s the aged monarch spoke:

"Ye Mercians, let your banners fly!
The graceless youth this day shall die!
For, since he dares an army bring
Against his father and his king,
Though dear as life, I will not spare,
Nor listen to affection's pray'r!
If all my people should implore,
I'll pardon the rash boy no more!
His harden'd heart, to duty blind,
No ties of gratitude can bind;
This hoary head would else have rest,
And pleasure warm this aching breast.
Ah, cruel youth! thy wrongs I feel,
More deep than wounds of pointed steel.
For, if forlorn the parent's doom,
Who bears his offspring to the tomb,
Some comfort still his breast may know,
Some soothing thought may calm his woe,
And when he gives a loose to pain,
He feels not that he mourns in vain,
But fancies still his darling nigh,
And grateful for each bursting sigh,
Still bending o'er, with list'ning ear,
Each weeping, fond complaint to hear,
The dear-lov'd phantom hovers round,
And pours a balm in every wound.

"How doubly poignant is my smart,
Bereaved of my Cen'lin's heart!
Exil'd from that deluded breast,
Where I had fondly hop'd to rest,
With faith undoubting, sweet repose,
Till Death should bid my eye-lids close.
And sometimes yet will hope arise;
Till now he ever scorn'd disguise;
Some cursed fiend might taint his youth,
And warp a temper form'd for truth.
When late he humbly knelt for grace,
And clasp'd my knees in close embrace,
Upon his lips a secret hung,
But something seem'd to stay his tongue;
I prest not, for my anger slept,
And fondness only saw he wept;
Ah! fatal haste! then had I known
The serpent, I had sav'd my son!
Yet surely pardon frank as mine,
A noble heart would more confine!
When leaguing with my bitter foe,
To strike some grand, decisive blow;
Perhaps to rob me of my throne,
And make it, ere the time, his own;
Or, should wan guilt a danger dread,
To humble this devoted head,
Each throbbing pang of conscience drown,
And seize, with bloody hands, the crown.
O'er this offence I cast a veil,
And fondly hush'd the whisper'd tale.
Ah fool! deluded by the grace,
Of that fine form, and perfect face;
I thought his bosom free from sin,
Nor dreamt a demon lurk'd within.
His voice, which ever could controul,
Each passion of the hearer's soul,
With ease my partial heart beguil'd,
Who knew no sorrows when he smil'd.
And ah! my friends, your downcast eyes,
Your pensive air, and smother'd sighs,
All tell me you lament the fate,
O