Feeling to where mine urgent blade,
Yclept by fame Yglaramene,
Slapt at my sinewy thigh, I drew it,
And flasht it in the pensive Moon.
Record me now what then befell!
The sickening stars waxt pale with fear;
The moon, tost in a sea of clouds,
Was nauseate; and the giant hills
Lookt and shock-headed grew with fright;
Eyed meteors stood in air dissolving,