196 WARWICK CASTLE.
Taking a wild dance on their pavement rude ; Then half complaining, half in merriment, Resumes her quiet way.
Would that I knew The very turret in this ancient pile, Where the sixth Henry had his tuteluge, Wearing with tasks ten tedious years away. The mother s tear was on his rounded cheek, When stately Beauchamp took him from her arms, An infant of five summers, to enforce His knightly training. Pressed the iron hand Of chivalry all harshly on his soul, Keeping its pulses down, till the free stream Of thought was paralyzed ? Perchance the sway Of such stern tutor might have bowed too low What was too weak at first ; and so, poor king, Thou wert in vassalage thy whole life long, The scorn of lawless spirits on thy brow Wearing a crown indeed, but in thy breast Hiding the slave-chain.
In yon lofty hall,
Hung round with ancient armor, interspersed With branching antlers of the hunted stag, Fancy depictureth a warrior-shade, The swarth king-maker, he who bore so high His golden coronet, and on his shield The Bear and ragged Staff. At his rough grasp The warring roses quaked ; and like the foam That crests the wave one moment, and the next Dies at its feet, alternate rose and sank