So, when she died, it was scarce more strange That, while the breath was nearly to seek, "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan— "But the last, last grace, my all, my own, "Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! "Leave my poor gold hair alone!"; The passion thus vented, dead lay she; Her parents sobbed their worst on that; But curled around her brow, like a crown, To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap 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; At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, 'Twas the space where our sires would lay A benefactor,-a bishop, suppose, So we come to find them in after-days Of use to the living, in many ways: For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. They grubbed with a will: and at length-O cor A double Louis-d'or! Here was a case for the priest: he heard, Finger on nose, smiled, "There's a bird And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont Truth is truth: too true it was. Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it-alasTill the humour grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass, "Talk not of God, my heart is stone! "Nor lover nor friend-be gold for both! "Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, "It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth "If they let my hair alone!" Louis-d'or, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now do you see? With the priest to shrive, With heaven's gold gates about to ope, "But I keep earth's too, I hope." Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield: On the place to bury strangers in, The hideous Potter's Field. But the priest bethought him: "Milk that's spilt' "You know the adage! Watch and pray! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! "It would build a new altar; that, we may!" And the altar therewith was built. Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach: Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse. The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith proves false, I find; I still, to suppose it true, for my part, 'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart At the head of a lie-taught Original Sin, The Corruption of Man's Heart. THE WORST OF IT WOULD it were I had been false, not you! On my speckled hide; not you, the pride I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again, Yes, fall through the speckled beast that I am, Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart, With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart? But what will God say? Oh, my sweet, VOL. II. 17 C |