Фелиция Доротея Хеманз (Felicia Dorothea Hemans)

Cœur de Lion at the Bier of His Father

    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;
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 torch’s flame,
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
    With a mail-clad leader came.

    He came with a haughty look,
    An eagle glance and clear,
But his proud heart through its 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 Cœur de Lion gazed!

    And silently he strove
    With the workings of his breast;
But there ’s more in late-repentant love
    Than steel can 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 way.

    “O 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;
O 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 proved
    In war, the bravest heart,—	
O, 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 by thy side,
    And climbed the parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
    My sire! I see thee lie;
How will that still, sad face of thine
    Look on me till I die!”

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