Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world can not know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.
Ex. XCIX.-COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS
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 sceptered 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.—
*The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.
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,
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 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.
"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!
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 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 !”
THE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.
Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plow, a couch, an organ, or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;—
Make any thing, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four ;-
Make it, said I?-Aye, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.
And when the thing is made,-whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
THE waters slept. Night's silvery vail hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full,-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery,-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom,-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away,
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