ORCADES of THOR MODUS TORFEUS HAFNIE, 1697, Folio; and alfo in BAR

THOLINUS.

VITT ER ORPIT FYRIR VALFALLI, &c.

The Author once had thoughts (in concert with a friend) of giving "The Hiftory of English Poetry:" In the Introduction to it he meant to have produced fome fpecimens of the Style that reigned in ancient times among the neighbouring nations, or thofe who had fubdued the greater part of this island, and were our progenitors; the following three imitations made a part of them. He has long fince dropped his defign, efpecially after he had heard that it was already in the hands of a perfon well qualified to do it justice, both by his tafte, and his researches into antiquity.

PRE

PREFACE.

IN

N the eleventh century, Sigurd, Earl of the Orkneyislands, went with a fleet of fhips and a confiderable body of troops into Ireland, to the affiftance of Sictryg with the Silken Beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, King of Dublin: the Earl and 'all his forces were cut to pieces; and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater lofs, by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle,) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, faw at a distance, a number of perfons on horfeback, riding full speed towards a hill, and feeming to enter into it. Curiofity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures, resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they fung the following dreadful fong; which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped fix to the north, and as many to the fouth.

THE

THE

FATAL SISTER S..

A N O D E.

OW the storm begin s to lour,

N (Hafte, the loom of hell prepare,)

Iron-fleet of arrowy fhower
Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a foldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

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

Note The Valkyriur were female divinities, fervants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name fignifies chufers of the flain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn fwords in their hands; and in the throng of battle felected fuch as were deftined to flaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the hall of Odin, or paradife of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and ferved the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

*How quick they wheel'd; and flying, behind them

fhot

Sharp fleet of arrowy fhower- Milton's Par. Reg. †The noise of battle hurtled in the air.

Shakespeare's Jul. Cæfar.

Shafts

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

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

Ere the ruddy fun be fet,
Pikes must shiver, javelins fing,
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' enfanguin'd field:
Gondula, and Geira, fpread
O'er the youthful king your fhield.

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

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

Low

Low the dauntless Earl is laid,
Gor❜d with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a King fhall bite the ground.

Long his lofs fhall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee;
Long her strains in forrow steep,
Strains of immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the fun.
Sifters, weave the web of death;
Sisters, cease, the work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph fing!
Joy to the victorious bands;
Triumph to the younger King.

Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale,
Learn the tenour of our fong.
Scotland, through each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters, hence, with fpurs of fpeed:
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each beftride her fable fteed.

Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE