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See the grisly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong.

Mista black, terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda see,
Join the wayward work to aid :
'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy sun be set,
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(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
Wading through th' ensanguin'd field :,
Gondula, and Geira, spread
O'er the youthful King your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)


whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

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Sisters, hence with spurs of speed :
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field.




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Up rose the King of men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to 'Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fillid,
Foam and human gore distillid :
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,
(The groaning earth beneath him shakes,)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of hell arise.

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Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;

• The original is to be found in BARTHOLINUS, de causis contemnendæ mortis; HAFNIÆ, 1689, quarto.

UPREIS ODINN ALLDA GAUTR, &c. 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
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
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 winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest?

O. A traveller, to thee unknown,
Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,
For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed.

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee;
O’er it hangs the shield of gold;
"Tis the drink of Balder bold :
Balder's head to death is giv'n.
Pain can reach the sons of heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose :
Leave me, leave me to repose.

0. 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:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

0. 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,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam;
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the fun’ral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

0. Yet awhile my call obey.
Prophetess, awake, and say,
What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

PR. Ha! no traveller art thou, King of men, I know thee now, Mightiest of a mighty line--

0. 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

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