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Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn,
Where he points bis 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.

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Selected from the Gododin of Aneurin *, styled the Monarch of

the Bards. He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A. D. 570. See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71 and 73.

Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd
To rush, and


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;


* Aneurin with the flowing Muse, King of Bards, brother lo Gildas Albanius the historian, lived under Mynyddawg of Edinburgh, a prince of the North, whose Eardorchogion, or warriors wearing the golden torques, three hundred and sixty-three in number, were all slain, except Aneurin and two others, in a battle with the Saxons at Cattraeth, on the eastern coast of Yorkshire. His Gododin, an heroic poem written on that event, is perhaps the oldest and noblest production of that

Jones's Relics, vol. i. p. 17. Ver. 3. Upon Deira's squadrons hurld] The kingdom of Deïra included the counties of Yorkshire, Durham, Lancashire, Westmoreland, and Cumberland.


Alone in nature's wealth array'd,
He ask'd and had the lovely maid.

To Cattraeth's vale in glittring row,
Thrice 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.

Have ye seen the tusky boar,*
Or the bull, with sullen roar,
On surrounding foes advance?
So Caradoc bore his lance.

Conan's name, my lay, rehearse,
Build to him the lofty verse,

* Have ye seen, &c.] This and the following short fragment ought to have appeared among the Posthumous Pieces of Gray ; but it was thought preferable to insert them in this place with the preceding fragment from the Gododin.

Sacred tribute of the bard, Verse, the hero's sole reward. As the flame's devouring force; As the whirlwind in its course; As the thunder's fiery stroke, Glancing on the shiver'd oak; Did the sword of Conan mow The crimson harvest of the foe. EPITAPH



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.
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 wbat awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.


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