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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, [breath, Though dimmed at times by the censor's
Yet it fell still brightest there;
Of earthly years to show,
Had surely closed in wo!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
Sang mass for the parted soul ;
Through the stillness of the night,
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread, [rang And the tombs and the hollow pavement
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hushed awhile,
As by the torches flame,
With their mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look
[shook But his proud heart through his breast-plate
As he stood beside the bier ;
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised,
'Twas Caur de Lion gazed !
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast ;
Then steel may keep suppressed !
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,
Pale on the fast, shut eye.
He stoop'd and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,
Gave his soul's passion way;
“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 !
My king! I must be heard ! Hushed, hushed, how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not? When was it thus, wo! wo! for all,
The love my soul forgot!
" Thy silver hairs I see
So still, so sadly bright!
They had not been so white ;
I bore thee down high heart at last,
No longer could'st thou strive ; Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say forgive !
“ Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e'er seen,
Of all the statliest mien ;
In war, the bravest heart,
Thou wert and there thou art !
Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!
And climbed thy parent knee !
My sire, I see thee lie,
Mrs. HEMANS. SONG OF THE GREEK BARD.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
sires' " Island of the Blest.
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea ; And, musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave.