Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Scotland, thro' each winding vale 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*. From the Norse-Tongue. UPROSE the King of Men with speed, And saddled strait his coal-black steed; Down the yawning steep he rode, Him the Dog of Darkness spied, His shaggy throat he open'd wide, * 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. While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd, Hoarse he bays with hideous din, (The groaning earth beneath him shakes,) The portals nine of hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, 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? Long on these mould'ring bones have beat 'The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! 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. For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, The Pr. Mantling in the goblet see pure bev'rage of the bee; O'er it hangs the shield of gold; "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, 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, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt. Pr. In the caverns of the west, Flaming on the funʼral pile. O. Yet awhile my call obey. What Virgins these, in speechless woe, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils, that float in air. |