Po Ser RY: 155 
Where’er he rufh’d, more fierce the tumult roar’d, 
Around his courfe the blood of thoufands pour’d, 
Beneath th’ ethereal fire’s refiftlefs ftroke, 
‘As finks the lofty pine, the knotted oak, 
Heroes and kings beneath his matchlefs might 
Beftrew the plain: the crowded ranks of fight 
fun-drawn mifts diflolve. The pitying mufe 
eath’s wafteful courfe reluctantly purfues. 
To one alone, who claims th’ applauding lay, 
Tis her’s the tributary ftrain to pay 5 
Hacon’s brave fon—No equal yet he found ; 
By Deva’s banks he f{preads deftruétion round, 
His lance arrefts the daftard as he flies ; 
His force the valiant proves, and proving dies. 
But fhort the triamph—Uther’s fon draws near, 
‘And fate dim hovers round his beaming {pear, 
« Secure of glory in the living lay, 
No longer urge to fame thy dangerous way ! 
Retire, nor brave yon terror of the plain!” 
‘Thus warn’d Norwegia’s bards, but warn’d the youth in vain. 
Hurl’d from his feat, befide the ftream he lies ; 
Life’s fading taper in his {wimming eyes 
Dim-twinkling gleams: his golden locks beftrew 
"The plain ; while ftruck with forrow at the view, 
His faithful fteed the languid head declines ; 
On the green bank his fhatter’d helmet fhines ; 
O’er his broad buckler rolls the torrent grey, 
And ting’d with blood purfues its mazy way. 
The Briton marks with grief th’ expiring foe ; 
s¢ Perchance,”’ he cries, “ not mortal is the blow. 
* Few are thy years, yet mighty were thy deeds 5 
‘And forrow melts my foul when valour bleeds.” 
Thus he, replied, with weak and ftruggling breath ; 
« | meet the warrior’s doom, and welcome death. 
To {well another’s fame, difgraceful thought! 
Vanquith’d to live, were life too dearly bought. 
No, fince ’tis mine to fall beneath the brave, 
I moure not; for what honour deigns to crave, 
Honour will grant ; and Britain’s generous chief 
Accord my fuit: to footha father’s grief, 
My arms, and breathlefs corfe reftore !’”—He faid, 
His dim eyes clos’d—the gallant {pirit fled. 
« Farewell, brave youth!’’ thus Uther’s generous fon 
Mournful exclaim’d; “ what glory hadft thou won, 
If fate vouchfaf?d thee but a longer day ! 
Sweno, farewell! thou bright, but tranfient ray— 
Approach, ye facred bards, to whom belong 
The warbling lyre, and joy-diffufing fong. 
oe 8 Not 
