COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER, HENRY II. (MRS. HEMANS.)

TORCHES were blazing clear,

Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier

In the church of Fontevraud.
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.

On the settled face of death

A strong and ruddy glare,

CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there :

As if each deeply furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show ;-
Alas! that sceptred monarch's race
Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;

And solemn were the strains they poured

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 pavements rang

With a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chant was hushed awhile,

As by the torch's flame

A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,

An eagle-glance and clear!

But his proud heart through his breastplate shook

When he stood beside the bier.

He stood there still with a drooping brow

And clasped hands o'er it raised;

For his father lay before him low-
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!

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And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast;

But there's more in the late repentant love Than steel may keep suppressed!

And his tears broke forth at last like rain ;Men held their breath in awe :

For his face was seen by his warrior train, And he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead

And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped, and pressed the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.

'O 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.

'Speak to me! mighty grief

Ere now the dust hath stirred!
Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!

Hushed, hushed-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?

CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

When was it thus?

Woe, woe for all

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The love my soul forgot!

'Thy silver hairs I see,

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,
To kneel and say "Forgive!"

'Thou wert the noblest king

On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring
Of all the stateliest mien;

And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war the bravest heart:

Oh! ever the renowned and loved

Thou wert-and there thou art!

'Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!-
The times I've sported by thy side,
And climbed thy parent knee!
And then before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie-

How will that sad, still face of thine

Look on me till I die!'

NOTE.- Henry's sons, urged on by their mother and the French king, often defied his power; and the shock of finding his favourite son John in a list of rebels whom he was asked to pardon threw him into a fever, of which he died at Chinon. The church of Fontevraud received his remains, over which his son Richard wept bitter but useless tears of remorse.'-COLLIER's British History.

ON SEPARATION.

(JAMES MONTGOMERY.)

FRIEND after friend departs :

Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end! Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time—

Beyond the reign of death—
There surely is some blessed clime,
Where life is not a breath,

Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire.

There is a world above

Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere !

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are past away;

As morning high and higher shines

To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in heaven's own light.