| |
I. THE FRIARS five have girt their loins, | |
| And taken staff in hand; | |
| And never shall those Friars again | |
| Hear Mass in Christian land. | |
| |
| They went to Queen Orraca | 5 |
| To thank her and bless her then; | |
| And Queen Orraca in tears | |
| Knelt to the holy men. | |
| |
| “Three things, Queen Orraca, | |
| We prophesy to you: | 10 |
| Hear us, in the name of God! | |
| For time will prove them true:— | |
| |
| “In Morocco we must martyred be; | |
| Christ hath vouchsafed it thus: | |
| We shall shed our blood for Him | 15 |
| Who shed his blood for us. | |
| |
| “To Coimbra shall our bodies be brought, | |
| Such being the will divine; | |
| That Christians may behold and feel | |
| Blessings at our shrine. | 20 |
| |
| “And when unto that place of rest | |
| Our bodies shall draw nigh, | |
| Who sees us first, the king or you, | |
| That one that night must die. | |
| |
| “Fare thee well, Queen Orraca! | 25 |
| For thy soul a Mass we will say, | |
| Every day as long as we live, | |
| And on thy dying day.” | |
| |
| The Friars they blest her, one by one, | |
| Where she knelt on her knee; | 30 |
| And they departed to the land | |
| Of the Moors beyond the sea. | |
| |
II. “What news, O King Affonso! | |
| What news of the Friars five? | |
| Have they preached to the Miramamolin? | 35 |
| And are they still alive?” | |
| |
| “They have fought the fight, O queen! | |
| They have run the race; | |
| In robes of white they hold the palm | |
| Before the Throne of Grace. | 40 |
| |
| “All naked in the sun and air | |
| Their mangled bodies lie; | |
| What Christian dared to bury them, | |
| By the bloody Moors would die.” | |
| |
III. “What news, O King Affonso! | 45 |
| Of the Martyrs five what news? | |
| Doth the bloody Miramamolin | |
| Their burial still refuse?” | |
| |
| “That on a dunghill they should rot, | |
| The bloody Moor decreed; | 50 |
| That their dishonored bodies should | |
| The dogs and vultures feed. | |
| |
| “But the thunder of God rolled over them, | |
| And the lightning of God flashed round; | |
| Nor thing impure nor man impure | 55 |
| Could approach the holy ground. | |
| |
| “A thousand miracles appalled | |
| The cruel Pagan’s mind: | |
| Our brother Pedro brings them here, | |
| In Coimbra to be shrined.” | 60 |
| |
IV. Every altar in Coimbra | |
| Is dressed for the festival day; | |
| All the people in Coimbra | |
| Are dight in their richest array; | |
| |
| Every bell in Coimbra | 65 |
| Doth merrily, merrily ring; | |
| The clergy and the knights await | |
| To go forth with the queen and the king. | |
| |
| “Come forth, come forth, Queen Orraca! | |
| We make the procession stay.” | 70 |
| “I beseech thee, King Affonso, | |
| Go you alone to-day. | |
| |
| “I have pain in my head this morning, | |
| I am ill at heart also; | |
| Go without me, King Affonso, | 75 |
| For I am too faint to go.” | |
| |
| “The relics of the Martyrs five | |
| All maladies can cure; | |
| They will requite the charity | |
| You showed them once, be sure. | 80 |
| |
| “Come forth, then, Queen Orraca! | |
| You make the procession stay: | |
| It were a scandal and a sin | |
| To abide at home to-day.” | |
| |
| Upon her palfrey she is set, | 85 |
| And forward then they go; | |
| And over the long bridge they pass, | |
| And up the long hill wind slow. | |
| |
| “Prick forward, King Affonso, | |
| And do not wait for me: | 90 |
| To meet them close by Coimbra | |
| It were discourtesy. | |
| |
| “A little while I needs must wait, | |
| Till this sore pain be gone: | |
| I will proceed the best I can; | 95 |
| But do you and your knights prick on.” | |
| |
| The king and his knights pricked up the hill | |
| Faster than before; | |
| The king and his knights have topped the hill, | |
| And now they are seen no more. | 100 |
| |
| As the king and his knights went down the hill, | |
| A wild boar crossed the way: | |
| “Follow him! follow him!” cried the king; | |
| “We have time by the queen’s delay.” | |
| |
| A-hunting of the boar astray | 105 |
| Is King Affonso gone: | |
| Slowly, slowly, but straight the while, | |
| Queen Orraca is coming on. | |
| |
| And winding now the train appears | |
| Between the olive-trees; | 110 |
| Queen Orraca alighted then, | |
| And fell upon her knees. | |
| |
| The Friars of Alanpuer came first, | |
| And next the relics passed: | |
| Queen Orraca looked to see | 115 |
| The king and his knights come last. | |
| |
| She heard the horses tramp behind; | |
| At that she turned her face: | |
| King Affonso and his knights came up, | |
| All panting, from the chase. | 120 |
| |
| “Have pity upon my poor soul, | |
| Holy Martyrs five!” cried she: | |
| “Holy Mary, Mother of God, | |
| Virgin, pray for me!” | |
| |
V. That day in Coimbra | 125 |
| Many a heart was gay; | |
| But the heaviest heart in Coimbra | |
| Was that poor queen’s that day. | |
| |
| The festival is over; | |
| The sun hath sunk in the west; | 130 |
| All the people in Coimbra | |
| Have betaken themselves to rest. | |
| |
| Queen Orraca’s Father Confessor | |
| At midnight is awake, | |
| Kneeling at the Martyrs’ shrine, | 135 |
| And praying for her sake. | |
| |
| Just at the midnight hour, when all | |
| Was still as still could be, | |
| Into the church of Santa Cruz | |
| Came a saintly company. | 140 |
| |
| All in robes of russet gray, | |
| Poorly were they dight; | |
| Each one girdled with a cord, | |
| Like a Friar Minorite. | |
| |
| But from those robes of russet gray | 145 |
| There flowed a heavenly light; | |
| For each one was the blesséd soul | |
| Of a Friar Minorite. | |
| |
| Brighter than their brethren, | |
| Among the beautiful band, | 150 |
| Five were there who each did bear | |
| A palm-branch in his hand. | |
| |
| He who led the brethren, | |
| A living man was he; | |
| And yet he shone the brightest | 155 |
| Of all the company. | |
| |
| Before the steps of the altar | |
| Each one bowed his head; | |
| And then with solemn voice they sung | |
| The Service of the Dead. | 160 |
| |
| “And who are ye, ye blesséd saints?” | |
| The Father Confessor said; | |
| “And for what happy soul sing ye | |
| The Service of the Dead?” | |
| |
| “These are the souls of our brethren in bliss; | 165 |
| The Martyrs five are we; | |
| And this is our Father Francisco, | |
| Among us bodily. | |
| |
| “We are come hither to perform | |
| Our promise to the queen: | 170 |
| Go thou to King Affonso, | |
| And say what thou hast seen.” | |
| |
| There was loud knocking at the door, | |
| As the heavenly vision fled; | |
| And the porter called to the Confessor | 175 |
| To tell him the queen was dead. | |
| |
