England A Historical Poem. By John Walker Ord |
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IMPRISONMENT AND DEATH OF YOUNG
EDWARD PLANTAGENET, EARL OF WARWICK.
REIGN OF HENRY VII. |
 | England |  |
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IMPRISONMENT AND DEATH OF YOUNG EDWARD PLANTAGENET, EARL OF WARWICK. REIGN OF HENRY VII.
“He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy, and calumny, and hate, and pain,
And that unrest, which men miscal delight,
Can touch him not, and torture not again.
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold—a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceas'd to burn,
With sparkless ashes loud, an unlamented urn.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Envy, and calumny, and hate, and pain,
And that unrest, which men miscal delight,
Can touch him not, and torture not again.
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold—a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceas'd to burn,
With sparkless ashes loud, an unlamented urn.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
[_]
(I cannot, in quoting from this exquisite author, help lamenting that the works of Shelley are so little circulated in the libraries of the people. In spite of many objectionable passages, the general sentiments are of the most ennobling and commanding character; “every line is instinct with peculiar beauty.”)
“With a general character of originality and boldness, they (the Plantagenets)
were a race often tinged with their own blood.”—Bacon.
“He was a perfect innocent.”—Holinshed.
What, hath that mighty race that soar'd so high;
That trod the Saracen and Scotchman down;
That did the Frenchman's legion'd hosts defy;
And planted on the Celtic cliffs a throne;
And won an empire and a monarch's crown—
Say, can it be that that majestic band,
Those bold Plantagenets, whose vast renown
In thunder echoed over every land,
And bore the mighty earth beneath its huge command,
That trod the Saracen and Scotchman down;
That did the Frenchman's legion'd hosts defy;
And planted on the Celtic cliffs a throne;
And won an empire and a monarch's crown—
Say, can it be that that majestic band,
Those bold Plantagenets, whose vast renown
In thunder echoed over every land,
And bore the mighty earth beneath its huge command,
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Hath fallen at last? The accumulated weight
Of full four hundred years hath dropt away—
Faded, the dazzling lustre, into night,
That mingled with the sun's far-piercing ray!
Palsied the hand that held the earth at bay;
Sear'd the bright head that, in the ranks of war,
Tower'd eminent amid the bloodiest fray;
Dimm'd the clear eye that, like a piercing star,
Shone calm; the axles broke of their triumphal car!
Of full four hundred years hath dropt away—
Faded, the dazzling lustre, into night,
That mingled with the sun's far-piercing ray!
Palsied the hand that held the earth at bay;
Sear'd the bright head that, in the ranks of war,
Tower'd eminent amid the bloodiest fray;
Dimm'd the clear eye that, like a piercing star,
Shone calm; the axles broke of their triumphal car!
Their race is o'er! The banner droopeth low
That once in terror shook the lurid sky!
The casque and plumed helm at length must bow;
The grinding sword must now all rusted lie;
No more the battle-axe shall gleam on high!
Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt are gone!
Richard and Edward are with history:—
Yet shall their fame, as with a trumpet's tone,
To time's remotest verge and boundary be known!
That once in terror shook the lurid sky!
The casque and plumed helm at length must bow;
The grinding sword must now all rusted lie;
No more the battle-axe shall gleam on high!
Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt are gone!
Richard and Edward are with history:—
Yet shall their fame, as with a trumpet's tone,
To time's remotest verge and boundary be known!
This empire, that is boundless as the sea,
That, with its billows, roars to every land,
Hath lost its ancient pomp and majesty,
And rests its fortunes in an infant's hand!
Poor Warwick, it doth make the tear-drops stand
Hot in the eyes, as we record thy fate;
How thou wast born to glory and command
The regal sceptre, and the kingly state,
Now chain'd in dungeon'd caves, forlorn and desolate!
That, with its billows, roars to every land,
Hath lost its ancient pomp and majesty,
And rests its fortunes in an infant's hand!
Poor Warwick, it doth make the tear-drops stand
Hot in the eyes, as we record thy fate;
How thou wast born to glory and command
The regal sceptre, and the kingly state,
Now chain'd in dungeon'd caves, forlorn and desolate!
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Thy soul can chronicle no act of good;
What doth it know but of thy father's clay,
In mockery floating on a pool of blood!
What but of war and the usurper's sway,
And groans, and borken hearts, and wild dismay!
Poor youth, he never knew a mother's kiss;
The eye that beam'd affection's placid ray;
The loving clasp, the passionate caress;
The watcher of his sleep—a mother's tenderness.
What doth it know but of thy father's clay,
In mockery floating on a pool of blood!
What but of war and the usurper's sway,
And groans, and borken hearts, and wild dismay!
Poor youth, he never knew a mother's kiss;
The eye that beam'd affection's placid ray;
The loving clasp, the passionate caress;
The watcher of his sleep—a mother's tenderness.
'Stead of a mother's breast, the cold damp stone
Pillow'd his head. 'Stead of her gentle tongue
Borne to his dreams, he heard the night-winds' groan.
'Stead of affection's tears, the turrets rung
With the loud-showering rains, and storms that sung
Dissonant music. 'Stead of shady bower
Wreath'd by a mother's hands, the black roof hung
Like night above his head;—and every hour
He fear'd that Death would come, and bind him to his power.
Pillow'd his head. 'Stead of her gentle tongue
Borne to his dreams, he heard the night-winds' groan.
'Stead of affection's tears, the turrets rung
With the loud-showering rains, and storms that sung
Dissonant music. 'Stead of shady bower
Wreath'd by a mother's hands, the black roof hung
Like night above his head;—and every hour
He fear'd that Death would come, and bind him to his power.
O, other children have a pleasant home
Of dear delights, this wretched youth had none!
Nature to them's a palace where they roam,
Culling enchanted flowerets all alone,
And hearing fairies in each warbled tone.
The mossy nests of hidden birds they find,
And try to wile the architects when gone,
By mockery of their voices;—and they bind
Daisies for monarch's crowns, with buttercups entwin'd.
Of dear delights, this wretched youth had none!
Nature to them's a palace where they roam,
Culling enchanted flowerets all alone,
And hearing fairies in each warbled tone.
The mossy nests of hidden birds they find,
And try to wile the architects when gone,
By mockery of their voices;—and they bind
Daisies for monarch's crowns, with buttercups entwin'd.
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The rainbow on the hill they fancy their's:
They deem heaven's canopy is spread for them:
The voices warbled on the ministering airs,
The stars that cluster heaven's clear diadem;
Each lovely flower, each gaily painted gem;
Each beauteous insect, glittering in the light;
Each beast that wantons in the noon-day flame;
Each gorgeous hue, each fond and lovely sight,
They deem is sent for them, their heritage and right.
They deem heaven's canopy is spread for them:
The voices warbled on the ministering airs,
The stars that cluster heaven's clear diadem;
Each lovely flower, each gaily painted gem;
Each beauteous insect, glittering in the light;
Each beast that wantons in the noon-day flame;
Each gorgeous hue, each fond and lovely sight,
They deem is sent for them, their heritage and right.
Their friendship is a saintly brotherhood;
They all are equals, and they know no wrong;
They wander where they list, and constant good
Is with them—peace, and harmony, and song.
Brief are their strifes; their love is pure and strong;
Life's racking wheel o'er them rolls heedlessly;
Their heart's the world in which they move along;
And constant hope and rapture round them lie:
O, who would not return to blissful infancy!
They all are equals, and they know no wrong;
They wander where they list, and constant good
Is with them—peace, and harmony, and song.
Brief are their strifes; their love is pure and strong;
Life's racking wheel o'er them rolls heedlessly;
Their heart's the world in which they move along;
And constant hope and rapture round them lie:
O, who would not return to blissful infancy!
But Warwick hath no mother's prayer at night,
Nor sister's kiss;—nor bird, nor flower, nor tree;
Nor stars, nor rainbows—neither hue nor sight—
Nor hope, nor love, nor peace, nor liberty.
Nought can he hear, or feel, or know, or see—
Nought but the dungeon floor, the dungeon wall,
The loathly damps, the chains around his knee—
A blacken'd prison is his father's hall,
And filthy tatter'd garments are his purple pall!
Nor sister's kiss;—nor bird, nor flower, nor tree;
Nor stars, nor rainbows—neither hue nor sight—
Nor hope, nor love, nor peace, nor liberty.
Nought can he hear, or feel, or know, or see—
Nought but the dungeon floor, the dungeon wall,
The loathly damps, the chains around his knee—
A blacken'd prison is his father's hall,
And filthy tatter'd garments are his purple pall!
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Kind looks, and tones, and solace hath he none,
That youthful hermit! Nothing doth he know
But tears and sorrow, and the bitter groan,
The beating bosom and the burning brow!
The channels of the soul have ceased to flow;
Words, thoughts, imaginations, hath he none;
His brain is like a tomb where phantoms go,
Death-peopled; like a tree that stands alone,
Silent itself, but listening to the night-wind's moan.
That youthful hermit! Nothing doth he know
But tears and sorrow, and the bitter groan,
The beating bosom and the burning brow!
The channels of the soul have ceased to flow;
Words, thoughts, imaginations, hath he none;
His brain is like a tomb where phantoms go,
Death-peopled; like a tree that stands alone,
Silent itself, but listening to the night-wind's moan.
Yet Henry—tyrant—murderer—that boy,
That almost idiot boy, shall rise at last
With prouder triumph, more ecstatic joy
Than thou—who, shivering at the trumpet blast,
Shalt pray the stones, and cliffs, and rocks, to cast
A shade and shelter o'er thy blood-stain'd head!
That prince in Abraham's bosom shall sleep fast,
When thou art tossing in thy fiery bed,
Tormented by the phantoms of thy murder'd dead!
That almost idiot boy, shall rise at last
With prouder triumph, more ecstatic joy
Than thou—who, shivering at the trumpet blast,
Shalt pray the stones, and cliffs, and rocks, to cast
A shade and shelter o'er thy blood-stain'd head!
That prince in Abraham's bosom shall sleep fast,
When thou art tossing in thy fiery bed,
Tormented by the phantoms of thy murder'd dead!
That innocent shall stand before his God,
When thou art struggling in the flames of hell!
That innocent shall tend his Maker's nod,
When thou in utter misery shalt dwell!
And his now scarcely human voice shall swell
Harmonious hymns of praise and jubilee,
And in rich robes he shall be clothed well,
When thou shalt shriek, when fire consumeth thee—
When thou shalt see his bliss, and feel thy agony!
When thou art struggling in the flames of hell!
That innocent shall tend his Maker's nod,
When thou in utter misery shalt dwell!
And his now scarcely human voice shall swell
Harmonious hymns of praise and jubilee,
And in rich robes he shall be clothed well,
When thou shalt shriek, when fire consumeth thee—
When thou shalt see his bliss, and feel thy agony!
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Thou, Tower, there's scarce a crevice in thy wall,
Unfill'd with lamentation. Scarce a chain
That is not rusted deep with blood. The groan,
The sigh, the sob of agony and pain
Have echoed in thy courts, and the loud plain
Of madness swell'd o'er Thames's majestic flow!
Kings, queens, and lords have felt the leaping brain,
The fever'd eyeball, and the burning brow,
And shriek'd to hear the death-bell swinging to and fro.
Unfill'd with lamentation. Scarce a chain
That is not rusted deep with blood. The groan,
The sigh, the sob of agony and pain
Have echoed in thy courts, and the loud plain
Of madness swell'd o'er Thames's majestic flow!
Kings, queens, and lords have felt the leaping brain,
The fever'd eyeball, and the burning brow,
And shriek'd to hear the death-bell swinging to and fro.
Strange tales, thou mighty fortress, can'st thou tell
Of passions utter'd in the midnight hour;
What shatter'd visions 'mid thy dungeons dwell
Of freedom, home, and love. Yea, mighty Tower,
Thy chains have bound the martyr's spirit lower;
The patriots, heroes' lofty souls have died
To nought 'neath tyranny's infernal shower;
Yet, from thy gates like kings, and side by side,
They proudly have stalk'd forth, and perish'd in their pride.
Of passions utter'd in the midnight hour;
What shatter'd visions 'mid thy dungeons dwell
Of freedom, home, and love. Yea, mighty Tower,
Thy chains have bound the martyr's spirit lower;
The patriots, heroes' lofty souls have died
To nought 'neath tyranny's infernal shower;
Yet, from thy gates like kings, and side by side,
They proudly have stalk'd forth, and perish'd in their pride.
Meek innocence, with parted hands in prayer,
Hath wet thy floors with tears of agony;
Heart-rending groans have fill'd thy heedless air,
Till grown familiar quite with misery.
Beauty in vain hath op'd the azure eye,
And tore its locks, and beat its lovely breast,
And call'd upon the bright and careless sky:—
Thy chains have bound the loveliest and the best;
Thy blood-stain'd floor's the pillow where their heads might rest!
Hath wet thy floors with tears of agony;
Heart-rending groans have fill'd thy heedless air,
Till grown familiar quite with misery.
Beauty in vain hath op'd the azure eye,
And tore its locks, and beat its lovely breast,
And call'd upon the bright and careless sky:—
Thy chains have bound the loveliest and the best;
Thy blood-stain'd floor's the pillow where their heads might rest!
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Men strong of limb, who, in the cannon's throat,
Would dare its thunder, and, despising fear,
Rush through destruction's ranks, have sunk to nought,
And wept like little babes, when night is near,
To leave hope, fame, for a dishonoured bier!
The meekest maids have felt the hero's soul,
And proudly smil'd, and dash'd away the tear!
And patriots have beheld before them roll
The shapes of coming years, when tyranny should fall!
Would dare its thunder, and, despising fear,
Rush through destruction's ranks, have sunk to nought,
And wept like little babes, when night is near,
To leave hope, fame, for a dishonoured bier!
The meekest maids have felt the hero's soul,
And proudly smil'd, and dash'd away the tear!
And patriots have beheld before them roll
The shapes of coming years, when tyranny should fall!
Especial praise to you, ye noble seven,
Who, here immur'd, preferr'd to pine and die,
Rather than recreants live to God and heaven;
Who, when the gather'd ranks of Papistry
Touch'd Oxford, did their legion'd hosts defy!
Still, still, descendent bishops, proudly stand,
Nor ope your gates to fraud and infamy;
Still be as pillars to this falling land;
The God of heaven protects, and holds you in his hand!
Who, here immur'd, preferr'd to pine and die,
Rather than recreants live to God and heaven;
Who, when the gather'd ranks of Papistry
Touch'd Oxford, did their legion'd hosts defy!
Still, still, descendent bishops, proudly stand,
Nor ope your gates to fraud and infamy;
Still be as pillars to this falling land;
The God of heaven protects, and holds you in his hand!
Thou'st been the tyrant's fortress—be thou now
The stronghold of the patriot and the free!
Let freedom's beacons stand upon thy brow;
And, from thy mantled turrets, let us see
The standard, helm, and plume of liberty.
Too long thy gates, and moats, and stubborn stone,
And dens, and caves, have link'd with tyranny;
Too long the widow's curse and orphan's moan
Been heard within thy walls—let's hear thee now atone!
The stronghold of the patriot and the free!
Let freedom's beacons stand upon thy brow;
And, from thy mantled turrets, let us see
The standard, helm, and plume of liberty.
Too long thy gates, and moats, and stubborn stone,
And dens, and caves, have link'd with tyranny;
Too long the widow's curse and orphan's moan
Been heard within thy walls—let's hear thee now atone!
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My soul looks o'er the visionary past;
Thou saw'st old Thames, when scarce a single sail
Met on his waves, the sunbeam, or the blast.
Thou wast, ere commerce, borne on freedom's gale,
Dar'd rugged rocks, and stormy seas assail—
Ere distant shores had felt the English prow.
The history of empires is thy tale:
A thousand years are written on thy brow;
The mighty dead of ages are thy records now!
Thou saw'st old Thames, when scarce a single sail
Met on his waves, the sunbeam, or the blast.
Thou wast, ere commerce, borne on freedom's gale,
Dar'd rugged rocks, and stormy seas assail—
Ere distant shores had felt the English prow.
The history of empires is thy tale:
A thousand years are written on thy brow;
The mighty dead of ages are thy records now!
Thou hast beheld each rough old English knight
Gallop upon thy pavements in their pride;
Mighty processions, like a stream of light,
Thou'st seen along the thronged pavements glide.
Thou hast beheld invasion's stormy tide
Strike at thy walls;— and heard the traitor's roar;
Thou art the parent of those temples wide,
That circle round thee, spreading more and more;
Thou hast beheld the lords and kings of every shore!
Gallop upon thy pavements in their pride;
Mighty processions, like a stream of light,
Thou'st seen along the thronged pavements glide.
Thou hast beheld invasion's stormy tide
Strike at thy walls;— and heard the traitor's roar;
Thou art the parent of those temples wide,
That circle round thee, spreading more and more;
Thou hast beheld the lords and kings of every shore!
The clang of civil war hath shook thy wall;
The fires of persecution singed thy hair;
Thou hast beheld a proud religion fall,
Her shrines and temples shatter'd without care.
Thou'st seen a murder'd king, the tainted air
Loaded with ruffian curses. Thou hast seen
A murdered queen, the fairest of the fair—
And heard full oft the victor's march, I ween;
And victory's burning flag upon thy towers hath been.
The fires of persecution singed thy hair;
Thou hast beheld a proud religion fall,
Her shrines and temples shatter'd without care.
Thou'st seen a murder'd king, the tainted air
Loaded with ruffian curses. Thou hast seen
A murdered queen, the fairest of the fair—
And heard full oft the victor's march, I ween;
And victory's burning flag upon thy towers hath been.
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Still art thou—but what changes have been thine!
That glorious river now is loaded quite
With brilliant vessels that, all proudly shine,
(Glorious alike in commerce or in fight)
And, o'er the waters, shed their burnish'd light.
Temples, and towers, and domes spread everywhere,
And festive splendour in each street burns bright;
A myriad voices murmur on the air;—
There's clang and noise enough to drive thee to despair.
That glorious river now is loaded quite
With brilliant vessels that, all proudly shine,
(Glorious alike in commerce or in fight)
And, o'er the waters, shed their burnish'd light.
Temples, and towers, and domes spread everywhere,
And festive splendour in each street burns bright;
A myriad voices murmur on the air;—
There's clang and noise enough to drive thee to despair.
Still art thou; but, methinks, a mighty change
Hath come, and, in the calm and silent night,
Thou'st seen the robber and the murderer range;
And lust committed, without fear or fright,
Beneath the blushing moon's celestial light.
Thou'st heard the Bacchanal's rude, dissonant roar,
Where once was calm and peace; and, what was bright,
Is mist and gloom; and man is now no more,
Pure as in earlier times, but rotten to the core.
Hath come, and, in the calm and silent night,
Thou'st seen the robber and the murderer range;
And lust committed, without fear or fright,
Beneath the blushing moon's celestial light.
Thou'st heard the Bacchanal's rude, dissonant roar,
Where once was calm and peace; and, what was bright,
Is mist and gloom; and man is now no more,
Pure as in earlier times, but rotten to the core.
Still shalt thou be!—And shall I, in my swoon,
Dream prophecies? Thou'st seen our brightest time;
Thou'st seen Britannia in her proudest noon;
Past is our greatness—vanish'd is our prime;
The pillars gone that made the land sublime!
There is an earthquake by the sounding sea;
There is a monstrous beast that strives to climb
Into the temples of the brave and free!—
I gaze on shatter'd shrines!—O, can it ever be?
Dream prophecies? Thou'st seen our brightest time;
Thou'st seen Britannia in her proudest noon;
Past is our greatness—vanish'd is our prime;
The pillars gone that made the land sublime!
There is an earthquake by the sounding sea;
There is a monstrous beast that strives to climb
Into the temples of the brave and free!—
I gaze on shatter'd shrines!—O, can it ever be?
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I see a sceptre in a murderer's hand—
A crown upon a traitor's gory head!
I see the harvests wither'd from the land—
The trees, the flowers, the meadows, sear'd and dead!
The rivers all are dyed with blood, and red
With revolution. On the marble stair
Of palaces black, trunkless shapes are spread;
The fox hath ta'en our temples for his lair;
The owl, the bat, the raven have their cages there!
A crown upon a traitor's gory head!
I see the harvests wither'd from the land—
The trees, the flowers, the meadows, sear'd and dead!
The rivers all are dyed with blood, and red
With revolution. On the marble stair
Of palaces black, trunkless shapes are spread;
The fox hath ta'en our temples for his lair;
The owl, the bat, the raven have their cages there!
Men fight like demons in each bloody street;
The noblest, bravest, and the best are slain!
I hear the sound of death's loud clanging feet,
I hear the murderer's oath—the virgin's plain;
And, Oh, I gaze upon a white-robed train
Of holy priests that at their altars die,
Yet, singing hymns to God through all their pain,
That soar above the atheist's drunken cry!—
But, lo! the vision's gone into its native sky.
The noblest, bravest, and the best are slain!
I hear the sound of death's loud clanging feet,
I hear the murderer's oath—the virgin's plain;
And, Oh, I gaze upon a white-robed train
Of holy priests that at their altars die,
Yet, singing hymns to God through all their pain,
That soar above the atheist's drunken cry!—
But, lo! the vision's gone into its native sky.
Warwick is dead—the pattering rains—the storm
Disturb him not; the tempest cannot shake
His charnel-hole—his dwelling-house deform.
Warwick is dead, and never will awake!
He never more shall feel the spirit's ache—
The fever'd eye—the hot and beating brow;
Disease and Pestilence shall never shake
Their garments o'er him; nought can touch him now;
Plantagenet's last stem is slumbering deep and low!
Disturb him not; the tempest cannot shake
His charnel-hole—his dwelling-house deform.
Warwick is dead, and never will awake!
He never more shall feel the spirit's ache—
The fever'd eye—the hot and beating brow;
Disease and Pestilence shall never shake
Their garments o'er him; nought can touch him now;
Plantagenet's last stem is slumbering deep and low!
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He might have trod in courts monarchical,
And seen the festive pomps of regal pride,
And join'd the courtly dance to music's fall:
In bowers, with beauty, sitting side by side,
He might have pour'd forth passion's stormy tide,
And felt love's thrilling touch and wild caress:
But now the grave's his home, the worm's his bride;
Among his shining locks the beetles race;
Death's chilling mists are now his atmosphere of bliss!
And seen the festive pomps of regal pride,
And join'd the courtly dance to music's fall:
In bowers, with beauty, sitting side by side,
He might have pour'd forth passion's stormy tide,
And felt love's thrilling touch and wild caress:
But now the grave's his home, the worm's his bride;
Among his shining locks the beetles race;
Death's chilling mists are now his atmosphere of bliss!
Perchance, if he had lived, the battle-field
Had felt the footsteps of his rising fame;
Perchance, it had been his once more to wield
The faded glories of his ancient name.
Wisdom, and valour, and the tongue of flame,
The murderer's axe, perchance, hath quenched quite;
And the proud heart death had no power to tame
Been chill'd by the black dungeon's withering might,
And deeds of loftiest fame sunk down to endless night!
Had felt the footsteps of his rising fame;
Perchance, it had been his once more to wield
The faded glories of his ancient name.
Wisdom, and valour, and the tongue of flame,
The murderer's axe, perchance, hath quenched quite;
And the proud heart death had no power to tame
Been chill'd by the black dungeon's withering might,
And deeds of loftiest fame sunk down to endless night!
Death comes on wings invisible, like the wind;
His touch is blight; there's poison on his kiss;
He can the mightiest kings and heroes bind;
The strongest warrior faints in his caress.
Goodness and honour, wisdom, loveliness,
Wealth, greatness, eloquence, before him fall;
Through iron walls the tyrant grim can press;
He hath his home in cottage as in hall;
His empire and dominion circle over all.
His touch is blight; there's poison on his kiss;
He can the mightiest kings and heroes bind;
The strongest warrior faints in his caress.
Goodness and honour, wisdom, loveliness,
Wealth, greatness, eloquence, before him fall;
Through iron walls the tyrant grim can press;
He hath his home in cottage as in hall;
His empire and dominion circle over all.
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The battle-field, the storm, the hungry waves,
The perpendicular rock, the mist, the snow,
The pestilence, the earthquake are his slaves.
Sometimes his steps are sluggish, faint, and slow;
Sometimes as rapid as the whirlwind's flow:—
Warwick had scarcely time to view the sky,
And hear the murmurous winds about his brow,
So long abstracted from his ear and eye,
Ere body went to death, and spirit soar'd on high.
The perpendicular rock, the mist, the snow,
The pestilence, the earthquake are his slaves.
Sometimes his steps are sluggish, faint, and slow;
Sometimes as rapid as the whirlwind's flow:—
Warwick had scarcely time to view the sky,
And hear the murmurous winds about his brow,
So long abstracted from his ear and eye,
Ere body went to death, and spirit soar'd on high.
A parting dirge!—The last, the last is dead—
The last Plantagenet! Ye tempests, sing
And shout from all your caves around his head!
Ye mountain-cataracts—ye torrents—ring
This requiem! ye waves, your dirges bring!
Let morn, and noon, and pleasant evening, hear
His memory, like a seraph's waving wing!
Suns, rainbows, moons, and every starry sphere;
Let that majestic name aye thunder in your ear.
The last Plantagenet! Ye tempests, sing
And shout from all your caves around his head!
Ye mountain-cataracts—ye torrents—ring
This requiem! ye waves, your dirges bring!
Let morn, and noon, and pleasant evening, hear
His memory, like a seraph's waving wing!
Suns, rainbows, moons, and every starry sphere;
Let that majestic name aye thunder in your ear.
| England | |