Classic Poem

Oh! censure not that mother's only son!
Who left brave England's shores for Afric's wild,
Insensible to fear of spear or gun;
France quickly lost her hope — Eugenie's child.
Last of a luckless line, from troubles free,
We shar'd his country's grief, his mother's pain,
Too great to bear, till she had sail'd to see
The spot where his life blood bedew'd the plain.
There his good father's sword could nought avail
Against the avenging foe — in cruel odds;
So now a simple cross records the tale,
And violets' fragrance sweet perfume the clods;
Oft shall some pitying stranger linger there,
Where that fond parent spent her night of prayer!