Lays and Ballads from Ancient History :: :: University of Virginia Library

We have lost our hero-monarch, our lion-king is ta'en,
Around his free and knightly limbs is bound the shameful chain;
The eye which used to marshal us is waxing faint and dim,
For the light of day, which shines on us, is shut and barr'd from him.

Alas, alas, for England! our princely chief is lost;
And powerless is the mighty arm that hath struck down a host;
Our people hath no ruler, no tenant hath our throne;
And we know not where the enemy hath laid our glorious one.

We have follow'd him to battle in the far-off eastern climes;
We have watch'd his matchless valour a thousand, thousand times;
We have seen the humbled Saracen kneel low to kiss his robe;
For his fame hath but one limit—the limit of the globe!

For his coronal of glory he won the brightest gem
Where the stately palms are circling thy land, Jerusalem!
The very air that fans thy domes is vocal with his name,
And the pale cheek of each infidel pays tribute to his fame.

His eye was like the lightning, his arm was like its stroke,
When it shivers into shapeless dust the gnarl'd and massy oak;
His voice was like a trumpet with a challenge in its tone,
Yet sweet as the wild lark that sings in field and forest lone.

But now there is a fetter on that firm and noble hand,
And mute is that imperial voice whose accent was command;
That eye of bright authority is waxing faint and dim,
For the beams of day, the breath of morn—all, all are barr'd from him!

Oh, is it wily Philip who hath wrought thee this mischance,
Because thine English banner did outstrip the flag of France?
Or is it specious Burgundy, that soft and carpet-knight,
Because thy foot hath ever been before him in the fight?

Or is it craven Austria, who plann'd the false surprise,
In vengeance for the lofty scorn of thine undaunted eyes?
Well hath thy soul disdain'd him, and well thine eye hath spurn'd
The canning envy of the base, which in his spirit burn'd.

Out on thee, recreant Austria! in battle thou wouldst be
Full glad to sue for mercy to the Lion on thy knee;
Thou art not meet to serve him as a squire or as a slave;
Alas, that craft and dastardy prevail against the brave!

We have sheath'd our useless weapons, we have flung our helmets down,
Our steeds are uncaparison'd, our clarions are unblown;
Why should the joyous clarion sound, to cheer us on the foe?
Thou art not here to marshal us, so wherefore should we go?

All powerless are thy warriors—they know not where thou art;
They can but lock thy bitter wrongs within each burning heart;
For thee the minstrel only his lay of mourning sings,
Thou monarch of all heroes! thou hero among kings!