Poems (Sayers)/Moina
INTRODUCTION.
The story of the following Tragedy is fictitious; the event may, without impropriety, be supposed to have happened on the coast of Ireland, which the Northern nations were accustomed to plunder before its conversion to Christianity. The Greek form of dramatic writing has been adopted, as affording in its chorus the most favourable opportunity for the display of mythological imagery. Rime has not been used in the odes, both because it was less conformable to the model imitated, and because it appeared unnecessary, if not prejudicial in this species of poetry.
PERSONS OF THE PLAY.
| Moina, | Celts. | |
| Carril, | ||
| Chorus of Bards. | ||
| Messengers |
SCENE. A Castle in the possession of Harold.
'Till Surtur's flames consume the world.
MOINA.
MOINA.
Full fifty nights have cast their gloom around me
⟨Since⟩ first the hated Saxon tore me trembling
⟨From⟩ parents, kindred, and a much lov'd land—
⟨Yet⟩ loss of parents, kindred, and my country
⟨Scarce⟩ move a soul opprest with keener grief;
⟨In⟩ the loud strife of arms, in fields of blood,
⟨My⟩ Carril fiercely fighting for his Moina
⟨Fell⟩—fell by Harold's arm, and smiling hope
⟨For⟩ ever fled my breast—here, here he lives,
And while my eyes behold this hated light
He still shall live, and still with sullen pleasure
I'll dwell on other times, when all was hope,
When all was love and joy—accursed beauty!
Would that the god of Fura's sacred wood
Had wither'd this fair form—the Saxon then
Had seen and hated me.—Wife?—Harold's wife?—
Yes—'tis a murderer's arm embraces me,
A murderer calls me his, the murderer
Of Carril!—Would this hand———
But hark! the sound of song, the daily greeting
Of aged bards.[1]—
Full fifty nights have cast their gloom around me
⟨Since⟩ first the hated Saxon tore me trembling
⟨From⟩ parents, kindred, and a much lov'd land—
⟨Yet⟩ loss of parents, kindred, and my country
⟨Scarce⟩ move a soul opprest with keener grief;
⟨In⟩ the loud strife of arms, in fields of blood,
⟨My⟩ Carril fiercely fighting for his Moina
⟨Fell⟩—fell by Harold's arm, and smiling hope
⟨For⟩ ever fled my breast—here, here he lives,
And while my eyes behold this hated light
He still shall live, and still with sullen pleasure
I'll dwell on other times, when all was hope,
When all was love and joy—accursed beauty!
Would that the god of Fura's sacred wood
Had wither'd this fair form—the Saxon then
Had seen and hated me.—Wife?—Harold's wife?—
Yes—'tis a murderer's arm embraces me,
A murderer calls me his, the murderer
Of Carril!—Would this hand———
But hark! the sound of song, the daily greeting
Of aged bards.[1]—
MOINA, CHORUS.
CHORUS.
Hail to her whom Frea loves,
Moina, hail:
When first thy infant eyes beheld
The blushing beam of orient day
Frea from Valhalla's groves
Mark'd thy birth in silent joy;
From Valhalla's groves she sent
The swift-wing'd messenger of love,[2]
Bearing in her rosy hand
The gold-tipt horn of gods;
From this thy lips imbib'd
The draught of mead divine,[3]
Thro' thy tender frame distilling,
It form'd thy snowy limbs to grace,
It gloss'd thy raven hair,
Illum'd thy sparkling eyes,
And flush'd thy cheek with crimson hues
Unfading.
Hail to her whom Frea loves,
Moina, hail.
Moina, hail:
When first thy infant eyes beheld
The blushing beam of orient day
Frea from Valhalla's groves
Mark'd thy birth in silent joy;
From Valhalla's groves she sent
The swift-wing'd messenger of love,[2]
Bearing in her rosy hand
The gold-tipt horn of gods;
From this thy lips imbib'd
The draught of mead divine,[3]
Thro' thy tender frame distilling,
It form'd thy snowy limbs to grace,
It gloss'd thy raven hair,
Illum'd thy sparkling eyes,
And flush'd thy cheek with crimson hues
Unfading.
Hail to her whom Frea loves,
Moina, hail.
MOINA.
Ye venerable men, my grief-worn soul
Scarce heeds your salutation: child of sorrow
The soothing voice of flattery passes by me,
Like feeble gales which fan a warring host,
Unnotic'd.—Is your chief return'd?
Scarce heeds your salutation: child of sorrow
The soothing voice of flattery passes by me,
Like feeble gales which fan a warring host,
Unnotic'd.—Is your chief return'd?
CHORUS.
As yet
No messenger of victory has reach'd us.
No messenger of victory has reach'd us.
MOINA.
To slay, to conquer, these are Harold's pleasures,
To stain his dark blue steel with human gore;
Cannot the glad repast, the song of bards,
The vigor-giving chace, the solemn council,
Withdraw the savage hero from the battle?
No—these are vain.—To shed the blood of thousands,
To strew the reeking plain with sons and brothers,
To cleave the father's and the lover's breast,
These are the only joys a Saxon feels.—
God of my fathers, strike the fell destroyers,
Blunt, blunt their steel, benumb their hardy sinews,
Pour out their tide of life, that peace again
May bless my country.
To stain his dark blue steel with human gore;
Cannot the glad repast, the song of bards,
The vigor-giving chace, the solemn council,
Withdraw the savage hero from the battle?
No—these are vain.—To shed the blood of thousands,
To strew the reeking plain with sons and brothers,
To cleave the father's and the lover's breast,
These are the only joys a Saxon feels.—
God of my fathers, strike the fell destroyers,
Blunt, blunt their steel, benumb their hardy sinews,
Pour out their tide of life, that peace again
May bless my country.
CHORUS.
E'en the gods themselves,
Who dwell above in happiness and glory,
Delight in shining arms and fierce encounter;
From fair Valhalla's courts they rush with joy
To meet each other with their brandish'd blades,
And mix in sportive fight; when battle tires,
Again they seek the feast, and quaff again
From gold-encircled horn the amber mead.
Such is their happy life; and can'st thou wonder
That man should imitate the gods? that man
Should laugh at fear, and boldly die to claim
A seat of joy?[4]
Who dwell above in happiness and glory,
Delight in shining arms and fierce encounter;
From fair Valhalla's courts they rush with joy
To meet each other with their brandish'd blades,
And mix in sportive fight; when battle tires,
Again they seek the feast, and quaff again
From gold-encircled horn the amber mead.
Such is their happy life; and can'st thou wonder
That man should imitate the gods? that man
Should laugh at fear, and boldly die to claim
A seat of joy?[4]
ΜΟΙΝΑ.
So may Valhalla's halls
Be quickly fill'd with souls of fallen Saxons!—
Thou unseen power, who in my country's woods
In awful silence dwell'st, whom trembling Druids
With hallow'd rites invoke, arise, arise,
And wing the well-aim'd dart to Harold's bosom—
Be quickly fill'd with souls of fallen Saxons!—
Thou unseen power, who in my country's woods
In awful silence dwell'st, whom trembling Druids
With hallow'd rites invoke, arise, arise,
And wing the well-aim'd dart to Harold's bosom—
CHORUS.
Beware, nor call the vengeance of thy gods
Upon a husband's head; should Harold fall,
With pain I see what follows.—
Upon a husband's head; should Harold fall,
With pain I see what follows.—
ΜΟΙΝΑ.
What can follow?
What keener woes than those I know already?
A breathless lover and an aged parent
In sorrow sinking to the narrow house?
The breast of Moina fears no greater anguish.
What keener woes than those I know already?
A breathless lover and an aged parent
In sorrow sinking to the narrow house?
The breast of Moina fears no greater anguish.
CHORUS.
No more—our words distress thee.
MOINA.
Fare ye well.
CHORUS.
King of gods on shining throne,[5]
Thou, who with a single glance
Piercest Nature's wide extent,
Thou, who from the spring of Mimer
Quaffest liquid lore divine,
Odin, hear.
Thou, who with a single glance
Piercest Nature's wide extent,
Thou, who from the spring of Mimer
Quaffest liquid lore divine,
Odin, hear.
King of gods, whom Hydrasil
With sacred shadow veils,
Whilst around thee sit cœlestials,
Whilst beneath thee Fates attend,
Odin, hear.
With sacred shadow veils,
Whilst around thee sit cœlestials,
Whilst beneath thee Fates attend,
Odin, hear.
King of men, who dealest triumph
Brave in battle, brave in death,
Gash'd with gory wounds,[6]
In agony thou smil'st;
King of men, whose dark blue steel
No foe unconquer'd saw,
Soon his heart's blood smok'd around,
Soon his daunted spirit fled,
Odin, hear.
Brave in battle, brave in death,
Gash'd with gory wounds,[6]
In agony thou smil'st;
King of men, whose dark blue steel
No foe unconquer'd saw,
Soon his heart's blood smok'd around,
Soon his daunted spirit fled,
Odin, hear.
In Harold's breast thy spirit pour,
String his nerves, his eyes inflame,
Direct his brawny arm to fling
The darts of death around,
In the tempest of the battle
Throw thy shield of safety o'er him,
Protect him with thy mighty hand,
And send him back with victory.
But should the Fatal Sisters mark
Our chieftain's soul to grace thy halls,
Should the keen arrow pierce his side
And Harold perish in the fight,
When death shall numb his sinewy limbs,
When his bent knees shall tottering fail,
When shades of night shall gloom his eyes
And sinking nature yield,
Then may no groan of woe escape
Our hardy chieftain's fainting lips,
Then may no writhing pang distort
The dying hero's face;
Joyful to fall in fields of blood
To him may death's cold steel be welcome,
And may he laughing die.
String his nerves, his eyes inflame,
Direct his brawny arm to fling
The darts of death around,
In the tempest of the battle
Throw thy shield of safety o'er him,
Protect him with thy mighty hand,
And send him back with victory.
But should the Fatal Sisters mark
Our chieftain's soul to grace thy halls,
Should the keen arrow pierce his side
And Harold perish in the fight,
When death shall numb his sinewy limbs,
When his bent knees shall tottering fail,
When shades of night shall gloom his eyes
And sinking nature yield,
Then may no groan of woe escape
Our hardy chieftain's fainting lips,
Then may no writhing pang distort
The dying hero's face;
Joyful to fall in fields of blood
To him may death's cold steel be welcome,
And may he laughing die.
CHORUS,
CARRIL, in the Habit of a Bard.
CARRIL. Aside.
Under the cover of these sacred garments,
A sure protection from the hand of insult,
I yet may hope to find my much-lov'd Moina;
Since first my wounded limbs would bear me on
I've vainly wander'd; many a stately castle
Has hospitably cheer'd my fainting body,
But on my mind forlorn no gleam of joy
Hath yet arisen—perhaps within these walls—
Ah no—my tortures must not finish yet—
Would that the pious hands which found me bleeding
'Midst heaps of slain, had left me there to perish,
Then had the long calm sleep of death opprest me,
Nor had I wak'd to anguish—
A sure protection from the hand of insult,
I yet may hope to find my much-lov'd Moina;
Since first my wounded limbs would bear me on
I've vainly wander'd; many a stately castle
Has hospitably cheer'd my fainting body,
But on my mind forlorn no gleam of joy
Hath yet arisen—perhaps within these walls—
Ah no—my tortures must not finish yet—
Would that the pious hands which found me bleeding
'Midst heaps of slain, had left me there to perish,
Then had the long calm sleep of death opprest me,
Nor had I wak'd to anguish—
CARRIL, turning to the Chorus.
Aged Bards
Have pity on me, take me to your halls,[7]
Weary and faint I ask some slight relief,
Shut not your doors against a helpless man.—
Have pity on me, take me to your halls,[7]
Weary and faint I ask some slight relief,
Shut not your doors against a helpless man.—
CHORUS.
Accurst be he who 'gainst the suppliant stranger
Shall bolt his massy iron gates, unmindful
Of misery's voice.—These halls have ever offer'd
Food and repose to way-worn travellers.
Shall bolt his massy iron gates, unmindful
Of misery's voice.—These halls have ever offer'd
Food and repose to way-worn travellers.
CARRIL.
I thank ye venerable men—but say,
What warlike chieftain calls this castle his?
What warlike chieftain calls this castle his?
CHORUS.
'Tis Harold's castle, urg'd by restless valour
He quits his home and seeks the clash of arms.
He quits his home and seeks the clash of arms.
CARRIL.
And his fair wife laments her absent lord?
CHORUS.
His fair wife weeps, but not for his return;
Another cause of woe has shrunk her form,—
She weeps her home.
Another cause of woe has shrunk her form,—
She weeps her home.
CARRIL.
Her name?
CHORUS.
Her name is Moina.
Why does the red-blood hasten from thy cheek,
The cold dew damp thy face? thy shaking knees
Can scarce support thee.—
Why does the red-blood hasten from thy cheek,
The cold dew damp thy face? thy shaking knees
Can scarce support thee.—
CARRIL. (After a pause.)
'Tis a sudden fainting,
With tedious steps oppress'd this weakly frame
Sinks under me.
With tedious steps oppress'd this weakly frame
Sinks under me.
CHORUS.
Retire and take refreshment.
SEMI-CHORUS.
'Tis not he whose arched halls
Refound with revelry and song
That tastes the purest joy,
But he who from his ample store
Feeds the hungry, cheers the faint,
On languid features sheds the smile
And lights up radiance in the eye;
Him the traveller shall bless,
Him the gods will love.―
When shrivell'd by the summer-ray
The drooping plants imbibe
The falling rain,
Again they bud, and pour around
Their sweeter scents.
Refound with revelry and song
That tastes the purest joy,
But he who from his ample store
Feeds the hungry, cheers the faint,
On languid features sheds the smile
And lights up radiance in the eye;
Him the traveller shall bless,
Him the gods will love.―
When shrivell'd by the summer-ray
The drooping plants imbibe
The falling rain,
Again they bud, and pour around
Their sweeter scents.
CHORUS, CARRIL.
CARRIL.
My strength is now renew'd, I fain would meet
The lady of these halls.
The lady of these halls.
CHORUS.
She comes, accost her.
CHORUS, CARRIL, MOINA.
CARRIL.
Lady a stranger whom your domes receiv'd
Offers his thanks: and if 'tis your good pleasure
The wandering bard will raise the sound of song,
The pleasing sound of praise.
Offers his thanks: and if 'tis your good pleasure
The wandering bard will raise the sound of song,
The pleasing sound of praise.
MOINA.
Thou holy man,
The flattering song is hateful to my ear,
But if thou know'st to tune the mournful lay,
And softly breathe the melancholy tale,
My sickly soul could listen with delight.
The flattering song is hateful to my ear,
But if thou know'st to tune the mournful lay,
And softly breathe the melancholy tale,
My sickly soul could listen with delight.
CARRIL.
Please you to sit, fair lady, while I raise
The melting strains of grief.—
Peace, storms of night, ye roaring whirlwinds, peace;
Soft glide, ye torrents, from the echoing hills;
Rise from the murky vale, ye blood-red fires,
And dimly shoot your beams; ye famish'd wolves
Cease your wild howls—let all be silent, dark—
Ghosts of my fathers, bend your shadowy forms
To hear the tale of woe—
The tale of woe which Mornac thus began.
Swift was my daughter's step on Fura's hills,
Health flush'd her cheek, and down her snowy neck
The dark locks clustering fell—why starts the tear?
Why heaves the sigh in Mornac's aged bosom?
No more my Lora meets me on the heath,
No more she cheers my soul with grateful voice,
My lofty halls are silent—
The blue mist rises from the lakes, and fills
The bending flowers with dew, the sun bursts forth,
The mist is gone—no beam of joy dispels
The mist of Mornac's soul, but lasting sorrow
Cleaves to my aged heart—my child, where art thou?
Dark is thy bed, O Lora, grief has crush'd
Thy tender form, far from a parent's bosom
The hand of rapine snatch'd thee, and thy sleep
Ere this is deep—accursed be the chief
Who fought on Fura's plains, my feeble arm
Benumb'd with age's winter struck in vain,
In vain did Carril fight, the much-lov'd Carril,
Fierce was his look, full rose his sinewy limbs,
As a dark cloud he mov'd, and shook his glittering spear—
The steel deep pierc'd his side, death lover'd round him
O'erwhelm'd amid the slain—fear seiz'd our soldiers,
They fled the strife of spears; the conquering Saxons
Enter'd our halls defenceless, thence they bore
My Lora, but the blue-ey'd chief disdain'd
To smear with frozen blood his dark-blue steel;
Cruel he spar'd me to lament my woes
And sink in anguish to the narrow house.
When the huge mass of snow from beetling hills
Descends impetuous on the cottage roof,
And buries in its fall the father, mother,
And infant offspring, then no sound of woe
Is heard, no parent weeping for a child,
No child deep-fobbing for a tender parent,
All find a common grave and sleep in peace—
But when the roaring torrent rushes down
The dark-brown rocks, and from the mountain-deer
Snatches her sportive fawn, the hapless mother
Forgets her food, forgets the wonted spring,
And quits the playful herd; old Mornac thus
Rejects the joys of life to weep in secret.
And now the conquering enemy retir'd,
The hoary druids from their sacred woods
Come forth, they haste to close our fallen friends
In the cold earth—when Carril they espy
Yet breathing—
The melting strains of grief.—
Peace, storms of night, ye roaring whirlwinds, peace;
Soft glide, ye torrents, from the echoing hills;
Rise from the murky vale, ye blood-red fires,
And dimly shoot your beams; ye famish'd wolves
Cease your wild howls—let all be silent, dark—
Ghosts of my fathers, bend your shadowy forms
To hear the tale of woe—
The tale of woe which Mornac thus began.
Swift was my daughter's step on Fura's hills,
Health flush'd her cheek, and down her snowy neck
The dark locks clustering fell—why starts the tear?
Why heaves the sigh in Mornac's aged bosom?
No more my Lora meets me on the heath,
No more she cheers my soul with grateful voice,
My lofty halls are silent—
The blue mist rises from the lakes, and fills
The bending flowers with dew, the sun bursts forth,
The mist is gone—no beam of joy dispels
The mist of Mornac's soul, but lasting sorrow
Cleaves to my aged heart—my child, where art thou?
Dark is thy bed, O Lora, grief has crush'd
Thy tender form, far from a parent's bosom
The hand of rapine snatch'd thee, and thy sleep
Ere this is deep—accursed be the chief
Who fought on Fura's plains, my feeble arm
Benumb'd with age's winter struck in vain,
In vain did Carril fight, the much-lov'd Carril,
Fierce was his look, full rose his sinewy limbs,
As a dark cloud he mov'd, and shook his glittering spear—
The steel deep pierc'd his side, death lover'd round him
O'erwhelm'd amid the slain—fear seiz'd our soldiers,
They fled the strife of spears; the conquering Saxons
Enter'd our halls defenceless, thence they bore
My Lora, but the blue-ey'd chief disdain'd
To smear with frozen blood his dark-blue steel;
Cruel he spar'd me to lament my woes
And sink in anguish to the narrow house.
When the huge mass of snow from beetling hills
Descends impetuous on the cottage roof,
And buries in its fall the father, mother,
And infant offspring, then no sound of woe
Is heard, no parent weeping for a child,
No child deep-fobbing for a tender parent,
All find a common grave and sleep in peace—
But when the roaring torrent rushes down
The dark-brown rocks, and from the mountain-deer
Snatches her sportive fawn, the hapless mother
Forgets her food, forgets the wonted spring,
And quits the playful herd; old Mornac thus
Rejects the joys of life to weep in secret.
And now the conquering enemy retir'd,
The hoary druids from their sacred woods
Come forth, they haste to close our fallen friends
In the cold earth—when Carril they espy
Yet breathing—
CHORUS.
Venerable man, thy tale
Has deeply touch'd our lady—she retires—
Finish thy song.
Has deeply touch'd our lady—she retires—
Finish thy song.
CARRIL.
In Carril's wounds they pour
The healing balm, recall his fainting soul
And raise him up to misery—and now
O'er Fura's plains the lover wanders mourning,
In Fura's mossy towers the father weeps.—
Rise, storms of night, ye raging whirlwinds, rise;
Roar loud, ye torrents, from the towering hills;
Howl, howl, ye wolves; ye fiery meteors, blaze
With redder beams—away to hovering clouds,
Ghosts of the dead—the solemn song is sung.
The healing balm, recall his fainting soul
And raise him up to misery—and now
O'er Fura's plains the lover wanders mourning,
In Fura's mossy towers the father weeps.—
Rise, storms of night, ye raging whirlwinds, rise;
Roar loud, ye torrents, from the towering hills;
Howl, howl, ye wolves; ye fiery meteors, blaze
With redder beams—away to hovering clouds,
Ghosts of the dead—the solemn song is sung.
A MESSENGER.
Moina, old man, commands you to attend her.
Follow.—
Follow.—
CHORUS
What found cœleftial floats
Upon the liquid air?—
Is it the rustling breeze
From Glasor's golden boughs?[8]
Is it the dark-green deep
Soft echoing to the notes
Of Niord's swans?[9]
No—'tis Braga's harp,
Braga sweeps the sounding strings—
Mimer's stream inspires the god,
With swimming eyes
And soul of fire
He pours the tide of harmony.—
Upon the liquid air?—
Is it the rustling breeze
From Glasor's golden boughs?[8]
Is it the dark-green deep
Soft echoing to the notes
Of Niord's swans?[9]
No—'tis Braga's harp,
Braga sweeps the sounding strings—
Mimer's stream inspires the god,
With swimming eyes
And soul of fire
He pours the tide of harmony.—
He whom Braga loves
Shall swell the solemn lay,
Shall strike the chords of joy,
And gently touch the shell.
He whom Braga loves
Shall wake the din of war,
Inflame the chieftain's soul,
And send him in his glittering arms
To fields of blood.
Shall swell the solemn lay,
Shall strike the chords of joy,
And gently touch the shell.
He whom Braga loves
Shall wake the din of war,
Inflame the chieftain's soul,
And send him in his glittering arms
To fields of blood.
CHORUS, at a distance.
CARRIL, MOINA.
ΜΟΙΝΑ.
In vain thou urgest flight—tho' force compell'd me
To share the bed of Harold, whilst he breathes
I'm his alone—and would not Carril's self
Detest me, faithless?—should some happy arm
Transfix the Saxon, hope again might beam
Upon the cloud of grief which veils us round;
Then might I fly and rest in Carril's arms.
To share the bed of Harold, whilst he breathes
I'm his alone—and would not Carril's self
Detest me, faithless?—should some happy arm
Transfix the Saxon, hope again might beam
Upon the cloud of grief which veils us round;
Then might I fly and rest in Carril's arms.
CARRIL.
'Tis well—When Harold's haughty steps resound
Within his courts, I'll dare him to the combat.
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'Till Surtur's flames consume the world.
SEMI-CHORUS.
From the four regions of the sky[10]
The white fnow falls,
And Winter binds in thick ribb'd ice
The floating world—
Who rears the bloody hand?
A brother in his brother's heart
Has plung'd the spear;
Who rears the bloody hand?
A father in his daughter's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
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The white fnow falls,
And Winter binds in thick ribb'd ice
The floating world—
Who rears the bloody hand?
A brother in his brother's heart
Has plung'd the spear;
Who rears the bloody hand?
A father in his daughter's heart
Has plung'd the spear.
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CHORUS returning.
Dark, dark is Moina's bed,
On earth's hard lap she lies;
Where is the beauteous form
That heroes lov'd?
Where is the rolling eye,
The ruddy cheek?
Cold, cold is Moina's bed.
On earth's hard lap she lies;
Where is the beauteous form
That heroes lov'd?
Where is the rolling eye,
The ruddy cheek?
Cold, cold is Moina's bed.
And shall no lay of death,
With pleasing murmur, sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall no tear wet the grave
Where Moina lies?
The bards shall raise the lay of death,
The bards shall sooth her parted soul,
And drop the tear of grief
On Moina's grave.
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With pleasing murmur, sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall no tear wet the grave
Where Moina lies?
The bards shall raise the lay of death,
The bards shall sooth her parted soul,
And drop the tear of grief
On Moina's grave.
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- ↑ Bards.] Bards, or Scalds, were usually to be met with among the retainers of the Gothic chiefs: they appear to have officiated as priests, and they contributed to the festivity of their patron's entertainments, by their music and songs: for this they received ample rewards, as we find from many of their odes, in which they praise their lord for his rich presents to them, of robes, steeds, &c. Their verses were chiefly calculated to excite a martial spirit, by celebrating the glorious deeds of the gods and of the Gothic warriors, and by promising happiness to those who fell in battle. These Poems were called Vyses: and it is asserted that there were no less than 136 different kinds of measure used in them. The composers considered alliteration as highly important, if not absolutely necessary in versification and have generally studied it with great care: they appear to have entirely neglected rime, and only to have introduced it occasionally, and when it readily occurred.
- ↑ Messenger of Love]. Gna is the name of Frea's messenger; Fulla and Nossa were the two other Graces who attended the Venus of the North.
- ↑ Mead divine.] The beverage of the Northern deities.
- ↑ A seat of joy.] To mix with the warlike deities of the North, to enjoy the festivity of Valhalla, and to quaff ale and mead from the sculls of their enemies, were the rewards which Odin offered to the brave in a future state; a mixture of pleasure and revenge which was admirably calculated to act upon the minds of a barbarous race.
- ↑ On shining throne.] Lidskialfa was the name of Odin's throne, whence the whole world was supposed to be visible to him.
- ↑ Gash'd with gory wounds.] Odin, whilst he was yet on earth, is recorded to have stabbed himself at an advanced period of age in nine different places. The Gothic nations esteemed it dishonourable not to die a violent death.
- ↑ Your hospitable halls.] An unbounded hospitality was one of the most prominent and amiable features in the character of our Northern ancestors.
See Tacitus de Mor. German. 21. - ↑ Glasor's golden boughs.] Glasor was a forest in Asgard; the trees which composed it shot forth golden branches.
- ↑ Of Niord's swans.] Of the musical powers of the swan, the favourite bird of Niord, the Scandinavians entertained the same opinion as the Greek and Romans.
- ↑ From the four regions of the sky.] The Chorus here begins to describe the Ragnarockur, or Twilight of the Gods, and continues the description to the end of the Ode. Many of the circumstances introduced are to be found in Mallet, Vol. II.