THE REVENGE OF GUENDOLEN. BOOK II. WITH rapid march the bold Loëgrian youth Advancing, leave the Avon far behind, Nor grac'd with holy rites, nor poet's song. That musing wander'd by the fringed bank, Breath'd sounds harmonious; and the sacred lyre, Dear to the Muses flow'd the gentle stream: Upon whose banks (while in enraptur'd strain They sung the awful providence of Jove) 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, 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, And with uplifted eyes, and solemn words, Pronounce the blessing of their guardian gods, Now sable night descends, and downy sleep But soon the morning dawns, the trumpets sound. Forth swarms the troubled hive: so thick the troops And now they coast the stream, which gliding smooth Sacred to bright-hair'd Phoebus, where three springs i Shaftesbury, near the Sture, was anciently called Caer Paladur, or the temple of Pallas. |