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Pr. 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.

0. Prophetess, my spell obey,
Once again arise, and say,
Who th’Avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt.

Pr. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wond'rous 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.

0. Yet awhile 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.

Pr. Ha! no Traveller art thou,
King of Men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line------

0. No boding Maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor Prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant-brood !

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall Enquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again;
Till * Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

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* 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 farther explanation of this mythology, see “ Introduction à l'IIistoire de Dannemare, par Mons. 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.

ODE X.

THE

TRIUMPHS OF OWEN*.

From the Welch.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
+ Gwyneth's 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.

* 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. VOL. I.

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1

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 plows the wat’ry way;
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds, and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burthens 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;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
# Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood
Backward Meinai rolls his flood;

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* Denmark.

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

1 This and the three following lines are not in the former Editions, but are now added from the author's MS.

3

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.

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