Page:The Poems of William Blake (Shepherd, 1887).djvu/43

 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. OME, 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.