183
KENSINGTON GARDEN.
What rage that hour did Albions soul possess,Let chiefs imagine, and let lovers guess!Forth issuing from his ranks, that strove in vainTo check his course, athwart the dreadful plainHe strides indignant: and with haughty criesTo single fight the fairy prince defies. Forbear, rash youth, th' unequal war to try;Nor, sprung from mortals, with immortals vie.No god stands ready to avert thy doom,Nor yet thy grandsire of the waves is come.My words are vain—no words the wretch cau move,By beauty dazzled and bewitch'd by love:He longs, he burns, to win the glorious prize,And sees no danger, while he sees her eyes. Now from each host the eager warriors start,And furious Albion flings his hasty dart:"Twas feather'd from the bees transparent wing,And its shaft ended in a hornets sting;But toss'd in rage, it flew without a wound,High o'er the foe, and guiltless pierced the ground.Not so Azuriels: with unerring aimToo near the needle-pointed javelin came,Drove through the seven-fold shield and silken vest,And lightly rased the lovers ivory breast.
