Of partial Mercian eyes the joy,
His parents idoliz’d the boy;
Saw with just pride each op’ning grace,
His charms of mind, of form, and face. 
And as he oft, with modest air,
His thoughts and feelings did declare,
His father would delighted hear,
Would fondly drop the grateful tear;
And proudly cast his eyes around,
But not an equal could be found. 
Warm from each lip applauses broke,
And every tongue his praises spoke;
The list’ning courtiers spread his fame,
And blessings follow’d Cen’lins name.

Now twenty summer’s suns had flown,
And Mercia’s hopes were fully blown;
When ah! conceal’d in coarse disguise,
To Selred’s[12] court their darling flies. 
Selred, his father’s scorn and hate,
Became the ruler of his fate. 
There flatter’d, lov’d, the youth remain’d,
Till Cenulph’s threats his heir regain’d. 
But ah! no more the son of mirth,
His pensive eye now sought the earth;
No more within the dance to move,
Or list to sages, did he love;
But from surrounding friends would fly,
To pour in solitude the sigh. 
And soon again the youth withdrew,
Again to th’ Eastern-Saxons flew. 
His father heard, opprest with woe,
His aged heart forgot to glow;
He learnt his foes an army led,
With youthful Cen’lin at their head,
He call’d his warriors forth to meet,
And stretch the rebel at hit feet: 
Tears from his eyes in anguish broke,
As thus 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.