The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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| XVIII. | XVIII. WODEN |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
412
XVIII. WODEN
Uncouth was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunderstorm,
By famine and by fight;
I pierced the rivets of the mail,
I maimed the war-steed's hoof,
I bade the yellow harvest fail,
And sent the blast to rend the sail
And the bolt to rend the roof.
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunderstorm,
By famine and by fight;
I pierced the rivets of the mail,
I maimed the war-steed's hoof,
I bade the yellow harvest fail,
And sent the blast to rend the sail
And the bolt to rend the roof.
Within my Second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt,
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt;
'Twas a fearful place; a pile of stones
Stood for its stately door;
Its music was of sighs and groans,
And the torch light fell on human bones
Unburied on the floor!
In silent pomp I dwelt,
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt;
'Twas a fearful place; a pile of stones
Stood for its stately door;
Its music was of sighs and groans,
And the torch light fell on human bones
Unburied on the floor!
413
The chieftain, ere his band he led,
Came thither with his prayer;
The boatman, ere his sail he spread,
Watched for an omen there;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,
And ever the red blood ran,
And amid the sin and smoke and din
I sate with a changeless, endless grin,
Forging my First for Man!
Came thither with his prayer;
The boatman, ere his sail he spread,
Watched for an omen there;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,
And ever the red blood ran,
And amid the sin and smoke and din
I sate with a changeless, endless grin,
Forging my First for Man!
My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now;
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay
Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But dawn and dusk of one fair day
Are called by mortals mine.
My shrine is silent now;
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay
Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But dawn and dusk of one fair day
Are called by mortals mine.
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |