which is ensured alike from the over-bearing tyranny, and the violent subversion, of established custom.

F.

RICHARD COEUR DE LION.

Bright beam'd the sun on England's smiling land,
Calm flow'd the waves to kiss the silent strand;
St. George's banner floated high in air,

And
many a gallant band was marshall'd there,
And England's monarch England's children led
The pathless waste of eastern shores to tread.
Yes, many a youthful heart is beating high,
And valour beams in many a youthful eye :
But darker soon the beaming eye shall glow,
And hotter yet the life-blood's current flow,
When England's sons ten thousand glaives unsheath,
To stem the Moslem in the strife of death.

Oh, could'st thou check that dark and mad career,
Rein the hot charger, break the glitt'ring spear,
Bid the wild clamours of dissension cease,
And taste the joys of harmony and peace-
But no-the clouds have gather'd in the sky,
The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls on high;
And that dread bolt's unseen, unheeded, stroke
Must blast the glories of the British oak.

That flashing eye and heaving bosom tell
How stern the voice, how potent is the spell
That bids thee leave thy kingdom and thine all,
To lend thine ear to mad Ambition's call.
Fair was the semblance, fair the accents sound,
When Richard's voice in thunder peal'd around
"Oh, if for you the Lord of Glory bled,
And sought the regions of the silent dead:
If He, Omnipotent to slay or save,
Lay cold and torpid in an earthly grave;
By His pale brow and agonized eye,
By His deep-drawn and quick-returning sigh,

By all the tortures of a ling'ring death,
By the last anguish of His parting breath-
On, on, to dare the squadrons of the foe!
On, on, to lay the proud invader low!
Sons of the prophet, haste ye to the fight,
And meet the torrent stream of England's might!
Then who are they, whose craven bosoms quail ?
They hear the howling of the distant gale;
Go, servile throng: be ours the nobler doom
To seek the meed of glory, or a tomb :
Yes, be it ours to purge the holy spot,
By foes polluted, and by friends forgot:
To tread the desert and the pathless wild,
Speak aid and hope to Salem's weeping child :
On o'er the plains of yonder glitt❜ring sea,
For God, for England, for St. George, for me."
Yes, Salem's child laments her country's fate,
The gorgeous temple, and the Golden Gate;
Mourns for the relics of forgotten fame,
Mourns the sad day when Alla's children came:
Once led the dance, once join'd the choral band,
That sang the triumphs of Judæa's land,
That the proud courts of Salem's temple trod
To hymn the victories of Salem's God;

Now fix'd in sadness, deep in grief and gloom,
With tears bedews the scarce more silent tomb :
No burst of rage, no furious torrents there,
But the dark, hidden, anguish of despair;
In plaintive accents now her bitter wail
Sounds mid the rushing of the frantic gale:
Her home forgotten, and her harp unstrung,
And e'en the sad tale of her woes unsung:
Unseen, unheeded, friendless and alone,
Heaves the deep sob, and draws the frequent groan.
Pale as yon marble from the Parian isle,

She knows not joy, she may not, must not, smile;
Yet still, at times, her thoughts can upward fly,

And seek for refuge in the courts on high;
Can bid the raging storm of anguish cease,
Can hush its billows to the calm of
peace;

Then Hope is there, and rays of heavenly light
Dispel the clouds of sorrow and of night.
She hears the footstep of th' avenger nigh,
She sees the fire that sparkles in his eye.
Loud rise the voices from the distant surge,

With "God, for England, Richard, and St. George !"
Again in fancy gleams the Christian spear,

And joy, and glory, and repose, are here.
Again the standard of St. George on high
Spreads all its splendors to the eastern sky,
And he, the hero of the Lion Heart,

Draws the bright sword, and hurls th' unerring dart.
Then the wild glow of exultation high
Can tinge her cheek, and sparkle in her eye:
"Yes, and again," in joy she cries, "again
Shall Salem echo to the victor's strain ;
Again the long-drawn aisle and pealing choir
Shall hear the echo of the victor's lyre;
For lo, he comes: he comes to burst in twain
The iron links of slav'ry's galling chain :
New strength shall nerve the mighty hero's arm,
That shields the chosen of our God from harın;
That wars to cleanse that stain'd, yet holy, place,
And dash the hopes of Ali's treach❜rous race.
And shall it be? and shall my list'ning ear
Again the music of our fathers hear?

And this enfeebled and emaciate hand

Strike the glad string, and lead the virgin band?

Ah, me! the prophet's sons are dark and wild,

Their hands are drench'd, their swords in blood defil'd;
And never, never can their countless host

Yield the proud tenure of their native coast:
And none may see the haughty crescent fall,
The cross triumphant rising over all.
Ah, me! ye are but victims more and more,
Swift as ye sail from far Europa's shore;
Ye are but victims for the Moslem sword,
In battle vanquish'd, yet in death ador'd!"
Yet Richard comes: th' opposing blast in vain
Hath rous'd the stormy billows of the main ;

Yes, thro' the tempest's roar, the thunder's peal
The hero lifts on high the beaming steel;
And the loud fury of the whirlwind's ire
But fans the blaze of Richard's darker fire.

Who foremost now the deadly spear to dart,
And strike the jav'lin to the Moslem's heart?
Who foremost now to climb the leaguer❜d wall,
The first to triumph, or the first to fall?
Lo, where the Moslems rushing to the fight,
Back bear their squadrons in inglorious flight:
With plumed helmet and with glitt'ring lance
'Tis Richard bids his steel-clad bands advance;
"Tis Richard stalks along the blood-dy'd plain,
And views unmov'd the slaying and the slain;
"Tis Richard bathes his hands in Moslem blood,
And tinges Jordan with the purple flood.
Yet where the timbrels ring, the trumpets sound,
And tramp of horsemen shakes the solid ground,
Though mid the deadly charge and rush of fight
No thought be their's of terror or of flight;
Yet 'times a sigh will rise, a tear will flow,
And youthful bosoms melt in silent woe :
For who, of iron frame and harder heart,
Can bid the mem'ry of his home depart?
Tread the dark desert and the thirsty sand,
Nor give one thought to England's smiling land?
To scenes of bliss and days of other years;

The Vale of Gladness—and the Vale of Tears,

That, pass'd and vanish'd from their longing sight,
This, 'neath their view, and wrapt in shades of night?
Yet, hark! the battle's harbinger from far
Sounds on the breeze, and summons to the war :
To many a warrior doth that trumpet's breath
Tell the swift doom of horror and of death.
But e'en the craven's breast in ardour glows,
When England rushes on her Moslem foes:
When he, the hero, leads the thick'ning charge,
First in the clash of helmet and of targe:
And Vict'ry, riding on the breeze's wings,
Loud the glad hymn of Richard's triumph sings.

Nor he inglorious, that with tarnish'd crest
Fled from the hardy children of the west :
No, as the bow, receding, can impart
A swifter passage to the winged dart,
So he awhile, in cautious flight, can yield,
Too soon to triumph on that blood-stain'd field;
Too soon on Salem's walls again to raise
The banish'd trophies of victorious days;
Too soon in glory and in joy to see

The victor bands, the victor monarch flee.

Few suns shall rise, few sink in ocean's wave,
Ere Fortune back shall take what Valour gave:
In vain the foe shall hurl the vengeful dart,
It may not pierce the Lion Warrior's heart;
But Envy's shafts can inly wound the breast,
· And Malice break e'en that unbroken rest.

Lo where the steel-clad sons of haughty Gaul
Back from the field of war's red harvest fall:
Unaided, undefended, and alone,

Still Richard proudly calls that field his own!
Sad is the day, of anguish and of gloom,
That sees him leave the unredeemed tomb:
Then fly the visions of ethereal light

That pierc'd the thick'ning gloom of Salem's night;
E'en Hope, the last that cheer'd them, vanish'd then,
And all was dark and desolate again.

But he must seek in grief his native land,

O'er many a threat'ning sea and hostile strand :
Forget the splendors of a monarch's throne,
And all he fondly had believ'd his own,
That shines to perish, glitters to decay,
And is but valu'd as it flies away.

Full soon the giant limbs, the mighty hand
That wielded once the high-uplifted brand,
Shall bear the captive chain, the chain of woe,
To some sad dungeon of despair shall go.
While all around the birds in freedom play,
Breathe the free air, and see the light of day,