The Black Prince
O for the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
The dying hero’s call,
That told imperial Charlemagne
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain
Had wrought his champion’s fall.
Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England’s distant cliffs astounding,
Such are the notes should say
How Britain’s hope, and France’s fear,
Victor of Cressy and Poitier,
In Bordeaux dying lay.
“Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said,
“And let the casement be displayed,
That I may see once more
The splendour of the setting sun
Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne,
And Blay’s empurpled shore.
“Like me, he sinks to Glory’s sleep,
His fall the dews of evening steep,
As if in sorrow shed.
So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
When England’s maids and matrons hear
Of their Black Edward dead.
“And though my sun of glory set,
Nor France nor England shall forget
The terror of my name;
And oft shall Britain’s heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,
Through clouds of blood and flame.”
Sir Walter Scott.