Classic Poem

XXVIII

Hark, how the blusterers of the Bear,
Their Gibbouse Cheeks in triumph tear,
And with continued Shouts do ring
The entry of their Palsy'd King.

XXIX

The Squadron nearest to your Eye,
Is his Forlorn of Infantry,
Bow-men of unrelenting Minds,
Whose Shafts are Feathered with the Winds.

XXX

Now you may see his Van-guard rise
Above the beachy Precipice,
Bold Horse on bleakest Mountains bred
With Hail instead of Provend fed.

XXXI

Their Launces are the pointed Locks,
Torn from the Brows of Frozen Rocks,
Their Shields are Chrystal as their Swords,
The Steel the crusted Rock affords.

XXXII

See the main Body now appears,
And hark the Æolian Trumpeters,
By their Hoarse Levets do declare,
That the bold General Rides there.

XXXIII

And look where Mantled up in White,
He sleads it like the Muscovite ;
I know him by the Port he bears,
And his Life-guard of Mountaineers.

XXXIV

Their Caps are Fur'd with Hoary Frosts,
The Bravery their cold Kingdom boasts;
Their spumy Plads are Milk White Frieze,
Spun from the Snowy Mountains Fleece.

XXXV

Their Partizans are fine carved Glass,
Fringed with the Mornings spangled Grass;
And Pendant by their brawny Thighs,
Hang Cimetars of burnisht Ice.

XXXVI

See, see, the Reer-ward now has won
The Promontories trembling Crown,
Whilst at their numerous Spurs, the Ground
Groans out a hollow murmering sound.