| |
| COME, kings, and listen to my song: | |
| When Gwin, the son of Nore, | |
| Over the nations of the North | |
| His cruel sceptre bore; | |
| |
| The nobles of the land did feed | 5 |
| Upon the hungry poor; | |
| They tear the poor man’s lamb, and drive | |
| The needy from their door. | |
| |
| ‘The land is desolate; our wives | |
| And children cry for bread; | 10 |
| Arise, and pull the tyrant down! | |
| Let Gwin be humblèd!’ | |
| |
| Gordred the giant rous’d himself | |
| From sleeping in his cave; | |
| He shook the hills, and in the clouds | 15 |
| The troubl’d banners wave. | |
| |
| Beneath them roll’d, like tempests black, | |
| The num’rous sons of blood; | |
| Like lions’ whelps, roaring abroad, | |
| Seeking their nightly food. | 20 |
| |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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 humblèd,’ | 30 |
| They cry, ‘and let ten thousand lives | |
| Pay for the tyrant’s head.’ | |
| |
| From tow’r to tow’r the watchmen cry, | |
| ‘O Gwin, the son of Nore, | |
| Arouse thyself! the nations, black | 35 |
| Like clouds, come rolling o’er! | |
| |
| Gwin rear’d his shield, his palace shakes, | |
| His chiefs come rushing round; | |
| Each, like an awful thunder cloud, | |
| With voice of solemn sound: | 40 |
| |
| Like rearèd stones around a grave | |
| They stand around the King; | |
| Then suddenly each seiz’d his spear, | |
| And clashing steel does ring. | |
| |
| The husbandman does leave his plough | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| When pestilence does fly, | |
| |
| With horses and with chariots— | |
| And all his spearmen bold | |
| March to the sound of mournful song, | |
| Like clouds around him roll’d. | 60 |
| |
| Gwin lifts his hand—the nations halt; | |
| ‘Prepare for war!’ he cries— | |
| Gordred appears!—his frowning brow | |
| Troubles our northern skies. | |
| |
| The armies stand, like balances | 65 |
| Held in th’ Almighty’s hand;— | |
| ‘Gwin, thou hast fill’d thy measure up: | |
| Thou’rt swept from out the land.’ | |
| |
| And now the raging armies rush’d | |
| Like warring mighty seas; | 70 |
| The heav’ns are shook with roaring war, | |
| The dust ascends the skies! | |
| |
| Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes | |
| To drink her children’s gore, | |
| A sea of blood; nor can the eye | 75 |
| See to the trembling shore! | |
| |
| And on the verge of this wild sea | |
| Famine and death doth cry; | |
| The cries of women and of babes | |
| Over the field doth fly. | 80 |
| |
| The King is seen raging afar, | |
| With all his men of might; | |
| Like blazing comets scattering death | |
| Thro’ the red fev’rous night. | |
| |
| Beneath his arm like sheep they die, | 85 |
| And groan upon the plain; | |
| The battle faints, and bloody men | |
| Fight upon hills of slain. | |
| |
| Now death is sick, and riven men | |
| Labour and toil for life; | 90 |
| Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield, | |
| Sunk in this sea of strife! | |
| |
| The god of war is drunk with blood; | |
| The earth doth faint and fail; | |
| The stench of blood makes sick the heav’ns; | 95 |
| Ghosts glut the throat of hell! | |
| |
| O what have kings to answer for | |
| Before that awful throne; | |
| When thousand deaths for vengeance cry, | |
| And ghosts accusing groan! | 100 |
| |
| Like blazing comets in the sky | |
| That shake the stars of light, | |
| Which drop like fruit unto the earth | |
| Thro’ the fierce burning night; | |
| |
| Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet, | 105 |
| And the first blow decides; | |
| Down from the brow unto the breast | |
| Gordred his head divides! | |
| |
| Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled, | |
| All that remain’d alive; | 110 |
| The rest did fill the vale of death, | |
| For them the eagles strive. | |
| |
| The river Dorman roll’d their blood | |
| Into the northern sea; | |
| Who mourn’d his sons, and overwhelm’d | 115 |
| The pleasant south country. | |
| |
