The Vigil of Brunhild by Frederic Manning — Read

Brunhild, with worn face framed in withered hands, / Sate in her wounded royalty; and seemed / Like an old eagle, taken in the toils, / And fallen from the wide extended sway / Of her dominion, whence the eye looks down / On mountains shrunk to nothing, and the sea / Fretting in vain against its boundaries. / She sate, with chin thrust forward, listening / To the loud shouting and the ring of swords / On shields, that sounded from the crowded hall; / Where all her ancient bards were emulous / In praise, now, of her foes who feasted there. / Her humid cell was strown with rotten straw, / A roost of owls, and haunt of bats; the wind / Blew the cold rain in, and made tremulous / The smoking flame, on which her eyes were set; / Her raiment was all torn, and stained with blood; / Her hair had fallen, and she heeded not: / She was 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.