THE

REVENGE

OF

GUENDOLEN.

BOOK II.

CATALOGUE of both Armies. Embassy from Locrine

to the Cornubians.

Lamentation of Guendolen.

THE

REVENGE OF GUENDOLEN.

BOOK II.

WITH rapid march the bold Loëgrian youth

Advancing, leave the Avon far behind,
The Avon then a poor inglorious stream,

Nor grac'd with holy rites, nor poet's song.
Yet oft at eve the solitary swain,

That musing wander'd by the fringed bank,
And mark'd the moon-beam dancing on the wave,
Listen'd with wonder, and delighted awe,
While airy voices in his ravish'd ear

Breath'd sounds harmonious; and the sacred lyre,
Mov'd by the flying touch of hands unseen,
Gave forth her voice divine. For dear, ev'n then,

Dear to the Muses flow'd the gentle stream:

Upon whose banks (while in enraptur'd strain
Prophetic, rang'd before th' eternal throne,

They sung the awful providence of Jove)
The mighty bard they saw, whose piercing eye,
So fate decreed, glancing from earth to heav'n,
With vast capacious spirit, unconfin'd,

Grasp'd universal nature, and beyond

The narrow limits of the world of sense,

On daring pinion soar'd: now sporting light

With mirthful fancy in the fields of air,
Marking the gambols of the elfin train:
Or with more potent voice, and magic song,
Moving the realms beneath the yawning tomb
Gives up its dead, and hell, with all her pow'rs,
Trembling obeys the dreadful spell.

And now their banners wave by Isis' fount.

They pitch their tents. There to the mighty Thames,

With sacred incense, and libations due,

And offer'd hecatombs, their vows are paid.

Slow move along the ranks the white-rob'd priests,
Sprinkling each warrior from the fountain pure :

And with uplifted eyes, and solemn words,

Pronounce the blessing of their guardian gods,
Bright Venus, slaught'ring Mars, and mighty Jove,
And Pallas worshipp'd by the waves of Sture,1
And great Apollo,, and majestic Thames.

Now sable night descends, and downy sleep
Folds in his soft embrace the num'rous host:

But soon the morning dawns, the trumpets sound.
As when some swain, with rude unpractis'd hand,
Disturbs the nation in their waxen cells,

Forth swarms the troubled hive: so thick the troops
Rush from their tents: the echoing plain resounds
The clang of armour, and the shouts of men.

And now they coast the stream, which gliding smooth
Through fertile vallies, washes those fair walls

Sacred to bright-hair'd Phoebus, where three springs

i Shaftesbury, near the Sture, was anciently called Caer Paladur, or the temple of Pallas.