Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1826.pdf/14

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meteors shot athwart the murk and troubled sky, And pall-like on the air the gloomy clouds swept by; And as an evil omen, with its own ill-tidings spent, The dirge of the autumn wind pined, in the battlement. The flash of the lightning lit the night of the lone room, Whose single taper could not light, but only shew the gloom. It was a stately room, though little state was there, For the tapestry hung in shreds, and the cold stone floor was bare: Yet there lay England's king—lay low on his death bed: He had three fair sons—is there not one to prop his dying head? No!—one is sleeping in the grave, whence nothing may him bring, And one has drawn the sword against his father and his king. Raised the old king his drooping head, heavily did he say, The glory of fair England's crown from me hath past away; For my foes have girt me round, and my weary race is run,—