KING JOHN.
There stands on Runimede a king, whose name we need not tell,
For the blood of high Plantagenet within his veins doth swell,
And yet a sceptred hand he lifts, to shade his haggard brow,
As if constrained to do a deed his pride would disallow.
He pauses still.—His faint eye rests upon those barons bold,
Whose hands are grappling to their swords with fierce and sudden hold,
That pause is broke.—He bows him down before those steel-girt men,
And glorious Magna Charta glows beneath his trembling pen.
His false lip to a smile is wreathed, as their exulting shout,
Upon the gentle summer air, thro' the broad oaks peals out,
Yet lingers long his cowering glance on Thames' translucent tide,
As if some deep and bitter thought he from the throng would hide.
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 murderer quake,
As if again his guiltless blood from Rouen's prison spake.
But tho' no red volcano burst to whelm the men of crime,
No vengeful earthquake fiercely yawn to gorge them ere their time,
Tho' Earth for her most guilty sons the festive board doth set,
The wine-cup and the opiate draught,—yet ne'er can Heaven forget.