Hufh'd was the fong of bards. From tent to tent,
Loud as the awful voice of thunder, ran
An hollow murmur. Inftant at the call,
Uprofe the Danish hoft, and round their chief
(Gorthmund, the fon of black-hair'd Ceowolf)
Impatient throng'd.--Ten thousand brazen helms
Gave their majestic plumage to the gale;
Their lances, clufter'd like the grove of firs
On Maindip's top, fhone like the starry train,
That filent o'er the dark-ftol'd brow of night
In pathlefs orbits wheel. Amidst the van,
Gorthmund, the mighty ruler, foremost march'd; ;
Tall as an oak in Arden's foreft, flow
As are the minutes of impatience, ffrong
As mountains of the flain. In plates of steel
His limbs were cas'd; a tow'ring cafque conceal'd
His jetty ringlets; on his vifage fat
A frown of horror; his emblazon'd fhield
Bore Hela's facred fymbol; from his fide,
By golden links attach'd, a falchion hung,
Clotted with hoftile gore. The next in rank
Was eagle-ey'd Ceaulin, he whose fire,
The great Lachollan, put to coward flight
Moric's vaft hoft, what time the fun, enthron'd
In noon-tide fplendor, on a fudden veil'd
His glory in a robe of blood, and fhades
Of night hung, brooding o'er the deathful plain.
Others there were, inferior though in rank,
In valour equal; Centwin of the hill,
Swift as a falling meteor; Tenyan;
Ceormund sternly terrible, who led
A chofen band of archers to the fight;
Delward, the fon of Hubba, and Cathegor,
Of the dark lake; heroes, whofe glorious acts
"Would ask an hundred tongues to celebrate."
Thus marthall'd, o'er Denania's mifty vale
The Danes their way purfue, then fudden halt,
Whilft Gorthmund thus addrefs'd his brave compeers:
"Ye fcowling warriors, whofe big bofoms pant
For the ftrong toil of battle! See ye not
A dark cloud louring o'er yon mountain's brow!
"At noon a tempeft will buift forth, and rain
"In fwelling torrents fall. Yes, gallant Danes!
"A ftorm will rage, but a loud ftorm of war;
"A fhower prone rushing, but a shower of blood:
"For o'er yon heights the mighty Segowald
"Approaches with his fwarming legions, bred
"In Mercia's fruitful plains, and Sigebert
"On the right wing leads forth the Weffex bands.
"But be ye not dismay'd; here let us halt,
"Screen'd by this tufted wood, and wait th' attack;
"The god of vict'ry fmiles upon our arms-
"Thrice hath the raven clapp'd his gloffy wings;
"Thrice fince this morn arofe." Here ceas'd the chief<
Meanwhile the van of Segowald's firm troops,
Exulting reach'd the plain below; and now
In banner'd pomp the rampant dragon fhone,
Full on the adverfe hoft. Ah! beauteous fcene,
How foon to clofe! Already his pale horfe
Hath death beftrode; the filver fhields are ftruck;
Loud twang'd the Mercian bows-inftant the Danes
Return'd the charge, and showers of miffile spears
Hurtled aloft. Now fhield to fhield they fought-
High rofe the mounts of flain; Ceaulin rag'd
Like the gaunt wolf; down from his fiffur'd helin
Spouted the life-blood, and ere long he fell
By Egward's well-aim'd falchion; cleft in twain.
Cathegor fought the manfion of his fires.
Fierce grew the conflict. Delward's fweeping arm
Hew'd many a Saxon down. Gorthmund, meanwhile,
Wades through a purple flood to where the king
Of Mercia, panting, cut a lane of death,
And ftrikes his reeking javelin through the heart
Of Segowald-he, stagg'ring, groan'd, and died.
But, hark, the fhout of conqueft! Lo, they fly!
The Saxons fly, and Gorthmund rash pursues
The daftard fugitives; reckless he, how foon
The fate of Segowald will be his own!
For ah! a whizzing fhaft too well perform'd
Its errand, and transfix'd his brawny cheft.
Stunn'd he recoil'd-the misty fhades of death
Floating before his eyes-and with a smile
Gave up the ghost!
A faithful band of Danes
Their pointed bucklers o'er the breathless corfe
Sufpended, whilft the minstrels from their harps,
Deep ton'd, pour'd forth this plaintive dirge. "Behold,
"Spirit of death, thy victory! Behold,
"Fit inmate for the yawning grave;
"Lo! welt'ring in the duft, and cold,
"The braveft of the brave!
"Gorthmund! inglorious lies
"Thy plume, that rivall'd erft the dazzling snow;
"Clos'd are those eyes,
"That erft flash'd terror on the foe;
"And crush'd the fine wy arm, that laid the mighty
"Never more along the mountains
"Shalt thou chafe the tufked boar;
"Never fhall thy glitt'ring anlace
"Drink the brindled leopard's gore.
"Oft fome belated hunter, wand'ring near
"The hallow'd precincts of thy tomb,
"(What time the western promontory
❝Is ting'd with eve's departing glory.)
"Bending in penfive fadness o'er his spear,
"Shall muse on thee, whose ashes reft beneath
"The graffy turf, whilft through the deepening gloom "The waving cypress boughs, funereal horrors breathe!” Lynn, Sept. 1799. W. CASE, JUN.
LINES ON AUTUMN.
ALMY zephyrs now are fled,
Saffron leaves the groves bespread,
Cold the gales at morn and eve,
Tempefts fierce old ocean heave,
Nature's face is dark and drear,
Humid is the atmosphere,
Faintly is the landscape seen,
Veil'd by fogs that intervene,
Unenamell'd are the fields,
Odours fweet no flower yields,
Forefts, half difrob'd appear,
Emblems of the dying year-
Hawthorn hedge-rows give delight,
Deck'd with berries red and bright,
Round the elms and oaks fublime,
Yet the blooming woodbines climb,
Ivy on her mould'ring tow'rs,
Lovely brooks adorn'd with flowr's-
Brown the furrow'd fields we view,
Late where waving harvests grew,
'Neath the briftly stubble low
Clover grafs begins to grow,
Mountain torrents foaming fall,
Vapours in the vallies crawl.
Streams that noiseless wont to glide,
Spread their fwollen waters wide,
Dark and cheerlefs is the day,
Skies undeck'd with azure gay-
Deign, O fun! to cheer the fcene,
Now illume the tufted green;
Fling thy rays, O fling them wide,
On the vale and mountain's fide,
Let me view its fummit high,
Tow'ring to the lofty sky,
Crown'd with woods and fplendid feats,
Where the wealthy cit retreats,
On its graffy flopes furvey
Browzing theep and lambkins gay,
Peasants whiftling at their toil,
Ploughing up the fallow foil,
Thefe the charms that flow from thee,
Never then be hid from me.
"Crowded cities" now allure,
Fraught, although, with fumes impure;
Gay affemblies, concerts grand,
Plays, with joy, the heart expand;
Pleafure's wand, with magic pow'r,
Blifs imparts to ev'ry hour,
Blazing hearth's fociety,
Sparkling wine and harmony;
Banish forrow, care, and ftrife,
Give felicity to life.
Then at AUTUMN why repine,
It can give us joys divine,
Morals fit, as forceful teach,
As the grave divines that preach;
Ripen'd fruit, that hang on high,
Teach that ev'ry thing muft die;
Soon they bloffom, foon decay,
We like them shall die away;
Chequer'd skies and changeful air
Shew that perfect bliss is rare;
Man, viciffitude must know,
While he grovels here below;
Leffons thefe, fage AUTUMN, give,
Hail then autumn, honor'd live.
TO A FRIEND, ON THE DEATH OF A FAVO
To tell, my dear Mary, the whole of my grief,
An arduous task would appear;
But forrow on earth, oh! how often our gueft!
And how fhort-liv'd our happiness here!
But whence, my dear Charlotte, this fudden complaint,
Methought you was happy and gay;
With your own little room fitted up in fuch ftrain,
That nought could your comfort allay.
Indeed, my dear Mary, I thought fo myself,
And much comfort and blifs did enjoy ;
How precarious our comfort, how fhort liv'd our blifs,
Which death, cruel death, can destroy!
You know, my dear Mary, what love and esteem
I felt for my poor little cat;
Then, furely, a trifle 'twill not to you seem,
Nor think the can foon be forgot.
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