RUNNIMEDE. 357
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
lie from the throng would hide.
��Know ye what visiteth his soul,
AVhen 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.
�� �
