ODE IX.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

UPROSE the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed:
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd:
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin:
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
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
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the Northern clime,

Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme ;

Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,

The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;

Till from out the hollow ground

Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

Prophetess. 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!
Let me, let me sleep again.

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.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed?

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The 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,
Who the author of his fate?

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:
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt.

Pr. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rhinda 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 corpse shall smile
Flaming on the fun'ral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

O. Yet awhile 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?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

Pr. Ha! no traveller art thou, King of men, I know thee now ! Mightiest of a mighty line

O. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood!

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall inquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night

Has re-assumed her ancient right;
Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

ODE X.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.

FROM THE WELCH.

OWEN'S praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,

Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came ; This the force of Eirin hiding, Side by side as proudly riding, On her shadow long and gay Lochlin ploughs the wat'ry way; There the Norman sails afar Catch the winds, and join the war : Black and huge along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands The Dragon-Son of Mona stands