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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391616" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lady Of Provence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Courage was cast about her like a dress<br>Of solemn comeliness,<br>A gathered mind and an untroubled face<br>Did give her dangers grace.' ~ Donne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The war-note of the Saracen<br>Was on the winds of France; <br>It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour,<br>And the clash of the tourney's lance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,<br>And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,<br>Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray<br>In a chapel where the mighty lay,<br>On the old Provencal shore;<br>Many a Chatillon beneath,<br>Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,<br>His shroud of armour wore.<br>And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came<br>Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, <br>Gave quivering life to the slumber pale<br>Of stern forms crouched in their marble mail,<br>At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,<br>The silent throngs of that burial-place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They were imaged there with helm and spear,<br>As leaders in many a bold career -<br>And haughty their stillness looked and high,<br>Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory.<br>But meekly the voice of the lady rose<br>Through the trophies of their proud repose;<br>Meekly, yet fervantly, calling down aid,<br>Under their banners of battle she prayed;<br>With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love,<br>Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above,<br>And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave<br>Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave.<br>And her fragile frame, at every blast,<br>That full of the savage war-horn passed,<br>Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart,<br>When it vainly strives from its cage to part -<br>So knelt she in her woe; <br>A weeper alone with the tearless dead -<br>Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, <br>Or the dust that stirred below!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone, <br>Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan<br>Is her lord returned with his conquering bands?<br>No! a breathless vassal before her stands!<br>- 'Hast thou been on the field? - Art thou come from the host?'<br>- 'from the slaughter, lady! - All, all is lost!<br>Our banners are taken, our knights laid low,<br>Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe;<br>And thy lord,' his voice took a sadder sound-<br>'Thy lord - he is not on the bloody ground!<br>There are those who tell that the leader's plume<br>Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom.'<br>- A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed;<br>She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,<br>She dashed the tears from her kindling eye,<br>With a glance, as of sudden royalty:<br>The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,<br>Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow,<br>And her young voice rose till the peasant shook<br>At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:<br>- 'dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,<br>And fear not to say that their son hath fled?<br>Away! he is lying by lance and shield, -<br>Point me the path to his battle-field!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The shadows of the forest<br>Are about the lady now;<br>She is hurrying through the midnight on,<br>Beneath the dark pine-bough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,<br>There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief;<br>The branches that rock to the tempest strife<br>Are groaning like things of troubled life;<br>The wind from the battle seems rushing by <br>With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky<br>The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,<br>But her fame in the daring of love is strong,<br>And her soul as on swelling seas upborne,<br>And girded all fearful things to scorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And fearful things were around her spread,<br>When she reached the field of the warrior dead.<br>There lay the noble, the valiant, low -<br>Ay! but <br>one<br>word speaks of deeper woe;<br>There lay the <br>loved<br>- on each fallen head<br>Mothers' vain blessings and tears had shed;<br>Sisters were watching in many a home <br>For the fettered footstep, no more to come; <br>Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,<br>Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;<br>And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine poured<br>For those, now needing nor hearth nor board;<br>Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,<br>And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Silently, with lips compressed,<br>Pale hands clasped above her breast,<br>Stately brow of anguish high,<br>Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye;<br>Silently, o'er that red plain, <br>Moved the lady 'midst the slain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry,<br>Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh;<br>Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,<br>Sudden and shrill from the mountain's borne;<br>And her maidens trembled; - but on <br>her<br>ear<br>No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;<br>They had less of mastery to shake her now,<br>Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen-bough.<br>She searched into many an unclosed eye,<br>That looked, without soul, to the starry sky; <br>She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast,<br>She lifted up helmet and cloven crest -<br>Not there, not there he lay!<br>'Lead where the most hath been dared and done,<br>Where the heart of the battle hath bled, - lead on!'<br>And the vassal took the way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He turned to a dark and lonely tree<br>That waved o'er a fountain red;<br>Oh! swiftest <br>there<br>had the currents free<br>From noble veins been shed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed,<br>And the scattered plumage streamed,<br>And the broken shields were tossed,<br>And the shivered lances crossed,<br>And the mail-clad sleepers round<br>Made the harvest of that ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was there! the leader amidst his band<br>Where the faithful had made their last vain stand; <br>He was there! but affection's glance alone<br>The darkly-changed in that hour had known;<br>With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped,<br>And a banner of France to his bosom clasped,<br>And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,<br>And the face - oh! speak not of that dead face!<br>As it lay to answer love's look no more,<br>Yet never so proudly loved before!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe,<br>The time was not yet for their waves to flow:<br>She felt the full presence, the might of death,<br>Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath,<br>And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, <br>As she turned to his follower - 'Your lord is there!<br>Look on him! know him by scarf and crest! -<br>Bear him away with his sires to rest!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Another day, another night,<br>And the sailor on the deep<br>Hears the low chant of a funeral rite<br>From the lordly chapel sweep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It comes with a broken and muffled tone,<br>As if that rite were in terror done:<br>Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power,<br>And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hurriedly, in fear and woe, <br>Through the aisle the mourners go;<br>With a hushed and stealthy tread,<br>Bearing on the noble dead;<br>Sheathed in armour of the field -<br>Only his wan face revealed,<br>Whence the still and solemn gleam<br>Doth a strange sad contrast seem<br>To the anxious eyes of that pale band,<br>With torches wavering in every hand, <br>For they dread each moment the shout of war,<br>And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,<br>No brother of battle, no princely friend:<br>No sound comes back like the sounds of yore,<br>Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;<br>By the red fountain the valiant lie,<br>The flower of Provencal chivalry;<br>But <br>one<br>free step, and one lofty heart,<br>Bear through that scene to the last their part.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She hath led the death-train of the brave<br>To the verge of his own ancestral grave; <br>She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway,<br>But the struggling passion must now have way;<br>In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, <br>By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;<br>The pride on the lip is lingering still,<br>But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill;<br>Anguish and triumph are met at strife,<br>Rending the cords of her frail young life;<br>And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier,<br>Lifting her voice, as if death might hear.<br>'I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, <br>My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!<br>Now call me hence, by thy side to be,<br>The world thou leavest has no place for me.<br>The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth-<br>Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!<br>Give me my home on thy noble heart, -<br>Well have we loved, let us both depart!' -<br>And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,<br>The living cheek to the cheek of clay;<br>The <br>living<br>cheek! - Oh! it was not vain, <br>That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;<br>She is there at rest in her place of pride,<br>In death how queen-like - a glorious bride!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Joy for the freed one! - she might not stay <br>When the crown had fallen from her life away;<br>She might not linger - a weary thing, <br>A dove with no home for its broken wing, <br>Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,<br>That know not its own land's melodies,<br>From the long heart-withering early gone;<br>She hath lived - she hath loved - her task is done!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391616" data-title="The Lady Of Provence de Felicia Dorothea Hemans" data-description="'Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness,
A gathered mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace.' ~ Donne. 


The war-note of the Saracen
Was on the winds of France; 
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour,
And ..."></div>
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