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A Runic Ode.
Taken from the Second volume of Sr. Wm. Temple's Miscellanies.
Yes — 'tis decreed my Sword no more
Shall smoke and blush with hostile Gore;
To my great Father's Feasts I go,
Where luscious Wines for ever flow,
Which from the hollow Sculls we drain
Of Kings in furious Combat slain.
Death, to the Brave a blest Resort,
Brings us to awful Odin´s Court;
Where with old warriors mix'd we dwell,
Recount our Wounds, our Triumphs tell;
Me, will they own as bold a Guest
As e'er in Battle bared my Breast.
Thomas Warton the elder (1688?-1745)
English clergyman, schoolmaster, and second professor of poetry at Oxford.
Published in: "Poems on several Occasions by the Rev. Thomas Warton, London, 1748."
Another, on the Same Subject.
At length appears the wish'd-for Night,
When my glad Soul shall take her Flight;
Tremble my Limbs, my Eye-balls start,
The Venom's busy at my Heart.
Hark! how the solemn Sisters call,
And point aloft to Odin's Hall!
I come, I come, prepare full Bowls,
Fit Banquet for heroic Souls:
What's Life?—I scorn this idle Breath,
I smile in the Embrace of Death!