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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;
As if each deeply furrowed trace

Of earthly years to show,
Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race

Had surely closed in wo!

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
And the silent king in sight.

[sword,

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,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping isle,

With their mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look
An eagle glance and cleur,

[shook 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 Caur de Lion gazed !

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast ;
But there's more in late repentant love,

Then 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, e'en like lead,

Pale on the fast, shut eye.

He stoop'd and kiss'd the frozen cheek,

And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words yet all too weak,

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!
And father, father! but for me

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,
And thou didst wear in knightly ring

Of all the statliest 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!"

Mrs. HEMANS. SONG OF THE GREEK BARD.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse ;

Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than
your

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.

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