Slow and distinct falls each last burning word,
Piercing the soul of France's destined lord:
"Maintain good manners, and keep equity,

Lend ready credence to the poor man's cry;
"Be ready to forgive, and slow to strife;
"Govern with thrift and temperance thy life;
"If thou hast aught that is another's right,

Restore, and spare not for thy greater might:
"To thee thy kingdom and thy lords are given,
"Be they as sons to thee, and thou to Heaven!"*
Bless, Mother Church, the purest of thy sons,
Chaunt Misereres with thy sweetest tones;
With solemn peal and slow bid the bells toll
O'er the calm sea for the departing soul.
God, the All-Just, recalls the life He gave;
He is absolved whom Christ hath died to save!
No more to earth that last long look is given,
That yearning gaze absorbs the joys of Heaven.
Then turn'd the glazing eye from France and home,
He gasps, "Jerusalem! I come, I come;"†
Swift and more swift flows every fleeting breath,
Borne forth upon the last ebb-tide of Death,
Then mingles with the deep and voiceless sea

Of depth beyond all depth-silent Eternity.

en un lit couvert de cendre, et mist ses mains sur sa poitrine, et en regardant vers le ciel rendi à nostre Créateur son esperit, en celle hore meismes que le filz Dieu morut en la croix."

* Joinville's Mémoires, pp. 238-240.

† Rev. J. H. Gurney's Chapters on French History, p. 116. “Louis died at Carthage with his back to France and his eyes turned to the Holy City, like a pilgrim of the Middle Ages," August 25th,

1270.

Now, widowed France, bid sound thy muffled knell,
For him whose mind hath moulded thine so well;
Waft incense through the odorous air, and sing

Thy softest Requiems to thy sainted King;
Be this thine aim! that all posterity

Be sung as good, as wise, as pure as He!

*

REQUIEM.

Hush for the Hero-Lord hath won his rest,
Crown'd with the palm of many a manful fight;
Hush for his soul is number'd with the blest;-
He sleeps, he sleeps, to-night!

Weep! Earth, for thou hast lost thy noblest Son, Who knew to spurn the ill and choose the right; Weep! France; thy King is gone, his rule is done;— He sleeps, he sleeps, to-night!

Ye myriad voices of the angel-choirs,

Welcome the Saint to your high realms of light, Prepare your anthems, tune your golden lyres;— St. Louis wakes to-night!

BROOK DEEDES.

London: Printed by J. B. Nichols and Sons, 25, Parliament Street.