THE DEATH OF HOEL.

HAD I but the torrent's might,

With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deira'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.

A LONG STORY.*

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands:†
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 Speed, 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 Hatton.

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

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your history whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pie from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heav'n

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire : But Cobham had the polish giv'n,

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her, Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.

Onward still his way he takes,

(The groaning earth beneath him shakes) Till full before his fearless eyes

The portals nine of Hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic Maid.
Facing to the northern clime,

Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the Dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

PROPHETESS.

What call unknown, what charms, presume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,

And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain!
Let me, let me sleep again.

Who is he, with voice unbless'd,
That calls me from the bed of rest?

ODIN.

A Traveller, to thee unknown,

Is he that calls a Warrior's Son.

Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread?
Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?

The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is giv'n,
Pain can reach the Sons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Once again my call obey.
Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the Author of his fate?

PROPHETESS.

In Hoder's hand the Hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Prophetess, my spell obey,

Once again arise, and say,

Who the' Avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?

PROPHETESS.

In the caverns of the west,

By Odin's fierce embrace compress'd, A wondrous Boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,