Poems original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

To Edward, his first-born, 'mid scenes of blood and tears,
(First prince of conquer'd Wales,) he left, in Thirteen-seven, his cares.
Twice ten unhappy years, he of Caernarvon held
The sceptre, like a trembling reed, by every gust impell'd;
Enslaved to base delights, by baser minions led,
Wallowing in glutton's filthy sty, and stew'd in sluggard's bed.
'Gainst him his barons bold their blushing banners bore,
And with them “the she-wolf of France” her husband's entrails tore.
As when awhile the sun curtain'd with cloudy red
Reposes on the orient wave—then, rushing from his bed,
Flames forth on all around, the glorious lord of day,
So the third Edward, rising, chased rebellion's fumes away;
His wolf-like mother tamed in penitential bower,

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And to a sterner fate consign'd her bloody paramour;
Then urged his claim, by birth, to Gaul's disputed throne,
Repelling Valois' boastful taunts with freedom's loftiest tone.
Victor o'er half the world array'd on Cressy's field,
He made them to his English bow the foremost honours yield:
France yet beheld the sire exceeded by the son,
Who on famed Poictiers' day renew'd the wreath at Cressy won.
Then brightest shone the star, we never more shall see
Except in memory's faithful glass, of ancient chivalry;
By whose reflected light, whoe'er would justly view
The deeds of those romantic days must history's line pursue—
Not weigh the amount of blood and crime in scales precise,
But ask how dear was glory deem'd ere they condemn the price.
Yet soon or late high heaven will vindicate its sway,
Abase the crest of full-blown pomp, and make the proud obey.
Thus England learn'd to mourn her sable warrior dead,
While dotage laid her palsied hand on Edward's laurell'd head.
The sun in clouds is set; but bright the morning smiles

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That hails his grandson Richard lord of Britain's favour'd isles.
“Fair laughs” that rosy morn, and “soft the zephyrs play,”
While, gliding o'er the glassy waves, the bark pursues its way:
The gaily painted bark bounds o'er the liquid realm,
While fond youth frolics at the prow, and pleasure guides the helm;
Fit emblem, poor Bordeaux, of thine inconstant soul,
That tempted still the fate it own'd no virtue to control.