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And mercy gild the ray :
Shall ftill avert impending fate;
And concord its best æra date
From this aufpicious day.

SONG to ELLE,

LORD of the CASTELL of BRYSTOWE, in Daies of YORE.

About the Year 920, Elle was Governor of the Castle of Bristol, and gained many fignal Victories over the Danes, particularly at Watchet. The following Song was made to the Memory of this Chief by Thomas Rowlle, a Carmelite-Friar, and Father Confeffor to William Cannynge, Founder of St. Mary Redcliffe Church. It was written in the Year 1468, and the Original is now in the Hands of Mr. Barret, Surgeon in Bristol.

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THOU (or whate remaynes of thee)

Elle, the darlynge of futuritye!

Lette thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage bee,

As everlaftynge to pofteritye!

Whanne Dacyas' fonnes, with hair of blood-red hue,
Lyke kynge coppes braftynge with the mornynge dewe,
Arraung'd in drear arraye

Upon the lethale daye,

Spredde, farre and wyde, on Watchet's shore;
Thenne dydft thou brondeous stonde,

And, with thie burlye honde,
Befpryngedde all the mees wythe gore ;
Drawn by thyne anlace fell,

Down to the depthes of hell.
Thoufands of Dacyans went;
Bryftowans, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the blodie fyghte,
And acted deedes full quent.

O thou! where'ere (thie bones att reft)
Thie fpryte to haunte delyghteth best,
Whether on the blod-embrued playne,
Or where thou kenn'ft from far

The blatant cryes of warre,

Or feest some mountayne made of hepes of flayne;
Or feeft the hatchedde ftede

Y prauncynge o'er the mede

And neigh to be amongeft the poyntedde fperes;
Or, in black armour, ftalk'ft arounde
Embattelede Briftowe, once thie grounde,

And glow'ft ardorous onne the caftle steers;

Or fierie rounde the mynfterne glare;

Let Bristowe ftille bee made thie care:
Guarde it fromme fomenne and confumynge fyre;
Lyke Avon's ftreame encyrque it rounde,
Ne lette a flamme enharme the grounde

Tyll ynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

INSCRIPTION

WH

in a TOWER at W. in the County of
CAMBRIDGE.

HEN HENRY* ftemm'd IERNE's ftormy flood;
And bow'd to BRITAIN'S yoke her favage brood;
When, by true courage and false zeal impell'd,
RICHARD † encamp'd on SALEM's balmy field;
On towers like thefe EARL, BARON, VAVASOR,
Hung high their banners waving in the air;
Free, hardy, proud, they braved their feudal lord,
And tried their rights by ordeal of the fword;
Now the full board with Christmas plenty crown'd,
Now ravag'd and opprefs'd the country round:
Yet Freedom's caufe once raised the civil broil,
And MAGNA CHARTA clos'd the glorious toil.-
Spruce modern villas different fcenes afford d;
The Patriot Baronet, the Courtier Lord,
Gently amus'd, now wafte the fummer's day
In Book-room, Print-room, or in Ferme Ornée;
While wit, champaign, and pines and poetry,
Virtù, and ice, the genial fealt fupply:
But hence the Poor are cherish'd, Artifts fed,
And vanity relieves--in Bounty's flead.

O! might our age in happy concert join
The manly virtues of the Norman line
With the true fcience and just taste which raise
High in each useful art these modern days!

AMUSEMENT in Modern HIGH LIFE.

T

HE Bucks had din'd, and deep in council fat,.
Their wine was brilliant, but their wit grew flat.

Up ftarts his Lordship, to the window flies,

And lo, "A race, a race!" in rapture cries.

"Where?" quoth Sir John-" Why, fee two drops of rain
"Start from the fummit of the crystal pane':

"A thousand pounds, which drop with nimbleft force
"Performs its current down the flipp'ry courfe."

* Henry II.

† Richard I.

The

The betts were fix'd, in dire fufpenfe they wait
For victory, pendent on the nod of Fate.
Now down the fafh, unconscious of the prize,
The bubbles roll like pearls from Chloe's eyes.
But ah! the glittering joys of life are short!
How oft two jofting fteeds have fpoil'd the sport!
So thus attraction, by coercive laws,

Th' approaching drops into one bubble draws;
Each curs'd his fate, that thus their project croft:
How hard their lot, who neither won or loft !

X. S. G.

The FATAL SISTERS: An ODE, from the Norfe Tongue *; By the late Mr. GRAY. From Mr. MASON's Edition of Mr. GRAY'S Works.

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To be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfaus; Hafnia, 1697, folio; and alfo in Bartholinus.

Vitt er orpit fyrir valfalli, &c.

For the better understanding of this piece, the reader is to be informed that in the eleventh century Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney-illands, went with a fleet of fhips and a confiderable body of troops into Ireland, to the affiftance of Sictryg with the filken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, King of Dublin: the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sitryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater iofs by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle) a native of Caithness in Scotland faw at a distance a number of perfons on horfeback riding full speed towards a hill, and feeming to enter into it. Curiofity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks, he faw twelve gigantic figures refembling women; they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they fung the following dreadful fong; which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped fix to the north, and as many to the fouth. These were the Valkyriur, female divinities, fervants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name fignifies Chufers of the flain. They were mounted on iwift horfes, with drawn words in their hands; and in the throng of battle felected fuch as were deftined to flaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the Hall of Odin, or Paradife of the Brave; where they attended the banquet, and ferved the departed herces with horns of mead and ale.

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Ere the ruddy fun be fet,
Pikes muft fhiver, javelins fing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,

Where our Friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread
Wading thro' th' enfanguin'd field:
Gondula, and Geira, fpread
O'er the youthful king your fhield.

We the reins to flaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to fpare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the defert beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample fway fhall ftretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

Low the dauntless Earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king fhall bite the ground.

Long his lofs fhall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee;

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D

Τὸν φρονεῖν βροτὰς ὁδώ

Ζήνα

σαντα, τῶ κάθει μαθὰν
Θέντα κυρίως ἔχειν.

ESCHYLUS, in Agamemnone.

AUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whofe iron fcourge and tort'ring hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The proud are taught to tafte of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan,

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy fire to fend on earth
Virtue, his darling child, defign'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year the bore;

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