CŒUR 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, Where a king lay stately on his bier, And warriors slept beneath, And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death. On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there: As if each deeply-furrow'd trace Of earthly years to show, -Alas! that sceptred mortal's race The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept, And solemn were the strains they pour'd Through the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight. There was heard a heavy clang, As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang With a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chant was hush'd 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 breast-plate shook, When he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, And clasp'd hands o'er it rais'd;— For his father lay before him low, It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed! And silently he strove With the workings of his breast, -But there's more in late repentant love Than steel may keep suppress'd! And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain- For his face was seen by his warrior-train, And he reck'd not that they saw. He look'd upon the dead, And sorrow seem'd to lie, A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead, He stoop'd-and kiss'd the frozen cheek, Till bursting words-yet all too weak Gave his soul's passion way. Oh, father! is it vain, This late remorse and deep? Speak to me, father! once again, I weep-behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire! Were but this work undone, I would give England's crown, my sire! To hear thee bless thy son. Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief, My king! I must be heard! -Hush'd, hush'd-how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not? When was it thus?-woe, woe for all The love my soul forgot! So still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me, They had not been so white! I bore thee down, high heart! at last, No longer couldst thou strive ; Oh! for one moment of the past, "Thou wert the noblest king, On royal throne e'er seen; Of all, the stateliest mien; And thou didst prove, where spears are prov'd In war, the bravest heart -Oh! ever the renown'd and lov'd Thou wert-and there thou art! |