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To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurld,
Sinks the fabric of the world.




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 heart,
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,

Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when be shall break luis bonds; the 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 farther explanation of this mythology, see " Introduction a 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 are 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,
Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon-son of Mona stands;
In glitt'ring arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thund'ring 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 Meinai 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.


The red dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendents bore on their banners.

This and the three following lines are not in former editions, but are now added from the Author's MS.




Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra’s squadrons hurlid,
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 glittring 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 extatic 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.

1 Of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin. See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71. 73.





In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd’ning Phæbus lifts his golden fire :
The birds in vain their amoraus descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their


These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require.
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear :
To warm their little loves the birds complain :
I fruitless mourn to him, that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.



Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps :
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.

* See Memoirs, Sect. III. p. 159.

" This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 97, 1737; and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent.

In agony,

in death resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image, here below,
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?

pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till Time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.



Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England's fair renown;
His mind each muse, each grace adornd his frame,
Nor Envy dar'd to view him with a frown.
At Aix his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour seal'd;
From fortune, pleasure, science, love he flew,
And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.
With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast
Victor he stood on Bellisle's rocky steeps---
Ah! gallant youth ! this marble tells the rest,
Where melancholy Friendship bends, and weeps.

NOTE. This Epitaph was written at the request of Mr. Frederic Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which this accomplished youth was killed, 1761; but from some difficulty attending the erection of it, this design was not executed.

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