The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Thousands of helmets, lances, swords, and spears,
Arrows, and breast-plates, and unnumbered shields,
Each stained with gore among the slain appears,
And richest gems are spread upon the fields.
At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields,
And eyes that seldom weep are wet with tears;
Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched plain
Groaned with the mighty burden of the slain!
The widows wept—but women soon forget
Their former husbands, when in dust they're lain;
Their cheeks with tears a month or two are wet,
But love within their bosoms lights again:
They reason thus—“We live not by the slain;
These ne'er return, though widows we remain:”
This did the bard observe through wasting years,
And placed but little faith in woman's tears.
Sad was the morning of the mournful day,
When relatives the dead and dying found;
Some from the field were lifeless borne away,
The rest promiscuous hurried to the ground.
And many—far from their loved place of birth,
By hands of foes were tumbled into earth.
To lighter strains the bard his harp now strung,
For he too much of bloody scenes had sung.
Arrows, and breast-plates, and unnumbered shields,
Each stained with gore among the slain appears,
And richest gems are spread upon the fields.
At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields,
And eyes that seldom weep are wet with tears;
Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched plain
Groaned with the mighty burden of the slain!
The widows wept—but women soon forget
Their former husbands, when in dust they're lain;
Their cheeks with tears a month or two are wet,
But love within their bosoms lights again:
They reason thus—“We live not by the slain;
These ne'er return, though widows we remain:”
This did the bard observe through wasting years,
And placed but little faith in woman's tears.
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When relatives the dead and dying found;
Some from the field were lifeless borne away,
The rest promiscuous hurried to the ground.
And many—far from their loved place of birth,
By hands of foes were tumbled into earth.
To lighter strains the bard his harp now strung,
For he too much of bloody scenes had sung.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |