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Fainty and weak with languid arms they close,
And staggering grapple with the staggering foes,
So when an oak falls headlong on the lake,
The troubled waters, slowly settling, shake:
So faints the languid combat on the plain,
And settling staggers o'er the heaps of slain.
Again the Lusian fury wakes its fires,
The terror of the Moors new strength inspires;
The scatter'd few in wild confusion fly,
And total rout resounds the yelling cry.
Defiled with one wide sheet of reeking gore,
The verdure of the lawn appears no more:
In bubbling streams the lazy currents run,
And shoot red flames beneath the evening sun.
With spoils enrich'd, with glorious trophies crown'd,
The heaven-made sovereign on the battle ground
Three
