The harden'd murderer hath fled
But the owl kept watch by the shroudless d
Until came friends with the early day,
And bore the mangled corse away—
Then, cutting the air all silently,
He fled away from the old oak tree.
Why is the crowd so great to-day,
And why do the people shout “Huzza !”
And why is yonder felon given
Alone to feed the birds of Heaven?
Had he no friend, now all is done,
To give his corse a grave? Not one.
Night has fallen. What means that cry
Descending from the gibbet high?
There sits on its top a lonely owl,
With a staring eye, and a dismal scowl;
And he screams aloud," Revenge is sweet!"
His mortal foe is at his feet.
The fame of the fearless De Courcy
Is boundless as the air;
With his own right hand he won the land
Of Ulster, green and fair!
But he lieth low in a dungeon now,
Powerless, in proud despair;
For false King John hath cast him in,
And closely chained him there.
The false king sate on his throne of sate,
'Mid knights and nobles free;
Who is there,' he cried, 'who will cross the tide, And do battle in France for me?
There is cast on mine honour a fearful stain,
The death of the boy who ruled Bretagne ;
And the monarch of France, my bold suzerain;
Hath bidden a champion for me appear,
My fame from this darkening blot to clear.
Speak-is your silence the silence of fear,
My knights and my nobles? Frowning and pale
Your faces grow as I tell my tale!
Is there not one of this knightly ring,
Who dares do battle for his king?"
The warriors they heard, but they spake not a word
The earth some gazed upon;
And some did raise a steadfast gaze
To the face of false King John.
Think ye they feared? They were Englishmen all,
Though mutely they sate in their monarch's hall;
The heroes of many a well-fought day,
Who loved the sound of a gathering fray.
Even as the lonely shepherd loves
The herds' soft bell in the mountain-groves.
Why were they silent? There was not one
Who could trust the word of false King John;
And their cheeks grew pallid as they thought
On the deed of blood by his base hand wrought;
Pale, with a brave heart's generous fear,
When forced a tale of shame to hear.
"Twas a coward whiteness then did chase
The glow of shame from the false king's face;
And he turned aside, in bootless pride,
That witness of his guilt to hide ;
Yet every heart around him there,
Witness against him more strongly bare! Oh, out then spake his beauteous queen; "A captive lord I know,
Whose loyal heart hath ever been
Eager to meet the foe;
Were true De Courcy here this day,
Freed from his galling chain.
Never, oh never should scoffers say,
That amid all England's rank and might.
Their king had sought him a loyal knight,
And sought such knight in vain !"
Up started the monarch, and cleared his bro
And bade them summon De Courcy now.
Swiftly his messengers hasted away,
And sought the cell where the hero lay;
They bade him arise at his master's call,
And follow their steps to the stately hall.
He is brought before the council
There are chains upon his hands;
With his silver hair, that aged knight,
Like a rock o'erhung with foam-wreaths white
Proudly and calmly stands.
From the warrior's form they loosed the chain
His face was lighted with calm disdain;
Nor cheek, nor lip, nor eye gave token
E'en that he knew his chains were broken
He spake no music, loud or clear,
Was in the voice of the grey-haired knight; But a low stern sound, like that ye hear
In the march of a mail-clad host by night. "Brother of Cœur de Lion," said he, "These chains have not dishonoured me !" There was crushing scorn in each simple word, Mightier than battle-axe or sword.
Not long did the heart of the false king thrill To the touch of passing shame,
For it was hard, and mean, and chill;
As breezes sweep o'er a frozen rill,
Leaving it cold and unbroken still,
That feeling went and came;
And now to the knight he made reply,
Pleading his cause right craftily;
Skilled was his tongue in specious use
Of promise fair and of feigned excuse,
Blended with words of strong appeal
To love of fame and to loyal zeal.
At length he ceased; and every eye
Gazed on De Courcy wistfully.
Speak!" cried the king in that fearful pause, "Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's cause?";
The old knight struck his foot on the ground,
Like a war-horse hearing the trumpet sound;
And he spake with a voice of thunder,
Solemn and fierce in tone.
Waving his hand to the stately band
Who stood by the monarch's throne,
As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive
When cheering his squadrons on:
"I will fight for the honour of England,
But not for false King John!"
He turned and strode from the lofty hall,
Nor seemed to hear the sudden cheer
Which burst, as he spake, from the lips of all.
And when he stood in the air without,
He paused as if in joyful doubt;
To the forests green and the wide blue sky
Stretching his arms embracingly,
With stately tread and uplifted head,
As a good steed tosses back his mane
When they loose his neck from the servile rein;
Ye know not, ye who are always free,
How precious a thing is liberty.
"O world!" he cried "sky, river, hill,
Ye wear the garments of beauty still;
How have ye kept your youth so fair,
While age has whitened this hoary hair?"
But when the squire, who watched his lord,
Gave to his hand his ancient sword,
The hilt he pressed to his eager breast,
Like one who a long-lost friend hath met;
And joyously said, as he kissed the blade,
Methinks there is youth in my spirit yet.
For France for France! o'er the waters blue,
False king-dear land-adieu, adieu !"
He hath crossed the booming ocean,
On the shore he plants his lance;
And he sends his daring challenge
Into the heart of France:
"Lo, here stand I for England,
Queen of the silver main!
To guard her fame and to cleanse her name
From slander's darkening stain!
Advance, advance! ye knights of France,
Give answer to my call!
Lo here stand I for England,
And I defy ye all !"
From the east and the north came champions forthThey came in a knightly crowd;
From the south and the west each generous breast Throbbed at that summons proud.
But thoug' brave was each lord, and keen each sword, No warrior cou'd withstand
The strength of the hero spirit
Which nerved that old man's hand.
He is conqueror in the battle
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