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NOW the form begins to lowr,

(Hafte, the loom of hell prepare,)
Iron-Neet of arrowy show'r *
Hurtlest in the darken'd air.
Glitt’ring lances are the loom
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's wo and Randver's bane,
See the grisly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights that play below
Fach a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for Muttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along:
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong,

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Watc.- The Valkyriur were female divinities, fervants of Odin (or Wodin) in the Gothic mythology, Their name fignifies Chufers of the Slain. They were mounted on swift horfes, with drawn swords in their hands, and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to flaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, (the Hall of Odin, or Paradise of the Brave,) where they attended the banquet, and serve ed the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale. * How quick they wheel'd, and flying, behind them

shot Sharp fleet of arrowy shower

Milt. Par. Reg. + The noise of battle hurtled in the air.

Sbak. Yul. Cæf.

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Mista, black terrific maid !
Sangrida and Hilda see,
Join the wayward work to aid ;
'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy fun be set
Pikes must shiver, jav’lins fing,
Blade with clatt'ring 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 tho'th' ensanguin'd field,
Gondula and Geira fpread
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.)
They whom once the desert beach
Pent within it's 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 shall bite the ground.

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Long his loss shall Erin*

weep, Ne'er again his likeness fee; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality!

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

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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'At the tale
Learn the tenour of our song;
Scotland! thro' each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sifters! hence with spurs of speed;
Each her thund'ring falchion wield;
Each bestride her fable steed:
Hurry, hurry, to the field.

* Ireland.

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ODE VIII.
THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

To be found in Bartholinus, decaufis contemnendæ mortis;

Hafnia, 1689, Quarto.

I@

Upreis Odinn Allda gautr, &6.
UP rose the king of Men with speed,

And faddled straight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning steep he rode
That leads to Hela's || drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness fpy'd;

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His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill’d:
Hoarse he brays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow and fangs that grin,
And long pursues with fruitless yell
The father of the pow'rful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,
(The groaning earth beneath him Makes,)
Till full before his fearless eyes

IS The portals nine of hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate, By the moss-grown pile he fate,

# Nifheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, confisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: cver it presided Hiela, the goddess of Death.

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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 rhynie,
Thrice pronounc’d, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,
Till from out the hollow ground

25 Slowly breath'd a fullen sound.

Proph. What call unknown, what charms pre-
To break the quiet of the tomb ?

[fume
Who thus affii&is my troubled sprite,
And drags me from the realms of Night? 30
Long on these mould'ring bones have beat
The winter's snows the summer's heat,
The drenching dews and driving rain!
Let let me sleep again.
Who is he, with voice unblest,

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Odin. 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,

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For whom yon' glitt'ring board is spread,
Drest for whom yon' golden bed ?

Proph. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee,
O’er it hangs the shield of gold;

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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.

me,

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