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Banners of battle o'er him hung,
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 censor's
The marble floor was swept
As the kneeling priests round him that slept,
And solemn were the strains they poured
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and
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
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hushed awhile,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping isle,
He came with haughty look
An eagle glance and clear,
But his proud heart through his breast-plate
As he stood beside the bier ;
He stood there still with drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised,
For his father lay before him low; 'Twas Cœur de Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast
And his tears brake forth, at last like rain;
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,
He stoop'd and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
Till bursting words yet all too weak,
"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 thy dust hath stirred;
Hear me but hear me ! father! chief!
"Thy silver hairs I see
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me
I bore thee down high heart at last,
"Thou wert the noblest king
And thou didst wear in knightly ring
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
And climbed thy parent knee !
How will that sad, still face of thine,
Look on me till I die !"
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD.
THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
The mountains look on Marathon-
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.