THOMAS GRAY
No jarther seek his merits to disclose^
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.
��466 The Curse upon Edward
r EAVE 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, 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,
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' 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 noon-tide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn.
�� �
