THE

DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN O D E.

(From the NORSE-TONGUE,)

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

UPREIS ODINN ALL DA GAUIR, &c.

PROSE the King of Men with speed,

And faddled ftrait his coal-black fteed;

Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode,
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His fhaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore diftill'd:

Hoarse 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 Lattle: Over it prefided Hela, the Goddess of Death.

Onward

Onward still 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 pronounç'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 presume

To break the quiet of the tomb?..

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 fhalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,

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 fhield 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. Prophetess, 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 fhall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
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.

'O. Yet

O. Yet a while my call obey.
Prophetefs, awake, and fay,

What virgins thefe, in fpeechlefs woe,
That bend to earth their folemn brow,
That their flaxen treffes tear,

And fnowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their forrows rose :
Then I leave thee to repofe.

PR. Ha! no traveller art thou
King of men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line-

O. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood!

PR. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall enquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till

Lok has burft his tenfold chain.

Never, till fubftantial night

Has reaffum'd her ancient right;

Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,

Sinks the fabric of the world.

*Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he fhall break his bonds; the human race, the ftars, and fun, fhall difappear; the earth fink in the feas, and fire confume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities fhall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, fee Mallet's Introduction to the Hiftory of Denmark, 1755, Quarto.

THE

THE

TRIUMPHS OF OWEN *.

A FRAGMENT.

FROM

Mr. EVANS's Specimens of the Welsh Poetry a LONDON, 1764, Quarto.

Ο

WEN'S praife demands my fong,
Owen fwift, and Owen ftrong;

Faircft flower of Roderic's ftem,,

+ Gwyneth's fhield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded ftores,
Nor all profufely pours;

Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hofts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him camez
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by fide as proudly riding,

On her fhadow long and gay

Lochlin plows the watery way;

*Owen fucceeded his father Griffin in the principa

lity of North-Wales, A. D. 1120.

fought near forty years afterwards.

North-Wales.

This battle was

Denmark.