O.—No boding Maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor Prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant brood!
Pr.—Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall Enquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum’d her ancient right;
Till wrapp’d in flames, in ruin hurl’d,