Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close :
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Yet awhile my call obey ;
Prophetess, awake, and say,
What Virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air ?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose :
Then I leave thee to repose.

PROPHETESS.

Ha! no Traveller art thou, King of Men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line

ODIN.

No boding Maid of skill divine Art thou, nor Prophetess of good ; But mother of the giant-brood !

PROPHETESS.

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 ;

* Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twi. light of the Gods approaches ; when he shall break his bonds; tho

Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.*

A FRAGMENT.

FROM THE WELCH,

Ower's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth'st shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours ;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,

human race, the stars, and sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself, and his kindred deities, shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see 'Introduction à l'Histoire de Dannemarc, par Mons. Mallet,' 1755, quarto; or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled • Northern Antiquities ;' in which some mistakes in the original : re judiciously corrected.

• From Mr. Evans's Specimens of the Welch Poetry; London, 1764, quarto. Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the principality of North Wales, A. D, 1120. This battle was fought near forty years afterwards.

† North Wales.

On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin* ploughs the wat’ry way;
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds and join the war :
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burdens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon-son of Mona stands it
In glittering arms and glory dressid,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn :
Where he points his purple spear,
Hasty, hasty Rout is there ;
Marking with indignant eye
Fear to stop, and Shame to fly.
There Confusion, Terror's child,
Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild,
Agony, that pants for breath,
Despair and honourable Death.

• Denmark:

+ The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners.

THE DEATH OF HOEL.*

Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurld
To rush and sweep them from the world!

Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them, my friend, my Hoel, died,
Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold ;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,
He ask'd and had the lovely Maid.

To Cattraeth’s vale in glittering row
Twice two hundred warriors go:
Every 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 with mirth and hope they burn :
But none from Cattraeth's vale return,
Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong,
(Bursting through the bloody throng)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep and sing their fall.

* From the Welch of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Talliessin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin,

See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71 and 73.

A LONG STORY.*

In Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands:t The Huntingdons and Hattons there

Employ'd the power of fairy hands.

To raise the ceilings fretted height,

Each pannel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls ;

The seals and maces danc'd before him.

• Mr. Gray's Elegy in a Country Church Yard, before it appeared in print, was handed about in manuscript; and amongst other eminent personages who saw and admired it, was the Lady Cobham, who resided at the Mansion-House, at Stoke Pogeis. The performance induced her to wish for the author's acquaintance; and Lady Schaub and Miss Spred, then at her house, undertook to effect it. These two ladies waited upon the author at his aunt's solitary mansion, where he at that time resided; and not finding him at home, they left their names and a billet. Mr. Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit. And as the beginning of this acquaintance wore a little of the face of romance, he soon after gave a fanciful and pleasant account of it in the following copy of verses, which he entitled, A Long Story.'

+ The Mansion-House, at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon, and the family of Hation.

Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing.-Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in vogue.