224 KING JOHN.
I know what visiteth his soul, when midnight's heavy hand,
Doth crush the emmet cares of day, and wave reflection's wand :
Forth stalks his broken-hearted sire, wrapt in the grave- robe drear,
And close around the ingrate's heart doth cling the ice of fear.
I know what sounds are in his ear, when wrathful tempests roll,
When God doth bid his lightnings search, his thunders try the soul :
Above the blast young Arthur's shriek doth make the mur- derer quake,
As if again his guiltless blood from Rouen's prison spake.
But though no red volcano burst to whelm the men of
crime, No vengeful earthquake fiercely yawn to gorge them ere
their time, Though Earth for her most guilty sons the festive board
doth set, The wine-cup and the opiate draught, yet say, can
Heaven forget ?
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