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Drop their blunt arms, and join the dead, Grey billows curling o'er their head: - Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave, At once they sink beneath the wave.

Lull'd to everlasting rest,
With folded arms and gory breast
Cold in death, and ghastly pale,
Chieftains press the rocky vale,
Who late, amidst their kindred throng,
Prepared the feast, and join'd the song ;
Or like the sudden tempest rose,
And hurl'd destruction on the foes.

Warriors I saw, who led the fray,
Stern desolation strew'd their way;
Aloft the glittering blade they bore,
Their garments hung with clotted gore.
The furious thrust, the clanging shield,
Confound the long-disputed field.
But, when Reged's chief pursues,
His way through iron ranks he hews;
Hills piled on hills, the strangers bleed;
Amazed I view his daring deed !
Destruction frowning on his brow,
Close he urged the panting foe,
Till, hemm'd around, they met the shock,
Before Galysten's hoary rock.
Death and torment strew'd his path;
His dreadful blade obey'd his wrath :
Beneath their shields the strangers lay,
Shrinking from the fatal fray.

Thus, in victorious armour bright,
Thou, brave Euronwy, pant for fight :
With such examples in thine eyes,
Haste to grasp the hero's prize,

And tiil old age has left me dumb-
Till death has call’d me to the tomb
May cheerful joy ne'er crown my days,
Unless I sing of Urien's praise !


From the Welsh of Aneurin.

“CYNVELYN, the son of Calvan, descended from a family in Gwy. edd, or North Wales, was a chief of the Ottadini. Before he allied forth to attack the Angles, who had killed his father, and rere making continual encroachments upon his territories, he ngaged the bard to sing his song of protection. Involving his umbers in that mysterious obscurity which has always been found ndispensable in the business of enchantment, the sage prosecutes is task, extols the efficacy of his art, and promises to Cynvelyn ertain Victory, perfect security, and the destruction of his foes. le insinuates that Calvan fell for want of such a protection, and oncludes by reciting the fate of the warriors who fought at Cat. raeth, as a warning to Tegvan, the son of Cynvelyn, never to ngage the foe without an incantation, In this specimen of the acantations practiced by the ancient Britons, we are furnished with

curious comment upon a passage in Tacitus. The præces diræ, zhich the Druids of Mona, with uplifted hands, invoked upon uetonius and the Romans, were undoubtedly of the same character.


WERE I the mystic rhyme to sing,
Did I but touch the magic string,
Starting from the teeming ground,
Dreadful forms would stalk around;
As when the hoary wizard's hand
The circle traced with potent wand.

More ferocious than the haughty boast
Of Tork,* who guides bis Elphin host,
The fairest hine,+ a just reward,
Should grace Cynvelyn's matchless bard.
From Cephan's rock, with torrent sweep,
Bursting o’er the craggy steep,
I'd speed the warriors, man and horse
Should drop before their furious course ;
And straight from Gilva's ambush'd shade,
The patriot band, with timely aid,
O’er the bloody plain should chase
The remnant of the alien race.

See, I ratify the deed!
'Tis just! the Angles' host shall bleed.
Hark! the ravens daim their prey;
Heaps of slain shall park our way.

Before the man whose infant tongue
Fate endow'd with mystic song,
Unlocking dark enchantment's lore,
Light reveals the secret pow'r
To act, secure, the daring deed;
To snatch the hero's deathless meed;
To execute avenging wrath,
Where bolts and snares bestrew the path;
Where hidden cleft the ambush sends,
Or gold the treacherous wile subtends;
And while the foe their loss bewail,
Safe to regain his native vale :

* Twrch Trwyth, the Washed Swine. A celebrated adversa of the Britons, in the sixth century, and a reputed magician, T reproachful name, an allusion to a proverb in the gospel, is applied a prince, who, having been baptized, returned to heatheni practises, or committed acts of brutality unworthy of a Christian.

+ The best hine taken from the enemy, after the king had separat his thirds, was the bard's perquisite, by the old British laws, (Le Wall. I. 19.)

His glittering goblet cover'd o’er
With glorious stains of hostile gore,
And drops of crimson proudly shed
O’er the mantling, yellow mead.
That cup Cynvelyn's hand shall hold,
Gore shall mark the flaming gold.
His foaming mead shall shew the stain,
His foe's indignant shame and pain.

Pillar of devouring fire, ,
Rise! Cynvelyn, point thy ire;
Screaming eagles hover near,
Pamper’d by thy reeking spear :
Binding fate in brazen chains,
From thee the bard his treasure gains;
And powerful shall the spell be found,
As Morion's form that rocks the ground.

O’er pleasant hills, advancing far,
In firm array, to wasteful war,
Awaken'd from the gloomy deep,
Sprites of hideous might shall sweep
Beneath each chieftain, unseen steeds
Rushing to immortal deeds.

Yet must I touch a note of woe ;
Yes, for thy generous sire must flow
The grateful tear : no more he calls
The tuneful bard to enchant his halls;
Meteor of death, o'er Britain's foes,
In war his ruddy spear arose
Undaunted, till the fatal day
When silent in the field he lay.
But if the glorious Cadvan fell,
Unguarded by the potent spell,
Not so Cynvelyn's deathless arm,
Shielded by the mystic charm;
And charms as bold as those I sing,
Ne'er trembled on the vocal string.

Midst hostile chiefs for war address'd,
Safe they guard Cynvelyn's breast ;
Secure from wand'ring bolts defend
Joy's bounteous source, his people's friend,

Dear chief, from hardy Gwynedd sprung,
Lead thy conq'ring hosts along,
Grasping firm, with nervous hand,
Thy pond'rous spear, to guard the land;
While Cidyn from her azure towers,
Inured to arms, thy squadron pours.

Be this Aneurin's worthy theme,
More precious than the ruddy gem !
But tinkling soft a dulcet lay
To some vain prince, profusely gay,
His flowing cup, his bounding steed,
My harp disdains the venal deed !
With oaks majestic, tow'ring fair,
Let not the creeping furze compare ;
Soon should its sick’ning honours fade
Beneath the venerable shade.

In vain should fierce invading foes,
In vain should Odin's self oppose
Cynvelyn's arm; this powerful strain
Devotes them on Gododin's plain.
Cynvelyn, graced with ample spoil,
Returning from the martial toil,
Gave to his loyal bard to bear,
Studded with gold, his pond'rous spear ;
Nor vain the gift, his loyal bard
Shall strike the harp, a great reward !
He too shall have his just renown:
Tegvan, the brave Cynvelyn's son,
When'er the spoil of distant lands
He parts, or counts his warlike bands ;
Endow'd with Calvan's gen'rous fire,
In fortune like his conq’ring sire,

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