Inflames the air with many a waving fold.
Stupendous gates the massy fabric crown'd,
That rough with iron studs impervious frown'd.
Oft had the rocky cattle's rugged form
From its steep sides roll'd off the martial storm:
And whirlwinds, wasting all the neighbouring plain,
Spent their loud anger on its walls in vain.
Lofty it stood, impregnated with war,
And seem'd a craggy mountain from afar.

Fast by a fire, whose half-extinguished rays
Shot here and there a fluctuating blaze,
The warriors' languid eyes in slumber closed;
Their arms, beside them, gleam'd as they reposed.
The guards alone, still cautious of surprise, }
Watch'd at each gate, and gazing on the skies, }
Repell'd unwilling slumber from their eyes. }

Five hundred Danish youths this post maintain'd,
To fight alike, and hardy ravage train'd;
Prepared the fiercest mountain-host to dare,
And dash from many a battlement the war;
Prepared to hurl the whizzing lance, to pour
The missive flame, or dart the arrowy shower:
Young Eric the selected squadron led,
Count Bernheim's son, in camps and contests bred;
A fiery spirit, never at a stay,
With martial projects teeming night and day;
Alike by terror, pity, and remorse
Untouch'd, he held, thro' crimes, his fearless course;