IX.— THE DEATH OF HOEL.

Had I but the torrent's might,

With headlong rage, and wild affright,

Upon Deïra'ssquadrons hurl'd,

To rush and sweep them from the world!

Too, too secure in youthful pride,

By them my friend, my Hoel, died,

Great Cian's son; of Madoc old

He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;

Alone in Nature's wealth array'd,

He ask'd and had the lovely maid.

To Cattraeth'svale, in glittering row,

Twice two hundred warriors go;

Every warrior's manly neck

Chains of regal honour deck,

Wreath'd in many a golden link:

From the golden cup they drink

Nectar that the bees produce,

Or the grape's ecstatic juice.

Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn:

But none from Cattraeth's vale return,

Save Aëron brave and Conan strong,

— Bursting through the bloody throng —

And I, the meanest of them all,

That live to weep and sing their fall.