THE MOSLEM spears were gleaming | |
| Round Damietta’s towers, | |
| Though a Christian banner from her wall | |
| Waved free its lily-flowers. | |
| Ay, proudly did the banner wave, | 5 |
| As queen of earth and air; | |
| But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds, | |
| In anguish and despair. | |
| |
| Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon | |
| Their kingly chieftain lay, | 10 |
| And low on many an Eastern field | |
| Their knighthood’s best array. | |
| ’T was mournful, when at feasts they met, | |
| The wine-cup round to send, | |
| For each that touched it silently | 15 |
| Then missed a gallant friend! | |
| |
| And mournful was their vigil | |
| On the beleaguered wall, | |
| And dark their slumber, dark with dreams | |
| Of slow defeat and fall. | 20 |
| Yet a few hearts of chivalry | |
| Rose high to breast the storm, | |
| And one—of all the loftiest there— | |
| Thrilled in a woman’s form. | |
| |
| A woman, meekly bending | 25 |
| O’er the slumber of her child, | |
| With her soft sad eyes of weeping love, | |
| As the Virgin Mother’s mild. | |
| O, roughly cradled was thy babe, | |
| Midst the clash of spear and lance, | 30 |
| And a strange, wild bower was thine, young Queen, | |
| Fair Marguerite of France! | |
| |
| A dark and vaulted chamber, | |
| Like a scene for wizard-spell, | |
| Deep in the Saracenic gloom | 35 |
| Of the warrior citadel; | |
| And there midst arms the couch was spread, | |
| And with banners curtained o’er, | |
| For the daughter of the minstrel land, | |
| The gay Provençal shore! | 40 |
| |
| For the bright Queen of St. Louis, | |
| The star of court and hall! | |
| But the deep strength of the gentle heart, | |
| Wakes to the tempest’s call! | |
| Her lord was in the Paynim’s hold, | 45 |
| His soul with grief oppressed, | |
| Yet calmly lay the desolate, | |
| With her young babe on her breast! | |
| |
| There were voices in the city, | |
| Voices of wrath and fear,— | 50 |
| “The walls grow weak, the strife is vain, | |
| We will not perish here! | |
| Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam | |
| O’er tower and bastion high! | |
| Our distant homes are beautiful,— | 55 |
| We stay not here to die!” | |
| |
| They bore those fearful tidings | |
| To the sad queen where she lay,— | |
| They told a tale of wavering hearts, | |
| Of treason and dismay: | 60 |
| The blood rushed through her pearly cheek, | |
| The sparkle to her eye,— | |
| “Now call me hither those recreant knights | |
| From the bands of Italy!” | |
| |
| Then through the vaulted chambers | 65 |
| Stern iron footsteps rang, | |
| And heavily the sounding floor | |
| Gave back the sabre’s clang. | |
| They stood around her,—steel-clad men, | |
| Moulded for storm and fight, | 70 |
| But they quailed before the loftier soul | |
| In that pale aspect bright. | |
| |
| Yes, as before the falcon shrinks | |
| The bird of meaner wing, | |
| So shrank they from the imperial glance | 75 |
| Of her,—that fragile thing! | |
| And her flute-like voice rose clear and high, | |
| Through the din of arms around, | |
| Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, | |
| As a silver clarion’s sound. | 80 |
| |
| “The honor of the Lily | |
| Is in your hands to keep, | |
| And the banner of the Cross, for Him | |
| Who died on Calvary’s steep: | |
| And the city which for Christian prayer | 85 |
| Hath heard the holy bell,— | |
| And is it these your hearts would yield | |
| To the godless infidel? | |
| |
| “Then bring me here a breastplate, | |
| And a helm, before ye fly, | 90 |
| And I will gird my woman’s form, | |
| And on the ramparts die! | |
| And the boy whom I have borne for woe, | |
| But never for disgrace, | |
| Shall go within mine arms to death | 95 |
| Meet for his royal race. | |
| |
| “Look on him as he slumbers | |
| In the shadow of the lance! | |
| Then go, and with the Cross forsake | |
| The princely babe of France! | 100 |
| But tell your homes ye left one heart | |
| To perish undefiled; | |
| A woman and a queen, to guard | |
| Her honor and her child!” | |
| |
| Before her words they thrilled, like leaves | 105 |
| When winds are in the wood; | |
| And a deepening murmur told of men | |
| Roused to a loftier mood. | |
| And her babe awoke to flashing swords, | |
| Unsheathed in many a hand, | 110 |
| As they gathered round the helpless one, | |
| Again a noble band! | |
| |
| “We are thy warriors, lady! | |
| True to the Cross and thee! | |
| The spirit of thy kindling word | 115 |
| On every sword shall be! | |
| Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast, | |
| Rest,—we will guard thee well: | |
| St. Denis for the lily-flower, | |
| And the Christian citadel!” | 120 |
| |
