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To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chaino;
Never, till substantial night
Has reassumed her ancient right;
Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurled,
Sinks the fabric of the world.
A FRAGMENT. FROM THE WELSH.
OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic'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 Eirino hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlino ploughs the watery way;
There the Normano 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 standso;
In glittering arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shoreo.
Echoing to the battle's roar. °
Checked by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Meinai rolls his flood;
While, heaped his master's feet around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eyeballs 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 honorable death.
AN ODE. SELECTED FROM THE GODODIN
Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadronso hurled
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 asked no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in nature's wealth arrayed,
He asked and had the lovely maid.
To Cattraeth's valeo in glittering row
Thrice two hundred warriors go:
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honor deck,
Wreathed in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.
Flushed 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.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune;
He had not the method of making a fortune;
Could love, and could hate, so was thought somewhat
No very great wit, he believed in a God:
A post or a pension he did not desire,
But left church and state to Charles Townshend and
A MOMENT's patience, gentle Mistress Anne°;
(But stint your clack for sweet St. Charitie) 'Tis Willy begs, once a right proper man,o
Though now a book, and interleaved you see.
Much have I borne from cankered critic's spite, 5
From fumbling baronets and poets small, Pert barristers, and parsons nothing bright,
But what awaits me now is worst of all.
'Tis true, our master's temper natural
Was fashioned fair in meek and dove-like guise; 10 But may not honey's self be turned to gall
By residence, by marriage, and sore eyeso ?
If then he wreak on me his wicked will,
Steal to his closet at the hour of prayer; And (when thou hearest the organ piping shrill) 15
Grease his best pen, and all his scribbles, tear.