Then in his low and pine-built hall, While Scalds yelled out the joys of fight. And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night : On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; The heir, with roses in his shoes, The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Well can the green-garbed ranger tell, The wassel round, in good brown bowls, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see White shirts supplied the masquerade, The poor man's heart through half the year. Still linger in our northern clime Some remnants of the good old time; Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim RICHARD I. AT HIS FATHER'S BIER. A.D. 1189. TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontevrauld; Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath; And light, like the moon'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 censers' 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 in 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 torches' flame, A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader came. He came with haughty look, a dark glance high and clear But his proud heart 'neath his breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier. He stood there still, with drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised; For his father lay before him now-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 as lead, pale on the fast-shut eye. He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek, and the hand of lifeless 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, woè, for all the love my soul 66 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!' |