“Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man.”
OU are gazing upon the death-chamber of a king. He lies upon his bed in the silent, darkened room, and sleep comes and goes from his troubled pillow. Conscience smites him and disease racks his bones. He has been a man of blood all his days, and many crimes are laid to his charge. He has murdered the king whose crown he wears; the blood of an archbishop is upon his head. As fitful slumber seizes him, you perceive a noble youth enter the room. Comely is he in face and figure, though he bears the marks of recent grief. He stands by his father’s couch, and watches the sufferer. As he does so, his eye falls on the king’s crown, and he muses on the weight and cares of majesty. Then he glances again at the prostrate form on the bed, and a great grief surges into his heart, for, to all seeming, the king, his father, is dead. He bursts into tears, and taking up the crown places it on his own head.
“My due from thee is this Imperial crown,
Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,
Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,
Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole strength