BERNARDINE DU BORN.
King Henry sat upon his throne,
And fall of wrath and scorn,
His eye a recreant knight surveyed—
Sir Bernardine du Born;
And he, that haughty glance returned
Like lion in his lair,
And loftily his unchanged brow
Gleamed through his crisped hair.
"Thou art a traitor to the realm,
Lord of a lawless band,
The bold in speech, the fierce in broil,
The troubler of our land;
Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers,
Are forfeit to the crown,
And thou, beneath the Norman axe
Shalt end thy base renown.
"Deignest thou no word to bar thy doom,
Thou, with strange madness fired?
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?"
Plantagenet inquired.
Sir Bernard turned him toward the king,
He blenched not in his pride,
"My reason failed, my gracious liege,
The year Prince Henry died."
Quick at that name a cloud of woe
Past o'er the monarch's brow,
