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THE

FATAL SISTERS.

AN ODE.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

BY THE SAME.

Now the Storm begins to lower,
(Hafte, the loom of Hell prepare,)
Iron-fleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air.

To be found in the ORCADES OF THORMODUS TORFEUS; HAFNIE, 1697, folio: and alfo in BARTHOLINUS,

VITT ER ORPIT FYRIR VALFALLI, &c.

... For the better understanding this ode,' the reader is to be informed that in the eleventh century, Sigurd, earl of the Orkney-islands, went with a fleet of fhips and a confiderabic body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Siltryg with the filken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, king of Dublin: the earl and all his forces were cut to pieces; and Siftryg 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 Christmas-day, (the day of the battle,) a native of Caithness,

Glitt'ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we ftrain,

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 gafping Warrior's head.

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10

Shafts for fhuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along.

Sword, that once a Monarch bore,

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Keep the tiffue close and strong.

in Scotland, faw at a distance, a number of perfons on horse. back, riding full speed towards a hill, and feeming to enter into it. Curiofity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures, refembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they fung the following dreadful fong; which, when they had finifhed, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped fix to the north, and as many to the fouth. Thefe were the Valky riur, female divinities, fervants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name fignifies Chufers of the flain. They were mounted on fwift horfes, with drawn fwords in their hands; and in the throng of battle felected fuch as were defined to flaughter, and conducted them to 'Valhalla». the hall of Odin, or paradife of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

Mista black, terrific Maid,

Sangrida, and Hilda fee,

Join the wayward work to aid; 'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy fun be fet,

Pikes muft shiver, javelins fing,
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 thro' th' enfanguin'd field:
Gondula, and Geira, spread
O'er the youthful King your fhield.

We the reigns to flaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to fpare;

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30

Spite of danger he shall live.

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(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the defert-beach

Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample fway fhall ftretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

F 4

4Q

Low the dauntlefs Earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;

Soon a King shall bite the ground.

Long his lofs shall Eirin weep,

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Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale,
Learn the tenour of our fong.

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Scotland, thro' each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sifters, hence with spurs of speed:
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each beftride her fable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field.

65

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

BY THE SAME.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, 5
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain 10
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

15

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed. 20

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