Feigned Courage
Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father’s cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swelled his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that:
‘And now,’ he cried, 'I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee.
Now I’ll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughtered Grecians made!
And now by deeds still braver I’ll evince
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.—
Give way, ye coward French—' As thus he spoke,
And aimed in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers
(The Muse relates the hero’s fate with tears);
He struck his milk—white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown!
Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.
