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POETICAL
Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The numerous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud,
Follow in wild array,
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.
"Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
"Let Gwin be humbled,"
They cry, " and let ten thousand lives
"Pay for the tyrant's head."
From tower to tower the watchmen cry,
"O Gwin, the son of Nore,
"Arouse thyself! the nations black
"Like clouds, come rolling o'er!"
