THE FREED BIRD.
Return, return, my bird!
I have dress’d thy cage with flowers;
’Tis lovely as a violet bank
In the heart of forest bowers.
“I am free, I am free—I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o’er;
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me—the blue, bright sky!
The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer;
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore—
I am free, I am free—I return no more!”
Alas, alas! my bird!
Why seek’st thou to be free?
Wert thou not bless’d in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed naught but glee?
“Did my song of the summer breathe naught but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
—Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!
From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it sooth’d thee best,
Sigh’d for wild-flowers and a leafy nest.”
Was it with thee thus, my bird?
Yet thine eye flash’d clear and bright;
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.
“It flash’d with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild-wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar:
Woo me not back—I return no more!
My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck’d in its lonely play,
And the odours that wander afar away!”
Farewell—farewell, then, bird!
I have call’d on spirits gone,
And it may be they joy’d, like thee, to part—
Like thee, that wert all my own!
“If they were captives, and pined like me,
Though love may guard them, they joy’d to be free;
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph’s hour!
Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell!—with my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies—I am earth’s no more!”
MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.[401]
“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.
Ay, proudly did the banner wave,
As queen of earth and air;
But faint hearts throb’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 through her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye—
“Now call me hither those recreant knights
From the bands of Italy!”[402]
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 Denis for the Lily-flower
And the Christian citadel!”
[401] 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.
[402] The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa.