HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN *.

It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

THE bark that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves roll'd on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain;—

Why comes not death to those who mourn?

*

-He never smiled again!

Originally published in the Literary Gazette.

L

There stood proud forms around his throne,

The stately and the brave,

But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?

Before him pass'd the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train,

But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair—
-He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing,

He saw the Tourney's victor crown'd,
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
-He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, clos'd o'er the trace Of vows once fondly pour'd,

And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bath'd with tears,

Were left to Heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other

-He never smiled again!

years

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS

FATHER.

The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.

TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a king lay stately on his bier,
In the church of Fontevraud.

Banners of battle o'er him hung,

And warriors slept beneath,

And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung

On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death

A strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there:

As if each deeply-furrow'd trace

Of earthly years to show,

-Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely clos'd in woe!

The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;

And solemn were the strains they pour'd

Through the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang

With a sounding thrill of dread;