Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see Its ancient lord secure of victory :

The theatre's green height and woody wall Trembles ere it precipitates its fall;

The pond'rous mass sinks in the cleaving ground,
While vales and woods and echoing hills rebound.
As when from Etna's smoking summit broke,
The eyeless Cyclops heav'd the craggy rock,
Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar,
And parting surges round the vessel roar;
'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm,
And scarce Ulysses 'scap'd his giant arm.
A tiger's pride the victor bore away,
With native spots and artful labour gay,
A shining border round the margin roll'd,
And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.

ODE FOR MUSIC.

PERFORMED IN THE SENATE-HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE,
JULY 1, 1769, AT THE INSTALLATION OF HIS
GRACE AUGUSTUS-HENRY-FITZROY, DUKE OF
GRA FTON, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY.
"HENCE, avaunt, ('t is holy ground,)

Comus and his midnight-crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,

Servitude that hugs her chain,

Nor in these consecrated bowers

Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

While bright-ey'd Science watches round:

Hence, away,

't is holy ground!"

From yonder realms of empyrean day

Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay:

There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,
The few, whom genius gave to shine

Through every unborn age and undiscover'd clime.
Rapt in celestial transport they,

Yet hither oft a glance from high
They send of tender sympathy

To bless the place, where on their opening soul
First the genuine ardour stole.

'T was Milton struck the deep-ton'd shell,
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

"Ye brown o'er-arching groves,

That Contemplation loves,

Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!
Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn,

Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,

With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd Melancholy."

But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth
With solemn steps and slow,

High potentates and dames of royal birth,

And mitred fathers in long order go: Great Edward,* with the lilies on his brow, From haughty Gallia torn,

And sad Chatillon,+ on her bridal morn

* Edward the Third; who added the fleur-de-lis of France to the arms of England. He founded Trinity College.

Mary de Valentia, Countess of Pembroke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, Comte de St. Paul in France: of whom tradition says, that her husband, Audemar de Valentia, Earl of Pembroke, was slain at a tournament on the day of his nuptials. She was the foundress of Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of Aula Mariæ de Valentia,

That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,*
And Anjou's+ heroine, and the paler rose,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,

And either Henry there,

The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord,
That broke the bonds of Rome.

(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human passions now no more,
Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb,)
All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,
And bade these aweful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come;
And thus they speak in soft accord
The liquid language of the skies.
"What is grandeur, what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain?
The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee's collected treasure's sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of Gratitude."

Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Marg❜ret || see!
"Welcome, my noble son," she cries aloud,
"To this, thy kindred train, and me:
Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's ¶ fire, a Beaufort's grace.
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head:
Shall raise from Earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem.

"Lo Granta waits to lead her blooming band,
Not obvious, not obtrusive, she

No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings;
Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:
She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow
The laureat wreath, that Cecil** wore, she brings,
And to thy just, thy gentle hand

Submits the fasces of her sway,

While spirits blest above and men below
Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.
Through the wild waves as they roar
With watchful eye and dauntless mien
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore:
The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrours of the deep."

* Elizabeth de Burg, Countess of Clare, was wife of John' de Burg, son and heir of the Earl of Ulster, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, by Joan of Acres, daughter of Edward the First. Hence the poet gives her the epithet of princely. She founded Clare-Hall.

+ Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry the Sixth, foundress of Queen's College. The poet had celebrated her conjugal fidelity in a former ode.

Elizabeth Widville, wife of Edward the Fourth (hence called the paler rose, as being of the house of York). She added to the foundation of Margaret of Anjou.

§ Henry the Sixth and Eighth. The former the founder of King's, the latter the greatest benefactor to Trinity College.

Countess of Richmond and Derby; the mother of Henry the Seventh, foundress of St. John's and Christ's Colleges.

The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families.

**Lord-treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the University in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait!

Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster+ stood aghast in speechless trance:

To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering

lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main ;

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of Hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that ring,||
Shrieks of an agonizing king;

* The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion.

+ Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward.

Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore.

The shores of Caernarvonshire opposite to the Isle of Anglesea.

Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkley castle.

Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd;
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies! +

No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior § fled?

Thy son is gone: he rests among the dead.

The swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were born,
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare:

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,||
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, ¶ London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his consort's** faith, his father's++ fame,
And spare the meek usurper's ‡‡ holy head.
Above, below, the rose §§ of snow,
Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread:
The bristled boar || || in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)

Half of thy heart we consecrate. ¶¶

(The web is wove. The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:

* Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous queen.

+ Triumphs of Edward the Third in France.

Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress. § Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster.

Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

** Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her crown.

++ Henry the Fifth.

Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown. §§ The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster. The silver-boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of The Boar.

¶¶ Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret, and sorrow for the loss of her are still to be seen at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other places.

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

Bat oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur* we bewail.

All hail, ye genuine kings + Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,

In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play;
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, † hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.
"The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures § move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horrour, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings ¶ lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me with joy I see

The different doom our Fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and scepter'd Care:

To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

THE DEATH OF HOEL.

From the Welsh of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards.

HE FLOURISHED ABOUT THE TIME OF TALIESSIN,
A. D. 570.

HAD I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deira's squadrons hurl'd,

To rush and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, dy'd,
Great Cian's son; of Modoc old,
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,
He ask❜d, and had the lovely maid.

To Cattraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row,
Twice two hundred warriors go:

It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy-land, and should return again to reign over Britain.

Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

Taliessen, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

§ Shakspeare.

Milton.

¶The succession of poets after Milton's time.

Ev'ry warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link :
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.

Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn,
But none from Cattraeth's vale return,
Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong,
(Bursting thro' the bloody throng)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep, and sing their fall.

A LONG STORY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

MR. GRAY's Elegy, previous to its publication, was handed about in MS. and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis. The performance induced her to wish for the Author's acquaintance; Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to introduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the Author, at his aunt's solitary habitation, where he at that time resided, and not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr. Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit; and as the beginning of this intercourse bore some appearance of romance, he gave the humourous and lively account of it which the Long Story contains.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands ; *
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the pow'r of Fairy hands.

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper+ led the brawls:
The seal and maces danc'd before him.

His bushy-beard and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen,
Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning,
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your hist❜ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe ?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, ‡ not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of the Viscountess Cobham. The style of building, which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.

+ Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing.-Brawls were a sort of a figure dance then in vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillons, or still more modern quadrilles.

The reader is already apprized who these ladies were; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanza.

The first came cap-a-piè from France,
Her conqu❜ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heav'n
Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire!
But Cobham had the polish giv❜n,
And tipp'd her arrows with good nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air-
Coarse panegyrics would but tease her;
Melissa is her nom du guerre;

Alas: who would not wish to please her:

With bonnet blue and capuchin,
And aprons long, they hid their armour,
And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen,
In pity to the country farmer.

Fame, in the shape of P-t, *
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked imp they call a Poet.

Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dry'd up the cows and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

The heroines undertook the task; Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

The trembling family they daunt,
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry scurry, round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber.

Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creas'd like dog's-ears in a folio.

On the first marching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says; (who will believe)
But that they left the door a-jar,
Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war?

Short was his joy: he little knew
The power of magic was no fable;;
Ont of the window whisk they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle
The Poet felt a strange disorder;
Transparent birdlime form'd the middle,
And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the apparatus,
The pow'rful pot-hooks did so move him,
That will he nill he to the great house
He went as if the devil drove him.

* It has been said that this gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name, yet surely without any great reason.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray)

To Phoebus he preferr❜d his case

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The godhead would have back'd his quarrel: But with a blush, on recollection,

Own'd that his quiver and his laurel
'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The court was sat, the culprit there;
Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping,"
The lady Janes and Joans repair
And from the gallery stand peeping:

Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry,
(Styack has often seen the sight)
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry;

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd
Sour visages enough to scare ye,
High dames of honour once that garnish'd
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!

The peeress comes: the audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission;
She court'sies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.

The Bard with many an artful fib
Had in imagination fenc'd him,
Disprov'd the arguments of Squib,t

And all that Groom could urge against him.

But soon his rhetoric forsook him,
When he the solemn hall had seen;
A sudden fit of ague shook him;
He stood as mute as poor Maclean. §

Yet something he was heard to mutter,
"How in the park, beneath an old tree,
(Without design to hurt the butter,
Or any malice to the poultry,)

"He once or twice had penn'd a sonne,
Yet hop'd that he might save his bacon;
Numbers would give their oaths upon it,
He ne'er was for a conj'rer taken."

The ghostly prudes with hagged || face,
Already had condem'd the sinner:
My Lady rose, and with a grace-
She smil'd, and bid him come to dinner. ¶

"Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget,

Why, what can the Vicountess mean!"
Cry'd the square hoods, in woeful fidget;
"The times are alter'd quite and clean!

"Decorum's turn'd to mere civility!
Her air and all her manners shew it:
Commend me to her affability;
Speak to a Commoner and Poet!"

[Here 500 stanzas are lost.]

And so God save our noble king,

And guard us from long winded lubbers,
That to eternity would sing,

And keep my lady from her rubbers.

*The Housekeeper.

+ The Steward.

+ Groom of the chamber.

§ A famous highwayman, hanged the week before.

Hagged, i. e. the face of a witch or hag. The epithet hagard has been sometimes mistaken as conveying the same idea, but it means a very different thing; viz. wild and farouche, and is taken from an unreclaimed hawk, called an Hagard.

Here the story finishes, the exclamation of the ghosts, which follows, is characteristic of the Spanish manners of the age when they are supposed to have lived; and the 500 stanzas said to be lost, may be imagined to contain the remainder of their long winded expostulation.

THE FATAL SISTERS."

AN ODE.

(From the Norse-Tongue.)

IN THE ORCADES OF THORMODUS TORFÆUS; HAF
NIE, 1697, FOLIO; AND ALSO IN BARTHOLINUS.
Vitt er oprit fyrir valfalli, &c.
Now the storm begins to lour,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,)
Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grisly texture grow,

('T is 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:
T is 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.)

They, whom once the desert-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 shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Eirin weep,

Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality! Horrour covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the Sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done.

*The Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies choosers of the slain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands; and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkallah, the hall of Odin, or paradise of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

Hail the tax, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands;

Triumph to the younger king.

Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,
Learn the tenour of our song.
Scotland, through each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence, with spurs of speed;
Each her thundering falchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed:
Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN ODE.

(From the same.)

IN BARTHOLINUS, DE CAUSIS CONTEMNENDE MORTIS; HAFNIÆ, 1689, QUARTO.

Upreis Odinn allda gauir, &c.

UPROSE 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 fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd;
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.

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 ;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,

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

Slowly breath'd a solemn 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 mouldering 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 glittering board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed?

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
"T is the drink of Balder bold:

* Niflheimr, the Hell of the Gothic nations, consisting 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.