Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 13 1825.pdf/4

    He look'd upon the Dead,
    And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, ev'n as lead,
    Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd—and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
    And the hand of lifeless 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 stirr'd!
Hear me! but hear me!—Father, Chief,
    My King! I must be heard!—
Hush'd, hush'd!—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 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 renown'd and loved
    Thou wert—and there thou art!

    "Thou that my boyhood's guide
    Didst take fond joy to be!—
The times I have sported at thy side,
    And climb'd 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!"
F. H.