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Thus were Garthen's plains dcfended,
Maelor fight began and er.ded.
There iwo princes fought, and there
Was Morach's Vorvran's feait exchang'd for rout and fear.
Fill the horn: 'tis my delight,
When my friends return from fight,
Champions of their country's glory,
To record each gallant story.
To Ynyr's comely offspring fill,
Foremost in the battle ftill;
Two blooming youths, in counsel fage,
As heroes of maturer age;
In peace, and war, alike renown'd;
Be their brows with garlands crown'd;
Deck'd with glory let them fine,
The ornament and pride of Ynyr's ancient line!
To Selyf fill, of eagle heart,
Skill'd to hurl the fatal dart :
With the wolf's impetuous force,
He urgeth on his headlong course.
To Tudor next, great Madoc's son,
They the race of honour run
Together in the tented field,
And both alike disdain to yield.
Like a lion in the fray,
Tudor darts upon
Rivals in the feats of war,
Where danger call'd, they rush'd from far ;
Till shatter'd by some hostile stroke,
With horrid ciang their thields were broke ;
Loud as the foaming billows roar,
Or fierce contending winds on Talgath's stormy fhore.
Fill the horn with rosy wine,
Brave Moreiddig claims it now,
Chieftain of an antient line,
Dauntless heart, and open brow.
To the warrior it belongs,
Prince of battles, theme of songs !
Pride of Powys, Mochnant's boaft!
Guardian of his native coaft!
But ah! his short-liv'd triumph's o'er,
Brave Moreiddig is no more!
To his penfive ghost we'll give
Due remembrance, while we live;
And in fairy fiction dress'd,
Flowing hair, and fable vest,
The tragic muse mall grace our songs,
While brave Moreiddig's name the mournful strain prolongs,
Fill again the Hirlas Horn,
On that ever glorious morn,
The Britons and their foes between,
What prodigies of might were seen!
On Gwestyn's plain the fight began ;
But Gronwy sure was more than man!
Him to reliít, on Gweityn's plain,
A hundred Saxons strove in vain,
To fet the noble Meyric free,
And change his bonds to liberty,
The warriors vow'd. The God of day
Scarce darted his meridian ray,
When he beheld the conquerors steep'd in gore,
And Gwestyn's bloody fight, ere highest noon, was o'er
Now a due libation pour
To the spirits of the dead,
Who, that memorable hour,
Made the hostile plain their bed.
There the glitt'ring steel was seen,
There the twanging bow was heard ;
There the mighty prefs'd the green,
Recorded by the faithful bard.
Madoc there, and Meilir brave,
Sent many a Saxon to his grave.
Their drink was mead; their hearts were true ;
And to the head their Mafts they drew :
But Owen's guards, in terrible array,
Refiftless march along, and make the world give way,
Pour the sweet transparent mcad,
(The spear is red in time of peed)
And give to each departed spirit
The honor and reward of merit.
What çares surround the regal state,
What anxious thoughts moleft the great,
None but a prince himself can know,
And Heav'n, that ruleth kings, and lays the mighty lowe
For Daniel fill the horn so green,
Of haughty brow, and angry micn ;
While the less’ning tapers shine
Fill it up with gen'rous wine.
He nor quarter takes, nor gives,
But by spoils and rapine lives.
Comely is the youth and brave ;
But obdurate as the grave.
Hadft thou seen, in Maelor fight,
How we put the foe to flight!
Hadst thou seen the chiefs in arms,
When the foe rush'd on in swarms!
Round about their prince they stood,
And stain'd their fwords with hoftile blood.
Glorious bulwarks ! To their praise
Their prince devotes his latett lays.
Now, my boy, thy talk is o'er;
Thou shalt fill the horn no more.
Long may the king of kings protect,
And crown with bliss, my friends elect;
Where liberty and truth reside,
And virtue, truth's immortal bride!
There may we all together meet,
And former times renew in heav'nly converse sweet!
Yet lost to fame is Virtue's orient reign;
The patriot lived, the hero died in vain.
Dark night descended o'er the human day,
And wiped the glory of the world away :
Whirl'd round the gulf, the acts of time were tost,
Then in the vast abyss for ever loft.
Virtue, from fame disjoin'd, began to plain Her votaries few and unfrequented fane.
Her voice ascended to almighty Jove;
He sent the Muses from the throne above.
The bard arose; and full of heavenly fire,
With hand immortal touch'd th’immortal lyre;
Heroic deeds in strains heroic fung,
All earth resounded, all heaven's arches rung:
The world applaud what they approved before,
Virtue and fame took separate paths no more.
Hence to the bard, interpreter of heaven,
The chronicle of fame by Jove is given;
His eye the volume of the past explores,
His hand unfolds the everlasting doors;
In Minos' majesty he lifts the head,
Judge of the world, and sovereign of the dead;
On nations and on kings in sentence fits,
Dooms to perdition, or to heaven admits;
Dethrones the tyrant tho' in triumph hurl'd,
Calls up the hero from th'eternal world,
Surrounds his head with wreaths that ever bloom,
And vows the verse that triumphs o'er the tomb.
While here the Muses warbled from the shrine,
Oft have you listened to the voice divine.
A nameless youth beheld with noble rage,
One subject, still a stranger to the stage;
A name that's music to the British ear!
A name that's worshipp'd in the British sphere,
Fair Liberty ; the goddess of the isle,
Who blesses England with a guardian smile.
Britons ! a scene of glory draws to-night!
The fathers of the land arise to fight;
The legislators and the chiefs of old,
The roll of patriots and the barons bold,
Who greatly girded with the sword and shield,
At storied Runnamede's immortal field,
Did the grand charter of your freedom draw,
And found the base of liberty on law.
Our author, trembling for his virgin Muse,
Hopes in the favourite theme a fond excuse.
If while the tale the theatre commands,
Your hearts applaud him, he'll acquit your hands ;
Proud on his country's cause to build his name,
And add the patriot's to the poet's fame.
(From the Publication so called.] I. To WILLIAM JONES, Efq. Written in the Year 1780,
N learning's field, diversified and wide,
How few, like thee, of that unmeasur'd space Can boat, and justly boast
, no part untried ! Yet rests not here alone thy honest pride,
The pride that prompts thy literary chace ;
With unremitting strength and rapid pace
'Tis thine to run, and scorn to be denied !
Thy early genius, spurning time's control,
Had reach'd, ere others start, the distant goal.
Marking the bright career that thou hast run,
With due regard thy toils may Oxford sec,
And, juftly proud of her superior son,
Repay the honour that the boasts in thee.
II. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq.
Written on a Blank Leaf of his ESSAY ON HISTORY.
The laws that guide to fame th' historic train;
Or paint, with rival power, a fifter's reign;
Or, fondly sharing in thy soft concern,
Pour o'er departed friendship's filent urn
The soothing forrows of her penfive strain
Alike she pleases. With repeated gain,
Hayley, thy captivating page I turn !
Not that the lustre of thy letter'd fame
Alone compels a stranger's just applause :
A heart that glows with freedom's holy flame,
That pants in virtue's, truth's, and nature's cause,
Is thine-or never may we hope to find
Ingenious verse the mirror of the mind.