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Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,

Were left to Heaven's bright rain, Fresh hopes were born for other years

-He never smiled again!



The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the of Fon• tevraud, where it was visited by Richard Caur-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,

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, 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

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 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,

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 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 raised ;-
For his father lay before him low,

It was Caur-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-

Men held their breath in awe,
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,

Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop’d—and kiss'd the frozen cheek,

And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words—yet all too weak-

Gave his soul's passion way.

6 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.

Speak to me! mighty grief

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd ! Hear me, but hear me father, chief,

My king! I must be heard !

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