Ix.--The Death Of Hoel.[1]

Had I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage, and wild affright, Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd, 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.

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X.--THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN:

A FRAGMENT FROM THE WELSH.

ADVERTISEMENT.--Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the Principality of North Wales, A.D. 1120: this battle was near forty years afterwards.

Owen's praise demands my song, Owen swift, and Owen strong, Fairest flower of Roderick's stem, Gwyneth's 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 On her shadow long and gay Lochlin ploughs the watery way; There the Norman sails afar Catch the winds and join the war; Black and huge, along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands The Dragon son of Mona stands; In glittering arms and glory dress'd, 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 Meniai 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.

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