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Glitt'ring lances are the loom,
See the grifly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights, that play below,
Shafts for fhuttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a Monarch bore, Keeps the tiffue close and ftrong.
Mifta black, terrific Maid,
Join the wayward work to aid :
'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy fun be fet,
Pikes must shiver, javelins fing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,"
(Weave the crimson web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,
As the paths of fate we tread,
Wading thro' th' enfanguin'd field : Gondula, and Geira, fpread
O'er the youthful King your fhield,
We the reins to flaughter give,
(Weave the crimson web of war.)
They, whom once the defart-beach
Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway fhall stretch O'er the Plenty of the Plain.
Low the dauntlefs Earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head ;
Soon a King fhall bite the ground.
Long his lofs fhall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness fee Long her strains in forrow steep, Strains of Immortality!
Horror covers all the heath,
Sifters weave the web of death;
Sifters, ceafe, the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands !
Songs of joy and triumph, fing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger King.
Mortal, thou that hear'ft the tale,
Sifters, hence with spurs of speed :
Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each beftride her fable fteed,
Hurry, hurry to the field.