Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?

PROPHETESS.

In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wond'rous boy fhall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er fhall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor fee the fun's departing beam,

Till he on Hoder's corfe fhall fmile
Flaming on the fun'ral pile.

Now my weary lips I close :

Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Yet awhile my call obey; Prophetess, awake, and say,

What virgins these, in speechless woe,

That bend to earth their folemn brow,

That their flaxen treffes tear,

And snowy veils that float in air?

Tell me whence their forrows rose :

Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall enquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lok has burft his tenfold chain;

Never, till substantial night
Has reaffumed her ancient right;
Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.'

A FRAGMENT. FROM THE WELSH.

WEN'S praise demands my song,
Owen fwift, and Owen ftrong;

Faireft flower of Roderic's ftem,

Gwyneth's fhield, and Britain's gem.

He nor heaps his brooded ftores,

Nor on all profufely pours;

Lord of every regal art,

Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hofts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came; This the force of Eirin hiding,

Side by fide as proudly riding,