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THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.

A Fragment.

FROM THE WELSH.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,

*

Gwyneth's 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;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin + ploughs the watery way;
There the Norman sails afar

Catch the winds and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burdens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon son of Mona stands +;
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.

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The red dragon, the device of Cadwallader, was borne on their banners by his descendants.

VOL. VI.

K K

Check'd by the torrent tide of blood,
Backward Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eyeballs turn,
Thousand banners round him burn:
Where he points his purple spear,
Hasty, 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,
Agony, that pants for breath,
Despair and honourable death.

TUDOR.

FROM THE WELSH.

FILL the horn of glossy blue,
Ocean's bright cerulean hue;
Briskly quaff the flavorous mead,
'Tis a day to joy decreed.
High the fame of Tudor's birth,
Valour his, and conscious worth.

Have you seen the virgin snow
That tops old Aran's peering brow;
Or lucid web, by insect spun,
Purpureal gleam in summer sun?
With such, yet far diviner light,
Malvina hits the dazzled sight;
Such the reward, can Tudor's breast
Dare to court ignoble rest?

GRAY.

From the cliff sublime and hoary,
See descending martial glory;
Armed bands aloft uprear
Crimson banner, crimson spear;
Venodotia's ancient boast
Meets the pride of London's host;
On they move with step serene,
And form a dreadly pleasing scene.
Heard you that terrific clang?
Through the pathless void it rang:
The' expecting raven screams afar,
And snuffs the reeking spoils of war.
Have you e'er on barren strand
Ta'en your solitary stand,

And seen the whirlwind's spirit sped
O'er the dark green billowy bed?
Glowing in the thickest fight,
Such resistless Tudor's might.

MATHIAS.

TO A STREAM.

FROM THE ERSE OF OSSIAN.

OH,flow round Lutha's narrow plain, sweet stream, And let the wild woods hanging o'er thee wave, And let the sun there shed his warmest gleam, And light winds gently breathe o'er Ossian's grave!

At early morn the hunter passing by

No more shall hear my harp's harmonious fall; Then shall he drop the tender tear, and cry 'Where is the tuneful son of great Fingal?'

Then come, Malvina, all thy music yield,

Let thy soft song once more delight my breast, Then raise my tomb in Lutha's narrow field,

And lull my dying spirits into rest.

Where art thou, lovely maid? Where is thy song? Where are the soft sounds of thy passing feet? Thou canst not come, nor shall I call thee long, Till in my father's airy halls we meet.

Oh pleasant be thy rest, thou lovely beam!'

Silent and slow thy peaceful light declined: Like the pale moon upon the trembling stream, Soon hast thou set, and left us dark behind. We sit around the rock-but there no more Thy voice remains to soothe, thy light to cheer: Soon hast thou set on our deserted shore, And left us all in gloomy darkness here!

MERIVALE.

LOVE ELEGY.

FROM THE IRISH OF EDMOND RYAN.

BRIGHT her locks of beauty grew,
Curling fair, and sweetly flowing;

And her eyes of smiling blue,

Oh how soft! how heavenly glowing!

Ah! poor plunder'd heart of pain!

When wilt thou have end of mourning?
This long, long year, I look in vain
To see my only hope returning.

Oh! would thy promise faithful prove,

And to my fond, fond bosom give thee; Lightly then my steps would move, Joyful should my arms receive thee.

Then, once more, at early morn,
Hand in hand we should be straying,
Where the dewdrop decks the thorn,
With its pearls the woods arraying.
Cold and scornful as thou art,

Love's fond vows and faith belying,
Shame for thee now rends my heart,

My pale cheek with blushes dying!

Why art thou false to me and love? (While health and joy with thee are vanish'd) Is it because forlorn I rove,

Without a crime *, unjustly banish'd?

Safe thy charms with me should rest,
Hither did thy pity send thee;
Pure the love that fills my breast,
From itself it would defend thee.

O, might I call thee now my own!

No added rapture joy could borrow: 'Twould be like heaven, when life is flown, To cheer the soul and heal its sorrow.

See thy falsehood, cruel maid!

See my cheek no longer glowing; Strength departed, health decay'd; Life in tears of sorrow flowing!

Why do I thus my anguish tell?

Why pride in woe, and boast in ruin? O lost treasure!-fare thee well!Loved to madness-to undoing.

* Ryan was one of the proscribed partisans of James II. and commanded a company of Rapparees.

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