Chapter 6

Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge's breast, For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed; And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow He'd loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now. With iron might he'd nerved himself to say the words of fate, To doom to death the girl he sought--but sought in vain--to hate.

Yet now, e'en in the final hour, 'spite of his creed of crime, His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time. "Irene! girl!" he wildly prayed, "brave not Rome's fearful power! Mad as thou art, she'll pardon thee, e'en in the eleventh hour; Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire, And outraged as thy rulers are, 'twill calm their lawful ire!"

"Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we've so often knelt, Joined in the same pure orisons--the same emotion felt; Forsake a creed whose very God with scorn was crucified--, Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!" He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth might know;

But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside: "I've said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!" He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart; Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim's dauntless heart. She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven, And in that breath her spotless soul had passed from earth to heaven.

CORNELIA'S JEWELS.

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride, Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide: No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair, No gems were mingled 'mid her waves of dark and glossy hair; And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien, A woman in her gentle grace--in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air, And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare, And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light, Proudly she glanced her dark eye o'er the store of jewels bright. "Rich as these are," she answered then, "and dazzling as they shine, They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

"You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear, Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?" The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might; She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine, And murmur'd, "Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?"

ST. FRANCIS OF BORGIA BY THE COFFIN OF QUEEN ISABEL.

"Open the coffin and shroud until I look on the dead again Ere we place her in Grenada's vaults, Where sleep the Monarchs of Spain; For unto King Charles must I swear That I myself have seen The regal brow of the royal corpse, Our loved, lamented Queen."

The speaker was Borgia, Gaudia's Duke, A noble and gallant knight, Whose step was welcome in courtly halls, As his sword was keen in fight. To him had his Monarch given the task Of conveying to the tomb. The Princess ravished from his arms In the pride of youthful bloom.

While they slowly raised the coffin lid, Borgia stood silent by, Recalling the beauty of the dead With low, half-uttered sigh-- Longing to look on that statue fair That wanted but life's warm breath, That matchless form which he hoped to find Beautiful e'en in death.

'Tis done, and with silent, rev'rent step To the coffin draws he near, And sadly looks in its depths, where lies Spain's Queen, his sovereign dear. But what does he see? What horrors drear Are those that meet his eye, For he springs aside and shades his brow With a sharp, though stifled, cry?

Ah' youth and beauty, in spirit gaze On what that coffin holds-- On the fearful object that now lies In the shroud's white ample folds: Nay, turn not away with loathing look, Lest that hideous sight you see, In a few short years from now, alas! It is what we all shall be.

Let us learn as Francis Borgia learned, By that lifeless form of clay, To despise the changing things of earth, All doomed to swift decay-- Deep into his heart the lesson sank, Effacing earthly taint, And Spain's Court lost a gallant knight, While the Church gained a Saint!

ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

'Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods In a lonely, sacred fane-- The church of Our Lady of Montserrat, So famous throughout all Spain; For countless were the pilgrim hosts Who knelt at that sacred shrine With aching hearts, that came to seek Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star Shines the lamp's pale, solemn ray, That burns through midnight's hush and gloom, As well as the glare of day, Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God, Resigning each vain delight, Each earthly lure, to burn and shine With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls On a mail-clad warrior there, Who humbly bows his stately head In silent, earnest prayer; It flashes back from his corslet bright, From each shining steel clad hand, And the brow which tells that he was born To pomp and high command.

Say, who is he, that vigil keeps, Like the warrior knights of old, Through the long lone hours of the silent night, Ere they donned their spurs of gold? A soldier brave and proud is he, And bears a noble name, Since Pampeluna's glorious day Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine? What mean those prayers and sighs, The tearful mist that dims the light Of his flashing, eagle eyes? They tell of life's vain pomps and pride Esteemed as worthless dross, For the dauntless soldier has become The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept Through ranks of foes hard pressed, Now hangs beside Our Lady's shrine, Henceforth in peace to rest,-- And soon the penitent's rough, dark robe, His girdle and cowl of gloom, Will replace the soldier's armor bright, And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave! A noble choice is thine! What are the laurels of earth beside The joys of bliss divine? And thou hast won, though seeking not, The saint's undying fame-- Christ's Holy Church will evermore Revere and bless thy name!

CHARLES VII AND JOAN OF ARC AT RHEIMS.

A glorious pageant filled the church of the proud old city of Rheims, One such as poet artists choose to form their loftiest themes: There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in a glittering ring, To place the crown upon the brow of their now triumphant king.

The full, rich tones of music swelled out on the perfumed air, And chosen warriors, gaily decked, emblazoned banners bear: Jewels blazed forth, and silver bright shone armor, shield and lance, Of princes, peers, and nobles proud, the chivalry of France.

The object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee, Before the altar homage paid to the God of Victory; Whilst Renaud Chartres prayed that Heaven might blessings shower down On that young head on which he now was chosen to place a crown.

Fair was the scene, but fairer far than pomp of church or state, Than starry gems or banners proud, or trappings of the great, Was the maiden frail whose prophet glance from heaven seemed to shine, Who, in her mystic beauty, looked half mortal, half divine.

Her slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of Orleans stood, Her place a prouder one than that of prince of royal blood: With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers to Notre Dame, She waived above the monarch's head proud Victory's Oriflamme.

Then, as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its fold That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy of gold, It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic birth, Such as is rarely granted to the children of this earth.

Sudden a mystic sadness steals o'er Joan's features bright, Robbing her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light: A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories had been won, Had whispered, 'bove the clank of steel, "Thy mission now is done."

Perchance the future, then, was shown to her pure spirit's gaze, The future with its sufferings, the shame, the scaffold's blaze; The deaf'ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense, mounting high, Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she was to die.

The youthful monarch now was crowned, and lowly at his feet Did France's saviour bend her form, rendering homage meet. No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young noble heart, She, who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to depart.

Oh! France! of all the stoned names that deck thy history's page, Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen stern and sage, None, none received the glorious light, the strange Promethean spark That Heaven vouchsafed thy spotless maid, immortal Joan of Arc!

THE FOUR WISHES.

"Father!" a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow "On the world wide I must go forth--then bless me, bless me, now! And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won-- What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?"

Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high, The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye: "My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name, Then, let thy guiding star through life--thy chief pursuit--be fame!"

"'Tis well! thou'st chosen, father, well--it is a glorious part!" And the youth's glance told the wish chimed well with that brave ardent heart. "Now, brother, thou'lt have none to share thy sports till I return,-- Say, what shall be the glitt'ring prize that I afar must earn?"

"The world," said the laughing boy, "on heroes poor looks cold, If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold." "Perchance thou'rt right!" and now he turned to his sister young and fair, Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.

"'Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart's wish to me, If I've the power, 'twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee." The maiden blushed and whispring low, "I prize not wealth or pride, But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride."

The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt'ring voice, He asked of her, the best beloved, "Mother, what is _thy_ choice?" "My son! my son!" she softly said, "hear my wish ere we part-- Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!"

* * * * *

The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore; The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.

His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father's feet, And sadly said, "'Tis all I have--is it an off'ring meet? In battle's front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped, Want, weariness and pain I've borne, and yet no fame I've reaped.

"Brother, thou told'st me to return with treasures like a king; This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I bring. Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair,-- I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!

"Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain but thine? Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we met-- Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, 'tis true and stainless yet!

"No aim has ever ruled it that thou might'st not calmly see-- Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I'd shrink to bare to thee!" "Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art thou now Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined thy brow!

"And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho' dimmed its brightness be, Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!" With all a mother's yearning love, she strained him to her heart, And in that fond embrace he felt her's was "the better part."

THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

The day was o'er, and in their tent the weaned victors met, In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget. The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there-- Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care.

Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst; He also was the first to dare each perilous command, To rush on danger--yet was he the youngest of the band.

Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave; His right hand grasped the cherished flag--the flag he died to save; While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead, And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper's head.

Say, was there none o'er that young chief to shed one single tear, To sorrow o'er the end of his untimely stopt career? Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave, Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave.

With all a mother's doting love a mother yearned for him, And watching for his quick return, a sister's eye grew dim, And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,-- And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.

No woman's low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away; But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave? His was a soldier's glorious death, a soldier's glorious grave!

THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.

"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"--Scott

The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed With sad dejected mien, And softly stroked its glossy neck, Lustrous as silken sheen; With iron will and nerve of steel, And pale lips tight compressed, He kept the tears from eyes that long Were strange to such a guest.

Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one, Alas! 'tis easy known-- Thy neck would arch beneath my touch, Thou'dst brighten at my tone; But turn not thus thy restless eyes Upon my saddened brow, Nor look with such imploring gaze-- I cannot help thee now.

No more we'll bound o'er dew gemmed sward At break of summer morn, Or follow on, through forests green, The hunter's merry horn; No more we'll brave the rapid stream, Nor battle with the tide, Nor cross the slipp'ry mountain path, As we were wont to ride.

Oh! we have travelled many miles, And dangers have we braved; And more than once thy matchless speed Thy master's life hath saved; And many nights the forest sward Has been the couch we've pressed, Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck, Most sweet has been my rest.

How often, too, I we shared with thee The hunter's scanty fare. To see thee suffer want or pain, Mute friend I could not bear; And now, thou best in agony, As if thy heart would burst, And I, what can I do for thee, Save slake thy burning thirst?

That parting sob, that failing glance-- The pains of death are past! Thy glazing eyes still turned on me With love unto the last! Well may my tears o'er thy cold form, My steed, flow fast and free, For, oh! I have had many friends, Yet none so true as thee!

THE WOOD FAIRY'S WELL.

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden, Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array, Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden, And birds make sweet music throughout the long day. Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers, Of forms full of beauty--of perfumes most rare, Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary, No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"

"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness, My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove, That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness Who first taught my young heart the power of love. He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea. I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise, But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?"

"Yes, simple and trusting--ah! child, the old story! Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget? Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly, Ere this he's forgotten that ever you met; But, methought, as I watch'd thee to-day slowly treading With step full of sadness yon green shady dell, Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure, Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy's Well?"

"No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface, I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled, That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising, Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed; And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better, E'en though I might grieve to my heart's inmost core, That he should forget than, returning to seek me, Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more."

"What! love thee no more!--say, to love thee forever! See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side, Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor, To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!" Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden, The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown, Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden, With faith still unshaken and true as her own.

THE WREATH OF FOREST FLOWERS.

In a fair and sunny forest glade O'erarched with chesnuts old, Through which the radiant sunbeams made A network of bright gold, A girl smiled softly to herself, And dreamed the hours away; Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook With the summer winds at play.

Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair That fell in shining showers, Naught decked that brow of beauty rare But a wreath of forest flowers; And the violet wore no deeper blue Than her own soft downcast eye, Whilst her bright cheek with the rose's hue In loveliness well might vie.

But she was too fair to bloom unknown By forest or valley side, And long ere two sunny years had flown, The girl was a wealthy bride-- Removed to so high and proud a sphere That she well at times might deem The humble home of her childhood dear A fleeting, changeful dream.

No more her foot sought the grassy glade At the break of summer day; No more neath the chesnut spreading shade In reverie sweet she lay; But in abodes of wealth and pride, With serious, stately mien, That envy's rancorous tongue defied, She now alone was seen.

But was she happier? Who might know? Wealth, fortune, on her smiled; Yet there were some who whispered low That she, fates favored child, Oft pressed her brow with a weary hand, In gay and festive hours, And fain would change her jewell'd band For a wreath of forest flowers.

THE VILLAGE GIRL AND HER HIGH BORN SUITOR.

"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me, And bright shall I render thy destiny: Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside, To dwell in a palace home of pride, Where crowding menials, with lowly mien, Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen."

"Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride; If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air; And the birds and insects, with joyous song, Are more welcome far than a menial throng."

"Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou, With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow, To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone, Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown; And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed In the lowly garb of a peasant maid."

"Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say That I in my rustic kirtle gray In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far Than robed in rich state as court ladies are; And the wreath of violets in my hair Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare."

"Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn'st aside From the tempting lures of wealth and pride, Sure thy woman's heart must some pity own For one who breathes for thy self alone, And who would brave suffering, grief and toil To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile."

"Ah! enough of this--thy love may be true, But I have tried friends who love me too; And in proud homes governed by fashion's voice, Thou would'st learn to blush for thy lowly choice. Go, seek thee a noble, a high born bride, And leave me my cot by the green hillside!"

THE LADY OF RATHMORE HALL.

Throughout the country for many a mile There is not a nobler, statelier pile Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall; And the giant oaks that shadow the wold, Though hollowed by time, are not as old As its Norman turrets tall.

Let us follow that stream of sunset red, Crimsoning the portal overhead, Stealing through curtaining lace, Where sits in a spacious and lofty room Full of gems of art--exotics in bloom-- The Lady of the place.

If Rathmore Hall is with praises named, Not less is its queen-like mistress famed For wondrous beauty and grace; And as she reclines there, calmly now, The sunset flush on her ivory brow, We marvel at form and face.

Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair, Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair, As lily she's graceful and fall; Not florid full is that lady fair But pale and high-bred, with just the air That is suited to Rathmore Hall.

Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile, Her abode that noble and ancient pile, She, surely, must happy be-- (With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil, For as if by magic is wrought her will) A moment wait--we shall see!

At length she moves and heavily sighs, While wearily rest her violet eyes On her jewels richly wrought; Shuddering, she turns away her gaze From flashing diamond and ruby's blaze, As she whispers, "Too dearly bought!"

Then, slowly rising, the casement nears, And looking abroad through a mist of tears Sighs: "Yes, I have earned it all: Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved, False to my. vows and to honor proved, To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.

"What are now its broad rich acres to me, Stretching out as far as my gaze can see? With loathing I turn from the scene; My womanhood wasting in wild regret O'er a past that I would, but cannot, forget; O'er a life that might have been!

"Oh! for the humble, dear home of my youth, Its loving warm hearts, its unsullied truth, Its freedom from fashion's thrall. And the blameless hopes--the bliss that was mine Ere awoke in my heart a wish to shine As Lady of Rathmore Hall!"