Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace Of vows once fondly pour'd, And strangers took the kinsman's place Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Fresh hopes were born for other years— CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur 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 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 The marble floor was swept With the cross above, and the crown and sword, There was heard a heavy clang, As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 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 breastplate 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, 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, He look'd upon the dead, And sorrow seem'd to lie, A weight of sorrow, even like lead, He stoop'd-and kiss'd the frozen cheek, Till bursting words-yet all too weak- "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! "Speak to me! mighty grief Hear me, but hear me!-father, chief, Hush'd, hush'd-how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not? When was it thus, woe, woe for all Thy silver hairs I see, I bore thee down, high heart! at last, "Thou wert the noblest king, And thou didst wear in knightly ring, And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, Oh! ever the renown'd and loved Thou wert-and there thou art! "Thou that my boyhood's guide Look on me till I die!" THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE. "Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days.”. CAMDEN'S Britannia. YES! I have seen the ancient oak On the dark deep water cast, And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke, For the axe might never touch that tree, I saw it fall, as falls a chief By an arrow in the fight, And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, And the startled deer to their coverts drew, 'Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep But by that sign too well I know, |