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The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey-church of Fontevraad, where it was visited by Richard Cæur de Lion, who, on beholding it, was strack with horror and remorse, and reproached himself bitterly for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.

Torches were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fonte-

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


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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 torchs' flame,
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader

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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 a drooping brow, and clasped 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

suppressed! And his tears brake 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


“Oh, 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 !

“ 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 ;Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel and say “forgive!'

“ Thou wert the noblest king, on a 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 at thy side, and climbed thy parent

knee! And there before the blessed shrine, my sire, I see thee lie,How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I die!"

New Monthly Magazine.



Æthereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound?
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground ?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! That love-prompted strain, ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond),

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain! Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing, All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale the shady wood

A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with rapture more divine.
Type of the wise, who soarbut never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.



It was a harp just fit to pour

Its music to the wind and wave;
He had a right to tell their fame,

Who stood himself amid the brave.

The first time that I read his strain

There was a tempest on the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,

Were like dark ships, and battle cry.

I had forgot my woman's fears

In thinking on my country's fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw

Her colours float o'er blood and flame.

Died the high song, as dies the voice

Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left

A gentle twilight-hour behind.

Then paused I o'er some sad, wild notes,

Sweet as the spring-bird's lay withal;
Telling of hopes, and feelings past,

Like stars that darkened in their fall.

Hopes, perishing from too much light,

“ Exhausted by their own excess;" Affections, trusted till they turned,

Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.

And is this, then, the curse that clings

To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling?
Is this the cloud that destiny

Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing?

It is—it is! tread on thy way,

Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold, Look not


from the sullen path That leads to this world's idol-gold !

And close thy hand, and close thy heart,

And be thy very soul of clay,
And thou wilt be the thing the crowd

Will worship, cringe to, and obey.

But look thou upon Nature's face,

As the young poet loves to look ; And lean thou where the willow leans,

O’er the low murmur of the brook :

Or worship thou the midnight sky,

In silence, at its moon-lit hour; Or let a single tear confess

The silent spell of music's power :

Or love, or feel, or let thy soul

Be for one moment pure or free; Then shrink away at once from life,

Its path will be no path for thee!

Pour forth thy fervid soul in song

There are some that may praise thy lays; But of all earth's dim vanities, The very

earthliest is praise.

Praise! light and dew of the sweet leaves,

Around the poet's temples hung, How turned to gall, and how profaned

By envious or by idle tongue !

Given by vapid fools, who laud

Only if others do the same; Forgotten even while the breath

Is on the air that bears your name.

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