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“Pleasd in thy lineaments we trace
AIR. “ Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, .“ The flower unheeded shall descry, , " And hid it round Heav’n’s altar shed 6 The fragrance of its blushing head: “ Shall raise from earth the latent gem 66 To glitter on the diadem.
“ Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band,
“ Not obvious, not obtrusive, She “ No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; ..“ Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd 56 Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:
She reveres herself and thee. 66 With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow,
(2) A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace. The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor: hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families.
66 The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore (a), she
brings, “ And to thy just, thy gentle hand,
“ Submits the Fasces of her sway, " While Spirits blest above and Men below “ Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.
GRAND CHORUS. “ Thro' the wild waves as they roar 66 With watchful eye and dauntless mien
“ Thy steady course of honour keep, “ Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore: 66 The Star of Brunswick smiles serene,
" And gilds the horrors of the deep."
(a) The laureate wreathe, that Cecil wore. Lord Treasurer Burleigh was Chancellor of the University, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
THE FATAL SISTERS.
FROM THE NORSE-TONGUE (1).
(To be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfæus; Hafniæ, 1697, Folio: and also in Bartholinus.
Vitt er orpit fyrir valfalli, &c. In the Eleventh Century Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney-Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the silken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, King of Dublin: the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian, their King, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle) a Native of Caithness in Scotland, saw at a distance a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks he saw twelve gigantic figures resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful Song; which when they had fnished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and each taking her portion) galloped six to the North and as many to the South. These were the Valkyriur, female Divinities, Servants of Odin (or Woder in the Gothic Mythology. Their naine signifies Chusers of the slıin. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in ther 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 servel the departed Heroes with horns of mead and ale.]
(1) Een Dr. Johnson allows that Mr. Gray's « translations of North“ern aid Welsh Poetry deserve praise. The imagery (says he) is pre* servet, perhaps often improved.”
Now the Storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower (b)
Hurtles in the darken’d air (c).
Glittring 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.
(6) Iron sleet of arrowy shower.
How quick they wheel'd, and, flying, behind them she
Milton's Paradise Regained.
(0) Hurtles in the darken'd air.
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar,
Shafts for shuttles, dipt 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 clatt'ring buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of Fate we tread,
Wading thro’ th’ ensanguin'd field,