'Till every rock with gore shall smoke,
And every castle own the yoke.
The keen remains of recent hate
Yet burn thro' all the Northern state,
And many an age's gather'd ire
With added fury fans the fire.


6.

"'Twas under the shade of dark midnight
They met at his hall, in armour dight,
The king and his chieftains proud;
Their lances at their sides were hung,
And the oak-tree, blazing 'midst the throng,
Across the hall, with flashes long,
A broad uncertain lustre flung,
Like a red and shifting cloud.
'Twas here, to all before concealed,
The Monarch his design revealed.


7.

"Their answering clamours shook the ground,
And Gormul's mountain far around
From all his rocks flung back the sound.
Pierced by the monarch, with struggling yell
A bull at Odin's altar fell;
The priest in a bowl received the gore,