THE

DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN OD E.

ROSE the King of men with speed,

UPROSE

And faddled ftrait his coal-black fteed:

Down the yawning steep he rode,

That leads to HELA's drear abode.

Him the dog of darkness spied;

His fhaggy throat he opened wide,

While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,

Foam and human gore diftill'd.

Hoarse he bays with hideous din,

Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;

And

And long purfues, with fruitlefs yell,

The father of the powerful fpell.

Onward ftill his way he takes,

(The groaning earth beneath him fhakes,)

. Till full before his fearless eyes

The portals nine of hell arife.

Right against the eastern gate,

By the mofs-grown pile he fat,
Where long of yore to fleep was laid

The duft of the prophetic Maid.

Facing to the northern clime,

Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;

Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,

The thrilling verfe that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground

Slowly breath'd a fullen found.

PRO

AN OD E.

PROPHETES S.

121

What call unknown, what charms, prefume

To break the quiet of the tomb?

Who thus afflicts my troubled fprite,

And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on thefe mould'ring bones have beat
The winter's fnow, the fummer's heat,

The drenching dews, and driving rain!
Let me, let me fleep again.

Who is he, with voice unbleft,

That calls me from the bed of rest?

ODIN.

A Traveller to thee unknown,

Is he that calls, a warrior's fon.

Thou the deeds of light fhalt know;

Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread,

Dreft for whom yon golden bed.

I

PRO

PROPHETES S.

Mantling in the goblet fee

The

pure bev'rage of the bee;

O'er it hangs the fhield 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 unclofe:

Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Once again my call obey.

Prophetess, arife, and fay,

What dangers Odin's child await,

Who the author of his fate.

PROPHETES S.

In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;

His brother fends him to the tomb.

Now

A NO DE

Now my weary lips I clofe:

Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN,

Prophetess, my spell obey:

Once again arise, and say,

Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt.

PROPHET E S S.

In the caverns of the west,

By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wond'rous boy fhall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er fhall comb his raven hair,

Nor wash his visage in the stream,

Nor fee the fun's departing beam,

Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile

Flaming on the funeral pile.

Now my weary lips I close:

Leave me, leave me to repofe.

I

123

ODIN.