England :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ “throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'r this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me.”
—Shakspeare's King John.

“Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.”
—King John.

One word for him, who lies without a tomb!
No hymn records his virtues, and no tale
Relates the sorrows of his prison gloom.
Vainly his moanings reach'd the evening gale:
The swift Seine listen'd to his lonely wail.
Yet doth he live with Shakspeare, a proud name.
Young, pure, a prince in soul, we needs must hail
His entry 'mong the stars of mortal fame:
'Tis such as he who cause by far the brightest flame.

Thick frown'd the midnight clouds; the winds were wild,
And roar'd along the turrets: not a star
Scatter'd its hidden glory; the Seine boil'd
Wrathfully, as it sought the deep afar:
All Nature seem'd to wage relentless war.

194

Yet there was wilder strife within the breast
Of young Prince Arthur: storms of dread and fear,
And horrid nightmares, mov'd amid his rest,
And poison-pangs of death, most grievously opprest.

Unhappy Prince!—this is no place for thee!
For purple-crowned bed, the frozen clay!
Instead of courtly halls, and wanderings free,
This narrow circle, shut from life and day,
Where nought but things obscene and foul do stay:
Cold, darkness, damp,—with nought for company
But the rude winds and hollow waters' play:
With constant fears of death, that round thee lie—
Murders red hungry shapes, that o'er thy visions fly!

To watch, with aching soul, the fading light
Along thy prison walls: to see the gloom
Fall gradual o'er the solemn fronted night:
To feel the horrors of a living tomb.
Whilst the sad Seine laments thy cruel doom
With woeful plaint, and ever sounding moan;
And, dropping always from thy dungeon'd room,
The chill dews patter on the sounding stone,
And the huge creaking doors upon their hinges groan.

False names gave the old bards to sleep! The twin—
The sister—brother—cousin of grim death!
Death, that has neither love nor life within,
Nor ought divine to mingle with its breath.

195

Sleep hath high dreams and visions: underneath
Its pillow rainbow-glories oft-time lie:
Spirits celestial do its temples wreathe.
Death hath but gloom and darkness: o'er his sky
Nought radiant ever floats—no splendour passeth by.

“O spare me, spare me; it is hard to die
“In freshest youth, the earth so bright and fair!
“All things divine and new!—My uncle, why,
“Why, would you slay me?”—“Wouldst thou madly dare”
Thus spake the king—“this crown from off me tear;
“Rather, thou carrion, would I drive to hell
“Thy soul and mine, than thou shouldst ever bear
“The sceptre.”—As he spoke the dagger fell—
A moment, and the sprite was where pure angels dwell.

His body welters in the Seine's wild wave;
And none knew more!—No white rob'd children sung
His dirge, or planted flowers upon his grave;
But many a heart through England's fields was wrung;
And Europe curs'd its king with loudest tongue;
And God, the avenger, whose eye seeth all,
Fashion'd the fire that at his heart-strings sprung.
Remorse and pitiless death at length did fall
Upon him, and he sunk amid a nation's howl!

Poor murder'd Prince!—The dripping summer rain
He hears not, nor the ever-lowing wind;
The forests pour their many sounds in vain.

196

He views not the blue summer-heavens reclin'd
Soft as a dreaming bride—to all things blind!
Yet, as he died, he heard a heavenly hymn,
And the white clouds cast off the fringe that lin'd
Their hidden depths, and shew'd the seraphim;
And blessed saintly shapes did waft him to their clime!

And were there none wept o'er him?—There was one!
She saw him not awakening at the morn;
She heard not his known footsteps;—they were gone!
The silver voice was mute; the tresses shorn;
The violet eyes glaz'd o'er; and sad and lorn,
What could the desolate mother do but weep?
That lovely child, from her sweet bosom torn,
Shall speak his prayers no more; shall never leap
Again to her glad arms, who in the dust doth sleep!

Vainly the sun may shine on tree and flower,
And wake the songs of the melodious spring;
Vainly shall leaves and blossoms clothe the bower,
Wherein she mourneth, morn and evening,
Where once her bright boy came on angel's wing.
Her eyes are red with tears—her face is pale—
Her locks dishevell'd, and she cannot sing,
Whose voice was pleasant as a summer gale:
O, never, never more, shall cease poor Constance's wail!