Glitt'ring lances are the loom See the grisly texture grow, Shafts for shuttles dipp'd in gore, Mista, black, terrific maid! Ere the ruddy sun be set Pikes must shiver, jav'lins sing, Blade with clatt'ring buckler meet, Hauberk clash, 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 thro' 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; They whom once the desert beach Low the dauntless earl is laid, Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Erin* weep, 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! Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Sisters! hence with spurs of speed; Each her thund'ring falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed: Hurry, hurry, to the field. * Ireland. ODE VIII. THE DESCENT OF ODIN. From the Norse Tongue. UPROSE the king of men with speed, And saddled straight his coal-black steed; (The groaning earth beneath him shakes) Right against the eastern gate, Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead, Till from out the hollow ground Proph. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? * 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. Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest? Odin. A traveller, to thee unknown, For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, Proph. Mantling in the goblet see The pure beverage of the bee, Odin. Once again my call obey: Prophetess! arise and say, What dangers Odin's child await, Who the author of his fate? Proph. 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. Odin. Prophetess! my spell obey; Once again arise, and say, Who th' avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt? Nor wash his visage in the stream, What virgins these in speechless woe, And snowy veils that float in air? Proph. Ha! no traveller art thou; Mightiest of a mighty line-- Odin. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, no prophetess of good, But mother of the giant-brood! Proph. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall enquirer come To break my iron sleep again Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain; Never till substantial Night Has re-assum'd her ancient right, 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 mytholo y, see Introduction a l'Histoire de Danemarc, par Monsieur Mallet, 1755, 4to. or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities, in which some mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected. |