Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile,

Flaming on the funeral pile.

Now my weary lips I close,

Leave me, leave me to repose.

Yet awhile

ODIN.

my call obey;

Prophetess, awake, and say,

What Virgins these, in speechless woc,

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 Cave, 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.

Deep in the dreary dismal cell,
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,

This blear-eyed Hag did hide :
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,

She chose to form her guardian trayne, And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest, While wolves its craggy sides possest, Night-howling thro' the rock:

No wholesome herb could here be found; She blasted every plant around,

And blister'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foul to see;

Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;

Her eyne of deadly leer,

She nought devised, but neighbour's ill; She wreak'd on all her wayward will, And marr'd all goodly chear.

All in her prime, have poets sung,
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes ;
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,

By dint of hellish charms,

From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,

And well he did, I ween:

Sich mischief never had been known, And, since his mickle lerninge shown, Sich mischief ne'er has been.

He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then-pater noster done,—

The ghastly Hag he sprinkled o'er;
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well 'tis known adown the dale;
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear,

I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,

With all her household

gear.

But tho' this lernede Clerke did well;

With grieved heart, alas! I tell,

She left this curse behind;

That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,

Should find no leman kind.