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Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funʼral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.


Yet a while my call obey;
Prophetess, awake, and say,

What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose;
Then I leave thee to repose.


Ha! no traveller art thou,
King of men I know thee now;
Mightiest of a mighty line--

vow never to clip or comb his hair, till he should have extended his sway over the whole country. Herbert's Iceland. Translat.

p. 39.

Ver. 75. What virgins these, in speechless woe] "It is not certain," says Mr. Herbert," what Odin means by the question concerning the weeping virgins; but it has been supposed that it alludes to the embassy afterwards sent by Frigga to try to redeem Balder from the infernal regions, and that Odin betrays his divinity by mentioning what had not yet happened." Iceland. Translat. p. 48.


No boding maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant brood!


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;
Never, till substantial night

Has reassum'd her ancient right;

Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

Ver. 86. But mother of the giant brood] In the Latin, “ mater trium gigantum:" probably Angerbode, who from her name seems to be "no prophetess of good;" and who bore to Loke, as the Edda says, three children, the wolf Fenris, the great serpent of Midgard, and Hela, all of them called giants in that system of mythology. MASON.

Ver. 90. Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain] Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches: when he shall break his bonds, the human race, the stars, and sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities shall perish. MASON.



From Mr. Evans's Specimens of the Welsh Poetry: London, 1764, quarto, p. 25, and p. 127. Owen succeeded his father Griffith app Cynan in the principality of North Wales, A. D. 1137. This battle was fought in the year 1157.

Jones's Relics, vol. ii. p. 36.

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 art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;

The original Welsh of the above poem was the composition of Gwalchmai the son of Melir, immediately after Prince Owen Gwynedd had defeated the combined fleets of Iceland, Denmark, and Norway, which had invaded his territory on the coast of Anglesea.

Ver. 4. Gwyneth] North Wales.

This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin ploughs 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 dress'd,
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.

Ver. 14. Lochlin] Denmark.

Ver. 20. The dragon son of Mona stands] The red dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his descendants bore on their banners.


Ver. 23. There the thund'ring strokes begin] "It seems (says Dr. Evans, p. 26,) that the fleet landed in some part of the firth of Menai, and that it was a kind of mixed engagement, some fighting from the shore, others from the ships; and probably the great slaughter was owing to its being low water, and that they could not sail.

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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