rds tend their fleecy train,
Where echoes oft the pleading strain
Of rural lovers. O'er my soul
Such varied scenes in vision roll,
Whether, O prince of bards, I see
The fire of Greece reviv'd in thee,
That like a deluge bursts away;
Or Taliesin tune the lay;
Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy song
Pour thy ungovern'd soul along;
Or those perchance of later age
More artful swell their measur'd rage,
Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit
Soft measures and the Lesbian lute;
Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown'd,
Thy harp such amorous verse resound
As love's and beauty's prize hath won;
Or led by Gwilym's plaintive song,
I hear him teach his melting tale
In whispers to the grove and gale.

But since thy once harmonious shore
Resounds th' inspiring strain no more,
That snatch'd in fields of ancient date,
The palm from number, strength, and fate;
Since to thy grove no more belong
The sacred eulogies of song;
Since thou hast rued the waste of age,
And war, and Scolan's fiercer rage;--{76}
The spirit of renown expires,
The brave example of thy sires
Is lost; thy high heroic crest
Oblivion and inglorious rest
Have torn with rude rapacious hand;
And apathy usurps the land.
Lo! silent as the lapse of time
Sink to the earth thy towers sublime;
Where whilom harp'd the minstrel throng,
The night-owl pours her feral song:
For ever sinks blest Cambria's fame,
By ignorance, and sword, and flame
Laid with the dust, amidst her woes
The taunt of her ungenerous foes;
For ever sleeps her warlike praise,
Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF HOEL.

BY ANEURIN.

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS GRAY, Esq. {77}

[Aneurin was the son of a Welsh chieftain, and was born in the early part
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and distinguished
himself at the battle of Cattraeth, fought between the Welsh and Saxons,
in or about the year 560, but was disastrous to the former and especially
to the bard, who was there taken prisoner, and kept for several years in
confinement. He composed his principal poem, the Gododin, upon the
battle of Cattraeth. This is the oldest Welsh poem extant, and is full
of boldness, force, and martial fire. It has been translated into
English by the Rev. John Williams, (ab Ithel,) and published by the
Messrs. Rees, of Llandovery. The bard died, according to tradition, from
the blow of an assassin before the close of the sixth century.]

Had I but the torrent's might,