PROPHETESS.

Mantling in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee;
O'er it hangs the shield of gold-
'Tis the drink of Balder bold.
Balder's head to death is given:

Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
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 th' avenger of his guilt?

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?

PROPHETESS.

In the caverns of the west,

By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
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 fun'ral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Yet awhile my call obey!
Prophetess, awake, and say,

What virgins these, in speechless wo,
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.

PROPHETESS.

Ha! no traveller art thou

King of men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line

ODIN.

No boding maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant-brood!

PROPHETESS.

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 re-assumed her ancient right:

Till warp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

* 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.-See Mallet's "Northern Antiquities.'

*

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.*

FROM THE WELSH.

Owen's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong,
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth'st 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 heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Erin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
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;
In glitt❜ring arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thund'ring strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din

From Mr Evans' "Specimens of the Welsh Poetry, 1764. Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the principality of North Wales, A.D.1120. This battle was fought nearly forty years afterwards.

+ North Wales.

+ Denmark.

§ The Red-Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners.

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.

THE DEATH OF HOEL.

FROM THE WELSH.

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 glitt'ring row
Twice two hundred warriors go;

*Of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A.D. 570. This ode is extracted from the Gododin (See Mr Evans' "Specimens," p. 71 and 73).

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.

FOR MUSIC.*

IRREGULAR.

Air.

66 Hence, avaunt ('tis holy ground),
Comus and his midnight crew;
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,

Servitude that hugs her chain!

Nor in these consecrated bowers

Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent-train in flowers;

Chorus.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

While bright-eyed Science watches round;

Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!"

Recitative.

From yonder realms of empyrean day

Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay:

* This ode was performed in the Senate-house at Cambridge, July 1, 1769, at the Installation of his Grace Augustus Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, Chancellor of the University.