ae a Ss 
_ ~~. 
? BiG HAT sR 153 
Emania’s monarch there, with matchlefs might — 
Wields his huge mace, and proftrate lays the fight, 
Thy courfe of glory, Sweno, who can trace ? 
Thy foe’s deftruction, and thy country’s grace! 
While fhook the brave, no terror Conal knew, 
To prove his might athwart the plain he flew. . 
Nor ftrength, nor ékill ’gainft Hacon’s {fon avail, . 
Yor mafly buckler, nor protecting mail: 
he fatal {pear thro’ fhield and corflet flies, 
And ftretch’d in duft the haplefs warrior lies, 
Unconfcious of her much-lov’d hero’s fall, 
Ithona fits in Thomond’s lofty hall, 
And bids the bards to him awake their lays— 
_ For who Jike Conal claim’d the meed of praife ! 
Sudden, ere yet they touch’d the warbling wire, 
Burft mournful founds inftin@ive from the lyye ; 
And lo! the dogs, companions of the chace, 
In fhuddering terror gaze on vacant fpace. 
Their lord’s fad image rifes to their view ; 
Faint gleam his arms, and pallid is his hue, 
His dimly-rolling eyes on Thomond’s fair 
In grief he bends; then borne aloft in air, 
And wrapt in darknefs, on the gale he flies ; 
Deep mourn the faithful train, and howlings wild arife, 
She marks the figns that fpeak her hero low ; 
Rends her dark treffes, beats her breaft of fnow, 
And gives her days to folitary woe. 
Before his bands fee Neuftria’s chief advance ! 
A bold Norwegian finks beneath his lance. 
As from his fide the weighty fpear he rends, 
On his ftrong yantbrafs Hacon’s fword defcends, 
And hheers him to the bone. His “he train 
Rufh to his aid, and bear him from t lain, 
Of ftrength unyielding, fpirit unfubdued, 
Like fome dark rock that braves the furging flood, 
Emania’s monarch ftands unmov’d: the tide 
Of battle rolls, and breaks againit his fide. 
Now here, now there, he deals the deadly wound, 
And mangled corfes ftrew th’ enfanguin’d ground. 
Norwegia’s leader thundering thro’ the field, 
Againft the warrior’s breaft his lance impell’d, 
Unwounded he fuftain’d the mighty fhock ; 
_ The pointed lance on his ftrong corflet broke. 
Hacon again, his courfer check’d, prepares 
‘T” affail the chief; his faming falchion bares, 
Then forward fpurs the fteed: his mace’ on high 
Fiacha Jifts—As hifling thro’ the tky 
Th’ impetuous bolt defcends, the -blow he {ped 
Full on th’ advancing courfer’s mail-clad head: 
Breathlefs 
