God of the battle, hear our prayer! 
By the lifted falchion's glare; 
By the uncouth fane sublime, 
Marked with many a Runic rhyme; 
By the "weird sisters" dread, 
That, posting through the battle red, 
Choose the slain, and with them go 
To Valhalla's halls below, 
Where the phantom-chiefs prolong 
Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 
And their dreadful beverage drain 
From the skulls of warriors slain: 
God of the battle, hear our prayer: 
And may we thy banquet share!

Save us, God, from slow disease; 
From pains that the brave spirit freeze; 
From the burning fever's rage; 
From wailings of unhonoured age, 
Drawing painful his last breath; 
Give us in the battle death! 
Let us lift our glittering shield, 
And perish, perish in the field!

Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow 
To death, or victory, we go; 
Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; 
See! they bind their yellow hair; 
Frenzy flashes from their eye, 
They fly — our foes before them fly! 

Woden, in thy empire drear, 
Thou the groans of death dost hear, 
And welcome to thy dusky hall 
Those that for their country fall! 

Hail, all hail the godlike train, 
That with thee the goblet drain; 
Or with many a huge compeer, 
Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear! 
Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread 
Echo to their giant tread, 
And ten thousand thousand shields 
Flashed lightning o'er their glimmering fields! 

Hark! the battle-shouts begin — 
Louder sounds the glorious din: 
Louder than the ice's roar, 
Bursting on the thawing shore; 
Or crashing pines that strew the plain, 
When the whirlwinds hurl the main! 
Riding through the death-field red, 
And singling fast the destined dead, 
See the fatal sisters fly! 
Now my throbbing breast beats high — 
Now I urge my panting steed, 
Where the foemen thickest bleed. 
Soon exulting I shall go, 
Woden, to thy halls below; 
Or o'er the victims, as they die, 
Chaunt the song of Victory!

Alas, how pleasant are their days
With whom the infant Love yet plays!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By fountains cool, and shadows green.
But soon these flames do lose their light,
Like meteors of a summer’s night:
Nor can they to that region climb,
To make impression upon time.

’Twas in a shipwreck, when the seas
Ruled, and the winds did what they please,
That my poor lover floating lay,
And, ere brought forth, was cast away:
Till at the last the master-wave
Upon the rock his mother drave;
And there she split against the stone,
In a Caesarean sectión.

The sea him lent those bitter tears
Which at his eyes he always wears;
And from the winds the sighs he bore,
Which through his surging breast do roar.
No day he saw but that which breaks
Through frighted clouds in forkèd streaks,
While round the rattling thunder hurled,
As at the funeral of the world.

While Nature to his birth presents
This masque of quarrelling elements,
A numerous fleet of cormorants black,
That sailed insulting o’er the wrack,
Received into their cruel care
Th’ unfortunate and abject heir:
Guardians most fit to entertain
The orphan of the hurricane.

They fed him up with hopes and air,
Which soon digested to despair,
And as one cormorant fed him, still
Another on his heart did bill,
Thus while they famish him, and feast,
He both consumèd, and increased:
And languishèd with doubtful breath,
The amphibíum of life and death.

And now, when angry heaven would
Behold a spectacle of blood,
Fortune and he are called to play
At sharp before it all the day:
And tyrant Love his breast does ply
With all his winged artillery,
Whilst he, betwixt the flames and waves,
Like Ajax, the mad tempest braves.

See how he nak’d and fierce does stand,
Cuffing the thunder with one hand,
While with the other he does lock,
And grapple, with the stubborn rock:
From which he with each wave rebounds,
Torn into flames, and ragg’d with wounds,
And all he says, a lover dressed
In his own blood does relish best.

This is the only banneret
That ever Love created yet:
Who though, by the malignant stars,
Forcèd to live in storms and wars,
Yet dying leaves a perfume here,
And music within every ear:
And he in story only rules,
In a field sable a lover gules.