| WEAVE the warp, and weave the woof, | |
| The winding-sheet of Edward's race. | |
| Give ample room, and verge enough | |
| The characters of hell to trace. | |
| Mark the year, and mark the night, | 5 |
| When Severn shall re-echo with affright | |
| The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, | |
| Shrieks of an agonizing King! | |
| She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, | |
| That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, | 10 |
| From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs | |
| The scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait! | |
| Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, | |
| And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. | |
| |
| Mighty Victor, mighty Lord! | 15 |
| Low on his funeral couch he lies! | |
| No pitying heart, no eye, afford | |
| A tear to grace his obsequies. | |
| Is the sable warrior fled? | |
| Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. | 20 |
| The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born? | |
| Gone to salute the rising morn. | |
| Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, | |
| While proudly riding o'er the azure realm | |
| In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; | 25 |
| Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; | |
| Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, | |
| That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. | |
| |
| Fill high the sparkling bowl, | |
| The rich repast prepare; | 30 |
| Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: | |
| Close by the regal chair | |
| Fell Thirst and Famine scowl | |
| A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. | |
| Heard ye the din of battle bray, | 35 |
| Lance to lance, and horse to horse? | |
| Long years of havoc urge their destined course, | |
| And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. | |
| Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, | |
| With many a foul and midnight murder fed, | 40 |
| Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, | |
| And spare the meek usurper's holy head. | |
| Above, below, the rose of snow, | |
| Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: | |
| The bristled boar in infant-gore | 45 |
| Wallows beneath the thorny shade. | |
| Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursèd loom | |
| Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. | |
| |
| Edward, lo! to sudden fate | |
| (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun) | 50 |
| Half of thy heart we consecrate. | |
| (The web is wove. The work is done.) | |
