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;