Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/34



The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid; Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest, Wistless that every eye on her was bent, With stately step she moved; her laboring soul To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round With a full eye, that of the circling throng And of the visible world unseeing, seem'd Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside. Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came Preëminent. He, nerving his young frame With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff, And plunging in the river's full-swollen stream, Stemm'd with broad breast its current; so his form, Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms, Tower'd above the throng effeminate. No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs Effaced the hauberk's honorable marks; His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints Many and deep; upon his pictured shield A Lion vainly struggled in the toils, Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage, Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them, Proud of the favor of a Prince who seem'd Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd, Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd; Trimly accoutred court-habiliments, Gay lady-dazzling armor, fit to adorn Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry Of mimic warfare. After him there came A train of courtiers, summer flies, that sport In the sunbeam of favor, insects sprung From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers, The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air, A grateful music to the traveller, Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound Of many waters down some far-off steep Holding their endless course, the murmur rose Of admiration. Every gazing eye Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside, The long procession and the gorgeous train, Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems. And their rich plumes high waving to the air, Heedless. The consecrated dome they reach, Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory. Her tale the altar told; how Maximin, His raised lip kindled with a savage smile, In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face Of the hard executioner relax'd With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust; For lo! the Angel of the descends, And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel! One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast, Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.

Her eye averting from the pictured tale, The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd To Heaven her earnest prayer. A trophied tomb Stood near the altar where some warrior slept The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid The sepulchre. In silent wonderment The expectant multitude with eager eye Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke Invades the tomb's repose: the heavy stroke Sounds hollow: over the high-vaulted roof Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm, The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword. A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid Over her robes the hallowed breastplate threw, Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head The white plumes nod, majestically slow; She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword, Gleaming portentous light. The wondering crowd Raise their loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven," The Maid exclaim'd, "Father all merciful! Devoted to whose holy will, I wield The sword of vengeance; go before our host! All-just avenger of the innocent, Be thou our Champion! God of Peace, preserve Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."

She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd Still listen'd; a brief while throughout the dome Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn, "Thee we praise, our !" the throng without Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy, And thundering transport peals along the heaven. As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd, He who from Orleans on the yesternight Demanded succor, clasp'd with warmth her hand, And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd, "Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth, Devoted for this king-curst realm of France, Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" so saying, He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along, And much revolving in her troubled mind, Retrod the court. And now the horn announced The ready banquet; they partook the feast, Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed Their hands, and seated at the board again Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice, Or flavor'd with the fragrant summer fruit, Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth Of Cornwall underneath whose maiden sword The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck