To rush, and fweep them from the world! * Of Aneurim, ftyled the Monarch of the bards. He flourished about the time of Talieffin, A. D. 530. Too, Too, too fecure, in youthful pride By them my friend, my Hoel, died, Great Cian's fon; of Madoc old He aik'd no heaps of hoarded gold; Alone in Nature's wealth array'd, He afk'd, and had the lovely maid. To Catraeth'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: From the golden-cup they drink Nectar, that the bees produce, Or the grape's ecstatic juice. Flush'd |