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His bushy beard, and shoc-mtrings 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 !
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-pic from France,
Fler conquering destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye ankance,
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 ,
In pity to the country farmer
Onward still his way he takes,
Right against the eastern gate,
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?
A Traveller, to thee unknown,
Mantling in the goblet see
Once again my call obey.
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.
Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who the Avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
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,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
leave me to repose.
Yet awhile my call obey ;
Ha! no Traveller art thou, King of Men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line
No boding Maid of skill divine Art thou, nor Prophetess of good ; But mother of the giant-brood !
Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
* Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twi. light of the Gods approaches ; when he shall break his bonds; the
Never, till substantial Night
THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.*
FROM THE WELCH.
Ower's praise demands my song,
Big with hosts of mighty name,
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 further explanation of this mythology, see ·Introduction à l'Histoire de Dannemarc, par Mons. Mallet,' :755, quarto; or rather a translation of it published in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities ;' in which some mistakes in the original : re 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.