THOMAS GRAY
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, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Fill high the sparkling bowl. The lich 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. Heard ye the din of battle bray,
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,
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 th' accursed loom Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
Edward, lo! to sudden Fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spin)
Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.)
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