HAD I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage and wild affright Upon Deira's squadrons 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's vale in glitt'ring row Thrice two hundred Warriors goe; 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 Aeron brave, and Conan strong, (Bursting thro' the bloody throng) And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep, and sing their fall. |