O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold

From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled;

'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay

Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away;

O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword

Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord:

How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled!

How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead!

The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird,

Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred.

Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest,

Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed;

With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on,

Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John;

When the heralds were crying—Brave Knights, have a care,

Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair!

O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off,

Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff;

How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen BerengÈre,[A]

While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air!

How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode,

And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode!

O, England, arise! for thine honour advance,

And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France;

Spread out thy broad standard—"Saint George!" be the cry;

To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly!

Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol,

No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul!

Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps,

And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps!

On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe,

And before me long years of the dark future flow.

The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn,

The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won.

Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just,

And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust.

But ere the avenger shall rise in his might,

Long ages will pass, wherein wrong conquers right;

Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head;

Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead;

But now, and forever, there beats in one heart

Devotion, that living, shall thence never part.

Coeur de Lion, farewell! But again, when at eve

The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe,

O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown,

I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown.

King of England, farewell! for the night falleth fast,

And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last.