Back the hero, full of fury, Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the Renegado, Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded, Near him fighting, great Alonzo Furious press the hostile squadron, Loss of blood at length enfeebles : Who can war with thousands wage! Where you rock the plain o'ershadows, Close beneath its foot retir'd, Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd. AGAIN, the country was enclosed, a wide And there a Gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd ; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, Cursing his tardy aid-her Mother there. With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look: with such she stands Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits, Who half supports him; he with heavy glance To trace the progress of their future years: MARINE VIEWS. BE it the Summer-noon: a sandy space |