All kissed that face, like a silver wedge
'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair;
E'en the priest allowed death's privilege,
As he planted the crucifix with care
On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge.
And thus was she buried, inviolate
Of body and soul, in the very space
By the altar,—keeping saintly state
In Pornic church, for her pride of race,
Pure life, and piteous fate.
And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,
Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,
As they told you of gold both robe and pall,
How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,
So it never was touched at all.
Years flew; this legend grew at last
The life of the lady; all she had done,
All been, in the memories fading fast
Of lover and friend, was summed in one
Sentence survivors passed:
To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;
Had turned an' angel before the time:
Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth
Of frailty, all you could count a crime
Was—she knew her gold hair's worth.
At little pleasant Pornic church,
It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,
Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch,
A certain sacred space lay bare,
And the boys began research.
'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,
A benefactor,—a bishop, suppose;
A baron with armor-adornments quaint;
A dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
Things sanctity saves from taint:
So we come to find them in after-days,
When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds,
Of use to the living, in many ways;
For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,
And the church deserves the praise.