  A woman speaks. Year 1218; war of the Albigenses. I Saint Dominick, Pope Innocent, Thou holy host Lyons once bent On Languedoc, may God the Father Plunge you in everlasting Hell! And may the blood of those who fell At BÉziers together gather In torrents of eternal pain, And on your souls beat boiling rain! II And Mountfort!—it was given me, (For I had prayed incessantly), To be the David to this giant.— An Albigensian warrior My husband was. He, in the war, The Pope had thundered on defiant Thoulouse and outlawed Languedoc, Stood with Earl Raymond like a rock. III The walls of BÉziers cried loud, And Carcassonne's, red in their cloud Of blood, disease, and conflagration, For vengeance!—When he left me here, With my two babes, I felt no fear. The crusade's excommunication Poured down its holy Catholics To crush and burn us heretics. IV At Carcassonne he fell. And there My babes died famished. And despair And hell were mine within their prison, Till Mother of our God portrayed This Mountfort's death. On me were laid Blessed hands of power in a vision. A call, my soul could not refuse, Compelled me to besieged Thoulouse. V No arrow mine, no arbalist; A sling, a stone, a woman's wrist God and His virgin Mother aided.— Their engines rocked our walls. I felt The time had come and, praying, knelt; Then, from the sling my hair had braided, Launched at De Mountfort's bassinet The rock where eyebrow eyebrow met. VI Thus Mountfort died. Of Carcassonne Our Lady 'twas who aimed the stone, That slew this monster that was master:— For I—I was the instrument, Saint Dominick and Innocent, That hurled on you and yours disaster! Two armies saw me whirl the sling While Heaven stood by me—white of wing. |
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