CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

THOMAS MOORE.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time,
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast;
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon:
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

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CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

MRS. HEMANS.

TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontévraud;

Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath;

And light, as the noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of Death.

On the settled face of Death, a strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by censers' breath, yet it fell still brightest there,

As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show:

Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang Mass for the parted soul:

And solemn were the strains they poured in the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown, and sword, and the silent King in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread;

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang with a sounding thrill of dread.

And the holy chant was hushed awhile, as by the torches' flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mailclad leader came.

He came with haughty look, a dark glance high and clear;

But his proud heart 'neath his breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier.

He stood there still, with drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised;

For his father lay before him low-it was Cour de Lion gazed.

And silently he strove with the workings of his breast; But there's more in late-repented love than steel may keep suppressed.

And his tears brake forth at last like rain ;-men held their breath in awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior-train, and he recked not that they saw.

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. 43

He looked upon the dead! and sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, even as lead, pale on the fast shut eye.

He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek, and the hand of lifeless clay,

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-gave his soul's passion way.

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Oh, father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep? Speak to me, father! once again :-I weep!-behold I weep!

Alas! my guilty pride and ire! Were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire! to hear thee bless thy son!

Speak to me!-Mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred!

Hear me but hear me!-Father, Chief, my King! I must be heard!—

Hushed, hushed ?-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not?

When was it thus ?-Woe, woe, for all the love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me they had not been so white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last no longer couldst thou strive

Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel, and say, 'Forgive!'

Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!

The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent knee!

And now, before the blessed shrine, my sire, I see thee lie;

How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I

die !"

WILLIAM TELL TO HIS NATIVE
MOUNTAINS.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again!-O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are, how mighty, and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile
Makes glad-whose frown is terrible: whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!-I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow,
O'er the abyss: his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow: yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath,

And round about; absorbed, he heeded not

The death that threatened him.-I could not shoot'Twas Liberty !-I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

Heavens! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And think the land was free. Yes, it was free, From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free, Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,

THE RIVER.

And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.

How happy was I then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake;
The stars went out, and down the mountain-gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
On the wild jutting cliff, o'ertaken oft

By the mountain blast, I have laid me flat along;
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

Then I have thought of other lands whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

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Have wished me there; the thought that mine was free

Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,

Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

THE RIVER.

GOODRICH.

Он, tell me, pretty river,
Whence do thy waters flow?
And whither art thou roaming,
So pensive and so slow ?

"My birthplace was the mountain,
My nurse the April showers;
My cradle was a fountain,

O'er-curtained by wild flowers.

"One morn I ran away,
A madcap, hoyden rill,
And many a prank that day
I played adown the hill!