LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
151
He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd—and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of 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!
