That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, "I must speak!" "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan;-- "All the rest is gone, or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone!" The passion thus vented, dead lay she. Her parents sobbed their worst on that; All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For, indeed, the hair was to wonder at, As it spread,--not flowing free, But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck,--ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap I' the gold, it reached her gown. All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair; E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar,--keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life, and piteous fate. And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, So it never was touched at all. Years flew; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summed in one Sentence survivors passed: To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an' angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was--she knew her gold hair's worth. * * * * * At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research. 'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose; A baron with armor-adornments quaint; A dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint: So we come to find them in after-days, When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds, Of use to the living, in many ways; For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor Humanum, pectora coeca_, and the rest!-- They found--no gauds they were prying for, No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- A double Louis-d'or!