The shrieks of death through Berkley’s roofs that ring,
    Shrieks of an agonising king![5]
    She-wolf of France,[6] with unrelenting fangs
      That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
    From thee[7] be born who o’er thy country hangs
      The scourge of Heaven.  What terrors round him wait! 
    Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
  And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

  II.—­2.

    “Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
      Low on his funeral couch[8] he lies! 
    No pitying heart, no eye afford
      A tear to grace his obsequies! 
    Is the sable warrior[9] fled? 
    Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead. 
    The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born,
    Gone to salute the rising morn: 
    Fair laughs the morn,[10] and soft the Zephyr blows,
      While, proudly riding o’er the azure realm,
    In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,
      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.

  II.—­3.

    “Fill high the sparkling bowl,[11]
      The rich repast prepare;
    Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. 
      Close by the regal chair
    Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
    A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. 
    Heard ye the din of battle bray,[12]
    Lance to lance and horse to horse? 
    Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
    And through the kindred squadrons mow their way;
    Ye Towers of Julius![13] London’s lasting shame,
      With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
    Revere his consort’s[14] faith, his father’s[15] fame,
      And spare the meek usurper’s[16] holy head. 
    Above, below, the Rose of snow,[17]
      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread;
    The bristled Boar[18] in infant gore
      Wallows beneath the thorny shade;
    Now, Brothers! bending o’er the accursed loom,
  Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

  III.—­I.

    “Edward, lo! to sudden fate
      (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun:)
    Half of thy heart[19] we consecrate;
      (The web is wove; the work is done.”)
    ’Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
    Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn,
    In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
    They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
    But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height,
      Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll! 
    Visions of glory! spare my aching sight! 
      Ye unborn ages crowd not on my soul! 
    No more our long-lost Arthur[20] we bewail: 
  All hail, ye genuine Kings![21] Britannia’s issue, hail!

  III.—­2.