« ForrigeFortsett »
PROSE the King of Men with speed,
And saddled strait his coal-black steed ;
Down the yawning steep he rode,
* Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, confifted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died ris fickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle : Over it presided HELA the Goddess of Death.
Him the Dog of Darkness spy'd,
His shaggy throat he, open'd wide,
Right against the eastern gate, By the inoss-grown pile he sate;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
Thrice he trac'd the runic rhyme ;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
Pr. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus affli&ts 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! 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 Warriour's Son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know ;
Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
Leave me, leave me to repose.
O. Once again my call obey.