The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 14

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 n.o.ble 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 flas.h.i.+ng, 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 n.o.ble 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, s.h.i.+eld and lance, Of princes, peers, and n.o.bles proud, the chivalry of France.

The object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee, Before the altar homage paid to the G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 n.o.ble 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+eld 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.