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U PROSE 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. 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 ; And long pursues with fruitless yell. The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,
Right against the eastern gate,
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? Long on these mould'ring 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,
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, For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, Dress'd for whom yon golden bed ?
Mantling in the goblet see
Once again my call obey, Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin's child await,
In Hoder's hand the hero's doom ;
Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who th' avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt ?
In the caverns of the west,
Now my weary lips I close :
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 me whence their sorrows rose : Then I leave thee to repose.
Ha ! no traveller art thou, King of men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line-
No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good ; But mother of the giant brood !