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-.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

-

-.. meta::

-   :PG.Id: 47962

-   :PG.Title: The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

-   :PG.Released: 2015-01-12

-   :PG.Rights: Public Domain

-   :PG.Producer: Al Haines

-   :DC.Creator: Francesca Alexander

-   :DC.Title: The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

-   :DC.Language: en

-   :DC.Created: 1900

-   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

-

-==============================================

-THE HIDDEN SERVANTS AND OTHER VERY OLD STORIES

-==============================================

-

-.. clearpage::

-

-.. pgheader::

-

-.. container:: frontispiece

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-   .. figure:: images/img-front.jpg

-      :figclass: white-space-pre-line

-      :align: center

-      :alt: Marianna and her Vision by the Fire. From a drawing by the author

-

-      Marianna and her Vision by the Fire. From a drawing by the author

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

-

-   .. figure:: images/img-title.jpg

-      :figclass: white-space-pre-line

-      :align: center

-      :alt: Title page

-

-      Title page

-

-   .. vspace:: 3

-

-   .. class:: xx-large bold

-

-      THE HIDDEN

-      SERVANTS

-

-   .. class:: x-large

-

-      *and* OTHER VERY OLD STORIES

-

-   .. vspace:: 2

-

-   .. class:: medium

-

-      *Told Over Again By*

-      FRANCESCA ALEXANDER

-

-   .. vspace:: 1

-

-   .. class:: small

-

-      AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF IDA,"

-      "ROADSIDE SONGS OF TUSCANY," Etc.

-

-   .. vspace:: 3

-

-   .. class:: medium

-

-      *LONDON* \* Published by DAVID NUTT

-      at the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre \* *1907*

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

-

-   .. class:: small

-

-      Copyright, 1900,

-      By LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

-

-   .. vspace:: 1

-

-   .. class:: small

-

-      All Rights Reserved

-

-   .. vspace:: 3

-

-   .. class:: small

-

-      University Press \* John Wilson

-      and Son \* Cambridge, U.S.A.

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-

-

-.. _`Introduction`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   Introduction

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-To those who are fortunate enough to know

-Miss Alexander's pen and pencil pictures of

-Italian peasant life the very name of Francesca,

-over which her early work was published,

-carries with it an aroma as of those humbler graces

-of her adopted people,—their sunny charity,

-their native sense of the beautiful, their childlike

-faith,—which touch the heart more intimately

-than all their great achievements in History and

-in Art.  For those, however, to whom are yet

-unknown her faithful transcripts in picture and

-story from the lives of the people she loves, a

-word of introduction has been asked; and it was

-perhaps thought that the task might properly be

-entrusted to one who had heard *The Hidden

-Servants* and many another of these poems

-from the lips of Francesca herself.

-

-Yet, rightly considered, could any experience

-have better served to banish from the mind such

-irrelevant intruders as facts,—those literal facts

-and data at least which the uninitiated might be

-so mistaken as to desire, but which none who

-knew Francesca's work could regard as of the

-slightest consequence?

-

-Imagine a quiet, green-latticed room in Venice

-overlooking the Grand Canal whose waters

-keep time in gently audible lappings to the lilt

-of the verse,—that lilt that is apparent even in

-the printed line, but which only a voice trained

-to Italian cadences can perfectly give.  Imagine

-that voice half chanting, half reciting, these old,

-old legends, and with an absolute sincerity of

-conviction which stirs the mind of the listeners,

-mere children of to-day though they be, to a

-faith akin to that which conceived the tales.

-Where is there place for facts in such a scene,

-in such an experience?  Or, if facts must be,

-are not all that are requisite easily to be gleaned

-from the poems themselves?  Why state that

-Francesca is the daughter of an American artist,

-or that she has spent her life in Italy, when the

-artist inheritance, the Italian atmosphere, breathes

-in every poem our little book contains?  Why

-make mention even of Ruskin's enthusiastic

-heralding of her work, when the very spirit of

-it is so essentially that which the great idealist

-was seeking all his life that he could scarcely

-have failed to discover and applaud it had it been

-ever so retiring, ever so hidden?  Nor does it

-matter that the Alexander home chances to be in

-Florence rather than in Venice, since it is Italy

-itself that lives in Francesca's work; nor that

-she is Protestant rather than Catholic, when it

-is religion pure and simple, unrestricted by any

-creed, that makes vital each line she writes or

-draws.

-

-Yet of the poems, if not of the writer, there

-remained still something to learn, and accordingly

-a letter of inquiry was sent her; and her

-own reply, written with no thought of publication,

-is a better report than another could give.

-This is what she says:—

-

-"With regard to this present collection of

-ballads, I can tell its history in a few words.

-When I was a young girl many old and curious

-books fell into my hands and became my favourite

-reading (next to the Bible, and, perhaps, the

-*Divina Commedia*), as I found in them the

-strong faith and simple modes of thought which

-were what I liked and wanted.  Afterwards, in

-my constant intercourse with the country people,

-and especially with old people whom I always

-loved, I heard a great many legends and

-traditions, often beautiful, often instructive, and

-which, as far as I knew, had never been written

-down.  I was always in request with children

-for the stories which I knew and could tell, and,

-as I found they liked these legends, I thought it

-a pity they should be lost after I should have

-passed away, and so I always meant to write

-them down; all the more that I had felt the

-need of such reading when I was a child myself.

-But I never had time to write them as long as

-my eyes permitted me to work at my drawing,

-and afterwards, when I wanted to begin them,

-I found myself unable to write at all for more

-than a few minutes at once.  Finally I thought

-of turning the stories into rhyme and learning

-them all by heart, so that I could write them

-down little by little.  I thought children would

-not be very particular, if I could just make the

-dear old stories vivid and comprehensible, which

-I tried to do.  If, as you kindly hope, they may

-be good for older people as well, then it must be

-that when the Lord took from me one faculty

-He gave me another; which is in no way

-impossible.  And I think of the beautiful Italian

-proverb: 'When God shuts a door He opens a

-window.'"

-

-After such an account of the origin and

-growth of these poems no further comment

-would seem fitting, unless it be that made by

-Cardinal Manning when writing to Mr. Ruskin

-in 1883 to thank him for a copy of Francesca's

-*Story of Ida*.  He writes:—

-

-"It is simply beautiful, like the *Fioretti di San

-Francesco*.  Such flowers can grow in one soil

-alone.  They can be found only in the Garden

-of Faith, over which the world of light hangs

-visibly, and is more intensely seen by the poor

-and the pure in heart than by the rich, or the

-learned, or the men of culture."

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-ANNA FULLER.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`Preface`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   Preface

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center bold

-

-   THE OLD STORY-TELLER

-

-.. container:: italics

-

-   |  In my upper chamber here,

-   |  Still I wait from year to year;

-   |  Wondering when the time will come

-   |  That the Lord will call me home.

-   |  All the rest have been removed,—

-   |  Those I worked for, those I loved;

-   |  And, at times, there seems to be

-   |  Little use on earth for me.

-   |  Still God keeps me—He knows why—

-   |  When so many younger die!

-

-   |  From my window I look down

-   |  On the busy, bustling town.

-   |  But beyond its noise and jar

-   |  I can see the hills afar;

-   |  And above it, the blue sky,

-   |  And the white clouds sailing by;

-   |  And the sunbeams, as they shine

-   |  On a world that is not mine.

-

-   |  Here I wait, while life shall last,

-   |  An old relic of the past,

-   |  Feeling strange, and far away

-   |  From the people of to-day;

-   |  Thankful for the memory dear

-   |  Of a morning, always near,

-   |  Though long vanished, and so fair!

-   |  Dewy flowers and April air;

-   |  Thankful that the storms of noon

-   |  Spent their force and died so soon;

-   |  Thankful, as their echoes cease,

-   |  For this twilight hour of peace.

-

-   |  But my life, to evening grown,

-   |  Still has pleasures of its own.

-   |  Up my stairway, long and steep,

-   |  Now and then the children creep;

-   |  Gather round me, where I sit

-   |  All day long, and dream, and knit;

-   |  Fill my room with happy noise—

-   |  May God bless them, girls and boys!

-   |  Then sweet eyes upon me shine,

-   |  Dimpled hands are laid in mine;

-   |  And I never ask them why

-   |  They have sought to climb so high;

-   |  For 'twere useless to enquire!

-   |  'Tis a story they desire,

-   |  Taken from my ancient store,

-   |  None the worse if heard before;

-   |  And they turn, with pleading looks,

-   |  To my shelf of time-worn books,

-   |  Bound in parchment brown with age.

-   |  Little in them to engage

-   |  Children's fancy, one would say!

-   |  Yet, when tired with noisy play,

-   |  Nothing pleases them so well

-   |  As the stories I can tell

-   |  From those pages, old and gray,

-   |  With their edges worn away;

-   |  Spelling queer, and Woodcut quaint.

-   |  Angel, demon, prince, and saint,

-   |  Much alike in face and air;

-   |  Houses tipping here and there,

-   |  Lion, palm-tree, hermit's cell,

-   |  And much more I need not tell.

-

-   |  Then they all attentive wait,

-   |  While the story I relate,

-   |  And, before the half is told,

-   |  I forget that I am old!

-   |  But one age there seems to be

-   |  For the little ones and me.

-   |  What though all be new and strange,

-   |  Little children never change;

-   |  All is shifting day by day,—

-   |  Worse or better, who can say?

-   |  Much we lose, and much we learn,

-   |  But the children still return,

-   |  As the flowers do, every year;

-   |  Just as innocent and dear

-   |  As those babes who first did meet

-   |  At our Heavenly Master's feet.

-   |  In His arms He took them all:

-   |  Oh, 'tis precious to recall—

-   |  Blessèd to believe it true—

-   |  That what we love He loved too!

-

-   |  Since the time when life was new,

-   |  All my long, long journey through,

-   |  I have story-teller been.

-   |  When a child I did begin

-   |  To my playmates; later on,

-   |  Other children, long since gone,

-   |  Came to listen; and of some,

-   |  Still the children's children come!

-

-   |  Some, the dearest, took their flight,

-   |  In the early morning light,

-   |  To the glory far away,

-   |  Made for them and such as they.

-   |  I have lingered till the last;

-   |  All the busy hours are past;

-   |  Now my sun is in the west,

-   |  Slowly sinking down to rest

-   |  Ere it wholly fades from view,

-   |  One thing only I would do:

-   |  From my stories I would choose

-   |  Those 't would grieve me most to lose.

-   |  And would tell them once again

-   |  For the children who remain,

-   |  And for others, yet to be,

-   |  Whom on earth I may not see.

-   |  Here, within this volume small,

-   |  I have thought to write them all;

-   |  And to-day the work commence,

-   |  Trusting, ere God call me hence,

-   |  I may see the whole complete.

-   |  It will be a labour sweet,

-   |  Calling back, in sunset glow,

-   |  Happy hours of long ago.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. class:: center bold

-

-   CONTENTS

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-`Introduction`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`Preface`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Hidden Servants`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Bag of Sand`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`Il Crocifisso della Providenza`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`Angels in the Churchyard`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Origin of the Indian Corn`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Eldest Daughter of the King`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`Bishop Troilus`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Crosses on the Wall`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`Suora Marianna`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Lupins`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Silver Cross`_

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-`The Tears of Repentance`_

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Hidden Servants`:

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold white-space-pre-line

-

-   The Hidden Servants

-   *AND OTHER POEMS*

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   THE HIDDEN SERVANTS

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  A sheltered nook on a mountain side,

-   |  Shut in, and guarded, and fortified

-   |  By rocks that hardly a goat would climb,

-   |  All smoothed by tempest and bleached by time—

-   |  Such was the spot that the hermit chose,

-   |  From youth to age, for his life's repose.

-   |  There had he lived for forty years,

-   |  Trying, with penance and prayers and tears,

-   |  To make his soul like a polished stone

-   |  In God's great temple; for this alone

-   |  Was the one dear wish that his soul possessed,

-   |  And 't was little he cared for all the rest,

-

-   |  Nothing had changed since first he came;

-   |  The sky and the mountain were all the same,

-   |  Only a beech-tree, that there had grown

-   |  Ere ever he builded his cell of stone,

-   |  Had risen and spread to a stately grace,

-   |  And its shifting shadow filled half the place.

-   |  Many a winter its storms had spent,

-   |  Many a summer its sunshine lent

-   |  To the little cell, till it came to look

-   |  Like another rock in the peaceful nook.

-   |  Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall,

-   |  Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all.

-

-   |  'T was a peaceful home when the days were soft,

-   |  And spring in her sweetness crept aloft

-   |  From the plains below where her work was done,

-   |  And the hills grew green in the warming sun.

-   |  And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed

-   |  Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed:

-   |  For the turf behind those walls of flint

-   |  Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint;

-   |  And never a sound but the bees' low hum,

-   |  As over the blossoms they go and come;

-   |  Or—when one listened—the fainter tones

-   |  Of a spring that bubbled between the stones.

-

-   |  But dreary it was on a winter's night,

-   |  When the snow fell heavy and soft and white.

-   |  And at times, when the morn was cold and keen,

-   |  The footprints of wolves at his door were seen.

-   |  But cold or hunger he hardly felt,

-   |  So near to heaven the good man dwelt;

-   |  And as for danger—why, death, to him,

-   |  Meant only joining the Seraphim!

-

-   |  Poorly he lived, and hardly fared;

-   |  And when the acorns and roots he shared

-   |  With mole or squirrel, he asked no more,

-   |  But thanked the Lord for such welcome store.

-   |  The richest feast he could ever know

-   |  Was when the shepherds who dwelt below,

-   |  Whose sheep in the mountain pastures fed,

-   |  Would bring him cheeses, or barley bread,

-   |  Or—after harvest—a bag of meal;

-   |  And then they would all before him kneel,

-   |  On flowery turf or on moss-grown rocks,

-   |  To ask a blessing for them and their flocks,

-

-   |  And once or twice he had wandered out

-   |  To preach in the country round about,

-   |  Where unto many his words were blest;

-   |  Then back he climbed to his quiet nest.

-   |  By all in trouble his aid was sought;

-   |  And women their pining children brought,

-   |  For a touch of his hand to ease their pain,

-   |  And his prayers to make them strong again.

-

-   |  And now one wish in his heart remained:

-   |  He longed to know what his soul had gained,

-   |  And how he had grown in the Master's grace,

-   |  Since first he came to that lonely place.

-   |  This wish was haunting him night and day,

-   |  He never could drive the thought away.

-   |  Until at length in the beech-tree's shade

-   |  He knelt, and with all his soul he prayed

-   |  That God would grant him to know and see

-   |  A man, if such in the world might be,

-   |  Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown

-   |  To the self-same measure as his own;

-   |  Whose treasure on the celestial shore

-   |  Could neither be less than his nor more.

-   |  He prayed with faith, and his prayer was heard;

-   |  He hardly came to the closing word

-   |  Before he felt there was some one there!

-   |  He looked, and saw in the sun-lit air

-   |  An angel, floating on wings of white;

-   |  Nor did he wonder at such a sight:

-   |  For angels often had come to cheer

-   |  His soul, and he thought them always near.

-   |  Happy and humble, he bowed his head,

-   |  And listened, while thus the angel said:

-   |  "Go to the nearest town, and there,

-   |  To-morrow, will be in the market square

-   |  A mountebank, playing his tricks for show:

-   |  He is the man thou hast prayed to know;

-   |  His soul, as seen by the light divine,

-   |  Is neither better nor worse than thine.

-   |  His treasure on the celestial shore

-   |  Is neither less than thine own nor more."

-

-   |  Next day, in the dim and early morn,

-   |  By a slippery path that the sheep had worn,

-   |  The hermit went from his loved abode

-   |  To the farms below, and the beaten road.

-   |  The reapers, out in the field that day,

-   |  Who saw him passing, did often say,

-   |  What a mournful look the old man had!

-   |  And his very voice was changed and sad.

-   |  Troubled he was, and much perplexed;

-   |  With endless doubting his mind was vexed.

-   |  What—He?  A mountebank?  Both the same?

-   |  What could it mean to his soul but shame?

-   |  Had his forty years been vainly spent?

-   |  And then, alas! as he onward went,

-   |  There came an evil and bitter thought,—

-   |  Had he been serving the Lord for nought?

-   |  But in his fear he began to pray,

-   |  And the black temptation passed away.

-

-   |  Perhaps the mountebank yet might prove

-   |  To have a soul in the Master's love.

-   |  He almost felt that it must be so,

-   |  In spite of a life that seemed so low.

-   |  Perhaps he was forced such life to take,

-   |  It might be, even for conscience' sake;

-   |  Some cruel master the order gave,

-   |  Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave.

-   |  Or, stay—there were saints in ancient days,

-   |  Who had such terror of human praise

-   |  That, but to gain the contempt they prized,

-   |  They did such things as are most despised;

-   |  Feigned even madness; and more than one,

-   |  Accused of sins he had never done,

-   |  Had willingly borne disgrace and blame,

-   |  Nor said a word for his own good name!

-

-   |  In thoughts like these had the day gone by;

-   |  The sun was now in the western sky:

-   |  The road, grown level and hot and wide,

-   |  With dusty hedges on either side,

-   |  Had led him close to the city gate,

-   |  Where he must enter to learn his fate.

-

-   |  Now fear did over his hope prevail:

-   |  He almost wished in his search to fail,

-   |  And find no mountebank there at all!

-   |  For then his vision he well might call

-   |  A dream that came of its own accord,

-   |  Instead of a message from the Lord!

-   |  A few more minutes, and then he knew

-   |  That all which the angel said was true!

-

-   |  A mountebank, in the market square,

-   |  Was making the people laugh and stare.

-   |  With antics more befitting an ape

-   |  Than any creature in human shape!

-   |  The hermit took his place with the rest,

-   |  Not heeding the crowd that round him pressed,

-   |  And earnestly set his eyes to scan

-   |  The face of the poor, unsaintly man.

-   |  Alas, there was little written there

-   |  Of inward peace or of answered prayer!

-   |  For all the paint, and the droll grimace,

-   |  'T was a haggard, anxious, weary face.

-

-   |  The mountebank saw, with vague surprise,

-   |  The patient, sorrowful, searching eyes,

-   |  Whose look, so solemn, and kindly too,

-   |  Seemed piercing all his disguises through.

-   |  They made him restless, he knew not why:

-   |  He could not play; it was vain to try!

-   |  His face grew sober, his movements slow;

-   |  And, soon as might be, he closed the show.

-

-   |  He saw that the hermit lingered on,

-   |  When all the rest of the crowd were gone.

-   |  Then over his gaudy clothes he drew

-   |  A ragged mantle of faded hue;

-   |  And he himself was the first to speak:

-   |  "Good Father, is it for me you seek?"

-   |  "My son, I have sought you all the day;

-   |  Would you come with me a little way,

-   |  Into some quiet corner near,

-   |  Where no one our words can overhear?"

-

-   |  Not far away, in a lonely street,

-   |  By a garden wall they found a seat.

-   |  It now was late, and the sun had set,

-   |  Though a golden glory lingered yet,

-   |  And the moon looked pale in it overhead.

-   |  They sat them down, and the hermit said:

-   |  "My son, to me was a vision sent,

-   |  And as yet I know not what it meant;

-   |  But I think that you, and you alone,

-   |  Are able to make its meaning known.

-   |  Answer me then—I have great need—

-   |  And tell me, what is the life you lead?"

-

-   |  "My life's a poor one, you may suppose!

-   |  I 've many troubles that no one knows;

-   |  For I have to keep a smiling face.

-   |  I wander, friendless, from place to place,

-   |  Risking my neck for a scanty gain;

-   |  But I must do it, and not complain.

-   |  I know, whatever may go amiss,

-   |  That I have deserved much worse than this."

-

-   |  To the hermit this a meaning bore

-   |  Of deep humility, nothing more.

-   |  So, gaining courage, "But this," he said,

-   |  "Is not the life you have always led.

-   |  So much the vision to me revealed;

-   |  I know there 's something you keep concealed."

-

-   |  The mountebank answered sadly: "Yes!

-   |  'T is true: you ask, and I must confess.

-   |  But keep my secret, good Father, pray;

-   |  Or my life will not be safe for a day!

-   |  Alas, I have led a life of crime!

-   |  I 've been an evil man in my time.

-   |  I was a robber—I think you know—

-   |  Till little more than a year ago;

-   |  One of a desperate, murderous band,

-   |  A curse and terror to all the land!"

-

-   |  The hermit's head sank down on his breast;

-   |  His trembling hands to his eyes he pressed.

-   |  "Has God rejected me?" then he moaned:

-   |  "Are all my service and love disowned?

-   |  Have I been blind, and my soul deceived?"

-

-   |  The other, seeing the old man grieved,

-   |  Said: "Father, why do you care so much

-   |  For one not worthy your robe to touch?

-   |  The Lord is gracious, and if He will,

-   |  He can forgive and save me still.

-   |  And as for my wicked life, 't is I,

-   |  Not you, who have reason to weep and sigh!

-   |  Your prayers may help me, and bring me peace."

-

-   |  The hermit made him a sign to cease;

-   |  Then raised his head, and began to speak,

-   |  With tears on his wrinkled, sun-browned cheek.

-   |  "If you could remember even one

-   |  Good deed that you in your life have done,

-   |  I need not go in despair away.

-   |  Think well; and if you can find one, say!"

-

-   |  "Once," said the mountebank, "that was all,

-   |  I did for the Lord a service small,

-   |  And never yet have I told the tale!

-   |  But if you wish it, I will not fail.

-   |  A few of our men had gone one day—

-   |  'T was less for plunder, I think, than play—

-   |  To a certain convent, small and poor,

-   |  Where a dozen sisters lived secure

-   |  For very poverty! dreaming not

-   |  That any envied their humble lot.

-   |  There, finding the door was locked and barred,

-   |  They climbed the wall of a grass-grown yard.

-   |  Some vines were planted along its side,

-   |  Their trailing branches left room to hide;

-   |  Where, neither by pity moved nor shame,

-   |  They crouched, till one of the sisters came

-   |  To gather herbs for the noonday meal;

-   |  Then out from under the leaves they steal!

-   |  So she was taken, poor soul, and bound,

-   |  And carried off to our camping ground.

-   |  A harmless creature, who knew no more

-   |  Of the world outside her convent door,

-   |  Than you or I of the moon up there!

-   |  A shame, to take her in such a snare!

-

-   |  "But, Father, I wished that I had been

-   |  Ten miles away, when they brought her in,

-   |  To hold for ransom; or if that failed—

-   |  Oh, well, we knew when the pirates sailed!

-   |  We knew their captain, who paid us well,

-   |  And carried our prisoners off to sell.

-   |  They never beheld their country more,

-   |  Being bought for slaves on a foreign shore.

-

-   |  "But oh! 't was enough the tears to bring,

-   |  To see that innocent, frightened thing,

-   |  Looking, half hopeful, from face to face,

-   |  As if she thought, in that wicked place,

-   |  There might be one who would take her part!

-   |  She looked at me, and it stung my heart.

-   |  But I, with a hard, disdainful air,

-   |  Turned from her as one who did not care,

-   |  I heard her sighing: she did not know

-   |  That her gentle look had hurt me so!

-

-   |  "That night they set me the watch to keep;

-   |  And when the others were all asleep,

-   |  And I had been moving to and fro,

-   |  With branches keeping the fire aglow,

-   |  I crept along to the woman's side,—

-   |  She sat apart, and her arms were tied,—

-   |  And said,—'t was only a whispered word;

-   |  We both were lost if the others heard,—

-   |  'If you will trust me and with me come,

-   |  I 'll bring you safe to your convent home.'

-   |  She started, into my face she gazed;

-   |  Said she, 'I'll trust you—the Lord be praised!'

-

-   |  "I very quickly the cords unbound.

-   |  She rose; I led her without a sound

-   |  Between the rows of the sleeping men,

-   |  Till we left the camp behind; and then

-   |  I found my horse, that was tied near by.

-   |  The woman mounted, and she and I

-   |  Set off in haste, through the midnight shade,

-   |  On the wildest journey I ever made!

-   |  By wood and thicket the horse I led,

-   |  And over a torrent's stony bed,—

-   |  For along the road I dared not go,

-   |  For fear that the others our flight should know,

-   |  And follow after; the woman prayed.

-   |  I, quick and cautious, but not afraid,

-   |  Went first, with the stars for guide, until

-   |  We saw the convent, high on a hill.

-   |  We reached the door as the east grew red.

-   |  'God will remember!' was all she said;

-   |  Her face was full of a sweet content.

-   |  She knocked, they opened, and in she went.

-   |  The door was closed—she was safe at last!

-   |  I heard the bolt as they made it fast—

-   |  And I in the twilight stood alone,

-   |  With the lightest heart I had ever known!

-

-   |  "So, Father, my robber days were o'er;

-   |  I could not be what I was before.

-   |  I wandered on with a thankful mind,

-   |  For I left the old bad life behind,

-   |  And tried, as I journeyed day by day,

-   |  To gain my bread in an honest way.

-   |  But little work could I find to do;

-   |  And so, as some juggling tricks I knew,

-   |  I took this business which now you see:

-   |  'T is good enough for a man like me!"

-

-   |  While yet the story was going on,

-   |  The cloud from the hermit's face had gone;

-   |  And if his eyes in the moonlight shone,

-   |  They glistened with thankful tears alone.

-   |  He listened in solemn awe until

-   |  The mountebank's tale was done; and still,

-   |  Some moments, he neither spoke nor stirred,

-   |  But silently pondered every word.

-

-   |  Then humbly speaking, "The Lord," said he,

-   |  "Has had great mercy on you and me!

-   |  And now, my son, I must tell you why

-   |  I came to speak with you—know that I

-   |  Have tried with the Lord alone to dwell,

-   |  For forty years, in my mountain cell;

-   |  In prayer and solitude, day and night,

-   |  Have striven to keep my candle bright!

-   |  And there, but yesterday, while I prayed,

-   |  An angel came to my side, and said

-   |  That I should seek you,—and told me where,—

-   |  And should your life with my own compare;

-   |  For in God's service and love and grace

-   |  Your soul with mine has an equal place,

-   |  We both alike have his mercy shared,

-   |  The same reward is for both prepared.

-   |  I came; I sought you—and you know how

-   |  I found you out in the square just now!

-   |  At which—may the Lord forgive my pride!—

-   |  At first I was poorly satisfied.

-   |  But now I have heard your story through—

-   |  What you in a single night could do!—

-   |  And know that this to the Lord appears

-   |  Worth all my service of forty years;

-   |  I can but wonder, and thank His grace

-   |  Which raised us both to an equal place,"

-

-   |  "But, Father, it never can be true!

-   |  What?—I by the side of a saint like you?

-   |  Ah no!  You never to me were sent.

-   |  'T was some one else whom the angel meant!"

-

-   |  "No!  Listen to me—'T was *you*, my son!

-   |  Our Master said that a service done

-   |  To a child of His in time of need

-   |  Is done to Himself in very deed,

-   |  And is with love by Himself received!

-   |  So do not think I have been deceived,

-   |  But keep those words on your heart engraved

-   |  Of the humble woman whose life you saved,

-   |  *God will remember*, and trust His care.

-   |  He will not forget you here nor there!"

-

-   |  "O Father, Father!  And can it be

-   |  That the Lord in heaven remembers me?

-   |  And yet I had felt it must be true,

-   |  For the woman spoke as if she knew!

-   |  But when was ever such mercy shown,

-   |  And is this the love He bears His own?

-   |  Are these the blessings He holds in store?

-   |  Oh, let me serve Him for evermore!"

-

-   |  And when, at the close of another day,

-   |  The hermit wearily made his way

-   |  Up the mountain path, from stone to stone,

-   |  He did not climb to his cell alone.

-   |  The mountebank, still with wondering face,

-   |  Came with him up to that peaceful place!

-

-   |  Together with thankful hearts they went,

-   |  Thenceforth together their lives were spent.

-   |  And, ere the summer had reached its close,

-   |  Another cell from the rocks arose;

-   |  The beech, in its strong and stately growth,

-   |  Spread one green canopy over both.

-   |  On summer evenings, when shepherds guide

-   |  Their flocks to rest on the mountain side,

-   |  They heard above, in the twilight calm,

-   |  Two voices, chanting the evening psalm;

-   |  And one was agèd, and one was young,

-   |  But never was hymn more sweetly sung!

-

-   |  In love and patience, by deed and word,

-   |  They helped each other to serve the Lord,—

-   |  Together to pray, to learn, to teach,—

-   |  Till a deeper blessing fell on each.

-   |  Their souls grew upward from day to day;

-   |  But he who farthest had gone astray,

-   |  Who, lowest fallen, had hardest striven,

-   |  Who most had sinned and been most forgiven,

-   |  Erelong in the heavenly race outran

-   |  The older, milder, and wiser man.

-   |  Two years he dwelt with his agèd friend,

-   |  Then made a blessèd and peaceful end;

-   |  And, when his penitent life was done,

-   |  The hermit wept as he would for a son!

-

-   |  Ten years had over the mountain passed,

-   |  Since that poor mountebank breathed his last,

-   |  Helped, to the end, by a woman's prayer,

-   |  Ten years; and the hermit still was there.

-   |  Grown older, thinner, with shoulders bent,

-   |  He seldom forth from his shelter went.

-   |  But those he had helped in former days

-   |  With prayers and counsel, in thousand ways,

-   |  Were mindful of him, and brought him all

-   |  He needed now, for his wants were small.

-   |  And happy they were their best to give,

-   |  If only their mountain saint would live!

-   |  For in his living their lives were blest;

-   |  And if he longed for the perfect rest,

-   |  Patient he was, and content to wait,

-   |  While God should please, at the heavenly gate.

-   |  Beautiful now his face had grown,

-   |  But the beauty was something not his own,—

-   |  A solemn light from the blessèd land

-   |  Within whose border he soon must stand.

-   |  Little he said, but his every word

-   |  Was saved and treasured by those who heard,

-   |  To be a blessing in years to come,

-   |  When he should be theirs no more; and some

-   |  Who brought their little to help his need,

-   |  Went home with their souls enriched indeed!

-

-   |  One autumn morning he sat alone,

-   |  Outside his cell; and the warm sun shone

-   |  With a friendly light on his silver hair,

-   |  Through the branches, smooth and almost bare,

-   |  Of the beech-tree, now, like him, grown old.

-   |  The night before had been sharp and cold;

-   |  And the frost was white on leaf and stem

-   |  Wherever the rocks still shaded them,

-   |  But where the sunbeams had found their way,

-   |  In glittering, crystal drops it lay;

-   |  And fallen leaves at his feet were strewn,

-   |  Yellow and wet, over turf and stone.

-

-   |  He sat and dreamed, as the agèd do,

-   |  While, drifting backward, he lived anew

-   |  The years that never again should be.

-   |  A placid dream—for his soul was free

-   |  From all the troubles of long ago,

-   |  The doubts, the conflict he used to know!

-   |  Doubts of himself, and a contest grim

-   |  With evil spirits that strove for him.

-   |  Now all was over; that troubled day

-   |  Was like a storm that had passed away.

-

-   |  It seemed to him that his voyage was o'er;

-   |  His ship already had touched the shore.

-   |  Yet once he sighed; for he knew that he

-   |  Was not the man he had hoped to be,

-   |  And, looking back on his journey past,

-   |  He felt—what all of us feel at last!

-   |  And his soul was moved to pray once more

-   |  The prayer he had made twelve years before,

-   |  Only to know, before he died,

-   |  If he were worthy to stand beside

-   |  One of God's children, or great or small,

-   |  Who served Him truly; and that was all!

-

-   |  It was not long ere the angel came,

-   |  Who, gently calling the saint by name,

-   |  Said: "Come, for thou hast not far to go.

-   |  One step, and I to thine eyes will show

-   |  The very dwelling that shelters now

-   |  Two souls as near to the Lord as thou!"

-

-   |  The hermit rose; and with reverent tread

-   |  He followed on as the angel led.

-   |  Where a single cleft the rocks between

-   |  Gave passage out of the valley green

-   |  They passed, and stood in the pathway steep:

-   |  The rocks about them were sunken deep

-   |  In fern, and bramble, and purple heath,

-   |  That sloped away to the woods beneath;

-   |  While far below, and on every side,

-   |  Were endless mountains, and forests wide,

-   |  And scattered villages here and there,

-   |  That all looked near in the clear, dry air.

-   |  And here a church, with its belfry tall;

-   |  And there a convent, whose massive wall

-   |  Rose grave and stately above the trees.

-   |  The hermit willingly looked at these;

-   |  For hope they gave him that now, at least,

-   |  Some praying brother or toiling priest

-   |  Might be his mate; but it was not so!

-   |  The angel showed him, away below,

-   |  A slope where a little mountain-farm

-   |  Lay, all spread out in the sunshine warm,

-   |  Along the side of a wooded hill.

-   |  It looked so peaceful and far and still!

-   |  And when his eye on the farmhouse fell,

-   |  The angel said: "It is there they dwell!

-   |  Two women in heart and soul like thee.

-   |  Go, find them, Brother, and thou shalt see

-   |  All that thou art in their lives displayed."

-   |  Before the hermit an answer made,

-   |  The angel back to the skies had flown;

-   |  He stood in the rocky path alone.

-

-   |  Along the broken and winding way

-   |  Between the heath and the boulders gray;

-   |  Through lonely pastures that led him down

-   |  To oaken woods in their autumn brown;

-   |  And o'er the stones of a rippling stream,

-   |  The hermit passed, like one in a dream!

-   |  As though the vision, had made him strong:

-   |  He hardly knew that the way was long.

-

-   |  'T was almost noon when he came in sight

-   |  Of the little farmhouse, low and white:

-   |  A sheltered lane by the orchard led,

-   |  Where mountain ash, with its berries red,

-   |  Rose high above him; and brambles, grown

-   |  All over the rough, low wall of stone,

-   |  And tangled brier with thorny spray,

-   |  And feathered clematis, edged the way.

-   |  Then, turning shortly, a view he caught

-   |  Of both the women for whom he sought.

-

-   |  One, spinning, sat by the open door;

-   |  Her spindle danced on the worn stone floor.

-   |  The other, just from the forest come,

-   |  Had brought a bundle of branches home,

-   |  And spread them now in the sun to dry;

-   |  But both looked up as the saint drew nigh.

-   |  Then, on a sudden, the spindle stopped,

-   |  The branches all on the grass were dropped.

-   |  He heard them joyfully both exclaim,

-   |  "The Saint!  The hermit!"  And forth they came

-   |  To bid him welcome, and made request

-   |  That he would enter their house to rest.

-

-   |  But when a blessing they both implored,

-   |  He had not courage to speak the word.

-   |  The only blessing his lips let fall

-   |  Was this: "May the good Lord bless us all,

-   |  And keep our hearts in His peace divine!"

-   |  With hand uplifted, he made the sign,

-   |  Then entered in (to their joy complete!)

-   |  And willingly took the offered seat.

-

-   |  And soon before him a meal was spread,

-   |  Of chestnuts, of goat's milk cheese, and bread;

-   |  While one with her pitcher went to bring

-   |  Some water fresh from the ice-cold spring.

-

-   |  He could not taste of the food prepared

-   |  Till he his errand to both declared.

-   |  Said he: "My friends, I have come to-day

-   |  With something grave on my mind to say,

-   |  And more to hear; and I pray you now

-   |  To answer truly, and not allow

-   |  A feeling, whether of pride or shame,

-   |  Or any shrinking from praise or blame,

-   |  To change the answer you both may give,

-   |  Of what you are and of how you live."

-

-   |  Then she with distaff still at her side,

-   |  Of speech more ready, at once replied.

-   |  In years the elder, but not in face,

-   |  She kept a little of youthful grace:

-   |  The dark eyes under her snow-white hair

-   |  Were keen and clear as the autumn air!

-

-   |  "We are but what we appear to be:

-   |  Two toiling women, as you may see!

-   |  And neither so young nor strong as when

-   |  In field and forest we helped the men.

-   |  We now have only the lesser care,

-   |  To keep the house, and the meals prepare,

-   |  And other labours of small account,

-   |  Yet something worth in the week's amount.

-   |  But in our youth, and a lifetime through,

-   |  We laboured, much as the others do!

-   |  Through storm and sunshine we still have tried

-   |  To do our best by our husbands' side.

-   |  And keep their hearts and our own at rest

-   |  When sickness came or when want oppressed.

-   |  For even famine our house assailed

-   |  That year when the corn and chestnuts failed.

-   |  And once—that winter ten years ago—

-   |  Our house was buried beneath the snow,

-   |  And ere it melted and light returned,

-   |  The very benches for warmth we burned!

-   |  Nor is there want, in our busy hive,

-   |  Of children keeping the house alive:

-   |  For she has seven, and I have nine;

-   |  But three of hers and the first of mine

-   |  Are safe with Jesus,—more happy they!

-   |  Two more have married and gone away.

-   |  My son's young wife, with her infant small,

-   |  Make up the household—fourteen in all."

-

-   |  "In this," he said, "there is much to praise:

-   |  In humble service you pass your days,

-   |  And spend your life for your children's needs.

-   |  But tell me now of the pious deeds

-   |  (For such there are) that you seek to hide,

-   |  To me in a vision signified!"

-

-   |  "But, sir, we are just two poor old wives.

-   |  Who never have done in all our lives

-   |  A pious deed that was worth the name!"

-   |  She said; and her white head drooped with shame.

-

-   |  Then said the other: "And yet, 't is true,

-   |  We help in all that our husbands do.

-   |  When twice a year they have killed a sheep,

-   |  'T is only half for ourselves we keep;

-   |  Our poorer neighbours have all the rest.

-   |  And this, I fear, is the very best

-   |  We ever do!"  "And," said he, "'t is well!

-   |  But think—is there nothing more to tell?"

-

-   |  They both were silent a little space,

-   |  And each one questioned the other's face,

-   |  Till, doubtful, when she had thought awhile,

-   |  The elder said, with a modest smile:

-   |  "This summer have forty years gone by,

-   |  Since she—my sister-in-law—and I

-   |  Together came in this house to dwell;

-   |  And, Father, it is not much to tell,

-   |  But in all these years, from first to last,

-   |  No angry word has between us passed,

-   |  Nor even a look that was less than kind.

-   |  And that is all I can call to mind."

-

-   |  Enough it was for the hermit's need!

-   |  He rose, like one from a burden freed.

-   |  "Thank God!" he said; "if indeed He sees

-   |  My soul as worthy and white as these!

-   |  And great the mercy He doth bestow,

-   |  That I should His hidden servants know!"

-

-   |  A sudden flash, as of heavenly light,

-   |  Then shone within him, and all was bright;

-   |  And in a moment were things made clear

-   |  Had vexed him many a weary year!

-   |  For he, who had thought on earth to view

-   |  God's people only a scattered few,

-   |  Saw now, in spirit, an army great

-   |  Of hidden servants who on Him wait.

-   |  No saintly legends their names disclose,

-   |  And no man living their number knows,

-   |  Nor can their service and place declare.

-   |  The hidden servants are everywhere!

-   |  And some are hated, despised, alone;

-   |  And some to even themselves unknown.

-   |  But the Father's house has room for all,

-   |  And never one from His hand can fall!

-   |  The one brave deed of a desperate man,

-   |  Grown hard in crime since his youth began,

-   |  Who yet, for a helpless woman's sake,

-   |  Had strength to rise, and his chain to break;

-   |  The holy sweetness that fills the heart

-   |  Of him who dwells from the world apart,

-   |  His life one dream of celestial things,

-   |  Till almost heaven to earth he brings;

-   |  Or yet the humble, unnoticed life

-   |  Of toiling mother and patient wife,

-   |  Who, year on year, has had grace to bear

-   |  Her changeless burden of daily care,—

-   |  Are all accepted with equal love,

-   |  And laid with treasures that wait above

-   |  Until the day when we all believe

-   |  That every man shall his deeds receive.

-

-   |  And when, that evening, with weary feet

-   |  The hermit stood by his lone retreat,

-   |  And watched awhile, with a tranquil gaze,

-   |  The mountains soft in the sunset haze,

-   |  And sleeping forest, and field below,

-   |  He said, as he saw the star-like glow

-   |  Of lights in the cottage windows far,

-   |  "How many God's hidden servants are!"

-

-

-

-

-

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-.. _`The Bag of Sand`:

-

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-

-   The Bag of Sand

-

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-

-THE BAG OF SAND was written by St. Heradius,

-who visited, some time in the fifth century, the

-hermit fathers of the desert and mountains, and collected

-many interesting stories about them.

-

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-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Bag of Sand

-

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-

-.. container:: italics

-

-   |  In that land of desolation

-   |  Where, mid dangers manifold,

-   |  Lost in heavenly contemplation,

-   |  Desert fathers dwelt of old,

-

-   |  Lay a field where grass was growing

-   |  Green beneath the palm-trees' shade;

-   |  And a spring, forever flowing,

-   |  Life amid the stillness made.

-

-   |  There a brotherhood, incited

-   |  By one hope and purpose high,

-   |  Came to dwell in faith united,

-   |  Pray and labour, live and die.

-

-   |  Mighty was the love that bound them.

-   |  Each to each, in that wild land,

-   |  Where the desert closed around them,

-   |  One dead waste of rocks and sand,

-

-   |  Saving where, to rest their eyes on,

-   |  While they dreamed of hills divine,

-   |  Blue, above the low horizon,

-   |  Stretched the mountains' wavy line.

-

-   |  There could nought of earth remind them,

-   |  Nor disturb their dreams and prayers;

-   |  They had left the world behind them,

-   |  Felt no more its joys and cares.

-

-   |  Far from all its weary bustle,

-   |  Will subdued, and mind at ease.

-   |  They could hear the palm-trees rustle

-   |  In the early morning breeze.

-

-   |  When the bell, to prayer inviting.

-   |  From the low-built belfry rang,

-   |  They could hear the birds uniting

-   |  With them while the psalms they sang.

-

-   |  From the earth their labour brought them

-   |  All they needed—scanty fare.

-   |  Life of toil and hardship taught them,

-   |  Though at peace, the cross to bear.

-

-   |  This is all their record: never

-   |  Can we hope the rest to know!

-   |  Names and deeds are lost forever,

-   |  In the mist of long ago;

-

-   |  And of all that life angelic

-   |  Neither shadow left, nor trace.

-   |  Save this tale,—a precious relic,

-   |  In its wise and saintly grace!

-

-   |  This, above the darkness lifted

-   |  By the truth that in it lay,

-   |  On the sea of time has drifted,

-   |  And is still our own to-day.

-

-   |  Listen to it, it may teach us

-   |  Wisdom, with its words of gold!

-   |  Let this far-off blessing reach us

-   |  From the desert saints of old.

-

-.. vspace:: 3

-

-..

-

-   |  Underneath the vines they tended

-   |  Where the garden air was sweet,

-   |  Where the shadows, softly blended,

-   |  Made an ever cool retreat,—

-

-   |  These good brethren had assembled,

-   |  On their abbot to attend;

-   |  All were sad, and many trembled,

-   |  Thinking how the day would end.

-

-   |  Of their little congregation

-   |  One who long had faithful been,

-   |  Had, beneath a sore temptation,

-   |  Fallen into grievous sin.

-

-   |  What it was they have not told us,

-   |  But we know, whatever the blame,

-   |  If God's hand should cease to hold us,

-   |  You or I might do the same.

-

-   |  And for judgment's wise completing

-   |  (Now the crime was certified),

-   |  All were called in solemn meeting

-   |  On the sentence to decide.

-

-   |  Much in doubt, they craved assistance,

-   |  Sent to convents far away,

-   |  Even to that fair blue distance

-   |  Where their eyes had loved to stray.

-

-   |  Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,

-   |  Abbots used to think and rule,

-   |  Gathered where the brook sang faintly

-   |  In the shadow, green and cool.

-

-   |  Oh the beauty that was wasted

-   |  On that day, remembered oft!

-   |  Oh the sweetness, all untasted,

-   |  Of the morning, still and soft!

-

-   |  At their feet the water glistened,

-   |  Birds were nesting overhead;

-   |  No one saw, and no one listened

-   |  Save to what the speakers said.

-

-   |  Long and sad was their debating,

-   |  Voices low and faces grave,

-   |  While, the gloomy tale relating,

-   |  Each in turn his judgment gave.

-

-   |  "Send him from you!" one was saying

-   |  Calmly, as of reason sure;

-   |  "All are tainted by his staying,

-   |  Let men know your hands are pure!

-

-   |  "For the shame and sorrow brought you,

-   |  Let him be to all as dead!

-   |  Harm sufficient has he wrought you!"

-   |  But the abbot shook his head.

-

-   |  For the sin which had undone him,

-   |  For much evil brought about,

-   |  He would lay a burden on him,

-   |  But he could not cast him out!

-

-   |  All night long the distant howling,

-   |  While he waked, of beasts of prey,

-   |  Made him think of demons prowling,

-   |  Come to snatch that soul away.

-

-   |  Said another: "I would rather

-   |  That his shame by all were seen.

-   |  Do not spare him, O my Father;

-   |  Let the blow be swift and keen!

-

-   |  "Let not justice be evaded!

-   |  Keep him, bound to labour hard,

-   |  With you, but apart degraded,

-   |  And from speech with all debarred!"

-

-   |  This the abbot not refusing,

-   |  Only wondered, while he thought,

-   |  Was there no one feared the losing

-   |  Of a soul the Lord had bought?

-

-   |  One, more thoughtless, recommended

-   |  That in prison closely pent

-   |  He should stay till life was ended!

-   |  But to this would none consent.

-

-   |  In the cell where first they closed him,

-   |  Shrinking back, as best he might,

-   |  From a window that exposed him

-   |  Sometimes to a passer's sight,

-

-   |  He, the black offender, waited,

-   |  From them parted since his fall:

-   |  Once beloved, now scorned and hated

-   |  By himself, he thought by all!

-

-   |  Nothing asking, nothing pleading,

-   |  Speechless, tearless, in despair;

-   |  But, like one in pain exceeding,

-   |  Moving ever here and there.

-

-   |  Little did his fate alarm him:

-   |  What had he to fear or shun?

-   |  What could others do to harm him

-   |  More than he himself had done?

-

-   |  But without were minds divided,

-   |  And the morning wore away;

-   |  Noon had come, and undecided

-   |  Still the heavy question lay.

-

-   |  Though they looked so stern and fearless,

-   |  Some with sinking hearts had come,—

-   |  Hearts that wept when eyes were tearless,

-   |  Pleaded when the lips were dumb.

-

-   |  One who had that morning seen him,

-   |  Seeking from their gaze to hide,

-   |  Tried from heavy doom to screen him;

-   |  But his reasons were denied.

-

-   |  He of other days was thinking,—

-   |  Happy days, and still so near!—

-   |  When that brother, shamed and shrinking,

-   |  Had to all their souls been dear.

-

-   |  Others tried their hearts to harden,

-   |  Felt their pity to be sin;

-   |  Silent, prayed the Lord to pardon

-   |  Kinder thoughts that rose within.

-

-   |  Some proposed and some objected,

-   |  While, the long debate to end,

-   |  One old Father they expected,

-   |  And on him would all depend.

-

-   |  He—their honoured, best adviser—

-   |  Dwelt in desert cave retired;

-   |  Older than the rest, and wiser:

-   |  Many thought his words inspired;

-

-   |  Said he knew what passed within them

-   |  When by sin or doubt assailed;

-   |  True it is, his words could win them,

-   |  Often, when all else had failed.

-

-   |  He would find what all were seeking,

-   |  Justice pure, and judgment right!

-   |  Still the abbot, seldom speaking,

-   |  Pale and sober, prayed for light.

-

-   |  Light was sent!  For, toiling slowly

-   |  O'er the sun-baked desert road,

-   |  Came that Father, wise and holy,

-   |  Bent beneath a weary load!

-

-   |  Scarce his failing limbs sustained him,

-   |  For the burden sorely pressed:

-   |  Many times, as though it pained him,

-   |  Would he stand to breathe and rest.

-

-   |  One who watched for his arriving,

-   |  Went and told them he was near.

-   |  Up they rose, and ceased their striving,

-   |  In their joy such news to hear!

-

-   |  Then they all went forth and met him,

-   |  By their reverent love compelled:

-   |  Nevermore could one forget him,

-   |  Who that day his face beheld!

-

-   |  Wasted, worn, yet strong to aid them;

-   |  Peaceful, though by conflict tried;

-   |  Shining with a light that made them

-   |  Feel the Lord was by his side!

-

-   |  But it grieved their souls to see him

-   |  By that burden bowed and strained!

-   |  Many stretched their hands to free him,

-   |  Wondering what the sack contained.

-

-   |  "Why this burden?" one addressed him;

-   |  "All unfit for arms like thine!"

-   |  He, while yet the weight oppressed him,

-   |  Answered: "These are sins of mine.

-

-   |  "I must bear them all, my brother,

-   |  Ever with me while I go

-   |  On my way to judge another!

-   |  These have made my journey slow."

-

-   |  Then the abbot, growing bolder,

-   |  Raised the load with trembling hand

-   |  From the Father's bended shoulder;

-   |  Looked—and found it filled with sand.

-

-   |  Of them all, there was not any

-   |  But was silent for a while;

-   |  For the best had sins as many

-   |  As the sand-grains in that pile!

-

-   |  Then they heard the abbot saying,

-   |  "God alone must judge us all!"

-   |  And a burden, heavy weighing,

-   |  Seemed from every heart to fall.

-

-   |  Awed and hushed, but no more keeping

-   |  Pity crushed, or love restrained,

-   |  Some were smiling, some were weeping;

-   |  Of their striving what remained?

-

-   |  Many bowed in veneration;

-   |  Others all in haste to go

-   |  With a word of consolation

-   |  To their brother fallen low.

-

-   |  Hope they brought, and gentler feeling,

-   |  To his torn, despairing breast,

-   |  And that evening found him kneeling

-   |  In the chapel with the rest.

-

-   |  None arose to judge or sentence:

-   |  He whose sin they most deplored,

-   |  In his long and sad repentance,

-   |  Was with charity restored.

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`Il Crocifisso della Providenza`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   Il Crocifisso della Providenza

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-The crucifix about which this story is told is still

-to be seen in the church of the Carmine, where it

-is kept in the Corsini chapel; and it is always shown to

-the public on the first of May, when also (as the ballad

-relates) a *festa* is held in the house once occupied by

-the three sisters, in the Via dell' Orto.

-

-The house seems to have been little changed since

-they lived there; it now bears the number 10, and is

-easily recognized by a niche in the wall, containing a

-representation of the crucifix, and the chest piled with

-loaves.

-

-From time immemorial, a lamp burns every night

-before this little shrine: the oil is provided by the poor

-women of the vicinity (and they are very poor indeed),

-each one laying by a few *centesimi* every week for the

-purpose.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   Il Crocifisso della Providenza

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  The streets of Florence are fair to see,

-   |  With palace and church and tower,

-   |  And there the mighty of earth have dwelt,

-   |  And the whole world feels their power.

-

-   |  And many come from the East and West

-   |  To gaze on its beauty rare;

-   |  To stand where the wise and great have stood,

-   |  For their presence is ever there.

-

-   |  But they never think of the narrow streets

-   |  Where the poor of the city dwell;

-   |  Those humble houses, so bare and plain,

-   |  Have tales of their own to tell.

-

-   |  There's one by the San Frediano gate,

-   |  Not far from the city wall;

-   |  Some Latin words on its front engraved

-   |  The memory still recall

-

-   |  Of one, a beggar, to all unknown,

-   |  Who knocked at the door one day;

-   |  Of what a blessing he left behind

-   |  That morn when he went his way,

-

-   |  It happened hundreds of years ago,

-   |  But they tell the story still;

-   |  So listen now to the legend old,

-   |  And smile at it if you will.

-

-   |  But if you smile, be it not in scorn;

-   |  The tale which I now relate

-   |  Has lightened many a heavy heart

-   |  By the San Frediano gate.

-

-   |  Long since, they say, in that ancient house

-   |  There were orphan maidens three,

-   |  And in the chamber above the door,

-   |  Whose window you still may see,

-

-   |  They worked and prayed, by the world unseen;

-   |  And ever, the long day through,

-   |  The needles stitched, and the spindle twirled,

-   |  And the knitted garment grew.

-

-   |  So young, and one of them yet a child,

-   |  With never an earthly friend;

-   |  They prayed each day for the daily bread

-   |  Which they knew the Lord would send.

-

-   |  And toiling cheerfully, lived content,

-   |  Nor ever of want complained,

-   |  But freely shared with the needy poor

-   |  The little their labour gained.

-

-   |  But evil days to the sisters came,

-   |  And their faith was sorely tried:

-   |  A merchant, one of the first in town,

-   |  That winter had failed and died.

-

-   |  And many debts had he left behind,

-   |  And their work was all unpaid;

-   |  For he it was who had bought and sold

-   |  The delicate wares they made.

-

-   |  They prayed for help, and they sought for work;

-   |  But awhile they sought in vain.

-   |  They pledged the ring that their father wore,

-   |  And their mother's golden chain.

-

-   |  Then work they found, but for neighbours poor,

-   |  And some of them could not pay;

-   |  'T was well for them that the spring began,

-   |  And the cold had passed away.

-

-   |  And one by one, as the days went on,

-   |  Were the household treasures sold,—

-   |  The copper pitcher, the brazen lamp,

-   |  And the nut-wood table old,

-

-   |  The pot of pinks from the window-sill—

-   |  But when they had sold them all,

-   |  An ancient crucifix, carved in wood,

-   |  Still hung on the whitewashed wall

-

-   |  Above the chest where the loaves were kept;

-   |  Such blessing its presence shed,

-   |  It seemed to them like a living friend,

-   |  And not like an image dead!

-

-   |  In all their troubles, in all their joys,

-   |  That crucifix bore a part;

-   |  Above all comfort, or wealth, or gain,

-   |  'T was dear to the sisters' heart!

-

-   |  As babes, before they could understand,

-   |  Or ever a prayer repeat,

-   |  Each day their father had held them up,

-   |  While they kissed the carven feet.

-

-   |  So April came, and so April went;

-   |  And they lived, the Lord knows how!

-   |  The elder sister had saved and spared,

-   |  But the chest was empty now.

-

-   |  That very evening she broke in halves,

-   |  And gave to the younger two,

-   |  One piece of bread—'t was the last they had;

-   |  There was nothing more to do,

-

-   |  Unless, unless—and she looked at them,

-   |  And then at the image dear:

-   |  She touched it once; but her hand drew back

-   |  With a guilty, shrinking fear.

-

-   |  Her sisters saw, and they started up,

-   |  And they said in haste, "Not so!

-   |  Take back the bread, if there be no more;

-   |  The crucifix must not go!"

-

-   |  And she took courage, and kissed them both,

-   |  And smiled, though her eyes were wet;

-   |  Then looked again at the face beloved,

-   |  And said, "He will help us yet!"

-

-   |  They rose next day with the early dawn,

-   |  And their hearts were almost light!

-   |  The young need little to make them glad,

-   |  And the day was fair and bright.

-

-   |  And pleasant 't is to behold the sun,

-   |  Though his rosy-tinted ray

-   |  Could only shine on the moss-grown tiles

-   |  Of the roof across the way.

-

-   |  And the air was sweet in the narrow street

-   |  Where the swallows toss and glide;

-   |  For a perfume came on the morning breeze

-   |  From the hills on every side,—

-

-   |  A perfume faint from the woods afar,

-   |  From blossoming fields of corn;

-   |  And bells already their chimes began,

-   |  For this was a sacred morn.

-

-   |  The Carmine church is near at hand,

-   |  And the sisters thither hied;

-   |  'T was there they had knelt in happy days

-   |  By the dear dead mother's side.

-

-   |  Then home, through the gay and festive street,

-   |  Till they reached the chamber bare:

-   |  The time had come for the morning meal,

-   |  And alas, no bread was there!

-

-   |  The elder girl on her sisters looked,

-   |  And her face grew white with pain.

-   |  Then said the one who was next in age,

-   |  "Let us ask the Lord again!"

-

-   |  So down they knelt on the red-tiled floor,

-   |  And the elder bowed her head,

-   |  And said aloud, while the others joined,

-   |  The prayer for their daily bread.

-

-   |  And then, with a tempest in her heart

-   |  That she could no more withstand,

-   |  With her arm around the younger girl,

-   |  And the other by the hand,

-

-   |  She pleaded, raising her tearful face

-   |  To the dying face above,

-   |  For those she loved in their helpless state

-   |  With more than a sister's love.

-

-   |  "O blessed Jesus!  O Lord divine!

-   |  Have pity, we wait for Thee!

-   |  Look down—Thou seest our empty chest,

-   |  Thou knowest how poor we be!

-

-   |  "Oh, send some bread to my sisters dear,

-   |  For the cornfields all are Thine!

-   |  I 'd rather lie in my grave to-day

-   |  Than to see these children pine!

-

-   |  "Thou knowest, Lord, I have done my best;

-   |  But my hands have failed at length:

-   |  A mother's burden is on me laid

-   |  With only a maiden's strength.

-

-   |  "Come, help me!  Look at these orphan girls!

-   |  Oh, save them from want and woe!—"

-   |  Her praying ceased, for they heard a sound,

-   |  A knock at the door below.

-

-   |  They rose, and all to the window went:

-   |  A beggar was at the door,

-   |  A poor, pale stranger, with staff in hand,

-   |  Who had never come before.

-

-   |  The Month of Mary was coming in;

-   |  And many were on their way

-   |  To ask for alms in the Virgin's name

-   |  On that beautiful first of May.

-

-   |  "My little sisters," the beggar said,

-   |  (And bowed to the maidens three,)

-   |  "I pray you spare from your table spread

-   |  A morsel of bread for me!

-

-   |  "I come from far, and I 've far to go;

-   |  And I 've eaten nought to-day!"

-   |  The elder wept, but she answered not;

-   |  And the second turned away.

-

-   |  The younger looked with her innocent eyes

-   |  In the beggar's pleading face:

-   |  "And if we could, we would give you food;

-   |  But we 're in as hard a case!

-

-   |  "We finished yesterday all we had—

-   |  The half of a loaf, no more!—

-   |  We just were asking the Lord for bread,

-   |  When we heard you at the door."

-

-   |  "Go, look in the chest, my little maid;

-   |  You 'll find there is bread to spare!"

-   |  "Alas, we have looked so many times,

-   |  And never a crust is there!"

-

-   |  "Look once again, for the love of Him

-   |  Whose image I see within:

-   |  He never has failed to help His own,

-   |  And He will not now begin."

-

-   |  So only lest it should seem unkind

-   |  To refuse the small request,

-   |  The elder girl with a patient smile

-   |  Went back to the empty chest.

-

-   |  She looked—and down on her knees she fell,

-   |  With a cry of glad surprise:

-   |  The others turned, and their breath stood still,

-   |  They could scarce believe their eyes!

-

-   |  'T was full!  And the loaves were piled so high

-   |  They could close the lid no more.

-   |  Their tears fell faster for joy that day

-   |  Than they fell for grief before!

-

-   |  But in the midst of their thankful praise

-   |  They thought of the starving man:

-   |  The little one seized the topmost loaf,

-   |  And back to the window ran.

-

-   |  She looked, she called him—he was not there!

-   |  They sought him, but all in vain:

-   |  He passed away from their sight that day,

-   |  And he came no more again.

-

-   |  So ends the story; but ever since

-   |  That crucifix bears the name

-   |  *La Providenza*; and even now

-   |  The house has a sacred fame.

-

-   |  And many kneel where the sisters knelt

-   |  Each year on the first of May;

-   |  And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers,

-   |  And leaves of the scented bay.

-

-   |  The humble room is with roses decked.

-   |  And bright with the candles' glow;

-   |  And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm,

-   |  Float over the street below.

-

-   |  A woman agèd and silver-haired

-   |  Once told me, with solemn thrill,

-   |  How she herself had beheld the chest,

-   |  Which stands in the chamber still.

-

-   |  I asked her: "Who was that beggarman?

-   |  An angel, do you suppose?

-   |  A saint from heaven?"  Her face grew grave,

-   |  And she answered me, "Who knows?"

-

-   |  And then, with voice to a whisper dropped,

-   |  With an awed, mysterious air,

-   |  "Some think," she said, "'t was the Lord Himself

-   |  Who came at the maiden's prayer."

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`Angels in the Churchyard`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   Angels in the Churchyard

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-The story of the "Angels in the Churchyard" was

-told me by Signore Bortolo Zanchetta of Bassano,

-who said that he read it in an old book, but he had

-lost the book, and could not even remember its name.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   Angels in the Churchyard

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  A saint there was, long time ago,

-   |  And all in vain I tried

-   |  His name to learn, or whence he came,

-   |  Or how or where he died.

-

-   |  For he from whom the tale I heard

-   |  Could tell me nothing more

-   |  Save only that within him dwelt

-   |  Of love an endless store.

-

-   |  And in the churchyard once he passed

-   |  A summer night in prayer,

-   |  For pity of the nameless dead

-   |  Who lie forgotten there.

-

-   |  He knew not when the sun went down,

-   |  So earnestly he prayed!

-   |  He knew not when the twilight glow

-   |  Was lost in deepening shade.

-

-   |  And when the fair, round moon arose

-   |  Behind the wooded hill,

-   |  She looked across the churchyard wall,

-   |  And found him praying still.

-

-   |  But when the night was far along,

-   |  And when the moon was high,

-   |  When all the village lights were out,

-   |  And closed was every eye,—

-

-   |  When low above the sleeping dead

-   |  The folded daisies slept,

-   |  And he alone his patient watch

-   |  Until the morning kept,—

-

-   |  Came angels through the churchyard gate,

-   |  But in no heavenly guise;

-   |  So unadorned, he little thought

-   |  They came from Paradise!

-

-   |  The moon lit up their robes of white;

-   |  No other glory shone.

-   |  He watched them, as they paused before

-   |  One sunken, moss-grown stone,

-

-   |  And thrice their silver censers swung,

-   |  As at some saintly shrine,

-   |  But never incense burnt on earth

-   |  Had perfume so divine.

-

-   |  Between the graves they glided on:

-   |  Toward a cross they turned—

-   |  A wooden cross that bore no name—

-   |  And there the incense burned.

-

-   |  A fading garland on it hung,

-   |  Of wild flowers simply twined;

-   |  Whoever lay in that poor grave

-   |  Had left some love behind.

-

-   |  But next they sought a dreary place

-   |  Against the northern wall;

-   |  He could not see if mound were there,

-   |  The nettles grew so tall!

-

-   |  And on to others, three or four,

-   |  Their noiseless steps they bent:

-   |  Where'er they stayed, the incense rose;

-   |  Then, as they came, they went.

-

-   |  But often to that churchyard green

-   |  Did he at night repair;

-   |  And ever, when the hour returned,

-   |  The angels all were there.

-

-   |  He thought them only white-robed priests;

-   |  And much he wondered why

-   |  Each night at certain graves they stayed,

-   |  While others they passed by.

-

-   |  Till, after waiting, wondering long,

-   |  One night he forward pressed,

-   |  And spoke with one who walked apart,

-   |  A step behind the rest.

-

-   |  'T was starlight now; the moon had waned:

-   |  He hardly saw the face

-   |  Of him he talked with; but he felt

-   |  Great peace was in the place.

-

-   |  "Of God's own saints," the angel said,

-   |  "A few lie buried here;

-   |  And He so loves them that to Him

-   |  Their very dust is dear!

-

-   |  "So, while their souls with perfect peace

-   |  Are in His presence blest,

-   |  He will not that these humble graves

-   |  Should all unhonoured rest.

-

-   |  "Each night from heaven He sends us down.

-   |  Where'er His flowers are sown—

-   |  These bodies that shall one day rise,

-   |  All glorious like His own!"

-

-   |  The saint was silent, for his lips

-   |  Could find no word to say:

-   |  He stood entranced, and like to one

-   |  Whose soul is far away.

-

-   |  At length he roused; the stars were dim,

-   |  The night had half withdrawn:

-   |  A light was in the eastern sky,

-   |  The clear pale light of dawn.

-

-   |  Then came a freshening in the air,

-   |  A twitter in the trees,

-   |  A ripple in the dewy grass

-   |  That felt the early breeze;

-

-   |  And sounded from the tower above

-   |  The sweet-toned, ancient bell;

-   |  While bright and busy over all

-   |  The summer morning fell.

-

-   |  The daisies opened; happy birds

-   |  Sang in the sunshine free.

-   |  The dead alone are sleeping now;

-   |  Their morning is to be.

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Origin of the Indian Corn`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   The Origin of the Indian Corn

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-This story was told me by the Contessa Vittoria

-Percoto Antonini of Palmanuova, who said that

-she heard it in her youth at a *Fila*, which is a sort of

-social gathering held in the winter evenings by the

-*contadini* in that part of the country.

-

-The winter is cold, and these *contadini*, who are very

-poor and can ill afford the wood for a fire, meet in the

-cattle-shed, where the breath of cows and oxen warms

-the air a little.

-

-They often say, "It is the way that the Gesù

-Bambino was warmed!"  A lantern hangs from one

-of the beams overhead, and by its dim light the women

-spin or knit.  All talk together, and (as the Contessa

-Vittoria expresses it) "the boys make themselves

-agreeable to the girls, very much as though it were a party

-of ladies and gentlemen."

-

-And from time to time the elder people entertain the

-company with stories, of which this is a pretty fair

-specimen.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Origin of the Indian Corn

-

-.. class:: center medium bold

-

-   A Legend of Friuli

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  In the far Italian border land,

-   |  With its rolling hills and mountains grand,

-   |  And the Alps of Carnia rising near,

-   |  Where the snow lies more than half the year;

-   |  With crags where the clinging fir-trees grow

-   |  Above the chestnuts and vines below,

-   |  From the weary, changing world remote,—

-   |  There age on age doth a legend float.

-   |  The young have learnt it from agèd men;

-   |  It never was written yet with pen.

-   |  It seems at first, when they tell it o'er,

-   |  A childish fancy, and nothing more;

-   |  And bearing the impress, deep indeed,

-   |  Of the hard and struggling lives they lead:

-   |  A thing to smile at, and then forget,

-   |  Scarce worthy a passing thought—and yet

-   |  The simple tale may a lesson teach

-   |  If only one can its meaning reach!

-   |  Like one of their living, hill-side springs,

-   |  That shows the image of common things;

-   |  So he who looks on its surface sees

-   |  The bending flowers, the arching trees,

-   |  The sun, the shadow, the rocks, the sky,

-   |  The busy birds that go flitting by,

-   |  While deep below is the endless wealth

-   |  Of water, given for life and health.

-

-   |  In homely form is the lesson taught;

-   |  But worthy still of a reverent thought.

-   |  So listen, think; if you have a mind

-   |  To seek, and the hidden treasure find:

-   |  For Truth, most precious and fair, doth dwell

-   |  In the crystal depth of this mountain well.

-

-   |  And this is the story, often told

-   |  In the winter evenings long and cold;

-   |  In the low-roofed, dimly lighted shed,

-   |  Where the breath of oxen serves instead

-   |  Of a blazing hearth to warm the place:

-   |  A smile of peace is on every face,

-   |  And hearts are light, and they often say,

-   |  "Our Lord was warmed in the self-same way,

-   |  That night when He on the earth was born!"

-   |  And the shed no longer seems forlorn,

-   |  For it makes them feel Him near at hand:

-   |  And they the better can understand

-   |  How by His pity and timely aid

-   |  The beautiful Indian corn was made.

-

-   |  'T was in the days when He dwelt below,

-   |  Before 't was given to man to know

-   |  Or who He was or from whence He came;

-   |  And the world had hardly heard His name!

-   |  He journeyed over the country roads,

-   |  He taught the poor, and He eased their loads.

-   |  He had no dwelling wherein to rest

-   |  With the one or two who loved Him best,

-   |  And once in seeking a friendly door

-   |  They came to a farmer's threshing-floor.

-   |  The hot July had but just begun;

-   |  The road lay white in the blinding sun;

-   |  The air was heavy with odours sweet;

-   |  The sky was pale, as if faint with heat.

-   |  Two weary men and two women pale

-   |  Were threshing, each with a heavy flail,—

-   |  A mile away you could hear the sound

-   |  In measured cadence along the ground.

-   |  Then, moved with pity at such a sight,

-   |  It pleased Him to make their burden light.

-   |  At first He prayed them to pause and rest;

-   |  They only smiled at the strange request,

-   |  And laboured on till He spoke again:

-   |  "Fear not, Myself I will thresh the grain!"

-

-   |  At sound of His holy voice, they knew

-   |  That what He said He would surely do!

-   |  He bade them bring Him a burning brand,

-   |  And, though they little could understand,

-   |  The brand was brought, and they saw Him bend,

-   |  And touch the corn with the lighted end.

-   |  Then swiftly, as by a tempest blown,

-   |  The straw to the farther side was thrown;

-   |  The wheaten kernels, all clear and bright,

-   |  Lay piled on high—'t was a pleasant sight!

-   |  Another and smaller heap contained

-   |  The chaff, and whatever else remained.

-   |  'T was threshed and winnowed, and all in one;

-   |  The work of days in a moment done!

-   |  The happy threshers, with one accord,

-   |  Gave thanks and praise to the blessèd Lord;

-   |  And grateful tears at His feet were shed.

-

-   |  Meanwhile the news through the village spread;

-   |  For more than one had been near, and seen

-   |  The miracle of the wheat made clean.

-   |  From field and garden and cottage door,

-   |  The people flocked to the threshing-floor.

-   |  Then came a time of such joy supreme

-   |  As never had been in thought or dream.

-   |  For when they looked on the clean-threshed wheat,

-   |  And heard the threshers their tale repeat,

-   |  And knew that He had this wonder done,

-   |  They knelt and worshipped Him, every one!

-   |  Oh, think how happy they were and blest,

-   |  Who might awhile in His presence rest!

-   |  Think what it would be for you or me

-   |  That voice to hear and that face to see!

-   |  The children run to Him where He stands,

-   |  And cling with their little sunbrowned hands

-   |  To His garment; and the parents feel

-   |  Their burden lightened while yet they kneel.

-   |  "Thank God, who spared us!" the agèd say,

-   |  "To look on Thy blessèd face to-day!"

-   |  The sick are healed, and the weak made strong,

-   |  And hearts consoled that had suffered long:

-   |  A sound of gladness, of praise and prayer,

-   |  Floats far away on the summer air.

-

-   |  Amid such transports of young and old,

-   |  How was it that one could still be cold?

-   |  A certain widow whom all confessed

-   |  To be the bravest, perhaps the best,

-   |  Among the women the place contained—

-   |  Why was it that she aloof remained?

-

-   |  Handsome and stately, and strong of arm

-   |  To guard her fatherless babes from harm,

-   |  With five little hungry mouths to fill;

-   |  For them she laboured with might and will!

-   |  But, proud of spirit, she could not bear

-   |  That other hearts should her burden share.

-   |  Of soul too high for an evil deed,

-   |  She scorned the others, but helped their need.

-   |  In wit and wisdom the rest excelled,

-   |  And yet their kindness too oft repelled;

-   |  Accepted nothing, though free to give,

-   |  And almost rather had ceased to live

-   |  Than share the loaf from a neighbour's shelf.

-   |  Yes, proud of her very pride itself!

-

-   |  She nursed it, cherished it, thought it grand,

-   |  To guide unaided her house and land,

-   |  And thanked the Lord, when she knelt to pray,

-   |  That never one in the place could say,

-   |  "I help the widow!"  And now she stood

-   |  Apart from the kneeling multitude,

-   |  And half impatient and half amused,

-   |  She smiled at the simple words they used,

-   |  Of praise and wonder, and thought how she

-   |  Could never so weak and childish be!

-

-   |  For her 't was a proud and happy day,

-   |  For rest and plenty before her lay:

-   |  Herself had sown and herself had reaped;

-   |  And now the beautiful sheaves lay heaped,

-   |  Not far away, by her open door;

-   |  Her heart rejoiced in the ample store!

-   |  A neighbour saw her, and called her name:

-   |  "Come near! perhaps He will do the same

-   |  For thee, and thy summer's work complete;

-   |  I know that thou hast not threshed thy wheat!"

-

-   |  She tossed her head with a smile of pride:

-   |  "I never yet, since my husband died,

-   |  Asked help or favour of any one!

-   |  Besides, I saw how the thing was done.

-   |  And I can do it as well as He;

-   |  He need not turn from His way for me!"

-   |  She looked on the awed, adoring crowd,

-   |  In scorn a moment; then laughed aloud,

-   |  To see the horror among them spread,

-   |  At sound of the evil words she said.

-

-   |  Our Lord's disciples, though saints they were,

-   |  Had no good wishes that day for her!

-   |  Indeed, their patience was greatly tried

-   |  To see Him slighted and thrust aside.

-   |  One even whispered, "Hast Thou not heard?"

-   |  But He said never an angry word!

-   |  One look of pity He on her cast,

-   |  Then turned, and forth from the village passed,

-   |  Along the lane where the grass was brown,

-   |  And birds were plucking the thistle-down,

-   |  Till under the olives' silver screen

-   |  He turned aside, and no more was seen.

-

-   |  And now the widow of heart so proud

-   |  Would show to the grave, indignant crowd

-   |  Her greater wisdom; with this intent

-   |  She calmly in to her fireside went;

-   |  Some coals she brought in an iron pan—

-   |  "If one can do it, another can!"

-   |  She said; and then with a careless smile

-   |  She touched the coals to her golden pile.

-

-   |  A flash, a crackle, a blinding blaze

-   |  Of flame, that struggles, and soars, and sways,

-   |  And sinks a moment, and soars again—

-   |  That was the end of the widow's grain!

-   |  A few short moments, and nought remained

-   |  Of all that her loving toil had gained

-   |  But blackened tinder, and embers red,

-   |  And the sullen smoke-cloud overhead!

-

-   |  Her friends and neighbours, I fear, meanwhile

-   |  Were far less minded to weep than smile;

-   |  And hardly one was with pity moved,

-   |  For the woman was not greatly loved.

-   |  And all were angry, as well as grieved,

-   |  To think of the slight our Lord received,

-   |  After his wonderful goodness shown,

-   |  And when He had made their cares His own!

-

-   |  The boys were ready to dance and shout,

-   |  At seeing the red sparks blown about;

-   |  The maidens whispered and laughed aside;

-   |  Their parents talked on the sin of pride.

-   |  To help or comfort her, no one planned,

-   |  Except the poorest of all the band;

-   |  An agèd woman, who near her came,

-   |  And drew her back from the scorching flame.

-   |  "Poor soul!" she said, "thou hast children five!

-   |  And I have none in the world alive.

-   |  Keep up thy heart!  I am well content

-   |  To share with thee what the Lord has sent.

-   |  I just have gathered my harvest store,

-   |  And when 't is gone, He will send us more!"

-

-   |  In vain they spoke to her, ill or good;

-   |  She neither listened nor understood.

-   |  She minded not if they frowned or smiled;

-   |  Her face was white, and her eyes were wild,

-   |  As, lost in horror, she stood and gazed

-   |  To see the corn by her labour raised,

-   |  Their store of food for the coming year,

-   |  Consume before her and disappear!

-   |  Then came the cry of a little child,

-   |  From sleep awakened, in terror wild.

-   |  That cry brought life to her fainting heart;

-   |  She turned around with a sudden start,

-   |  And said, in a husky voice and low,

-   |  "Which way did that Blessèd Stranger go?"

-

-   |  A storm of voices around her rose;

-   |  The woman's purpose they all oppose.

-   |  "*Which way?*" they angrily say; "but how?

-   |  Wilt thou have courage to seek him now?

-   |  And after thy shameful words to-day,

-   |  Is He to stop for thee on His way?

-   |  Is He to come when He hears thy call?

-   |  But, woman, hast thou no shame at all?"

-   |  "Nay, go not near Him!" another said:

-   |  "That man has power to strike thee dead,

-   |  And thou hast angered Him!  Let Him go—

-   |  Thy pride has ruined thee; be it so!"

-

-   |  Though none to help her a hand would lend,

-   |  That gray-haired woman was still her friend;

-   |  She could not speak, for her voice was drowned

-   |  In such a tumult of angry sound.

-   |  She only made with her wrinkled hand

-   |  A sign the widow could understand,

-   |  And quick as thought, and before they knew,

-   |  Away on her wild pursuit she flew.

-

-   |  Our Blessèd Lord, with His followers few,

-   |  Had journeyed on for a mile or two,

-   |  When, on the brow of a rocky hill,

-   |  The others noticed that He stood still

-   |  And looked behind Him; they did the same.

-   |  A woman running toward them came,

-   |  Running and stumbling, and falling oft,

-   |  And throwing wildly her arms aloft,

-   |  As if entreating them still to stay

-   |  Till she could finish the toilsome way!

-   |  They looked; and pity their souls possessed

-   |  At first in seeing her thus distressed;

-   |  But when they knew her, their hearts grew hard,

-   |  Nor would they longer her prayers regard.

-   |  "Good Lord, that woman it is," they say,

-   |  "Who scorned and slighted Thee so to-day.

-   |  She knows her folly, perhaps, too late;

-   |  For her, most surely, we should not wait!"

-   |  "She needs me now!" was His sole reply;

-   |  And still He waited—they wondered why!

-

-   |  Down in the dust at His feet she fell:

-   |  Her doleful story she could not tell,

-   |  For speech had failed, and she vainly tried:

-   |  But, stretching her helpless hands, she cried

-   |  (With lips that hardly the words could form,

-   |  They trembled so with the inward storm),

-   |  "Good Lord, have patience, and pity take

-   |  On me, for the innocent children's sake!"

-   |  And then from her eyes began to pour

-   |  A flood of tears, and she said no more.

-   |  She dropped her head on her heaving breast;

-   |  But He in His wisdom knew the rest.

-   |  And when He looked on her, bowed and crushed,

-   |  Her pride all broken, her boasting hushed,

-   |  "Take heart!" He said: "I will give thee more

-   |  And better grain than thou hadst before."

-

-   |  The day was drawing toward a close,

-   |  The sky was clear in its deep repose;

-   |  The sun, just sinking away from sight,

-   |  Had touched with a solemn crimson light

-   |  The smoky column that, dark and thin,

-   |  Still rose where the widow's sheaves had been.

-   |  The neighbours lingered, or came and went

-   |  To look, and talk of the day's event.

-   |  And, smiling grimly the wreck to view,

-   |  Some said: "The widow has had her due!"

-   |  But more of them shook their heads and sighed,

-   |  To think of the bitter fruits of pride.

-   |  And one old woman looked down the lane,

-   |  And wished the widow would come again!

-   |  The five poor little ones sat forlorn,

-   |  Beside the blackened and wasted corn;

-   |  And ate the bread that the neighbours brought:

-   |  For them, at least, there was pitying thought.

-   |  No sin of theirs, if the corn was burned!

-   |  And then it was that the Lord returned.

-

-   |  Returned, as ever, to save and bless!

-   |  And while the people around Him press,

-   |  The widow kneels and the children weep,

-   |  He lays His hand on the smouldering heap.

-   |  His touch has the evil work undone;

-   |  And in the light of the setting sun

-   |  The corn returned where the ashes lay;

-   |  But not as it was at noon that day.

-   |  To twice their size had the kernels grown,

-   |  And each with a burning lustre shone.

-   |  For, since that grain through the fire has passed,

-   |  'T will bear its colour until the last!

-

-   |  A few, in seeing the store increased

-   |  Of her who seemed to deserve it least,

-   |  Began to murmur; and yet, maybe,

-   |  Themselves were more in the wrong than she!

-   |  With all her folly, with all her sin—

-   |  For all her ignorant pride had been

-   |  Far more, alas, than her reason strong,—

-   |  She never did Him that grievous wrong

-   |  Of thinking He could refuse the prayer

-   |  Of one who sought Him in her despair;

-   |  Or that her sin, were it twice as great,

-   |  Could close His heart to her woful state;

-   |  Or lie so heavily on her soul

-   |  But what His love could outweigh the whole!

-   |  But most rejoiced in the happy sight

-   |  Of evil conquered and wrong made right.

-

-   |  And so from ruin and wreck was born

-   |  The beautiful, flame-hued Indian corn!

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Eldest Daughter of the King`:

-

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-

-   The Eldest Daughter of the King

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-The two stories of the Patriarch, St. John of

-Alexandria, which are especially interesting, as being

-without doubt true in all their principal facts, are taken

-from a short account of that wonderful man, written

-by St. Leontius, Bishop of Napolis, in Cyprus, who

-visited Alexandria after the Patriarch's death, and

-wrote in great part from the dictation of the Patriarch's

-servant, by name Zaccarias, himself a man of saintly

-character.  The stories must have been written by

-St. Leontius not long after 620, when the Patriarch died.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

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-

-   The Eldest Daughter of the King

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  Saint John of Alexandria—blessèd name,

-   |  Recalling ever holy thought and deed!

-   |  O heart forever warm with heavenly flame!

-   |  O hand forever full for others' need!

-

-   |  Blessèd and blessing thousands!  Since his day,

-   |  Twelve hundred years, and more, have come and gone,

-   |  Their beauty dead, their glory passed away:

-   |  But in our loving thought he still lives on.

-

-   |  Of all who ever walked on earthly sod,

-   |  (Though many loved and saintly names there be,)

-   |  I know not if another ever trod

-   |  More closely in his Master's steps than he!

-

-   |  To comfort all who suffer,—this alone

-   |  His soul desired; for this he prayed and strove

-   |  With heart unchanging; and for him were none

-   |  Too high for pity, nor too low for love.

-

-   |  And often was he rich, and often poor;

-   |  For God upon him had great wealth bestowed,

-   |  Which endless store of blessing did procure

-   |  To souls that fainted with their weary load.

-

-   |  Nor could he e'er from sorrow turn away,

-   |  Nor from a brother's need his hand withhold;

-   |  But when his all was spent, men used to say,

-   |  The good Lord gave him back a hundredfold.

-

-   |  Enough there was, and ever more to spare,

-   |  Though help abundant came at every call.

-   |  When prudent friends had prayed him to forbear,

-   |  He only said, "God has enough for all."

-

-   |  Till, for their souls' content, he told the truth,—

-   |  He being now a grey-haired agèd man,—

-   |  The holy vision that had blessed his youth,

-   |  And changed, of all his life, the course and plan.

-

-   |  "A boy I was, and in my father's home

-   |  I slept; 't was night, and I was all alone,

-   |  When to my side I felt a presence come;

-   |  A hand awakened me that touched my own.

-

-   |  "I saw the chamber all ablaze with light,

-   |  And there, before me, stood a lady fair,

-   |  With olive crowned, and clad in raiment bright,

-   |  Such as, I think, the saints in Heaven may wear.

-

-   |  "Hers was no earthly beauty, but a grace

-   |  Most sweet and solemn that no words can reach;

-   |  I looked awhile in her celestial face,

-   |  And then addressed her, but with timid speech:

-

-   |  "'Who art thou, O my lady, that dost bring

-   |  Such glory in the night?' Then answered she:

-   |  'I am the eldest daughter of the King,

-   |  And more than all my sisters, he loves me.

-

-   |  "'For me He left His glory: it was I

-   |  Who led Him on along the thorny road,

-   |  To suffer, and for others' sin to die;

-   |  For me He shared thy sorrow, bore thy load.

-

-   |  "'Take me for thy companion: I will be

-   |  Thy friend as I was His, and by the hand

-   |  Will lead thee where at evening thou shalt see

-   |  The emperor's face, and in his presence stand.

-

-   |  "While yet the voice was sounding in my ear

-   |  The vision ceased; I saw the light no more:

-   |  The moon was shining through the window near,

-   |  And all the house was silent as before.

-

-   |  "And, waiting till I saw the dawn ascend,

-   |  I lay and mused upon this wondrous thing;

-   |  And tried, with my child's mind, to comprehend

-   |  Who was the eldest daughter of the King,

-

-   |  "I prayed, I pondered long in vain; until

-   |  A light from Heaven was on my spirit shed:

-   |  And not by wisdom, nor by earthly skill,

-   |  I knew the meaning of the words she said.

-

-   |  "When Christ our blessèd Lord to earth came down,

-   |  And gave His life for lost and thankless men,

-   |  And changed His glory for a thorny crown,

-   |  'T was Mercy led and did constrain Him then.

-

-   |  "Ah, woe to us, if Mercy had not been

-   |  His eldest daughter, and His guide that day!

-   |  Then had we died, and perished in our sin,

-   |  Unpitied, unforgiven, cast away."

-

-   |  Such was the Patriarch's story, and we know

-   |  That Mercy in his heart her dwelling made,

-   |  As in no other; and his life below

-   |  Was Mercy, in a thousand forms displayed.

-

-   |  And when the summons came that comes to all,

-   |  As on a journey distant far he went;

-   |  While he, rejoicing, heard the heavenly call,

-   |  This token to the stricken church was sent.

-

-   |  A humble convent had his bounty shared,

-   |  From Alexandria some few miles away:

-   |  And there, where he for rest had oft repaired,

-   |  An agèd brother sick and dying lay.

-

-   |  For years infirm and helpless had he lain,

-   |  But strong in faith, and happy in God's will,

-   |  Through all the weary days and nights of pain,

-   |  His only work to suffer and lie still.

-

-   |  They two were friends, the Patriarch and he,

-   |  For oft the busy saint had loved to turn

-   |  From care and work, that peaceful face to see,

-   |  And from those patient lips some lesson learn.

-

-   |  And now as he lay dying, glad to go,

-   |  Yet thinking, maybe, of his absent friend,

-   |  To him was granted in a dream to know,

-   |  Of that most holy life, the blessèd end.

-

-   |  For, sleeping, he beheld in vision clear

-   |  That sombre palace by the poor beloved,

-   |  Where the good Patriarch, year after year,

-   |  Had all their burdens lightened or removed.

-

-   |  And down the stairway moved a long array

-   |  Of priests and others; slowly did they tread,

-   |  A grave procession, as on festal day,

-   |  And he, the Patriarch, was at their head.

-

-   |  The loved companions of his toil were there,

-   |  Who helped him long to labour and endure,

-   |  Who knelt beside him in the church at prayer,

-   |  Or bore his secret bounty to the poor.

-

-   |  They passed the door where none had knocked in vain,

-   |  They crossed the courtyard with its well of stone;

-   |  But at the outer gate did all remain

-   |  With saddened look, while he went forth alone.

-

-   |  And now the vision changed, he walked no more

-   |  The city street that knew his step so well,

-   |  But trod a pleasant path, unknown before,

-   |  Through a fair land, where peace did ever dwell.

-

-   |  There rose the emperor's palace on a hill,

-   |  O'erlooking all the country, where it lay

-   |  Spread out beneath it, beautiful and still,

-   |  In all the sweetness of an April day.

-

-   |  Grand was that mansion, stately to behold;

-   |  To tell its beauty words can ne'er begin,—

-   |  The thousand columns, and the domes of gold,

-   |  And shining all as from a light within.

-

-   |  He neared the palace—of their own accord

-   |  The lofty gates before him open swing,

-   |  And in the glory, as it outward poured,

-   |  Came forth the eldest daughter of the King,

-

-   |  Came as he saw her on that far-off night

-   |  Which star-like through his life's long journey shone,

-   |  Wearing her olive crown, her robe of light,

-   |  And came to meet him, where he walked alone,

-

-   |  He bowed and knelt before her, for he knew

-   |  That presence which had blessed him long before;

-   |  While from her folded mantle forth she drew

-   |  A crown of olive, like the one she wore,

-

-   |  And placed it on the saintly silvered head;

-   |  Then took his hand.  He rose; nor did they wait:

-   |  The dreamer watched them as they onward sped,

-   |  Till, hand in hand, they entered through the gate.

-

-   |  And then, as light concealed them, he awoke,

-   |  And to the brethren, gathered in his cell,

-   |  In tearful silence listening while he spoke,

-   |  He did the story of his vision tell,

-

-   |  And bade them note what hour the dream was sent,

-   |  Which some with anxious hearts made haste to do;

-   |  Then waited, fearing what the vision meant;

-   |  Till time had shown them all they feared was true.

-

-   |  For when the dreaded tidings came at last,

-   |  They knew that on that very hour and day

-   |  Their much-loved father from this life had passed,

-   |  In his own isle of Cyprus, far away.

-

-

-

-

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-.. _`Bishop Troilus`:

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-     Bishop Troilus

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-   Bishop Troilus

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-   THE MANSION IN HEAVEN

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-   |  In pomp and state, with following great, the Bishop Troilus came

-   |  To the town of Alexandria, which knew him long by fame,

-   |  To see the holy Patriarch, who had been his friend of old,

-   |  To hear his words of wisdom, and his saintly life behold.

-   |  In youth their paths together lay, and both with one accord

-   |  Had chosen then the better part, and thought to serve the Lord;

-   |  For half a century now and more had each one gone his way.

-   |  The Patriarch nearer was to God, far nearer than that day;

-   |  For his soul was like a garden where the flowers that then were sown,

-   |  With care and patient tending, had to perfect beauty grown.

-

-   |  And Troilus? ... In the world's esteem he stood as high, or higher;

-   |  His piety did all men praise, his eloquence admire;

-   |  He had fiery words to thrill them, he had flowery words to please,

-   |  And when he preached on festal days, the people swarmed like bees;

-   |  From altar steps to open door there was hardly room to stand.

-   |  And 't was not the sermon only, but his presence was so grand;

-   |  With his grave and agèd beauty, with his form erect and tall,

-   |  With saintly face and silver hair, he won the hearts of all.

-   |  When through the city he returned, so lofty and serene,

-   |  A train of priests attended him, all with obsequious mien;

-   |  And children followed open-eyed, and gentle ladies bent

-   |  From balcony and window high to see him as he went.

-   |  Indeed he was a stately sight in silken raiment clad,

-   |  The ring he wore was valued more than aught the Patriarch had;

-   |  And the cross upon his bosom, that the people wondering viewed,

-   |  Gave back the sunshine, when he walked, from jewels many-hued.

-   |  And men said his life was blameless, but it still must be confessed,

-   |  Though the saints were glad to own him, yet the sinners loved him best.

-   |  He was rich, and he was famous, and, as all his life had shown,

-   |  He was great in worldly wisdom, and the world will love its own.

-

-   |  But while saints and shiners praised him, there was one who did not praise,

-   |  But whose eyes forever watched him with a sad and anxious gaze;

-   |  For the Patriarch, simple-hearted, was not dazzled like the rest,

-   |  And he knew the deadly passion that the Bishop's soul possessed,—

-   |  Yes, more deadly than another, for it lay so still and cold,

-   |  Like a serpent coiled within him,—'twas the growing love of gold.

-

-   |  It had choked away his pleasure, it had eaten up his peace,

-   |  As with every year that left him he had seen his wealth increase,

-   |  Till his heart grew dry and withered in the smoke of worldly care;

-   |  But it dulled him with its poison, and he knew not it was there.

-   |  Oh, the Patriarch longed to see him from such cruel bondage free,

-   |  And he pleaded hard for Troilus every night on bended knee;

-   |  For there yet was time to save him, so he hoped and so believed,

-   |  But the days and weeks were passing, and no answer he received.

-

-   |  But with praying he grew bolder, and to combat he began,

-   |  And he left his door one morning with a wise and hopeful plan;

-   |  And he said in solemn murmur, as he walked along the way,

-   |  "I must go and fight with Satan for my brother's soul to-day;

-   |  He is cruel, he is cunning, but his arts will be in vain,

-   |  The strongest net he ever wove will never bear the strain

-   |  Of seeing and of hearing what each day I hear and see,

-   |  And the Lord has saved my brother if he will but come with me."

-

-   |  It was in the early morning, long before the noise and heat,

-   |  And the life was just beginning in the shady city street,

-   |  When he saw a church door open, and he turned and entered in.

-   |  "I will ask the Lord to help me in this work that I begin."

-

-   |  There were some who entered near him, and he saw they came in haste,

-   |  Toiling men and burdened women, who had little time to waste;

-   |  But they stole some precious minutes in that church to kneel and pray,

-   |  To refresh their souls and cheer them for the labours of the day;

-   |  And they gathered close around him on the pavement, for they felt

-   |  That their prayers would rise the higher if their father with them knelt.

-   |  Then he said to them: "My children, you must help me now indeed,

-   |  For my heart and soul are troubled for a friend in sorest need;

-   |  He is low with mortal sickness, but no earthly skill can cure.

-   |  Pray the Lord to show His mercy to the poorest of the poor."

-   |  So they knelt and prayed together, till the morning sun was high,

-   |  For the Patriarch's heart was kindled, and the time went quickly by.

-

-   |  Troilus too had risen early, and had said his morning prayers,

-   |  But he said them somewhat coldly, being filled with other cares.

-   |  At that moment he was thinking, while he counted up his store,

-   |  Upon certain silver goblets he had seen the day before,

-   |  Which a silversmith had brought him, and had hoped that he would buy.

-   |  They were nobly wrought and chiselled, and the price indeed was high,

-   |  But he thought upon his table they would look exceeding fine

-   |  When his friends, the rich and noble, should come in with him to dine;

-   |  Then how all of them would envy, and the thought his spirit cheered,—

-   |  When a gentle knock aroused him, and the Patriarch appeared.

-   |  Very bright his eyes were shining, and his face was all aglow,

-   |  But his voice was strange and solemn, when he told him, "I must go

-   |  To the hospital, my brother, and I came here on my way;

-   |  If we both could go together, it would be a happy day.

-   |  There I find my greatest blessing, every morning fresh and new,

-   |  But far greater, but far sweeter could I share it once with you."

-   |  How the heart of Troilus softened, as those eyes upon him shone,

-   |  At their look of earnest pleading, at the tremor in the tone!

-   |  Strange it was that look could melt him and that voice could change him so,

-   |  Calling back to life, a moment, what had withered long ago,—

-   |  Some old good that stirred within him, often spurned and thrust aside.

-   |  But the flowers the Lord had planted, though they dwindled, had not died;

-   |  He was poor in heavenly treasure, but he loved the Patriarch still.

-   |  "I will come," he answered quickly; "you may lead me where you will."

-

-   |  There were looks and tones of wonder in the hospital that day,

-   |  From the rows of low white couches where the sick and dying lay,

-   |  As, with all his train about him, in his splendour and his pride,

-   |  On he walked, the Bishop Troilus, by the simple Patriarch's side.

-   |  But erelong the two were parted, for as Troilus looked around,

-   |  He recoiled in shrinking horror from each doleful sight and sound;

-   |  While the Patriarch loved to linger for a while by every bed,

-   |  With his strong arms ever ready to sustain a drooping head;

-   |  Happy in each humble service, and forgetting all his state,

-   |  While he thanked the Lord who sent him on these stricken ones to wait.

-   |  How the pale sad faces brightened into smiles as he drew near,

-   |  And what loving words were murmured, faintly murmured in his ear!

-

-   |  "Does he well," said Bishop Troilus, as he saw him turn and go

-   |  From one bedside to another, "does he well to stoop so low?"

-   |  Yet had Troilus only known it, they were not the poor alone

-   |  Whom his brother served that morning, but their Master and his own.

-   |  There was one but just recovered, light of heart, though poor and weak,

-   |  With a journey long before him, going forth his home to seek,

-   |  Far away among the mountains where his wife and children stayed;

-   |  But the Patriarch's love had found him ere the stranger sought his aid,

-   |  Giving money for the journey, giving blessèd words of cheer.

-   |  Then he turned, for time was pressing, and a sadder face lay near,

-   |  Worn by months of pain and languor; he was young, had once been strong,

-   |  He was fading now, but slowly, and perhaps would suffer long,

-   |  And the hundred wants of sickness who can know that has not proved?

-   |  He had wearied all about him, but the Patriarch's heart was moved;

-   |  So he heard the long complaining to which no one else gave heed,

-   |  Then he left him, soothed and peaceful, with enough for all his need.

-   |  So with one and with another for a moment he would stay,

-   |  At each bed he left a blessing, and a blessing brought away,

-   |  Till his purse grew light and empty, as had happened oft before;

-   |  Though he turned it up and shook it, there was not one penny more.

-

-   |  Then he turned and sought for Troilus, who that moment, as it chanced,

-   |  With a look subdued and solemn, stood and gazed, like one entranced,

-   |  On the strange, unearthly beauty, on the light of perfect peace

-   |  In a woman's face before him; she was nearing her release,

-   |  And a glory rested on her from the opening door above;

-   |  Yet one shadow marred its splendour when she looked with anxious love

-   |  On a little maid, her daughter, with a pretty, careworn face,

-   |  Who had brought two younger children, waiting now for her embrace,

-   |  Wondering why she did not give it, why so deadly still she lay,

-   |  For they knew not, though she knew it, she would not live out the day.

-   |  Said the Patriarch: "Brother Troilus, have you nothing you could give

-   |  To this woman and her children, for she has not long to live?

-   |  And I see her mind is troubled, and I think, before they part,

-   |  Had she something she could leave them, it would ease her burdened heart;

-   |  For myself, I freely promise I will make these babes my care,

-   |  But to-day my purse is empty, so I pray you not to spare."

-

-   |  Oh! alas, poor Bishop Troilus! how this pleading broke the spell

-   |  That the woman's look had woven, and how low his spirit fell!

-   |  For he dearly loved his money, with a passion deep and blind,

-   |  As a scholar loves his learning, or a saint his peace of mind.

-   |  But the eyes of all were on him at that moment, and he knew

-   |  'T was in hopeful expectation of what such a saint would do;

-   |  There were many who had entered from the busy street to gaze,

-   |  He would not be shamed before them, they should still have cause to praise;

-   |  But his purse would have to open, so he turned and waved his hand

-   |  To the priest who always bore it, with a gesture of command.

-   |  "For this woman for her daughter and the two poor babes," said he,

-   |  "Lay down thirty golden pieces in the Patriarch's hand for me."

-

-   |  There were none who had not heard him, for his voice was loud and clear,

-   |  And a low, admiring murmur rose from all the couches near,

-   |  While the Patriarch stood rejoicing in the deed his friend had done;

-   |  By himself he judged another, and he thought the victory won.

-   |  For one moment Bishop Troilus feels his narrow heart expand,

-   |  When the maiden thanks him weeping, and the children kiss his hand,

-   |  And the mother, just departing, from the pillow where she lies,

-   |  Turns one happy smile upon him, with a blessing in her eyes.

-

-   |  But alas! on home returning, when the sacrifice was made,

-   |  When the Patriarch's holy presence was no longer there to aid,

-   |  He did much bewail his money; half in anger, half in pain,

-   |  To have parted in a moment with what took so long to gain.

-   |  And his heart was in a turmoil, and a pain was in his head,

-   |  Till the raging turned to fever, and he threw him on his bed

-   |  In a storm of angry passion that no reason could control;

-   |  For to him to part with money was like parting with his soul.

-   |  But he said no word to any of this rage and inward strife,

-   |  And the priests who waited on him were in terror for his life,

-   |  And as nothing made him better, they took counsel, and agreed

-   |  That the Patriarch, and he only, was the man to meet their need;

-   |  So they sent and humbly prayed him if to come he would be pleased,

-   |  For his friend the Bishop Troilus was with sudden illness seized.

-

-   |  In his chamber lay the Bishop, sick in body, sick in mind;

-   |  But the Patriarch, wise in spirit, had his malady divined.

-   |  So he came and sat beside him, patient still, but pale with grief,

-   |  While he made one last endeavour for that troubled soul's relief.

-   |  But his friend was sore and angry, and his words he would not hear,

-   |  For the presence now disturbed him that had lately been so dear.

-   |  And he lay with face averted, till he heard the Patriarch say,

-   |  "I have brought you back the money that you gave away to-day."

-   |  Then indeed he started wildly, and his eyes he opened wide,

-   |  And he turned and faced his brother with a joy he could not hide;

-   |  For with sudden hope he trembled, and it paled his fevered cheek;

-   |  And the Patriarch's heart was sinking, but he still went on to speak:

-   |  "When I asked your help this morning, I had nothing of my own,

-   |  So I left to you the blessing which had else been mine alone;

-   |  For those three dear orphan children I had gladly done the whole,

-   |  So their mother up in heaven might be praying for my soul.

-   |  And I now have come to ask you if this grace you will resign,—

-   |  Will you take again the money, and let your good deed be mine?

-   |  Yet I pray you to consider, ere you grant it or refuse,

-   |  What a great and heavenly treasure I shall win and you will lose;

-   |  For indeed I would not wrong you, though to me the gain be great.

-   |  So then do not answer rashly,—there is time, we both can wait,

-   |  And 't were well to think a little on the words our Master said,

-   |  How He left the poor behind, that we might serve them in His stead;

-   |  And whatever help we grant them, be it great or be it small,

-   |  To our blessèd Lord we give it, to our Lord, who gave us all."

-

-   |  Then made answer Bishop Troilus, "As for what you now propose,

-   |  If it please you I am ready, and the bargain we can close.

-   |  There are many kinds of service, and each needful in its way,

-   |  And I think the Lord has set me in His church to preach and pray,

-   |  And to save the souls that perish, and to teach men how to live,

-   |  While your own vocation, brother, is with open hand to give.

-   |  Let not one defraud the other, take your part and leave me mine,

-   |  For however we may divide it, all the service is divine.

-   |  Let us feed God's flock together, for His needy children care,

-   |  I the souls, and you the bodies, so the burden we may share."

-   |  "Then so be it," said the other, but his voice was low and grave,

-   |  And he prayed to God in silence for the soul he could not save.

-   |  "We must write it all in order, we must sign and seal it too,

-   |  So that mine may be the blessing, while the gold remains with you."

-

-   |  So they wrote a contract solemn, to which each one signed his name,

-   |  In which he, the Bishop Troilus, did relinquish every claim

-   |  To whatever reward or merit his one pious deed had earned,

-   |  Since the thirty golden pieces to his hand had been returned.

-   |  Then the Patriarch counted slowly all the pieces, one by one,

-   |  In the open hand of Troilus, and his last attempt was done.

-   |  All had failed, and heavy-hearted from that chamber forth he went,

-   |  While his friend lay still and smiling in the fullness of content;

-   |  For the fever now had left him, and 't was sweet to lie and rest,

-   |  With no more a thorn to vex him in his smooth, untroubled breast.

-   |  With a dreamy satisfaction he was thinking all the while

-   |  How those pretty shining pieces would increase the golden pile

-   |  In that chest of hoarded treasure that already held so much;

-   |  And he laid his hand upon them with a fond caressing touch.

-   |  But his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes were closing soon,

-   |  In the drowsy heat and stillness of the summer afternoon.

-

-   |  Then a dream was sent to bless him, as in quiet sleep he lay,

-   |  And it bore him in a vision to the country far away;

-   |  And he saw the holy city, where the saints and angels dwell;

-   |  Of its glory, of its beauty, mortal tongue can never tell.

-   |  There were palm-trees growing stately by the water, crystal clear;

-   |  There was music ever swelling, sometimes far and sometimes near,

-   |  As it rose in mystic cadence from the hearts that overflowed

-   |  With the joy that reigns forever in their beautiful abode.

-   |  And the people of that city whom he met along the way

-   |  On the shining golden pavement, oh, how full of peace were they!

-   |  For he thought some heavenly vision shone forever in their sight,

-   |  And he looked where they were gazing, but he only saw the light

-   |  As it flooded all with glory, and the air it seemed to fill;

-   |  But he saw not what they looked on, for his eyes were mortal still.

-   |  Now among those lighted faces there were some he knew before,

-   |  Of the poor to whom so often he had closed his heart and door;

-   |  Such as in the heavenly city he had little thought to find,

-   |  For the sad and sick and needy had been never to his mind:

-   |  Of the rich were not so many, yet a few of these beside,

-   |  Who by deeds of love and mercy had their Master glorified.

-   |  And in perfect health and beauty, among all that bright array,

-   |  Was the woman he saw dying in the hospital that day.

-

-   |  All along the road he travelled, to the left and to the right,

-   |  Rose the palaces they dwelt in, each a mansion of delight,

-   |  But all varying in their beauty, far away as eye could reach,

-   |  With a name in golden letters, high above the door of each.

-   |  And sweet faces smiled upon him, from the windows here and there,

-   |  Gentle faces free forever from the shade of earthly care;

-   |  And he heard the happy voices of the children as they played

-   |  In the fair and peaceful gardens, where the roses never fade;

-   |  And the things he left behind him seemed so very poor and small,

-   |  That he wondered, in that glory, why men cared for them at all.

-

-   |  But oh, wonder of all wonders, when he saw a name that shone

-   |  O'er a high and arching doorway, yes, a name that was his own!

-   |  Could it be his eyes deceived him?  No, he read it o'er and o'er;

-   |  "This," it said, "of Bishop Troilus is the home forevermore."

-   |  Oh the beauty of that palace, with such light and splendour filled,

-   |  That he thought the clouds of sunset had been hewn its walls to gild;

-   |  And the golden door stood open, he could catch a glimpse within

-   |  Of the vast illumined chambers where no foot had ever been.

-   |  He could only gaze bewildered, for the wonder was too great,

-   |  And the joy so poured upon him he could hardly bear the weight.

-   |  Then he took one step toward it, but a servant of the King

-   |  Who from far-off earth that morning had returned on busy wing,

-   |  And was bearing gifts and tokens from the scattered church below,

-   |  Came and passed and stood before him, in the courtyard's golden glow.

-

-   |  Then he turned to his companions, for a few had gathered near,

-   |  And his words fell hard and heavy on the Bishop's listening ear,—

-   |  "We must cancel that inscription from the stone, and write thereon

-   |  That Troilus hath this palace sold unto the Patriarch John,

-   |  And that thirty golden pieces were the price that he received."

-   |  Up then started Bishop Troilus, for his soul was sorely grieved,

-   |  And he tried to speak, but could not, and awoke in his dismay,

-   |  With his hand upon the money close beside him where he lay.

-

-   |  Now the long bright day was over; as he saw the sun descend,—

-   |  "Weary day," the Patriarch thought it; he was glad to see it end.

-   |  He was walking in his garden where the freshening shadows lay,

-   |  And the flowers that drooped at noontime stood erect in beauty gay;

-   |  But their brightness could not cheer him, and he bent his head and sighed,

-   |  For he thought, with wondering sadness, that the Lord his prayer denied,

-

-   |  Then he heard a step behind him, and he looked; but who was there,

-   |  Wild of look, like one who struggled with a pain he could not bear?

-   |  Could it be the stately Bishop?  Yes, but oh, how changed to see!

-   |  And he said with tears and trembling, "O my brother, pray for me!"

-   |  How the Patriarch's heart rebounded from the weight that on it pressed,

-   |  At the change so deep and sudden, in those broken words expressed!

-   |  How his cheek grew red with gladness, how it smoothed his troubled brow!

-   |  "God forgive me if I doubted, all my prayers are answered now."

-

-   |  "Come," he said, "my brother Troilus, sit beside me, tell me all;"

-   |  And he led him, pale and helpless, to a seat beside the wall.

-   |  And there Troilus, clinging closely to that strong and helpful hand,

-   |  Trusting in the heart that loved him and his thoughts could understand,

-   |  Told the story of his vision to his awed and listening friend,—

-   |  All that dream of light and glory, with its sad, unlooked-for end:

-   |  But his voice, which trembled ever, wellnigh failed him when he told

-   |  Of the horror of that waking, with his hand upon the gold;

-   |  When his eyes, long blind, were opened, and he saw the wreck within,

-   |  And one fearful moment, showed him what his wasted life had been.

-   |  "Now," he said, "my courage fails me when I think to mend my ways.

-   |  I have wasted all God gave me,—mind, and strength, and length of days,—

-   |  And the gold I gave my soul for pulls me downward with its weight;

-   |  Help me if you can, oh, help me!  Say it is not yet too late."

-   |  And he looked with eyes beseeching at the Patriarch, who replied

-   |  With a smile that fell like sunshine on the faint heart by his side,—

-

-   |  "What! too late for God's forgiveness, when He calls you to repent?

-   |  'T was to save you, not to lose you, that the blessèd dream was sent;

-   |  'T is His help, not mine, my brother, you are needing, and you know,

-   |  If we ask it, He will give it, for Himself has told us so.

-   |  And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed all the more

-   |  If the years were long and many since he left his Father's door."

-   |  "But," said Troilus, "I am agèd, and my manhood's strength is past;

-   |  After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at last?"

-   |  "Never fear," the Patriarch answered, "there is joy in heaven to-day,

-   |  And they ask not in their gladness if your hair be black or gray."

-

-   |  So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, by deed and word,

-   |  Gave himself and all his substance to the service of the Lord;

-   |  Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored his friend anew

-   |  With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised so to do.

-   |  And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him again,

-   |  Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change was not in vain,

-

-   |  Then he left the past behind him, and a better life began;

-   |  From that evening in the garden he became another man.

-   |  There was no more train about him when he walked the city through,

-   |  For the priests who once attended now had better work to do;

-   |  And the ladies cared no longer from their balconies to lean,

-   |  When of worldly pomp and splendour there was nothing to be seen.

-   |  For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone no more,

-   |  Having gone on works of mercy to increase his heavenly store.

-   |  But the poor and needy sought him; he was now their faithful friend,

-   |  And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love they might depend.

-

-   |  So his closing days were happy, after years of sordid care,

-   |  For no gain can bring contentment till the poor have had their share;

-   |  And he lightened many a burden, and he righted many a wrong,

-   |  And the wealth became a blessing that had been a curse so long;

-   |  And his secret hoard was scattered, and men said that he died poor,

-   |  But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, we may be sure.

-

-

-

-

-

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-

-.. _`The Crosses on the Wall`:

-

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-   The Crosses on the Wall

-

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-

-This beautiful legend has for me a most peculiar

-interest, owing to the circumstances under which I

-first heard it.  It was taught to me by a very dear

-young friend whom I had known and loved from his

-infancy,—Piero, the only surviving child of Count

-Giuseppe Pasolini Zanelli of Faenza.  It was only last

-October—eight months ago—and we were all staying

-together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful

-grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto.  It was the

-last evening that we expected to pass together, and

-Pierino (we had never been able to give up calling him

-by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him,

-a collection of popular legends compiled by De Gubernatis,

-and said that he had a story to read us.  It was

-"The Crosses on the Wall," and it has always seemed

-to me as though he read it on that particular evening

-to prepare us for what was to come.  For some months

-he had been not quite so strong as usual, yet no one

-felt any particular apprehension, until on the

-twenty-eighth of November he died, almost without warning.

-He was twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful

-character,—so good that we ought to have known he

-was not for us.

-

-With him two great and ancient families come to an

-end,—the Pasolini-Zanelli of Faenza, and the

-Baroni-Semitecolo of Bassano: these last are the only

-descendants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at

-Torcello.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Crosses on the Wall

-

-.. class:: center medium bold

-

-   A Legend of Primiero

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  Come, children, listen to what I tell,

-   |  For my words are wise to-day:

-   |  From Primiero among the hills

-   |  Was the legend brought away.

-

-   |  And Primiero among the hills

-   |  Is a little world apart,

-   |  Where is much to love and much to learn,

-   |  If you have a willing heart.

-

-   |  It lies on high, like a stranded ship,

-   |  From the parted wave of time;

-   |  Not far from the troubled world we know,

-   |  But the way is hard to climb.

-

-   |  For the mountains rise and close it in,

-   |  With their walls of green and gray;

-   |  With crag and forest and smooth-worn cliff,

-   |  Where the clouds alone can stray.

-

-   |  And when a house they have builded there,

-   |  If a blessing they would win,

-   |  Above the door do they write a prayer,

-   |  That Christ may dwell therein.

-

-   |  And I think, throughout the ancient town,

-   |  On its steep ascending road,

-   |  In many a heart, in many a home,

-   |  Has He taken His abode.

-

-   |  And when a burden is hard to bear—

-   |  And such burdens come to all—

-   |  They tell the story I 'm telling now,

-   |  Of the crosses on the wall.

-

-   |  'T is a pearl of wisdom, gathered far

-   |  In the dim and distant past;

-   |  But ever needed, but ever new,

-   |  As long as the world shall last.

-

-   |  For never has been since earth was made,

-   |  And surely shall never be,

-   |  A man so happy or wise or great,

-   |  He might from the cross be free.

-

-   |  The tale it is of a widow poor,

-   |  And by trouble sorely pressed;

-   |  Of how, through sorrow and many tears,

-   |  At the end her soul was blest.

-

-   |  She had not been always poor and sad,

-   |  For her early years were bright,

-   |  With a happy home, and with parents kind,

-   |  And herself their hearts' delight!

-

-   |  A mother's darling, a father's pride,

-   |  She was fair in form and face;

-   |  A sunny creature, a joy to all,

-   |  For her sweet and winning grace.

-

-   |  Then, early married to one she loved,

-   |  She had still been shielded well;

-   |  For her he laboured, for her he thought,

-   |  And on her no burden fell.

-

-   |  She worked, indeed; but what work was hers

-   |  Through the short and happy hours?

-   |  To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees,

-   |  Or to tend the garden flowers;

-

-   |  To sit and spin, and to sing the while

-   |  In her porch with roses gay;

-   |  To spread the table with plenty piled,

-   |  And to watch the children play.

-

-   |  Their home was a little nest of peace;

-   |  'T was a mile beyond the town,

-   |  In that sheltered valley, green with woods,

-   |  Where the river murmurs down.

-

-   |  And she never dreamed of change to come,

-   |  (Though a change must all expect,)

-   |  Till the blow, like lightning, on her fell,

-   |  And her happy life was wrecked.

-

-   |  But who could have thought the man would die?

-   |  There were few so strong as he!

-   |  From his forest work they bore him home,

-   |  Struck dead by a falling tree.

-

-   |  A petted child, and a wife beloved,

-   |  She had hardly sorrow known,

-   |  Till the strong, brave man was borne away,

-   |  And she faced the world alone.

-

-   |  Alone, with a babe too young to speak,

-   |  And with other children five:

-   |  "Oh, why," she asked, "are the strong removed

-   |  And the feeble left alive?"

-

-   |  But where is the good of asking

-   |  When our helpers disappear?

-   |  That question never was answered yet,

-   |  And it never will be, here.

-

-   |  There was little time to sit and weep;

-   |  She must rise, and bear the strain;

-   |  Alone she stood, with the home to keep,

-   |  And the children's bread to gain.

-

-   |  The best of herself had gone with him;

-   |  She had no more faith nor trust:

-   |  She could not bow to the Lord's decree,

-   |  For she felt it all unjust.

-

-   |  The good Lord cares for a widow's need,

-   |  But on Him she did not call.

-   |  She laboured hard, and she fought with fate,

-   |  And they lived—but that was all.

-

-   |  She fought her battle with fate, and failed,

-   |  As many have failed before;

-   |  If against the thorns we push and press,

-   |  They will only prick the more.

-

-   |  She could not bear with the children now,

-   |  And she called them rude and wild;

-   |  Forgetting quite, in her sullen grief,

-   |  That she had been once a child.

-

-   |  Yes, wild they were; and like all wild things

-   |  They were light and swift and strong;

-   |  And her poor, sick spirit turned away

-   |  From the gay, unruly throng.

-

-   |  They swam the river, they climbed the trees,

-   |  They were full of life and play;

-   |  But oft, when their mother's voice they heard,

-   |  They hid from her sight away.

-

-   |  They did not love her, and that she knew,

-   |  And of that she oft complained;

-   |  But not by threats nor by angry words

-   |  Could the children's love be gained.

-

-   |  Respect and honour we may command;

-   |  They will come at duty's call:

-   |  But love, the beautiful thornless rose,

-   |  Grows wild, when it grows at all.

-

-   |  And she grew bitter, as time went on,

-   |  Grew bitter and hard and sore.

-   |  Till one day she cried in her despair,

-   |  "I can bear my life no more!

-

-   |  "Look down from Heaven, good Lord, and see

-   |  And pity my cruel fate!

-   |  Oh, come, and in mercy take away

-   |  My burden, for 't is too great!

-

-   |  "My heart is breaking with all its load,

-   |  And I feel my life decline;

-   |  Never I think did the woman live

-   |  Who has borne a cross like mine!"

-

-   |  To her cry for help an answer came,

-   |  And solemn it was, and strange!

-   |  For a silence deep around her fell,

-   |  And the place seemed all to change.

-

-   |  She stood in a sad and sombre room,

-   |  Where from ceiling down to floor,

-   |  Along the wall and on every side,

-   |  There were crosses—nothing more.

-

-   |  There were crosses old, and crosses new,

-   |  There were crosses large and small;

-   |  And in their midst there was One who stood

-   |  As the Master of them all.

-

-   |  Before His presence her eyes dropped low,

-   |  And her wild complaining died;

-   |  For she knew the cross that He had borne

-   |  Was greater than all beside.

-

-   |  And He bade her choose, and take away,

-   |  From among the many there,

-   |  Another cross, in exchange for hers,

-   |  That she found too great to bear.

-

-   |  She looked for those that were least in size,

-   |  And she quickly lifted one;

-   |  But oh, 't was heavy, and pained her more

-   |  Than her own had ever done!

-

-   |  She laid it back with a trembling hand—

-   |  "And whose cross is that?" she cried;

-   |  "For heavier 't is than even mine!"

-   |  And a solemn voice replied:

-

-   |  "That cross belongs to a maiden young,

-   |  But of youth she little knows;

-   |  For the days to her are days of pain,

-   |  And the night brings scant repose.

-

-   |  "A helpless, suffering, useless thing!

-   |  And her pain will never cease,

-   |  Till death in pity will come one day,

-   |  And her troubles end in peace.

-

-   |  "She never has walked the pleasant fields,

-   |  Nor has sat beneath the trees;

-   |  The hospital wall that shuts her in

-   |  Is the only world she sees.

-

-   |  "She has no mother, she has no home,

-   |  And in strangers' hands she lies;

-   |  With none to care for her while she lives,

-   |  Nor weep for her when she dies."

-

-   |  "But why is the cross so small, my Lord,

-   |  And why does her heart not break?"

-   |  "She counts it little," the answer came,

-   |  "For she bears it for my sake."

-

-   |  The widow blushed with a sudden shame;

-   |  To her eyes the tears arose:

-   |  She dried them soon, and again she turned,

-   |  And another cross she chose.

-

-   |  It fell from her hand against the wall,

-   |  And she let it there remain:

-   |  "That cross shall never be mine," she said,

-   |  "Though I take my own again!

-

-   |  "And whose is this that I cannot hold?

-   |  For it seems to burn my hand!

-   |  And never, I think, was heart so strong

-   |  That could such a weight withstand."

-

-   |  "The cross it is of a gentle wife,

-   |  And she wears it all unseen;

-   |  With early sorrow her hair is white,

-   |  But she keeps a smile serene.

-

-   |  "She gave her heart to an evil man,

-   |  And she thought him good and true;

-   |  And long she trusted and long believed,

-   |  But at last the truth she knew.

-

-   |  "She knows that his soul is stained with crime,

-   |  But the worst she still conceals;

-   |  Abuse and terror her sole reward,

-   |  And the Lord knows what she feels!

-

-   |  "She cannot leave him, for love dies hard,

-   |  And her children bear his name;

-   |  But she prays for grace, to keep and guard

-   |  Their innocent lives from shame.

-

-   |  "She trembles oft when his step she hears

-   |  On a lonely winter night;

-   |  And she hides her frightened babes afar

-   |  From their cruel father's sight.

-

-   |  "And she dares not even hope for death,

-   |  Though his hand might set her free:

-   |  'T were well for her in the grave to rest;

-   |  But where would the children be?"

-

-   |  The widow shuddered, her face grew pale,

-   |  And she no more turned to look:

-   |  She reached her hand to the wall near by,

-   |  And a cross by chance she took.

-

-   |  'T was not so large as the first had been,

-   |  But it seemed a fearful weight!

-   |  "And whose am I holding now?" she asked,

-   |  For it did not look so great.

-

-   |  "A mother's cross is the one you bear,"

-   |  So the voice in answer said,

-   |  "And she once had children six like you;

-   |  But her children all are dead.

-

-   |  "She has all besides that earth can give;

-   |  She has friends and wealth to spare,

-   |  And house and land—but she counts them not,

-   |  For the children are not there.

-

-   |  "Time passes slowly, and she grows old;

-   |  But she may not yet depart.

-   |  In lonely splendour she counts the years,

-   |  With an empty, hungry heart.

-

-   |  "And she knows by whom the cross was sent,

-   |  And she tries her head to bow;

-   |  But six green mounds by the churchyard wall

-   |  Are the most she cares for now."

-

-   |  The widow thought of her own wild brood,

-   |  And she felt a creeping chill:

-   |  And, "Oh, give me back my cross!" she said,

-   |  "I will keep and bear it still.

-

-   |  "Forgive me, Lord" (and with that she knelt,

-   |  And for very shame she wept).

-   |  "I know my sin, that I could not bow,

-   |  Nor Thy holy will accept.

-

-   |  "Oh, give me patience, for life is hard;

-   |  And the daily strength I need!

-   |  And by Thy grace I will try to bear

-   |  The burden for me decreed.

-

-   |  "I'll change my ways with the children now,

-   |  Though they give me added cares.

-   |  Poor babes!  I know, if they love me not,

-   |  That the blame is mine, not theirs!"

-

-   |  She kept her word as the weeks went on,

-   |  And she fought with fate no more:

-   |  'T was now with a patient, humble heart

-   |  That her daily cross she bore.

-

-   |  The children wondered to see her change

-   |  So greatly in look and speech!

-   |  She met them now with a smile so kind,

-   |  And a gentle word for each.

-

-   |  And soon they learned, from her altered ways,

-   |  What her words had vainly taught;

-   |  Their love, that long she had claimed in vain,

-   |  Came back to her all unsought.

-

-   |  There were merry shouts and dancing feet,

-   |  When the mother came in sight;

-   |  There were little arms around her thrown,

-   |  There were eyes with joy alight.

-

-   |  With love for teacher, they learned to help,

-   |  There was work for fingers small:

-   |  Her heart grew soft like the earth in spring,

-   |  And she thanked the Lord for all!

-

-   |  Her girls so pretty, her boys so brave,

-   |  And so helpful all and kind!

-   |  She wondered often, and thought with shame

-   |  Of how she had once repined.

-

-   |  For in their presence she oft forgot

-   |  Her burden of want and care,

-   |  Forgot her trouble—forgot, almost,

-   |  That she had a cross to bear!

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`Suora Marianna`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   Suora Marianna

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   Suora Marianna

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of mine,

-   |  That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan Apennine,

-   |  From an agèd, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?

-   |  It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot know

-   |  Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it can give;

-   |  But still, try and not forget it!  You will need it if you live,

-   |  And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin to tire,

-   |  You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the fire.

-

-   |  In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country town,

-   |  On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping down,

-   |  Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the poor,

-   |  Who must labour late and early, and much weariness endure;

-   |  And the one who did in patience and in all good works excel

-   |  Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.

-

-   |  She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task prepared:

-   |  No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she never spared.

-   |  All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not her own,

-   |  Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her throne!

-

-   |  She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace to choose,

-   |  Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot lose.

-   |  There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one

-   |  Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is done.

-

-   |  Was she beautiful?  I know not.  She had eyes of peaceful light,

-   |  And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen white.

-   |  To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold,

-   |  And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old.

-   |  She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road,

-   |  Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode,

-   |  Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and her woman's strength was tried;

-   |  For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her side.

-   |  She was happy—oh, so happy!—in her little whitewashed cell

-   |  Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwell

-   |  In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the wall,

-   |  Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.

-

-   |  'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best,

-   |  Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's arms at rest.

-   |  But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,

-   |  And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant

-   |  And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn

-   |  With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the thorn,

-   |  Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was bright,

-   |  From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by night.

-   |  So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord

-   |  She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies stored:

-   |  He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their brightness sees;

-   |  But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working bees.

-

-   |  But there came a time—poor sister!—when her rosy cheek grew pale,

-   |  And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as through a veil;

-   |  And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent,

-   |  Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she went.

-   |  'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees,

-   |  And 't was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground would freeze,

-   |  And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sign and mark;

-   |  But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark!

-   |  'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed,

-   |  That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed.

-   |  Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just begun;

-   |  Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the sun.

-

-   |  All around the grass was springing, and its tender verdure spread,

-   |  Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves, brown and dead,

-   |  Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost touched the edge

-   |  Of the daily lessening snow-drifts, under rock or thorny hedge.

-   |  From the wreck of last year's autumn life awakened, strong and new,

-   |  And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the flowers were few.

-

-   |  Many nights had she been watching, and with little rest by day,

-   |  For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless woman lay;

-   |  There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost ceased to burn,

-   |  Praying God to help and keep them till the husband should return.

-

-   |  'T was the old and common story, such as all of us can hear,

-   |  If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout the year!

-   |  She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret chamber there,

-   |  Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in the air.

-   |  She had been a country beauty, for the boys to serenade;

-   |  And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes they made,

-   |  And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as they grew,

-   |  Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to do.

-   |  Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient violin,

-   |  With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her heart to win;

-   |  And one brilliant April morning he had brought her home, a bride,

-   |  To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain's terraced side.

-   |  'T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from neighbours far away,

-   |  But with love and health and music there was much to make it gay.

-   |  They were happy, careless people, and they thought not to complain,

-   |  Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof let in the rain:

-   |  They could pile the fire with branches, while the winter storms swept by;

-

-   |  For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the open sky.

-   |  Time had come, and brought its changes,—sunshine first, and then the shade,

-   |  Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted.  Sickness came, and debts were made;

-   |  Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their troubles did not cease,

-   |  And the poor man's heart was troubled thus to see his land decrease!

-   |  Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now were children small;

-   |  Much he loved them, much he laboured—but he could not feed them all.

-

-   |  So he left them, heavy-hearted, and his fortune went to try

-   |  In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where they die,

-   |  With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its fever-laden air;

-   |  But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet would spare.

-   |  'T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left behind:

-   |  Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife moped and pined:

-   |  Still her children's love sustained her, till this sickness laid her low;

-   |  When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you know.

-

-   |  Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble still she grew:

-   |  Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she knew.

-   |  Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long attendance ceased:

-   |  "I can do no more," he told her; "you had better call the priest.

-   |  To her husband I have written; he will have the news to-day:

-   |  If he cares again to see her, he had best be on his way!"

-

-   |  Now the priest has done his office; at the open door he stands,

-   |  And he says to Marianna: "I can leave her in your hands,—

-   |  I have other work that calls me; if to-night she chance to die,

-   |  You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as well as I."

-

-   |  So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn and sad,

-   |  Still to watch and think and labour with what failing strength she had.

-   |  There was none to share her burden, none to speak to, none to see—

-   |  Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of three,

-   |  And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and came between),

-   |  And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not seen.

-

-   |  Two days more!  Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside the bed:

-   |  In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin prayers she said,—

-   |  Prayers to help a soul departing;—yet she never quite despaired!

-   |  Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother's life be spared?

-   |  'T was so hard to see her going—such a mother, kind and dear!

-   |  There was ne'er another like her in the country, far or near!

-   |  (So thought Sister Marianna.)  Yet to murmur were a sin.

-   |  But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to hold them in,

-   |  Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that she caressed,

-   |  Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against her breast,

-   |  She was silent; something moved her that had neither place nor part

-   |  In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she knew by heart.

-   |  Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in every word,

-   |  As to one she saw before her—"Thou hast been a child, my Lord!

-   |  Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant on my knees;

-   |  Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless hands like these:

-   |  Thou hast known the wants of children, then—  Oh, listen to my plea,

-   |  For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to Thee!

-   |  Think, when all was dark around Thee how her love did Thee enfold;

-   |  How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped Thee from the cold!

-   |  How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of tears and strife,

-   |  When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod sought Thy life!

-   |  How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that midnight journey wild!

-   |  Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of this child!"

-

-   |  Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed to know and feel

-   |  That the Lord was there, and listened to her passionate appeal.

-   |  Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light was in her eye,

-   |  For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother would not die!

-   |  Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her!  And a change began that day:

-   |  When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had passed away.

-   |  So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and hopeful close,

-   |  And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister's heart arose.

-

-   |  Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome night it seemed!

-   |  For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the rain had streamed:

-   |  And the wind and rain together made a wild and mournful din,

-   |  As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to come in.

-

-   |  Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,

-   |  On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set the fire ablaze,

-   |  For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere morning, need to eat.

-   |  "Now, God help me," said the sister, "this night's labour to complete!"

-   |  'T was a meal she knew would please her, which she lovingly prepared,

-   |  Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent table spared,

-   |  Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other needed store,

-   |  In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on the floor.

-

-   |  On her work was much depending, so she planned to do her best;

-   |  And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a nest,

-   |  With the embers laid around it; then she thought again, and cast

-   |  On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil too fast.

-   |  But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming while she planned,

-   |  And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and listless hand.

-   |  Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this languor, which she viewed

-   |  As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and subdued.

-   |  But another fear assailed her—what if she should faint or fall?

-   |  And to-night the storm-swept cottage seems so far away from all!

-   |  How the fitful wind is moaning!  And between the gusts that blow,

-   |  She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine below.

-

-   |  And her head is aching strangely, as it never did before:

-   |  "Good Lord, help me!" she is saying: "this can last but little more!

-   |  O my blessèd Lord and Master, only help me through the night—

-   |  Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the morning light!

-   |  For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless lie,

-   |  And with only me to serve them,—if I leave them, they may die!

-   |  She is better—yes, I know it, but a touch may turn the scale.

-   |  I can send for help to-morrow, but to-night I must not fail!"

-   |  'T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words she tried to say

-   |  First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died away.

-   |  And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the night went on,

-   |  With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all undone;

-   |  On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney's empty space,

-   |  While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale and peaceful face.

-   |  Was her humble prayer unanswered?  Oh, the Lord has many a way

-   |  That His children little think of, to send answers when they pray!

-   |  It was long she sat there sleeping—do you think her work was spoiled?

-   |  No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher gently boiled:

-   |  Ne'er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one precious drop been spilt;

-   |  When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden sense of guilt.

-   |  But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision, strange and sweet,

-   |  For a little Child was standing on the hearth-stone at her feet.

-   |  And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like the snow,

-   |  And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight glow.

-   |  And Himself her work was doing!  For He kept the fire alive,

-   |  And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger might arrive

-   |  To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around it piled;

-   |  Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the Holy Child.

-   |  'T was her Lord who stood before her!  And she did not shrink nor start—

-   |  There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing heart.

-   |  When her willing hands were weary, when her patient eyes were closed,

-   |  He had finished all she failed in, He had watched while she reposed.

-   |  Do you ask of His appearance?  Human words are weak and cold;

-   |  'T is enough to say she knew Him—that is all she ever told.

-   |  Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day shall come,

-   |  When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us welcome home!

-   |  But with that one look He left her, and the vision all had passed,

-   |  (Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour would last!)

-   |  Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no more sound of rain,

-   |  And the morning star was shining through the window's broken pane.

-

-   |  Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to see,

-   |  O'er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day was like to be,

-   |  While the door she softly opened, letting in the morning breeze,

-   |  As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and shining trees.

-   |  And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had rolled away,

-   |  Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of misty grey,

-   |  Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of the storm.

-   |  And among the trees below her she could see a moving form;

-   |  'T was the husband home returning, yes, thank God! he came at last:

-   |  There was no one else would hasten up that mountain road so fast.

-   |  Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in sight again;

-   |  All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in the rain;

-   |  Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the villages asleep,

-   |  He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that hillside steep;

-   |  And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step was light,

-   |  But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish of the night.

-   |  Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with laboured breath,

-   |  For he saw his home before him, should he find there life or death?

-   |  How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the wished-for place!

-   |  One step more, his feet had gained it, they were standing face to face.

-   |  "God has helped us!" was her answer to the question in his eye;

-   |  And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had gone by.

-

-   |  It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken sunlight fell

-   |  Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the buds began to swell,

-   |  As adown the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had pressed,

-   |  Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.

-   |  It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter strove no more,

-   |  And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the night before.

-   |  Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved along;

-   |  Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of song.

-   |  But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in her ears!

-   |  She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many tears:

-   |  Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy voice and smile,

-   |  For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a while.

-   |  And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His care had proved,

-   |  When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face she loved,

-   |  On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her He had come,

-   |  As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble earthly home.

-

-   |  As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild bird's call;

-   |  Then, what made her start and linger?  'T was a perfume, that was all:

-   |  Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets were in bloom;

-   |  And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in her room.

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Lupins`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   The Lupins

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-The simple story of "The Lupins" is very

-commonly known among the country people, who

-often quote it as a remedy for discontent.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Lupins

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  'T was a day in late November,

-   |  When the fruits were gathered in;

-   |  Day to dream in, and remember

-   |  All the beauty that had been.

-

-   |  Peacefully the year was dying;

-   |  Soft the air, and deep the blue;

-   |  Brown and bare the fields were lying,

-   |  Where the summer harvest grew.

-

-   |  Autumn flowers had bloomed and seeded;

-   |  Yet a few of humblest kind,

-   |  Waiting till they most were needed,

-   |  Brought the pleasant days to mind.

-

-   |  Here and there a red-tipped daisy

-   |  Still its small bright face would show;

-   |  While above the distance hazy

-   |  Rose the mountains, white with snow.

-

-   |  With a light subdued and tender,

-   |  Shone the sun on vale and hill,

-   |  Where the faded autumn splendour

-   |  Left a sober sweetness still.

-

-   |  By a road that wandered, winding,

-   |  Far among the hills away,

-   |  Walked a man, despondent, finding

-   |  Little comfort in the day.

-

-   |  Pale of tint and fine of feature,

-   |  Formed with less of strength than grace,

-   |  Seldom went a sadder creature,

-   |  Seeking work from place to place.

-

-   |  He from noble race descended,

-   |  Heir to wealth and honoured name,

-   |  Who had oft the poor befriended

-   |  When about his door they came,

-

-   |  By a brother's evil doing

-   |  Had to poverty been brought:

-   |  Now his listless way pursuing,

-   |  Ever on the past he thought.

-

-   |  He, to hope no longer clinging,

-   |  Drifted, led he knew not where,

-   |  By a sound of far-off singing

-   |  Floating in the dreamy air,—

-

-   |  Many voices sweetly blending,

-   |  Sounding o'er the hills remote,

-   |  Every verse the same, and ending

-   |  In one plaintive, long-drawn note.

-

-   |  "Olive gatherers, I know them,

-   |  Singing songs from tree to tree;

-   |  If the road will lead me to them,

-   |  There are food and work for me."

-

-   |  He a humble meal was making,

-   |  While he warmed him in the sun;

-   |  From his pocket slowly taking

-   |  Yellow lupins, one by one.

-

-   |  Most forlorn he felt and lonely,

-   |  While he ate them on the way;

-   |  For those lupins, and they only,

-   |  Were his food for all the day.

-

-   |  Since to shame his brother brought him,

-   |  Want had often pressed him sore;

-   |  Yet misfortune never brought him

-   |  Quite so low as this before!

-

-   |  "If my lot be hard and painful,

-   |  There 's one comfort still for me;"

-   |  (Said he, with a smile disdainful,)

-   |  "Poorer, I can never be.

-

-   |  "There's no lower step to stand on,

-   |  No more burning shame to feel:

-   |  Not a crust to lay my hand on,

-   |  Only lupins for a meal!"

-

-   |  He could see the laden table

-   |  Where his parents used to dine:

-   |  Well for them who were not able

-   |  Then the future to divine.

-

-   |  Oh, but he was glad God took them

-   |  Ere they saw him fall so low:

-   |  How their cherished hope forsook them,

-   |  They had never lived to know.

-

-   |  "I, so dearly loved and cared for,

-   |  I, on whom such hopes were built,

-   |  Whom such blessings were prepared for—

-   |  Ruined by a brother's guilt!"

-

-   |  Now he wrung his hands despairing,

-   |  Stamped his foot upon the ground;

-   |  Bitter thoughts his heart were tearing,—

-   |  When he heard a footstep sound.

-

-   |  Then he started, sobered quickly,

-   |  Took an attitude sedate,

-   |  With that terror, faint and sickly,

-   |  Which he often felt of late.

-

-   |  What if some old friend should find him?

-   |  But he turned, the story tells,

-   |  And he saw a man behind him,

-   |  Picking up the lupin shells;

-

-   |  Picking up the shells and eating

-   |  What the other cast away.

-   |  Now abashed, their eyes were meeting:

-   |  'T was a beggar, worn and gray,

-

-   |  Hollow-eyed and thin and wasted;

-   |  By his look you might suppose,

-   |  He had ne'er a morsel tasted

-   |  Since the sun that morning rose.

-

-   |  Stood the younger man astonished,

-   |  And no more bewailed his fate;

-   |  Only bowed his head, admonished

-   |  By the sight of want so great.

-

-   |  Then he said: "Come here, my brother,

-   |  And the lupins we will share;

-   |  Maybe, if we help each other,

-   |  God will have us in His care."

-

-   |  "Thank the Lord! and you, kind master!

-   |  May He help you in your need;

-   |  Save your soul from all disaster

-   |  And remember your good deed!"

-

-   |  Said the beggar, smiling brightly.

-   |  And the other thus replied,—

-   |  Now content, and walking lightly

-   |  By his poorer neighbour's side,—

-

-   |  "Friend, you have a blessing brought me.

-   |  And I thank you in my turn,

-   |  For a lesson you have taught me

-   |  Which I needed much to learn.

-

-   |  "And henceforth will I endeavour

-   |  Not to pine for fortune high,

-   |  But remember there is ever

-   |  Some one lower down than I.

-

-   |  "But alas, when I was younger,

-   |  Wealth and honoured state were mine;

-   |  Shame, my friend, is worse than hunger:

-   |  'T is for this that I repine."

-

-   |  Then the beggar rose up stately,

-   |  Looked the other in the face,

-   |  Saying (for he wondered greatly),

-   |  "Poverty is no disgrace;

-

-   |  "For our Lord, I think, was poorer

-   |  Once than you or even I,

-   |  And His poor of Heaven are surer

-   |  Than the rich who pass them by."

-

-   |  So the two went on together,

-   |  Casting on the Lord their care,

-   |  Happy in the balmy weather,

-   |  Happy in their simple fare.

-

-   |  Now an ancient olive o'er them

-   |  Threw its slender lines of shade,

-   |  Bending low its boughs before them,

-   |  Silver-leafed that cannot fade;

-

-   |  Bearing fruit in winter season,

-   |  Still through every change the same:

-   |  Tree of peace—they had good reason

-   |  Who have called it by that name!

-

-   |  And with that the story leaves them;

-   |  You can end it as you please:

-   |  Gain that cheers, or loss that grieves them,

-   |  Life of toil, or life of ease.

-

-   |  Did some fortune unexpected

-   |  Give to one his wealth again?

-   |  Or did both, forlorn, neglected,

-   |  End their days in want and pain?

-

-   |  Many years have they been dwelling

-   |  Where such trifles of the way

-   |  Are not counted worth the telling!

-   |  Both are with the Lord to-day.

-

-   |  He in whom their souls confided

-   |  Did for both a home prepare;

-   |  Yet that humble meal divided

-   |  Gives a blessing even there.

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Silver Cross`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   The Silver Cross

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver

-Cross" is one of her many visions, recorded by

-her confessor.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Silver Cross

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  Through the streets of old Siena, at the dawning of the day,

-   |  Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to sound;

-   |  With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of olive gray,

-   |  For her soul was with the angels, while her feet were on the ground.

-

-   |  She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace;

-   |  And the air of early morning had just tinged her cheek with rose:

-   |  Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, illumined face,

-   |  That the souls in trouble turned to, finding comfort and repose.

-

-   |  And the men their heads uncovered, though they dared not speak her praise,

-   |  When they saw her like a vision down the row street descend;

-   |  And they wondered what she looked at, with that far-off dreamy gaze,

-   |  While her lips were often moving, as though talking to a friend.

-

-   |  There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely heard a sound,

-   |  Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet they strayed,

-   |  Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church where she was bound;

-   |  While the palaces around her stood in silence and in shade.

-

-   |  And the towers built for warfare rose about her, dark and proud,

-   |  But their summits caught a glory, as the morning onward came,

-   |  And the summer sky beyond them was alight with fleecy cloud,

-   |  Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to rose and then to flame.

-

-   |  By a shrine of the Madonna, at a corner where she passed,

-   |  Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary and forlorn,

-   |  With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak about him cast;

-   |  For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant summer morn.

-

-   |  Said the stranger, "Will you help me?" and she looked on him and knew,

-   |  By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it out for aid,

-   |  By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of ashen hue,

-   |  That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon him laid.

-

-   |  So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to hear,

-   |  Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain for her son;

-   |  How to help her he had laboured till the summer time drew near,

-   |  And of how the fever took him just before his work was done.

-

-   |  He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile began to come

-   |  In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the pity she bestowed,

-   |  And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my mountain home,

-   |  And if some good Christian people will but help me on the road.

-

-   |  "For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure and fine,

-   |  But my strength too often fails me, and the place is far away;

-   |  So I pray you give me something, for a little bread and wine,

-   |  That I may not set out fasting on my weary walk to-day."

-

-   |  Then a certain faint confusion with her pity seemed to blend,

-   |  And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the shadow of a cloud,

-   |  As she said: "I am no lady, though you call me so, my friend,

-   |  But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am vowed.

-

-   |  "I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, nothing more,

-   |  For these garments I am wearing are the sisterhood's, not mine,

-   |  And the very bread they gave me when I left the convent door

-   |  To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did consign.

-

-   |  "I would give you all you ask for if I had it to command."

-   |  Then she sighed and would have left him, but the stranger made her stay,

-   |  For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and wasted hand:

-   |  "For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send me thus away!"

-

-   |  He had used the name unthinking, but it moved her none the less,

-   |  And she turned again toward him, with a softened, solemn air,

-   |  While her hand began to wander up and down her simple dress,

-   |  As though vaguely it were seeking for some trifle she could spare.

-

-   |  Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at her waist,

-   |  And its silver cross unfastened, which was small and very old,

-   |  With the edges worn and rounded and the image half effaced,

-   |  Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a cross of gold.

-

-   |  It had been her life companion, in the tempest, in the calm;

-   |  She had held it to her bosom when she prayed with troubled mind;

-   |  And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in his palm,

-   |  "For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the only thing I find."

-

-   |  So he thanked her and departed, and she thought of him no more,

-   |  Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day in church she prayed;

-   |  But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger wore,

-   |  And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with him stayed.

-

-   |  Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are in the sun,

-   |  And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy town again,

-   |  As the people slowly scatter from the church where Mass is done;

-   |  But the blessèd Caterina in her seat did still remain.

-

-   |  For the sleep divine was on her, which so often to her came,

-   |  When of mortal life the shadow from around her seemed to fall;

-   |  And she looked on things celestial with her happy soul aflame:

-   |  But that day the dream that held her was the sweetest of them all.

-

-   |  For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed to her to stand

-   |  In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye had never seen;

-   |  And a cross of wondrous beauty He was holding in His hand,

-   |  Set with every stone most precious and with pearls of light serene.

-

-   |  And He told her that those treasures were the presents He received

-   |  From the souls on earth who love Him, and are seeking Him to please.

-   |  Were they deeds of noble service? that was what she first believed,

-   |  And she thought, "What happy people who can bring Him gifts like these!"

-

-   |  For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed to think how far

-   |  From the best she ever gave him were the gems in that bright store.

-   |  But He held the cross toward her, that was shining like a star,

-   |  And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen it e'er before.

-

-   |  "No," she answered humbly, "never did my eyes the like behold."

-   |  But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her like a wave,

-   |  For she saw among the jewels and the work of beaten gold

-   |  Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of Christ she gave.

-

-   |  And I think her dream that morning was a message from above,

-   |  That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn and understand,—

-   |  Though our very best be worthless that we give for Jesus' love,

-   |  It will change and turn to glory when He takes it in His hand.

-

-

-

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`The Tears of Repentance`:

-

-.. class:: center large bold

-

-   The Tears of Repentance

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE I found in a

-book called *Maraviglie di Dio ne' Suoi Santi*, by the

-Jesuit Father, Padre Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, printed

-at Bologna in 1696.  He says it was written originally

-by Theophilus Raynaudus.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center x-large bold

-

-   The Tears of Repentance

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   *PART FIRST*

-

-.. class:: center bold medium

-

-   THE MOUNTAIN

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  A wild, sad story I tell to-day,

-   |  And I pray you to listen all!

-   |  You cannot think how my heart is moved

-   |  As the legend I recall,—

-

-   |  The legend that made me weep so oft,

-   |  When I was a child like you!

-   |  I tell it now, in my life's decline,

-   |  And it brings the tears anew.

-

-   |  It came to us down through ages long;

-   |  For this story had its scene

-   |  In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days

-   |  Of the empire Byzantine.

-

-   |  And it tells of a famous mountain chief,

-   |  A terrible, fierce brigand,

-   |  Who ravaged the country, far and wide,

-   |  At the head of an armèd band.

-

-   |  So hard of heart was this evil man

-   |  That he spared not young nor old:

-   |  He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,

-   |  In his maddening thirst for gold;

-

-   |  Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,

-   |  That peacefully went its way,

-   |  And the counted gains of a journey long

-   |  Were scattered in one short day!

-

-   |  He knew no pity, he owned no law,

-   |  Nor human, nor yet divine;

-   |  Would take the gold from a Prince's chest,

-   |  Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.

-

-   |  In hidden valley, in wild ravine,

-   |  On desolate, heath-grown hill,

-   |  He buried his treasure away from sight,

-   |  And most of it lies there still.

-

-   |  And none were free in that land to dwell,

-   |  Except they a tribute paid;

-   |  For the robber chief, who was more than king,

-   |  Had this burden on them laid.

-

-   |  If any dared to resist the claim,

-   |  He was met with vengeance dire;

-   |  His lands were wasted before the dawn,

-   |  And his harvest burned with fire.

-

-   |  And some day maybe himself was slain,

-   |  And left in the road to lie;

-   |  To fill with terror the quaking heart

-   |  Of the next who journeyed by.

-

-   |  And many fled to the towns afar,

-   |  And their fields were left untilled;

-   |  While want and trouble and trembling fear

-   |  Had the stricken country filled.

-

-   |  High up on a mountain's pathless side

-   |  Had the robber made his den,

-   |  In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme

-   |  Over twenty lawless men.

-

-   |  A price had long on his head been set,

-   |  But for that he little cared;

-   |  For few were they who could climb the way,

-   |  And fewer were those who dared.

-

-   |  For those who hunted him long before

-   |  Had a fearful story brought:

-   |  They were not men on the mountain side,

-   |  But demons who with them fought!

-

-   |  For horrible forms arose, they said,

-   |  As if from the earth they grew;

-   |  And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above

-   |  On any who might pursue.

-

-   |  From town to town and from land to land,

-   |  Had his evil fame been spread;

-   |  And voices lowered and lips grew grave

-   |  When the hated name they said.

-

-   |  The people's heart had grown faint with fear,

-   |  And they thought no hope remained;

-   |  But hope again on their vision dawned,

-   |  When the Emperor's ear they gained.

-

-   |  Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then;

-   |  He was great in warlike fame,

-   |  And he was not one to shrink or quake

-   |  At a mountain bandit's name.

-

-   |  He sent a band of a hundred strong

-   |  For the troubled land's release,

-   |  To kill the man and his bloody crew,

-   |  And to give the country peace.

-

-   |  For what was a robber chief to him?

-   |  He had conquered mighty kings;

-   |  He gave the order, and then 't was done,

-   |  And he thought of other things.

-

-   |  But few, alas, of that troop returned,

-   |  And they told a ghostly tale;

-   |  And women wept, and the strongest men,

-   |  As they heard, grew mute and pale.

-

-   |  Those soldiers oft in the war had been,

-   |  And they counted danger light;

-   |  From mortal foe had they never turned,

-   |  But with demons who could fight?

-

-   |  The Emperor silent was and grave,

-   |  For his thoughts were deep and wise;

-   |  He saw that the robber chief was one

-   |  Whom he could not well despise.

-

-   |  There might be reason in what they said,

-   |  That the demons gave him aid,

-   |  And earthly weapon would ne'er be found

-   |  That could make such foes afraid.

-

-   |  But yet they will flee from sacred things,

-   |  And the martyred saints, he knew,

-   |  Have holy virtue, that to them clings,

-   |  That can all their spells undo.

-

-   |  But how could such weapon reach the soul

-   |  That for years had owned their sway?

-   |  A question grave that he pondered long;

-   |  But at length he found a way.

-

-   |  A reliquary he made prepare;

-   |  It was all of finest gold:

-   |  For as monarch might with monarch treat,

-   |  He would serve this bandit bold.

-

-   |  The gold was his, but the work he gave

-   |  To the skilled and patient hand

-   |  Of an artist monk, who counted then

-   |  For the first in all the land.

-

-   |  Now see him close to his labour bent,

-   |  In a cell remote and high,

-   |  Where all he saw of the world without

-   |  Was a square of roof and sky.

-

-   |  A holy man was this artist monk,

-   |  And for gain he did not ask,

-   |  If only the Lord his work would bless,

-   |  For his heart was in the task.

-

-   |  And day by day from his touch came forth

-   |  The image of holy things;

-   |  The cross was there, and the clustered vine,

-   |  And the dove with outspread wings,—

-

-   |  The dove that bore in her golden beak

-   |  The olive in sign of peace,

-   |  And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time

-   |  To the prayer that would not cease!

-

-   |  For pity stirred in him when he thought

-   |  Of that dark and stormy breast,

-   |  So hard, so hopeless, from God so far,

-   |  Where the little shrine would rest.

-

-   |  And perhaps if angels were looking on,

-   |  (And I doubt not some were there!)

-   |  They saw that the work was sown with pearls,

-   |  And each pearl a burning prayer.

-

-   |  So weeks went on, and the shrine was done,

-   |  And within it, sealed and closed,

-   |  Were holy relics of martyred saints

-   |  Who near in the church reposed.

-

-   |  And trusted messengers bore it forth

-   |  To the distant mountain land;

-   |  With such a weapon they need not fear;

-   |  They could meet the famed brigand.

-

-   |  'T was winter now on the mountain-side,

-   |  And the way was long and hard,

-   |  As the faithful envoys upward toiled

-   |  In their bandit escort's guard,—

-

-   |  Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs,

-   |  For that was the place designed,

-   |  Where, after parley and long delay,

-   |  Had the meeting been combined.

-

-   |  No sound but their feet that crushed the snow,

-   |  And the world looked sad and dead;

-   |  They thought of lives on the mountain lost,

-   |  And it was not much they said.

-

-   |  The sun, as it shone with slanting ray

-   |  Through the stripped and silent trees,

-   |  Could melt but little the clinging ice

-   |  Which to-night again would freeze.

-

-   |  They reached the grove, and the chief was there,

-   |  Like a king in savage state;

-   |  Erect and fearless, above them all,

-   |  While his men around him wait.

-

-   |  He stood before them like what he was,

-   |  A terrible beast of prey;

-   |  But even tigers have something grand,

-   |  And he looked as grand as they.

-

-   |  But, oh, the look that he on them turned!

-   |  It was fearful to behold;

-   |  It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink,

-   |  For their faith had made them bold.

-

-   |  And looking straight in those gloomy eyes,

-   |  With their hard and cruel glare,

-   |  "We come," said one, "in the Emperor's name,

-   |  And from him a token bear."

-

-   |  Then said the chief, with a mocking smile,

-   |  "And what may my Lord command?"

-   |  And made a sign with his evil eye,

-   |  For the men on guard to stand.

-

-   |  No faith had he in a tale so wild,

-   |  And he somewhat feared a snare;

-   |  There might be others in hiding near,

-   |  But he did not greatly care.

-

-   |  Then forth came he who the relics bore,—

-   |  'T was a prudent man and brave,—

-   |  And into the hand that all men feared,

-   |  He the holy token gave.

-

-   |  "This gift to you has the Emperor sent,

-   |  In token of his good will,"

-   |  He said; and at first the fierce brigand

-   |  Stood in wonder, hushed and still.

-

-   |  What felt he then as that holy thing

-   |  In his guilty hand he took?

-   |  What changed his face for a moment's time

-   |  To an almost human look?

-

-   |  There lay the shrine in his open palm.

-   |  Yet he thought it could not be:

-   |  "For me?" he asked, but his voice was strange.

-   |  And again he said, "for me?"

-

-   |  Three times the messenger told his tale,

-   |  And he said 't was all he knew;

-   |  The bandit looked at the wondrous work,

-   |  And he could not doubt 't was true.

-

-   |  So over his neck the chain he hung,

-   |  The shrine on his bosom lay

-   |  With all its wealth of a thousand prayers;

-   |  And they were not cast away.

-

-   |  Day followed day in the bandit's cave,

-   |  And a restless man was he;

-   |  A heart so hard and so proud as his

-   |  With the saints could ill agree.

-

-   |  The holy relics that on it lay

-   |  Did a strange confusion make;

-   |  In all that most he had loved before,

-   |  He could no more pleasure take.

-

-   |  A charm there was in the golden shrine

-   |  That had all his soul possessed;

-   |  He sat and looked at each sacred sign

-   |  With a dreamy sense of rest.

-

-   |  'T was not the gold that could soothe him thus,

-   |  And 't was not the work so fine:

-   |  'T was the holy soul of the artist monk,

-   |  For it lived in every line.

-

-   |  Like one who sleeps when the day begins,

-   |  And, before his slumbers end,

-   |  The morning light and the morning sounds

-   |  With his dreaming fancies blend;

-

-   |  So now and then would his heart be stirred

-   |  By a feeling strange and new,

-   |  And thoughts he never had known before

-   |  In his mind unconscious grew.

-

-   |  Till on a sudden his blinding pride,

-   |  Like a bubble, failed and broke;

-   |  With eyes wide open, the guilty man

-   |  From his life-long dream awoke.

-

-   |  From graves forgotten his crimes came forth,

-   |  In his face they seemed to stare:

-   |  To all one day will such waking come;

-   |  God grant it be here, not there.

-

-   |  Then wild remorse on his heart took hold,

-   |  And beneath its burning sting

-   |  He shrank from himself as one might shrink

-   |  From a venomous, hateful thing.

-

-   |  For scenes of blood from the years gone by

-   |  Forever before him came;

-   |  He closed his eyes, and his face he hid,

-   |  But he saw them just the same.

-

-   |  And in the horror he dared not pray,

-   |  For he felt his soul accurst,

-   |  And he feared to live, and he feared to die,

-   |  And he knew not which was worst.

-

-   |  Yet far on high, and beyond his reach,

-   |  He could see a vision dim,

-   |  A far-off glory of peace and love;

-   |  But he felt 't was not for him.

-

-   |  Awhile his trouble he hid from all,

-   |  For his will was iron strong,

-   |  But never was man, since man was made,

-   |  Who could bear such torment long,

-

-   |  A strange, sick longing was growing up

-   |  In his spirit, day by day,

-   |  A longing for what he most had feared,—

-   |  To let justice have her way;

-

-   |  Until the will to a purpose grew,

-   |  To the Emperor's feet to fly,

-   |  To own his sin without prayer or plea,

-   |  And then give up all and die.

-

-   |  And so one night, without sound or word,

-   |  Away in the dark he stole,

-   |  And all that he took for his journey long

-   |  Was the weight of a burdened soul.

-

-   |  They waited long in that den of crime,

-   |  But they saw their chief no more;

-   |  Or dead or living, they found him not,

-   |  Though they searched the mountain o'er.

-

-   |  And in the country, so long oppressed,

-   |  When his sudden flight was known,

-   |  They spoke of a wild and fearful night,

-   |  When the fiends had claimed their own.

-

-   |  And soon the tale to a legend turned,

-   |  And men trembling used to tell

-   |  Of how they carried him, body and soul,

-   |  To the place where demons dwell.

-

-   |  His men, so bold, were in mortal fear

-   |  Of what might themselves befall;

-   |  So some in a convent refuge sought,

-   |  And the rest were scattered all.

-

-   |  And no one climbed to their empty cave,

-   |  For 't was called a haunted place,

-   |  Though soon the summer had swept away

-   |  Of its horror every trace,

-

-   |  And mountain strawberries nestled low,

-   |  And delicate harebells hung,

-   |  In beauty meek, from its broken arch,

-   |  Where the swallows reared their young.

-

-   |  But where had he gone, that man of woe?

-   |  Had he found the rest he sought?

-   |  In haste he went, but with noiseless tread,

-   |  As his bandit life had taught.

-

-   |  And going downward he met the spring,

-   |  With its mingled sun and showers;

-   |  But storms of winter he bore within,

-   |  And he did not see the flowers.

-

-   |  And how did he live from day to day,

-   |  And the ceaseless strain endure?

-   |  Kind hearts there are that can feel for all,

-   |  And the poor will help the poor.

-

-   |  In frightened pity, a shepherd girl,

-   |  As she fled o'er the daisied grass,

-   |  Would let the bread from her apron fall

-   |  On the turf where he should pass;

-

-   |  Or workmen, eating their noonday meal

-   |  On a bank beside the way,

-   |  Would give him food, but with outstretched arm,

-   |  And they asked him not to stay.

-

-   |  He went like a shadow taken shape

-   |  From some vague and awful dream,

-   |  And word of comfort for him was none,

-   |  In his misery so extreme.

-

-   |  Alas, from himself he could not flee,

-   |  Though he tried, poor haunted man;

-   |  And he reached the city beside the sea,

-   |  As the Holy Week began.

-

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-   *PART SECOND*

-

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-

-..

-

-   |  'T was Sunday morn, and a hundred bells

-   |  With their sweet and saintly sound

-   |  Were calling the people in to prayer

-   |  From the pleasant hills around,—

-

-   |  The morn when strivings should end in peace,

-   |  And each wrong forgotten be,

-   |  That Holy Week may its blessing shed

-   |  Upon souls from discord free.

-

-   |  The streets were bright with a moving throng,

-   |  And before the palace gate,

-   |  With eager eyes and in garments gay,

-   |  Did a crowd expectant wait.

-

-   |  For the Emperor goes in solemn state,

-   |  With his court, like all the rest,

-   |  To the church with many lamps ablaze,

-   |  Where to-day the palms are blest.

-

-   |  And stately ladies and timid girls,

-   |  In their modest plain attire,

-   |  From curtained windows are looking down,

-   |  And the shifting scene admire.

-

-   |  They come, they come, from the cool deep shade

-   |  Of the courtyard's marble arch,—

-   |  The nobles all in their rich array,

-   |  And the guards with sounding march.

-

-   |  And stay, the square is as still as death,

-   |  For the Emperor passes now;

-   |  The girls at the window hold their breath,

-   |  And the people bend and bow.

-

-   |  But who is this that among them moves

-   |  With that quick and stately pace?

-   |  What see they all in his rigid look,

-   |  That they shrink and give him place?

-

-   |  Too late the guards would have barred the way,

-   |  For he darted swiftly by,

-   |  As hunted creatures, when hard beset,

-   |  To man in their terror fly.

-

-   |  And sinking low at the feet of him

-   |  He had come so far to see,

-   |  He waited silent with folded hands,

-   |  Nor asked what his fate should be.

-

-   |  "Who are you, come in such deep distress,

-   |  And what is the grace you seek?"

-   |  The Emperor's voice was grave and kind,

-   |  And the stranger tried to speak.

-

-   |  The golden casket he raised in sight,

-   |  While he bent his eyes for shame;

-   |  Then said he, "I am that wicked man,"

-   |  And he told the dreaded name.

-

-   |  A shudder fell upon all who heard,

-   |  But the people nearer drew;

-   |  From mouth to mouth, in a whisper low,

-   |  The name of the bandit flew.

-

-   |  While he, uplifting those woful eyes,

-   |  In the boldness of despair,

-   |  With ne'er a thought of the crowd who heard,

-   |  His errand did thus declare:

-

-   |  "I come not here to confess my sins,

-   |  For you know them all too well;

-   |  My crimes are many and black and great,

-   |  They are more than tongue can tell.

-

-   |  "But here at your feet my life I lay,

-   |  I have nothing else to give;

-   |  So now, if it please you, speak the word,

-   |  For I am not fit to live."

-

-   |  The words came straight from his broken heart

-   |  In such sad and simple style,

-   |  That the Emperor's firm, proud lips were moved

-   |  To a somewhat softened smile.

-

-   |  For his warlike spirit felt the charm

-   |  Of that savage strength and grace,

-   |  And the strange fierce beauty that lingered still

-   |  In the dark and troubled face.

-

-   |  So grand of form and so lithe of limb,

-   |  And still in his manhood's prime,

-   |  'T would be a pity for one like him

-   |  To perish before his time.

-

-   |  And 't was well to see him kneeling there,

-   |  Whose terror had filled the land,

-   |  Like a captive tiger, caught and tamed

-   |  By his own imperial hand.

-

-   |  "Arise," he said, "you have nought to fear,

-   |  Take comfort and go your way,

-   |  And may God in heaven my sins forgive,

-   |  As I pardon yours to-day."

-

-   |  A murmur rose from the crowded square,

-   |  At the sound of words like these;

-   |  For some rejoiced in the mercy shown,

-   |  And others it did not please.

-

-   |  Some thanked the Lord for the pardoned man,

-   |  And some were to scorn inclined;

-   |  And motherly women wiped their eyes,

-   |  For the women's hearts are kind.

-

-   |  "God bless our Emperor," many said;

-   |  But others began to frown.

-   |  And asked, "Will he turn this wild brigand

-   |  Adrift in our peaceful town?"

-

-   |  No word of thanks did the bandit say,

-   |  But he raised one shining fold

-   |  Of the robe imperial, trailing low

-   |  With its weight of gems and gold.

-

-   |  The border first to his lips he pressed,

-   |  And then to his heavy heart;

-   |  Then rose and waited with bended head,

-   |  Till he saw them all depart.

-

-   |  No eye had he for the gorgeous train,

-   |  As along the square it passed;

-   |  One stately presence was all he knew,

-   |  And he watched it till the last.

-

-   |  A heavy sigh, and he turned away,

-   |  But with slow and weary tread;

-   |  No rest as yet on the earth for him,

-   |  Not even among the dead.

-

-   |  He lived, and he bore his burden still,

-   |  But the dumb despair had ceased:

-   |  That word of mercy had brought a change,

-   |  And he now had tears, at least;

-

-   |  He now could pray, though it brought not light,

-   |  And he seemed to ask in vain,

-   |  And his prayer had more of tears than words,

-   |  But it helped him bear the pain.

-

-   |  And oft in church did they see him kneel

-   |  In some corner all alone,

-   |  And weep till the great hot drops would fall

-   |  On the floor of varied stone.

-

-   |  And children clung to their mothers' hand,

-   |  When they saw that vision wild,—

-   |  That haggard face, and that wasting form,

-   |  And those lips that never smiled.

-

-   |  But grief was wearing his life away,

-   |  And for him perhaps 't was well;

-   |  It was not long on the city street

-   |  That his saddening shadow fell.

-

-   |  A fever slowly within him burned,

-   |  Till the springs of life were dry,

-   |  And glad he was when they laid him down

-   |  On a hospital bed to die.

-

-   |  His heart was broken, his strength was gone,

-   |  He had no more wish to live;

-   |  He almost hoped that the Lord on high,

-   |  Like the Emperor, might forgive;

-

-   |  That somewhere down in the peaceful earth

-   |  He should find a refuge yet,

-   |  A place to rest and his eyes to close,

-   |  And the woful past forget.

-

-   |  He could not lie where the others lay,

-   |  For such gloom around him spread,

-   |  That soon in a chamber far away

-   |  Had they set his friendless bed.

-

-   |  'T was there he suffered and wept and prayed,

-   |  From the eyes of all concealed:

-   |  Alas! but it takes a weary time

-   |  For a life like his to yield.

-

-   |  The grand old hospital where he died

-   |  Was beneath the watchful care

-   |  Of a certain doctor, famed afar

-   |  For his skill and learning rare.

-

-   |  But more than learning and more than skill

-   |  Was his heart, so large and kind,

-   |  That knew the trouble and felt the needs

-   |  Of the sick who near him pined.

-

-   |  With conscience pure had he served the Lord

-   |  From youth till his hair was grey,

-   |  Yet only pity he felt, not scorn,

-   |  For the many feet that stray.

-

-   |  In troubled scenes had his life been passed;

-   |  He was used to woe and sin,

-   |  And when men suffered he did not ask

-   |  If their lives had blameless been.

-

-   |  His part was but to relieve their pain,

-   |  And he helped and soothed and cheered;

-   |  But most he cared for the stricken man

-   |  Whom the others shunned and feared.

-

-   |  Each art to save him he tried in vain,

-   |  And it could but useless prove,

-   |  For the poisoned thorn that pierced his heart

-   |  Could no earthly hand remove,

-

-   |  When hope had failed, he would kneel and pray,

-   |  And his heart with tears outpour,

-   |  That God in mercy would comfort send

-   |  To that soul in torment sore.

-

-   |  And though the burden he might not lift,

-   |  He could help its weight to bear;

-   |  He talked of mercy, of peace to come,

-   |  And he bade him not despair.

-

-   |  And so, on the last sad night of all,

-   |  'T was the brave, good doctor came

-   |  To watch alone by the bandit's side,

-   |  When he died of grief and shame.

-

-   |  The spring to summer was wearing on,

-   |  'T was the fairest night in May,

-   |  When sleep to those eyes in mercy came,

-   |  And the deadly strain gave way.

-

-   |  No candle burned, for the moon was full,

-   |  And the peaceful splendour fell

-   |  Through the open window, lighting all:

-   |  It was like a kind farewell.

-

-   |  And scents from the garden floated in,

-   |  And the silent fireflies came,

-   |  And breathed and vanished, and breathed again,

-   |  With their soft mysterious flame.

-

-   |  The doctor watched with a heavy heart,

-   |  His head on his hand was bowed;

-   |  He thought how many his prayers had been,

-   |  But they could not lift the cloud.

-

-   |  'T was over now, there was nothing left

-   |  For his pitying love to do;

-   |  The worn-out body would rest at last,

-   |  But the guilty soul,—who knew?

-

-   |  No more to do but to watch and wait

-   |  Till the failing breath should cease;

-   |  He longed, as the counted minutes flew,

-   |  For one parting smile of peace.

-

-   |  He looked: a handkerchief veiled the eyes,

-   |  For they wept until the end,

-   |  And sadly still on the wasted cheek

-   |  Did a few slow drops descend.

-

-   |  The peace that oft to the dying comes

-   |  Was to him as yet denied,—

-   |  No sunset clear after stormy day,

-   |  And no brightening ere he died.

-

-   |  "Alas! he will go away to-night,

-   |  And without one hopeful sign,

-   |  Away from pity, away from care,

-   |  And from such poor help as mine!"

-

-   |  The doctor sighed, but he hoped as well,

-   |  For he said, "It cannot be

-   |  That the Lord, who died for all, will have

-   |  No mercy for such as he."

-

-   |  'T was then that sleep on the doctor fell,

-   |  And before him stood revealed,

-   |  In dreaming vision, a wondrous sight,

-   |  From his waking eyes concealed.

-

-   |  For other watchers were in the room,

-   |  And he knew the ghastly throng

-   |  Of demon spirits, the very same

-   |  Whom the man had served so long.

-

-   |  And two were leaning across the bed,

-   |  And another pressed behind,

-   |  And some in the shadow waiting stood,

-   |  With a chain his soul to bind.

-

-   |  But angels watched by the bedside too;

-   |  'T was a strange and solemn scene,—

-   |  The angels here and the demons there,

-   |  And the dying man between.

-

-   |  The angels looked with a troubled gaze

-   |  On the face consumed with grief,

-   |  And over the pillow bent and swayed,

-   |  As in haste to bring relief.

-

-   |  And one on the bowed and burdened head

-   |  Did a hand in blessing lay,

-   |  And he said, "Poor soul, come home with us.

-   |  Where the tears are wiped away."

-

-   |  "Not so," cried one of the demon troop,

-   |  "He is black with every sin;

-   |  And you may not touch our lawful prey

-   |  That we laboured years to win.

-

-   |  "We bought his soul, and the price we paid,

-   |  And our part has well been done;

-   |  We helped him ever from crime to crime,

-   |  Till his buried wealth was won;

-

-   |  "And we almost thought him one of us,

-   |  He had so well learned our ways;

-   |  So go, for we do but seek our own,

-   |  And be done with these delays."

-

-   |  The angel said, "He has wept his sin,

-   |  As none ever wept before,

-   |  Has mourned till his very life gave way,

-   |  And what could a man do more?

-

-   |  "And our Blessèd Lord, who pities all,

-   |  And the sins of all has borne,

-   |  Will never His mercy turn away

-   |  From a heart so bruised and torn."

-

-   |  "But how? and shall mercy be for him

-   |  Who has mercy never shown?

-   |  Can his sorrow bring the dead to life,

-   |  Or can tears for blood atone?

-

-   |  "Is he to rest with the angels now,

-   |  Has he done with tears and pain?

-   |  To-morrow morn he will wish he lay

-   |  On the hospital bed again;

-

-   |  "There is somewhat more to weep for down

-   |  In the place where he must stay!"

-   |  The demon looked at his fiendish mates;

-   |  And he laughed, and so did they.

-

-   |  And they gathered close, like hungry wolves,

-   |  In their haste to rend and tear;

-   |  But they could not touch the helpless head

-   |  While that strong white hand was there.

-

-   |  Then out of the shadow one came forth,

-   |  'T was a demon great and tall;

-   |  An iron balance he held on high,

-   |  As he stood before them all.

-

-   |  And fiercely he to the angels called,

-   |  "Do you dare to claim him still?

-   |  Then come, for the scales are in my hand,

-   |  We will weigh the good and ill."

-

-   |  And into the nearest scale he threw,

-   |  As he spoke, a parchment roll,

-   |  With on it a note of every sin

-   |  That had stained the parting soul.

-

-   |  'T was closely written, without, within,

-   |  And the balance downward flew

-   |  And struck the ground with a blow, as though

-   |  It would break the pavement through.

-

-   |  "He is ours forever," the demons said,

-   |  "If justice the world controls;

-   |  For sins so heavy do on him lie,

-   |  They would sink a hundred souls!

-

-   |  "Come, hasten, angels, the time is short,

-   |  And words are of no avail;

-   |  Come, bring the note of your friend's good deeds,

-   |  To lay in the empty scale."

-

-   |  The angels searched, but they searched in vain,

-   |  There was no good deed to bring;

-   |  In all that ever that hand had done,

-   |  They could find no worthy thing.

-

-   |  A taunting shout from the demons broke,

-   |  And each hard malignant face

-   |  With joy and triumph was all aflame;

-   |  But the angels held their place,

-

-   |  Though dimness fell like a passing cloud

-   |  On their pure and holy light;

-   |  And if ever angel eyes have tears,

-   |  There were some in theirs that night.

-

-   |  But he who had been the first to speak,

-   |  With a glimmering hope possessed,

-   |  Still sought some good that would turn the scale,

-   |  Though it seemed a useless quest.

-

-   |  He saw the handkerchief where it lay,

-   |  And he raised it off the bed,

-   |  All wet and clinging, and steeped in tears

-   |  That the dying eyes had shed.

-

-   |  He turned around, but his face was pale,

-   |  As the last poor chance he tried;

-   |  He laid it down in the empty scale,

-   |  And he said, "Let God decide!"

-

-   |  When, lo! it fell till it touched the earth,

-   |  And the demons stood dismayed;

-   |  It seemed so little and light a thing,

-   |  But it all his sins outweighed.

-

-   |  But who shall ever the anger tell

-   |  Of that black and hateful band,

-   |  When most in triumph they felt secure,

-   |  The prey had escaped their hand.

-

-   |  They stood one moment in speechless rage,

-   |  And then, with a fearful sound

-   |  Of shrieks and curses and rattling chains,

-   |  They vanished beneath the ground.

-

-   |  Then holy peace on the chamber fell,

-   |  Till it flooded all the air;

-   |  The angels praised and they thanked the Lord,

-   |  Who so late had heard their prayer.

-

-   |  And their clouded glory shone again,

-   |  With a clear celestial ray,

-   |  As the trembling soul, which that moment passed,

-   |  They bore in their arms away.

-

-   |  Then through the room, as they took their flight,

-   |  Did a flood of music stream,

-   |  So loud, so sweet, and so close at hand,

-   |  That it waked him from his dream.

-

-   |  He looked around; there was nothing stirred

-   |  In the empty, moonlit room,

-   |  Where a faint, sweet odour filled the air

-   |  From the orange-trees in bloom.

-

-   |  And the notes divine he had thought to hear

-   |  Were only the liquid flow

-   |  Of a nightingale's song, that came up clear

-   |  From the garden just below.

-

-   |  Then up from his seat the doctor rose,

-   |  And he stood beside the bed;

-   |  He knew, when he touched the quiet hand,

-   |  That the poor brigand was dead.

-

-   |  The handkerchief on the pillow lay,

-   |  But its weary use was o'er,

-   |  And he raised it, heavy and wet with tears,

-   |  From the eyes that could weep no more.

-

-.. vspace:: 6

-

-.. pgfooter::

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