Sir Richard Blackmore M. D. - Prince Arthur: Book IX lyrics

Now did the beauteous Morn begin to rise, Streaking with Rosy Light the smiling Skies. Prince Arthur rose, and solemn Thanks addrest To Heav'n, that had his Arms with Conquest blest. Then rode amidst his Troops, and one by one, Their Bravery prais'd, and Conduct lately shown. Dispensing great Rewards thro' all the Host, To those whose Courage was distinguish'd most. The Britons in their turn express their Zeal, And to the Prince the highest Love reveal. The Heav'n's around with Acclamations rung, And loud Applauses of the shouting Throng. Then to the sacred Temples they repair, In joyful Crowds to offer Praise and Prayer. In low Prostration, they the Soveraign Lord Of Hosts Exalt, and future Aid implor'd. Soon as their Hymns of Heav'nly Praise were sung, High in the Temples they their Trophies hung. Bruis'd Armour, broken Shields, and Standards torn From the fierce Foe, the gilded Roofs adorn. This Honour to th' Almighty Saviour done, Prince Arthur to his Britons thus begun. Thus far Success and Triumph on us wait, And to our Arms, presage a prosperous Fate. Propitious Heav'n is to your Part inclin'd, And still more glorious Vict'ries Crowd behind. The vanquish'd Foe can't long maintain the Field, But must your ravish'd Lands and Cities yield. Chase anxious Thoughts far from your Valiant Breast, And on your Cause, and Heav'n's Protection rest. A perfect Conquest shall your Labours Crown, And your Victorious Arms, regain your own. Fear not the Relicks of a Conquer'd Foe, Their tott'ring State, falls with another Blow. Now let no Funeral Honours be deny'd, To these brave Men, that for their Country dy'd. Let us with Sighs and Tears lament their Fate, Who fell, while striving to support our State. Ages to come shall their great Virtue praise, Viewing the Tombs that on their Graves you raise. And first the Prince to the Pavilion went, Whither brave Macor's breathless Corps was sent. He lay extended on a Purple Bed, With high rais'd Pillows, plac'd beneath his Head. His Servants standing round their Grief exprest, With old Pendarvan sad above the rest. Cador to him as to his faithful Friend, For wise Instructions, did his Son commend, His Counsels form'd his Youth, and did prepare His Mind for all concerns of Peace, and War. Now in his Face the deepest Grief appears, He beats his Breast, and baths it with his Tears. He wrings his Hands, and in his mournful Rage, Tears off the hoary Honours of his Age. Immoderate Grief in lamentable Sounds, As Arthur enter'd, thro' the Room rebounds. The pious Prince with heavy Sorrow prest, Burst out in Tears, and thus his Grief exprest. Inexorable d**h, at every Heart Without distinction, shoots her fatal Dart. Could Beauty, Courage, Virtue, Youthful Age Move her Compa**ion, or divert her Rage; Brave Youth, thou had'st escap'd, and liv'd to see Our Triumphs, for a Vict'ry due to thee: But all thy Charms by stronger Fate o'ercome, Could not reverse th' Irrevocable Doom. Oh! thy sad Sire, what swelling Grief will roll Its stormy Tyde o'er his afflicted Soul? Can he the News of Macor's d**h survive, Or me, with whom he trusted him, forgive? T'allay the smart may the Danmonians tell, How bravely Macor fought, how Great he fell. And how my own with Cador's Grief contends, He mourns the best of Sons, and I the best of Friends. Our Hopes are gone, may the Danmonians Cry, And what Britannia can thy Loss supply? Then to Embalm the Prince he gave Command, That he might send him to his Native Land. Straight with hot Streams, they wash his Body o'er, And purge his Skin from Dust and putrid Gore. Then in Arabian Spices, fragrant Gums, Rare Aromatick Oyls, and rich Perfumes, They lay his Snowy Body, which they fold In Bands of Linnen, round him often roll'd. Then from his Troops a Thousand Youths he chose, That might a solemn Equipage compose. That might accompany the Funeral State, To the unhappy Father's Palace Gate. Small Comfort for so great a loss, yet due To the sad Sire, and all the Prince could shew. Forthwith the Britons weave with bending Sprigs Of Willow Trees, and tender Oaken twigs, An easie Bier, and with soft Rushes spread, Sweet Flowers, and fragrant Herbs, the lofty Bed. The Roof on high fresh spreading Branches shade, And here sublime the hapless Youth was laid. Such on the Ground the fading Rose we see, By some rude Blast, torn from the Parent Tree. The Daffodil so leans his languid Head, Newly mown down, upon his gra**y Bed. Tho from the Earth no more supplies they gain, Their splendid Form in part, and lovely Hue remain. Then a rich Garment, glorious to behold, Pond'rous with Orient Pearl, and stiff with Gold; A noble Present from King Odar's Hand, Receiv'd when Arthur left the Neustrian Land. Upon the Bier his Royal Bounty threw, The last Respect, that a sad Friend could shew. A noble Portion of the wealthy Prey, And Spoils gain'd from the Foe, on Cars they lay. With Arms, and Standards, which himself had won, The Trophies of the Wonders he had done. Now the magnificent, and pompous Woe, Does from the Camp, in sad Procession go. The lab'ring Axle mourns along the Road, And groans beneath th' uncomfortable Load. The Horses slowly March, and mournful look, As they their share of publick Sorrow took. Pendarvan follows stooping with his years, But more with Grief, and delug'd in his Tears. Then Macor's Chariot rolls, distain'd with Blood, On which sublime amidst the War he rode. His War-horse Rapa, with black Trappings spread, And he too seem'd to weep, is after led. His Arms and polish'd Armour others bear, His Golden Spurs, his Helmet, Shield, and Spear, Then in long Order the Danmonians mourn'd, Their Spears turn'd backwards and their Bucklers turn'd. Then Arthur stood, and with sad Accent spoke, Thus far I mourn the Fate I can't revoke. Back I am call'd where Arms and bloody Strife, With more sad Objects, must renew my Grief. Farewel brave Youth, farewel, till we above, Meet in the peaceful Realms, of Light, and Love. He said no more, but turn'd, and took his way, Back to the Camp, which lofty Works survey. Mean time ten Orators from Octa sent, Arriv'd, and waited at the Prince's Tent. Their Emba**y a Truce was to obtain, To clear the Field, and to inter the slain. They urg'd that all Hostilities should cease, Against the Dead, who ought to rest in Peace. That all Heroick Conquerors ever gave, To those, from whom they took their Lives, a Grave. The Saxons Prayer seem'd just, and ten days Truce, Prince Arthur granted for this pious Use. To Cador's Court the heavy Tydings came, Born swiftly thither on the Wings of Fame. Loud Lamentation thro' the Palace went, And bitter Cries, give their strong Pa**ion vent. Officious Fame the dismal News relates, And universal Sorrow propagates. Pale Faces, crossing Arms, dejected Eyes, O'erflowing Tears, and deep, despairing Sighs, Compose a finish'd Scene of Blackest Woe, The Tragick place does all sad Figures show. The Men like pallid Gohsts pa** silent by, Women outrageous in their Sorrow cry Macor is dead, our Hopes too with him dy. Thro' all the Streets prodigious Numbers flow, And pour'd out from the Gates, promiscuous go To meet their Hero's Herse, with flaming Brands, And Pitchy Torches lighted in their Hands. Which in long Order shone along the way, Disclos'd the Fields, and call'd back banish'd Day. Soon as they spied the lofty Herse from far, Attended with the Pomp of mournful War; A lamentable Cry the Valley fills, Eccho repeats it louder in the Hills. Wild with their Grief, distracted with Despair, They strike their throbing Breasts, tear off their Hair, And with their piercing Screams disturb the Air. Both Troops unite Rivals in Love and Grief, And the sad Conquest seek with equal Strife. As Cador's Love no bounds his Sorrow knew, Who from their Arms and Prayers distracted flew. Close in his Arms he did the Corps embrace, Kiss'd his cold Lips, and bath'd with Tears his Face. A Scene so tender, such a moving Sight, Melts all their Hearts, and does fresh Grief invite, Touch'd with Compa**ion to th' afflicted King, From their exhausted Eyes fresh Torrents spring. When the fierce Tempest had its Fury broke, With a deep Sigh th' unhappy Monarch spoke. Oh, my dear Son! how mild had been my Doom, Hadst thou escap'd, I suffer'd in thy Room. This Sight k**s worse than d**h, Oh that the Dart Had miss'd thy Breast, and pierc'd thy Father's Heart! Oh, that to see this fatal Hour I live! And thee, and all that's dear in Life survive! Oh, how I wish Life's tedious Journey done, The empty Name remains, the thing is gone! But sure I shall not long thy Absence mourn, I'll hast to thee, thou'lt not to me return. My hoary Head with Sorrow to the Grave, Makes hast, the best Repose my Troubles crave. Thrice happy Wife remov'd from us below, You have no share in this sad Scene of Woe. My ill presaging Fears are now fulfill'd, I started in my Sleep, and cry'd my Son is k**'d. I knew too well warm Blood and youthful Age, Eager with Fame, and fier'd with Martial Rage, His Arms in greatest Danger would engage. I pray'd, and oft conjur'd him to beware, Not rashly to provoke unequal War. He promis'd me while on his Neck I wept, But oh, how ill has he his Promise kept? I can't reproach the pious Arthur's Name, Nor on his Friendship sworn reflect the Blame. If by divine, unchangeable Decree, Untimely Fate, Macor, attended thee; T'is best that thou art fal'n with such Applause, Asserting Albion's and the Christian Cause, But why do my Complaints thus endless grow, And why thus tedious my loquacious Woe? Why from new Laurels should I thus detain These valiant Troops, to hear my Sighs in vain? Go, Britons, to your Prince, at your Return, Tell him I live, but only live to mourn. I groan beneath the heaviest Load of Grief, And spend, in Tears my sad Remains of Life. May Heav'n his Arms with greater Triumph bless, Great as his Vertues, let him meet Success. Mean time must we this last kind Office pay, And Macor's Body to the Dome convey; Where his illustrious Fathers lie interr'd Who reign'd by Subjects lov'd, by Neighbours fear'd. Soon as the Sun had with his early Ray Depos'd the Shades, and re-enthron'd the Day. The pious Britons their slain Freinds inter, And on their Graves new Honours do confer. Some with their Spades, and with sharp Axes wound The groaning Earth, and casting up the Ground, They form deep Vaults, and subterranean Caves, Then fill up with their Dead, the gaping Graves. Some cast up hilly heaps, and Mounts of Sand, That for their Tombs, and Monuments might stand. And to th' admiring Britons might declare, In future Ages what their Fathers were. Some Stones erect of a prodigious Size, That bear the Hero's Glory to the Skies. Mean time the Saxons bear away their Dead, Whose putrid Heaps, the bloody Field o'erspread. Innumerable Piles they raise on high, Which kindled fill with Smoak and Flames the Sky. With uncouth Cries, around the Fires they mourn, Where vulgar Dead, in Heaps promiscuous Burn. The Lords, and Officers of high Command, They send attended with a warlike Band Each to his City, there to be interr'd, Where greater Funeral Pomp might be conferr'd, But fair Augusta chiefly flow'd with Tears, Where Grief in all her mournful Looks appears. Distracted with ungovernable Woe, Into the Streets in Crowds the Matrons flow. Confusion in their Looks, and wild Despair, They wring their Hands, and tear their flowing Hair Parents on Children, Wives on Husbands call, Sons mourn their Fathers, Maids their Lovers fall. For their dear Brothers, Sisters, Tears are spent, Servants their Masters, Friends their Friends lament. All mingle Tears, their Cries together flow, And form a hideous Harmony of Woe. Pale Consternation sate on every Face, They fear'd the Prince would soon invest the Place. They oft reproach'd their Monarch's Breach of Word, That had expos'd them to the Conquerour's Sword. They wish'd that this destructive War might cease, And Ethelina be the Bond of Peace. Octa's Affairs in this ill State appear, Such was their publick Grief, and such their Fear. Mean time the Briton joyful Sports ordain'd, For the great Vict'ry by their Arms obtain'd. For Horsemanship the Britons always fam'd, To run a Course his generous Gifts inflam'd. Desire both of the Prize, and loud Applause, The British Youth to mount their Coursers draws. A neighbouring Hill ascending high, but slow, Survey'd the Valleys, with his lofty Brow. Upon the flowry Top a spacious Down, Extended lay, which shady Woods did crown. The gra**y Plains, and rising Groves appear, Like a rich furnish'd, native Theater. Where Sylvan Scenes, their verdant Pomp display, And charming Prospects to the Eye convey. Soon as the Sun, had with his Rosy Light, From the cold Air, dispell'd the dewy Night. The British Hero with a numerous Train, Directs his Steps, to this delightful Plain. Where high amidst his Friends he takes his Place, Who swarm'd around to view the noble Race. Britons, Armoricans, and Neustrians stood Mingled below, the foremost of the Crowd Stood Eddelin in all his Youthful Pride, His Purple Boots were of Iberian Hide, Which fast with Golden bu*tons held, and grac'd With Silver Spurs, his comely Legs embrac'd. A flaming Ruban of Sydonian Dy, In a close Knot, his curling Locks did ty, Which playing on his Shoulders flew behind, Danc'd in the Air, and sported with the Wind. Close to his well shap'd Wast, he wore his Coat, Of Silk and Silver, by his Mother wrought. A Cap of Crimson did his Head equip, And as he walk'd, he slash'd his breaded Whip. His swarthy Groom his generous Courser leads, That scarcely marks the Ground, so light he treads. Swift as a Dove pursu'd, or Mountain Hind, His nimbler Feet could overtake the Wind, Leave flying Darts, and swifter storms behind. Illustrious Blood, he Boasts with equal Pride, Transmitted to his Veins on either side. The Mother Mare was of Eborac Race, The Sire Augusta's Merchants, brought from Thrace. His inward Fire thro' his wide Nostrils flies, And noble Ardor sparkles in his Eyes. His well turn'd Limbs did Admiration move, Where Strength, and Beauty for the Conquest strove. His Matchless Speed the Prize did ever gain, From all the Rival Coursers of the Plain. Next Blanadoc upon the Plain advanc'd And led behind, his fiery Courser pranc'd. Lightly equip'd, and ready for the Race, He marches to the Base with Manly Grace. The gazing Crowd admire his comely Steed, Nobly descended from the famous Breed, That on the Mauritanian Mountains feed. And fam'd for his Swiftness in the Dusty Course, Of wondrous Beauty, and of wondrous Force. And next to him the gay Lanvallo came Eager to win the Prize, and raise his Name. His dapled Courser to the Base advanc'd, And neighing wantonly along the Champain danc'd. His high Descent he did from Draco trace, The swiftest Courser of th' Iberian Race. A Race so famous for their speedy Feet, Eurus himself, was not esteem'd more fleet. So swift they run, that vulgar Fame declares, The Western Winds, impregnated the Mares. Next the fierce Tudor comes into the Field, That did to none for Art or Courage yield. A Velvet Bonnet on his Head, and drest, For Lightness, in a thin embroider'd Vest. Thirsty of Honour to the Base he flies, And with his greedy Wishes grasps the Prize. His well-train'd Courser was admir'd for Speed, Sprung from Calabrian, mixt with British Breed. Light'ning flew from his Eyes, and Clouds of Smoak, Dark'ning the Air, from his large Nostrils broke. None of the Rival Steeds arriv'd before, More Wonder rais'd, or promis'd Conquest more. Next Trebor came upon a noble Horse, And oft victorious in the rapid Course. He gently strok'd his Mane, and bid him shew On this great Day, the Feet he us'd to do. With many more, whose long forgotten Name, Was ne'er enroll'd in the Records of Fame. While round the Base the wanton Coursers play, Th' ambitious Riders in just Scales they weigh. And those that by their Rules were found too light, Quilt Lead into their Belts, to give them weight. All things adjusted, and the Laws agree'd, Each eager Rival mounts his generous Steed. To whom th' indulgent Prince himself addrest, And to inflame their Zeal these Words exprest. Let no brave Youth despair of his Reward, Due Gifts, and Honours are for all prepar'd. Whoe'er are Rivals of the rapid Race, Two costly Spears shall win, their plated Base Glitters in Silver Sockets, finely wrought By rare Engravers, from Germania brought. Their Points are gilt, illustrious to behold, Whence a deep Fring depends of Silk and Gold. Besides a Back-sword whose well temper'd Blade, Is of the fam'd Iberian Metal made. The happy Youth that smear'd with Sweat, and Dust, Shall reach the Goal, midst loud Applauses first, This Golden Goblet his Reward shall boast, By Damon wrought, with Figures high embost. The second Conq'ror shall in Triumph wear, In a rich Belt, this Persian Scimiter. The Haft's a costly Stone, which Nature stains With various Figures, and with bloody Veins. The chiefest Workmen of the curious East Have in the inlaid Blade, their Art exprest. The third shall win a noble polish'd Shield, Three Coursers rarely pourtray'd on the Field. The Signal giv'n by the shrill Trumpet's Sound, The Coursers start, and scowr along the Ground. So Boreas starting from his Northern Goal, Sweeps o'er the Mountains to the adverse Pole. His furious Wings the flying Clouds remove, From the Blue Plains, and spacious Wilds above. Insulting o'er the Seas he loudly roars, And shoves the tumbling Billows to the Shores. While for the Palm the straining Steeds contend, Beneath their Hoofs the Gra** does scarcely bend. So long and smooth their Strokes, so swift they pa**, That the Spectators of the noble Race, Can scarce distinguish by their doubtful Eye, If on the Ground they run, or in the Air they fly. So when the Earth smiles with a Summers Ray, And wanton swallows o'er the Valleys play. In Sport each other they so swiftly chase, Sweeping with easie Wings, the Meadow's Face, They seem'd upon the Ground to fly a Race. O'er Hills and Dales, the speedy Coursers fly, And with thick Clouds of Dust obscure the Sky. With clashing Whips, the furious Riders tear Their Coursers sides, and wound th' afflicted Air. Never Epirean, or Arabian Steed, Flew o'er the Olympic Plains, with greater speed. On their thick Manes the stooping Riders ly, Press forwards, and would fain their steeds outfly. By Turns they are behind, by Turns before, Their Flanks and Sides, all bath'd in Sweat, and Gore. Such speed the Steeds, such Zeal the Riders shew, To reach bright Fame, that swift before them flew. Upon the last with spurning Heels the first Cast Storms of Sand, and smothering Clouds of Dust. The hindmost strain their Nerves, and snore, and blow, And their white Foam upon the Foremost throw. Eager of Fame, and of the promis'd Prize, The Riders seize the Mark with greedy Eyes. Now Hopes dilate, now Fears contract their Breast, Alternately with Joy, and Grief possest. Thus far with equal Fate the Riders pa** Uncertain who should conquer in the Race. But now the Goal appearing does excite New warmth, and calls out all their youthful Might. They lash their Courser's Flanks with Crimson dy'd, And stick their goring Spurs into their side. Their Native Courage, and the Riders stroke, T' exert their Force, the generous Kind provoke. Each springs out to the Goal with loosen'd Reins, Works all his Nerves, and staring Eye-balls strains. In this fierce Strife, Tudor's the best for wind, Shot forth, and left the panting Steeds behind. Eddelin the other Rivals overpast, Trebor came next, Lanvallo was the last. Draco, his Steed, had once unrival'd Fame, When in the Pride, and Pomp of Youth he came; Curvetting o'er the Plain, to win the Course, All yielded to his Swiftness, and his Force. Siff Limbs now shew his Age, with drudging Pace He sweats behind, and labours thro' the Race. Now Tudor whips, and spurs his Courser on, And near the Goal believ'd the Goblet won. When running o'er a naked, chauky Place, Slipp'ry with nightly Dew, and bare of Gra**, Up flew the Courser's Heels, and to the Ground He, and the Rider, fell with mighty Sound. The sudden Danger could not be declin'd By Eddelin, that follow'd close behind. For stumbling on young Tudor's hapless Horse, His Floundring fell, and lost the hopeful Course. The mean time Trebor spur'd, and forwards spurng. While all the Field with Acclamations rung. First to the Goal his reeking Courser came, Next Blanadoc, Lanvallo third in Fame. The Victors by the Goal triumphant stood, Surrounded by the thick applauding Crowd. When Tudor rushing in, cries out of wrong, And challenging the Prize, broke thro' the Throng. The Judges over-rul'd the Youth's Demand, Urging the first establish'd Rules should stand. The Prince confirm'd their Sentence, and declar'd Who first arriv'd, should have the first Reward. But on the two, that by ill Fortune crost, The Vict'ry almost in Possession, lost, Rich Marks of Royal Bounty he conferr'd, And with his Smiles, their drooping Spirits cheer'd. A famous Quiver wrought by Didon's Hand, With Thracian Arrows stor'd, at his Commad Was first on Tudor, as a Gift confer'd; And cross his Shoulders hung the bright Reward. Eddelin that never hop'd so mild a Doom, Receives a silver Helm, and milk white Plume. This Kindness to th' unfortunate exprest, He gives the promis'd Prizes to the rest. Arthur rose up, and all their Footsteps bend Back to their Camp, which lofty Works defend. And now the Britons all their Hands employ, To fetch Materials in, for Fires of Joy. All to the Mountains, and the Woods repair, And with their Labour fill the ecchoing Air. They raise their Axes, and with toilsome Strokes, Fell the tall Elms, and lop the spreading Oaks. They bear the nodding Trees to every Town, And from the Mountains, draw the Forrests down. In every City with the shady Spoils, The joyful Youth erected lofty Piles. Nearer the Skies they raise th' aspiring Wood, Than when before, upon the Hills it stood. Soon as the Sun his Beamy Light withdrew, And the brown Air grew moist with Ev'ning Dew: The shouting Britons, set the Piles on fire, And tow'ring Flames to Heav'n's high Roof aspire. Up the steep Air the ruddy Columns play, And to the Stars their Rival Light convey. Around the burning Piles the Crowds rejoyce, And mingle Shouts, with the shrill Trumpet's Voice. Heav'n's starry Arch with Acclamations ring, While the glad Throng, Arthur's loud Praises sings. Let Arthur live, the Towns and Fields resound, Let Arthur live, the ecchoing Hills rebound The Evening thus in Mirth and Triumph past, The Britons to their Rest retir'd at last. Mean time four Lords arriv'd from Tollo, crave Audience of Octa, which the Saxon gave. To hear their Emba**y, in regal State High on his Throne, the Saxon Monarch fate. Duncan the cheif broke Silence thus, we bring This Message from the great Albanian King; He is advanc'd, to give that powerful Aid, Which by his Orator's King Octa pray'd. A valiant Host obeying his Command, Whose conquering Swords, no force could yet withstand, Who laid the Caledonian Forrest wast. And from their Forts the fierce Meatian chas'd; Halts on a Plain, three Leagues remov'd from hence, Ready t' engage their Arms in your Defence. But then our Leader prays, that when you come, The Britons all subdu'd, in Triumph home, Fair Ethelina may be then his own, The bright Reward that shall his Labours crown. If to these happy Nuptialls you incline, He'll straight with yours, his valiant Forces joyn. Let not the Saxons doubt great Tollo's Arms, Will free your Kingdom from the Foes Alarms. He said, forthwith Octa in counsel sate, A Matter so important to debate. When Osred thus began, Great Exigencies of our State perswade, That we comply with this Proposal made; We are compell'd by hard Affairs, to court Th' Albanian Arms, our Kingdom to support. You know too well, how much the Saxons Host, Is weaken'd by the Numbers we have lost, When matchless Arthur did our Troops invade, What Havock his victorious Progress made. What wide Destruction in our Army rag'd, Where'er his fatal Weapons were engag'd. Our frighted Troops, when he advances, fly Swift as the Clouds, the Winds chace thro' the Sky. But valiant Tollo, rivals Arthur's Fame, Equal their Courage, and their Strength the same. Against the Briton He'll the Field maintain, And on his Buckler his vast Strokes sustain. No stronger Champion travers'd yet the Field, To him or none the British Prince must yield. Kind Heav'n has sent a Man so great, and Brave, From Arthur's Arms, our threatn'd State to save. I would not then his just Desire withstand, But let him know, you grant him his Demand. This Grant to such a Prince we must allow, Was always fit, but necessary now. He ceas'd, and next Pascentius silence broke, And wisely thus th' attentive Peers bespoke. I once advis'd that to preserve the State, We should strict Friendship with Prince Arthur make. That we Britannia should between us share, And with the Princess Nuptials end the War. The Terms propos'd the British Hero please, And all things seem'd to promise lasting Peace. But when we were inform'd the British Host Had half their Force, by raging Sickness lost. Thinking we might with Ease, the Foe defeat, We from the Terms our selves propos'd, retreat. I wish that Rupture May not Heav'n provoke, To bring our Necks beneath the British Yoke. With all our Force the Britons we a**ail, But Arthur's unresisted Arms prevail. How great a Loss the Saxons undergo Our bleeding Wounds and endless Funerals show. What Hero can be found to guard our State, Against Prince Arthur's Arms, and prosp'rous Fate. True, Tollo's Deeds give him a warlike Name, But much inferiour to the Briton's Fame. If we confiding in th' Albanian's Sword, Fresh Triumphs to the Briton should afford: Who after, shall controuling Bounds oppose, To the victorious Progress of our Foes? Who then against the Torrent can contend, And from th' o'erflowing Flood, our Towns defend. We shall in vain our former Conquests boast, The Saxon sinks, and all Britannia's lost. All things well weigh'd, Prince Arthur looks to me As one supported by divine Decree, To Empire rais'd by unchang'd Destiny. If so in vain all our Attempts are made, In vain we build our Hopes on Tollo's Aid. We shall oppose inevitable Fate, And in our Ruin learn our Fault, too late. I would Prince Arthur's Temper found, and strive Once more, the former Treaty to revive. This way we may controul the Conqueror's Arms, And Arthur bind by Ethelina's Charms. This way perhaps you'll stem the rapid Tyde, And gain a Conquest to your Arms deny'd. Pascentius ceas'd, Crida with Choler burn'd, And with an Air disturb'd these Words return'd: We all well know Pascentius Tongue, was made Smooth, soft, and fluent fitted to perswade. For courtly Arts, and fine Intreagues of State, No Saxon Genius can Pascentius mate. All to his Eloquence at home must yield, As he to all, for Courage in the Field. Men of the Cabinet take no Delight, In bloody War, they are too wise to fight. The Briton's Strength, and Arthur's Arms I find, Strike fiercely on a Prudent timerous Mind. A brave Heroick Spirit can't despair, That minds the Turns and doubtful chance of War. Joyn'd by the Pict and Albanian Horse, We're much superior to the British Force, Tollo and Mordred, both for Arms are fam'd, Whose Deeds with greater Wonder are proclaim'd? We too have Heros left that dare engage The Briton's Arm, and can sustain his Rage. My self will meet him in the Field, and stand Unmov'd against the Fury of his Hand. Shall we at last a Conquer'd Nation fear, And long inur'd to Victory despair. Let not our vile Submission stain our Name, And lessen thro' the World the Saxon Fame. No, let the King, with Tollo's Prayer comply, Our Forces joyn'd must make the Britons fly. He ceas'd, the Councel murmur'd their Applause, And pleas'd with this Advice King Octa rose. He straight dispatch'd th' Albanian Orators, By whom the valiant Tollo he a**ures, That he the Britons by his Aid subdu'd, Shall Ethelina wed for whom he sued. Withall he added that Affairs requir'd, Their Troops should join, before the Truce expir'd. His Oratours return'd, to Tollo bring, The pleasing Answer, of the Saxon King. Tollo transported with excessive Joy, Believes no Rival could his Hopes destroy. As if the Battel were already won, He thinks the Beauteous Princess is his own. Glitt'ring in Arms, like a refulgent Star, He leads his Scotish Nation to the War. A Nation fierce and haughty by Success, Which Albion's Northern Soil did then posess. For a rude, cruel People, bred to Spoil, To Blood, and Rapine, from th' Hibernian Isle, Did in this Age, infest th' Albanian Coast, And landed there at last their barb'rous Host. Scots they were call'd, from their wild Island's Name, For Scotia, and Hibernia were the same. Here their new Seats the prosperous Pyrates, fix, And their course Blood, with the old Britons mix. These their Albanian Seats, new Scotia stile, Leaving Hibernia, to their native isle The Calidonian Britons dispossest And by a hard tirannick Yoke opprest; Did these Hibernian, Scotish Lords obey, And felt the Curses of a forraign Sway. This Nation then obey'd King Tollo's Laws, And now in Arms a**erts the Saxon Cause. The mighty Donald, of the Northern Isles, Of Visage fierce, and dreadful with the Spoils Of grisly Bears, and of the foaming Boar, Which hideous Pride he o'er his Shoulders wore, Marches his vig'rous Troops into the Field, Whose thundring Swords, themselves could only weild. By their rough Captains led, they left the land, Where once the old Meatians did command. And where the Walls from Sea to Sea extend, By Romans built, their Province to defend. Stupendous Bulwarks, whose unnumber'd Towers, Repel'd th' Incursions of the Northern Powers. But when proud Rome was weak and feeble grown, Th' insulting Foe broke the high Fences down. Now Ruins show where the chief Fabrick stood, Between wide Tinna's and Itunna's Flood. The Youth from all the Towns that did obey In ancient times, the mild Nomantian Sway. Such as possest th' Elgovian Seats, and those Who till'd the Land, where silver Devia flows. Who on the wild and bleaky Shore reside, Insulted by the rough Hibernian Tide. To aid the Saxon from their Country came, By Dongal led, a Lord of Martial Fame. Those where Verdera rears her lofty Towers, And Glotta's Tide into the Ocean pours. And where th' Orestian Princes heretofore, And Attacottian Lords the Scepter bore. Those where the Otadenian Cities stood, Between Alan*s, and fair Vedra's Flood. They march from Castralata and the Shore, Where wide Boderia's noisy Billows roar. Then those from Vindolana and the Land Where Ælians Bridge and high Cilurnum stand. Mackbeth a great Commander of the North, And rocky Highlands, draws his Nation forth. Loose Mantles o'er their brawny Shoulders flung, With careless Pride beneath their midleg hung. Cerulean Bonnets on their Heads they wore, And for their Arms, broad Swords and Targets bore The Youth pour'd out from fair Victoria's Gates, From Orrea and the old Gadenian Seats. And from the spacious Caledonian Wood, And where Cebinus rolls his rapid Flood. These Troops were by the fierce Congellar led, Of Malcol's Royal Stock the famous Head. Who first from wild Jerne wafted o'er, His barb'rous Engines to th' Albanian Shore. Those from the Vicomagians Cities came, From high Banatia, and from ancient Tame. And they who dwelt on either verdant Bank Of Longo's Stream, and those that Itys drank. With those that stretcht along the western Coast, To whom the old Creonian Towns were lost, Where high Epidium midst th' Hibernian Waves, Protrudes his Head, and all their Monsters braves. Those from the Towns along the flowry Side Of Northern Tinna, and fair Tava's Tide. Where once the happy Venicontes dwelt, Before the forraign Conquerours Yoke was felt. There was a northern Nation fierce and bold, On whose dy'd Bodies, fearful to behold, Wild Beasts inscrib'd, and ravenous Birds were born, Which their vast Limbs did dreadfully adorn. So fierce they seem'd, as ready to devour, The naked Limbs, that the wild Monsters bore. Their Hieroglyphick Armies, stain'd and smear'd With various Colours, and strange Forms appear'd In Pageant Armour, and in painted State, Like Troops of Heralds, who on Triumphs wait. This Nation Picts were call'd, who wafted o'er From Scandinavia, and the bleaky Shore Of Southern Scythia, did these Seas infest, And with their Fleets, the British Coast molest. Their Pyracy's by Sea, and Thefts by Land, Th' exhausted Britons did in vain withstand. No more of Rome's declining Power afraid, They did the weak, defenceless Isle invade. Th' affrighted Briton from the Shore retreats, And leaves the Conquerour his abandon'd Seats. Their King at Pleasure, this fierce Nation made, And Mordred now th' imperial Scepter sway'd. He to King Tollo by his Queen ally'd, And now by closer Bonds of Interest ty'd. Commands his Men, to take their Shield and Launce, And with the Scotish Army to advance. They march'd, who then possest the Hilly Land, Which th' ancient Carnonatian did command. From Ricine, and the frozen Hebudes, Lav'd by the loud Deucaledonian Seas. From all the Towns whence their victorious Sword, Forc'd the Carenian Prince, the rightful Lord. Where the wild Hiperborean Ocean raves, And on the Rocks breaks his tempestuous Waves. They came who then the Mertian Cities fill'd, And held the Lands that once the Logian till'd. They left the Soil where swift Tuesis flows, Where Grampius stands in everlasting Snows, Which like the fam'd Riphean Hills appears, And with his Head divides the neighb'ring Spheres. From all the Land where Loxa's Current flows, Which Vara's, and Tuesis streams inclose. Where once the bold Decantians did reside, And from their Hills the Power of Rome defy'd. These with the Saxon Troops their Arms unite Who so well reinforc'd prepare for Fight; While wounded in his Tent King Octa staid, King Tollo, as their Leader, all obey'd.