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Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come To break my iron-sleep again ; Till Lok lias burst his tenfold chain ; Never, till substantial Night Has reassumed her ancient right; Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world.




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 heart, Liberal hand, and open


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 plows the wat’ry 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 glitt'ring arms and glory drest, High he rears his ruby crest. There the thund'ring strokes begin, There the press, and there the din ; Talymalfra's rocky shore 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, Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground. Where his glowing eye-balls 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.


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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.

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