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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 por. tion) galloped fix to the North, and as many to the South,



A N O D E.

NOW the ftorm begins to lowr,

(Hafte, the loom of Hell prepare,)

Note.---The Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies Chufers of the slain. They were mounted on fwift horses, with drawn words in their hands, and in the throng of battle feleted such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, 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

Iron Neet of arrowy shower*
Hurtles in the darken'd air +

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

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

Shafts for shuttles dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along,
Swords that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong.

* How quick they wheel'd; and flying,

behind them shot
Sharp fleet of arrowy shower----

Milton's Paradise Regain'd, f The noise of battle hurtled in the air.

Shakespeare's Julius Cæfar:

Mifta, 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 fing,
Blade with clatt'ring buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ringa

(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' ensanguin'd 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 defart beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample fway fhall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

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Low the dauntless Earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head;
Sogn a king shall bite the ground.

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Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee:
Long her ftrains in forrows steep,
Strains of Immortality!

Horror covers all the heach,
Clouds of carnage blot the fun.
Sisters, weave the web of death;
Sisters, cease the work is done.

Hail the talk, and hail the hands !
Songs of joy and triumph fing!
Joy to the victorious bands ;
Triumph to the younger King.

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