Poet's Corner.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume VI, Issue 315, 2 May 1879, Page 11

Poet's Corner .

THE BENEDICTION.

(From the French of Francois Coppce.) It was in eighteen hundred — yes— and nine, That we took Saragossa. What a day Of untold horrors ! I was Sergeant then. The city carried, we laid siege to houses, All^ shut up close, and with a treacherous look Hainilig down shots upon us from the windows. " "Tis the priest's doing 1" was tLo word passed round ; So that although since daybreak under arms Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths Hitter with kissing cartridge-cuds — piiF! piff ! Hat tied the musketry with ready aim, It shovel hat and long black coat were seen Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street My company worked on. 1 kept an eye On every house-top right and left, and saw From many a loof flames suddenly bui>t foitti CViloiing the sky, as from the chimney tops Amonjf the forges, Low our fellows stooped, Kntering the low-pitched dens. Whin they came out, With bayonets dripping red. thvir bloody fingers Signed crosses on the wall : for we were bound In such a dangerous defile not to leave Foes Inrking in our rear. There was no drum-beat, No oidercd march. Our officers looked grave ; The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows As do recruits when flinching. All at once, Eoundiug a corner, we are hailed in French With cries for help, At double-quick we join Our hard-pressed comrades, They were grenadiers, A gallant company, but beaten back Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns, The cross in white embroidered on their frocks. Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their Only weapons Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished, Our mon went down before them. By platoons Firing, we swept the place : iv fact we slaughtered This terrible group of heroes, no more soul Being in us than in executioners. The foul deed done — deliberately done — And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted Under the huddled masses of the dead liivulois of blood run trickling down the steps ; While in the background solemnly the church Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense Gave out its perfume. At the upper end, Turned to the altar as though unconcerned In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest, White-haired and tall of stature, to a close Was bunging tranquilly the Mass. So stamped Upon my memory is that thrilling scene, That, as I speak, it comes before me now — The convent built in old times by the Moors ; The huge brown corpses of the monks ; the sun Making the red blood on the pavement steam ; And there, framed in by the low porch, the priott ; And there the altar, brilliant as a shrine ; And here ourselves, all halting-, hesitating, Almost afraid. I, certes, in those days Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, A chapel being sacked I lit my pipe At a wax candle burning on tbe altar. This time, however, I was so awed — so blanched Was that old man ! " Shoot him ! " our Captain cried. Not a sou] budged. The priest, beyond all doubt, Heard, but as though he heard not. Turning round, He faced us, with the elevated host, Having that period of the service reached When on the faithful benediction falls. His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings ; And as be raised the pyx, and in the air With it described the Cross, each man of us Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling, Than if before him the devout were ranged. But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, The words came to us, " Yos tenedlcat ! Deus Oni n ijtotens ! ' ' The Captain's order Rang out again and sharply, " Shoot him down, Or I shall swear ! " Then one of ours, a dastard, Leveled his gun and fired. Upstanding still, The priest changed colour, though with steadfast look Set upwards and indomitably stern. " Pater et Film* ! " Came the words. What frenzy, What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks Another shot, I know not ; but 'twas done.

The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge Held himself up, and, strenuous to complete His benediction, in the other raised The consecrated host. For the third time Tracing in the air the symbol of forgiveness, With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, Bnt in the general hush distinctly heard, " Et Sj>iritu* Sanctu* ! " He said ; and', ending His service, fell down dead. The golden pyx Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood. Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, And choking horror in our hearts, at sight Of such a shameless murder, and at sight Of such a martyr, with a chuckling lough, "Amen!" 1 Drawled out a drummer-boy. S. Fkaxciso MoxiTon.