Philosophizing thus, the hours were lost, Till war’s horn blew, and Brudeus graspt the spear; For valiant Arthur’s Bacchanalian host Have left their Christmas-pie for rougher cheer; The Scot and Pict invading warfare bear, And drive the Table-knights to Humber’s flood;— Their monarch slain, the Britons yield through fear, While the sun shone at noon array’d in blood, And York’s esculent herbs gleam’d crimson from the bud.