Till, from out the hollow ground, Slowly breath'd a fullen found. PROPHETESS. What call unknown, what charms prefume Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, Who is he, with voice unblefs'd, That calls me from the bed of reft? ODIN. A traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a warrior's fon. Thou the deeds of light fhalt know: For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, Art thou, nor prophetess of good; PROPHETESS. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall enquirer come To break my iron fleep again, Till Lok has burft his tenfold chain: Never, till fubftantial Night Has reaffum'd her ancient right; Till, wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, IMMORTALITY; OR, THE CONSOLATION OF HUMAN LIFE. A MONODY. BY MR. DENTON. Animi natura videtur Atque animæ claranda meis jam verfibus effe : W LUCR. HEN black-brow'd night her dufky mantle fpread, When foothing fleep her opiate dews had shed, 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 stars, and fun, fhall disappear; the earth fink in the feas, and fire confume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities fhall perish. For a farther expla nation of this mythology, fee MALLET'S INTRODUCTION TO THE HisTORY OF DENMARK, 1755, 4to. My My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, Nor the sweet blifs of soft oblivion fhare; From haunts of men, with wand'ring fteps and flow, Yet no fell paffion's rough difcordant rage And focial tears faft trickle down my cheek. Where'er I caft my moisten'd eyes around, Or ftretch my prospect o'er the distant land, There foul Corruption's tainted steps are found, And Death, grim visag'd, waves his iron hand. Tho' now foft Pleasure gild the fmiling scene, And fportive Joy call forth her festive train, Like air-blown bubbles on the watʼry plain; Ye fmiling glories of the youthful year, That ope your fragrant bofoms to the day, That, clad in all the pride of spring, appear, Soon on your leaves Time's cank'rous tooth fhall prey, Ye hedge-row elms, beneath whofe fpreading fhade The clam'rous rook builds high his airy bow'r; Your faplefs bolls fhall fink, and quit th' evanid scene. Ye feather'd warblers of the vernal year, That careless fing, nor fear the frowns of Fate, Ill fuit these mirthful strains your transient state. Come, fighing Elegy, with fweetest airs Of melting mufick teach my grief to flow: The murky manfions of the mould'ring dead; Wrapp'd |