THE FATAL SISTERS.' AN ODE. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE. COW the ftorm begins to lower, (Hafte, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron fleet of arrowy shower' Hurtles in the darken'd air. Glitt'ring lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we ftrain, Weaving many a foldier'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. Shafts for fhuttles, dipt in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a monarch bore, Keep the tiffue close and strong. Mista, black terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda, see, Join the wayward work to aid: "Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy fun be fet, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, 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 through th' enfanguined field, Gondula, and Geira, spread O'er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to flaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war.) They, whom once the defert-beach Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a king fhall bite the ground. Long his lofs fhall Erin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in forrow steep: Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the fun. Sifters, weave the web of death; Sifters, ceafe; the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands! Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale, Learn the tenour of our fong. Scotland, through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong. |