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diff --git a/47962.txt b/47962.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b578866..0000000 --- a/47962.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5406 +0,0 @@ - THE HIDDEN SERVANTS AND OTHER VERY OLD STORIES - - - - -This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at -http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United -States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are -located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories -Author: Francesca Alexander -Release Date: January 12, 2015 [EBook #47962] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIDDEN SERVANTS AND OTHER -VERY OLD STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - - -[Illustration: Marianna and her Vision by the Fire. From a drawing by -the author] - - - - - [Illustration: Title page] - - - - *THE HIDDEN - SERVANTS* - - _and_ OTHER VERY OLD STORIES - - - _Told Over Again By_ - FRANCESCA ALEXANDER - - AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF IDA," - "ROADSIDE SONGS OF TUSCANY," Etc. - - - - _LONDON_ * Published by DAVID NUTT - at the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre * _1907_ - - - - - Copyright, 1900, - By LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY - - All Rights Reserved - - - - University Press * John Wilson - and Son * Cambridge, U.S.A. - - - - - *Introduction* - - -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." - -ANNA FULLER. - - - - - *Preface* - - - *THE OLD STORY-TELLER* - -_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--_ -_Blessed 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._ - - - - - *CONTENTS* - - -Introduction - -Preface - -The Hidden Servants - -The Bag of Sand - -Il Crocifisso della Providenza - -Angels in the Churchyard - -The Origin of the Indian Corn - -The Eldest Daughter of the King - -Bishop Troilus - -The Crosses on the Wall - -Suora Marianna - -The Lupins - -The Silver Cross - -The Tears of Repentance - - - - - *The Hidden Servants - *_*AND OTHER POEMS*_ - - - *THE HIDDEN SERVANTS* - - - 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 aged, 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 aged friend, - Then made a blessed 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 blessed 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 aged 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!" - - - - - *The Bag of Sand* - - -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. - - - *The Bag of Sand* - - -_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._ - - - - 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 learned, 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. - - - - - *Il Crocifisso della Providenza* - - -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. - - - *Il Crocifisso della Providenza* - - - 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 aged 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." - - - - - *Angels in the Churchyard* - - -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. - - - *Angels in the Churchyard* - - - 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. - - - - - *The Origin of the Indian Corn* - - -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 Gesu 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. - - - *The Origin of the Indian Corn* - - *A Legend of Friuli* - - - 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 aged 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 blessed 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 aged say, - "To look on Thy blessed 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 aged 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 Blessed 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 Blessed 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! - - - - - *The Eldest Daughter of the King* - - -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. - - - *The Eldest Daughter of the King* - - - Saint John of Alexandria--blessed name, - Recalling ever holy thought and deed! - O heart forever warm with heavenly flame! - O hand forever full for others' need! - - Blessed 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 aged 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 blessed 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 aged 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 blessed 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. - - - - - *Bishop Troilus* - - - *Bishop Troilus* - - *THE MANSION IN HEAVEN* - - - 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 aged 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 blessed 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 blessed 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 blessed 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 aged, 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. - - - - - *The Crosses on the Wall* - - -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. - - - *The Crosses on the Wall* - - *A Legend of Primiero* - - - 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! - - - - - *Suora Marianna* - - - *Suora Marianna* - - - Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of mine, - That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan Apennine, - From an aged, 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 blessed 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. - - - - - *The Lupins* - - -The simple story of "The Lupins" is very commonly known among the -country people, who often quote it as a remedy for discontent. - - - *The Lupins* - - - '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. - - - - - *The Silver Cross* - - -The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver Cross" is one of her -many visions, recorded by her confessor. - - - *The Silver Cross* - - - 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 blessed 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. - - - - - *The Tears of Repentance* - - -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. - - - *The Tears of Repentance* - - _PART FIRST_ - - *THE MOUNTAIN* - - - 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 armed 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. - - - - _PART SECOND_ - - - '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 Blessed 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. - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIDDEN SERVANTS AND OTHER -VERY OLD STORIES *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47962 - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so -the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and -trademark. 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