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Queen Philippa
EDWARD was fired with wrath.
“Bring forth,” he said, | |
| “The hostages, and let their death instruct | |
This contumacious city.”
Forth they came, | |
| The rope about their necks, those patriot men, | |
| Who nobly chose an ignominious doom | 5 |
| To save their country’s blood. Famine and toil | |
| And the long siege had worn them to the bone; | |
| Yet from their eye spoke that heroic soul | |
| Which scorns the body’s ill. Father and son | |
| Stood side by side, and youthful forms were there, | 10 |
| By kindred linked, for whom the sky of life | |
| Was bright with love. Yet no repining sigh | |
| Darkened their hour of fate. Well had they taxed | |
| The midnight thought, and nerved the wearied arm, | |
| While months and seasons thinned their wasting ranks. | 15 |
| The harvest failed, the joy of vintage ceased;— | |
| Vine-dresser and grape-gatherer manned the walls, | |
| And when they sank with hunger, others came, | |
| Of cheek more pale, perchance, but strong at heart. | |
| Yet still those spectres poured their arrow-flight, | 20 |
| Or hurled the deadly stone, while at the gates | |
| The conqueror of Cressy sued in vain. | |
“Lead them to die!” he bade.
In nobler hearts | |
| There was a throb of pity for the foe | |
| So fallen and so unblenching; yet none dared | 25 |
| Meet that fierce temper with the word, Forgive! | |
| |
| Who comes with hasty step, and flowing robe, | |
| And hair so slightly bound? The Queen! the Queen! | |
| An earnest pity on her lifted brow, | |
| Tears in her azure eye, like drops of light. | 30 |
| What seeks she with such fervid eloquence? | |
| Life for the lost! And ever as she fears | |
| Her suit in vain, more wildly heaves her breast, | |
| In secrecy of prayer, to save her lord | |
| From cruelty so dire, and from the pangs | 35 |
| Of late remorse. At first, the strong resolve | |
| Curled on his lip, and raised his haughty head, | |
| While every firm-set muscle prouder swelled | |
| To iron rigor. Then his flashing eye | |
| Rested upon her, till its softened glance | 40 |
| Confessed contagion from her tenderness, | |
| As with a manly and chivalrous grace | |
The boon he gave.
O woman! ever seek | |
| A victory like this; with heavenly warmth | |
| Still melt the icy purpose, still preserve | 45 |
| From error’s path the heart that thou dost fold | |
| Close in thine own pure love. Yes, ever be | |
| The advocate of mercy, and the friend | |
| Of those whom all forsake; so may thy prayer | |
| In thine adversity be heard of Him, | 50 |
Who multiplies to pardon.
Still we thought | |
| Of thee, Philippa, and thy fervent tone | |
| Of intercession, and the cry of joy, | |
| Which was its echo from the breaking heart, | |
| In many a mournful home. Of thee we thought, | 55 |
| With blessings on thy goodness, as we came | |
| All chill and dripping from the salt sea wave, | |
| Within the gates of Calais, soon to wend | |
Our onward course.
The vales of France were green, | |
| As if the soul of summer lingered there, | 60 |
| Yet the crisp vine-leaf told an autumn tale, | |
| While the brown windmills spread their flying arms | |
| To every fickle breeze. The singing-girl | |
| Awoke her light guitar, and featly danced | |
| To her own madrigals; but the low hut | 65 |
| Of the poor peasant seemed all comfortless, | |
| And his harsh-featured wife, made swarth by toils | |
| Unfeminine, with no domestic smile | |
| Cheered her sad children, plunging their dark feet | |
Deep in the miry soil.
At intervals | 70 |
| Widely disjoined, where clustering roofs arose, | |
| The cry of shrill mendicity was up, | |
| And at each window of our vehicle, | |
| Hand, hat, and basket thrust, and the wild eye | |
| Of clamorous children, eager for a coin, | 75 |
| Assailed our every pause. At first, the pang | |
| Of pity moved us, and we vainly wished | |
| For wealth to fill each meagre hand with gold; | |
| But, oft besought, suspicion steeled the heart, | |
| And ’neath the guise of poverty we deemed | 80 |
| Vice or deception lurked. So on we passed, | |
| Save when an alms some white-haired form implored, | |
| Bowed down with age, or some pale, pining babe, | |
| Froze into silence by its misery, | |
| Clung to the sickly mother. On we passed, | 85 |
| In homely diligence, like cumbrous house, | |
| Tripartite and well peopled, its lean steeds | |
| Rope-harnessed and grotesque, while the full moon | |
| Silvered our weary caravan, that wrought | |
| Unresting, night and day, until the towers | 90 |
| Of fair St. Denis, where the garnered dust | |
| Of many a race of Gallic monarchs sleeps, | |
| Gleamed through the misty morning, and we gained | |
| The gates of Paris. | |
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