Marguerite of France

The Moslem spears were gleamingRound Damietta’s towers,Though a Christian banner from her wallWaved free its lily-flowers.Ay, proudly did the banner wave,As queen of earth and air;But faint hearts throb’d beneath its foldsIn anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeonTheir kingly chieftain lay,And low on many an Eastern fieldTheir knighthood’s best array.’Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,The wine-cup round to send;For each that touch’d it silentlyThen miss’d a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigilOn the beleaguer’d wall,And dark their slumber, dark with dreamsOf slow defeat and fall.Yet a few hearts of chivalryRose high to breast the storm,And one--of all the loftiest there--Thrill’d in a woman’s form.

A woman, meekly bendingO’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 gloomOf 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 heartWakes 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 gleamO’er tower and bastion high!Our distant homes are beautiful--We stay not here to die!”

They bore those fearful tidingsTo the sad queen where she lay--They told a tale of wavering hearts,Of treason and dismay:The blood rush’d through her pearly cheek,The sparkle to her eye--“Now call me hither those recreant knightsFrom the bands of Italy!”

Then through the vaulted chambersStern iron footsteps rang;And heavily the sounding floorGave back the sabre’s clang.They stood around her--steel-clad men,Moulded for storm and fight,But they quail’d before the loftier soulIn that pale aspect bright.

Yes! as before the falcon shrinksThe bird of meaner wing,So shrank they from th’ imperial glanceOf her--that fragile thing!And her flute-like voice rose clear and highThrough the din of arms around--Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,As a silver clarion’s sound.

“The honour of the LilyIs in your hands to keep,And the banner of the Cross, for HimWho died on Calvary’s steep;And the city which for Christian prayerHath heard the holy bell--And is it these your hearts would yieldTo the godless infidel?

“Then bring me here a breastplateAnd 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 deathMeet for his royal race.

“Look on him as he slumbersIn the shadow of the lance!Then go, and with the Cross forsakeThe princely babe of France!But tell your homes ye left one heartTo perish undefiled;A woman, and a queen, to guardHer honour and her child!”

Before her words they thrill’d, like leavesWhen winds are in the wood;And a deepening murmur told of menRoused 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 wordsOn every sword shall be!Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast!Rest--we will guard thee well!St Denis for the Lily-flowerAnd the Christian citadel!”