THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS.

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.