Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/St. Bartholomew

by Henry C. E. Malet

ST. BARTHOLOMEW.

 

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’Tis the dead of the night, and the city
Lies silent and dark as the tomb;
While the murmuring waters of Seine
Rush on thro’ the mist and the gloom.

All is still, not a sound to be heard,
Not a light over head or below;
The town seems deserted by all
Save the sentries who pace to and fro.

Save that of their long measured tread
No sound do the echoes repeat,
And they grasp their sword-hilts and converse
In the midst of the desolate street.

“Good even, my comrade! Hast heard
The glorious news that is come?
Of the feast that our king hath prepared,
Of the dance to the bent of the drum

“To which we are soon to lead forth
The Calvinist daughters of France?
They will not refuse us;” he laughed,
As he eyed the sharp point of his lance.

“Sleep, husbands! sleep on while ye may,
Secure by the side of your wives;
Such a waking ere long you will see
As but once in a lifetime arrives.

“O mothers of heretic babes!
Go fold them once more in your arms;
And, lovers, caress while ye may
The beauties that yield you their charms.

“For e’en now,” as he spoke, a wild sound
Smote dread on the ear of the night,
’Twas so like the last trumpet of doom,
That the sepulchres gaped with affright,

And the souls of the damned found their way
For a season to earth, and became
The leaders of sport for the night.
And cheer’d on the hounds to the game.

The call of Religion is heard,
And the soldiers of Jesus arise,
And rush to the slaughter with hate
In their hearts, and with lust in their eyes.

Who babbles of mercy? Behold,
This night ’tis forbidden to spare;
For the hour is come, long appointed,
The sword of Jehovah is bare.

The angels shall weep as they see
How our Catholic chivalry greet
The women that kneel in their anguish,
And helpless for mercy entreat.

And the scent of the blood and the burning
Like incense shall climb to the stars
That ride in the vault of the heaven,
Remote from this earth and its wars.

For to-night is the Lord’s, and his vengeance
Shall redden the waters of Seine;
Let the reapers go forth to the harvest.
And gather this Huguenot grain.

H. E. E. M.

 

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