Heard ye the din of battle bray,
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, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
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
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove; the work is done.) Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O ! 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 we bewail : All hail, ye genuine kings! Hritannia's issue, hail!
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