Part 30 (2/2)
Stand forth, if ye own A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, And take ye my place, And G.o.d give you grace To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!”
She paused. Yet aloof They all stand. No reproof Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.
One instant--no more-- She halts at the door, Then enters!... A flood from the roof to the floor Fills the church rosy red.
She is gone!
But instead, Who is this leaning forward with glorified head And hands stretched to save?
Sure this is no slave Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!
They press to the door, But too late! All is o'er.
Naught remains but a woman's form p.r.o.ne on the floor; But they still see a trace Of that glow in her face That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze On the image that stands With the babe in its hands Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.
A Te Deum sung, A censer high swung, With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, Proclaim that the CURSE IS REMOVED--and no worse Is the Dom for the trial--in fact, the REVERSE; For instead of their losing A soul in abusing The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing.
Thus the legend is told: You will find in the old Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold In iron and bra.s.s, In gown and cuira.s.s, The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Ma.s.s; And high o'er the rest, With her babe at her breast, The image of Mary Madonna the blest.
But you look round in vain, On each high pictured pane, For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.
Yet, standing to-day O'er the dust and the clay, 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long pa.s.sed away, With the slow-sinking sun Looking softly upon That stained-gla.s.s procession, I scarce miss the one That it does not reveal, For I know and I feel That these are but shadows--the woman was real!
THE TALE OF A PONY
Name of my heroine, simply ”Rose;”
Surname, tolerable only in prose; Habitat, Paris,--that is where She resided for change of air; Aetat twenty; complexion fair; Rich, good looking, and debonnaire; Smarter than Jersey lightning. There!
That's her photograph, done with care.
In Paris, whatever they do besides, EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!
Moire antiques you never meet Sweeping the filth of a dirty street But every woman's claim to ton Depends upon The team she drives, whether phaeton, Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, Should have a team that ought to be Equal to any in all Paris!
”Bring forth the horse!” The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair Leading an equipage rich and rare.
Why doth that lovely lady stare?
Why? The tail of the off gray mare Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, Scarcely showing as much back hair As Tam O'Shanter's ”Meg,”--and there, Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.
That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, But did as well-bred Frenchmen do: Raised his shoulders above his crown, Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, And said, ”Ah, Heaven!”--then, ”Mademoiselle, Delay one minute, and all is well!”
He went--returned; by what good chance These things are managed so well in France I cannot say, but he made the sale, And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.
All that is false in this world below Betrays itself in a love of show; Indignant Nature hides her lash In the purple-black of a dyed mustache; The shallowest fop will trip in French, The would-be critic will misquote Trench; In short, you're always sure to detect A sham in the things folks most affect; Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, And you always wink with your weakest eye: And that's the reason the old gray mare Forever had her tail in the air, With flourishes beyond compare, Though every whisk Incurred the risk Of leaving that sensitive region bare.
She did some things that you couldn't but feel She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.
Champs Elysees: time, past five.
There go the carriages,--look alive!
Everything that man can drive, Or his inventive skill contrive,-- Yankee buggy or English ”chay,”
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe, A desobligeante quite bulky (French idea of a Yankee sulky); Band in the distance playing a march, Footman standing stiff as starch; Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- Bishops, and there together range Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange Way these soldier-chaps make change), Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, With unp.r.o.nounceable awful names; Laces tremble and ribbons flout, Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout-- Bless us! what is the row about?
Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!
Smart! You bet your life 'twas that!
Nifty! (short for magnificat).
Mulberry panels,--heraldic spread,-- Ebony wheels picked out with red, And two gray mares that were thoroughbred: No wonder that every dandy's head Was turned by the turnout,--and 'twas said That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), A very good whip (as Russians are), Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car, Entranced, the reader will understand, By ”ribbons” that graced her head and hand.
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