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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,
Burdens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon-son of Mona stands it
In glittering arms and glory dress’d,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering 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 Menaï 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.

• Denmark:

+ The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners.

THE DEATH OF HOEL.*

Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurld
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 glittering 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 ecstatic 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.

* From the Welch of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Talliessin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin.

See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71 and 73.

A LONG STORY.*

In Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands:f 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;ť

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 Spred, 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 siames 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, 6 A Long Story.'

+ The Mansion-House, at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscouniess Cobham. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon, and the family of Hation.

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.
Vol. XXIX.

F

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P—,*

(By this time all the parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd

A wicked imp, they call a Poet:

Who prowl'd the country far and near,

Bewitch'd the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer,

And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.

My Lady heard their joint petition,

Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission

To rid the manor of such vermin.

The Heroines undertook the task,

Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,

But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

The trembling family they daunt,

They Airt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt,

And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle:

Each hole snd cupboard they explore,

Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-skurry round the floor,

And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

• The allusion here is to Mr. Robert Purt, a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge; who died of the small.pox, April, 1752, soon after the publication of the Poem. He was a neighbour of Mr. Gray's, when the latter resided at Stoke.

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