By
IOLO GOCH.
HERE'S the life I've sigh'd for long:
Abash'd is now the Saxon throng,
And Britons have a British lord
Whose emblem is the conquering sword;
There's none I trow but knows him well
The hero of the watery dell.
Owain of bloody spear in field,
Owain his country's strongest shield;
A sovereign bright in grandeur drest,
Whose frown affrights the bravest breast.
Let from the world upsoar on high
A voice of splendid prophecy!
All praise to him who forth doth stand
To 'venge his injured native land!
Of him, of him a lay I'll frame
Shall bear through countless years his name:
In him are blended portents three,
Their glories blended sung shall be:
There's Owain, meteor of the glen,
The head of princely generous men;
Owain, the lord of trenchant steel,
Who makes the hostile squadrons reel;
Owain besides, of warlike look,
A conqueror who no stay will brook;
Hail to the lion leader gay,
Marshaller of Griffith's war array;
The scourger of the flattering race,
For them a dagger has his face;
Each traitor false he loves to smite,
A lion is he for deeds of might;
Soon may he tear, like lion grim,
All the Lloegrians limb from limb!
May God and Rome's blest father high
Deck him in surest panoply!
Hail to the valiant carnager,
Worthy three diadems to bear!
Hail to the valley's belted King!
Hail to the widely conquering,
The liberal, hospitable, kind,
Trusty and keen as steel refined!
Vigorous of form he nations bows,
Whilst from his breast-plate bounty flows.
Of Horsa's seed on hill and plain
Four hundred thousand he has slain.
The cope-stone of our nation's he,
In him our weal, our all we see;
Though calm he looks his plans when breeding,
Yet oaks he'd break his clans when leading.
Hail to this partisan of war,
This bursting meteor flaming far!
Where'er he wends Saint Peter guard him,
And may the Lord five lives award him!
THE PROPHECY {49a} OF TALIESIN.
_From the Ancient British_.
WITHIN my mind
I hold books confin'd,
Of Europa's land all the mighty lore;
O God of heaven high!
With how many a bitter sigh,
I my prophecy upon Troy's line {49b} pour:
A serpent coiling,
And with fury boiling,
From Germany coming with arm'd wings spread,
Shall Britain fair subdue
From the Lochlin ocean blue,
To where Severn rolls in her spacious bed.
And British men
Shall be captives then
To strangers from Saxonia's strand;
From God they shall not swerve,
They their language shall preserve,
But except wild Wales, they shall lose their land.