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o 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 Deira'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 Aeron 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:
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