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Till he on Hoder's corfe fhall fmile.

Flaming on the fun'ral pile.

Now my weary lips I close:

Leave me, leave me to repofe.

O. Yet a while my call obey.

Prophetefs, awake, and fay,

What Virgins thefe, in fpeechless woe,

That bend to earth their folemn brow,

That their flaxen treffes tear,

And fnowy veils, that float in air.

Tell me, whence their forrows rofe:

Then I leave thee to repose.

PR. Ha!

PR. Ha! no Traveller art thou,

King of Men, I know thee now,

Mightieft of a mighty line

O. No boding Maid of skill divine

Art thou, nor Prophetess of good;

But Mother of the giant-brood!

PR. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall Enquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lok has burft his tenfold chain.

Never,

* Lok is the evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twilight of the Gods approaches, when he fhall break his

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Never, till fubftantial Night

Has reaffum'd her ancient right;

Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,

Sinks the fabric of the world.

bonds; the human race, the stars, and fun, shall disappear; the earth fink in the feas, and fire confume the fkies: even Odin himself and his kindred-deities shall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, fee Mallet's Introduction to the Hiftory of Denmark, 1755, Quarto.

THE

THE

TRIUMPHS of OWEN.

A FRAGMENT.

FROM

Mr. EVANS's Specimens of the Welch Poetry;

LONDON, 1764, Quarto.

H

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