THE FATAL SISTERS: AN ODE. Thomas Gray Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1136 K093079.003 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. III. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 98-101. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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THE FATAL SISTERS : Note — The Valkyriur were female Divinities , Servants of Odin ( or Woden ) in the Gothic mythology . Their name signifies Chusers of the slain . They were mounted on swift horses , with drawn swords in their hands ; and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter , and conducted them to Valkalla , the hall of Odin , or paradise of the brave ; where they attended the banquet , and served the de-Parted Heroes with horns of mead and ale . AN ODE . BY THE SAME . NOW the storm begins to lower , ( Haste , the loom of Hell prepare , ) How quick they wheel'd ; and flying , behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowy shower — Milton's Paradise Regain'd . Iron sleet of arrowy shower The noise of battle hurtled in the air . Shakespear's Jul. Caesar . Hurtles in the darken'd air . Glittering 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 Warriour'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 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 desart-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 Eirin weep , Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow sleep , 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 tenour 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 .