Page:The Poems of William Blake (Shepherd, 1887).djvu/44

 Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
 * The numerous sons of blood;

Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
 * Seeking their nightly food.

Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
 * Their cry ascends the clouds;

The trampling horse and clanging arms
 * Like rushing mighty floods!

Their wives and children, weeping loud,
 * Follow in wild array,

Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
 * In the bleak wintry day.

"Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
 * "Let Gwin be humbled,"

They cry, "and let ten thousand lives
 * "Pay for the tyrant's head."

From tower to tower the watchmen cry,
 * "O Gwin, the son of Nore,

"Arouse thyself! the nations black
 * "Like clouds, come rolling o'er!"

Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
 * His chiefs come rushing round;

Each, like an awful thunder-cloud
 * With voice of solemn sound: