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Till at length the lays they chaunted
Whispered at the baron's ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
Turned his weary head to hear.
6 Wassail for the kingly stranger, Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron
Christ is born to set us free!”
And the lightning showed the sainted
In that hour of deep contrition,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
All the pomp of earth had vanished,
And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
By his hand were freed again.
And as on the sacred missal
And the monk replied, " Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Mingling with the common dust:
But the good deed through the ages
THE TIMES OF KING LION-HEART. With the deeds of noble Englishmen when Lion-heart was king, Though our chroniclers in prose and verse have made the world' to
ring, I would have you know who listen, that the half has not been told Of those good old times, those brave old times, those merry times
of old. Merry England like a mighty sea, from end to end was stirred, When “God help the Holy Sepulchre” from every tongue was
heard, And the tempest caught up Lion-heart, as o'er the realm it rolled, In the good old times, the brave old times, the merry times of old.
Then the English king leaves England, and he hurries o'er the sea,
They shall die upon a foreign shore,—their labour scarce begun:
O'er the marshy lands the fever broods, the plague is in the town, But the king may give an orphan-maid for wife to any clown; And the working man like horse or dog is freely bought and sold, In the good old times, the brave old times, the merry times of old.
There are churches, there are abbeys fine, right noble buildings all;
And for children, whether they shall live, or die by fell disease When it seizes them, is more than medicine knows in days like
these, If escaping they shall feel the pangs of hunger and of cold, In the good old times, the brave old times, the merry times of old.
But when sore beset they surely have the ancle-bones of saints
Then King Lion-heart returning, is in Austria waylaid,
Home Book for Children of all Ages.
contemplate well. This is the place
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
* In 1215. + Founded on a tradition of the Welsh, that when Edward I. conquered that country in 1283, he put all the bards to death who fell into his hands.
“Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
“Mark the year, and mark the night,
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fang,
Thy sateless son shall o'er thy country hang The scourge of Heaven.
“Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye afford
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
“Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast; Close by the regal' chair,
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
“ Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe we spread : The bristled Boar in infant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
“ But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
“Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,
“ The verse adorn again,
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
In buskin’d measures move
A voice, as of the cherub-chuir,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
The different doom our fates assign.
To triumph, and to die, are mine.”
THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.*
As the host of the Austrian pass’d,
Up’midst the Righi snows,
The stormy march was heard,
And the leader's gathering word.
* 1315. It is termed the Swiss Marathon.