Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 16 1826.pdf/8



step was heard by night, In a church where the mighty slept, As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 'Midst the tombs his vigil kept. He walk'd in dreams of Power and Fame, He lifted a proud bright eye, For the hours were few that withheld his name From the roll of Chivalry.

Down the moon-lit aisles he paced alone, With a free and stately tread, And the floor gave back a muffled tone From the couches of the Dead: The silent many that round him lay, The crown’d and helm'd that were, The haughty chiefs of the war-array— —Each in his sepulchre!

But no dim warning of Time or Fate That youth's flush'd hope could chill, He moved through the trophies of buried state With each proud pulse throbbing still. He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, A swell of the trumpet's breath, He look’d to the banners, on high that hung, And not to the dust beneath.

And a royal masque of splendour seem'd    Before him to unfold, Through the solemn arches on it stream'd,    With many a gleam of gold; There were crested Knight and gorgeous Dame, Glittering athwart the gloom, And he follow'd till his bold step came To his Warrior-Father's tomb.

But there the still and shadowy might Of the monumental stone, And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light, That over its quiet shone, And the image of that Sire who died In his noon-day of renown— —These had a power unto which the pride Of fiery life bow'd down.

And a spirit from his early years Came back o'er his thoughts to move, Till his eye was fill'd with memory's tears, And his heart with childhood’s love! And he look'd, with a change in his softening glance, To the armour o'er the grave, For there they hung, the shield and lance, And the gauntlet of the brave.