Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head: Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin 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, 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 falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field! ODE IX. THE VEGTAM'S KIVITHA; OR, THE DESCENT OF ODIN. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE. UPROSE the king of men with speed, Hoarse he bays with hideous din, 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 Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme; PROPHETESS. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? 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, Is he that calls, a warrior's son. Tell me what is done below, For whom yon glittering board is spread, Dress'd for whom yon golden bed? PROPHETESS. Mantling in the goblet see Leave me, leave me to repose. ODIN. Once again my call obey: Prophetess, arise, and say, PROPHETESS. 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 the avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt? PROPHETESS. 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 funeral pile. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose. ODIN. Yet a while 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? |