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 |  |
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For now draws nigh th'Almighty's wrathful Day.
How sad a Day? what Storms of Vengeance rise?
What black Destruction gathers in the Skies?
Oh, inauspicious Day! amazing Sight!
Oh, Day more dreadful than the blackest Night!
See, how th'Almighty comes, with how much hast
He marches on to lay Lutetia wast?
Mark, in his Eyes what vengeful Fury glows?
What angry Clouds hang on his frowning brows?
How keen his Sword? how terrible his Shield?
What temper'd Light'nings do's the Conquerour weild?
How vast his Host? how bright their Armor shines?
How long the Order of th'Embattled Lines?
How great this Day is when, with Sword in hand,
Th'Almighty marches to destroy thy Land;
Thy lofty Walls, Lutetia, to surround,
And level thy proud Turrets with the ground?
Th'affrighted Stars retreat into the Sky,
And from Heav'n's brow and outmost Frontier fly,
Unable to preserve their Posts, and view
The bloody Labour ready to ensue.
The Planets starting at the dismal Sight,
Forsake their Orbs, and wander far in Night.
The Sun so long to woful Sights inur'd,
Owns this is worse than e'er he yet endur'd.
For he no sooner from the East displays
O'er all th'Etherial Fields his golden Rays,
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And of its Light defrauds the sick'ning Moon.
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