The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860. Various

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      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!"

      The captain neared the royal bed

      And humbly bowed his helmèd head,

      And laid his hand upon the plate

      That sheathed his breast, and said, "Though late

      Thy mercy comes, I hold it still

      My duty to do thy royal will.

      If I should fail to serve thee fair,

      May I be doomed to suffer–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

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