* * * * *

  IX.—­THE DEATH OF HOEL.[1]

  Had I but the torrent’s might,
  With headlong rage, and wild affright,
  Upon Deira’s[2] squadrons hurl’d,
  To rush and sweep them from the world! 
  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. 10

   To Cattraeth’s[3] vale, in glittering row,
  Twice 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 ecstatic juice. 
  Flush’d with mirth and hope they burn: 
  But none from Cattraeth’s vale return, 20
  Save Aeron brave and Conan strong,
  —­Bursting through the bloody throng—­
  And I, the meanest of them all,
  That live to weep and sing their fall.

[Footnote 1:  ‘Hoel:’  from the Welsh 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.]

[Footnote 2:  ‘Deira:’  a kingdom including the five northernmost counties of England.]

[Footnote 3:  ‘Cattraeth:’  a great battle lost by the ancient Britons.]

* * * * *

X.—­THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN: 

A FRAGMENT FROM THE WELSH.

ADVERTISEMENT.—­Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the Principality 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 flower of Roderick’s stem,
  Gwyneth’s[1] shield and Britain’s gem. 
  He nor heaps his brooded stores,
  Nor on all profusely pours;
  Lord of every regal art,
  Liberal hand and open heart.

   Big with hosts of mighty name,
  Squadrons three against him came; 10
  This the force of Eirin hiding;
  Side by side as proudly riding
  On her shadow long and gay
  Lochlin[2] ploughs the watery way;
  There the Norman sails afar
  Catch the winds and join the war;
  Black and huge, along they sweep,
  Burthens of the angry deep.

   Dauntless on his native sands
  The Dragon son[3] of Mona stands; 20
  In glittering arms and glory dress’d,
  High he rears his ruby crest;
  There the thundering 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 Meniai rolls his flood;
  While, heap’d his master’s