PR. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

1 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 kindreddeities shall perish. For a farther explanation of this mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History of Denmark, 1755, Quarto.

XVI.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.

A FRAGMENT.

FROM MR. EVANS's Specimens of the Welch Poetry; LONDON, 1764, Quarto.

OWEN succeeded his

ADVERTISEMENT.

Father GRIFFIN in the Principality of North-Wales, A.D. 1120. This battle was fought near forty Years afterwards.

HAD I but the torrent's might,

With headlong rage and wild affright

Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd,

To rush, and sweep them from the world!

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

35

Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them my friend, my Hoel, died,
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
Thrice two hundred warriors go;
Every 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 extatic 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.

XVIII.

CARADOC.

HAVE ye seen the tusky boar,
Or the bull, with sullen roar,
On surrounding foes advance?
So Caradoc bore his lance.

TO MRS. ANNE, REGULAR SERVANT TO THE REV. MR. PRECENTOR
OF YORK.

A MOMENT'S patience, gentle Mistress Anne;
(But stint your clack for sweet St. Charitie)
'Tis Willy begs, once a right proper man,
Though now a book, and interleaved you see.

Much have I borne from canker'd critic's spite,
From fumbling baronets and poets small,
Pert barristers, and parsons nothing bright,
But what awaits me now is worst of all.

'Tis true, our master's temper natural

Was fashion'd fair in meek and dove-like guise; 10 But may not honey's self be turn'd to gall

By residence, by marriage, and sore eyes?

5