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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
Of earthly years to show,-
Had surely closed in woe!
By many a long dark stole,
Sang mass for the parted soul;
Through the stillness of the night,
And the silent king in sight.
As of steel-girt men the tread,
With a sounding thrill of dread;
As, by the torch's flame,
With a mail-clad leader came.
An eagle glance and clear,
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasped hands o’er it raised ;-
It was Cæur de Lion gazed !
With the workings of his breast ;
Than steel can keep suppressed ! And his tears break 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.
And sorrow seemed to lie,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
And the heavy hand of clay,
Gave his soul's passion way.
This late remorse and deep?
I weep-behold I weep!
Were but this work undone !
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?
The love my soul forgot !
So still, so sadly bright!
They had not been so white !
No longer couldst thou strive;
To kneel and say,— Forgive !'”
On royal throne e'er seen ;
Of all the stateliest mien ;
the bravest heart-
Thou wert ;—and there thou art !
Didst take fond joy to be !
And climbed the parent-knee !
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire ! I see thee lie; How will that still, sad face of thine Look on me till I die!"
I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and
All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain.
heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was
slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst
thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou
number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little Guardian, alone stretched before him,
Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart ! When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall, With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts at deep midnight, the torches are
gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are
beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately this couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gay. plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.