Classic Poem

From chiefs that bore their burnished helms,
When Henry, Richard fought for realms,
Was Edwin born, and less a race
Adorned him than each manly grace;
The youth with countless acres blest,
Was high-born Beauty's destined guest;
Yet Edwin's heart unled by gold,
Was true to Fanny of the Fold.

Patrician pride by splendor swayed,
With haughty brow beheld the Maid.
Her angel face, her bosom fair,
Though all the virtues nestled there;
Yet o'er her sire's green sodded grave
No shields record, no banners wave,
No titles high, — the vain to hold,
Belonged to Fanny of the Fold.

To wean him from this envied Fair,
Was now a parent's novel care:
'Tis thus that Rank, not Nature dooms,
And Edwin moved in regal rooms,
Yet there, with vacant eye he gazed,
Though round him Empire's Beauty blazed;
His faithful heart to all was cold,
Except his Fanny of the Fold.

Yet there, with vacant eye could gaze,
In Beauty's constellated blaze;
Thus Power and Pomp in vain essayed
To heal the wound that Love had made;
Yet Pride, at length, with boding eye,
Saw Cadvan's race in Edwin die,
And startled at the dreadful view,
To join their hands, a father flew;
The Muse the hallowed theme enrolled;
And infant Chieftains filled the Fold.