“When I came out of Spain to Sigebert The rude Franks wondered at my company, My Moorish falconers and deep-voiced hounds, My swift light-horsemen, harpers, lutanists; And prophesied my days would fly, like gold Out of the loose hands of a prodigal, With the delight of hunting and the glad Singing of minstrels in the crowded hall, Where the red torches mirror on the shields And burnished helmets their tempestuous lights: Ominous fires of slaughter, flickering, To flash out suddenly in angry flame. “But, for a while, my house was filled with smiles; And Love sate as a guest beside my hearth. Each morning heard the horns call to the chase The loud, glad music of the eager hounds, While huntsmen cheered them onward, and the rides Through woodlands, down the shadow-dappled ways, Woke, in the answering April of my youth, A pleasure that was one thing with the dawn. “So passed my days, in courtly wise, until Some whisper promised me another Spring Thrilling within my body, and I felt The first strange wakenings of motherhood, The pledge, and prophecy, of future Kings. And I went roaming through the woods no more; Intent on quiet business with my maids, Spinning new wool, or standing by the loom, Or broidering toy baldricks, with gold thread, Bright, to please baby eyes, that love bright things; Dreaming on all the promise, that I held, And all the storm and stress life held for him. “Then first I saw the doom that Nature laid On women, to be careful harvesters; To plan, and toil, and build for unborn sons, To shape the future out of their own time. These turbulent loud nobles with their feuds Carousing nightly, or in companies Changing their hunting-grounds from place to place, Vexed me with their unthrift and wantonness: I saw them as a hindrance to my son, And pitted craft against their stubborn strength, Fighting each step. They were dark, brooding days, Heavy with sullen menace of a storm; Yet found I friendly faces, in despite Of much unbodied anger, for mine eyes Held the soft light that tames the hearts of men. Yea, and I roused them up with angry words To ride with me for vengeance to the Court Of Hilperik and Fredegonde, who slew Galswith, the white-armed sister whom I loved, The slim, fair sister with deep, dreaming eyes As blue as harebells or calm waters are. “Ah! I remember that frost-silver dawn, Clouded with curtains of deep-billowing mist That rose to hide the first bright beams of day, In a white froth, out of the wooded plains— Delicate, wreathing, spiral broideries; And how the hoofs rang loud upon the road, Galloping o’er the drawbridge as if foes Pressed close behind; the trembling messenger Spent with hard riding, cold, and white with fear; The steaming flanks and withers of the horse; The soldiers pressing close to hear the news; Sigebert, with his knotted veins, and hands Fast-clenched, and anger flaming in his eyes, As Galswith’s servant cried aloud to us: ‘Galswith is slain; Galswith, the Queen, is slain!’ And then, confusedly, as of a dream Disordered, all the terror of the act He built out of his words before mine eyes: The sharp-cut shadows and the frosty light Showing each angle of my battlements And buttresses; and the light snow, that clung, Frozen, against the cloister’s slender shafts, Hanging them with light-splintering icicles: How clearly can I see it! and the gleam Of scarlet and of steel against the snow; And Galswith’s page, wild-eyed and tremulous, Telling us how, as soft as evil dreams, Hilperik and his harlot crept, by night, Into the shadowy chamber where she lay, Her sweet, frail body nestled close in sleep: Sleep, that alone drove sorrow from her soul; And he, the hairy hound, leaped on her bed, Kneeling on those twin breasts of ivory, And crushed the slender throat in his huge hands! “I think I swayed a little; and I know That something seemed to burn up all desire, Leaving me rigid, filled with winter frosts: For I remembered how, when we were young, And shared one chamber in the donjon keep, When she awoke, and felt the darkness, thick And fearful, on her sunshine-loving eyes, First she would call to me, and then, grown brave At her own tongue’s sweet music, cross the floor To creep into my bed, and cling to me, Telling me how she dreamed that she was dead. Think of that black and lustful ravening beast Spoiling the slim white body! Sigebert Would have lit up the land with war that day; But wisdom counselled patience. Bitterly I waited. But my hate was like a hound That, from afar, marks down his prey at dawn; Though the chase last till evening, he keeps His way through shadows, and the blazing noon, Following, tireless, till his throat has blood.