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Felicia Dorothea Hemans - Coeur De Lion At The Bier Of His Father
Work rating: Low

Torches were blazing clear,
    Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier,
    In the church of Fontevraud.
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,
Through dimm`d at times by the censer`s breath,
    Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply-furrow`d trace
    Of earthly years to show,—
—Alas! that sceptred mortal`s race
    Had surely clos`d 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 pour`d
    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 hush`d awhile,
    As by the torch`s flame,
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
    With a mail-clad leader came.

    He came with haughty look,
    An eagle-glance and clear,
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook,
    When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
    And clasp`d hands o`er it rais`d;—
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 suppress`d!
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 reck`d not that they saw.

    He look`d upon the dead,
    And sorrow seem`d to lie,
A weight of sorrow, ev`n 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 the dust hath stirr`d!
Hear me, but hear me!—father, chief,
    My king! I must be heard!
—Hush`d, hush`d—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 royal throne e`er seen;
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,
    Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are prov`d
    In war, the bravest heart—
—Oh! ever the renown`d and lov`d
    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 climb`d 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!"
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