'Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear: They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. III. 3 'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That, lost in long futurity, expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day! To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me; with joy I see The different doom our Fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. THE FATAL SISTERS AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE How the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air. Glittering lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. See the grisly texture grow, ('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a monarch bore, Keep the tissue 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 sun be set, 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' 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 Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a king shall bite the ground.