_Odin._ Yet a while 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 we whence their sorrows rose, Then I leave thee to repose. 80 _Proph._ 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, no prophetess of good, But mother of the giant-brood! _Proph._ Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come To break my iron-sleep again, Till Lok[3] has burst his tenfold chain; 90 Never till substantial Night Has re-assumed her ancient right; Till, wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world. [Footnote 1: 'Norse Tongue:' to be found in Bartholinus, De Causis Contemnendae Mortis: Hafniae, 1689, quarto.] [Footnote 2: 'Hela:' Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the goddess of Death.] [Footnote 3: '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.] * * * * * IX.--THE DEATH OF HOEL.[1] Had I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage, and wild affright, Upon Deïra's[2] squadrons hurl'd, To rush and sweep them from the world! Too, too secure in youthful pride, By them my friend, my Hoel, died, Great Cian's son; of Madoc old He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold; Alone in Nature's wealth array'd, He ask'd and had the lovely maid. 10 To Cattraeth's[3] vale, in glittering row, Twice two hundred warriors go; Every warrior's manly neck Chains of regal honour deck, Wreath'd in many a golden link: From the golden cup they drink Nectar that the bees produce, Or the grape's ecstatic juice. Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn: But none from Cattraeth's vale return, 20 Save Aëron brave and Conan strong, --Bursting through the bloody throng-- And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep and sing their fall. [Footnote 1: 'Hoel:' from the Welsh of Aneurim, styled 'The Monarch of the Bards.' He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A.D. 570. This ode is extracted from the Gododin.] [Footnote 2: 'Deïra:' a kingdom including the five northernmost counties of England.] [Footnote 3: 'Cattraeth:' a great battle lost by the ancient Britons.] * * * * * X.--THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN: A FRAGMENT FROM THE WELSH.