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CLASS THE THIRD.
PIND. PYTH. 6.
BY THOMAS JOHN MATHIAS.
THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS;
From the chambers of the East,
Till on the plain, with corses strew'd,
Trace again the solemn rhyme; From Orient's ever-teeming clime I see them come, an evil race, Bold in.heart, and stern in face; In turbulent array they sweep, Beneath them groans the burthen'd deep; Fierce they rush, yet all obey Monarch Lok's resistless sway. Gaunt and wild with savage howl, Mark the wolfish Fenris prowl; With him stalks a furious train, Panting for th' ensanguin'd plain : Is Beliep's brother left behind ? No: he flies on wings of wind.
Know'st thou what is done above ?
And around each rock-hewn cell,
From the regions of the South Surtur bursts with fiery mouth: High o'er yonder black’ning shade Gleams the hallow'd sun-bright blade, Which in star-bespangled field Warrior Gods encount'ring wield. From Vengeance' red celestial store Ministers of ruin pour ; Caverns yawning, mountains rending ; Conscious of the fate impending, Ydrasil's prophetic ash Nods to the air with sudden crash: Monstrous female forms advance, Stride the steed and couch the lance: Armed heroes throng the plain, Harbingers of Hela's reign : And see, from either verge of Heav'ng That concave vast asunder riv'n.
Why does beauteous Lina weep? Whence those lorn notes in accent deep? For battle Odin 'gins prepare; Aloft in distant realms of air,
Mark the murd'rous monster stalk
Glowing with paternal fire, Generous rage and fierce desire, See Odin's offspring, Vidar bold, His sanguine course unfalt'ring hold. Nought he fears the wolfish grin, Tho' slaughter's minions round him din; In vain 'gainst him in fell accord Giant forms uplift the sword; He locks his foe in iron sleep, And stamps the filial vengeance deep.
Think not yet the measure full, Or the blade with carnage dull ; Lodina's glory, heart and hand, Joins the fight and takes his stand. Lo! in many a horrid turn, Crest that glistens, eyes that burn, The lordly serpent rolls along, Nor fears the brave, nor heeds the strong: But hark, 'twas Fate in thunder spoke ; Vidar deals the forceful stroke, Lays the death-doom'd monster low, And triumphs o'er his burnish'd foe.