University of Virginia Library

Sweet BERTHA, daughter of mild Conradin,
The heiress of the merry Burgundy,—
The noblest of the daughters of proud France,
The fairest of the daughters of the earth,
The purest of the children of the Lord,—
And Robert, king, and suzerain of all
The rich, broad acres of the fruitful France,—
King Robert, whose right noble blood made king,
Saint Robert, whose right noble heart made saint,
Thus crowned twice king before his God and man,—
Sweet Bertha and King Robert slowly rode
Unto the royal chapel, to be wed.
A lovely, sunny summer-day it was;
The azure sky was flecked with snow-white clouds,
The em'rald carpet of the meadows fair
Was sprinkled o'er with dandelions bright,
Like coins of gold upon a velvet robe.
Beside each winding stream that purled along,
The violets low drooped, all wet with dew,
Like sparkling amethysts set round with pearls.
The trees bent o'er the monarch and his bride,
And shed their gifts of jewels,—drops of dew,
That in the leaves and on the grass were em'ralds;
And in the blue forget-me-nots were sapphires;
And in the lily, pearls and opals pure;
And in the crimson rose-bud, rubies bright;
And in the constant sunflower, beads of gold;
And each one, in the air, a diamond.
And evermore, as forward the gay train
Wound through the curving pathways of the wood,
Above their heads the tender leaflets played,
And made them ride in sun and shadow on,
And then, again, in shadow and in sun,
So that the lovely Bertha now seemed crowned
With brightest circlet of the sun's own rays;
And now, again, she seemed all dark and sad.
Yet dark and sad she was not, for her heart
Was full of gladness and of joy and love,
And beat in answer to that royal one
That throbbed beside her, each heart-throb for her.
Oh, fair she was, as thus she rode along
Upon her snowy palfrey, by the steed
Of deepest black, of him her monarch-love.
Her long fair hair fell o'er her shoulders pure
In golden waves, e'en as the yellow grain,
When whispered to, and wooed by summer airs,
Doth thrill and tremble over all the field,
And bend and droop in luxury of joy.
Her blue eyes, darkly shadowed o'er and fringed
By lashes long, were soft and brightly gay,
And all her smiles seemed centred in their depths.
But when she looked upon her noble lord
They melted into tenderness and love,
And all their brightness sparkled fairer still
Behind a misty veil of happy tears,
Like dew upon the sunlit violet.
And fit for royal bride her garments were:
A spotless mantle of white samite fell
In folds adown from the still whiter neck,
That seemed enfettered by a chain of pearls.
And all her robe was broidered o'er with pearls;
And on her head, from out the tresses fair,
They here and there peered forth half modestly,
As though they dared not and they could not shine
Beside that wealth of waving, molten gold.
And noble and right royal seemed the king,
With darkest chestnut locks and flashing eye,
And with his stately form, all robed around
In richest purple, broidered o'er with gold;
And with the circle winding round his head,
That crowned him king of all the people's lands:
And with the halo, seen by God alone,
That crowned him king of all the people's hearts.
So thus they rode on, through the forest's paths,
The monarch and his bride, and that long train
That followed to the music of gay bells
And merry flutes and clashing cymbals loud,
That hushed the voices of the startled birds;
The winding train of nobles and of lords,
The proudest and the bravest youths of France,
All clothed in scarlet, and in blue and white,
And richest hues, in sportive dalliance with
The queenly dames of good King Robert's court.
There rode the brave Gerbert, but wedded late
To lovely Ermengarde, beside him now.
There, too, the princely Otho, proud and cold;
And there his sister, gentle Adela;
And gay Guyenne, and Poictou, and Provence;
And all the far-famed knights of noble blood,
Each with his bride or sister by his side.
And so they rode with pomp and rich display
On through the quiet greenwood to the church,
And woke the echoes with their merry sounds.
At length they reach the chapel, where they pause;
And now they enter through the sacred door
The holy temple, where the dazzling sun
Striketh the stainèd windows into flame,
And lighteth all the crimson tapestry,
And maketh all the incense, rising up
From silver vessels, like a mist of gold.
There stood the Bishops in their robes of state,
And there the great Archbishop with the cross
Before him, carried by a youthful page,
And bearing on his breast the snowy band,
The scapulary long, his order's sign.
Then, as the royal couple drew anear,
He rose and blessed them, giving to the bride
The circling crown that made them King and Queen;
While Robert gave to her the circling ring
Of ruddy gold, that made them man and wife.
And then the nobles fell upon their knee,
And swore, by all most sacred and most dear,
Life-long allegiance of their hearts and hands
To Bertha, cousin of their own good King,
To Bertha, heiress of rich Burgundy;
To Bertha, now anointed Queen of France.
And then, arising from the bended knee,
They shouted “Noël!” till the vaulted roof
Reëchoed with their cries of happiness.

And now they turned to leave the sacred walls,—
Fair Bertha leaning on the King's strong arm,
With all the stream of light full on her brow,
And with the golden crown upon her head.
Queen Bertha, now, the chosen wife of him
Her royal sovereign, and her heart's dear lord.
But ere they reached the door a dark gray cloud
Passed o'er the sun, and all the church grew dim.
And when again the sun's bright rays shone forth,
They pierced the painted window up above
The great tall altar, with its waxen lights,
And hangings, and Madonnas, and they threw
Upon the floor the altar's shadow there,
Right at Queen Bertha's feet, who, walking on
All modestly, her lovely eyes downcast,
Started and paled, and trembling felt her heart
With one great throb upheave within her breast,
While from her lips escaped a choking sob,
Like the lost murmur of the swollen wave,
When, after sudden storm, with one low moan,
It lessens, breaks, and dies upon the beach.
And Robert questioned her, his trembling queen,
And asked her what she feared when by his side.
But as he bent, his eyes fell on the ground,
And at their feet he saw the shadow dark
Of the high altar's top, all draped around
In cloth, and wreathèd for their wedding-day,
And lo! the shade was as a coffin formed.
He started and recoiled, and all the blood
Forsook his cheek and trembling lip; but then,
Recalling her his Queen, who now did lean
On him alone for comfort and support,—
As she would lean through life,—he boldly passed,
And murmured, “Bertha, O my queenly bride,
'T is nought, and we will cast such omens by,
Nor heed them, for our happy days are near.
The coffin doth but bury all the fears
And trials of our love; it is a sign
That all our sorrow's dead, and a new life
This day begins. And even though it seem
The shadow of a coffin, what of that?
We know it is the shadow of a shrine.”
Thus tenderly and loving spoke the King,
And brought the color back to Bertha's cheek;
But he, too, trembled at the omen dread.
Then each one of the train the shadow crossed,
And murmurings and whispers passed around.
“Unlucky augury,”—“our poor young Queen
Must step on this upon her wedding-day.”
And all the gentle dames sweet pity felt,
And all the youths swore to themselves again,
To stand by her, their Queen, now come what might.
Right glad was Bertha when they stood once more
Out in the cool, fresh summer-morning's air,
And when, remounting all their waiting steeds,
They rode again unto the palace gates.

Full merry, on that lovely summer-day,
Was the proud palace of the King of France.
Through spacious halls gay music sounded loud,
And flowers, wreathed and braided, spread perfume
In each wide chamber. Stately youths at once,
With graceful dames, began the waving dance.
In sooth it was a rich and gorgeous scene.
The noble courtiers, in their costly robes.
Their brilliant precious jewels flashing forth;
The dames in robes of satin and of silk,
Of samite and of velvet, broidered o'er
With traceries of flowers and of leaves,
In golden thread, or in bright sparkling gems,
That writhed and wandered o'er the floating robes.
And wove themselves in wondrous forms and shapes.
And all the walls were draped with tapestry;
And woven in were pictures of the deeds
Of Hugh Capet, the father of the King.
And there, upon the great high royal throne,
Was gentle Bertha, in her queenly robes,
With him, her noble Robert by her side.
And while they thus sat there Queen Bertha thought
No more of that strange omen in the church;
And Robert now, with her, forgot it too,
When looking in the depths of those blue eyes,
Or at the golden waves of that fair hair.
For ten long days the feasting lasted thus
Beneath the palace roof, until the Queen
Looked hopefully for ever happy days,
And saw the distant Future's heavy mist
Become a golden haze, and all its light
Streamed backward on the joyful Present, too,
Illuming it with tender radiance.
For ten long days, the land rejoicing, seemed
As though the horn of plenty had let fall
Its contents on the happy fields below.
And ruby, amethyst, and amber wines,
Were drained from foaming flagons to the King
And to his lovely Queen; and boards were spread
With juicy meats, and blushing peaches ripe,
And golden-purple grapes in clusters fair,
And all the fruits that bless the fruitful France,
All at the generous bidding of the King.
At length the feasting and the joys were o'er,
And quiet reigned throughout the land again.
And Robert ruled with gentleness and love,
And Bertha moved him unto deeds of peace,
And doubly blest was France now in her King
And in her Queen, for all was happiness.
No foreign wars, no harvests poor and scant;
No wars intestine, and no armed revolt;
No robberies, no murders fierce and wild;
But peace and plenty all throughout the land,
And gentle laws obeyed; until, at last,
The royal sceptre seemed the magic wand
Of some kind fairy working for the good
Of each and all.

Ay, those were happy days,
Those first, sweet, golden summer-days of love,
When both could pluck its full, fair-blooming flower,
Before Life's darksome blight had fallen there.
And Bertha moved about the palace, then,
All proud and joyful; proud that she should be
The kinswoman of one so good and great;
The Queen of such a happy, fertile land;
The Queen of such a great and noble heart.
And Robert was the soul of all her joy;—
Her love and hopes and dreams were twined about
His noble heart, and there would cling through sun
Or storm, e'en as the ivy round the oak
Doth cling through summer heats and wintry blasts,
And parts not till the oak itself doth fall.
He was the sun that lighted all her life,
And any cloud of fear that flitted past
Upon her azure sky, he gilded fair,
And even could transform it to a hope,
And all her tears became as rainbows bright,
When she was smiled upon by him. And she,
For Robert, was the moon, that softens all
With its pure, mystic rays; and in his life
The rugged, hard, and rocky pathways made
All soft and beautiful and silvery
With her sweet tender light. She led him on
With words of love, e'en as the queenly moon
Binds with her silver chains, so marvelous,
Old foaming Ocean, while she sheds her light
Upon his swelling and upheaving breast,
And soothes him thus to peace and quietness.
For Robert did Queen Bertha love each scene
Of Nature that with him she gazed upon.
She loved the gentle-drooping flowers fair,
Because they spread for him their perfumes sweet;
She loved the singing-birds, because she dreamed
For him alone they poured so wildly forth
The madness of their tender melody;
For him, she loved the night-skies with their gems,
The sapphire Jupiter, and ruby Mars,
And opal Venus, and the diamond Moon,
And all the pearly planets' softened gleam.
And she would say that Heaven's coronet
Of stars was fair and varied, too, as Earth's
Bright, girdling zone of flowers. So she loved
All these for him, and him above them all.
And then, from out the ladies of her train,
Did Bertha choose the gentlest for a friend.
The sweet Gisèle, a maiden pure and chaste,
With cheek as fair as is the blushing snow
Upon the mountain-top when kissed by Dawn,
And eyes as blue as the forget-me-not.
E'er faithful was Gisèle unto the Queen,
Though she was wooed by brave young Adalbert,
The noblest of the King's own gentlemen.
She would not wed him, so she loved the Queen,
Whose followers must all be maidens pure.
So, day by day, she put off Adalbert,
Who waited all impatiently, until
She promised him that after two short months,—
Upon the feast of good Saint Valery,
Then would she wed with him, her chosen love.

Ah, why are, evermore, the heavy folds
Of the dark Future's veil so dense that Man,
All blinded, tries in vain to pierce through them,
But must go groping on in darkness e'er,
And see the veil recede before his steps,
Still hiding all the morrow, till, at last,
Upon Death's dawn, it riseth up for aye,
Revealing to his dazzled sight that world
Where there are no more morrows, with their cares,
But all is one eternal, happy Now!

All joyfully and merry passed the time,
Until, one day, a Legate from the Pope—
The stern Fifth Gregory—arrived in France,
And none could guess his mission to the King,
For suddenly, and with no state he came;
And craving audience of Robert, then
He gave to him the orders of the Pope,—
To meet with all the clergy and the peers,
And high-born dames, and nobles of the realm,
In the great Hall of State, the morrow morn,
To listen there unto the Pope's commands,
That he, his Legate, would disclose to all.
This summons was proclaimed abroad to each
In Robert's noble court, and he, the King,
And Bertha, too, prepared themselves at once
The council to attend, yet not without
Some fear and trembling in his pious heart,
The King thought o'er the summons all the day,
Repeating, “I have done naught to offend
The Holy Father of the Church, and should
He wish now to enrich the Holy See,
A castle or a province e'en of mine,
In due obedience I shall comply.”
And then he searched the records of his deeds,
And all of them in memory reviewed,
And read again the tablet of each day;
And though he naught could find of sinful there
Yet did this strange and sudden order now,
Disturb him all that anxious day and night.
And Bertha trembled at this message strange
From Gregory, the all-puissant Pope,
And dreaded that some great mishap would chance.
So all day long she pondered it, but spoke
No word unto King Robert of her fears.
And in the gloomy darkness of the night
Strange troublous dreams did flit about her couch,
And wake her often with a sudden start;
Till late, near dawn, she fell asleep once more
In an unquiet slumber, and she dreamed
That she and Robert stood again, as on
Their marriage-day, within the royal church,
As though they were to wed. But in the place
Of bishops, and of knights, and peers, and dames,
Were strange-robed creatures seated all around,
Of which she naught could see save mantles black
About their shapes. The crown was on her head,
And in her hand the ring King Robert gave;
But stern, cold Leon, the Pope's Legate, stood
In the Archbishop's place, and tried to tear
The ring and crown away; and suddenly
The mantles fell from off the creatures' forms,
Revealing each a skeleton, while she
Stood there alone with them upon that ground,
That seemed all covered o'er with coffins now.
Then looking down the church-aisle, which appeared
So long she scarce could follow it, she saw,
Far, far away, the King, who fled from her.
And then she cried aloud, and, waking, found
The golden light of day full on her face,
And Robert bending over her with love.
“My Queen, awake!” cried he; “thou hast been vexed
With dreary visions, such as haunted me.
For, in the night, I thought I saw the Pope,
Who tried to part us. Thrice I dreamt that dream,
And then I woke, and would not sleep again.
But come, arise. To-day we must go forth
Into the Chamber, there to hearken to
The Pope's commands. What care I should he take
My castles or my provinces away?
Thou art the brightest and most precious gem
I own, my Queen, and thee he cannot take,
My noble and my lawful-wedded wife.”
Queen Bertha trembled, but she did not tell
Her dream, and soothed the King with loving words;
And he calmed her with tenderness, until
They parted to prepare them for the day.

All now was ready in the Hall of State.
The King and Queen, in royal purple, sat
Upon the throne within the Hall. The King
Seemed cold, but gentle as he ever was,
And calm and full of dignity he sat.
But Bertha looked all weak and drooping yet,
As though she suffered from her weary night.
Her blue eyes shone more darkly, and her cheek
Had even lost the delicate, pale rose,
That there was wont to blush. The mantle long,
Of gorgeous purple, with its heavy folds,
And with its ermine edge, but made more fair
The spotless whiteness of her swanlike neck,
Where from her snowy shoulders low it drooped,
Disclosing the pure robe of white beneath.
With all its winding traceries of pearls.
Around the Hall were grouped King Robert's court,
And all the Bishops with their sable robes.
And at the end of that long Chamber, there,
Upon his seat upraised, the Legate sat,
Robed in his long and flowing purple stole,
While on his bosom shone the silver cross,
The token of his rank and mission there;
And in his hand he held the long white scroll,
Wherefrom to read the orders of the Pope.
Then all was hushed in the assembly vast,
And Robert waved his royal sceptre twice,
As sign to Leon that he should begin;
And Leon read the Bull of Gregory,
And each word, calm and clear, fell on the air,
In the forced silence of a multitude,
With solemn, dread significance to all,
And sank within the hearts of those who heard,
Like a sharp stone that ruffles all a pool,
And sinks forever low within its bed.

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Invested, by a Providence divine,
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interests of the Church,
The blessed mother of mankind on earth.
Unholy is it for all those to wed
Who are already in the blood allied,
And those who at the font of baptism have
E'er stood as sponsors for the self-same child;
And, as King Robert, sovereign of all France,
Is thus allied with Bertha, now his Queen,
I here proclaim the marriage of these two
Unlawful and unholy, and command
Them now to separate before all men,
As they are separate in the sight of God.”

He ceased, and o'er the whole assembly ran
A shudder, e'en as when the wintry wind
Doth touch one little swelling ocean-wave,
Which flows and passes it along the breast
Of the whole sea, and all is wild unrest.
Queen Bertha, though the mantling blood first rushed
In dark'ning current to her cheeks, then fled
Back to her heart, and left her paler still,
Yet looked she stately, proud, and resolute,
Nor spoke, but moved more near unto the King.
And when he saw that form beside his own,
And that warm, golden hair so near his cheek,
And that small lily hand upon his robe,
He felt her weakness give him strength anew,
And list'ning to the dictates of his heart,
He answered thus the Pope's ambassador:—
“To Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome,
Bear thou this answer back, from me, the King,
The second Robert, suzerain of France.
Upon me hath no earthly power bestowed
The treasure that he asks me. God alone
Gave me my Queen; from Him I hold her now,
In His name will I keep her evermore,
In His name will I guard her from all ill,
In His name is she mine, and mine alone,
And I will yield her only unto Death,
The messenger divine from Him to me,
When she will go where I can follow her.”
Thus spake the King, and Leon stood aghast,
That he, the Monarch-Saint, should dare the Pope,
And thus defy his solemn, stern commands.
But not a word he uttered. Then arose
Queen Bertha, who addressed him from the throne:—
“Go, tell thy Holy Master Gregory,
That in submission I acknowledge him
Our sacred Father, wedded to the Church;
But with his mighty power bid him, first,
Unbind the surging Ocean's silver chains,
That coil around him from the moon on high.
Or bid him part the rainbow from the air,
Or from the mighty thunder-cloud in heaven
Tear the gold bolt that dwells within its folds,
Ere he essays to part two tender hearts,
When once they 're bound with subtle chains of love,
When once they 're joined by Joy's bright rainbow arch,
When once the golden shaft of Love lies deep
In the dark chambers, making all their light.
O nobles, and ye gentle knights of France,
Ye who have sworn to aid us with the strength
Of your strong hands, and your still stronger hearts,
Desert us not, in this our darkest hour,
But make around your sovereign and his queen
A bulwark for their love, with all your might.
And, Leon, may the sad tears of a wife
Now move and touch your heart despite yourself,
And bring sweet flowers of tender pity forth,
As falling rain-drops soften the hard earth.
Oh, go fall down low at your master's feet,
And pray to him for us as you would pray
For your own heart's dear mistress. Then, if you
Have ever felt the gentle thrall of love
Binding your life, oh, bid him part us not!
If you have whispered, in the summer night,
Sweet loving words unto a loving heart,
Recall such words, and let them prompt you, then,
To soften him, and bid him part us not!
But no! I need not to a mortal pray,
For we are joined forever by our God;
Let no man sunder what is joined by Him.”
She stood upon the throne all pale and proud,
A Queen indeed before her subjects there;
But looking round upon the multitude,
A crimson blush suffused her pallid cheek,
And low she sank again beside the King,
A Woman all unqueened. And then arose
The cry of many voices in the hall,—
“Long live King Robert and his noble Queen!
All hail to royal Bertha, Queen of France!”
The cry arose, and swelled anon, until
A mighty shout, but died away again
As sudden as it rose, and all was still
As the wild blasts of moaning winds die out,
And all is silent in the wintry air.
Then, when the hush had fallen on the Hall,
Again the Legate, Leon, calm and cold,
Drew forth a scroll, and, rising, spoke once more,
And slow and solemn were the chilling words:

“I, Gregory the Fifth, the Pope of Rome
Invested by a Providence divine
With this most holy and most sacred charge,
Proclaim, through Leon, Legate unto France,
My orders, in the interest of the Church,
The blessed Mother of mankind on earth.
From intercourse with all good Christian souls,
Who worship faithfully their God above,
And here on earth the holy Church of Rome,
I excommunicate the King of France,
This Robert and his most unlawful Queen;
And blessed are all those who disobey
His orders from this day, for I absolve
His subjects from allegiance unto him,
And under interdict his kingdom lies,
A forfeit to the holy See of Rome.
No bells shall sound, no burial take place,
No rites now of religion be performed,
But mourning will be over all the land,
And it shall lie beneath the curse of God.”

Then all was hushed again at these dread words,
And then the King: “We will not part in life,
And after death a Mightier will judge.”
Then Bertha, too, essayed to answer him;—
But suddenly her falt'ring voice did break,
And die away in one long anguished sob,
Though not a tear fell from the proud blue eyes.
Then Leon, once again: “All in this hall
Who honor and obey the Holy Pope,
Will leave at once, before their souls be lost,
The presence of these two who brave him thus.”

Then, at the words, the bishops first arose,
And then the dames, and then the noble knights,
Who would have given up their lives for her,
Their royal Queen, but dared not give their souls.
Then Leon followed them with solemn pace,
And left King Robert and his Queen alone.
All mournfully did Bertha watch each form
That passed from out the hall, as though she hoped
That some at least would stay beside the throne;
And thus she saw evanish from her sight
Her joy, her hope, her glory, and her pride,
And naught was left with her but grief and love.
Then turning toward the King, all pale and sad,
She burst forth in a flow of bitter tears,
That all the morn had welled up in her eyes,
And choked her throat, and that she had till then,
With queenly dignity repressed. But now,
When looking round on the deserted hall,
She saw not one leal follower remain,
She let them start forth from her aching eyes,
And, passionately weeping, mourned aloud.
“What! are none left to comfort their sad King?
O Robert, Robert, curse me where I stand,
Thou, who erewhile, wast lord of blooming France,
And who hast lost a kingdom now for me!
Thou who to me, thy happy bride, gave all,—
A seat upon thy throne, thy palace proud,
For my own home, and, more than all, thy heart.
How have I now repaid thee, O my King!
I've torn the golden crown from off thy head,
Where it was wont to rest so royally;
I've seized the sceptre from thy kingly hands,
That swayed it to the noble impulses
Of thy great heart! And now thou standest there
Unkinged, with but the shadow of a crown;
Unkinged, with but the ghost of thy dead power,
And I have done it all! Ay, more than this,
For me thou forfeitest thy place in heaven.
I've brought thee fitting dowry for a bride!
All misery and sorrow on the earth,
And after death perdition! Curse me now!
What words are these? Nay, nay, oh, curse me not,
For, Robert. I have loved thee all my days,
And even now I love thee more than life,
And I will love thee, O my King, till death.
My past and present, ay, and future too,
Are glorified and bright with love of thee.
So curse and hate me not, but pardon me;
And thou who know'st so well sweet Mercy's art,
Forgive her now who ruined thee with love!”
And saying this, she knelt at Robert's feet,
And all her golden wealth of flowing hair
Swept o'er his kingly robe and brightened it,
Like sunshine on a bed of purple flowers.
And then the King raised up, all tenderly,
Her prostrate form, and soothingly caressed,
And spake unto her words of love and hope.
“Weep not for me,” said he, “my noble Queen,
For I am happy in thy love, and hold
'T is more to be the monarch of thy heart
Than sovereign of the lands of all the world.
What matters it that all my courtiers now
Should thus desert me, and should leave me here?
I care not so they leave me but with thee.
And weep not, Bertha, for my soul, for heaven,
Without thee, were a hell, and hell itself,
With thee, were heaven,—no, we ne'er shall part:
But I shall bless thee for thy constant love.
And thank all those who leave me thus with thee,
To prove thy heart as faithful and as true
As theirs are fickle, worldly, false, and vain.”
Then Bertha rose and blessed her noble King,
But, sighing, looked around the hall once more,
And said, “Oh, is there not one faithful soul
Who loves us and would ne'er abandon us,
Recalling all thy generous deeds, my King,
And all our happy days of peace and love?”
“Ay, there are two such souls,” a voice then cried
And from behind the waving tapestry
There stepped a goodly knight and gentle maid,
And Bertha knew Gisèle and Adalbert.
“Pardon!” cried they, and fell upon the ground
Before the King and Queen. Then Adalbert:
“We offer at your feet two constant hearts,
That love and reverence, through gloom and night,
As they have loved through sunlight and through joy.”
“Arise,” cried Robert; “'t is a happy night
That bringeth stars of such pure brightness forth.”
And Bertha fell upon her fond Gisèle
And wept, and thanked her for her noble love,
And called her gentle sister and sweet friend.
“Now am I rich indeed!” then cried the King,
The sovereign proud of two such generous hearts,
Who thus will serve me in my darkest hour,
And blest and glorified with such a love
As queenly Bertha, my true wife, bestows.”
Then Bertha rose, and walking with Gisèle,
And followed by the King and Adalbert,
She traversed all the lone deserted hall,
And went into her vacant palace home.

O Constancy, thou precious jewel fair!
Thou art a pearl, born low beneath the waves,
That shrinketh modestly from human eyes,
As doth the violet on earth. Unknown
Thou bloomest there till chance revealeth thee.
And when all other gems corrupt and fade,
Thou only changest to become more bright,
Transformed into the brilliant opal fair,
That gleams more beautiful in each new light.

A deathlike silence reigned within the halls
Of Robert, King of France. No busy feet
Crossed the long corridors' deserted floors;
Within the chambers was no sound e'er heard,
And none were ever seen beneath the roof,
Save Robert and Queen Bertha, and those two
Who still were faithful to their King and Queen.
Then all the land was hushed and deathlike, too,
And none approached the monarch and his Queen;
And if, perchance, in their full lonely walks,
They met some passenger belated there,
He quickly crossed himself and turned away,
And fled, as though there were pollution in
The very sight of such accursed souls.
No bells tolled forth the requiem for the dead,
No bells pealed forth the merry marriage sound,
And no religious rites were e'er performed,
Save christening of little new-born babes,
All innocent of Robert's crime, and prayers
For dying ones at death-beds offered up;
While every church and every crucifix
Were draped around in deepest folds of black.
And Bertha and King Robert found no face
Of friendly man or woman round them now,
But naught could see save their own shadows dark,
That now did follow, now precede their steps;
And naught could hear, save that full mournful sound,
The echo of their voices in the halls.
Then truly and with all their hearts they loved,—
A love made chaste and pure afar from men,
A love all sanctified by Sorrow's breath,
A love that filled up all their hearts and souls,
And took the place of every earthly joy.
And Robert, thus, did e'en more royal seem,
For now he wore an air of dignity,
All proud and natural, with no outward sign
Of sceptre or of golden coronet,
But born of native dignity of heart,
That proved him kingly in his soul. But she,
His Queen, grew day by day more pale and weak,
And on her pallid cheek the blood, at times,
Would flush and burn, then quickly fade away,
Like to the dying flashes of a lamp,
And leave her as though each gleam were the last.
And then, despite of Robert's tender love,
Despite of all his anxious cares for her,
She drooped and paled, and grew each day more weak;
And in her eyes appeared a strange new light,
As though the soul gleamed through before it fled.
One day, while Robert gently spoke with her,
She sighed and suddenly she swooned away,
All white and deathlike, in King Robert's arms.
And he bent over her, and wooed her, then,
With sweet caresses and with gentle love,
And chafed the little lily hand again,
And burned with ardent kisses cheek and mouth,
And rained his tears upon the golden hair,
As though he would impart his own young life
Unto that frail and drooping, soulless frame.
But naught availed, and loud he cried for aid,
And then Gisèle came in, with Adalbert,
And to her chamber did they bear the Queen,
Who lay there in a long and quiet trance,
Nor once raised up the fringèd curtains white
Of those blue eyes, nor once essayed to ope
The two pale lips, so fast enlocked in sleep;
But all the while she lay there, cold and still,
Forgetful of the Present's misery,
Forgetful of the Past's glad happy hours,
Forgetful of the Future's joyous hopes,
Now dead to grief and joy alike. It seemed
As though, within the volume of her life,
The hand that wrote the passions and the woes
For each day, had forgotten all these hours,
And left them blank. Then, in those days, the King
Did wander sadly through his palace-halls,
Now doubly desolate, for sweet Gisèle,
Through Adalbert, had warned him not to come
Anear the Queen as in her trance she lay,
For fear lest he might wake her suddenly,
And make her pass into the deeper sleep
Of death. So all the time he wept alone;
And then he mourned, and then fell down and prayed,
In agony of grief and penitence.
He saw the shadow of her death arise
And darken all his days, and in the gloom
He felt the hand of God upon his head,
That did not bless him with a soothing love,
Nor press his brow in sorrow for his sin,
But bore him down, then, with the dire weight
Of chastisement and anger. Then he moaned,
And with a bitter, vain regret, too late
He wept that he had brought such blooming youth.
And such a wealth of love, such rich young life,
And such bright, dazzling beauty, ere their time,
Unto the dark and gloomy night of death.
It was as if a softly flowing stream,
That purled along its course of happiness,
And wound its way through groves and flowery meads,
Toward that great Ocean where all streams are lost,
Should suddenly, in happy, peaceful flow,
Be stopped forever by a frowning rock;
And, further on, the field should nevermore
By rippling stream be freshened, and no more
The air be gladdened with its joyful song,
But over all the rock its shadow cast.
Then Robert felt that all his heaven had erst
Smiled forth from out the depths of those blue eyes,
And when their light was clouded all was blank.
And only once he caught a passing glimpse,
Through the oped curtains of the chamber-door,
Of the pale, sleeping face of her he loved.
With all its golden frame of sunny hair,
That made it seem the portrait of some saint,
And not the once-glad Bertha lying thus;—
A saint, indeed, all heavenly and cold,
But wanting that rich earthly tint, that proved
Her all his own, and not a spirit pure,
Too chaste and too serene for mortal love.
All motionless and cold she slumbered now,
Like the Greek artist's statue, that he loved
For its proud beauty, ere the gods endued
Its form, in answer to his prayers, with life.
And when the King beheld his lovely bride,
So pale and still and deathlike lying there,
Half maddened with its cold and sweet repose,
He rushed back to his chamber once again,
And cursed himself, and wept and prayed for her.
Then, while Queen Bertha all unconscious lay,
She bore the King a child, a little Prince;
And when she woke again she found it there,
Beside her on her couch, and then she asked
Gisèle what this fair child did there, and whose
It was; for she remembered naught of all
The pangs that wracked, erewhile, her tortured frame.
And when Gisèle replied, “It is your own,”
Then suddenly she felt the mother-love
Arise and swell within her gentle heart,
E'en as the precious water swelled and burst
From Meribah, when Moses smote the rock;
And with a tender, happy smile, that gleamed
Through a glad flow of sudden, grateful tears,—
A sun-bow through the rain,—she seized the child,
And pressed it close unto her bosom fair,
And fondled it, and bent above its form,
And kissed it with such passionate delight,
That sweet Gisèle did tremble lest this joy
Should prove too much for her faint, drooping frame,
And half essayed to take from her the child;
But Bertha pressed it closer to her breast,
Nor would entrust it unto other hands.
“Oh, now,” cried she, “I can repay my lord,
My noble King, for all his love to me;
And now these little hands will smooth for him
The paths of life. This rose will make amends
For all the thorns, and this sweet angel-face
Will brighten up once more the dreary road
That I have made so dark. Oh, when the tones,
All full of music, of this feeble voice,
Can speak to France with simple, touching words,
They'll plead for us, and win the people's love.
And now, come robe me in my richest robe,
For I will go unto my lord the King,
To bear myself this little infant prince
Unto his arms, and bid him love my child
For my sake and its own.” “Nay,” cried Gisèle;
“You yet are far too weak and faint to rise;
Myself will bear your child unto the King.”
And then the Queen essayed to rise, and prove
That she was strong and well, but, fainting, fell
Upon her couch once more. “I cannot go,”
She sighed, all sadly smiling through her tears;
“But since I cannot, go thou, bid a priest
Come bless my child, and he can bear for me,
Unto its royal father, my sweet babe.”