 | Plays and poems |  |
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THE QUEEN'S TOUCH.
AN INCIDENT IN THE EARLY LIFE OF H. C. M. ISABEL II.
On a Good Friday, as it once befell,
The gentle lady, royal Isabel,
Stepped from her palace with a fair array
Of Spanish nobles. Plumes, and banners gay,
And lines of burnished halberds made a lane,
Through which the sovereign and her glittering train
Swept like a gorgeous cloud across the face
Of some bright sunset. Even was her pace,
And a deep calm dwelt in her steady eyes,
August with queenly power, and counsel wise
To sway a realm; yet round her playful lip
The child still lingered, and a smile would slip,
Like a stray sunbeam o'er a dimpled rose,
When the crowd shouted, or an eager close
Of loyal people broke the martial line,
And stayed her progress. One could scarce incline
Whether to call her queen or child; so bright
And innocent a spirit lit the might
Of awful sovereignty, as on she went
Bearing the diadem of Charles unbent—
Ay, smiling under it, as if the weight
Of empery heaven lightened to the date
Of her few years. For surely heaven may bend
In mercy to the merciful, and lend
Its strength to her who for the weak can feel,
As gracious Isabel. The traitor's steel;
The storms that broke around her princely head,
When they who should have shielded her, instead
Of muttering plots and tempting her with guile,
Turned from her side; the anarchy the while
That rent her kingdom, and made Spain's great throne
Rock as if startled by the earthquake's groan—
All these, and more, she dared, and could withstand,
Because God led her by the trusting hand,
And showed the mercy she has ever shown.
The gentle lady, royal Isabel,
Stepped from her palace with a fair array
Of Spanish nobles. Plumes, and banners gay,
And lines of burnished halberds made a lane,
Through which the sovereign and her glittering train
Swept like a gorgeous cloud across the face
Of some bright sunset. Even was her pace,
And a deep calm dwelt in her steady eyes,
August with queenly power, and counsel wise
To sway a realm; yet round her playful lip
The child still lingered, and a smile would slip,
Like a stray sunbeam o'er a dimpled rose,
When the crowd shouted, or an eager close
Of loyal people broke the martial line,
And stayed her progress. One could scarce incline
Whether to call her queen or child; so bright
And innocent a spirit lit the might
Of awful sovereignty, as on she went
Bearing the diadem of Charles unbent—
Ay, smiling under it, as if the weight
Of empery heaven lightened to the date
Of her few years. For surely heaven may bend
In mercy to the merciful, and lend
304
As gracious Isabel. The traitor's steel;
The storms that broke around her princely head,
When they who should have shielded her, instead
Of muttering plots and tempting her with guile,
Turned from her side; the anarchy the while
That rent her kingdom, and made Spain's great throne
Rock as if startled by the earthquake's groan—
All these, and more, she dared, and could withstand,
Because God led her by the trusting hand,
And showed the mercy she has ever shown.
You who look doubtfully, with sighs or sneers,
Citing the history of her after years,
Remember this—and let the thought atone
For many a weakness, many an error done
Out of the lessons of her early days,
When all conspired to lead her evil ways—
Her faults were taught, her virtues are her own.
Citing the history of her after years,
Remember this—and let the thought atone
For many a weakness, many an error done
Out of the lessons of her early days,
When all conspired to lead her evil ways—
Her faults were taught, her virtues are her own.
Across the flower-strewn way she slowly walked,
Wondering at many things; anon, she talked
To the grave minister who moved beside
His youthful mistress with a haughty stride
Of strained decorum. Curiously she asked
Of this and that; and much the lord was tasked
To answer all her questions, which did flow
Like ripples on the shore,—ere one could go
Another leaped above it. For her state
Was new to her, and not a rustic's mate
Among the throng more marvelled at the sight,
Nor drew from it a more sincere delight,
Than royal Isabel. More pleased she seemed
At the hoarse shouts, and at the love that beamed
From the tanned faces of the common crowd,
Than at the courtly whispers, or the proud
Looks of fixed dignity. The beggar's rags
Were dearer to her than the silken flags
That coiled above her; and his vivas drowned
The swell of music, and the ringing sound
Of the saluting steel. And once she turned
Full on a lord, while every feature burned
With a new thought; and, pointing unto one
Ill clad, indeed, yet with a face o'errun
With honest love, said, laughing at the close,
“Why wear you purple, and he ragged clothes?”
Much the Don talked about society,
And laws, and customs, and how all agree
To make one world. Although he talked the thing
Clear to himself, and shaped a pretty ring
Of binding words, no answering look he caught
From the Queen's eyes; and when he gravely sought
To draw a word of sympathetic cheer,
Upon her cheek he marked a long, bright tear:
So he passed on in silence, she in thought.
Wondering at many things; anon, she talked
To the grave minister who moved beside
His youthful mistress with a haughty stride
Of strained decorum. Curiously she asked
Of this and that; and much the lord was tasked
To answer all her questions, which did flow
Like ripples on the shore,—ere one could go
Another leaped above it. For her state
Was new to her, and not a rustic's mate
Among the throng more marvelled at the sight,
Nor drew from it a more sincere delight,
305
At the hoarse shouts, and at the love that beamed
From the tanned faces of the common crowd,
Than at the courtly whispers, or the proud
Looks of fixed dignity. The beggar's rags
Were dearer to her than the silken flags
That coiled above her; and his vivas drowned
The swell of music, and the ringing sound
Of the saluting steel. And once she turned
Full on a lord, while every feature burned
With a new thought; and, pointing unto one
Ill clad, indeed, yet with a face o'errun
With honest love, said, laughing at the close,
“Why wear you purple, and he ragged clothes?”
Much the Don talked about society,
And laws, and customs, and how all agree
To make one world. Although he talked the thing
Clear to himself, and shaped a pretty ring
Of binding words, no answering look he caught
From the Queen's eyes; and when he gravely sought
To draw a word of sympathetic cheer,
Upon her cheek he marked a long, bright tear:
So he passed on in silence, she in thought.
At length the minster's arch above them bent,
And through its gloom the shining courtiers went,
Making strange light within that dusky pile.
And all along the borders of the aisle
Old chiefs and heroes in white grandeur slept
Upon the tombs. Their marble faces kept
A settled quiet, as they upward gazed
Upon their arms and spoils, above them raised,
Along the rafters, each in solemn ward.
Some with their hands upon a sculptured sword,
Some clasped in prayer, and others, full of grace,
Crossed on their breasts. The courtiers' noisy pace
Broke the long silence with a painful jar,
Unmeet and alien. Trophies of old war—
Pennons blood-stained, torn flags, and banners, fell
And rose again, o'er royal Isabel:
As if the soul that fired her ancient strain
Were roused, and all the chivalry of Spain
Breathed in their hollow sepulchres beneath,
And waved the banners with a mighty breath.
Saint George's cross was shaken as with dread;
The lilied silk of France shrank, as when spread
O'er Pavia's bloody field; a second shame
Thrilled the Dutch standards, as if Alva's name
Were heard among them; the horse-tails of the Moor
Streamed to the wind, as when they fled before
The furious Cid; spears glittered, swords were stirred
Within their scabbards; one in fancy heard
The trumpets murmur, and a warlike peal
Through the closed casques—“Saint Jago for Castile!”
If she stepped on more proudly, it was not
That Isabel herself was proud. The spot
Of crimson on her forehead was a gleam
Of the old glory, a reflected beam
Cast from the trophies, that brought back the day
When her sires' sceptre swept the world. A ray
Of keenest sunshine through the aisles shot down,
And blazed amid the jewels of her crown,
Like a saint's aureole, as the Queen drew nigh
The holy altar. With a gentle sigh
The organ whispered through the incense-smoke,
Trilling above her, like a lark awoke
Some misty morning, till she touched the stair
Of the high altar; when, with sudden blare,
In one grand storm of music burst the whole
Torrent of sound o'erhead, and roll on roll
Crashed through the building, from its hundred throats
Of shivering metal thundering forth the notes.
Radiant with sunlight, wrapt in holy sound
And fragrant vapors, that in spirals wound
Up through the pillars of the choir, the Queen
Paused, as in doubt, before a sable screen
Upon the altar, and a courtier led,
By a sweet look, beside her—“Sir,” she said,
“Why are those papers on the altar pall?”
“They hold the names, your majesty, of all
Condemned to death by law. The one you touch
Shall surely live.—The ancient rite is such.”
Without a pause to weigh it, the great thought
Burst from her nature, as she sprang and caught,
Hither and thither, at each fatal scrawl—
Gathered the whole—and, ere she let them fall,
A gracious look to the rapt court she gave,
And softly said, “See, señors, see, I have
A little hand, but I can touch them all!”
And through its gloom the shining courtiers went,
Making strange light within that dusky pile.
And all along the borders of the aisle
Old chiefs and heroes in white grandeur slept
Upon the tombs. Their marble faces kept
A settled quiet, as they upward gazed
Upon their arms and spoils, above them raised,
306
Some with their hands upon a sculptured sword,
Some clasped in prayer, and others, full of grace,
Crossed on their breasts. The courtiers' noisy pace
Broke the long silence with a painful jar,
Unmeet and alien. Trophies of old war—
Pennons blood-stained, torn flags, and banners, fell
And rose again, o'er royal Isabel:
As if the soul that fired her ancient strain
Were roused, and all the chivalry of Spain
Breathed in their hollow sepulchres beneath,
And waved the banners with a mighty breath.
Saint George's cross was shaken as with dread;
The lilied silk of France shrank, as when spread
O'er Pavia's bloody field; a second shame
Thrilled the Dutch standards, as if Alva's name
Were heard among them; the horse-tails of the Moor
Streamed to the wind, as when they fled before
The furious Cid; spears glittered, swords were stirred
Within their scabbards; one in fancy heard
The trumpets murmur, and a warlike peal
Through the closed casques—“Saint Jago for Castile!”
If she stepped on more proudly, it was not
That Isabel herself was proud. The spot
Of crimson on her forehead was a gleam
Of the old glory, a reflected beam
Cast from the trophies, that brought back the day
When her sires' sceptre swept the world. A ray
Of keenest sunshine through the aisles shot down,
And blazed amid the jewels of her crown,
Like a saint's aureole, as the Queen drew nigh
The holy altar. With a gentle sigh
307
Trilling above her, like a lark awoke
Some misty morning, till she touched the stair
Of the high altar; when, with sudden blare,
In one grand storm of music burst the whole
Torrent of sound o'erhead, and roll on roll
Crashed through the building, from its hundred throats
Of shivering metal thundering forth the notes.
Radiant with sunlight, wrapt in holy sound
And fragrant vapors, that in spirals wound
Up through the pillars of the choir, the Queen
Paused, as in doubt, before a sable screen
Upon the altar, and a courtier led,
By a sweet look, beside her—“Sir,” she said,
“Why are those papers on the altar pall?”
“They hold the names, your majesty, of all
Condemned to death by law. The one you touch
Shall surely live.—The ancient rite is such.”
Without a pause to weigh it, the great thought
Burst from her nature, as she sprang and caught,
Hither and thither, at each fatal scrawl—
Gathered the whole—and, ere she let them fall,
A gracious look to the rapt court she gave,
And softly said, “See, señors, see, I have
A little hand, but I can touch them all!”
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