Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The morning before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew
THE MORNING BEFORE THE
MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
AUGUST, 1572.
The fickle sunshine (in and out)
Went running up and down the terrace,
Glooming, brightening, dozing, wakening,
O’er the stately roofs of Paris;
Shining, fading in the gardens,
With a wanton, sportive malice,
Silver arrows, fountain-shot,
Rose around the lordly palace.
The dogs were basking in the courts,
The peacocks in the shine were sunning;
Pages, with parti-colour’d ball,
Were down the long green alleys running;
The lady, at her tapestry,
From the great oriel window caroll’d;
The noble at the wide porch stood,
In black and crimson proud apparel’d.
Between the pulses of the sun
(The light and dark still fitful coming)
You heard the birds deep in the leaves,
And in the flowers the brown bees humming;
But louder than the bees or birds
The voices of the boys were sounding,
As, like a living thing, the ball
O’er beds of flowers went gaily bounding.
“To-morrow,” thought the Huguenot,
“I gain my suit and win that title.”
“To-morrow,” thought the lady fair—
“And yet those dreams,—I spent the night ill.”
“To-morrow,” laughed the little page,
“I wear my new gilt Milan dagger.”
“To-morrow,” growled the butler old,
“I’ll tap some wine ’ll make ’em stagger.”
The dial’s shadow glided on,
Severing the golden hours for ever;
The leaves each moment fell away,
When breezes made the poplars shiver.
One little handful of dark cloud
Over the glistening vanes was lowering.
But no one heeded it, as they
Paced where the yellow leaves were showering.
The morrow came: in smoky fire,
The sun arose—a blood-globe burning;
The shrieks of women pierced the air;
The hiding mothers’ hearts were yearning;
And through the streets, all red with gore,
Where Guise’s men were dancing, quaffing,
In funeral state, with crown and sword,
The skeleton, King Death, rode laughing.