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 (i);
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 Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Prostrate Warriors gnaw the ground.
(i) The Dragon-son of Mona stands.
The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners.
* This and the three following lines were not in the original Editions, but were added by Mr. Mason from the Author's MS.
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.
** * * *
[This Ode is extracted from the Gododin.
See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71 and 73.]
HAD I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd
To rush, and sweep them from the world!
Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them, my friend, my Hoel, died,
Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,
He ask'd and had the lovely Maid.
To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'ring row
Twice two hundred Warriors go:
Every Warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar, that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.
Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn:
But none from Cattraeth's vale return,
Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong,
(Bursting thro' the bloody throng)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That live to weep and sing their fall.
THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST*.
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.
* Son of Lord Chancellor West, of Ireland.
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