Long his lofs fhall Erin * weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee;
Long her ftrains 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! thro' each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters! hence with fpurs of speed;
Each her thund'ring falchion wield;
Each beftride her fable fteed:
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.

Upreis Odinn Allda gautr, &e.

UP rofe the king of Men with speed,

And faddled ftraight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning Reep he rode
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness fpy'd;
His fhaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore diftill'd:
Hoarse he brays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow and fangs that grin,
And long purfues with fruitlefs yell
The father of the pow'rful fpell.
Onward ftill his way he takes,

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

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15

The portals nine of hell arife.

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

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 goddess of Death.

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.

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PROPH. What call unknown, what charms pre

To break the quiet of the tomb?

Who thus afflicts my troubled fprite,

And drags me from the realms of Night?
Long on these mould'ring bones have beat
The winter's fnows the fummer's heat,
The drenching dews and driving rain!
Let me, let me fleep again.

Who is he, with voice unbleft,

[fume

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Dreft for whom yon' golden bed?

PROPH. Mantling in the goblet fee

The pure bev'rage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the fhield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is giv'n;
Pain can reach the fons of Heav'n!

Unwilling I my lips unclofe;

Leave me, leave me to repose.

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ODIN. Once again my call obey:

Prophetefs! arife, and fay,

What dangers Odin's child await,

Who the author of his fate?

PROPH. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;

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His brother fends him to the tomb.

Now my weary lips I close ;

Leave me, leave me to repofe.
ODIN. Prophetess! my spell obey;
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
PROPH. In the caverns of the weft,
By Odin's fierce embrace compreft,
A wond'rous boy fhall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er fhall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his vifage in the stream,
Nor fee the fun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corfe fhall fmile

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Flaming on the fun'ral pile,

Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN. Yet a while my call obey:
Prophetefs! awake, and fay,
What virgins thefe, in fpeechless wo,

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PROPH. Ha! no traveller art thou; King of Men, I know thee now;

Mightieft of a mighty line

ODIN. No boding maid of fkill divine

Art thou no prophetefs of good,

But mother of the giant-brood!

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PROPH. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

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Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the ftars, the fun, fhall disappear, the earth fink in the feas, and fire confume the fkies; even Odin himself, and his kindred deities, fhall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, see Introduction a l' Hiftoire de Danemarc, par Mons. Mallat, 1755, 4to; or rather a translation of it publifhed in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities, in which fome mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected.