[A] Henry the Sixth, crowned when an infant, at Paris.
[B] Richard the Third, by murdering so many near relations, seemed to
    revenge the sufferings of Henry the Sixth, and his family, on the
    House of York.

V.

  “View the stern form that hovers nigh,
  “Fierce rolls his dauntless eye
      “In scorn of hideous death;
“Till starting at a brother’s[A] name,
  “Horror shrinks his glowing frame,
    “Locks the half-utter’d groan,
      “And chills the parting breath:—­
    “Astonish’d Nature heav’d a moan! 
“When her affrighted eye beheld the hands
“She form’d to cherish, rend her holy bands.

[A] Richard the Third, who murdered his brother the Duke of Clarence.

VI.

“Look where a royal infant[A] kneels,
  “Shrieking, and agoniz’d with fear,
  “He sees the dagger pointed near
    “A much-lov’d brother’s[B] breast,
“And tells an absent mother all he feels:—­
  “His eager eye he casts around;
  “Where shall her guardian form be found,
    “On which his eager eye would rest! 
  “On her he calls in accents wild,
  “And wonders why her step is slow
    “To save her suff’ring child!—­
“Rob’d in the regal garb, his brother stands
    “In more majestic woe—­
  “And meets the impious stroke with bosom bare;
“Then fearless grasps the murd’rer’s hands,
  “And asks the minister of hell to spare
  “The child whose feeble arms sustain
  “His bleeding form from cruel Death.—­
  “In vain fraternal fondness pleads
    “For cold is now his livid cheek,
  “And cold his last, expiring breath: 
    “And now with aspect meek,
  “The infant lifts his mournful eye,
  “And asks with trembling voice, to die,
“If death will cure his heaving heart of pain—­
    “His heaving heart now bleeds—­
  “Foul tyrant! o’er the gilded hour
  “That beams with all the blaze of power,
    “Remorse shall spread her thickest shroud;
  “The furies in thy tortur’d ear
    “Shall howl, with curses deep, and loud,
  “And wake distracting fear! 
    “I see the ghastly spectre rise,
    “Whose blood is cold, whose hollow eyes
    “Seem from his head to start—­
    “With upright hair, and shiv’ring heart,
  Dark o’er thy midnight couch he bends,
And clasps thy shrinking frame, thy impious spirit rends.”

[A] Richard Duke of York. [B] Edward the Fifth.

VII.

  Now his thrilling accents die—­
  His shape eludes my searching eye—­
  But who is he[A], convuls’d with pain,
  That writhes in every swelling vein? 
    Yet in so deep, so wild a groan,
  A sharper anguish seems to live
    Than life’s expiring pang can give:—­
  He dies deserted, and alone—­