Metrical essays :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is believed Richard III, had a natural son, who, on the eve of the battle of Bosworth field, obtained an audience with the king, wherein he acknowledged him; and in the event of the battle proving successful, gave his royal word to receive him as his son amid his assembled peers. In this well-remembered battle (which lasted only two hours) Richard was slain: his son passed the rest of his life in obscurity and indigence.

I

Night veil'd the battle plain!—
O'er heaven and earth watch'd night;
Falchions were sheathed—the martial strain
Died with the proud sunlight:
Silent and calm the pale tents lay,
While voiceless war slept night away.

II

Richard, in frowning thought,
Sat 'neath his purple tent;
His brow with some dark doom seem'd fraught—
Terror and sadness blent.
One knelt before his feet in awe;
He gazed—yet recked not what he saw.

III

Dimly the silver lamp
Lighted his waving hair
And faded cheek—the iron stamp
Of death had settled there;
His breastplate shook beneath its sway,
As some deep, hidden grief had way.

IV

Then passed his hour of pride;
He knew that injured one—
He clasped him in his arms and cried,
My son—my son—my son!—
Remorse and love long conflict kept:
He groan'd in thought—he saw—and wept.

V

“Pride” cried he “was my bane;
For that I barter'd all—
Peace, love, content—all to obtain
A crown; and now I fall
Prone from my tow'ring height to earth,
My deeds abhorred—accursed my birth.

VI

“Boy! I would yet be loved;—
Though stern has been my will;
Though haply I have cruel prov'd,
I am thy father still;—
Thou wilt not?—no 'twere sin for thee
To curse a parent's memory.

VII

“I weep!—they are not fears
Which shake my warrior frame;
No hopes o'erthrown have caus'd these tears,
This breast and brow of flame;—
Thy fancied hate—thy hate probes deep—
For that, and more, for thee—I weep!”

VIII

Like a warrior king appears
The sun, with banners fair;
His glancing beams, like golden spears,
Are flashing through mid air;
The mountain springs—the forest land—
Are sounding like a martial band.

IX

There is a lonely grave

Richard III. was privately buried in a country cemetry, not even a grave-stone marked the spot where he was interred.

To which the ravens wing;
Nor sculpture shines—nor pennons wave—
Yet there lies England's king.
And he, the heir of Britain's throne,
Wanders, sad—hopeless—and alone.