COEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. 259

COEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontivraud.
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.

On the settled face of death

A strong and ruddy glare;

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Yet it still fell 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.

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CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

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 his breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with 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 in his breast;
But there's more in late-repentant love
Than steel can keep suppressed!

And his tears broke 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,

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

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 have thee bless thy son!

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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?

When was it thus ?

woe, woe for all

The love my soul forgot!

"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;

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THE OLD FOLKS' ROOM.

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 -

O, 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.

THE OLD FOLKS' ROOM.

THE old man sat by the chimney-side

His face was wrinkled and wan,

And he leaned both hands on his stout oak cane,
As if all his work were done.

THE OLD FOLKS' ROOM.

His coat was of good old-fashioned gray,

The pockets were deep and wide,

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Where his specks" and his steel tobacco-box,
Lay snugly side by side.

The old man liked to stir the fire,

So, near him the tongs were kept;

Sometimes he mused as he gazed at the coals,
Sometimes he sat and slept.

What saw he in the embers there?
Ah! pictures of other years;
And now and then they wakened smiles,
But oftener started tears.

His good wife sat on the other side,
In a high-backed, flag-seat chair;
I see 'neath the pile of her muslin cap
The sheen of her silvery hair.

There's a happy look on her aged face,
As she busily knits for him,

And Nellie takes up the stitches dropped,
For grandmother's eyes are dim.

Their children come and read the news,
To pass the time each day;

How it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
To hear of the world away.

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