Long on these mouldering bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat,

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

Let me,

Who is he, with voice unbless'd,

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,
Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?

PROPHETESS.

Mantling in the goblet see

The

pure bev'rage of the bee; O'er it hangs the shield of gold; 'Tis the drink of Balder bold: Balder's head to death is given.

Pain can reach the Sons of Heaven!

Unwilling I my lips unclose:

Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Once again my call obey.
Prophetess, arise, and say,

What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?

PROPHETESS.

In Hoder's hand the Hero's doom;
His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:

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?

PROPHETESS.

In the caverns of the west,

By Odin's fierce embrace compress'd, A wond'rous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam,

Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile,

Flaming on the funeral pile.

Prophetess, awake, and say,

What Virgins these, in speechless woe,

That bend to earth their solemn brow, That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils, that float in air.

Tell me whence their sorrows rose:

Then I leave thee to repose.

PROPHETESS.

Ha! no Traveller art thou,

King of Men, I know thee now;

Mightiest of a mighty line

ODIN.

No boding Maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor Prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant-brood!

PROPHETESS.

Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall enquirer come

To break

my iron sleep again :

Till Lok* has burst his ten-fold chain;

Never, till substantial Night

Has reassumed her ancient right;

Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,

Sinks the fabric of the world.

* Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twilight of the Gods approaches; when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars, and sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself, and his kindred deities, shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see "Introduction à l'Histoire de Dannemarc, par M. Mallet," 1755, quarto; or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled, "Northern Antiquities;" in which some mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected.

No. XLIV.

THE WITCH OF WOKEY.

DR. HARRINGTON.

Wokey-hole is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybils Care, in Italy. Through a very narrow entrance, it opens into a very large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is crost by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem,

In aunciente days tradition showes
A base and wicked elfe arose,

The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearful tale
From Sue and Roger of the vale,
On some long winter's night,