50
BATTLE OF THE
Nestling no more upon the bank's green pillow,
Lay rock'd and rolling on the deep-sea billow6.
Red rose the dawn:—with martial clank and din
All breathless troop'd the fiery squadrons in,
And throng'd the place of tryst:—to them upstood
Fierce Crunch-crust, thirsting for the murderer's blood,
And spake;—"Albeit, my friends, the pangs I feel,
Leech may not soothe, nor hand of time can heal,
Yet deem not mine alone the cup of gall,
Wrought by yon Frogs, one doom awaits ye all;
—The dregs 'tis mine to drain—for death hath torn
From me three gallant bairns7, the eldest born
Did fell Grimalkin clutch—unhappy soul!
Heedless of death and venturing from his hole;
The next did heartless hinds to death entice,
With fangled craft and den of quaint device
Yclep'd 'a trap'—the barathron of mice.
The third, my best beloved, his mother's joy,
Hath Puff-chops lur'd, and drown'd my princely boy:
Uprise ye then, and don the arms of death8,—
Uprise and front them on the battle-heath!"—
He spake, and faithful to their lord's command
Harness'd and helm'd by war's grim god they stand.
With burnish'd cuishes first their thighs are graced
Wrought of split peascods and right deftly braced;
Stamping whereon, through all the watch of night,
Staunch had they toil'd, and mounch'd with all their might;
Each stout cuirass a reedy-quilted hide
(From fall'n Grimalkin rent) right well supplied:
Lay rock'd and rolling on the deep-sea billow6.
Red rose the dawn:—with martial clank and din
All breathless troop'd the fiery squadrons in,
And throng'd the place of tryst:—to them upstood
Fierce Crunch-crust, thirsting for the murderer's blood,
And spake;—"Albeit, my friends, the pangs I feel,
Leech may not soothe, nor hand of time can heal,
Yet deem not mine alone the cup of gall,
Wrought by yon Frogs, one doom awaits ye all;
—The dregs 'tis mine to drain—for death hath torn
From me three gallant bairns7, the eldest born
Did fell Grimalkin clutch—unhappy soul!
Heedless of death and venturing from his hole;
The next did heartless hinds to death entice,
With fangled craft and den of quaint device
Yclep'd 'a trap'—the barathron of mice.
The third, my best beloved, his mother's joy,
Hath Puff-chops lur'd, and drown'd my princely boy:
Uprise ye then, and don the arms of death8,—
Uprise and front them on the battle-heath!"—
He spake, and faithful to their lord's command
Harness'd and helm'd by war's grim god they stand.
With burnish'd cuishes first their thighs are graced
Wrought of split peascods and right deftly braced;
Stamping whereon, through all the watch of night,
Staunch had they toil'd, and mounch'd with all their might;
Each stout cuirass a reedy-quilted hide
(From fall'n Grimalkin rent) right well supplied:
