Above proud Offa’s gate the gold
    Embroider’d banners hung—­
  And ’scutcheon’d shields emblazon’d told
    From whence his race had sprung!

  The glitt’ring lance and crested plume
    Adorn the sculptur’d wall,
  And deep’ning shadows cast a gloom
    Around his spacious hall!

  On “South Town’s” “heav’n directed” fanes
    Sol sheds his glowing ray;
  And Peace, and Joy, through Mercia’s plains
    Their gladsome sceptre sway.

  How diff’rent far the scene will be
    When night appears again;—­
  O’er all now reigns festivity,
    But lamentation then!

  A richly silver-braided vest
    The virgin train prepare—­
  A scarf, to wrap the snow-white breast,
    And gems to deck the hair.

  Elfrida, at her lattice high,
    Sits with the bridal throng—­
  She looks and looks—­then heaves a sigh—­
    “Why tarries he so long?”

  He comes!—­’tis he!—­and by his side
    Attend a noble band—­
  He comes to claim his royal bride—­
    His lov’d Elfrida’s hand.

  The wish’d-for hour is gone and past;—­
    Slow chimes the marriage-bell;
  May Heav’n forbid it prove his last—­
    The bridegroom’s fun’ral knell!

  The priest before the altar stands—­
    The bride bends on her knee,
  And lifts to God her heart and hands
    In pious fervency!

  But where is he, who should have knelt
    Before his Maker, low? 
  And where are they, who might have felt
    What none but parents know!

  In vain she waits, and looks around,
    Still vainer are her cries;
  With shrieks the sacred aisles resound;—­
    Save echo, naught replies: 

  Fell grief her throbbing heart enthrals,—­
    Her lips grow ghastly pale;
  She weeps—­she faints—­and senseless falls
    Before the altar-rail!

  But where is he, by whom the vows
    Of love were pledg’d so late? 
  Demand of Offa’s artful spouse,
    Whose fiat seal’d his fate?

  The blush of guilt upon her cheek
    Spreads forth its purple hues,—­
  And agitation seems to speak
    What conscience dares refuse!

  To Him who gives life’s fleeting breath
     His soul has ta’en its flight!—­
  He sleeps the last long sleep of death
    Upon his bridal night.

  His guards were gone;—­no friends were near
    To bless him ere he died! 
  None, none to dry the falling tear,
    Or bid his pains subside.

  Oh! where is she whom fate hath made
    Dejected and forlorn? 
  She goes to Croyland’s hallow’d shade,
    To live—­alas!—­to mourn!

  Weep, Anglia, weep!—­thy monarch’s dead! 
    To heav’n his spirit’s flown;
  And he whose hands his blood have shed
    Will mount thy vacant throne.