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SKETCHES.
21
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few!
GWIN, KING OF NORWAY.
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
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;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down,
Let Gwin be humbled.
Gordred the giant roused himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubled banners wave.
