ODES.

CLASS THE THIRD.

CLASS THE THIRD.

RUNIC ODES.

ΣΟΦΙ

ΑΝ ΕΝ ΜΥΧΟΙΣΙ ΠΙΕΡΙΔΩΝ.

PIND. PYTH. 6.

BY THOMAS JOHN MATHIAS.

ODE I.

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS;

OR, THE

DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.

FROM the chambers of the East,
In robes of terror grimly drest,
Ymir hath his course begun,
Rival of th' unwearied Sun.
Now, in many a glist'ring wreath,
Above, around, and underneath,
The serpent dread, of dateless birth,
Girds the devoted globe of earth;
And, as charm'd by pow'rful spell,
Ocean heaves with furious swell,
The plumed Monarch whets his beak,
Seeking where his wrath to wreak ;

Till on the plain, with corses strew'd,
He sates his maw with bleeding food:
While the Vessel's floating pride
Stems duration's rounding tide.

Trace again the solemn rhyme;
From Orient's ever-teeming clime
I see them come, an evil race,
Bold in heart, and stern in face;
In turbulent array they sweep,
Beneath them groans the burthen'd deep;
Fierce they rush, yet all obey
Monarch Lok's resistless sway.
Gaunt and wild with savage howl,

Mark the wolfish Fenris prowl;
With him stalks a furious train,
Panting for th' ensanguin'd plain:
Is Beliep's brother left behind?
No: he flies on wings of wind.

Know'st thou what is done above?
No more in halls of joy and love,
The favour'd guests, profuse of soul,
Drain the skull or nectar'd bowl:
What Genii shake that nodding frame?
These are deeds without a name.

Struck with elemental jar,

Gods themselves come forth to war:

From the many-mansion'd dome

Giant tenants loosen'd roam,

And around each rock-hewn cell,
With heaving groan or fearful yell,
Declare what uncontrolled pow'r
Presiding rules the mortal hour:
These no acts of joy and love-
Know'st thou now what's done above?

From the regions of the South
Surtur bursts with fiery mouth:
High o'er yonder black'ning shade
Gleams the hallow'd sun-bright blade,
Which in star-bespangled field
Warrior Gods encount'ring wield.
From Vengeance' red celestial store
Ministers of ruin pour;

Caverns yawning, mountains rending;
Conscious of the fate impending,
Ydrasil's prophetic ash

Nods to the air with sudden crash:
Monstrous female forms advance,
Stride the steed and couch the lance:
Armed heroes throng the plain,
Harbingers of Hela's reign :

And see,

from either verge of Heav'n, That concave vast asunder riv'n.

Why does beauteous Lina weep? Whence those lorn notes in accent deep? For battle Odin 'gins prepare;

Aloft in distant realms of air,