Felicia Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 30 1831/Marguerite of France
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 30, Pages 697-699
MARGUERITE OF FRANCE,*[1]
BY MRS HEMANS.
Thou falcon-hearted dove!
Coleridge.
The Moslem spears were gleaming
Round Damietta's towers,
Though a Christian banner from her wall
Waved free its Lily-flowers.
Aye, proudly did the banner wave,
As Queen of Earth and Air;
But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds,
In anguish and despair.
Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon,
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field
Their knighthood's best array.
'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,
The wine-cup round to send,
For each that touch'd it silently,
Then miss'd a gallant friend!
And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguer'd wall,
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams
Of slow defeat and fall.
Yet a few hearts of Chivalry
Rose high to breast the storm,
And one—of all the loftiest there—
Thrill'd in a woman's form.
A woman, meekly bending
O'er the slumber of her child,
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy Babe,
'Midst the clash of spear and lance,
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
Of the warrior citadel;
And there midst arms the couch was spread,
And with banners curtain'd o'er,
For the Daughter of the Minstrel-land,
The gay Provençal shore!
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,
His soul with grief oppress'd,
Yet calmly lay the Desolate,
With her young babe on her breast!
There were voices in the city,
Voices of wrath and fear—
"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—
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:
The blood rush'd thro' her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye—
"Now call me hither those recreant knights,
From the bands of Italy!"*[2]
Then through the vaulted chambers
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,
But they quail'd before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.
Yes—as before the Falcon shrinks
The Bird of meaner wing,
So shrank they from th' imperial glance
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.
"The honour 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
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,
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
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!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;
A Woman and a Queen, to guard
Her Honour and her Child!"
Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves,
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,
Unsheath'd in many a hand,
As they gather'd round the helpless One,
Again a noble band!
"We are thy warriors, Lady!
True to the Cross and thee!
The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast,
Rest—we will guard thee well.
St Dennis for the Lily-flower,
And the Christian citadel!"
- ↑
* Queen of St Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king, her husband, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.
- ↑
* The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa.