Thomas Chatterton (1752–1770)

WHEN freedom, dress’d in bloodstained vest,

To every knight her warsong sung,

Upon her head wild weeds were spread,

A gory anlace by her hung.

She dancèd on the heath,

She heard the voice of death.

Pale-eyed affright, his heart of silver hue,

In vain essayed her bosom to scale.

She heard, onflemed, the shrieking voice of woe,

And sadness in the owlet shake the dale.

She shook the armèd spear,

On high she raised her shield,

Her foemen all appear,

And fly along the field.

Power, with his heasod straught into the skies,

His spear a sunbeam, and his shield a star;

Alyche two flaming meteors rolls his eyes,

Stamps with his iron feet, and sounds to war.

She sits upon a rock,

She bends before his spear,

She rises from the shock,

Wielding her own in air.

Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on,

Wit, closely mantled, guides it to his crown;

His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone,

He falls, and falling, rolleth thousands down.

War, gore-faced war, by envy armed, arist,

His fiery helmet nodding to the air,

Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist …