THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS.
St. Louis of France, who embarked with an army for Palestine in 1270, landing at Tunis, was besieged by the inhabitants in the town of Carthage, and with great numbers of his people, fell a victim to the plague. In his dying moments he caused himself to be removed from his couch, and placed upon ashes; and in that situation expired.
The sun had well nigh set; on Afric’s strand
The billows, tipped with silver, kissed the sand,
As if they leaped rejoicing in the light
Whose mellowing radiance ushered in the night.
From cloudless skies the purple lustre fell
O’er palmy plain, and hill, and shaded dell;
While o’er the peopled city towering near,
The rays gleamed back from shield and burnished spear,
And the faint breezes many a banner stirred,
And many a waving plume. Yet was there heard
From those still streets no voice, nor martial clang
Of trumpet’s thrilling note; nor wildly rang
The war-steed’s tramp; nor burst the warrior’s song
Forth in stern gladness from that ghastly throng.
Silence unbroken, deep as of the dead,
Brooded around; for Pestilence had spread
Her withering wings, and quenched the soldier’s pride,
And poisoned in each breast its bounding tide.
Helpless in life’s last throb the champion lay,
In his full manhood—he who in the day
Of strength and youth had buckled on his heel
The knightly spur, and grasped the avenging steel
For France and glory; he, whose matchless might
O’erwhelmed all foes; whose name, if heard in fight,
Back from each front could make the life-blood start,
And turn to coward’s every warrior’s heart.
Moveless he lay—unmarked and powerless now,
With none to wipe the death sweat from his brow:
His hand was on his blade—his eager eye
Glanced feebly upward to the glowing sky,
As if to curse the fierce and searching air
That scorched his brain and drank the life-blood there.
Youth too was near; the fearless step, and glow
Of kindling pride all changed and vanished now:
And woman, with her deep devoted love
That smiles at change—all mortal fear above;
Pale, wasted, but intent alone to give
Strength to the weak, and bid the sufferer live.
Oh! different far their aspect and the scene
From what its gorgeous pomp so late had been,
When girded in their might that glorious band
Had passed in triumph from their native land,
Honored and hailed by noble and by slave,
To reap the promised guerdon of the brave.
With eager rapture in that kindling hour
The gallant knight forsook his lady’s bower,
Knelt in farewell, her hand with fervor pressed
That bound the sacred symbol on his breast,
And rushed to follow in the path of fame
His royal chief. From breast to breast the flame
Of holy ardor spread—their cause was blest
By priest and saint; their swords should win the rest!
France poured her bravest forth to swell the band,
Beauty with tearful eyes and waving hand
Watched their departure; while the trumpet’s peal
From rank to rank was heard—the clash of steel
The martial clangour answered—and the cry
Echoed by joyous shouts, was—“France and victory!”
Led by their princely chieftain they had passed
Through ocean’s storms, nor feared the tempest’s blast;
In trusting zeal to Afric’s shores of wo
They came to seek them friends, and found a foe!
Was this the fruit of all their welcome toil,
Ignoble graves upon a foreign soil?
Had they the joys of home and love resigned,
Once all their own, such guerdon here to find?
Thus must they perish—with besieging bands
Of foes without the gates, while round them stands
Yon frowning wall as if its massy height
Had risen to mock the vainly yearning sight;
And even the strength their sinking frames deny
To seek the field where they might bravely die?
And where was he, at whose beloved side
Thousands had rushed to fall? He who defied
The haughty Saracen, and came to free
The holy shrine from heathen mockery—
Their leader and their king? Alas! no more
His hand shall wield the sceptre, or before
His mailed bands, lead on in victory’s way:—
Pale, haggard, motionless, the monarch lay
Upon his couch, while mournful round him stood
A few brave friends, who would have poured their blood
To stay his ebbing life. From his damp brow
The helmet was removed—too heavy now
To press those temples; while upon his cheek
The life-blood lingered in one last faint streak,
And the dim haze of death crept slowly o’er
The eye whose glances could command no more.
Around, disease’s blighting touches told
His fearful ravages on features bold
And noble in their paleness; no face there
Wore not the brand of suffering and despair;
Yet all stood silent, for a heavier blow
Made each in this forget his selfish wo:
Tears fell unchecked and fast;—then while the hue
Of hastening death grew deeper, wide they threw
The casement; on his couch the day beam played—
The admitted light dispelled the solemn shade:
O’er his wan face the broad pale radiance streamed,
And sadder still that place of mourning seemed.
He turned and gazed. The sea-breeze fresh and light
Blew on his cheek, while full before his sight,
In distance softened, rolled the heaving sea;
Its billows flashed as brightly, and as free
Danced in the light, as when his fleet had pressed,
Broad and triumphant, ocean’s willing breast.
His ships were on the shore—dismantled, tost
By every wave that lashed the sandy coast;
Vain wrecks of hope and triumph, there they lay!
Oh! never mortal tongue may dare to say
What thoughts of anguish racked the monarch’s breast.
“Accursed of God!” he cried—“and thus unblest,
’Tis not for me in kingly state to die!
It may be that my late humility
Will yet avert from those who linger here
The wrath of heaven.—Prepare the sinner’s bier!”
Striving to change his desperate will in vain,
Weeping, they bear him to his bed of pain—
The last he e’er shall press! “Thus, thus,” he cried—
“In shame I pay the penalty of pride!
Thus with repentance, and with humble trust
In Him who smites, is dust consigned to dust!
Giver of deathless life! God! who dost spare
The guilty even in vengeance—hear my prayer!
Accept my offered penance! Be thy dread
Just chastisement poured only on my head!
And save my people!”—As these accents passed
From his pale lips, a flush, the deepest, last,
Crimsoned his dying face: a sudden gleam
Of martyr triumph kindled with its beam
His closing eyes—and e’re its lustre fled,
The self-devoted rested with the dead.