Weave we the web. Whom Odin's wrath pursues, Rack'd with disease, palsied with icy age, Or basely falling in the arms of peace; To that drear mansion, where her gloomy court To that abhorred goddess we devote The wretch, whose pride neglects offended heav'n. Attend, ye Destinies! and hear, oh hell, Through all thy realms of horror at our voice Rouse all thy ghosts, and ratify the doom." Then all at once upon their winged steeds The sisters rose in air, and brandish'd fierce Their blazing falchions. Soon their rapid course Reach'd the wide plain, with heaps of carnage strew'd, Where sheath'd in arms the hostile nations stood Pausing from fight. For with astonish'd eyes The king beheld the rage of war subside; In social guise, with looks announcing peace. And thou, Loëgria's monarch, noble Locrine, Attend to what th' immortal gods inspire, Who see with pity wretched mortals fall. Oh spare the relics of the Trojan name, Shrink from the danger of the glorious field, Myself will dare their gather'd strength in arms, And with unfading laurels grace my brow. Then let the troops their shining helms unlace, And give to welcome rest their weary limbs. Her bravest warrior let Cornubia choose To meet my single arm: great Leoline, And binds with solemn oath the firm accord. Then each Cornubian chief, whose glowing breast Heaves with the brave desire of fair renown, Inscribes his name, and in the golden urn The warrior hears, and claims the noble strife. Then rose the king, and press'd in courteous guise The gods, to whom our fame is dear, have giv'n, Whose conquest, (and forgive me, generous chief, If with so bright a hope my bosom glows,) Shall with its fairest wreath my long career Of glory crown. Perhaps beneath thy sword Fate dooms my fall. How vast thy praise, when all My laurels flourish on thy favour'd brow, And all the triumphs of my arm are thine! But now the solemn night her ebon car Drives up the steep of heav'n, and parting day Pierces with ruddy beam the western cloud. Since night forbids the combat, share the feast. Repose, ye warriors, from your glorious toils, And draw new vigour from the flowing bowl. When beams the rosy morn, in glitt'ring arms From Avon's banks the fierce Sisilius came, And with Loëgria's youth appear'd in arms, |