PROPHETESS. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come To break my iron-sleep again; Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain; Has reassumed her ancient right; THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. A FRAGMENT. FROM THE WELSH. OWEN'S praise demands my song, Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came ; This the force of Eirin hiding, Catch the winds and join the war ; Dauntless on his native sands Echoing to the battle's roar. Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood, Backward Meinai rolls his flood; While, heap'd his master's feet around, Hasty, hasty rout is there, IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: These ears, alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require ; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men : The fields to all their wonted tribute bear: To warm their little loves the birds complain : I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I weep in vain. |