least to
unlock the treasures of native genius; they present us with frequent
sallies of bold imagination, and constantly afford matter for
philosophical reflection by showing the workings of the human mind in
its almost original state of nature."

That original state was certainly one of original sin, if these poems
are to be believed. Every page in this volume is drenched with blood,
and from this book, as from Gray's poems and the other Old Norse
imitations of the time, a picture of fierceness and fearfulness was the
only one possible. Percy intimates in his preface that Icelandic poetry
has other tales to tell besides the "Incantation of Hervor," the "Dying
Ode of Regner Lodbrog," the "Ransome of Egill the Scald," and the
"Funeral Song of Hacon," which are here set down; he offers the
"Complaint of Harold" as a slight indication that the old poets left
"behind them many pieces on the gentler subjects of love or friendship."
But the time had not come for the presentation of those pieces.

All of these translations were from the Latin versions extant in Percy's
time. This volume copied Hickes's translation of "Hervor's Incantation"
modified in a few particulars, and like that one, the other translations
in this volume were in prose. The work is done as well as possible, and
it remained for later scholars to point out errors in translation. The
negative contractions in Icelandic were as yet unfamiliar, and so, as
Walter Scott pointed out (in _Edin. Rev._, Oct., 1806), Percy made
Regner Lodbrog say, "The pleasure of that day (of battle, p. 34 in this
_Five Pieces_) was like having a fair virgin placed beside one in the
bed," and "The pleasure of that day was like kissing a young widow at
the highest seat of the table," when the poet really made the contrary
statement.

Of course, the value of this book depends upon the view that is taken of
it. Intrinsically, as literature, it is well-nigh valueless. It
indicates to us, however, a constantly growing interest in the
literature it reveals, and it undoubtedly directed the attention of the
poets of the succeeding generation to a field rich in romantic
possibilities. That no great work was then created out of this material
was not due to neglect. As we shall see, many puny poets strove to
breathe life into these bones, but the divine power was not in the
poets. Some who were not poets had yet the insight to feel the value of
this ancient literature, and they made known t