 | Poems |  |
Again fasten'd up, one and all, in the chaise,
To remembrance I call'd our friend's elegant lays,
And in fancy convers'd with my muse-loving comrade,
While my features for joy, as I sat on my bum, ray'd:
Nor had we far travell'd the rocky-rough road,
Ere his verses suggested the thought of an ode;
In which, as I painted druidical stones,
And urns but half-bak'd, full of ashes and bones,
I rais'd up my Britons, to fill with affright
Pale Rome, amid all the scyth'd fury of fight.
To remembrance I call'd our friend's elegant lays,
And in fancy convers'd with my muse-loving comrade,
While my features for joy, as I sat on my bum, ray'd:
Nor had we far travell'd the rocky-rough road,
Ere his verses suggested the thought of an ode;
In which, as I painted druidical stones,
And urns but half-bak'd, full of ashes and bones,
I rais'd up my Britons, to fill with affright
Pale Rome, amid all the scyth'd fury of fight.
| Poems | |