Front matter (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For one moment Bishop Troilus feels his narrow heart expand,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For indeed I would not wrong you, though to me the gain be great.

So then do not answer rashly,—there is time, we both can wait,

And 't were well to think a little on the words our Master said,

How He left the poor behind, that we might serve them in His stead;

And whatever help we grant them, be it great or be it small,

To our blessèd Lord we give it, to our Lord, who gave us all."

Then made answer Bishop Troilus, "As for what you now propose,

If it please you I am ready, and the bargain we can close.

There are many kinds of service, and each needful in its way,

And I think the Lord has set me in His church to preach and pray,

And to save the souls that perish, and to teach men how to live,

While your own vocation, brother, is with open hand to give.

Let not one defraud the other, take your part and leave me mine,

For however we may divide it, all the service is divine.

Let us feed God's flock together, for His needy children care,

I the souls, and you the bodies, so the burden we may share."

"Then so be it," said the other, but his voice was low and grave,

And he prayed to God in silence for the soul he could not save.

"We must write it all in order, we must sign and seal it too,

So that mine may be the blessing, while the gold remains with you."

So they wrote a contract solemn, to which each one signed his name,

In which he, the Bishop Troilus, did relinquish every claim

To whatever reward or merit his one pious deed had earned,

Since the thirty golden pieces to his hand had been returned.

Then the Patriarch counted slowly all the pieces, one by one,

In the open hand of Troilus, and his last attempt was done.

All had failed, and heavy-hearted from that chamber forth he went,

While his friend lay still and smiling in the fullness of content;

For the fever now had left him, and 't was sweet to lie and rest,

With no more a thorn to vex him in his smooth, untroubled breast.

With a dreamy satisfaction he was thinking all the while

How those pretty shining pieces would increase the golden pile

In that chest of hoarded treasure that already held so much;

And he laid his hand upon them with a fond caressing touch.

But his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes were closing soon,

In the drowsy heat and stillness of the summer afternoon.

Then a dream was sent to bless him, as in quiet sleep he lay,

And it bore him in a vision to the country far away;

And he saw the holy city, where the saints and angels dwell;

Of its glory, of its beauty, mortal tongue can never tell.

There were palm-trees growing stately by the water, crystal clear;

There was music ever swelling, sometimes far and sometimes near,

As it rose in mystic cadence from the hearts that overflowed

With the joy that reigns forever in their beautiful abode.

And the people of that city whom he met along the way

On the shining golden pavement, oh, how full of peace were they!

For he thought some heavenly vision shone forever in their sight,

And he looked where they were gazing, but he only saw the light

As it flooded all with glory, and the air it seemed to fill;

But he saw not what they looked on, for his eyes were mortal still.

Now among those lighted faces there were some he knew before,

Of the poor to whom so often he had closed his heart and door;

Such as in the heavenly city he had little thought to find,

For the sad and sick and needy had been never to his mind:

Of the rich were not so many, yet a few of these beside,

Who by deeds of love and mercy had their Master glorified.

And in perfect health and beauty, among all that bright array,

Was the woman he saw dying in the hospital that day.

All along the road he travelled, to the left and to the right,

Rose the palaces they dwelt in, each a mansion of delight,

But all varying in their beauty, far away as eye could reach,

With a name in golden letters, high above the door of each.

And sweet faces smiled upon him, from the windows here and there,

Gentle faces free forever from the shade of earthly care;

And he heard the happy voices of the children as they played

In the fair and peaceful gardens, where the roses never fade;

And the things he left behind him seemed so very poor and small,

That he wondered, in that glory, why men cared for them at all.

But oh, wonder of all wonders, when he saw a name that shone

O'er a high and arching doorway, yes, a name that was his own!

Could it be his eyes deceived him? No, he read it o'er and o'er;

"This," it said, "of Bishop Troilus is the home forevermore."

Oh the beauty of that palace, with such light and splendour filled,

That he thought the clouds of sunset had been hewn its walls to gild;

And the golden door stood open, he could catch a glimpse within

Of the vast illumined chambers where no foot had ever been.

He could only gaze bewildered, for the wonder was too great,

And the joy so poured upon him he could hardly bear the weight.

Then he took one step toward it, but a servant of the King

Who from far-off earth that morning had returned on busy wing,

And was bearing gifts and tokens from the scattered church below,

Came and passed and stood before him, in the courtyard's golden glow.

Then he turned to his companions, for a few had gathered near,

And his words fell hard and heavy on the Bishop's listening ear,—

"We must cancel that inscription from the stone, and write thereon

That Troilus hath this palace sold unto the Patriarch John,

And that thirty golden pieces were the price that he received."

Up then started Bishop Troilus, for his soul was sorely grieved,

And he tried to speak, but could not, and awoke in his dismay,

With his hand upon the money close beside him where he lay.

Now the long bright day was over; as he saw the sun descend,—

"Weary day," the Patriarch thought it; he was glad to see it end.

He was walking in his garden where the freshening shadows lay,

And the flowers that drooped at noontime stood erect in beauty gay;

But their brightness could not cheer him, and he bent his head and sighed,

For he thought, with wondering sadness, that the Lord his prayer denied,

Then he heard a step behind him, and he looked; but who was there,

Wild of look, like one who struggled with a pain he could not bear?

Could it be the stately Bishop? Yes, but oh, how changed to see!

And he said with tears and trembling, "O my brother, pray for me!"

How the Patriarch's heart rebounded from the weight that on it pressed,

At the change so deep and sudden, in those broken words expressed!

How his cheek grew red with gladness, how it smoothed his troubled brow!

"God forgive me if I doubted, all my prayers are answered now."

"Come," he said, "my brother Troilus, sit beside me, tell me all;"

And he led him, pale and helpless, to a seat beside the wall.

And there Troilus, clinging closely to that strong and helpful hand,

Trusting in the heart that loved him and his thoughts could understand,

Told the story of his vision to his awed and listening friend,—

All that dream of light and glory, with its sad, unlooked-for end:

But his voice, which trembled ever, wellnigh failed him when he told

Of the horror of that waking, with his hand upon the gold;

When his eyes, long blind, were opened, and he saw the wreck within,

And one fearful moment, showed him what his wasted life had been.

"Now," he said, "my courage fails me when I think to mend my ways.

I have wasted all God gave me,—mind, and strength, and length of days,—

And the gold I gave my soul for pulls me downward with its weight;

Help me if you can, oh, help me! Say it is not yet too late."

And he looked with eyes beseeching at the Patriarch, who replied

With a smile that fell like sunshine on the faint heart by his side,—

"What! too late for God's forgiveness, when He calls you to repent?

'T was to save you, not to lose you, that the blessèd dream was sent;

'T is His help, not mine, my brother, you are needing, and you know,

If we ask it, He will give it, for Himself has told us so.

And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed all the more

If the years were long and many since he left his Father's door."

"But," said Troilus, "I am agèd, and my manhood's strength is past;

After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at last?"

"Never fear," the Patriarch answered, "there is joy in heaven to-day,

And they ask not in their gladness if your hair be black or gray."

So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, by deed and word,

Gave himself and all his substance to the service of the Lord;

Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored his friend anew

With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised so to do.

And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him again,

Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change was not in vain,

Then he left the past behind him, and a better life began;

From that evening in the garden he became another man.

There was no more train about him when he walked the city through,

For the priests who once attended now had better work to do;

And the ladies cared no longer from their balconies to lean,

When of worldly pomp and splendour there was nothing to be seen.

For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone no more,

Having gone on works of mercy to increase his heavenly store.

But the poor and needy sought him; he was now their faithful friend,

And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love they might depend.

So his closing days were happy, after years of sordid care,

For no gain can bring contentment till the poor have had their share;

And he lightened many a burden, and he righted many a wrong,

And the wealth became a blessing that had been a curse so long;

And his secret hoard was scattered, and men said that he died poor,

But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, we may be sure.

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 agèd, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?

It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot know

Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it can give;

But still, try and not forget it! You will need it if you live,

And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin to tire,

You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the fire.

In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country town,

On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping down,

Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the poor,

Who must labour late and early, and much weariness endure;

And the one who did in patience and in all good works excel

Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.

She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task prepared:

No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she never spared.

All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not her own,

Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her throne!

She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace to choose,

Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot lose.

There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one

Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is done.

Was she beautiful? I know not. She had eyes of peaceful light,

And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen white.

To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold,

And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old.

She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road,

Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode,

Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and her woman's strength was tried;

For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her side.

She was happy—oh, so happy!—in her little whitewashed cell

Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwell

In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the wall,

Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.

'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best,

Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's arms at rest.

But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,

And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant

And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn

With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the thorn,

Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was bright,

From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by night.

So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord

She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies stored:

He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their brightness sees;

But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working bees.

But there came a time—poor sister!—when her rosy cheek grew pale,

And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as through a veil;

And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent,

Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she went.

'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees,

And 't was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground would freeze,

And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sign and mark;

But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark!

'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed,

That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed.

Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just begun;

Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the sun.

All around the grass was springing, and its tender verdure spread,

Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves, brown and dead,

Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost touched the edge

Of the daily lessening snow-drifts, under rock or thorny hedge.

From the wreck of last year's autumn life awakened, strong and new,

And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the flowers were few.

Many nights had she been watching, and with little rest by day,

For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless woman lay;

There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost ceased to burn,

Praying God to help and keep them till the husband should return.

'T was the old and common story, such as all of us can hear,

If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout the year!

She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret chamber there,

Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in the air.

She had been a country beauty, for the boys to serenade;

And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes they made,

And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as they grew,

Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to do.

Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient violin,

With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her heart to win;

And one brilliant April morning he had brought her home, a bride,

To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain's terraced side.

'T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from neighbours far away,

But with love and health and music there was much to make it gay.

They were happy, careless people, and they thought not to complain,

Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof let in the rain:

They could pile the fire with branches, while the winter storms swept by;

For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the open sky.

Time had come, and brought its changes,—sunshine first, and then the shade,

Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted. Sickness came, and debts were made;

Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their troubles did not cease,

And the poor man's heart was troubled thus to see his land decrease!

Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now were children small;

Much he loved them, much he laboured—but he could not feed them all.

So he left them, heavy-hearted, and his fortune went to try

In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where they die,

With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its fever-laden air;

But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet would spare.

'T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left behind:

Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife moped and pined:

Still her children's love sustained her, till this sickness laid her low;

When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you know.

Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble still she grew:

Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she knew.

Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long attendance ceased:

"I can do no more," he told her; "you had better call the priest.

To her husband I have written; he will have the news to-day:

If he cares again to see her, he had best be on his way!"

Now the priest has done his office; at the open door he stands,

And he says to Marianna: "I can leave her in your hands,—

I have other work that calls me; if to-night she chance to die,

You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as well as I."

So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn and sad,

Still to watch and think and labour with what failing strength she had.

There was none to share her burden, none to speak to, none to see—

Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of three,

And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and came between),

And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not seen.

Two days more! Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside the bed:

In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin prayers she said,—

Prayers to help a soul departing;—yet she never quite despaired!

Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother's life be spared?

'T was so hard to see her going—such a mother, kind and dear!

There was ne'er another like her in the country, far or near!

(So thought Sister Marianna.) Yet to murmur were a sin.

But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to hold them in,

Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that she caressed,

Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against her breast,

She was silent; something moved her that had neither place nor part

In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she knew by heart.

Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in every word,

As to one she saw before her—"Thou hast been a child, my Lord!

Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant on my knees;

Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless hands like these:

Thou hast known the wants of children, then— Oh, listen to my plea,

For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to Thee!

Think, when all was dark around Thee how her love did Thee enfold;

How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped Thee from the cold!

How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of tears and strife,

When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod sought Thy life!

How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that midnight journey wild!

Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of this child!"

Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed to know and feel

That the Lord was there, and listened to her passionate appeal.

Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light was in her eye,

For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother would not die!

Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her! And a change began that day:

When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had passed away.

So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and hopeful close,

And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister's heart arose.

Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome night it seemed!

For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the rain had streamed:

And the wind and rain together made a wild and mournful din,

As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to come in.

Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,

On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set the fire ablaze,

For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere morning, need to eat.

"Now, God help me," said the sister, "this night's labour to complete!"

'T was a meal she knew would please her, which she lovingly prepared,

Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent table spared,

Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other needed store,

In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on the floor.

On her work was much depending, so she planned to do her best;

And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a nest,

With the embers laid around it; then she thought again, and cast

On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil too fast.

But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming while she planned,

And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and listless hand.

Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this languor, which she viewed

As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and subdued.

But another fear assailed her—what if she should faint or fall?

And to-night the storm-swept cottage seems so far away from all!

How the fitful wind is moaning! And between the gusts that blow,

She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine below.

And her head is aching strangely, as it never did before:

"Good Lord, help me!" she is saying: "this can last but little more!

O my blessèd Lord and Master, only help me through the night—

Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the morning light!

For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless lie,

And with only me to serve them,—if I leave them, they may die!

She is better—yes, I know it, but a touch may turn the scale.

I can send for help to-morrow, but to-night I must not fail!"

'T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words she tried to say

First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died away.

And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the night went on,

With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all undone;

On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney's empty space,

While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale and peaceful face.

Was her humble prayer unanswered? Oh, the Lord has many a way

That His children little think of, to send answers when they pray!

It was long she sat there sleeping—do you think her work was spoiled?

No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher gently boiled:

Ne'er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one precious drop been spilt;

When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden sense of guilt.

But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision, strange and sweet,

For a little Child was standing on the hearth-stone at her feet.

And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like the snow,

And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight glow.

And Himself her work was doing! For He kept the fire alive,

And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger might arrive

To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around it piled;

Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the Holy Child.

'T was her Lord who stood before her! And she did not shrink nor start—

There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing heart.

When her willing hands were weary, when her patient eyes were closed,

He had finished all she failed in, He had watched while she reposed.

Do you ask of His appearance? Human words are weak and cold;

'T is enough to say she knew Him—that is all she ever told.

Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day shall come,

When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us welcome home!

But with that one look He left her, and the vision all had passed,

(Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour would last!)

Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no more sound of rain,

And the morning star was shining through the window's broken pane.

Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to see,

O'er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day was like to be,

While the door she softly opened, letting in the morning breeze,

As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and shining trees.

And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had rolled away,

Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of misty grey,

Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of the storm.

And among the trees below her she could see a moving form;

'T was the husband home returning, yes, thank God! he came at last:

There was no one else would hasten up that mountain road so fast.

Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in sight again;

All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in the rain;

Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the villages asleep,

He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that hillside steep;

And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step was light,

But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish of the night.

Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with laboured breath,

For he saw his home before him, should he find there life or death?

How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the wished-for place!

One step more, his feet had gained it, they were standing face to face.

"God has helped us!" was her answer to the question in his eye;

And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had gone by.

It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken sunlight fell

Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the buds began to swell,

As adown the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had pressed,

Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.

It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter strove no more,

And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the night before.

Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved along;

Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of song.

But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in her ears!

She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many tears:

Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy voice and smile,

For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a while.

And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His care had proved,

When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face she loved,

On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her He had come,

As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble earthly home.

As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild bird's call;

Then, what made her start and linger? 'T was a perfume, that was all:

Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets were in bloom;

And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in her room.

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 blessèd Caterina in her seat did still remain.

For the sleep divine was on her, which so often to her came,

When of mortal life the shadow from around her seemed to fall;

And she looked on things celestial with her happy soul aflame:

But that day the dream that held her was the sweetest of them all.

For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed to her to stand

In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye had never seen;

And a cross of wondrous beauty He was holding in His hand,

Set with every stone most precious and with pearls of light serene.

And He told her that those treasures were the presents He received

From the souls on earth who love Him, and are seeking Him to please.

Were they deeds of noble service? that was what she first believed,

And she thought, "What happy people who can bring Him gifts like these!"

For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed to think how far

From the best she ever gave him were the gems in that bright store.

But He held the cross toward her, that was shining like a star,

And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen it e'er before.

"No," she answered humbly, "never did my eyes the like behold."

But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her like a wave,

For she saw among the jewels and the work of beaten gold

Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of Christ she gave.

And I think her dream that morning was a message from above,

That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn and understand,—

Though our very best be worthless that we give for Jesus' love,

It will change and turn to glory when He takes it in His hand.

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 armèd band.

So hard of heart was this evil man

That he spared not young nor old:

He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,

In his maddening thirst for gold;

Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,

That peacefully went its way,

And the counted gains of a journey long

Were scattered in one short day!

He knew no pity, he owned no law,

Nor human, nor yet divine;

Would take the gold from a Prince's chest,

Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.

In hidden valley, in wild ravine,

On desolate, heath-grown hill,

He buried his treasure away from sight,

And most of it lies there still.

And none were free in that land to dwell,

Except they a tribute paid;

For the robber chief, who was more than king,

Had this burden on them laid.

If any dared to resist the claim,

He was met with vengeance dire;

His lands were wasted before the dawn,

And his harvest burned with fire.

And some day maybe himself was slain,

And left in the road to lie;

To fill with terror the quaking heart

Of the next who journeyed by.

And many fled to the towns afar,

And their fields were left untilled;

While want and trouble and trembling fear

Had the stricken country filled.

High up on a mountain's pathless side

Had the robber made his den,

In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme

Over twenty lawless men.

A price had long on his head been set,

But for that he little cared;

For few were they who could climb the way,

And fewer were those who dared.

For those who hunted him long before

Had a fearful story brought:

They were not men on the mountain side,

But demons who with them fought!

For horrible forms arose, they said,

As if from the earth they grew;

And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above

On any who might pursue.

From town to town and from land to land,

Had his evil fame been spread;

And voices lowered and lips grew grave

When the hated name they said.

The people's heart had grown faint with fear,

And they thought no hope remained;

But hope again on their vision dawned,

When the Emperor's ear they gained.

Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then;

He was great in warlike fame,

And he was not one to shrink or quake

At a mountain bandit's name.

He sent a band of a hundred strong

For the troubled land's release,

To kill the man and his bloody crew,

And to give the country peace.

For what was a robber chief to him?

He had conquered mighty kings;

He gave the order, and then 't was done,

And he thought of other things.

But few, alas, of that troop returned,

And they told a ghostly tale;

And women wept, and the strongest men,

As they heard, grew mute and pale.

Those soldiers oft in the war had been,

And they counted danger light;

From mortal foe had they never turned,

But with demons who could fight?

The Emperor silent was and grave,

For his thoughts were deep and wise;

He saw that the robber chief was one

Whom he could not well despise.

There might be reason in what they said,

That the demons gave him aid,

And earthly weapon would ne'er be found

That could make such foes afraid.

But yet they will flee from sacred things,

And the martyred saints, he knew,

Have holy virtue, that to them clings,

That can all their spells undo.

But how could such weapon reach the soul

That for years had owned their sway?

A question grave that he pondered long;

But at length he found a way.

A reliquary he made prepare;

It was all of finest gold:

For as monarch might with monarch treat,

He would serve this bandit bold.

The gold was his, but the work he gave

To the skilled and patient hand

Of an artist monk, who counted then

For the first in all the land.

Now see him close to his labour bent,

In a cell remote and high,

Where all he saw of the world without

Was a square of roof and sky.

A holy man was this artist monk,

And for gain he did not ask,

If only the Lord his work would bless,

For his heart was in the task.

And day by day from his touch came forth

The image of holy things;

The cross was there, and the clustered vine,

And the dove with outspread wings,—

The dove that bore in her golden beak

The olive in sign of peace,

And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time

To the prayer that would not cease!

For pity stirred in him when he thought

Of that dark and stormy breast,

So hard, so hopeless, from God so far,

Where the little shrine would rest.

And perhaps if angels were looking on,

(And I doubt not some were there!)

They saw that the work was sown with pearls,

And each pearl a burning prayer.

So weeks went on, and the shrine was done,

And within it, sealed and closed,

Were holy relics of martyred saints

Who near in the church reposed.

And trusted messengers bore it forth

To the distant mountain land;

With such a weapon they need not fear;

They could meet the famed brigand.

'T was winter now on the mountain-side,

And the way was long and hard,

As the faithful envoys upward toiled

In their bandit escort's guard,—

Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs,

For that was the place designed,

Where, after parley and long delay,

Had the meeting been combined.

No sound but their feet that crushed the snow,

And the world looked sad and dead;

They thought of lives on the mountain lost,

And it was not much they said.

The sun, as it shone with slanting ray

Through the stripped and silent trees,

Could melt but little the clinging ice

Which to-night again would freeze.

They reached the grove, and the chief was there,

Like a king in savage state;

Erect and fearless, above them all,

While his men around him wait.

He stood before them like what he was,

A terrible beast of prey;

But even tigers have something grand,

And he looked as grand as they.

But, oh, the look that he on them turned!

It was fearful to behold;

It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink,

For their faith had made them bold.

And looking straight in those gloomy eyes,

With their hard and cruel glare,

"We come," said one, "in the Emperor's name,

And from him a token bear."

Then said the chief, with a mocking smile,

"And what may my Lord command?"

And made a sign with his evil eye,

For the men on guard to stand.

No faith had he in a tale so wild,

And he somewhat feared a snare;

There might be others in hiding near,

But he did not greatly care.

Then forth came he who the relics bore,—

'T was a prudent man and brave,—

And into the hand that all men feared,

He the holy token gave.

"This gift to you has the Emperor sent,

In token of his good will,"

He said; and at first the fierce brigand

Stood in wonder, hushed and still.

What felt he then as that holy thing

In his guilty hand he took?

What changed his face for a moment's time

To an almost human look?

There lay the shrine in his open palm.

Yet he thought it could not be:

"For me?" he asked, but his voice was strange.

And again he said, "for me?"

Three times the messenger told his tale,

And he said 't was all he knew;

The bandit looked at the wondrous work,

And he could not doubt 't was true.

So over his neck the chain he hung,

The shrine on his bosom lay

With all its wealth of a thousand prayers;

And they were not cast away.

Day followed day in the bandit's cave,

And a restless man was he;

A heart so hard and so proud as his

With the saints could ill agree.

The holy relics that on it lay

Did a strange confusion make;

In all that most he had loved before,

He could no more pleasure take.

A charm there was in the golden shrine

That had all his soul possessed;

He sat and looked at each sacred sign

With a dreamy sense of rest.

'T was not the gold that could soothe him thus,

And 't was not the work so fine:

'T was the holy soul of the artist monk,

For it lived in every line.

Like one who sleeps when the day begins,

And, before his slumbers end,

The morning light and the morning sounds

With his dreaming fancies blend;

So now and then would his heart be stirred

By a feeling strange and new,

And thoughts he never had known before

In his mind unconscious grew.

Till on a sudden his blinding pride,

Like a bubble, failed and broke;

With eyes wide open, the guilty man

From his life-long dream awoke.

From graves forgotten his crimes came forth,

In his face they seemed to stare:

To all one day will such waking come;

God grant it be here, not there.

Then wild remorse on his heart took hold,

And beneath its burning sting

He shrank from himself as one might shrink

From a venomous, hateful thing.

For scenes of blood from the years gone by

Forever before him came;

He closed his eyes, and his face he hid,

But he saw them just the same.

And in the horror he dared not pray,

For he felt his soul accurst,

And he feared to live, and he feared to die,

And he knew not which was worst.

Yet far on high, and beyond his reach,

He could see a vision dim,

A far-off glory of peace and love;

But he felt 't was not for him.

Awhile his trouble he hid from all,

For his will was iron strong,

But never was man, since man was made,

Who could bear such torment long,

A strange, sick longing was growing up

In his spirit, day by day,

A longing for what he most had feared,—

To let justice have her way;

Until the will to a purpose grew,

To the Emperor's feet to fly,

To own his sin without prayer or plea,

And then give up all and die.

And so one night, without sound or word,

Away in the dark he stole,

And all that he took for his journey long

Was the weight of a burdened soul.

They waited long in that den of crime,

But they saw their chief no more;

Or dead or living, they found him not,

Though they searched the mountain o'er.

And in the country, so long oppressed,

When his sudden flight was known,

They spoke of a wild and fearful night,

When the fiends had claimed their own.

And soon the tale to a legend turned,

And men trembling used to tell

Of how they carried him, body and soul,

To the place where demons dwell.

His men, so bold, were in mortal fear

Of what might themselves befall;

So some in a convent refuge sought,

And the rest were scattered all.

And no one climbed to their empty cave,

For 't was called a haunted place,

Though soon the summer had swept away

Of its horror every trace,

And mountain strawberries nestled low,

And delicate harebells hung,

In beauty meek, from its broken arch,

Where the swallows reared their young.

But where had he gone, that man of woe?

Had he found the rest he sought?

In haste he went, but with noiseless tread,

As his bandit life had taught.

And going downward he met the spring,

With its mingled sun and showers;

But storms of winter he bore within,

And he did not see the flowers.

And how did he live from day to day,

And the ceaseless strain endure?

Kind hearts there are that can feel for all,

And the poor will help the poor.

In frightened pity, a shepherd girl,

As she fled o'er the daisied grass,

Would let the bread from her apron fall

On the turf where he should pass;

Or workmen, eating their noonday meal

On a bank beside the way,

Would give him food, but with outstretched arm,

And they asked him not to stay.

He went like a shadow taken shape

From some vague and awful dream,

And word of comfort for him was none,

In his misery so extreme.

Alas, from himself he could not flee,

Though he tried, poor haunted man;

And he reached the city beside the sea,

As the Holy Week began.

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 Blessèd Lord, who pities all,

And the sins of all has borne,

Will never His mercy turn away

From a heart so bruised and torn."

"But how? and shall mercy be for him

Who has mercy never shown?

Can his sorrow bring the dead to life,

Or can tears for blood atone?

"Is he to rest with the angels now,

Has he done with tears and pain?

To-morrow morn he will wish he lay

On the hospital bed again;

"There is somewhat more to weep for down

In the place where he must stay!"

The demon looked at his fiendish mates;

And he laughed, and so did they.

And they gathered close, like hungry wolves,

In their haste to rend and tear;

But they could not touch the helpless head

While that strong white hand was there.

Then out of the shadow one came forth,

'T was a demon great and tall;

An iron balance he held on high,

As he stood before them all.

And fiercely he to the angels called,

"Do you dare to claim him still?

Then come, for the scales are in my hand,

We will weigh the good and ill."

And into the nearest scale he threw,

As he spoke, a parchment roll,

With on it a note of every sin

That had stained the parting soul.

'T was closely written, without, within,

And the balance downward flew

And struck the ground with a blow, as though

It would break the pavement through.

"He is ours forever," the demons said,

"If justice the world controls;

For sins so heavy do on him lie,

They would sink a hundred souls!

"Come, hasten, angels, the time is short,

And words are of no avail;

Come, bring the note of your friend's good deeds,

To lay in the empty scale."

The angels searched, but they searched in vain,

There was no good deed to bring;

In all that ever that hand had done,

They could find no worthy thing.

A taunting shout from the demons broke,

And each hard malignant face

With joy and triumph was all aflame;

But the angels held their place,

Though dimness fell like a passing cloud

On their pure and holy light;

And if ever angel eyes have tears,

There were some in theirs that night.

But he who had been the first to speak,

With a glimmering hope possessed,

Still sought some good that would turn the scale,

Though it seemed a useless quest.

He saw the handkerchief where it lay,

And he raised it off the bed,

All wet and clinging, and steeped in tears

That the dying eyes had shed.

He turned around, but his face was pale,

As the last poor chance he tried;

He laid it down in the empty scale,

And he said, "Let God decide!"

When, lo! it fell till it touched the earth,

And the demons stood dismayed;

It seemed so little and light a thing,

But it all his sins outweighed.

But who shall ever the anger tell

Of that black and hateful band,

When most in triumph they felt secure,

The prey had escaped their hand.

They stood one moment in speechless rage,

And then, with a fearful sound

Of shrieks and curses and rattling chains,

They vanished beneath the ground.

Then holy peace on the chamber fell,

Till it flooded all the air;

The angels praised and they thanked the Lord,

Who so late had heard their prayer.

And their clouded glory shone again,

With a clear celestial ray,

As the trembling soul, which that moment passed,

They bore in their arms away.

Then through the room, as they took their flight,

Did a flood of music stream,

So loud, so sweet, and so close at hand,

That it waked him from his dream.

He looked around; there was nothing stirred

In the empty, moonlit room,

Where a faint, sweet odour filled the air

From the orange-trees in bloom.

And the notes divine he had thought to hear

Were only the liquid flow

Of a nightingale's song, that came up clear

From the garden just below.

Then up from his seat the doctor rose,

And he stood beside the bed;

He knew, when he touched the quiet hand,

That the poor brigand was dead.

The handkerchief on the pillow lay,

But its weary use was o'er,

And he raised it, heavy and wet with tears,

From the eyes that could weep no more.