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

Proph. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom;
His brother fends 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 Hodęr's blood be spilt ?

PROPH. 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 to repose.
Odin. Yet a while my call obey:
Prophetess ! awake, and say,
What virgins these, in speechless wo,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen treffes tear,
And snowy veils that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose,
Then I leave thee to repose.

F

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Leave me,

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PROPH. Ha! no traveller art thou;
King of Men, I know thee now;
Mightieft of a mighty line-

Odin. No boding maid of skill divine
Art thou no prophetess of good,
But mother of the giant-brood!

Proph. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall enquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again
Till Lok t has burst his tenfold chain;
Never till fubftantial Night
Has re-assum'd her ancient right,
Till wrapp'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, the sun, Mall disappear, the earth fink in the seas, and fire consume the skies; even Odin himself, and his kindred deities, shall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, fee Introduktion a l'Histoire de Danemarc, par Mons. Mallat, 1755, 4to; or rather a tranflation of it published in 1770, and entitled Northern Antiquities, in which some mistakes in the original are judiciously corrected.

ODE IX.
THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN:

A FRAGMENT.

From Mr. Evan's Specimen of the Welsh Poetry,

London, 1764, Quarto.

ADVERTISEMENT. OWEN fucceeded his father Griffin in the Princi

pality of North Wales, A, D. 1120: this battle

was near forty years afterwards. OWEN’s praise demands my song,

Owen swift and Owen strong, Fairest flow'r of Rod'rick's ftem, Gwyneth's * field and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded fores,

$ Nor on all profusely pours, Lord of ev'ry regal art, Lib'ral hand and open heart.

Big with hofts of mighty name, Squadrons three againft him came ;

TO This the force of Eirin hiding ; Side by fide as proudly riding On her fhadow long and gay Lochlin + plows the watry way ; There the Norman sails afar,

15 Catch the winds and join the war; Black and huge along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep.

* North Wales.

+ Denmark.

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Dauntless on his native sands
The Dragon font of Mona stands;
In glitt'ring arms and glory dreft,
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,
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Proftrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn;
Where he points his purple spear
Hafty, 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,

pants

for breath, Despair and honourable Death.

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Agony, that

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

ODE X. THE DEATH OF HOEL. From the Welfs of Aneurim, Ayled The Monarch

of the Bards. He flourished about the Time of Talieffin, A. D. 570.

This Ode is extracted from the GODODIN.

[See Mr. Evan's Specimens, p. 71, 73.) HADI but the torrent’s might,

With headlong rage, and wild affright,
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurld,
To rush and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,

s
By them my friend, my Hoel, dy'd,
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;
Ev'ry warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link;

15
From the golden cup they drink
Neciar 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.

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