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With slow and sullen step, the fatal pow'r,

Mista, the minister of Odin's wrath,

Beheld, and thither bent her rapid flight,

In form like Elidure, his friend belov'd,

Friend of his youth, who knew, and knowing shar'd His sorrows, and with his resentments glow'd. "And whither does my friend," the goddess said, "Now bend his steps? Shall dark despair invade The noble breast? Does vengeance wake no more?" "Think not," he cried, and from his flashing eyes Shot lightnings, "that the hope of dear revenge Burns here no more. Upon this hated earth,

This earth, the kingdom of my foe accurst,

I drag a load of miserable life,

While partial heav'n retards th' expected hour."

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Arraign not heav'n," the dreadful pow'r replies, "This is the ready colouring of fear,

That shrinks at fancied danger; while the brave
Compels reluctant fortune to befriend him.

Does not that hand with never-erring aim

Speed the swift arrow's flight? And now the king

Unarm'd, and unsuspicious, vainly deems

No danger near, and for the feast prepares.

Th' expected hour is come; and lo, the gods,
The gods themselves proclaim it!" As she speaks,
Sudden her form expands, her lofty crest

Reaches to heav'n, and to his wond'ring eyes

Blazes a comet with portentous fires.

Across her shoulders hangs her horrid shield,

And in her mighty hand the pond'rous spear
Seems like a pine, which from the birth of time
Has brav'd the tempest on Norweyan hills.
Then, borne upon the wings of mighty winds,
She hovers o'er him with her shield display'd,
And fills his glowing breast with fearless rage.
Now bent on vengeance, from his quiver'd store
He draws the keenest shaft; with eager eye
Now marks its victim: sharply twangs the string;
Trembles the conscious earth; the thunder rolls;
The dreadful sisters clash their sounding arms.

The king that instant, in the golden bowl

Rais'd high the sparkling wine, and bad his guests Indulge the feast, and give a loose to joy.

His throat receives the deadly weapon; prone

He falls, and spurns the earth, and dying, grasps

With agonizing hands the bloody dust.

Amazement, fear, confusion, seiz'd on all!
With tumult now the echoing camp resounds,

And fierce reproach, and furious threats arise.
Loëgria's heroes grasp their shining swords,

And fit their helms, and lift their pond'rous shields.
Belinus strives to sooth their rage in vain,

Disclaims the treason, and attests the skies.

When lo! before their wond'ring eyes appears,

Sisilius, glorying in the bloody deed:

"Warriors," he cried, "suspend your frantic strife.

By me the shaft was sped. The festal board,

Th' assembled chiefs beheld the brutal wrong;
Behold the just revenge! How art thou fall'n,
Proud and imperious man! My triumph now

İs full, and honour from my brighten'd crest

Shines forth with beams unsullied. I have liv'd

Enough to vengeance, and with daring hand

Have seiz'd reluctant fame. Now welcome death."

So saying, with indignant foot he spurn'd

The breathless carcase, and the pointed dart,

With steady hand against his breast impell'd,
Plung'd in his heart. He falls, without a groan
He dies, and on his face a ghastly smile

Remains, that speaks the triumph of his soul.

Now all the camp resounds with loud lament; And rumour spreads abroad the dreadful tale.

The wretched Guendolen, who sat retir'd
Amidst her virgin train, in silent woe,

And torn with grief alternate, and disdain,
Starts at the sound, and of the cause inquires,

Too soon to learn the utmost rage of fate.

For now her careful eyes afar descry

With slow and solemn march the martial train

Advancing through the gloom; their spears revers'd

Are trail'd along, their banners sweep the ground,

The moon pale glimmers on their burnish'd arms,

And mournful music loads the passing gale.

And now with boding fears her bosom heaves.
She knew some hero of distinguish'd rank

Had fall'n. More near the sad procession now
Appears, and borne on high a sable bier

Reveals it horrors. There a breathless corse

Extended lies; and soon the well-known arms
Studded with gold, the shield's refulgent orb,
The proudly-crested helm, which oft her hands
Had taught to glitter on his manly brow,
When, in the war against the giant crew,

She arm'd her hero for the sanguine field,

Flash on her sight. She shrieks, and shrieking falls;

The shades of death her swimming eyes surround.

Her weeping damsels with assiduous care

Recall her fleeting spirits. Some apply

The living freshness of the crystal spring;

Some wake the gentle breeze. Returning life

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