 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
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THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING.
I
There are noble heads bow'd down and pale,Deep sounds of woe arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch
Where a wounded warrior lies;
The hue of death is gathering dark
Upon his lofty brow,
And the arm of might and valour falls
Weak as an infant's now.
II
I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,Like a bright and leading star,
Where banner, helm, and falchion gleam'd,
And flew the bolts of war:
When, in his plenitude of power,
He trod the Holy Land,
I saw the routed Saracens
Flee from his blood dark brand.
84
III
I saw him in the banquet hourForsake the festive throng,
To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song:
For dearly as he loved renown,
He loved that spell-wrought strain
Which bade the brave of perished days
Light conquest's torch again.
IV
Then seem'd the Bard to cope with Time,And triumph o'er his doom—
Another world in freshness burst
Oblivion's mighty tomb!—
Again the hardy Britons rushed
Like lions to the fight;
While horse and foot—helm, shield, and lance
Swept by his vision'd sight!
V
But battle shout and waving plume,The drum's heart-stirring beat,
The glittering pomp of prosperous war—
The rush of million feet—
The magic of the minstrel's song,
Which told of victories o'er,—
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see—shall hear no more!
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VI
It was the hour of deep midnight,In the dim and quiet sky,
When, with sable cloak and broider'd pall,
A funeral train swept by:
Dull and sad fell the torches' glare
On many a stately crest—
They bore the noble warrior-king
To his last dark home of rest.
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