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,—
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 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 pavement 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 its breast-plate 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 Cœur de Lion gazed!

And silently he strove.

With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in late-repentant love
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.

He looked upon the dead,

And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stooped, and kissed 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.

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?

When was it thus ?-woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!

66

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;

O! 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 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!

MRS. HEMANS.

HELLVELLYN.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and

wide;

All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

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.

But meeter for thee, gentle Lover of Nature,
To lay down thy head-like the meek mountain

lamb,

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in

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.

SCOTT.