The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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 | The fair Isabel of Cotehele |  |
II.
1.
Tented battle waves again;And glimmers the last streak of day:
Pale from the camp of Bosworth-plain.
The buzz, the murmur dies away:
All is lull'd in silence deep.
Ah! tyrant! what avails thy troubled sleep?
The bloody spectre beckons thee to death!
He starts! how short, how quick his breath!
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Again unveil'd, he sees the sheeted corse!
Oh he hath done a deed without a name—
“Give me another horse!—another horse!”
He cries, and, hurrying from his fainting bed,
Vain fugitive! would fly the vampire of the dead!
2.
His wrung heart while terrours haunt,And dastards drain the rubied flask;
No fears the soul of Tudor daunt,
Where, beaming on his steady casque,
Victory shakes her dazzling spear—
A coruscation from the morning-star!
And “lo!” (she cries) “amidst my Cornwall's sons
“Its kindling course where glory runs,
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“(As on a heap of corses all unknown
“Limbs cold in blood his welling lifesprings drench)
“From the usurper's brows his biting crown!”
She said; and rising o'er the embattled kings,
The shrilly trumpet blew, and wav'd her crimson wings!
3.
Disfeatur'd, smear'd with gore,In dust the despot lies!
No hand to shrieve, or pour the hallow'd oil,
Or soothe his agonies!
The war-dogs that explore
The field, run howling from his hideous smile!
I see his minions in mid flight
Far from where the battle bled:
Crusht from the pond'rous axe, unhelmeted,
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Far o'er his pastures, far as eye can reach,
Far o'er the wildwoods of his native lands,
He hails a mournful verdure—down the beach
A dreary glimmering from the silver sands.
His wild woods stream
A shadowy gleam,
Trembling as they for ever part
With pale adieu
From his dim view,
No more to cheer his exil'd heart.
Hark! at his heels pursuit and terror rave!
Down the high cliff he leaps, and wooes a foreign grave!
| The fair Isabel of Cotehele | |