Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Thomas Gray. 17161771454. The Curse upon Edward
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.) |