Classic Poem

SCENE IV. The A BODES OF H ELA . Row. (without).

Hela! — Hela! — Hela! Hela.
What mortal organs thus aloud proclaim,
With tripple invocation, Hela's name? Row. (entering)
Regent of the nine-fold shade!
Shuddering Hela! Ghastly Maid!
Bid the mists of darkness fly
Scattering from the nether sky! Hela.
Say who art thou who thus, with daring tread,
Invad'st the dreary mansions of the dead?

Fear! presumptuous mortal! fear!
Draw not to my threshold near.
Draw not near! Confess thy fear!
And shun my fury ere too late. Row.
Hela! no: — I cannot fear;
Tho the Furies all appear,
Sprung from Lok's prolific hate. Hela.
Draw not near. Learn to fear
Fenrir's howl, and Hela's hate. Row.
Hela, no: I cannot fear
Fenrir's howl, or Nislheim's hate.

By the channels twelve that drank
Hevergelmer's vapours dank,
Where the direful rivers flow,
Streams of horror, plaint, and woe!
I have travers'd, void of fear,
To seek the Fatal Sisters here. Cho.

Regent of the nine-fold shade!
Shuddering Hela! Ghastly Maid!
Bid the mists of darkness fly. Row.
O'er the Bridge where Giol rolls —
Fearful pass to dastard souls!
By The Dog of hideous yell,
By the iron grate of Hell,
Ghastly Hela! I have come
To tax The Fates, and know my doom. Cho.

Regent of the nine-fold shade!
Shuddering Hela! ghastly Maid!
Bid the mists of darkness fly.

Trio, and Chorus, by The Fatal Sisters, &c. Urd and Shulda.
Who art thou who thus presume Urd and Schulda.
To tax the Fatal Sisters o'er their loom? Verandi.
Fly! daring mortal! Urd.
Daring mortal! fly. Schulda.
Fly! nor urge thy instant doom. Cho.
Fly, daring mortal! fly: nor urge thy instant doom! Row.

Hela! from thy nether sky
Bid the mists of darkness fly:
Soon shall to your eyes appear
One your shuddering spectres fear.
Soon The Sisters o'er the loom
The shuttled hand shall check, and tell my doom.

Hela, from the nether sky
Bid the mists of darkness fly,
Ere the loud resistless spell
Shake the dire abodes of Hell —
Ere this wand's terrific stroke
The Unutterable Fiend evoke. Hela.

Fly! ye mists of Norver — fly! —
Dager claims our nether sky.
Dread Enchantress! stop the spell.
Rowenna!!! — — — Now I know thee well.

Trio. U RD , V ERANDI , S CHULDA .

Weave The Webb — the webb of Fate!
Ply it early — ply it late!
Fates of falling empires weave!
Woes that suffering mortals grieve!
Spindles turn; the shuttle throw,
Treacherous joys, and lasting woe,
In the fatal texture grow.
Weave The Woof — the woof of Fate!
Ply it early — ply it late! Urd.
Take the sample from the past, Verandi.
Present sorrows thicken fast. Schulda.
But the worst shall come at last, All.
Weave The Woof — the woof of Fate!
Ply it early — ply it late!
Fates of falling empires weave!
Woes that suffering mortals grieve!
Spindles turn — the shuttle throw.
Treacherous joys and lasting woe
In the fatal texture grow. Chorus.
Weave The Webb — the webb of Fate!
Ply it early — ply it late. Row.
Cease, fatal hags! the ill-omen'd yell forego.
Speak. for ye can. I come my fate to know. Schul.

Sorceress, yet in early bloom!
Tax us not, but wait thy doom.
Soon enough thy woe shall come. Row.
Whate'er the will of changeful Fortune be,
I murmur not, nor question HER decree.
Weave close the secret woof, ye baleful three.
Not for the gauds of empire now I seek:
Crowns ye may give, and settled sceptres break.
I fathom not, in this, your dire decree:
For what are crowns and sceptres now to me?
But of Arthur I must know —
Doom of joy? — or Doom of Woe? Urd.
When first the fatal bowl you gave,
And Vortigern became your slave,
Then for sovran power you pray'd;
And Fatal Sisters lent their aid. All.
Then for sovran power you pray'd;
And Fatal Sisters lent their aid. Row.
Sisters thanks: but this I know. Veran.
But now no more ambition swells:
Thy secret soul on Arthur dwells:
Arthur, who, in Lunvey's groves,
Ev'n now, in wildering anguish, rovers, All.
Arthur now, in Lunvey's groves,
In heart-consuming anguish roves. Row.
Sisters thanks that this I know.
But yet a further boon bestow.
Past and present ye have shown:
Make, O! make the future known.
Schulda! say what you decree?
Direfull'st of the direful three!
Quick: divine: Is Arthur mine?
Schulda! say what you decree? Schul.
Woden sits on Asgard's hills;
Where Hydrassil's Ash distills
Nectar'd drafts of dew divine.
There alone, in accents clear,
My Raven whispers in HIS ear,
What the future Fates design.

Row. But I in lore of mystic arts excel,
And Fate's ambiguous book with ease can spell.
Speak, Fatal Sister! speak; and I'll explain.
Tho mystery involve the strain. Sch.
Sister — ere the memory dye,
Speak again of things gone by. Urd.
Once, to snare a monarch's soul,
Fair Rowenna drugg'd a bowl. Row.
I did — I did. Upon my knee,
Vortigern! I gave it thee. Sch.
When the bowl again goes round,
And Vortigern his sleep profound
Heedless quaffs —
Row. Hela laughs! —
Plain the drift my sense descries.
Sisters thanks. — — — He dies! he dies! Hela.
Wide my iron portals throw:
Perjur'd ghosts descend below.
Open throw. To realms of woe,
Perjur'd ghosts descend below. Row.
Plain the drift my sense descries.
Hela thanks. — — — He dies! He dies! Sch.
Then shall close. Thy jealous woes,
Arthur's hand shall light the fire
In which thy sorrows all expire. Row.
Propitious Schulda! thanks. But what of her —
The Cambrian viper! hateful Guenever? Sch.
More thy rival to confound,
Fire and Water shall surround;
Ruthless flames, and waves profound.
Arthur's hand no help shall lend,
No mortal arm the maid befriend,
Nor aid from pitying Heaven descend. Row.
Schulda thanks. Enough of her
My hated rival Guenever. Hela.
Wide my iron portals throw:
Perjur'd Ghosts descend below.
Open — open — open throw!
To realms of woe,
Perjur'd ghosts descend below. Row.
Plain the drift my soul descries.
Vortigern — — — He dies! — He dies!
Arthur's hand shall light the fire
In which my sorrows all expire.
Hela's ghosts the joy shall feel
Joining in the giddy reel!
Lok nor Fenrir say me nay:
'Tis Rowenna's holyday.

Grand Chorus.

Wide the iron portals throw.
Perjur'd ghosts descend below.
Hela's sons the triumph feel,
Joining in the giddy reel. —
Lok nor Fenrir say us nay:
'Tis Rowenna's holiday.