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KENSINGTON GARDEN.
Roused at the smart, and rising to the blow,With his keen sword he cleaves his fairy foe,Sheer from the shoulder to the waist he cleaves,And of one arm the tott'ring trunk bereaves. His useless steel brave Albion wields no more,But sternly smiles, and thinks the combat o'er.So had it been, had aught of mortal strain,Or less than fairy felt the deadly pain.But empyreal forms, howe'er in fightGash'd and dismember'd, easily unite.As some frail cup of Chinas purest mold,With azure varnish'd, and bedropp'd with gold,Though broke, if cured by some nice virgins hands,In its old strength and pristine beauty stands;The tumults of the boiling bohea braves,And holds secure the coffees sable waves:So did Azuriels arm, if fame say true,Rejoin the vital trunk whence first it grew;And, whilst in wonder fix'd poor Albion stood,Plunged the cursed sabre in his hearts warm blood.The golden broidery, tender Milhah wove,The breast to Kenna sacred and to love,Lie rent and mangled: and the gaping woundPours out a flood of purple on the ground.The jetty lustre sickens in his eyes:On his cold cheeks the bloomy freshness dies:
