When, like the conqueror of the Eastern World, That stemm'd with dauntless breast the Granic

flood,

His victor-sword immortal WILLIAM whirl'd,

And Boyne's pale waters dyed with rebel blood.

Since now, to health devoted, this calm shore
Breathes renovation in its foamy wave,
For the kind Donor shall each heart implore,
The good his energies to others gave.

That long on him clear-cheek'd Hygeia's smile,
And long on all he loves, serene may shine,
Who from thy sparkling coast, benignant Hoyle,
Diffused the blessings of her crystal shrine.

HERVA, *

AT THE TOMB OF

ARGANTYR.

A RUNIC DIALOGUE.

HERVA.

ARGANTYR, wake!-to thee I call,
Hear from thy dark sepulchral hall!

* Doctor Hicks' literal prose translation in his Thesaurus Septentrionalis, of this ancient Norse Poem, is here given to gratify the reader's curiosity; also to show that it is used only as an outline, and that the following Poem is a bold Paraphrase, not a Translation. The expressions in Dr Hicks' prose, have a vulgar familiarity, injurious to the sublimity of the original conception. A close translation, in English verse, will be found in a valuable collection of Runic Odes, by the ingenious and learned Mr Mathias. After his example, some slight changes have been made in the names, for their better accommodation to the verse.

Hervor." Awake, Argantyr!-Hervor, the daughter of thee "and Sauferlama, doth awaken thee! Give me out of the "tomb the hardened sword which the dwarfs made for Sau"ferlama."

'Mid the forest's inmost gloom,
Thy daughter, circling thrice thy tomb,
With mystic rites of thrilling power
Disturbs thee at this midnight hour!
I, thy Sauferlama's child,

Of my filial right beguil❜d,
Now adjure thee to resign

The charmed Sword by birth-right mine!
When the Dwarf, on Eyvor's plain,
Dim glided by thy marriage-train,
In jewel❜d belt of gorgeous pride,
To thy pale and trembling bride,
Gave he not, in whisper deep,
That dread companion of thy sleep?-
Fall'n before its edge thy foes,

Idly does it now repose

In the dark tomb with thee?-awake!

Spells thy sullen slumber break!

Now their stern command fulfill!-
Warrior, art thou silent still?

Or are my gross senses found

Deaf to the low sepulchral sound ?—
HERVARDOR,-HIARVARDOR,-hear!
HRANI, mid thy slumber drear!

"Hervardur, Hiarvardur, Hrani,with helmet and coat of "mail, and a sharp sword, with shield and accoutrements, "and a bloody spear, I awaken you all under the roots of

"trees.

Spirits of a dauntless race,

In armour clad, your tombs I trace.
Now, with sharp and blood-stain'd spear,
Accent shrill, and spell severe,

I wake you all from slumber mute,
Beneath the dark oak's twisted root !—
Are Andgrym's hated sons no more
That sleeps the Sword, that drank their gore?-
Living,-why, to Magic Rhyme,

Speaks no voice of former time,
Low as o'er your tombs I bend
To hear th' expected sounds ascend,
Murmuring from your darksome hall,
At a virgin's solemn call?—
HERVARDOR,-HIARVARDOR,-hear!
HRANI,-mark my spell severe !
Henceforth may the semblance cold,
That did each warrior's spirit hold,

"Are the sons of Andgrym, who delighted in mischief, now "become dust and ashes?-Can none of. Eyvor's sons speak "to me out of the habitations of the dead?"

"Hervardur, Hiarvardur, Hrani!-so may you all be within "6 your ribs, as a thing that is hanged up to putrify among "insects, unless you cause Argantyr to deliver up to me "the Sword which the Dwarfs made, and the glorious belt !" 1. 17. Semblance cold-According to the Gothic Mythology, the spirits of Heroes slept in their bodies, which did not de

Parch, as corse unblest, that lies
Withering in the sultry skies!-
Ghastly may your forms decay,
Hence the noisome reptile's prey,
If ye force not, thus adjur'd,

My Sire to yield the charmed Sword!

ARGANTYR.

Arm'd amid this starless gloom,

Thou, whose steps adventurous roam;
Thou, that wav'st a magic spear
Thrice before our mansions drear,
Devoted virgin,-know in time
The mischiefs of the Runic Rhyme,
Forcing accents, mutter'd deep,
From the cold reluctant lip!

cay. Putrefaction, therefore, was the heaviest curse that could

be denounced.

"Never shall enquirer come

"To break my iron-sleep again,

"Till Lok has burst his ten-fold chain."

Gray's Descent of Odin, from the
Norse Poetry.

"Argantyr.Daughter Hervor, full of spells to raise the dead, "why dost thou call so?-wilt thou run on to thine own "mischief?-Thou art mad, and out of thy senses, who art desperately resolved to awaken dead men !”—