82 GRAY
The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee 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.
'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
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. The swarm that in thy noontide 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:
Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.
'Fill high the sparkling bowl, 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 their baffled guest.
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