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Glitt'ring 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,
("Tis 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 : ·
"Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy snn 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.

these, the reader is to be informed that in the eleventh century, Sigurd, earl of the Orkney Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the silken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law, Brian, king of Dublin: the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Syctrig was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw at a distance a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks he saw twelve gigantic figures resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful song; which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) gallopped six to the north and as many to the south. These were the Valkyriur, 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 Valkalla, 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.

Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality!

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

Hail the task, 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 tenor of our song.
Scotland, through each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field.

ODE IX.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.e

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

UP rose 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 sullen 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?

c The original is to be found in BARTHOLINUS, de causis contemnendæ mortis; HAFNIE, 1689, quarto,

UPREIS ODINN ALLDA GAUTR, &c.

Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted 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.

Long on these mould'ring 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 glitt'ring board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed.

PR. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee;
O'er it hangs the shield ofgold;
"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.

O. Once again my call obey.
Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate.

PR.

In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:

His brother sends him to the tomb.

Now my weary lips I close :

Leave me, leave me to repose.

O. Prophetess, my spell obey,
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be split

PR. In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace comprest, A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam;

Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the fun'ral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

O. Yet awhile my call obey.
Prophetess, awake, and say,

What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

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 inquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lokh has burst his tenfold chain.

Never, till substantial Night

Has reassum'd her ancient right;

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

Sinks the fabric of the world. ·

e 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 stars, and sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred-deities shall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, see "Introduction a l'Histoire de Dannemarc, par Mons. Mallet," 1755, quarto; or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled "Northern Antiquities," in which some mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected.

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