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

In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;
His brother sends him to the tomb.

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, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the Sun's departing beam, Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile Flaming on the funeral pile. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN. Yet a while my call obey; Prophetess, awake, and say, What virgins these, in speechless woe, That bend to earth their solemn brow,

That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.


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,
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron sleep again;
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain;
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassumed her ancient right;
Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

3 Lok is the Evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twilight of the Gods approaches; when he shall break his 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 further explanation of this mythology, see "Introduction à l'Histoire de Dannemarc, par Mous. 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.


A fragment.


Owen's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong ;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's 2 shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin ploughs the watery 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 4;

1 From Mr. Evans's Specimens of the Welsh 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.

2 North Wales. 3 Denmark.

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

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 eyeballs 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.




Had I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra'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.
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 Welsh of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Talliessen, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin.

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

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