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THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED FREDERICKS. 
 
 " F'lr licu'veiis sake, let us sit uf>on the grr.urtd, 
 And tell sad stories of the death nf kinirs." 
 
 ISlIVKKSHKAKlt 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 BUNCE AND HUNTINGTON, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 M.DCCCLXVI. 
 

 
 Entered according to Art of Congress, in the year l86;, 
 
 By BUNCE AND HUNTINGTON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the Distrirt Court of the United States for the Southern 
 Distriift of New York. 
 
 O. A. ALVORD. STEIIEOTYI'RR. 
 
JAMES LO RIMER GRAHAM, Jr., 
 
 FROM HIS FRIEND, 
 
 R. H. S. 
 
ILL USTRJTIONS. 
 
 DESIGNED BY ALFRED FREDERICKS ENGRAVED BY BOBBETT AND HOOPER. 
 
 —"PRINCE FELIX AT HIS FATHER'S DEATH WAS KING" 9 ^ 
 
 —"BUT FELIX, ROUSED A MOMENT, SMOTE HIM DOWN" 14 ^ 
 
 —"'LONG LIVE THE QUEEN !'"—"' LONG LIVE THE HAPPY KING!'" 21*^ 
 
 -"BESIDE THE CRADLE, AT THE DEAD OF NIGHT" 27 
 
 / 
 
 —"SO FOR A WHILE THE TIDE OF BATTLE FLOWS" j; v 
 
 —"AND PACED HIS CHAMBER WITH AN ACHIXG HEART ' 41 '' 
 
 — "'1 SAW TO-DAY A FATHER AT HIS DOOR"' 48 ^ 
 
 —"STRETCHED ON HIS BACK, HIS HANDS ACROSS HIS BREAST" 56' 
 
THE KING'S BELL 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 PRINCE FELIX at his father's death was King. 
 So he commanded all the bells to rino- 
 
 o 
 
 A jubilant peal, and bade his heralds say, 
 
 From that time forward, every happy day 
 
 Should so be honoured. "Not an hour will pass, 
 
 Nay, scarce the turning of the smallest glass, 
 
 Without the merry clamour of my bells. 
 
 In sooth, I fear they'll banish funeral knells. 
 
 And set the mourners dancing ! I shall be 
 
 So happy, the whole world will envy me." 
 
 Thus spake the new-made monarch, and, indeed, 
 He had some grounds to justify his creed. 
 Imprimis, he was young ; and youth, we know. 
 Cannot be wretched, if it would be so ; 
 For grant it sometimes weeps, and seems to pine. 
 
lO THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 It feels through all its royal self, like wine. 
 
 Then he was rich as Crcesus : bass of eold 
 
 Heaped up his treasury, and wealth untold 
 
 Smouldered in guarded chests of precious stones, 
 
 And blazed like stars in sceptres, crowns, and thrones. 
 
 Powerful, and rich, and young — in short, a King, 
 
 O happy man ! why should his bells not ring ? 
 
 He built himself a palace, like his state. 
 Magnificent, with many a marble gate ; 
 A great dome in the centre, and thereon 
 A gilded belfry, shining like the sun. 
 And in it hung a bell of wondrous tone. 
 From which a silken cord ran to his throne : 
 Nor only there, but o'er his royal bed. 
 (O how unlike the sword above the head 
 Of that unhappy king of olden time !) 
 " My people will be deafened by its chime," 
 Ouoth he, when all was done. And now began 
 That perfect life, not yet vouchsafed to man. 
 He chose his ministers as monarchs should — 
 Among the oldest men, the great and good — 
 And, placing in their hands the reins of State, 
 Charged them to make his people good and great. 
 " For me," he thought, " an idle life is best : 
 They love to bustle— let them, I shall rest." 
 
]is;iBiifi;iiiii;iEE!iii!i:is'» 
 
rHE KING'S BEL L. U 
 
 He lolled upon his couch with dreamy eyes, 
 
 Watching he cared not what — the summer skies, 
 
 The nest of swans, the fountain's rise and fall, 
 
 Or even the sunlight shifting on the wall. 
 
 Perchance he ordered music ; at the word 
 
 His fancy, flattered from its trance, was stirred 
 
 And quickened with sweet sounds from harp and lute, 
 
 Or some rich voice that chid the music mute. 
 
 Ten times a day he stretched his hand to ring 
 
 The bell, he felt so glad, but some slight thing — 
 
 A buzzing gnat — the wind too cold or hot — 
 
 Deterred him till the impulse was forgot. 
 
 " Have you been happv ?" something seemed to say 
 
 At night: "I see you ha\e not rung to-dav." 
 
 " I must have been too idle," he replied ; 
 
 And then, at dawn : " I v.'ill arise, and ride 
 
 A league or two in the dew and morning wind, 
 
 'Twill freshen and revive mv drowsy mind." 
 
 He called a sleeping groom, who cursed his fate, 
 
 And bade him take his courser to the gate. 
 
 That he might mount unseen, and ride awav, 
 
 Before the court was stirring tor the day. 
 
 The courser soon was saddled, and the groom 
 
 Returned, still vawning, to the monarch's room. 
 
 But found him fast asleep, so back he crept, 
 
 And late that day both groom and monarch slept. 
 
12 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 The listless hours in idle reveries spent 
 Stung Felix to a noble discontent; 
 For, shamed to think he loved his ease so well, 
 And longing for the music of the bell, 
 He charged the groom to bring his steed once more. 
 And, if he slumbered, thunder on his door 
 Until he woke, " And harkee, sirrah, see 
 That I rise, too, or 'twill be worse with thee." 
 'Twas done. Adown the palace walk he spurred 
 Into the misty dark, unseen, unheard ; 
 Through meadows where the trampling of his steed 
 Fell mufBed, noiseless as a winged seed 
 Sown by soft airs where endless summer smiles ; 
 Through forest shades, like dim cathedral aisles, 
 Arching beneath a sky of brightening blue : 
 Sometimes he touched a spray, and showers of dew 
 Baptized him, or some small bird, half awake. 
 Twittered an early ditty for his sake. 
 How sweet the morning was ! how cool the wind ! 
 A weight seemed lifted from his waking mind. 
 And faster flowed the current of his blood : 
 His proud steed bore him onward like a flood. 
 Shaking from his champed bit the snow-white foam. 
 The larks up-springing from their grassy home. 
 Winging the deeps of air — a jubilant choir ; 
 The leaden clouds consumed with morning's fire. 
 
13 
 
 rUE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Melting in seas of gold ; the silver rills, 
 
 The broad champaign, the woods, the purple hills — 
 
 He saw, and felt them all, and, filled with joy. 
 
 Forgot the king, and shouted like a boy, 
 
 And, rising in his stirrups, clutched the air 
 
 As if to ring his bell — ah ! why was it not there ? 
 
 Was Felix happy ? Had you asked him then, 
 He would have said, "The happiest of men." 
 But when three leagues were passed, and he rode back. 
 His brow was knitted, and his bridle slack : 
 His little burst of happiness was o'er. 
 And he was sadder, idler than before ; 
 For what but pain could this remembrance bring — 
 Thou art a boy no longer, but a king ? 
 
 Returning gloomy to the court, he sought 
 The crowded council-chamber, grave with thought, 
 But meeting at the door a merry lord. 
 Who made a lowly bow, and begged a word. 
 He stopped and heard, — alas ! with greedy ear, 
 A trifling tale, not meet for him to hear, 
 A bit of scandalous gossip, then a jest ; 
 The laughing pair linked arms : you guess the rest. 
 That day the council met without the King. 
 At night there was a sound of revellins; 
 
^ 
 
 rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Within the banquet-chamber, loud and late. 
 
 There Felix sat, oblivious of his state, 
 
 Carousing with the roysterers of his court, 
 
 And, what a drunken king should be — their sport. 
 
 They clinked their glasses with him, or they sang 
 
 Light songs, and shouted till the palace rang, 
 
 Or stamped in chorus when he rose to speak : 
 
 At last the boldest, in a tipsy freak. 
 
 Would play the king himself; he touched the crown, 
 
 But Felix, roused a moment, smote him down 
 
 Bleeding among the wine-cups. " Fool, lie there ! 
 
 Crowns were not made for such as you to wear." 
 
 He spurned him with his foot. A draught of wine 
 
 Washed out the insult to his right divine, 
 
 And set his swimming thoughts adrift again ; 
 
 The purple sea kept mounting to his brain. 
 
 " I hear," he said, " a buzzing in my ears. 
 
 The echoed music of the happy spheres : 
 
 What waves of sound ! and how they sink and swell ! 
 
 It must be time to ring my golden bell." 
 
 He rose, and staggering to his chamber-door 
 
 To ring the bell, he fell upon the floor, 
 
 And while his soberer guests their revels kept, 
 
 He lay and moaned for help. At last he slept. 
 
 What cup shall he drain next ? What chase pursue, 
 
riiE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Whose end is happiness and pleasure too ? 
 The bell is silent still — ah ! who can tell 
 What he must do to ring the happy bell ? 
 He rose betimes and rode, no more alone, 
 For when his taste for horsemanship was known, 
 The court was seized o' th' sudden with the whim 
 Of early rising, and would hunt with him ; 
 So when day broke vou might have seen a train 
 Of lords and ladies spurring o'er the plailn. 
 With hawks upon their wrists, or hounds behind. 
 The ready puppets of the royal mind. 
 The court of Felix, histories sav, was then 
 Famed for its lovely dames and gallant men ; 
 Light beauties, frank and bold, yet full of arts. 
 And rakes whose glory lay in breaking hearts. 
 His first temptation was a merry face. 
 Crimsoned with healthful roses in the chase: 
 His next, a little tress of dangling hair. 
 Blown o'er plump shoulders with a jaunty air : 
 His third, a white hand on a palfrey's mane. 
 Or small foot peeping from a flowing train. 
 Or, it may be, some balmy night in June, 
 When o'er the park there hung a yellow moon. 
 While on the banks reclined maids told their tales, 
 Or, singing, hushed the amorous nightingales. 
 He came on beauty, grace, perfe6lion there, 
 
 15 
 
l6 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 In ripe round forms, white robes, and night-dark hair ; 
 Or met a mask, in some dim nook apart. 
 Whose lustrous eyes shot passion to his heart ! 
 
 What could he do but love? Were they not fair? 
 Was he not young ? 'Twas in the very air, 
 A soft infection he perforce must take, 
 No matter whose fond heart might bleed, or break ! 
 Not his a lesser lover's doubt and pain ; 
 He was assured of being loved again. 
 For was he not a king ? What woman would 
 Withhold her heart from him ? No woman could. 
 His first love was a fair, but fragile maid. 
 With drooping, violet eyes, half light, half shade ; 
 A sweet, pale face, a little touched wilh care. 
 And nothing bright about her, save her hair. 
 Poor, fading flower ! she had not time to die 
 Before the fickle Felix cast her by. 
 And plucked another, eager for her fate, 
 A full-blown beauty, made of love and hate ; 
 With bold, black eyes, that smouldered with desire, 
 Or through its ashes flashed a dangerous fire ; 
 About her brow great coils of midnight hair, 
 With one fierce ruby like a comet there ; 
 Cheeks brown as olives, with a bloomy streak 
 Like twilight, burning in each dusky cheek • 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. IJ 
 
 A passionate, scornful mouth ; a hand superb, 
 
 Moulded to grasp a sceptre, or to curb 
 
 The tameless spirit of a desert steed : 
 
 A heart that loved to make the hearts of others bleed ! 
 
 What hours are his ! what moments of delight ! 
 Sweet thoughts all day, and sweeter dreams at night ! 
 And yet — the bell is silent ! Who can tell 
 Why Felix, loving, fails to ring the bell ? 
 Perchance he loves not wisely, — let him change ; 
 His opulent nature needs a wider range • 
 Slaves may be constant, and content with one. 
 Kings, like the sun, must shine on all, or none ! 
 Like some light bee that sips each flower he meets, 
 A winged plunderer of the summer's sweets. 
 He wooed the splendid beauties of his court. 
 Wasting the precious days in amorous sport. 
 Toying with golden curls, nipping small ears. 
 Or kissing snowy lids that swam in loving tears ! 
 
 " The King should wed," the people thought at last ; 
 " 'Tis time the follies of his youth were past. 
 And something better grafted in their stead ; 
 We need a prince to rule when he is dead." 
 
 " O mighty Felix !" Thus his Poet sung. 
 
l8 rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 (His teeming fancy showed that he was young), 
 
 " Until they see a bud upon the tree, 
 
 They fear that beauty's rose will die with thee ; 
 
 Put forth a bloom to comfort them, and save 
 
 Thy rich remembrance from the sullen grave. 
 
 An hundred fair princesses, whose bright eyes 
 
 Are dowered with kingdoms, waste their days in sighs. 
 
 Thinking of thee, great King ! O, let thy heart, 
 
 Maugre its royal rigour, take their part 
 
 Against itself, and thy too cruel mind ; 
 
 If not to all, to one, at least, be kind. 
 
 Sele6l a queen, the fairest of the fair. 
 
 To grace thy marriage-bed, and bear an heir ; 
 
 Thereby thou liv'st again ; but dying now. 
 
 Thou art but ashes — dust ; no Phoenix thou. 
 
 That, after crumbling on the funeral pyre, 
 
 Rises triumphant by its own bright fire. 
 
 Then leave a son when thou art laid to rest. 
 
 Whose golden plumes shall light thy royal nest." 
 
 The council, too ; not in such dainty words, 
 But in the pithy phrases of grave lords. 
 Who, thinking much, say little. " He must wed." 
 The reasons followed. One grave seignior said, 
 " The State demands it" (words of awful weight !.) ; 
 Another, "Yes, the welfare of the State." 
 
THE KING'S BELL. Kj 
 
 Carried at last, he weds. With whom ? They scajineJ 
 
 Each marriageable princess in the land ; 
 
 One brings five duchies, and a million down ; 
 
 And one a kingdom, but disputed crown ; 
 
 The third a silver-mine (but she is old), 
 
 The fourth (still older), several mines of gold. 
 
 They chose a maid whom Felix had not seen. 
 
 More fitted for an Abbess than a Qiieen, 
 
 For in a cloister's shade her youth had passed. 
 
 In virgin dreams of heaven, too bright to last ! 
 
 When Felix heard their choice (the council found 
 
 The royal idler playing with his hound), 
 
 He sighed and said : " I wish the lady joy ! 
 
 We look for folly in a beardless boy, 
 
 And wisdom in gray hairs ; — but \ours, I see. 
 
 Thatch something worse than folly — cruelty. 
 
 Cruel, I say, for can she hope to be 
 
 Happy (she cannot) with a man like me ? 
 
 Enough ; I take the sacrifice ye bring. 
 
 And though no lover, I am still a King." 
 
 He sent a lord who grew up by his side. 
 With a long train of knio-hts, to wed the bride. 
 Were I to paint them on their merry way. 
 The time should be the lover's season — A'lay, 
 The sky an arch of sapphire, set in light. 
 
20 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Birds singing in the trees, the hedges white ! 
 
 Then I'd describe the pile wherein they wed, 
 
 The fretted arches stretching overhead. 
 
 The saints and martyrs in the blazoned panes. 
 
 Through which in a rich dusk the sunlight rains ; 
 
 The organ's burst, the choir, the hymn, the prayer. 
 
 The mitred Abbot, and the noble Pair ! 
 
 Then over many a river and wide plain 
 
 Back to the court again should sweep the train. 
 
 With purple banners dancing in the air. 
 
 And proud steeds tramping to the trumpet's blare, 
 
 And in the midst the lady, riding slow. 
 
 Checking her ambling palfrey, white as snow. 
 
 *■'• Long live the Queen !" She knows the city near. 
 
 Before she sees its gleaming towers appear 
 
 Above the belt of woods that shut it in. 
 
 For the wind bears her snatches of the din 
 
 That welcomes her approach : a noise of bells, 
 
 Blended with shouts and music, sinks and swells. 
 
 Until the city bursts upon her sight, 
 
 Towers, temples, palaces, a-blaze with hght: 
 
 The wall is hung with broidered cloths of gold, 
 
 And she can see her name on every fold ; 
 
 " Agnes and Felix" glitters everywhere. 
 
 White hands strew flowers upon her, till the air 
 
 That stirs her veil grows languid with their sweets ; 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 21 
 
 Triumphal arches span the spacious streets, 
 
 Alive with merry faces, and bright eyes, 
 
 And clapping hands, and shouts that rend the skies. 
 
 When she draws near the palace, from the crowd 
 
 A herald steps, and blows his trumpet loud, 
 
 Thrice at the gates, which on their hinges swing, 
 
 Parting like clouds till she beholds the King, 
 
 Who, waiting her approach, in royal state. 
 
 Comes like the Sun through morning's golden gate ! 
 
 Dismounting from her steed, the trembling bride 
 
 Gives him her hand, and slowly, side by side, 
 
 They cross the palace-threshold, and the gate, 
 
 Still to the trumpet's clang, closes behind like Fate ! 
 
 He led her straightway to the balcony, 
 
 A robed and crowned Queen, for all to see. 
 
 "Long live the Qiieen !" "Long live the happy King!" 
 
 The bells, a moment mute, began to ring 
 
 Louder than ever, whirling round and round. 
 
 Drunken, delirious in the storm of sound 
 
 That rocked the lofty belfries to and fro ; 
 
 And up and down the living sea below 
 
 Ran a great wind of shouts, and, wrapt in smoke. 
 
 From throats of grim black cannon thunders broke ! 
 
 The streets were full of shows, and all were free ; 
 
 Rope-dancing, juggling, mumming, minstrelsy. 
 
 Soldiers, and music's merriment divine. 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 And, better still, the fountains flowed with wine ! 
 So passed the day ; at night the palace park 
 Was hung with lamps, that lit the leafy dark, 
 And showers of stars, from hissing rockets shed, 
 Mocked with their rainbow fires the stars o'erhead. 
 Meanwhile the bells kept ringing in their towers. 
 Hailing with jubilant throats the joyous hours ; 
 But one was still — (it would have struck a knell. 
 Had Felix touched the cord) — the happy bell ! 
 
 And is he then so wretched? Nay, not so. 
 Between the neighbour lands of Joy and Woe 
 There is a middle state where many dwell, 
 Benumbed, as in a dream, by some strange spell. 
 And thus it is with Felix, whose desires. 
 Raging intensely, like volcanic fires. 
 Have burned away, and left a waste behind, 
 A heart of ashes, and a barren mind ! 
 He does not love the woman he has wed. 
 At least not now, for love with him is dead. 
 It may revive in time, for none can say 
 What years may do, so changeable is clay. 
 We know that men are weak, — that woman's eyes 
 Colour, in spite of them, their destinies. 
 Eyes bright with trusting light, or dim with tears — 
 A patient smile — a heart that waits for years. 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Content to bleed and hope, or even to break — 
 
 A martyr dying for her dear one's sake — 
 
 He must be melted by it, must be won, 
 
 And be undone as she has been undone, 
 
 So terrible a might in woman lies, 
 
 If she but be, what Agnes was not — wise. 
 
 She loved her lord, I think, but loved not well. 
 
 How could a maid bred in a convent-cell. 
 
 And schooled bv priests, know what a man demands 
 
 In her he loves — what work of heart, or hands ? 
 
 She knew to count her beads and say her prayers, 
 
 But not to share his joys and soothe his cares. 
 
 Wavering between her faith and what she felt, 
 
 When he was near her tender heart would melt ; 
 
 But thoughts of heaven would check her sinful bliss. 
 
 For she loved him and heaven, and both, alas, amiss ! 
 
 Unhappy pair, I pitv vour sad fate ! 
 
 Not wise enough to love, too wise to hate : 
 
 God made ye both unlike, in brain and heart. 
 
 But Man hath joined what God would keep apart ! 
 
 The wrong is common ; common, too, the cure j 
 
 There is but one — forgive, forget, endure. 
 
 Dream not, but a6l ; and, if ye cannot find. 
 
 Create some labour to employ the mind ; 
 
 So shall the heart its fruitless struggles cease, 
 
 And, if not happy, be at least at peace ! 
 
 ^3 
 
24 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 But peace was not for Agnes : she was one 
 Who could be only what she was — a nun. 
 She made the court a convent. Tolerant, wise, 
 Poor Felix stood aloof, with watchful eyes. 
 Guarding his wife as if she were a child, 
 A kind but thoughtful man, who seldom smiled, 
 But as his hopes of happiness grew less. 
 Laboured to give his people happiness. 
 And they were happy. Well they might be so ; 
 No wars, large harvests, and their taxes low : 
 Their King was just, their Oueen was good and fair ; 
 Besides, there was a promise of an heir. 
 " God send a boy !" they said. The days went by 
 Like withered leaves when autumn winds are high, 
 Or whirling snow-flakes : autumn, winter passed. 
 Snows melted, budded leaves, spring came at last. 
 
 The long-expected child was born with spring. 
 They bore the joyous tidings to the King, 
 Who paced his chamber with an anxious brow. 
 And gravely wondered : " Am I happy now ? 
 A father — tell me" — But his challenged heart. 
 Disdaining parley, took the infant's part. 
 Whose cry he heard, and forced him to confess 
 A natural, manly thrill of happiness. 
 He stretched his hand to ring the silent bell. 
 
rHE KING'S BEL L. 
 
 But the grasped cord from out his fingers fell, 
 For, entering now, the grave physician said, 
 " Forbear your joy, my liege ; the Queen is dead !" 
 A deathly pallor seized him when he heard 
 These doleful words : he neither spake nor stirred, 
 But stood transfixed to marble — all surprise. 
 Two great tears welling from his blinded eyes ! 
 Why did he weep ? He did not love the Oueen. 
 What could she be to him ? What had she been ? 
 He wedded her that she should bear a son ; 
 That done, of course, her end in life is done. 
 Why should her death disturb him ? It may be 
 He sees therein his own mortality. 
 Or, sadder still, the solemn doom of all ; 
 If so, his not unmanly tears may fall. 
 But be more just, and say his heart is wrung 
 With natural pity that she died so young. 
 Cut off untimely in her clouded morn. 
 Before the rose could burgeon o'er the thorn. 
 He weeps to think his joyless marriage-bed 
 Has borne at once the living and the dead — 
 That she has died to give his infant life ; 
 In short, he weeps because he loved his wife ! 
 Yes, Felix loved her, strange as it may seem ; 
 His long indifference was a troubled dream ; 
 It left him darkly in his sorest strait j 
 4 
 
 25 
 
26 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 He woke at last, but woke, alas ! too late. 
 
 He loved her now, the bitter Past forgot, 
 
 Nor owned there was a time he loved her not. 
 
 '' But grant it true" (here conscience seemed to wake), 
 
 " I would have loved her for the Prince's sake !" 
 
 All this and more — a world of hopeless pain — 
 
 Brooded like death upon his heart and brain, 
 
 Until he heard his new-born infant's cry, 
 
 Which called him back to life with many a sigh. 
 
 " Be calm, the child is living, Sire." He smiled : 
 
 " But she is dead !" then went to see his child. 
 
 She lay in state, beneath a canopy. 
 Three mortal days, for all the court to see, 
 In royal robes, her crown upon her head. 
 With blessed tapers burning round her bed ; 
 And prayers were said, and heavenly hymns arose, 
 And mass was chanted for her soul's repose, 
 y//), Reqiiiescat ! Then the funeral show. 
 The gorgeous pageant of a nation's woe ; 
 The slow, sad march — the tap of mournful drums— 
 The death-like hush that tells the body comes— 
 The great car, seen afar — the turbaned grooms-- 
 The led steeds, haughty with their ostrich plumes— 
 The King in his black coach — Why do they bring 
 In Death's triumphal march the happy King ? 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 2/ 
 
 Deep in an old Cathedral's holy gloom 
 They buried her with tears, and on her tomb 
 Carved in white marble, like a drift of snow, 
 An Jgjms Dei^ with her name below : 
 "Agnes, the Wife of Felix" (wretched wife!) 
 The rest was written in the Book of Life ! 
 
 A dreadful shadow in the palace lay 
 Long after the poor Queen had passed away, 
 And the court dofFed its customary black : 
 Yea, till her virgin dust had mouldered back 
 To the cold dust it sprang from ! It was not 
 That Felix missed her in some hallowed spot. 
 And peopled it with memories — (say, her room). 
 But that her image filled the haunted gloom. 
 He saw her as she used to be in life, 
 A loving woman, but a troubled wife ; 
 Bent o'er her broidery frame, while roses grew 
 Beneath her fingers, wet with silver dew ; 
 Or where, like nuns, her spotless lilies stood — 
 The beauteous abbess of the sisterhood ; 
 Or in her chapel, with ecstatic air. 
 Telling her rosary, each bead a prayer ! 
 Or standing saintly, in the moon's faint light, 
 Beside the cradle, at the dead of night ; 
 
28 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 The ghostly mother kissed her sleeping child, 
 
 That in its dream stretched out its arms and smiled ! 
 
 What Felix felt, his woe or happiness. 
 Only a father's loving heart can guess. 
 Be sure he loved the babe, whose helpless life 
 Cost it, poor thing ! its mother, him his wife ; 
 And when his state-craft could be brushed away, 
 Stole in to see it twenty times a day. 
 Hung o'er its cradle, if perchance it slept. 
 And gazed till called, then out on tip-toe crept ; 
 Returning soon, to gaze his fill again, 
 Perchance to still its little cry of pain 
 With infant lullabies and drowsy charms ; 
 Or, sweeter far, to take it in his arms. 
 And pace the floor until it sank to rest, 
 A smiling burden on his aching breast ! 
 The love he would have lavished on the Queen, 
 But for that dreadful cloud that came between. 
 Groping the kingdom of the dead in vain, 
 (For v/hat to them is mortal joy or pain ?) 
 Returned in tears, and, seeking to repair 
 Its early error by its late despair. 
 Clung to the child as if his heart would break : 
 He loved it madly for its mother's sake ! 
 To paint his passion in its fond extremes. 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 29 
 
 The hopes, the fears, the endless golden dreams 
 
 He built on that frail life an hour might blight •, 
 
 Haunting the prince's cradle day and night, 
 
 Outwatching all the nurses ; as he grew. 
 
 Fetching him costly playthings, quaint and new ; 
 
 Teaching him pastimes full of merry noise. 
 
 Devised by fathers to divert their boys ; 
 
 Makins: erim shadows that awoke his fears. 
 
 The heads of rams, or sheep with monstrous ears. 
 
 Browsing along the wall with piteous bleat •, 
 
 Trotting him now a cock-horse on his feet. 
 
 With breathless shouts, and eager, clapping hands. 
 
 Through wondrous ways in undiscovered lands. 
 
 The fairy world of Nowhere : dropping now 
 
 A crown of kisses on his baby brow. 
 
 Then lifting him sedately to his throne. 
 
 The strong, broad shoulder where he sat alone. 
 
 Fearless and proud — he knew his royal part. 
 
 The king, the tyrant of his father's heart ! 
 
 To tell how Felix, as the years went by. 
 
 Watched the soul brightening in his soft blue eye ; 
 
 How, while he smoothed his darkening hair, and smiled, 
 
 He breathed the sigh, " Thou bast no mother^ child V 
 
 How, wandering in the Past with vain regret. 
 
 He asked the heavens, " Has she forgiven me yet f" 
 
 The volume of his life where this was writ. 
 
3^ THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Could I but open and decipher it, 
 
 (Be sure the pages of the wasted years 
 
 Where that dead flower was pressed were wet with tears !) 
 
 Would make a story, sadder, sweeter far 
 
 Than any I may try to tell, and mar ; 
 
 A sad, sweet story, worth a famous pen. 
 
 The tears of women, and the thoughts of men. 
 
 — Write it who can, — let me go on to tell 
 
 How and when Felix rang the happy bell. 
 
 Ten years or more (the time concerns us not. 
 Our epochs are the feelings. Life the plot). 
 He schooled himself in all the craft of State, 
 The little business of the would-be great ; 
 Not from a royal fondness for intrigue. 
 To break a useless, make a useful league, 
 Or strike the sceptre from a brother's hand. 
 But for the good and glory of his land. 
 Holding his people's happiness his own. 
 Their love the best foundation for his throne. 
 No king of all his race so shrewd as he, 
 So great a master of diplomacy. 
 It mattered little whom his rivals sent 
 To sound his secrets — as they came they went ; 
 Ambassadors, who cunning trains had laid 
 How to betray, and not to be betrayed j 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 3I 
 
 Old crafty ministers with stealthy eyes, 
 Skilled in the courtly art of hinting lies •, 
 He baffled all, not by a deeper art. 
 But by a larger brain and purer heart. 
 Nor better fared the servants of his throne, 
 If they mistook his wishes for their own. 
 Plotting to serve themselves, and not the State ; 
 Poor fools ! they did but trifle with their fate. 
 'Tis said his council was corrupt at first. 
 And the bench, too, with venal judges cursed. 
 Hucksters who Law, and sometimes Justice, sold : 
 Also that in the Church, God's earthly fold. 
 Thieves in the guise of shepherds oft did creep. 
 Not to keep out the wolves, but fleece the sheep. 
 If this, alack ! were true (who will may doubt), 
 He found a way to weed the culprits out. 
 And make his people happy. All went well, 
 Yet somehow Felix did not ring his bell ! 
 
 At last there came a war. What led thereto 
 I have forgotten, if I ever knew ; 
 Doubtless the cause was just, or said to be. 
 Alike by Felix and his enemy. 
 The gray-haired father of his sainted Queen, 
 Whose death had broken the last bond between 
 Their rival kingdoms. Having striven in vain 
 
32 
 
 rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 To keep the early promise of his reign, 
 And Uve and die beneath a peaceful star, 
 Felix, prepared, resolved on sudden war, 
 And marched his armies on the unready foe, 
 Who fled before the shadow of his blow. 
 He overran his royal kinsman's land. 
 Until his coward forces made a stand 
 For very shame, within a walled town 
 Famous for strength. Here Felix sat him down 
 For a long siege, as was the custom then. 
 The country round about swarmed with his men, 
 Felling old forests, filling swampy grounds, 
 Digging great trenches, throwing up huge mounds, 
 Drawing their circles closer day by day 
 Around the foe, who kept them still at bay. 
 Safe in his stronghold. Nor less busy he. 
 Thinning their ranks with his dread enginery. 
 That thundered all day long : and oft at night 
 He sallied from his gates in desperate fight. 
 Smiting the darkness with a burst of flame, 
 That died in rolling drums as sudden as it came ! 
 Their girding cannon batter at the walls. 
 That slowly crumble ; now a bastion falls. 
 Anon a turret ; still the foe defies. 
 Though low in dust his bravest captain lies. 
 Hour after hour the bloody work goes on ; 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 33 
 
 Another day — the fated town is won. 
 
 But see, the gates are opened ! Who are these ? 
 
 The oldest burghers bringing out the keys ' 
 
 " We would not yield," they say, " till we were dead, 
 
 Did not our wives and children starve for bread : 
 
 We yield to Famine, Felix, not to thee," 
 
 " Your children and your wives are safe with me, 
 
 I only war with men. Take back your keys — 
 
 Bread also." Amazed, they fell upon their knees. 
 
 His soldiers shouted as the tidings flew ; 
 
 They heard it on the walls, and shouted too : 
 
 The trumpet blew, the bells began to ring : 
 
 " Long live the King ! Long livt the happy King !" 
 
 His clemencv and the prowess of his arms 
 Distradled the old king with fresh alarms ; 
 Repulse he might have schooled himself to meet. 
 But not defeat — such merciful defeat ! 
 " What shall be done with one who can subdue 
 Not only us, my lords, but himself too ? 
 Advise me." And they did. " We must pretend 
 His mercy is a cloak to some dark end 
 (Say your dethronement. Sire), as time will show." 
 So they conspired against their generous foe. 
 The silly people (were they ever wise ?) 
 Of course believed them, for a monarch's lies 
 S 
 
34 
 
 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Pass current, like his coin, from hand to hand, 
 However base the metal. The whole land. 
 Bankrupt awhile through fear, but affluent now 
 With spurious courage — raised they knew not how- 
 Rose to defend, each man declared, his hearth. 
 And sweep the tyrant Felix from the earth ! 
 The good King Felix heard the wicked cry 
 With noble anger, dying in a sigh. 
 " Since they belie us so, there is no way 
 To bring them to their senses, but to slay : 
 They must be taught to fear, as well as hate ; 
 Who speaks of pity now, he speaks too late. 
 What says the stern commandment of the Lord ? 
 ' Who take the swor^^ shall pei-ish by the sivord.^ " 
 
 At last it came, — the dark, the fatal day. 
 When, face to face, in battle's dread array. 
 For the first time the hostile armies stood. 
 The low and sullen East was red as blood 
 Behind the ghostly tents of the old king, 
 O'er which a raven flapped its funeral wing, 
 Affrightened by strange thunders from below, 
 And pufFs of driven cloud, up-mounting slow. 
 For now the glimmering field was rolled in smoke, 
 And heavily the boom of cannon broke, 
 Shattering the startled air, shaking the ground, 
 
¥-1 
 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 35 
 
 Pouring, whole parks at once, destruction round ! 
 
 Then came the sharp fire of the musketeers. 
 
 And flights of arrows, and the thrust of spears ; 
 
 Steel rang on steel, drums beat, the trumpet's blare. 
 
 Ominous, threatening, smote the trembling air ! 
 
 At first they fought, by rule — the wings, the van, 
 
 As had been planned and ordered, every man 
 
 A tutored puppet in his captain's hand. 
 
 And all obedient to their King's command. 
 
 Did Felix say, or sign, " Go there !" 'twas done, 
 
 A thousand men marched to the spot as one. 
 
 Where they should stand, they stand, firm as a wall. 
 
 Closing their shattered ranks fast as they fall ; 
 
 Where they should move, they move : the cannon roar. 
 
 Ploughing them down ; the spears grow more and more, 
 
 Bristling before them ; clouds of arrows fly. 
 
 Darkening what little day is in the sky : 
 
 In vain, — they still encroach upon their foes. 
 
 So for a while the tide of battle flows. 
 
 But by and by it takes a wider 'sweep. 
 
 Rolling its waves towards the eastern steep, 
 
 A raging sea, that swayed, and surged, and reeled, 
 
 Bursting tumultuous over the whole field. 
 
 Ere long the struggling hosts, on carnage bent, 
 
 So broken were, in such disorder blent. 
 
 That neither king could say, " These are mv own," 
 
36 rHE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Or whether he were vii^torious, or o'erthrown ! 
 
 Against the cannon archers twanged their bows ; 
 
 Where blows were thickest, standards sank and rose ; 
 
 White crests were lost like foam-flecks in the sea, 
 
 And here and there were bands of cavalry, 
 
 Whose dreadful, flashing swords were dripping red, 
 
 Galloping o'er the dying and the dead ! 
 
 'Twas chaos all. At noon there came in sight. 
 
 Swift-marching from the west, fresh, full of fight, 
 
 A second host which Felix had concealed. 
 
 To turn the doubtful fortunes of the field. 
 
 Rushing with glittering weapons, and a shout 
 
 Which, heard a league ofi\, put the foe to rout. 
 
 For as the red leaves, in an autumn gust. 
 
 Whirl round the self-same spot, in clouds of dust. 
 
 Till, sweeping all before it like the sea. 
 
 Comes the north wind, when suddenly thev flee ; 
 
 So, panic-struck, the old king's forces fled, 
 
 A coward mob, to honour, manhood dead ! 
 
 In vain their captains strove to check their flight ; 
 
 They turned on them the fury of the fight. 
 
 And cut them down — each man in that wild strife 
 
 Braving a thousand deaths to save his worthless life ! 
 
 When Felix saw the field was won, his heart, 
 
 Glorying a moment, took the old king's part 
 
 For sheerest pity. " Death to him," he said. 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 37 
 
 " Who dares to hurt a hair of his gray head !" 
 
 Then spurring his white steed, away he went, 
 
 The first to find and save him. In his tent. 
 
 Girt by the {ew that scorned to fly, he lay. 
 
 Bathed in his blood, that swiftly ebbed away. 
 
 His son. Prince Irac, stooping at his side. 
 
 " Felix !" as he drew near, the old man cried. 
 
 Prince Irac started up, and snatched a spear — 
 
 Rage in his eyes and soul. " Rash boy, come here," 
 
 His father groaned. "You dare to disobey? 
 
 Sir, I command you !" Felix turned away. 
 
 His sweet thoughts changed to gall. "Like sire, like son-, 
 
 They hate me — the whole race. There was but one 
 
 Who knew me as I am, and she is dead." 
 
 " Felix ! — Go, call him back" (he raised his head, 
 
 The king still regnant in his fading eye), 
 
 " For I must speak with him before I die. 
 
 — Felix, I know thee now, and long have known. 
 
 True man and good, too good to fill a throne ; 
 
 Above the petty lust of Power, which brings 
 
 Such woe to nations, and such death to kings ! 
 
 For this bad war — O, let it end to-day ! — 
 
 Not thine, but mine, the sin is mine, I say. 
 
 Irac, I made this war for selfish ends ; 
 
 They fail, death comes — be you and Felix friends." 
 
 He clasped their hands in his, as they drew nigh 
 
38 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 To catch his faltering words, and see him die ; 
 
 And while they knelt, he bade them swear to be 
 
 " Brothers in heart, and live in amity, 
 
 They and their people" — Here his spirit fled, 
 
 For when they looked again the poor old king was dead 
 
 When, treaties signed with Irac, Felix came 
 Back to his kingdom, with a conqueror's fame, 
 Each man rejoiced, his cup filled to the brim. 
 As if some special good had fallen to him ; 
 The women laughed, the children clapped then- nands ; 
 It was a holiday throughout the lands ; 
 Triumphal arches — banners — music's swell — 
 And all the bells were rung, except the happy bell ! 
 
 The happy bell — what tales it could have told 
 Of what it saw below its house of gold, 
 Since first, in youth. Prince Felix hung it there, 
 Above his palace towers in the wide air ! 
 Beneath it and around, a league each way, 
 Mapped out in small, the mighty city lay, 
 A stretch of roofs, with slips of street between. 
 Glimpses of trees^ and summer squares of green, 
 Cool, bosky places, sacred to repose. 
 Wherein, like shafts of silver, fountains rose : 
 And here and there a golden gleam of fire 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. Of^ 
 
 Betrayed the cross on some cathedral spire ; 
 And bells were round, in tower and turret hung, 
 Great, brazen bells, whose ponderous iron tongue 
 Proclaimed the flying hours, by day and night — 
 The honeyed joys that wait the marriage rite, 
 (Ah, dreams of youth and love, too early fled !) 
 And man's unspeakable sorrow for his dead ! 
 Year in and out, the changeful sea of sound, 
 Fed from below, kept flowing, circling round ; 
 Freighted with human life it rose and fell. 
 But drew no answer from the royal bell ! 
 
 When first 'twas hung there in its airy hall, 
 The park below, new-planted, was so small, 
 Its trees, from that far height, were shadowy stalks 
 Drawn on the emerald grass and gravelled walks. 
 But by and by they grow more tall and dark ; 
 The glossy rind becomes a wrinkled bark ; 
 Tangled the boughs, and thicker the green leaves. 
 Through which the sun glints, and the soft wind grieves. 
 And birds are glancing. Soon the shady places 
 Are lighted by bright eyes, and laughing faces ; 
 And knots of beauteous dames, in merry talk. 
 Go sauntering, arm in arm, from walk to walk. 
 With fluttering scarfs, rich robes, and jewelled sheen — 
 Brilliant as tropic flowers ! Then comes the Qiieen, 
 
40 
 
 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Chaste as her bridal hly, and as pale, 
 A nun who wears a crown instead of veil. 
 It hears her marriage-peal, her funeral-knell. 
 But never rings itself — the silent bell ! 
 
 Years pass without a sound from that high tower ; 
 The bell hangs dumb, like some great drooping flower. 
 That never knows the bloom and blight below. 
 Now bright with sunshine, and now white with snow ! 
 At last the snow, and sun, and the wild rains, 
 Clouded its burnished sides with darkening stains, 
 And muffled thick with dust its iron tongue. 
 And birds built there, and reared their clamorous young ! 
 
 What good Kino; Felix and his life had been 
 Through all these silent changes, we have seen ; 
 Not much, perhaps, but still enough to see 
 He always missed his wished felicity. 
 We might have found, or made, a happier lot. 
 Born to the throne he filled, but he could not ; 
 Ah ! more's the pity, since his youth was past, 
 And manhood, age, came stealing on at last : 
 First in a few gray hairs — a gleam of white. 
 That made his brown locks richer in the light ; 
 Against the corners of his eyes a line 
 That could not be a wrinkle, 'twas so fine ; 
 
i;:il^li.!'M|ill;llia|!|||||ppliffl i niiniii j»^S4»hii jiaaKiaJ^ f|!lii!lliilii 
 
 'ifjlMiJI' ■-'■'- I 
 
 iilliVWlliilfllTllfljIJ 
 
THE KING'S DELL. 
 
 A step that lost a little of its spring, 
 
 Measured, deliberate, as became a king : 
 
 These shadows, say, of change, before his prime. 
 
 Ere one could think it was the work of Time, 
 
 For still his eyes were keen, his cheeks were red, 
 
 No leaf yet of their princely roses shed ! 
 
 As year by year went by with all its care. 
 
 Thinner and whiter grew his wintry hair ; 
 
 And Time, or Sorrow, holding his old plough, _ 
 
 Did turn great furrows in his faded brow ; 
 
 Flis stooping shoulders and his tottering gait, 
 
 His head that seemed to droop with its own weight, 
 
 Dim eyes, and trembling hands, so icy cold — - 
 
 All these declared that he was growing old ! 
 
 Such was the hapless King in his decay, 
 Forlorn and silent, till one summer's day, 
 When, weary of his cares, he stole apart. 
 And paced his chamber with an aching heart. 
 Gorgeous the royal chamber was, and vast. 
 Decked with the lavish splendours of the Past : 
 Lofty the walls, with priceless pi6lures hung, 
 Painted by master-hands when Art was young : 
 Purple the heavy curtains, fold on fold. 
 With broidered silver stiff, and brede of gold ; 
 A sheet of flowers the carpet — such as blow 
 
 41 
 
42 
 
 r H E KING'S BELL. 
 
 Only in Orient gardens, all a-glo\v 
 
 With morning richness, and the blended dyes 
 
 That dust the wings of swarming butterflies ! 
 
 Couches, like clouds ; chairs, throne-like in their state ; 
 
 Great goblets, precious vases, massiv^e plate ; 
 
 Exhaust your fancy for a monarch's hall — 
 
 'Twas here, and more : and in the midst of all 
 
 (Grim as the halter in a hangman's cell !) 
 
 Behold the cord that ne\er rings the bell ! 
 
 Backward and forward, with a listless tread. 
 
 With many a sudden stop, and shake o' th' head, 
 
 The old King paced the chamber, so forlorn. 
 
 He wished that he were dead, or never had been born ! 
 
 The darkest corner seemed to suit his gloom. 
 
 No fitter n^ok for sorrow — sa\'e the tomb; 
 
 Then he affected brightness, just to see 
 
 His shadow creep beside him wearily : 
 
 Anon he halted in his shifting mood, 
 
 Where some fresh landscape hung, or statue stood, 
 
 Taking their beauty in with vacant eyes. 
 
 Lost to the fairest shapes, the hea\'enliest skies ! 
 
 His windows opened on a balcony. 
 
 Whence, under silken awnings, he could see 
 
 His slope of lawns, his gardens, and between 
 
 The windinsi^, wooded walks, — cool avenues of tireen ! 
 
 He threw a casement up in his despair. 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. /j.^ 
 
 To watch the clouds, perchance, or feel the air, 
 Which, blowing freshly o'er his royal grounds. 
 Came freighted with hne odours and sweet sounds — 
 The breath of flowers and dew, the song of birds, 
 The low (or did he dream?) of distant herds, 
 Shouts near at hand (it was a holiday. 
 And the whole city was ali\e and ga\), 
 '•'' Lo7ig live the happy King!" He bowed his head: 
 *' The happy Kijig ! O mockery!" he said. 
 
 "What is this thing called Happiness? And where 
 Does it abide, and who shall guide me there ? 
 My feet have never struck the path thereto. 
 My groping hands have never found the clew. 
 Or, finding, straight ha\e lost it. Can it be 
 Granted to others, vet denied to me ? 
 Or are we all, kings, clowns, alike betrayed, 
 Running with eager arms to grasp a shade ? 
 It cannot be. There must be some attain : 
 All cannot struggle, like the itw — in vain ! 
 These hearts of ours, whose lightest throbs reveal 
 Their wants, creating every want they feel, 
 Pulsing desires along their crimson tide. 
 So simply, yet so seldom satisfied ; 
 Our minds, that dwell as in a lofty tower. 
 Above the petty tumults of the hour. 
 
44 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Clear-eyed and calm, demanding little — naught, 
 Save what they find of fancied power in thought : 
 These have, or should, the right to happiness. 
 Which woe that violates can ne'er make less : 
 These were not given to us in mockery. 
 Or we, and life, and all things, are a lie ! 
 
 " Then why am I not happy ? Who can tell 
 Why I have never rung my golden bell ? 
 Perhaps I asked, in youth, what could not be — 
 A bliss too great for man, at least for me ; 
 Raptures, for which all language would be weak, 
 Striking a sudden colour to the cheek : 
 A swelling of the heart not felt before, 
 Like the sea's, setting to a summer shore ; 
 A dance o' th' pulse, a brightening o' th' eye, 
 A light like endless morning in the sky ; 
 Something which should compel me to confess — 
 What 1 am dying to — This, ibis is Happiness ! 
 
 " It may be so j youth is not over-wise, 
 Nor kings content with common destinies ; 
 There lies, methinks, the secret — every thing 
 Summed up at last in that one word — A King ! 
 
 " What is a King ? His credulous subje6ls say, 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. 45 
 
 A being moulded of diviner clay 
 
 Than folds their petty souls. What mountains are, 
 
 He is to them, or some far-shining star ; 
 
 But to himself — speak, Felix, what art thou ? 
 
 (We may be frank, for none are listening now !) 
 
 Certes, no star, or one that vainly tries 
 
 To light the utter night that round it lies. 
 
 Drinking its dying twinkle. A mountain ? No, 
 
 Or such whose head is lost in clouds and snow, 
 
 Dreadfully desolate ! Alas ! what then ? 
 
 The most unhappy of unhappy men ! 
 
 " O wretched state of kings ! O doleful fate ! 
 Greatness misnamed, in misery only great ! 
 Could men but know the endless woe it brings, 
 The wise would die or ere they would be kings ! 
 Think what a king must do ! It tasks the best 
 To rule the little world within his breast ; 
 Yet must he rule it, and the world beside, 
 Or king is none, undone by power and pride ! 
 What is the business of a king ? It is 
 To make the welfare of his people his ; 
 To think and a6l for them; their wants to know; 
 The well, the spring whence all their bounties flow; 
 Their prosperous arts in peace, their arms in war ; 
 Their pilot, steering by a certain star : 
 
46 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Great, wise, just, good — whatever God is, he 
 
 Whom God doth give to rule, should strive to be. 
 
 How many do ? Can one such king be found ? 
 
 In heaven there mav, but not on earthly ground ! 
 
 'Tis pitiful, 'tis lamentable — yet 
 
 There's one thing we can say, which men forget 
 
 When they rail at kings, giving their fancies wing — 
 
 They know not what it is to be a king ! 
 
 What ill attends the state, and what it breeds, — 
 
 A rank, luxuriant growth of poisonous weeds : 
 
 How bad the best become, puffed up with pride. 
 
 Slaves of their will, naught they demand denied : 
 
 How they are gulled by smooth-tongued parasites, 
 
 The greatest pandering to their appetites ; 
 
 How all things work to make them deaf and blind, 
 
 P'oes to themselves, and curses to mankind ! 
 
 But say there be these wrongs in vain assail. 
 
 Glancing like arrows from their coats of mail. 
 
 Still must they fail of happiness, like me ; 
 
 There is Jio happy king — there cannot be ! 
 
 Think what a king must be — what burdens bear 
 
 From birth to death ! His life is one long care ; 
 
 It Vv^ears away in tasks that never end : 
 
 He has ten thousand foes, but not one friend ! 
 
 Not for himself he lives, but for the Statc^ — 
 
 To make his thankless people good and great ; 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. ^J 
 
 The head that guides their hands — ':o plough to^Jav, 
 
 To-morrow to grasp the dreadful sword, and slav ! 
 
 What's good in them must foster, check what's ill, 
 
 And save them from themselves against their will ; 
 
 Do many things thev cannot understand, 
 
 And rule, when need is, with an iron hand ; 
 
 Look for revolt at home, and war abroad, 
 
 Prepared to strike at both, and strike like God ! 
 
 O doleful state of kings ! O dreadful fate ! 
 
 O hell in which we wake, like damned souls — too late ! 
 
 " Would I could dofF my roval robes, and be 
 One of the people who are ruled by me ; 
 A shepherd hind, or any happy clown. 
 In field or wood, or quiet country town. 
 Long leagues away from this great city's roar. 
 No matter where, or who, so I were king no more ! 
 I'd rise when dawn was glimmering in the blue, 
 And drive my flocks a-field through mist and dew, 
 Stopping to bind my croo!: with nameless flowers. 
 Or hearken to the birds in neighbouring bowers. 
 Watching the snowy lambs that round me feed. 
 On some low knoll I touch my rustic reed -, 
 Or sing old ditties with a quaint refrain. 
 How Corydon did Phyllis love in \ain. 
 Till Cupid, smit with ruth, became his friend, 
 
48 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Bringing his troubles to a blissful end ! 
 
 JHy Phyllis sits with me, a blushing lass, 
 
 Plucking with downcast eyes the blades of grass, 
 
 Listening the tale I whisper in her ear — 
 
 How dear she is to me — and am I dear ? 
 
 Nor does she fear my arm around her waist, 
 
 Nor start when kissed, nor shrink to be embraced ! 
 
 Ye know not, O my people ! — cannot guess. 
 
 How much I envy you your happiness ! — 
 
 Your calm, contented days, your dreamless nights, 
 
 Your power to make life's little things delights. 
 
 Your wakes, your festivals, your antique play. 
 
 The dance upon the green around the Qiieen of J\lay ! 
 
 " I saw to-day a father at his door, 
 A simple clown, the poorest of the poor ; 
 He stared upon me as I hurried by. 
 And I stared back at him with wistful eye : 
 ' Ah, why should I not sit like him, and see 
 My chubby children clamber up my knee ?' 
 
 " No more a child, my boy a man has grown. 
 And soon will follov/ me upon the throne. 
 What I could do to make him good and v/ise, 
 Fit to shape out his people's destinies, 
 I've done; he's generous, has a loving heart. 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 49 
 
 A scorn of low intrigue — the courtier's art ; 
 Commands his passions better than his sire ; 
 Not quick to take offence, though full of fire ; 
 Expert in arms, and fearless in the fray 
 (I know he'll win the jousting-prize to-day): 
 Indeed, a noble prince, who'll not disgrace 
 The kingly glories of his name and race. 
 This he is now ; but who, alas ! can say 
 What he may be when I have passed away, 
 As soon I must, his tutor and his friend ? 
 Woe's me, my son, I cannot see the end ! 
 Knowing my own life, I am full of fears, 
 Nor can I help — to-day, at least — my tears, 
 Breathing in prayer my last, my sole desire — 
 May you be happier than your hapless sire ! 
 
 " Happy ! alas, who's happy here on earth ? 
 Why, man is wretched from his very birth ; 
 Conceived in darkness, and brought forth in pain, 
 He enters life with a cry — to live, and die — in vain! 
 Frail as a flower's his hold of earth, none know 
 Whether the human bud will fade, or blow ; 
 For hours on hours his lids are sealed in sleep, 
 And when at last he wakes — it is to weep ! 
 And now begins his endless quest of joy : 
 At first he finds it in the simplest toy, 
 4 
 
50 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 His rattle, belL;, a string of tangled beads, 
 
 The beetle in the grass, a knot of weeds, 
 
 The letters in old books begirt with gold — 
 
 In every thing that he can snatch and hold : 
 
 Yet brief as bold his sallies of delight, 
 
 For even while he laughs he weeps outright ! 
 
 Youth comes, and then — as childhood v^-ent before, 
 
 Why, so youth goes in turn, to come no more ; 
 
 Its little blisses never known and prized, 
 
 Or only known amiss — to be despised ! 
 
 But wiser manhood soon will make amends — 
 
 Has riper purposes, and richer ends ; 
 
 We shall be fortunate and happy then,^ 
 
 Be all we v/ould, as soon as we are men. 
 
 One, seeking pleasure, to the wine-cup flies ; 
 
 Another drinks his banc from woman's eyes ; 
 
 A third hoards gold ; a fourth is mad for fame ; — 
 
 All aiming at one thing, whate'er their aim ; 
 
 All mocked and baffled by it (me, no less. 
 
 Me, most of all !) the phantom — Happiness ! 
 
 " Where flits the shadow ? We have lost its track 
 The child looks forward, but the man looks back. 
 Back to our now-lamented vouth we turn. 
 And pour our tears upon its sacred urn ; 
 Back to our childhood, which we fmd, too late. 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 S^ 
 
 Lav but a little way from Eden's gate ! 
 Never what now v/e are, or now possess — 
 The Future or the Past, — is Happiness ! 
 
 " Who can be happv in a world like this, 
 Man being, as he must, the dust he is ? 
 Never his master, ever Nature's slave. 
 Each step a journey nearer to the grave ! 
 The air he breathes is tainted with disease. 
 Now fevers scorch him, and now agues freeze ; 
 Too hot the summer sun, the winter wind 
 Too cold •, the body preying on the mind. 
 The mind the body — powerless to subdue. 
 Crushed by old evils, yet creating new ! 
 And what he sees of men from v^uth to age, 
 Plis fellow-players on this mortal stage ; 
 How little they know, how vile they fill their parts, 
 What shallov/ minds thev have, what hollow liearts ! 
 Their love a wordy v/asting of the breath. 
 Their hate life-long, unsatisfied with death ; 
 The slimy wavs through vi'hich they crav.'l to Power — 
 Mean parasites, the panders of the hour ; 
 Their frauds, their lies, their base ingratitude ; 
 Rapacious, cruel — everv thing but good. 
 Originals of all the fiends they fear. 
 Already in their Hell — Who can be happv here ? 
 
5*2 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 "At length old age; gray hairs, a wrinkled brow, 
 The wreck of what he was — what I am now ! 
 Then the last sickness, and the hour of death, 
 The slowly-glazing eye, the fluttering breath. 
 The swoon in which the senses slip away. 
 No pulse, heart stopped — a lifeless lump of clay. 
 That stirs no more — the feet that ran to ill 
 Still, and the busy, guilty hands, — aii still. 
 Dead-cold from head to foot — a frozen form. 
 Twin of corruption, brother of the worm. 
 Dust, ashes, nothing ! — Happy with all this ? 
 Let me behold the wretched man who is ! 
 There's no such man ; he must be more, or less : 
 There's no such thing as Death and Happiness!" 
 
 So said, or thought, that day the poor old King, 
 Sick of himself, and life, and every thing ; 
 Crushed by the secret that he seemed to know — 
 The solemn mystery of human woe. 
 Tortured in heart and brain, he totters back. 
 Like one just lifted, broken, from the rack. 
 And, falling on a couch which near him stands, 
 Buries his face, forlornly, in his hands; 
 Then closing his dim eyes, that would not weep, 
 Drops in a moment into happy sleep. 
 So deep it looks like death. They find him there. 
 The night-wind blowing in his snowy hair. 
 
rHE KING'S BELL. 53 
 
 'Twas known next morning that the King was ill. 
 The people caught the whisper, as they will, 
 But, caring little for the affairs of kings, 
 Soon went their ways, and thought of other things. 
 In his still chamber, darkened from the day, 
 Low in his bed of state the sick man lay ; 
 A grave physician stood beside his bed 
 (He who first told him that the Qiieen was dead, 
 The Prince was born) ; the Prince, too, pale, distressed. 
 But hoping, as youth always does, the best. 
 " You took the prize, I hear." His father spoke. 
 " Ay, Sir, but rather by a lucky stroke, 
 Than any skill or prowess of my own." 
 " You'll have another soon, — I mean the throne." 
 " May Heaven preserve you long !" He quickly chid 
 The foolish, loving prayer : " May Heaven forbid !" 
 
 Next day, " The King is worse," the rumour ran ; 
 And now it touched the people, who began 
 To ask his ailment. Would he soon be well ? 
 What did the do6lor think ? but none could tell. 
 He knew not what to think ; with all his skill. 
 He only knew with them, the King was ill ; 
 The cause thereof, the cure, he could not reach. 
 Though in his day a very famous leech ; 
 So to his books he went, what Galen thought 
 
^4 T'HE KING'S BELL. 
 
 To see, and what great Avicenna taught, 
 Cardanus, Paracelsus learned by heart, 
 All mighty masters of the Healing Art, 
 Compounding drugs, pills, powders, with long names. 
 And sweltering like a smith above his chemic flames ! 
 
 The third day's rumour was, " The King will die !" 
 It passed from mouth to mouth with many a sigh ; 
 Each had some tale to tell, some proof to bring. 
 How happv all had been since he was king. 
 " Do you remember, now seven years ago, 
 The famine-winter when we suffered so, 
 He melted up his plate to buy us bread. 
 And sold the golden crown from off his head 
 To keep life in us, who must else have died?" 
 " God bless him, yes !" his earnest listener cried : 
 " And, later, when the Pestilence was here, 
 (I never shall forget that fatal year — 
 My v/ife died then, God rest her soul above !), 
 There never was such courage, so much love 
 As his, tor us his people, when we lay 
 Crowding with deaths each minute of the day .' 
 Fear made all selfish, flying for their lives, 
 Wives from their husbands, husbands from their wives. 
 The mother from her child, despite its moan ; 
 The dying and the dead were left alone ! 
 
THE KING'S BEL L. 
 
 But he — was ever such a king before ? — 
 
 He went from street to street, from door to door, 
 
 Physician, nurse, and friend ; no wretched den 
 
 Passed by, nor shrank from the most desperate men , 
 
 Moistened their Hps with water, brought them wine, 
 
 And talked — the Bishop never talked so fine 
 
 In his long robe at Easter, when he stands 
 
 Blessing the world with much-bejewelled hands ! 
 
 Don't tell me, sirs, — he is the best of kings !" 
 
 PVom this the gossip passed to other things ; 
 
 One, of the youth of Felix strove to tell ; 
 
 Another babbled of his famous bell 
 
 (All knew, alas ! that folly of their King), 
 
 How strange it was they never heard it ring, 
 
 Not even when the vi(£lorv was won, 
 
 Nor on his marriage, — no, nor birthday of his son ! 
 
 And now their thoughts the Prince and Queen divide ; 
 
 How fair and good she was, how young she died ; 
 
 How valiant he, — no knight could ride him dov/n ; 
 
 So handsome, too, his golden hair his crown. 
 
 " What better king than he can we desire ? 
 
 May he be happy — happv as his Sire !" 
 
 Felix meanwhile was dying. Day by day 
 His strength, his life, had slowly ebbed away — 
 No wave returnino; from the shoreless sea 
 
 55 
 
56 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 To which his soul was drifting wearily ! 
 Pale, pale his sunken cheek, and sharp his chin, 
 His long, thin hands, so white, more long and thi:i 
 (Like knotted cords their large blue arteries rise). 
 And v/hat great orbs are in his pits of eyes, 
 Draped in the wrinkled lids whose fringes meet — 
 As dreadful as the dead beneath the winding-sheet ! 
 Ah, yes ! and when at last the lids are stirred. 
 Lifting at some soft step, or loving word — 
 (Say, when the Prince is by)— more dreadful yet, 
 Filled v/ith such solemn light, such strange regret. 
 Unearthly, wild — as if the dead arose. 
 And stared about them in their burial-clothes ! 
 For hours he spoke not, moved not ; shunning all. 
 He turned his face in sorrow to the wall. 
 And, lost in shadow, slept, or seemed to sleep : 
 He murmured "Agnes" once, and woke to weep! 
 Then, rest denied, he tried to dream of rest, 
 Stretched on his back, his hands across his breast. 
 Clasped as in prayer, his upward-pointing feet 
 Drawing in long white folds the marble sheet ; 
 Pale, cold, dumb, dead — as awful in the gloom 
 As if he had become the statue on his tomb ! 
 Vainly his books the sage physician read. 
 Not written for the living, but the dead, — 
 The dreams of ancient fools, reputed wise. 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 57 
 
 That nor diseases knew, nor remedies. 
 
 Vainly he changed his potions, — potent, rare, 
 
 Wrung from the kingdoms of the earth and air, 
 
 Strc.ig mineral poisons, each a secret boon. 
 
 Witch-herbs, enchanted by the mystic moon — 
 
 I know not what of chemic, magic skill ; 
 
 They could not cure, and, strange, thev did not kill ! 
 
 *' Give over, sir," the sick man said at last : 
 
 " The hour when drugs would do me good is past. 
 
 You know not my disease, — and yet 'tis rife." 
 
 To which the leech : " What is it. Sire ?" — " 'Tis Life." 
 
 '' There is no cure for that." — " There is but one." 
 
 "• Dear Father, say not so !" exclaimed his son, 
 
 His sorrow fainting in a storm of sighs, 
 
 The wild tears raining f.om his clouded eyes. 
 
 " There's nothing, boy, to weep for : if there he, 
 
 'Tis Life, not Death : weep for yourself, not me. 
 
 i 
 
 That I must die, is but a little thing, 
 
 Not so that you must live- — and be a King !" 
 
 Here some one entered, with a smirking face. 
 
 To say the Bishop waited, — " Tell his Grace, 
 
 With all the reverence thr.t befits his state, — 
 
 The great, good man ! — he comes too soon, or late : 
 
 Too soon — to bury me -, too late — to save : 
 
 But bid him come to-morrow — to mv grave ! 
 
 Enough of him. — Who'll lift me up in bed ? , 
 
58 THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 I'm troublesome, I know." He raised his head — 
 
 The weeping Prince, with more than woman's care. 
 
 Kissing with loving lips his silver hair ! — 
 
 And there he sat — a piteous sight to see. 
 
 Propped up beneath his gilded canopy, 
 
 Whose purple shadow o'er his features fell, 
 
 And near him hung the cord to ring the happy bell ! 
 
 " Look up, my son," the dying King began : 
 
 " Weep not, but take what's coming like a man. 
 
 / do, and have ; you do not hear ?ne sigh ; 
 
 I know too much of life — to fear to die ; 
 
 Enough to say some bitter things — all true : 
 
 But wherefore should I say them, and to you ? 
 
 You could not look at life through my old eyes. 
 
 Nor would my early follies make you wise. 
 
 Youth will be Youth, however Age may prate -, 
 
 'Twill learn like Age, perchance, but learn too late ! 
 
 Besides, I love you so, I cannot bear 
 
 To darken your young days with future care. 
 
 No — keep the dew, the freshness of your heart. 
 
 As something precious, which must soon depart ; 
 
 Be — happy, if you are so, while you may : 
 
 For me, I have not seen one happy day ! 
 
 Start not, nor ask the solemn reasons why — 
 
 Time flies too fast — you'll know them by and by. 
 
 This I ivill say, — I must, for it is true, — 
 
THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 Could 1 have happy been, it were with you.^ 
 
 Whom I have loved — you never guessed how well 
 
 Almost enough to ring my silent bell ! 
 
 You'll wear my crown to-morrow — Take it now ; 
 
 O may it sit less heavy on your brow 
 
 Than mine ! (See, feel, how thin my hair is worn ! 
 
 Why, every jewel in it is a thorn ! 
 
 Remember what I've taught in my poor wav — 
 
 (Would I had strength, I have so much to say !) 
 
 The office of a king — what he must be — 
 
 How good and wise a man, how — unlike me I" 
 
 " Dear Father !" cried the Prince, up-looking then 
 
 With reverent eyes, " you are the best of men. 
 
 May I be half so good !" — " Be better, sir. 
 
 Follow — but hark ! what's that ? I hear a stir — 
 
 A sound like summer rain, of many feet. 
 
 And the low hum of voices in the street." 
 
 " It is your people. Sire, who gather there — 
 
 (Throw up the casement, you, and give him air) 
 
 Knowing how ill you — were (the news would fly), 
 
 To show their love — they say, before you die." 
 
 "My people love me, then ?"— " Ah, Father! yes. 
 
 '' Well, that is something, if not happiness." 
 
 He closed his eyes a moment, bowed his head. 
 
 And moved his silent lips ; at last he said : 
 
 " Sit by my side — just there : and now your hand , 
 
 59 
 
6o THE KING'S BELL. 
 
 When one is going to a distant land — 
 
 As I am now — he loves to have a friend — 
 
 A son, say, — as he starts, to cheer him to the end ! 
 
 Speak kindly of me after I am gone, 
 
 And see my name be graven on the stone, • 
 
 ' Infelix,' mind, not ' Felix,'— thit would be 
 
 A cruel, lying epitaph for me. 
 
 And yet I know not, for methinks I seem 
 
 Slowly awaking from the strangest dream -, 
 
 The mystery of my life is growing clear ; 
 
 Something — it may be Happiness — is near. 
 
 I hear such heavenly music ! . . . Did you speak ? 
 
 Who's shining yonder ? Look !"— His voice grew weak. 
 
 Died to a whisper, while his swimming sight 
 
 Strained through the darkness to a shape of light, 
 
 Floating across the chamber to his bed. 
 
 '■'■ Jgties !" — he clutched the cord, and fell back — -dead, 
 
 Striking in death the first stroke of his knell. 
 
 Thus Felix rang at last the happv bell. 
 
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