The Vigil of Brunhild: A Narrative Poem — A Closer Reading

s alone and friendless, but her eyes Held something kingly that could outfrown Fate. Gray, haggard, wan, and yet with dignity, Which had been beauty once, and now was age, She sate in that foul cellar, as one sits To whom life owes no further injury, Whom no hopes cheat, and no despairs make pale; Though in her heart, and on her rigid face, Despair was throned in gaunt magnificence. A sound disturbed her thought; she turned her head, Waiting, while a strong hand unbarred the door, With hatred burning in her tearless eyes, Ready to front her foes. The huge door gave Creaking, unwillingly, to close again Behind a priest, whose melancholy eyes Were dropped before the anger of her own. “A priest!” she cried; “they send to me a priest! Mocking me, that my hand first helped these priests Till a priest’s hand was strong to strike me down.” He bent before her, swayed by grief and shame; Then spoke: “Brunhild, they sent me not to thee; But I came willingly, nor feared their wrath. Arnulf and Pippin feast their warriors In the high-raftered hall, and cheer the bards, Who sing of how they smote thee: so I crept Forth from the tumult. At the height of noon To-morrow they will tie thee to a horse That never has known bridle, to be dragged Over the stony ways till thou art dead; And I am come to shrive thee”: and he stayed His tongue; but sorrow filled his frightened eyes. “Go from me,” then she said; “thou knowest how My life has been as angry as a flame, Consumed with its own passions. Go from me: Thou couldst not bear the weight of all my sins. Yea, go. I will not call upon thy God; He is too far from me: could I again Have my old strength and beauty, I should waste Again the earth with my delight in war, And vex my body with the restless loves That my youth knew. A life of war and love; Passions that shake the soul; bright, ruddy flames Devouring speedily this fretful flesh: A life of clamour, shouting, dust and heat, The tumult of the battle, ringing shields, The hiss of sudden arrows through the air, And drumming hoofs of horses in the mad Thunderous fury of the charge, that breaks Baffled, like waves upon a wall of steel: Give me again that life of ecstasy And I shall leave your heaven to its sleep.” She wrapped her cloak about her, close; and frowned Once more upon the flame. He spoke again: “When I was long-haired, too, the windy joys Of battle wrought a madness in my blood; Yet never night came but mine eyes would close On sleep, that seemed a mother to my soul, In trustfulness as quiet as a child’s. Hast thou no need of quiet, of a sleep That stretches out its wings and shrouds thee close, Healing thee of all wounds, and wards the day Off from thine eyelids? There is peace in God, If we might find him; but the way is far And difficult of travel for our feet, Leading through all the sounding ways of life And silent ways of death, through whose domain Each blind soul voyages in loneliness: Nor ever has a man with undimmed eyes, Save he whom ravens fed, and he whose voice Sounded the note of triumph, even in Hell, While the dead flocked unto him, and the gates Were lifted up for gladness, travelled it. Wide regions filled with spirits numberless——” But Brunhild turned on him: “I see them now, Though Death has not yet claimed me, in that flame; And wouldst thou have me go to them in fear, With loosened knees and face untaught to frown? Would they for all my weeping pity me? Yea, there is Fredegonde with mocking eyes: I seem to see my life through smoking blood That she and I have spilt in quarrelling. Shall we too fill, with greater clamour, Hell; Battling like eagles through the gloomy air, That trembles at the passion of our wings? Go from me: I repent not anything.” “Nay, yet I shall not go; but rest and hear Thy story in the form it leaves thy lips; Nor question thee, but bless thee and depart. For surely all thy soul yearns backward now To half remembered days, that fill the flame, Even as you say, with floating memories, Purged of the dross, that was a part of them, Nought now but soft gold of thy plastic dreams, Wrought to what shape you will: so have I heard That we judge others and judge not ourselves By a stern measure; and therefore we fail Of perfect justice, which is charity.” “Ye, who are sheltered from the world, O priest,” Spake Brunhild, mocking him, “have time to pause Ere your minds fix the measure of pure truth And perfect justice; but our windy life Loses no time on niceties: for me, I gave such justice as I look for now; I swung a hammer on mine enemies, To forge the world anew unto my mind; My cause was justice in mine eyes, and those Who stood against me, enemies of God. Lo! I have failed of all my purposes, And age has come upon me like a cloud; And these old shoulders groan beneath the shame, The bitterness, the burden of defeat: Yet I have seen the star, where others saw Only the froth and spume of angry storms.” He gazed on her with patient, gentle eyes; Bowed, sate she, with her hands clasped round her knees, Incarnate sorrow: then her lion’s head She lifted; and spake once again to him: