And then came back the timid voice The footstep faint and low, The many little arts to please, The look of hopeless woe. And many a shuddering memory Of harsh rebuke and blow. No prayer of self-approving words, As was his wont, he said, But humbled, weeping, self-condemned, He stood before the dead. PART IV. Ten long days’ travel Marien went, O’er woodland and o’er wold, Teaching and preaching by the way, Like Jesus Christ of old. Sometimes within the baron’s hall A lodging she would find, And never went she from the door But blessings staid behind; Proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld, And plenteous peace of mind. With shepherd people on the hills; With toiling peasant men, She sate; with women dwelling lone, On mountain or in glen. By wayside wells she sate her down, With pilgrims old and bent; Or, hand in hand, with children small, To the village school she went. She made them spare the singing birds All in their leafy bowers; She made them love all living things; And praise God for the flowers. But now she came to where there raged Wild war throughout the land; She heard the vexed people’s cry; She saw the ravaged corn-fields lie; The hamlets smoking to the sky; And everywhere careering by The spoiler’s savage band. All hearts were changed. Like ravening wolves Men preyed upon each other; Dead children lay on the bloody mould; And pitiless had grown, and cold, The heart of many a mother. Wild shouts and horrid shrieks around Filled all the air; the earth Reeked with the blood that had been spilt; And man made mockery and mirth Of agony and mortal woe:-- Yet through all this did Marien go. Outraged of heart, the child went on, Weeping upon her way; And now she soothed a dying wretch; Then for another ran to fetch Water; and every day Did deeds of mercy good and mild:-- Thus journeyed on the pitying child. On went she,--and as she went on, Men grew ashamed of blood, So beautiful did mercy seem; And the wild soldier rude Slunk back as slinks a noisome beast; And to their homes once more Came mothers with their little ones; And old men, weak and hoar, Sate in the sun as they had wont, Unfearing at the door. On went the child,--and as she went, Within the Baron’s hall, Were hung up helm and mail and sword, To rust upon the wall. On went she,--and the poets sung No longer war’s acclaim, But holy hymns of love and joy, To hail her as she came. On went she, like an angel good; With bounding steps she went, Day after day, until she came To the great Conquerer’s tent.