this Island, and were our progenitors; “
The Fatal Sisters” and “
The Descent of Odin” made a part of it. He has long since dropped his design, especially after he heard, that it was already in the hands of a person well qualified to do it justice, both by his taste, and his researches into antiquity.—Gray, 1768.
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.—Gray, 1768.
Now the storm begins to lower74
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,)
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower75
Hurtles in the darkened air.76
Glitt’ring 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, dipt 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 th’ 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 Eirin 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 hear’st the tale,
Learn the tenor of our song.
Scotland, thro’ each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed;
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field.
Ode for Music
Performed at the Installation of the Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, 1769
“Hence, avaunt, (’tis holy ground)
Comus, and his midnight crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition’s cry profane,
Servitude that hugs her chain,
Nor in these consecrated bowers
Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent train in flowers.”
“Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,
Dare the Muse’s walk to stain,
While bright-eyed Science watches round;
Hence, away, ’tis holy ground!”
From yonder realms of empyrean day
Bursts on my ear th’ indignant lay;
There sit the sainted Sage, the Bard divine,
The few, whom Genius gave to shine
Thro’ every unborn age, and undiscovered clime.
Rapt in celestial transport they,
Yet hither oft a glance from high
They send of tender sympathy
To bless the place, where on their opening soul
First the genuine ardor stole.
’Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton’s self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.
“Ye brown o’er-arching groves,
That Contemplation loves,
Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!
Oft at the blush of dawn
I trod your level lawn,
Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.”
But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth,
With solemn steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go;
Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow
From haughty Gallia torn,
And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn
That wept her bleeding Love, and princely Clare,
And Anjou’s Heroine, and the paler Rose,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,
And either Henry there,
The murthered saint, and the majestic lord
That broke the bonds of Rome.
(Their tears, their little triumphs o’er,
Their human passions now no more,
Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.)
All that on Granta’s fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty poured,
And bad these awful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy’s festal morning come;
And thus they speak in soft accord
The liquid language of the skies:—
“What is grandeur, what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain?
The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee’s collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music’s melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of gratitude.”
Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Margaret see!
“Welcome, my noble son, (she cries aloud)
To this, thy kindred train, and me;
Pleased in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor’s fire, a Beaufort’s grace.”
