The Curse Upon Edward
WEAVE
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.
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
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.
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
spun)
Half
of
thy
heart
we
consecrate.
(The
web
is
wove.
The
work
is
done.)
Thomas Gray
Thomas Gray (born Dec. 26, 1716, London—died July 30, 1771, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire, Eng.) English poet whose “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” is one of the best known of English lyric poems. Although his literary output was slight, he was the dominant poetic figure in the mid-18th century and a precursor of the Romantic movement.