Removed the weight, and gave the prisoner breath,
Just choak'd, and gasping on the verge of death.
Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound
The grizly Spectre, vaulting from the ground,
Seized him with sudden gripe, th' astonish'd Prince
Stood horror-struck, and thoughtless of defence.

—" O King of Russia," with a thundering sound Bellow'd the ghastly Fiend, " at length thou'rt found. "Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,

66

My name is Time, thy ever-dreaded foe.

"These feet are founder'd, and the wings you see "Worn to the pinions in pursuit of thee;

66

Through all the world in vain for

ages sought,

"But Fate has doom'd thee now, and thou art caught."

Then round his neck his arms he nimbly cast,

And seized him by the throat, and grasp'd him fast;

'Till forced at length the soul forsook its seat,
And the pale breathless corse fell bleeding at his feet.

Scarce had the cursed spoiler left his prey, When, so it chanced, young Zephyr pass'd that way; Too late his presence to assist his friend,

A sad, but helpless witness of his end.

He chafes, and fans, and strives in vain to cure

His streaming wounds; the work was done too sure,

Now lightly with a soft embrace uprears
The lifeless load, and bathes it in his tears;
Then to the blissful seats with speed conveys,
And graceful on the mossy carpet lays

With decent care, close by the fountain's side,
Where first the Princess had her Phoenix spied.
There with sweet flowers his lovely limbs he strew'd,
And gave a parting kiss, and sighs and tears bestow'd.

To that sad solitude the weeping Dame,

Wild with her loss, and swoln with sorrow, came.
There was she wont to vent her griefs, and mourn
Those dear delights that must no more return.
Thither that morn with more than usual care
She sped, but oh what joy to find him there!
As just arrived, and weary with the way,
Retired to soft repose her Hero lay.
Now near approaching she began to creep
With careful steps, loth to disturb his sleep;
'Till quite o'ercome with tenderness she flew,
And round his neck her arms in transport threw.
But, when she found him dead, no tongue can tell
The
pangs she felt; she shriek'd, and swooning fell.
Waking, with loud laments she pierced the skies,
And fill'd th' affrighted forest with her cries.

That fatal hour the palace gates she barr'd,
And fix'd around the coast a stronger guard :
Now rare appearing, and at distance seen,

With crowds of black misfortunes placed between ;
Mischiefs of every kind, corroding care,

And fears, and jealousies, and dark despair.
And since that day (the wretched world must own
These mournful truths by sad experience known)
No mortal e'er enjoy'd that happy clime,
And every thing on earth submits to Time.

No. XLII.

THE FATAL SISTERS.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

-GRAY.

To be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfæus; Hafnia, 1697, folio;

and also in Bartholinus:

Vitt er orpit fyrir valfalli, &c.

In the eleventh century Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney Islands, went with a fleet

of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the silken beard, who was then making war on his father-inlaw, 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 in the death of Brian their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day (the day of the battle), a native of Scotland saw, at a distance, a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter 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 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.

Now the storm begins to lower,

(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)

Iron-sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering 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 grisly 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.