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THE DEATH OF HOEL.
Selected from the Gododin of Aneurin*, styled the
monarch of the Bards, He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A. D. 570. See Mr. Evans's Specimens, pp. 71 and 73.
Had I but the torrent's might,
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
* "Aneurin with the flowing Muse, King of Bards, brother to Gildas Albanius the historian, lived under Mynyddawg of Edinburgh, a prince of the North, whose Eurdorchogion, or warriors wearing the golden torques, three hundred and sixty-three in number, were all slain, except Aneurin and two others, in a battle with the Saxons at Cattraeth, on the eastern coast of Yorkshire, His Gododin, an heroic poem written on that event, is perhaps the oldest and noblest production of that age." Jones's Relics, vol. i. p. 17.
Ver. 3. Upon Deira's squadrons hurld] The kingdom of Derra included the counties of Yorkshire, Durham, Lancashire, Westmoreland, and Cumberland.
Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
To Cattraeth's vale in glittering row,
Have ye seen the tusky boar *,
Conan's name, my lay, rehearse,
* Have ye seen, &c.] This and the following short fragment ought to have appeared among the Posthu. mous Pieces of Gray; but it was thought prefer.
Sacred tribute of the bard,
ON MRS. CLARKE.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
able to insert them in this place with the preceding fragment from the Gododin.
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.
Written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu,
who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Belleisle, at the siege of which Sir W. Williams was killed, 1761.
Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair
renown; His Mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd lis
frame, Nor envy dared to view him with a frown. At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour seal'd ; From fortune, pleasure, science, love he flow, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the
field. With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast,
Victor he stood on Belleisle's rocky steepsAh, gallant youth ! this marble tells the rest, Where melancholy friendship bends, anol weeps.
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the
sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease : In still small accents whispering from the
ground, A grateful carnest of eternal peace.