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While, like a tutelary Power,
He there stands fixed, from hour to hour.
Yet sometimes, in more humble guise,
Stretched out upon the ground he lies,—
As if it were his only task
Like Herdsman in the sun to bask,
Or by his mantle’s help to find
A shelter from the nipping wind:
And thus, with short oblivion blest,
His weary spirits gather rest.
Again he lifts his eyes; and lo!
The pageant glancing to and fro;
And hope is wakened by the sight
That he thence may learn, ere fall of night,
Which way the tide is doomed to flow.
To London were the Chieftains bent;
But what avails the bold intent?
A Royal army is gone forth
To quell the Rising of the North;
