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Onward still his way he takes,
(The groaning earth beneath him shakes)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of Hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate ;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic Maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the Dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

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PROPHETESS.

What call unknown, what charms, presume To break the quiet of the tomb ? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mouldering bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unbless'd, That calls me from the bed of rest?

ODIN.

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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 glittering board is spread ?
Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?

PROPHETESS.

:

Mantling in the goblet see
The pure beverage of the bee ;
O’er it hangs the shield of gold ; i
'Tis the drink of Balder bold :
Balder's head to death is giv’n,
Pain can reach the Sons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose :

leave me to repose.

Leave me,

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 the 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 wondrous 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 be on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close :
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

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Yet awhile my call obey ;
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 tenfold chain ;

* Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the Tri. light of the Gods approaches ; when he shall break his bonds; the

Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN."

A PRAGMENT.

FROM THE WELCH,

Owen's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and (wen strong :
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth'st shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours ;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came ; This the force of Eirin hiding,

Side by side as proudly riding, human race, the stars, and sun, shall disappear; the cartha sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies! even Odin himsell, and his kindred deities, shall perish. For further explanation of this mythology, see . Introduction & l'Histoire de Dannemare, par Mona. Mullet,' 1788, quarto, or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities ;' in which some mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected.

• From Mr. Evans'. Npecimens of the Welch l'oetry, London, 1764, quarto. Owen succeeded his father Grillin in the princi. pality of North Wales, A. 1), 1120. This buttle was fought near forty years afterwarde.

+ North Walen.

On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin" ploughs the wat’ry way;
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burdens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon-son of Mona stands ;f
In glittering arms and glory dress’d,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.

Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn:
Where he po is purple spear,
Hasty, hast

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