Be thine despair, and sceptred care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

THE FATAL SISTERS.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.*

Now the storm begins to lower

(Haste, the loom of hell prepare),

Iron sleet of arrow showert

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

* To be found in the "Orcades of Thormodus Torfæus; Hafniæ," 1697, folio; and also in "Bartholinus."

In the eleventh century, Sigurd, Earl of Orkney, went with a fleet of ships, and a considerable body of troops, into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg of the Silken Beard, who was ther making war on his father-in-law, Brian, King of Dublin. The earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmasday (the day of battle), a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw, at a distance, a number of persons on horseback, riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful song; which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped six to the north, and as many to the south. These were the Valkyriur, female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies Choosers of the slain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands; and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valhalla, the hall of Odin, or paradise of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

"How quick they wheel'd, and flying, behind them shot
Sharp sleet of arrowy show'r."-Paradise Regained.

"The noise of battle hurtled in the air."

SHAKSPERE's Julius Cæsar.

Glitt'ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain;
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's wo, and Randver's bane.

See the grizzly texture grow
(Tis of human entrails made),
And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipp'd in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong!

Mista black, terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda see,

Join the wayward work to aid:
"Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly,

Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading through th' ensanguined field; Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:

Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,

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 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!

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'st 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:

*The original is to be found in "Bartholinus, De causis con temnendæ mortis; Hafniæ," 1689, quarto.

'Upreis Odinn allda gautr," &c.

+ Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the Goddess of Death.

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 breathed 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 glitt'ring board is spread?
Drest for whom yon golden bed?