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ODE XI.

THE

DEATH OF HOEL.

From the Welch®.

AD I but the torrent's might,
With headlong rage and wild affright
Upon Deïra's squadrons hurld,
To rush, and sweep them from the world!

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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;

* Of Aneurim, styled the Monarch of the Bards. He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A. D. 570. This Ode is extracted from the Gododin, (See Mr. Evans's Specimens, p. 71 and 73) and now first published

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 extatic 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.

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SONNET*

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST,

IN vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,

And redd’ning Phæbus lifts his golden fire:

The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or chearful 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 chear,

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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* Now first published. See Memoirs, Sect. 8.

EPITAPH I.

ON

* MRS. CLARKE.

Lo! where this silent Marble weeps,
A Friend, a Wife, a Mother sleeps:
A Heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful Virtues lov'd to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there."
In
agony,

in death resign’d,
She felt the Wound she left behind.
Her infant Image, here below,
Sits smiling on a Father's woe:

* This Lady, the Wife of Dr. Clarke, Physician at Epsom, died April 27, 1757; and is buried in the Church of Beckenham, Kent.

Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A Pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A Sigh; an unavailing Tear;
'Till Time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With Life, with Memory, and with Love.

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