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Alone in nature's wealth array’d,
He ask'd and had the lovely maid.

Dard

3

To Cattraeth’s vale in glittering row,
Thrice two hundred warriors go:
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreathed 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.

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Conan's name, my lay, rehearse,

Build to him the lofty verse, * Have ye seen, &c.] This and the following shortf ought to have appeared among the Posthumous P Gray; but it was thought preferable to insert them place with the preceding fragment from the Gododir

ODES.

Sacred tribute of the bard, Verse, the hero's sole reward. As the flame's devouring force; As the whirlwind in its course; As the thunders fiery stroke, Glancing on the shiver'd oak; Did the sword of Conan mow The crimson harvest of the foe.

EPITAPH

ON MRS. CLARKE.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.
In agony, in death resign’d,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

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EPITAPH

ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.

Written at the request of Mr. Frederick Montagu, who in

tended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which Sir W. Williams was killed, 1761.

Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,

Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame,

Nor envy dared to view him with a frown.

At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,

There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew,

And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.

With

eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast, Victor he stood on Bellisle's rocky steeps Ah, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest,

Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.

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DRAWN BY RICHARD WE STALL,R.A. ENGRAVED BY W.FIN
PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, LONDON

SEPT. 29. 1826.

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