Page:An English Garner Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (Volume 1 1877).pdf/228

 * Their caps are furred with hoary frost, The bravery their cold kingdom boasts; Their spongy plaids are milk-white frieze Spun from the snowy mountains' fleece.

Their partisans are fine carved glass, Fringed with the morning's spangled grass; And pendant by their brawny thighs, Hang scimitars of burnisht ice.

See! see! the Rearward now has won The promontory's trembling crown; Whilst at their numerous spurs, the ground Groans out a hollow murmuring sound.

The Forlorn now halts for the Van, The Rearguard draws up to the Main; And now they altogether crowd Their troops into a threatening cloud.

Fly! fly! the foe advances fast. Into our fortress, let us haste; Where all the roarers of the north Can neither storm, nor starve us forth.

There underground a magazine Of sovereign juice is collared in, Liquor that will the siege maintain Should Phoebus ne'er return again.

'Tis that, that gives the poet rage, And thaws the jellied blood of age; Matures the young, restores the old, And makes the fainting coward bold.