Slowly breath'd a sullen sound. PR. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mould'ring bones have beat The drenching dews, and driving rain! Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest? O. A traveller, to thee unknown, For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, PR. Mantling in the goblet see O. Once again my call obey. Prophetess, arise, and say, What dangers Odin's child await, Who the author of his fate. PR. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom: His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close: O. Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who th' avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt. PR. In the caverns of the west, O. Yet awhile my call obey. What virgins these, in speechless woe, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils, that float in air. Tell me whence their sorrows rose: O. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood! PR. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come |