Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, (Weave the crimson web of war!) As the paths of Fate we tread, Wading through th' ensanguined field, Gondula and Geira, spread O'er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to slaughter give; Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live. (Weave the crimson web of war!) They whom once the desert beach Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. Low the dauntless earl is laid, Fate demands a nobler head; Gored with many a gaping wound: Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality! 45 1761. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Sisters, hence with spurs of speed; Hurry, hurry to the field! 60 THE DESCENT OF ODIN Uprose the King of Men with speed, And saddled straight his coal-black steed; Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to Hela's drear abode. 1768. (The groaning earth beneath him shakes), 15 The thrilling verse that wakes the dead; 25 Slowly breathed a sullen sound. Prophetess. What call unknown, what charms, pre sume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? The drenching dews, and driving rain: Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest? Odin. A traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a warrior's son. 330 35 By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt? By Odin's fierce embrace comprest, A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear; Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair, 60 65 Nor wash his visage in the stream, Odin. Yet awhile my call obey: What virgins these, in speechless woe, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils that float in air. That never shall enquirer come To break my iron sleep again, Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain; Prophetess. Hie thee hence, and boast at home 90 SKETCH OF HIS OWN CHARACTER Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune; Could love and could hate, so was thought somewhat odd; No very great wit, he believed in a God; A place or a pension he did not desire, 5 But left church and state to Charles Townshend and Squire. 1761. 1775. MARK AKENSIDE FROM THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION Say, why was man so eminently raised As on a boundless theatre, to run 10 And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, Of Nature, calls him to his high reward 15 Th' applauding smile of Heav'n? Else wherefore burns That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind 20 Majestic forms, impatient to be free, Spurning the gross control of wilful might, To heav'n's broad fire his unconstrainèd view 25 Who that, from Alpine heights, his lab'ring eye Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand, will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill Disdains to rest her heav'n-aspiring wing That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth 5 |