Mine ancient friends have turn'd from me to seek the rising sun:
I soon shall be, like my best hopes, trodden down into dust,—
Then gather round the faithful few whom yet my soul can trust;
O bring,—and fondly as he spoke the aged monarch smiled,—
That I may bless him ere I die,—my true—my favourite child.
How could they speak the truth? how vex his dying ear?
Again King Henry spoke, "Why comes not my child here?”
He read upon their face, what their lips could not disclose,
That his favourite child had join'd beneath the banner of his foes!
He started from his couch, his wither'd hands he raised,—
The lightning like the fire of hell over his pale face blazed,—
"Curses on my false children I pray that there may be!
And may they die the evil death that they have brought on me!"
The thunder shook the roof, as the troubled element
Gave from the heaven above fiercely its stern assent:
And soon the monarch's breath had pass'd, had pass'd like the night wind,
And though his lips were cold in death, his curse remain'd behind.[1]
IOLE.
- ↑
The untimely end of all King Henry’s children is
remarkable; three died suddenly in the flower of their age,
and the last, John, only survived to lead a life of shame,
and see the fairest ornaments of his crown ravished from
him.
