 | The bridal of Vaumond
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IX.
Is that a cross, the pillar bears?
Not now, as wont, its form it rears,
Recording agonies, that won
Redemption by the incarnate Son.—
—If cross it be, the sacred sign
Is prostrate; flames around it twine;
And, blasphemous, the sculptor's care
Made wreathing flames ascending there.
Is that the font; where believers prest
To dip their hands in waters blest,
And bear their sign of pride?
Deceit perchance of the shadowy place,
Boiling it seem'd in its black vase—
Perchance the distant light belies
Its crystal wave and purer dies,
But blood-red was the tide.
As wont, the lady stretch'd her hand
Towards the living fountain bland,
And quick her arm the baron stay'd
Not till it mov'd where that water play'd—
Not till a fierce and mad'ning flame
Shot thro' her heart and fir'd her frame—
Pierc'd thro' the brain and bursting head,
Intense and brief, it came and fled.
| The bridal of Vaumond
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