There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave, But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him pass'd the young and fair, But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair— He sat where festal bowls went round; He saw the Tourney's victor crown'd, A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep— Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace And strangers took the kinsman's place At many a joyous board; 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! COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fon tevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-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, Where a king lay stately on his bier, 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: The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept, 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 Coeur-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— For his face was seen by his warrior-train, And he reck'd not that they saw. |