He stood there still, with a drooping brow, and clasped hands

o'er it raised;

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 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.

"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 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 ;

Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel and say 'forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king, on a 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

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!"

New Monthly Magazine.

TO A SKY-LARK.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound?
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! That love-prompted strain,
("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond),
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain!
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing,
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale the shady wood—
A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine.
Type of the wise, who soar-but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

ISMAEL FITZADAM.

It was a harp just fit to pour

Its music to the wind and wave ;-
He had a right to tell their fame,

Who stood himself amid the brave.

The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest on the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,
Were like dark ships, and battle cry.

I had forgot my woman's fears

In thinking on my country's fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw

Her colours float o'er blood and flame.

Died the high song, as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left
A gentle twilight-hour behind.

Then paused I o'er some sad, wild notes,
Sweet as the spring-bird's lay withal;
Telling of hopes, and feelings past,

Like stars that darkened in their fall.

Hopes, perishing from too much light,
"Exhausted by their own excess;"
Affections, trusted till they turned,

Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.

And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling?
Is this the cloud that destiny

Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing?

It is it is! tread on thy way,

Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold, Look not up from the sullen path

That leads to this world's idol-gold!

And close thy hand, and close thy heart,
And be thy very soul of clay,

And thou wilt be the thing the crowd
Will worship, cringe to, and obey.

But look thou upon Nature's face,
As the young poet loves to look;
And lean thou where the willow leans,
O'er the low murmur of the brook:

Or worship thou the midnight sky,
In silence, at its moon-lit hour;
Or let a single tear confess

The silent spell of music's power:

Or love, or feel, or let thy soul
Be for one moment pure or free;
Then shrink away at once from life,-
Its path will be no path for thee!

Pour forth thy fervid soul in song—

There are some that may praise thy lays;

But of all earth's dim vanities,

The very earthliest is praise.

Praise! light and dew of the sweet leaves,
Around the poet's temples hung,
How turned to gall, and how profaned
By envious or by idle tongue!

Given by vapid fools, who laud
Only if others do the same;
Forgotten even while the breath

Is on the air that bears your name.

And He! what was his fate-the bard!

He of the Desert Harp, whose song
Flowed freely, wildly as the wind

That bore him and his harp along?

That fate which waits the gifted one,
To pine, each finer impulse checked;
At length to sink and die beneath
The shade and silence of neglect.

And this, the polished age, that springs
The Phoenix from dark years gone by,
That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves
Her warrior and her bard to die.

To die in poverty and pride;

The light of hope and genius past; Each feeling wrung, until the heart Could bear no more, so broke at last.

Thus withering amid the wreck

Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the minstrel do but die, Cursing his too beloved strings! Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

D