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Shafts for fhuttles, 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 shield.

We the reins to flaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson 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 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;
Sifters, ceafe, 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.

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

Hurry, hurry to the field.





(From the NORSE-TONGUE,)

In BARTHOLINUS, de caufis contemnendæ mortis; HAFNIE, 1689, Quarto.


PROSE the King of Men with speed,


And faddled ftrait his coal-black feed

Down the yawning steep he rode,


That leads to Hela's drear abode,

Him the Dog of Darkness fpied,

His fhaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore diftill'd:

Hoarfe he bays with hideous din,

Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long purfues, with fruitlefs yell,
The Father of the powerful spell.

Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, confifted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all fuch as died of ficknefs, old-age, or by any other means than in battle: Over it prefided Hela, the Goddefs of Death.


Onward ftill his way he takes,

(The groaning earth beneath him shakes,)
Till full before his fearless eyes

The portals nine of hell arife.
Right against the eastern gate,
By the mofs-grown pile he fate;
Where long of yore to fleep was laid
The duft of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,

Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;

Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,

The thrilling verfe that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground

Slowly breath'd a fullen found,

PR. What call unknown, what charms prefume

To break the quiet of the tomb?

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Who thus afflicts my troubled fprite,

And drags me from the realms of night ?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's fnow, the fummer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving, rain!
Let me, let me sleep again.

Who is he with voice unbleft,

That calls me from the bed of rest?

O. A traveller, to thee unknown,

Is he that calls, a warrior's fon.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;

Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is fpread,

Dreft for whom yon golden bed.

PR. Mantling

PR. Mantling in the goblet, fee

The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given.
Pain can reach the fons of heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclofe:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

O. Once again my call obey.
Prophetefs, arife, and fay,
What dangers Odin's child await,

Who the author of his fate?

PR. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:

His brother fends him to the tomb.

Now my weary lips I clofe:

Leave me, leave me, to repofe.

O. Prophetefs, my fpell obey.
Once again arife, and fay,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be fpilt.
PR. In the caverns of the weft,
By Odin's fierce embrace compreft,
A wondrous boy fhall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his vifage in the ftream,
Nor fee the fun's departing beam;
Till he on Hoder's corfe fhall fmile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I clofe:
Leave me, leave me, to repofe.

10. Yet

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