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CONSTANCE DE CEZELLI.
“During the troubles of the League, in 1590, Barri de St. Aunez, Governor of Leucate for
Henry IV., was taken prisoner by the Spaniards. They pressed the governor to deliver up
Leucate; they threatened at the same time to kill him, if he did not persuade Constance de
Cezelli, his wife, who had put herself at the head of the garrison, to open the gates. He
was immoveable. Constance, informed of his danger, replied, she would never purchase
the life of her husband by giving up a fortress, for the preservation of which he would
glory to die. Irritated at this they put their threat into execution, and then raised the siege.
Henry IV., who knew how to recompense great actions, sent her the brevet as Governess of
Leucate, with its reversion to her son.”
History of France.
I
List to the bugle's call, trampling of mailed feet,A battle cry from the outward wall, where cuirassed warriors meet;
A sound of woe is on the breeze, a murmuring of despair,
And tears half shame, half sadness, flow from one wild watching there.
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II
She walks the turret's height, and she stills her heart to speak,While falls the sombre hue of night, like sorrow on her cheek;—
“Oh, would that life of mine might save thy proud head from the sword,
I'd welcome as a joy the grave, my husband and my lord!
III
“They tell me thou must die, and I look upon our son;—Might'st thou be saved? Thou might'st—and I—what hath my rashness done!—
Yet wert thou by thy Constance now, all stained thy noble fame,
How could I gaze upon thy brow—and die not in my shame!
IV
“Oh, ever wert thou known to wear, in tent, on battle plain,The loftiest brow, the stateliest mien, of all the knightly train;
And I have gazed with woman's pride, lived on each look, each word,—
Oh, woe that thou should'st leave my side,—my husband and my lord!
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V
“Where France's banners wave, 'mid the thundering cannon's breath,Had'st thou found among the perish'd brave a hero's honoured death,
I had not wept the destiny, renown and glory wrought;
But, thus by traitor hands to die;—it is a maddening thought!
VI
“Our son is wild with grief, yet recks not of thy fate,—‘Where’ cries he ‘is my sire, our chief, the foe beset our gate?
Those gleaming swords, gay dancing plumes, which mock the kindling sky—
Mark when my gallant father comes—they will not wave thus high!’
VII
“Day sets behind the hills, and countless golden linesAre flashing down the crystal streams, on the green and purple vines;
Alas! even now thy doom they seal—thy groans are on the air—
Save him! oh, hear me, heaven—I kneel—I kneel in my despair!”
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VIII
'Tis morn, but dark and drear,—she looks on earth 'mid storm,—The wide sea trembles, as in fear, before her threatening form:
On Leucate's plain, a warrior knight in pale death lonely lies,
‘His funeral song the thunder's peal,’ as it sweeps from the frowning skies.
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