On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,
  Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold! 
  For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part. 
  They have told him he is dying.  Keen remorse is at his heart
  Life is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding high
  In a warrior frame victorious:  it were easy so to die. 
  Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sum
  Of the past is lengthened murder,—­and a fearful world to come! 
  Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath?  The deed is done. 
  He has conquered.  They have suffered.  Yonder, blackening in the sun,
  From the battlements they’re hanging.  Little joy it gives to him
  Now to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim! 
  One was saved,—­the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;
  He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead! 
  Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,
  Saying, “Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me.” 
  He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,
  And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands. 
  He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;
  But his soul, before its leaving, Richard’s very soul would know. 
  Death is certain,—­death by torture:  death for him can have no sting,
  If that arrow did its duty,—­if he share it with the king. 
  Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,
  Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of old
  That in Richard’s breast is lurking, ready once again to spring. 
  Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the king
  Questions impotently, wildly:  “Prisoner, tell me, what of ill
  Ever I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?”
  Higher, prouder still he bears him; o’er his countenance appear,
  Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn:  what does he hear?

  “And dost thou ask me, man of blood, what evil thou hast done? 
  Hast thou so soon forgot thy vow to hang each mother’s son? 
  No! oft as thou hast broken vows, I know them to be strong,
  Whene’er thy pride or lust or hate has sworn to do a wrong. 
  But churls should bow to right divine of kings, for good or ill,
  And bare their necks to axe or rope, if ’twere thy royal will? 
  Ah, hadst thou, Richard, yet to learn the very meanest thing
  That crawls the earth in self-defence would turn upon a king? 
  Yet deem not ’twas the hope of life which led me to the deed: 
  I’d freely lose a thousand lives to make thee, tyrant, bleed!—­
  Ay! mark me well, canst thou not see somewhat of old Bertrand? 
  My father good! my brothers dear!—­all murdered by thy hand! 
  Yes, one escaped; he saw thee strike, he saw his kindred die,