THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. * A FRAGMENT. FROM MR. EVANS'S SPECIMENS OF THE WELSH POETRY; OWEN's praise demands my song, Fairest flower of Roderic's stem, Gwyneth's + shield, and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded stores, Nor all profusely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hosts of mighty name, Catch the winds, and join the war ; Dauntless on his native sands The dragon-son § of Mona stands; * Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the prin cipality of North Wales, A. D. 112. was fought near forty years afterwards. + North Wales. + Denmark. This battle § The red dragon is the device of Cadwallader which all his descendants bore on their banner. In glittering arms and glory drest, Where his glowing eye-balls turn, TOBIAS SMOLLETT. TOBIAS SMOLLETT, well known in his time for the variety and multiplicity of his publications, was born in 1720, at Dalquhurn, in the county of Dumbarton. He was educated under a surgeon in Glasgow, where he also attended the medical lectures of the University; and at this early period he gave some specimens of a talent for writing verses. As it is on this ground that he has obtained a place in the present collection, we shall pass over his various characters of surgeon's mate, physician, historiographer, politician, miscellaneous writer, and especially novellist, and consider his claims as a minor poet of no mean rank. He will be found, in this collection, as the author of "The Tears of Scotland," the "Ode to Leven-Water," and some other short pieces, which are polished, tender, and picturesque; and, especially, of an "Ode to Independence," which aims at a loftier flight, and perhaps has few superiors in the lyric style. Smollett married a lady of Jamaica: he was, unfortunately, of an irritable disposition, which involved him in frequent quarrels, and finally shortened his life. He died in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, in October, 1771, in the fifty-first year of his age. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn The wretched owner sees afar What boots it then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow`ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, The rural pipe and merry lay No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe, O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn, The pious mother doom'd to death, The bleak wind whistles round her head, While the warm blood bedews my veins, |