The Fatal Sisters: An Ode
(FROM
THE
NORSE
TONGUE)
Now
the
storm
begins
to
lower,
(Haste,
the
loom
of
Hell
prepare.)
Iron-sleet
of
arrowy
shower
Hurtles
in
the
darken'd
air.
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
clatt'ring
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
thro'
th'
ensanguin'd
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
Gor'd
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
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
thund'ring
falchion
wield;
Each
bestride
her
sable
steed.
Hurry,
hurry
to
the
field.
Thomas Gray
Thomas Gray (born Dec. 26, 1716, London—died July 30, 1771, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire, Eng.) English poet whose “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” is one of the best known of English lyric poems. Although his literary output was slight, he was the dominant poetic figure in the mid-18th century and a precursor of the Romantic movement.