anks, like a bolt in the storm:
'Tis the Lion King!--"How, now, ye knaves!
Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"--
One blow to the left, one blow to the right,--
Two recreants fall;--no more of flight.
One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,
His curtle-axe rends the double oak.
Down shower the missiles;--they fall in vain;
They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.
He is down,--he is up;--that right arm! how
'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!
The barrier yields,--it shivers,--it falls.
"Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!
Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!
No quarter! remember----_Je--su!_ I'm shot!"

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 th