CROMWELL AND LADY FAUCONBERG.

His cheek was pallid, and his heart
Beat thickly and oppress'd;

The quivering nerve, and faltering hand
Betray'd the troubled breast.

The strong man's pulse wax'd faint and low,
His very gaze grew dim;

And trembling lip and eyelid spoke
Of the fierce storm within.

He had stood firm upon the field,
When swords were glancing bright,
And shatter'd shields, and cloven mail
Fell 'neath their flashing light;
When, heap'd upon the trampled turf
O'er all the blood-stain'd plain,
Bright banners, with their crimson folds,
Lay mingled with the slain.

But now, a shade was o'er him cast,

A shade of trembling fear;

There came a haunting dream, a dread

Of danger ever near.

He starts to see the pictured face

Of him, the murder'd king;
He turns away, as though reproach
Came from the lifeless thing.

There were the noble, patient face,
The "gray discrownéd hair;"
The calm, yet ever-mournful gaze,

The long sad lines of care
Traced on the pale, but kingly brow,

By grief's consuming hand,

And sorrow for the woe that fell

Upon his stricken land.