On seeing the Ruins of Ivor Hael’s Palace.
Amidst its alders Ivor’s palace lies,
In heaps of ruins to my wondering eyes;
Where greatness dwelt in pomp, now thistles reign,
And prickly thorns assert their wide domain.
No longer Bards inspired, thy tables grace.
Nor hospitable deeds adorn the place;
No more the generous owner gives his gold
To modest merit, as to Bards of old.
In plaintive verse his Ivor—Gwilym moans,
His Patron lost the pensive Poet groans;
What mighty loss, that Ivor’s lofty hall,
Should now with schreeching owls rehearse its fall!
Attend, ye great, and hear the solemn sound,
How short your greatness this proclaims around,
Strange that such pride should fill the human breast,
Yon mouldering walls the vanity attest.
A Letter from Mr. Thomas Carte to the Rev. Evan Evans.
Dear Sir,
I cannot sufficiently acknowledge Sir Thomas Mostyn’s kindness, in the trouble he has taken, of sending up the catalogue of his historical MSS. and in his obliging offer of communicating them to me. Those which I am desirous to see more than the rest, are these, viz.—
“The Annals of the Abbey of Chester, to a.d. 1297.
“Beda de Gestis Anglorum, if it be a different work from his Chronicon and Ecclesiastical History. It is the same.