Methought a dim and slumbrous veil
Enwrapt the glowing scene, And strangely stole our wearied eyes,
And each bright trace between, And at our side, behold ! a king
His thronging minions met, Arrayed in all the boasted power
Of high Plantagenet.
��See ! see ! his sceptered hand is raised
To shade a haggard brow, As if constrained to do a deed
His pride would disallow. "What now, false John ! what troubleth thee
Finds not thine art some way To blind or gull the vassal train,
And hold thy tyrant sway ?
��He falters still, with daunted eye
Turned toward those barons bold, Whose hands are grappling to their swords
With firm indignant hold ; The die is cast ; he bows him down
Before those steel-girt men, And Magna Charta springs to life
Beneath his trembling pen.