Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/353

His white lip to a smile is wreathed,
    As their exulting shout
From 'neath the broad, embowering trees
    Upon the gale swells out,
Yet still his cowering glance is bent
    On Thames' translucent tide,
As if some sharp and bitter pang
    He from the throng would hide.

Know ye what visiteth his soul,
    When midnight's heavy hand
Doth crush the emmet cares of day,
    And wield reflection's wand?
Forth stalks a broken-hearted sire,
    Wrapt in the grave-robe drear,
And close around his ingrate heart
    Doth cling the ice of fear.

Know ye what sounds are in his ear,
    When wrathful tempests roll;
When heaven-commissioned lightnings search,
    And thunders try the soul?
Above their blast young Arthur's shriek
    Doth make the murderer quake,
As if anew the guiltless blood
    From Rouen's prison spake.