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Low the dauntless earlo is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a kingo shall bite the ground.
Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep:
Strains of immortality!
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!
Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands;
Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hearest 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 !
THE DESCENT OF ODIN
AN ODE. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE
U PROSE the king of men with speed,
Right against the eastern gate, o
Till from out the hollow ground
What call unknown, what charms presume
A traveller, to thee unknown,
Mantling in the goblet see The pure beverage of the bee: O’er it hangs the shield of gold; 'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given.
Once again my call obey,o
In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;
Prophetess, my spell obey,
In the caverns of the west,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Yet a while my call obey:
veils that float in air ? Tell me whence their sorrows rose: Then I leave thee to repose.
Ha ! no traveller art thou, King of men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line
No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant brood !
Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come