King Arthur An Heroick Poem. In Twelve Books. By Richard Blackmore. To which is Annexed, An Index, Explaining the Names of Countrys, Citys, and Rivers, &c |
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 | King Arthur |  |
While beauteous Celon with a loosen'd Rein,
Flew from the Conquering King across the Plain;
His Courser slipt, and fell by luckless Chance,
To take his Life the Monarch did advance.
When old Velino who together fled,
The Danger saw, he turn'd his Courser's Head;
Beneath the Victor's Feet himself he threw,
And for his Son Young Celon thus did sue.
O spare the Youth, and let, Victorious Prince,
Compassion joyn'd with Power, the World convince,
That by Heroic Enterprises you,
Laurels, but not with Cruelty, pursue.
The Gallic Forces to your Valour yield,
And with inglorious Rout o'erspread the Field.
If you in Pity give, as I entreat,
The Youth his Life, your Vict'ry's still compleat.
He's not a Frank sprung from Germanic Race,
But from the Gauls who first possest this place.
His Mother was to Christian Faith inclin'd,
And he was ever to the Christians Kind.
Three of his Brothers on the Field lie slain,
This Son of Nine do's now alone remain;
My only Comfort, and my only Hope,
Of my declining Age the single Prop.
Pity my hoary Head, his blooming years,
The Son's true Virtue, and the Father's Tears.
Pity, if you a Father are, express
To a sad Father in such vast distress:
At least the tender Passion you may know,
Thinking on that your Father show'd to you.
Avert, great Prince, from Celon's Breast your Dart,
Strike rather than the Son's, the Father's Heart.
Flew from the Conquering King across the Plain;
His Courser slipt, and fell by luckless Chance,
To take his Life the Monarch did advance.
When old Velino who together fled,
The Danger saw, he turn'd his Courser's Head;
Beneath the Victor's Feet himself he threw,
And for his Son Young Celon thus did sue.
O spare the Youth, and let, Victorious Prince,
Compassion joyn'd with Power, the World convince,
That by Heroic Enterprises you,
Laurels, but not with Cruelty, pursue.
The Gallic Forces to your Valour yield,
And with inglorious Rout o'erspread the Field.
If you in Pity give, as I entreat,
The Youth his Life, your Vict'ry's still compleat.
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But from the Gauls who first possest this place.
His Mother was to Christian Faith inclin'd,
And he was ever to the Christians Kind.
Three of his Brothers on the Field lie slain,
This Son of Nine do's now alone remain;
My only Comfort, and my only Hope,
Of my declining Age the single Prop.
Pity my hoary Head, his blooming years,
The Son's true Virtue, and the Father's Tears.
Pity, if you a Father are, express
To a sad Father in such vast distress:
At least the tender Passion you may know,
Thinking on that your Father show'd to you.
Avert, great Prince, from Celon's Breast your Dart,
Strike rather than the Son's, the Father's Heart.
| King Arthur | |