Oh! thou gory-crowned head
Haunting here my dying bed!
Was it not necessity?
Moulding deed that was to be!
Oh! king so false—away—away—
Leave me at least my dying day.
Is there no refuge? Hated face!
Come with the looks of thy cold race.
Look thou as when thy soiled hand gave
The Earl, thy vassal to the grave.
Gaze thou on me in that worst pride
As kingly honor was defied.
Look thus on me—but not as now,
That patient sorrow on thy brow.
I can but gaze. Forever near
Thy dreaded form is my one fear.
A boy, I sit by running stream,
The humble life my daily dream:
Some lowly good—some wrongs redrest,
A noiseless life, its peaceful rest.
As that stream calm my life shall be;
As placid in its purity.
The humble stone shall tell the tale
When life began—when strength did fail.
An humble race shall bear my name
Blest by a few not rich in fame.
Oh! king, thine eye! It says, but then
Thy hand had not the guilty stain.
Hark! how the marriage-bells are ringing!
Voices fill the air with singing.
Waves of light are now the beating
Of my heart, and the repeating
Seems no weariness of pleasure,
Only increase of its treasure.
Ah! dear wife! thy look hath sped
Many a sorrow. But this head!
E'en at the hearth, and by thy side
This kingly blood-stained form doth glide.
The quiet house of God,—the prayer
Rising as incense in the air.
I breathe the still and mighty power,
I catch the glory of the hour.
Am I not pure, and armed for strife
With England for her better life?
Thou gory head! my prophecy,
In that loved church told not of thee.
Look as if heaven changed thy face,
Let pardon there at last have place:
Before me, on this awful sea,
Some gleam of heaven reflected be.