"When the sword feasts, yet craves for more; "And every gauntlet drips with gore.”—

The charm prevail'd, up rush'd the madden'd throng,
Panting for carnage, as they foam'd along.

Fierce ODIN's self led forth the frantic band,
To scatter havock wide o'er many a guilty land.

ODE VI.

THE

BATTLE OF ARGOED LLWYFAIN.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

[Late Poet-Laureat.]

MORNING rose; the issuing sun
Saw the dreadful fight begun;
And that sun's descending ray
Clos'd the battle, clos'd the day.

Fflamdwyn pour'd his rapid bands,
Legion's four, o'er Reged's lands.
The numerous host, from side to side,
Spread destruction wild and wide,
From Argoed's summits, forest-crown'd,
To steep Arfynydd's utmost bound.
Short their triumph, short their sway,
Born and ended with the day!
Flush'd with conquest Fflamdwyn said,
Boastful at his army's head,

"Strive not to oppose the stream,
Redeem your lands, your lives redeem.
Give me pledges Fflamdwyn cried;
Never, Urien's son replied,

Owen of the mighty stroke;

Kindling, as the hero spoke,
Cenau, Coel's blooming heir,

Caught the flame and grasp'd the spear;
Shall Coel's issue pledges give
To the insulting foe, and live?
Never such be Britons' shame,
Never, till this mangled frame,
Like some vanquish'd lion, lie
Drench'd in blood, and bleeding die.

"Day advanc'd and ere the sun Reach'd the radiant point of noon, Urien came with fresh supplies: Rise, ye sons of Cambria, rise, Spread your banners to the foe, Spread them on the mountain's brow; Lift your lances high in air, Friends and brothers of the war; Rush like torrents down the steep, Thro' the vales in myriads sweep; Fflamdwyn never can sustain The force of our united train.”

Havoc, havoc rag'd around,
Many a carcase strew'd the ground:
Ravens drank the purple flood,

Raven plumes were dyed in blood;

Frighted crowds from place to place, Eager, hurrying, breathless, pale, Spread the news of their disgrace, Trembling as they told the tale.

These are Taliessin's rhimes, These shall live to distant times, And the Bard's prophetic rage Animate a future age.

Child of sorrow, child of pain,

Never may I smile again,

If, 'till all-subduing death

Close these eyes, and stop this breath,

Ever I forget to raise

My grateful songs to Urien's praise.

ODE VII.

THE

GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.

BY T. WARTON, B. D.

STATELY the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid CILGARRAN's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,

And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof,

A thousand torches flam'd aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty-window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps, that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright :
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,