On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,
Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold!
For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part.
They have told him he is dying. Keen remorse is at his heart.
Life is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding high
In a warrior frame victorious: it were easy so to die.

Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sum

Of the past is lengthened murder, and a fearful world to come!
Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath? The deed is done.
He has conquered. They have suffered. Yonder, blackening in the sun,
From the battlements they're hanging. Little joy it gives to him
Now to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim!
One was saved,— the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;
He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead!
Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,
Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me."
He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,
And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands.
He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;
But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.
Death is certain,-death by torture: death for him can have no sting,

If that arrow did its duty,—if he share it with the king.
Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,
Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of old
That in Richard's breast is lurking, ready once again to spring.
Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the king
Questions impotently, wildly: "Prisoner, tell me, what of ill
Ever I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?”
Higher, prouder still he bears him; o'er his countenance appear,
Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn: what does he hear?

"And dost thou ask me, man of blood, what evil thou hast done?
Hast thou so soon forgot thy vow to hang each mother's son?
No! oft as thou hast broken vows, I know them to be strong,
Whene'er thy pride or lust or hate has sworn to do a wrong.
But churls should bow to right divine of kings, for good or ill,
And bare their necks to axe or rope, if 'twere thy royal will?
Ah, hadst thou, Richard, yet to learn the very meanest thing
That crawls the earth in self-defence would turn upon a king?
Yet deem not 'twas the hope of life which led me to the deed:
I'd freely lose a thousand lives to make thee, tyrant, bleed ! —
Ay mark me well, canst thou not see somewhat of old Bertrand?
My father good! my brothers dear!— all murdered by thy hand!
Yes, one escaped; he saw thee strike, he saw his kindred die,
And breathed a vow, a burning vow of vengeance; it was I!

I've lived; but all my life has been a memory of the slain ;
I've lived but to revenge them, and I have not lived in vain!
I read it in thy haggard face, the hour is drawing nigh

When power

and wealth can aid thee not,

when, Richard, thou must DIE! What mean those pale, convulsive lips? What means that shrinking brow? Ha! Richard of the lion-heart, thou art a coward now!

Now call thy hireling ruffians; bid them bring the cord and rack,
And bid them strain these limbs of mine until the sinews crack;
And bid them tear the quivering flesh, break one by one each bone;-
Thou canst not break my spirit, though thou mayst compel a groan.
I die, as I would live and die, the ever bold and free;

And I shall die with joy, to think I've rid the world of thee."

Swords are starting from their scabbards, grim and hardened warriors wait
Richard's slightest word or gesture that may seal the bowman's fate.
But his memory has been busy with the deeds of other times.
In the eyes of wakened conscience all his glories turn to crimes,
And his crimes to something monstrous; worlds were little now to give
In atonement for the least. He cries, in anguish, “Let him live.

He has reason; never treason more became a traitor bold.
Youth, forgive as I forgive thee! Give him freedom, — give him gold.
Marcadee, be sure, obey me; 'tis the last, the dying hest

Of a monarch who is sinking, sinking fast,—oh, not to rest!
Haply, He above, remembering, may relieve my dark despair

With a ray of hope to light the gloom when I am suffering — there!"

I've often met with a fast young friend
More ready to borrow than I to lend;
I've heard smooth men in election-time
Prove every creed, but their own, a crime:
Perhaps, if the fast one wished to borrow,
I've taken his word to pay "to-morrow";
Perhaps, while Smooth explained his creed,
I've thought him the man for the country's need;
Perhaps I'm more of a trusting mood
Than you suppose; but I think I would

Have trusted that man of mail,

If I had been the dying king,

About as far as you could sling

An elephant by the tail!

GOOD subjects then, as now, no doubt,
When a king was dead, were eager to shout

In time, "God save" the new one! One trouble was always whom to choose Amongst the heirs; for it raised the deuse And ran the subject's neck in a noose,

Unless he chose the true one.

Another difficult task, to judge

If the coming king would bear a grudge
For some old breach of concord,

And take the earliest chance to send
A trusty line by a trusty friend

To give his compliments at the end
Of a disagreeable strong cord.

And whoever would have must seize his own.
Thus a dying king was left alone,

With a sad neglect of manners;

Ere his breath was out, the courtiers ran,
With fear or zeal for "the coming man,"
In time to escape from under his ban,
Or hurry under his banners.

So Richard was left in a shabby way
To Marcadee, with an abbot to pray
And pother with “consolation,"
Reminding 'twas never too late to search
For mercy, and hinting that Mother Church
Was never known to leave in the lurch
A king with a fat donation.

But the abbot was known to Richard well,
As one who would smoothen the road to hell,
And quite as willing to revel

-

As preach; and he always preached to "soothe," With a mild regard for "the follies of youth,” – Himself, in epitome, proving the truth

Of the world, the flesh, and the Devil.

:

This was the will that Richard made :-
"My body at father's feet be laid;

And to Rouen (it loved me most)
My heart I give; and I give my ins-
Ides to the rascally Poitevins;
To the abbot I give my darling—sins;
And I give ". He gave up the ghost.

The abbot looked grave, but never spoke.
The captain laughed, gave the abbot a poke,
And, without ado or lingering,

"Conveyed" the personals, jewels, and gold,
Omitting the formal To Have and to Hold.
From the royal finger, before it was cold,
He slipped the royal finger-ring.

On the valley would keep a watchful eye, And pounce on travellers with their cry, "The Rhine-dues! down! deliver!"

And crack their crowns for any delay
In paying down. And that, by the way,
About as correctly as I know,

Is the origin true of an ancient phrase
So frequently heard in modern days,
When a gentleman quite reluctantly pays,-

I mean, "To come down with the rhino."

A LEGEND OF MARYLAND.

"AN OWRE TRUE TALE."