Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,— Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams, And breathings from their sunny flowers, Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise To which the ancient rocks gave birth? The emerald waves !-they take their hue Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear And ever should the sound be near Of joyous waters in their play! But woe to him who sees them burst With their bright spray-showers to the lake! For ever pouring through his dreams Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, 1 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American mis. sionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a former note. E'en thus our hunters came of yore Back from their long and weary quest ;- They lay beside our glittering rills They bent no more the forest bow, They armed not with the warrior band, Son of the stranger! if at eve Silence be 'midst us in thy place, The strength of battle and of chase! gers THE BENDED BOW. [It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messen in different directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight. See the Cambrian Antiquities.] THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe, "Heard you not the battle-horn?— And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son ; "Hunter! leave the mountain-chase, Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!" And the hunter armed ere the chase was done; "Chieftain! quit the joyous feast- And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown ; "Prince! thy father's deeds are told Give our bards a tale of thee!" And the prince came armed, like a leader's son: "Mother! stay thou not thy boy, Britain calls the strong in heart!" And the bended brow and the voice passed on, HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. [It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. ] THE bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England's glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived-for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain; Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again! There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave; But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him passed the young and fair, In pleasure's reckless train; But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair- He sat where festal bowls went round, He saw the tourney's victor crowned A murmur of the restless deep A voice of winds that would not sleep- Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace And strangers took the kinsman's place Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Fresh hopes were born for other years— COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. [The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.] TORCHES were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Banners of battle o'er him hung, And warriors slept beneath; And light, as noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there: As if each deeply furrowed trace Alas! that sceptred mortal's race The marble floor was swept As the kneeling priests round him that slept And solemn were the strains they poured Through the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, There was heard a heavy clang, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang And the holy chant was hushed awhile, A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle He came with haughty look, An eagle-glance and clear; But his proud heart through its breastplate shook He stood there still with a drooping brow, For his father lay before him low- And silently he strove With the workings of his breast; For his face was seen by his warrior train, He looked upon the dead— A weight of sorrow, even like lead, He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek, Till bursting words-yet all too weak- "O father! is it vain, I would give England's crown, my sire! "Speak to me ! Mighty grief |