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Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head:
Shall raise from earth the latent gem
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 refined
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:
She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow, The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings,

And to thy just, thy gentle hand,
Submits the fasces of her sway,

While spirits bless'd above and men below Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.


"Through the wild waves as they roar,
With watchful eye and dauntless mien,
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks nor seek the shore:
The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep.'

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Ver. 84. The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings] Lord Treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the University in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.



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To be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfæus; Hafnice, 1697, folio: and also in Bartholinus, p. 617. lib. 3. c. 1. 4to.

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 finished, 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, servant 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.

Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,)
Iron sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering 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.

Shafts for shuttles, dipp'd 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 clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war)

Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of Fate we tread,

Wading through the ensanguined field, Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.

(Weave the crimson web of war.)
They, whom once the desert beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Erin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep:
Strains of immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death.

Sisters, cease; the work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands!

Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands;

Triumph to the younger king.

Mortal, thou that hearest the tale, Learn the tenour of our song. Scotland, through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.

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

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