Marguerite of France

Whilst Marguerite, Queen of St. Louis, was 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.

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 throbbed 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.   
’T was mournful, when at feasts they met,   
  The wine-cup round to send,   
For each that touched it silently           
  Then missed a gallant friend!   
 
And mournful was their vigil   
  On the beleaguered 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—   
  Thrilled 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.   
O, 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 curtained 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 oppressed,   
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 rushed through her pearly cheek,   
  The sparkle to her eye,—   
“Now call me hither those recreant knights   
  From the bands of Italy!”   
 
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 quailed before the loftier soul   
  In that pale aspect bright.   
 
Yes, as before the falcon shrinks   
  The bird of meaner wing,   
So shrank they from the 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 honor 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 honor and her child!”   
 
Before her words they thrilled, 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,   
  Unsheathed in many a hand,           
As they gathered round the helpless one,   
  Again a noble band!   
 
“We are thy warriors, lady!   
  True to the Cross and thee!   
The spirit of thy kindling word           
  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!”