O DE

O N

THE DEATH OF HOEL.

From the WELSH.

To rush, and fweep them from the world!

* Of Aneurim, ftyled the Monarch of the bards. He flourished about the time of Talieffin, A. D. 530.

Too,

Too, too fecure, in youthful pride

By them my friend, my Hoel, died,

Great Cian's fon; of Madoc old

He aik'd no heaps of hoarded gold;

Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,

He afk'd, and had the lovely maid.

To Catraeth's vale, in glitt'ring row,

Twice two hundred warriors go;

Ev'ry warrior's manly neck

Chains of regal honour deck,

Wreath'd in many a golden link:

From the golden-cup they drink

Nectar, that the bees produce,

Or the grape's ecstatic juice.

Flush'd

Flush'd with mirth and hope, they burn:

But none from Catraeth's vale return,

Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong,

(Bursting thro' the bloody throng),

And I, the meanest of them all,

That live to weep, and fing their fall.

ELEGY