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SKETCHES.
31
Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
His chiefs come rushing round;
Each, like an awful thunder-cloud
With voice of solemn sound:
Like reared stones around a grave
They stand around the King;
Then suddenly each seized his spear,
And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough
To wade thro' fields of gore;
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill,
The workman throws his hammer down
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwin leads his host as black as night,
When pestilence does fly,
