ODE X. THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.S FROM THE WELCH. OWEN's praise demands my song, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hosts of mighty name, Catch the winds, and join the war : Dauntless on his native sands Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar. *Check'd by the torrent tide of blood Backward Meinai rolls his flood: f 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 afterward. g North Wales. b Denmark. The red dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners. This and the three following lines are not in former editions, but are now added from the Author's MS. Had I but the torrents might, With headlong rage and wild affright To rush, and sweep them from the world! Too, too secure in youthful pride To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'ring row. b 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's Specimens, p. 71. 73. 1 Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn: SONNETm ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST. In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, EPITAPH I. ON MRS. CLARKE.n Lo! where this silent marble weeps, m See Memoirs, Sect. III. p. 133. n This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27, 1757 ; and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent. In agony, in death resign'd She felt the wound she left behind. Sits smiling on a father's woe: Whom what awaits, while yet he strays Till Time shall ev'ry grief remove, EPITAPH II.* ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, At Aix his voluntary sword he drew, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. * This Epitaph was written at the request of Mr.Frederic Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which this accomplished youth was killed, 1761; but from some difficulty attending the erection of it, this design was not executed. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. |