England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“O, gorgeous, beyond all that mortal gaze
Hath ever seen! Giants in strength of bone;
Gods in the solemn grandeur of each face;
Gods in the greatness that around them shone!
Each aspect bore the glories that are gone—
The splendour of old pictur'd halls, the might
By conquest, from old seas and mountains won—
The solemn reverence—the homag'd right
From slaves, who still were men, nor knelt without delight.”
The Legendary Kings.

A fair shoot oft will spring from rotten tree,
And sweetest flowers grow from corruption's grave.
And so sprang Edward. Would the mountains free
And wilds of Wales, had never stain'd his glaive;
Nor torn the freedom from Llewellyn brave;
Nor crown'd his forehead with the willow bough;
Nor slain each patriot in his rocky cave;
Nor pluck'd the hero's laurels from his brow,
Where, eagle-like, he pass'd his mountains to and fro!

Then had the tarnish lain not on his crest:
Yet for that he the dastard Scots drove back,
And crush'd them to the mire, where yet they rest;
And o'er each fœtid carcase made a track

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For his red chariot wheels, and was not slack
To drive his horses' hoofs through heart and brain;
And burnt their homes, till all the land was black;
And hunted forth their young, o'er hill and plain;
And hanged their rebel chiefs, to rot in wind and rain—

I do forgive him all. Their damned guile,
Cant, craft, and lies, he stopp'd with the red sword;
And smooth'd the prickles on their thistled isle.
Rank slaves!—did they not Wallace sell, their lord,
And she, their hapless queen, whom all adored?
And their own king, slain by the hangman's knife?
Long since the hate and curse of God was stirr'd;
And now, like Jews, they lead a vagrant life,
And blacken all the earth with lust, and greed, and strife.

They shout of Bannockburn!—they shout aloud!
Who was their foe?—Our poorest, feeblest king;
An army worn and faint, by famine bow'd.
They shout of Preston!—(well they know each thing
Of scanty conquest, and its honours sing.)
But I a hundred blood-red fields could shew—
I could a hundred glorious victories sing.
No more. The curse burns on their craven brow,
And I have nought but curses, and I curse them now.

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Yea, from my heart of hearts, and on the day
I lie in death, my last curse be for them.
Wildly they wrong'd me, and my sullen clay
Shall lend a light to shew the world their shame—
A might to tear away their latest gem—
Whose hearts are barren as their shatter'd shore—
Bleak as their deserts—narrow as their fame.
O, that the stripe might lash them as of yore,
That English swords might chace them forth for evermore!

Rear ye a tomb for him; and plant his feet
Upon the Lion's mane;—and rest his shield
On his broad breast, who never knew defeat;
And give his hand the sword he wont to wield,
And rear the banners of the crimson'd field.
Then, on the day of each succeeding year,
Bring forth your youth, and after they have seal'd
In dust their reverence, teach their souls to hear
Of wisdom, courage, truth, all that high minds hold dear.

Not the heroic race that fell at Troy,
Than the Plantagenet's did rank more high:
Heroic, brave, just, generous—no alloy
Mingled with their pure gold. The eagle's eye,
Strong limbs, great stature, truth, and chivalry,
Were theirs—the pillars of an evil time.
They smooth'd the waves of stormy bigotry,

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And, liv'd as shining lights, when all was dim—
In all their feelings just—in all their deeds sublime.

They bearded the rude Lion in his den
Of tyranny, and dragg'd his castles down.
They rear'd the oriflamme o'er Scotland, when
Her scorpions dar'd to creep on England's crown.
They crush'd the vipers that beset the throne:
And, for the rest—go, dream on Agincourt—
Cressy, Poictiers, and Calais' leagur'd town.
They wore the Celtic mountains as their dower,
And o'er rude Ireland's cliffs, did make their standards tower.

Their fame is as a vision of romance—
The work of some enchanter's magic spell;
Through the dim glooms of time their helmets glance;
Their mailed might on memory's temples dwell:—
For them oblivion cannot sound the knell!
Imagination can do nought to bear
Their glory higher—more their stature swell:
In history's enduring tablets—there—
The records of their fame is proudest and most rare!

When, England, were thy shores so glad and bright—
When did thy conquering banners stream so far?
When all the earth was brave and full of might,
Shone o'er them all, thy beacons of red war,
In all the heavens thine was the brightest star.

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Then, England, for each word thou hadst a blow;
Thy voice was as a trumpet, heard afar;
The greenest laurels flourish'd on thy brow—
O that one leaf would drop upon our councils now!