BY THE SAME.

WE N's praise demands my fong,
Owen fwift and Owen strong;

Faireft flower of Roderic's ftem,

Gwyneth's fhield, and Britain's gem.

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 fun, shall disappear; the earth fink in the feas, and fire confume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred-deities fhall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, fee Mallet's Introduction to the Hiftory of Denmark, 1755, Quarto.

• Owen fucceeded his Father Griffin in the Principality of NorthWales, A. D. 1120. This battle was fought near forty Years afterwards.

North-Wales.

Ie

The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his de

fcendants bore on their banners.

Where

A

BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES.

GAIN the balmy Zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove,
Each bird with vernal rapture glows,

And tunes his notes to love.

Ye gentle warblers, hither fly,

And fhun the noon-tide heat;
My fhrubs a cooling fhade fupply,
My groves a fafe retreat.

Here

Here freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the moffy neft;
Here rove and fing the live-long day,
At night here fweetly reft.

Amidft this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No fchoolboy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er fhews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow, or hurls a ftone
In this fequeftered place.

Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,
Secure the Linnet fings,

The Goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel ah quit thy haunt,
Yon diftant woods x among,
And round my friendly grotto chaunt
Thy fweetly-plaintive fong.

Let not the harmless Red-breaft fear,

Domestic bird, to come

And feek a fure asylum here,
With one that loves his home,

* Warley Woods.

My

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall ftore of fruit preferve;

Oh let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have pick'd,
But fweeter far your fong.

Let then this league betwixt us made,
Our mutual interefts guard,
Mine be the gift of fruit and shade,
Your fongs be my teward.

************************

****

T

BY THE SAME.

HIS bubbling stream not uninftructive flows,
Nor idly loiters to its deftin'd main,

Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows,

And bids thee blush, whofe days are spent in vain.

Nor void of moral, tho' unheeded, glides
Time's current stealing on with filent hafte;
For lo! each falling fand his folly chides,
Who lets one precious moment run to waste.