 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton
|  |
|
CXXII.
[Hur.]
The battle lost a battle was indeed;
Not fiends themselves could stand so hard a fray:
Our very armour and our helms did bleed,
The Dacian's sprites, like dew-drops, fled away.
It was an Ælla did command the day;
In spite of foeman, I must say his might.
But we in peasant's blood the loss will pay,
Shewing that we know how to win in fight.
We will, like wolves enloosed from chains, destroy,
Our arms, like winter night, shut out the day of joy.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton
| |
|
