16 Sisters! hence with spurs of speed;
       Each her thundering falchion wield;
     Each bestride her sable steed: 
     Hurry, hurry, to the field.

[Footnote 1:  ‘Norse tongue:’  to be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfaeus, Hafniae, 1697, folio; and also in Bartholinus.]

[Footnote 2:  ‘Person:’  Percy, author of ’Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.’]

[Footnote 3:  ‘Figures:’  the Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology.  Their name signifies ‘Choosers of the Slain.’  They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands, and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, (the Hall of Odin, or Paradise of the Brave), where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.]

[Footnote 4:  ‘Eirin:’  Ireland.]

* * * * *

  VIII.—­THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

  FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.[1]

  ’Upreis Odinn
  Allda gautr.’

  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[2] drear abode. 
  Him the Dog of Darkness spied;
  His shaggy throat he open’d wide,
  While from his jaws, with carnage fill’d,
  Foam and human gore distill’d: 
  Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
  Eyes that glow and fangs that grin, 10
  And long pursues with fruitless yell
  The Father of the powerful spell. 
  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. 20
  Facing to the northern clime,
  Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme,
  Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,
  The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,
  Till from out the hollow ground
  Slowly breathed a sullen sound.

    Proph. 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? 30
  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 unblest,
  That calls me from the bed of rest?

    Odin. 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, 40
  For whom yon glittering board is spread;
  Dress’d for whom yon golden bed?