Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock
before the sword of Mervin.
Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on
his hand.
Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the
roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain.
The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the
howling winds.
Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with
chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet.
Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon
his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his
knees are red with the gore of the foe.
Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance
around him.
Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the
praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to
the foundation of the black rock.
Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious.
FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY.
1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay,
Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string;
Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray;
Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing.
2 If in the trammels of the doleful line,
The bounding hail or drilling rain descend;
Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine,
And every unformed mass of words amend.
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