The Bag of SandTHE 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 SandIn that land of desolationWhere, mid dangers manifold,Lost in heavenly contemplation,Desert fathers dwelt of old,Lay a field where grass was growingGreen beneath the palm-trees' shade;And a spring, forever flowing,Life amid the stillness made.There a brotherhood, incitedBy 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 rustleIn the early morning breeze.When the bell, to prayer inviting.From the low-built belfry rang,They could hear the birds unitingWith them while the psalms they sang.From the earth their labour brought themAll they needed—scanty fare.Life of toil and hardship taught them,Though at peace, the cross to bear.This is all their record: neverCan we hope the rest to know!Names and deeds are lost forever,In the mist of long ago;And of all that life angelicNeither shadow left, nor trace.Save this tale,—a precious relic,In its wise and saintly grace!This, above the darkness liftedBy 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 usWisdom, with its words of gold!Let this far-off blessing reach usFrom the desert saints of old.Underneath the vines they tendedWhere 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 congregationOne 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 meetingOn the sentence to decide.Much in doubt, they craved assistance,Sent to convents far away,Even to that fair blue distanceWhere their eyes had loved to stray.Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,Abbots used to think and rule,Gathered where the brook sang faintlyIn the shadow, green and cool.Oh the beauty that was wastedOn 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 listenedSave 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 sayingCalmly, 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 ratherThat 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 losingOf a soul the Lord had bought?One, more thoughtless, recommendedThat in prison closely pentHe 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 himSometimes to a passer's sight,He, the black offender, waited,From them parted since his fall:Once beloved, now scorned and hatedBy 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 himMore than he himself had done?But without were minds divided,And the morning wore away;Noon had come, and undecidedStill 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 pardonKinder 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 themWhen 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 slowlyO'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 themFeel the Lord was by his side!But it grieved their souls to see himBy 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 goOn my way to judge another!These have made my journey slow."Then the abbot, growing bolder,Raised the load with trembling handFrom the Father's bended shoulder;Looked—and found it filled with sand.Of them all, there was not anyBut was silent for a while;For the best had sins as manyAs 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 keepingPity crushed, or love restrained,Some were smiling, some were weeping;Of their striving what remained?Many bowed in veneration;Others all in haste to goWith a word of consolationTo their brother fallen low.Hope they brought, and gentler feeling,To his torn, despairing breast,And that evening found him kneelingIn 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 ProvidenzaThe 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) afestais 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 fewcentesimievery week for the purpose.Il Crocifisso della ProvidenzaThe 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 WestTo 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 streetsWhere 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 engravedThe memory still recallOf one, a beggar, to all unknown,Who knocked at the door one day;Of what a blessing he left behindThat 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 relateHas lightened many a heavy heartBy the San Frediano gate.Long since, they say, in that ancient houseThere 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 breadWhich they knew the Lord would send.And toiling cheerfully, lived content,Nor ever of want complained,But freely shared with the needy poorThe 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 soldThe 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 wallAbove 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 backWith 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 rayCould only shine on the moss-grown tilesOf the roof across the way.And the air was sweet in the narrow streetWhere the swallows toss and glide;For a perfume came on the morning breezeFrom 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 daysBy 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 heartThat she could no more withstand,With her arm around the younger girl,And the other by the hand,She pleaded, raising her tearful faceTo the dying face above,For those she loved in their helpless stateWith 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-dayThan 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 laidWith 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 wayTo ask for alms in the Virgin's nameOn that beautiful first of May."My little sisters," the beggar said,(And bowed to the maidens three,)"I pray you spare from your table spreadA 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 eyesIn 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 HimWhose image I see within:He never has failed to help His own,And He will not now begin."So only lest it should seem unkindTo refuse the small request,The elder girl with a patient smileWent 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 highThey could close the lid no more.Their tears fell faster for joy that dayThan they fell for grief before!But in the midst of their thankful praiseThey 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 sinceThat crucifix bears the nameLa Providenza; and even nowThe house has a sacred fame.And many kneel where the sisters kneltEach year on the first of May;And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers,And leaves of the scented bay.The humble room is with roses decked.And bright with the candles' glow;And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm,Float over the street below.A woman agèd and silver-hairedOnce 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 HimselfWho came at the maiden's prayer."Angels in the ChurchyardThe 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 ChurchyardA saint there was, long time ago,And all in vain I triedHis name to learn, or whence he came,Or how or where he died.For he from whom the tale I heardCould tell me nothing moreSave only that within him dweltOf love an endless store.And in the churchyard once he passedA summer night in prayer,For pity of the nameless deadWho lie forgotten there.He knew not when the sun went down,So earnestly he prayed!He knew not when the twilight glowWas lost in deepening shade.And when the fair, round moon aroseBehind 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 deadThe folded daisies slept,And he alone his patient watchUntil the morning kept,—Came angels through the churchyard gate,But in no heavenly guise;So unadorned, he little thoughtThey came from Paradise!The moon lit up their robes of white;No other glory shone.He watched them, as they paused beforeOne sunken, moss-grown stone,And thrice their silver censers swung,As at some saintly shrine,But never incense burnt on earthHad 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 graveHad left some love behind.But next they sought a dreary placeAgainst 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 greenDid 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 whyEach 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 faceOf him he talked with; but he feltGreat 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 HimTheir very dust is dear!"So, while their souls with perfect peaceAre in His presence blest,He will not that these humble gravesShould 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 lipsCould find no word to say:He stood entranced, and like to oneWhose 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 grassThat felt the early breeze;And sounded from the tower aboveThe sweet-toned, ancient bell;While bright and busy over allThe summer morning fell.The daisies opened; happy birdsSang in the sunshine free.The dead alone are sleeping now;Their morning is to be.The Origin of the Indian Corn
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 desolationWhere, mid dangers manifold,Lost in heavenly contemplation,Desert fathers dwelt of old,Lay a field where grass was growingGreen beneath the palm-trees' shade;And a spring, forever flowing,Life amid the stillness made.There a brotherhood, incitedBy 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 rustleIn the early morning breeze.When the bell, to prayer inviting.From the low-built belfry rang,They could hear the birds unitingWith them while the psalms they sang.From the earth their labour brought themAll they needed—scanty fare.Life of toil and hardship taught them,Though at peace, the cross to bear.This is all their record: neverCan we hope the rest to know!Names and deeds are lost forever,In the mist of long ago;And of all that life angelicNeither shadow left, nor trace.Save this tale,—a precious relic,In its wise and saintly grace!This, above the darkness liftedBy 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 usWisdom, with its words of gold!Let this far-off blessing reach usFrom the desert saints of old.
In that land of desolationWhere, mid dangers manifold,Lost in heavenly contemplation,Desert fathers dwelt of old,
In that land of desolation
Where, mid dangers manifold,
Lost in heavenly contemplation,
Desert fathers dwelt of old,
Lay a field where grass was growingGreen beneath the palm-trees' shade;And a spring, forever flowing,Life amid the stillness made.
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, incitedBy one hope and purpose high,Came to dwell in faith united,Pray and labour, live and die.
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,
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.
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.
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 rustleIn the early morning breeze.
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 unitingWith them while the psalms they sang.
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 themAll they needed—scanty fare.Life of toil and hardship taught them,Though at peace, the cross to bear.
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: neverCan we hope the rest to know!Names and deeds are lost forever,In the mist of long ago;
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 angelicNeither shadow left, nor trace.Save this tale,—a precious relic,In its wise and saintly grace!
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 liftedBy the truth that in it lay,On the sea of time has drifted,And is still our own to-day.
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 usWisdom, with its words of gold!Let this far-off blessing reach usFrom the desert saints of old.
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 tendedWhere 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 congregationOne 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 meetingOn the sentence to decide.Much in doubt, they craved assistance,Sent to convents far away,Even to that fair blue distanceWhere their eyes had loved to stray.Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,Abbots used to think and rule,Gathered where the brook sang faintlyIn the shadow, green and cool.Oh the beauty that was wastedOn 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 listenedSave 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 sayingCalmly, 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 ratherThat 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 losingOf a soul the Lord had bought?One, more thoughtless, recommendedThat in prison closely pentHe 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 himSometimes to a passer's sight,He, the black offender, waited,From them parted since his fall:Once beloved, now scorned and hatedBy 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 himMore than he himself had done?But without were minds divided,And the morning wore away;Noon had come, and undecidedStill 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 pardonKinder 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 themWhen 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 slowlyO'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 themFeel the Lord was by his side!But it grieved their souls to see himBy 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 goOn my way to judge another!These have made my journey slow."Then the abbot, growing bolder,Raised the load with trembling handFrom the Father's bended shoulder;Looked—and found it filled with sand.Of them all, there was not anyBut was silent for a while;For the best had sins as manyAs 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 keepingPity crushed, or love restrained,Some were smiling, some were weeping;Of their striving what remained?Many bowed in veneration;Others all in haste to goWith a word of consolationTo their brother fallen low.Hope they brought, and gentler feeling,To his torn, despairing breast,And that evening found him kneelingIn 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.
Underneath the vines they tendedWhere the garden air was sweet,Where the shadows, softly blended,Made an ever cool retreat,—
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.
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 congregationOne who long had faithful been,Had, beneath a sore temptation,Fallen into grievous sin.
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.
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 meetingOn the sentence to decide.
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 distanceWhere their eyes had loved to stray.
Much in doubt, they craved assistance,
Sent to convents far away,
Even to that fair blue distance
Where their eyes had loved to stray.
Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,Abbots used to think and rule,Gathered where the brook sang faintlyIn the shadow, green and cool.
Fathers learnèd, fathers saintly,
Abbots used to think and rule,
Gathered where the brook sang faintly
In the shadow, green and cool.
Oh the beauty that was wastedOn that day, remembered oft!Oh the sweetness, all untasted,Of the morning, still and soft!
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 listenedSave to what the speakers said.
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.
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 sayingCalmly, as of reason sure;"All are tainted by his staying,Let men know your hands are pure!
"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 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!
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.
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 ratherThat his shame by all were seen.Do not spare him, O my Father;Let the blow be swift and keen!
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!"
"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 losingOf a soul the Lord had bought?
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, recommendedThat in prison closely pentHe should stay till life was ended!But to this would none consent.
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 himSometimes to a passer's sight,
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 hatedBy himself, he thought by all!
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.
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 himMore than he himself had done?
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 undecidedStill the heavy question lay.
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.
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.
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.
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 pardonKinder thoughts that rose within.
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.
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;
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 themWhen by sin or doubt assailed;True it is, his words could win them,Often, when all else had failed.
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.
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 slowlyO'er the sun-baked desert road,Came that Father, wise and holy,Bent beneath a weary load!
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.
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!
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!
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 themFeel the Lord was by his side!
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 himBy that burden bowed and strained!Many stretched their hands to free him,Wondering what the sack contained.
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.
"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 goOn my way to judge another!These have made my journey slow."
"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 handFrom the Father's bended shoulder;Looked—and found it filled with sand.
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 anyBut was silent for a while;For the best had sins as manyAs the sand-grains in that pile!
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.
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 keepingPity crushed, or love restrained,Some were smiling, some were weeping;Of their striving what remained?
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 goWith a word of consolationTo their brother fallen low.
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 kneelingIn the chapel with the rest.
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.
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) afestais 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 fewcentesimievery 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 WestTo 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 streetsWhere 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 engravedThe memory still recallOf one, a beggar, to all unknown,Who knocked at the door one day;Of what a blessing he left behindThat 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 relateHas lightened many a heavy heartBy the San Frediano gate.Long since, they say, in that ancient houseThere 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 breadWhich they knew the Lord would send.And toiling cheerfully, lived content,Nor ever of want complained,But freely shared with the needy poorThe 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 soldThe 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 wallAbove 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 backWith 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 rayCould only shine on the moss-grown tilesOf the roof across the way.And the air was sweet in the narrow streetWhere the swallows toss and glide;For a perfume came on the morning breezeFrom 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 daysBy 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 heartThat she could no more withstand,With her arm around the younger girl,And the other by the hand,She pleaded, raising her tearful faceTo the dying face above,For those she loved in their helpless stateWith 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-dayThan 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 laidWith 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 wayTo ask for alms in the Virgin's nameOn that beautiful first of May."My little sisters," the beggar said,(And bowed to the maidens three,)"I pray you spare from your table spreadA 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 eyesIn 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 HimWhose image I see within:He never has failed to help His own,And He will not now begin."So only lest it should seem unkindTo refuse the small request,The elder girl with a patient smileWent 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 highThey could close the lid no more.Their tears fell faster for joy that dayThan they fell for grief before!But in the midst of their thankful praiseThey 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 sinceThat crucifix bears the nameLa Providenza; and even nowThe house has a sacred fame.And many kneel where the sisters kneltEach year on the first of May;And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers,And leaves of the scented bay.The humble room is with roses decked.And bright with the candles' glow;And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm,Float over the street below.A woman agèd and silver-hairedOnce 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 HimselfWho came at the maiden's prayer."
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.
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 WestTo gaze on its beauty rare;To stand where the wise and great have stood,For their presence is ever there.
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 streetsWhere the poor of the city dwell;Those humble houses, so bare and plain,Have tales of their own to tell.
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 engravedThe memory still recall
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 behindThat morn when he went his way,
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.
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 relateHas lightened many a heavy heartBy the San Frediano gate.
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 houseThere were orphan maidens three,And in the chamber above the door,Whose window you still may see,
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.
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 breadWhich they knew the Lord would send.
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 poorThe little their labour gained.
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.
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 soldThe delicate wares they made.
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.
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.
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,
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
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!
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!
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.
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.
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,
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 backWith a guilty, shrinking fear.
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!"
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!"
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.
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 rayCould only shine on the moss-grown tilesOf the roof across the way.
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 streetWhere the swallows toss and glide;For a perfume came on the morning breezeFrom the hills on every side,—
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.
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 daysBy the dear dead mother's side.
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!
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!"
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.
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 heartThat she could no more withstand,With her arm around the younger girl,And the other by the hand,
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 faceTo the dying face above,For those she loved in their helpless stateWith more than a sister's love.
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!
"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-dayThan to see these children pine!
"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 laidWith only a maiden's strength.
"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.
"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.
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 wayTo ask for alms in the Virgin's nameOn that beautiful first of May.
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 spreadA morsel of bread for me!
"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.
"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 eyesIn the beggar's pleading face:"And if we could, we would give you food;But we 're in as hard a case!
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."
"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!"
"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 HimWhose image I see within:He never has failed to help His own,And He will not now begin."
"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 unkindTo refuse the small request,The elder girl with a patient smileWent back to the empty chest.
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!
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 highThey could close the lid no more.Their tears fell faster for joy that dayThan they fell for grief before!
'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 praiseThey thought of the starving man:The little one seized the topmost loaf,And back to the window ran.
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.
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 sinceThat crucifix bears the nameLa Providenza; and even nowThe house has a sacred fame.
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 kneltEach year on the first of May;And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers,And leaves of the scented bay.
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.
The humble room is with roses decked.
And bright with the candles' glow;
And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm,
Float over the street below.
A woman agèd and silver-hairedOnce told me, with solemn thrill,How she herself had beheld the chest,Which stands in the chamber still.
A woman agèd and silver-haired
Once told me, with solemn thrill,
How she herself had beheld the chest,
Which stands in the chamber still.
I asked her: "Who was that beggarman?An angel, do you suppose?A saint from heaven?" Her face grew grave,And she answered me, "Who knows?"
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 HimselfWho came at the maiden's prayer."
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 triedHis name to learn, or whence he came,Or how or where he died.For he from whom the tale I heardCould tell me nothing moreSave only that within him dweltOf love an endless store.And in the churchyard once he passedA summer night in prayer,For pity of the nameless deadWho lie forgotten there.He knew not when the sun went down,So earnestly he prayed!He knew not when the twilight glowWas lost in deepening shade.And when the fair, round moon aroseBehind 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 deadThe folded daisies slept,And he alone his patient watchUntil the morning kept,—Came angels through the churchyard gate,But in no heavenly guise;So unadorned, he little thoughtThey came from Paradise!The moon lit up their robes of white;No other glory shone.He watched them, as they paused beforeOne sunken, moss-grown stone,And thrice their silver censers swung,As at some saintly shrine,But never incense burnt on earthHad 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 graveHad left some love behind.But next they sought a dreary placeAgainst 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 greenDid 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 whyEach 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 faceOf him he talked with; but he feltGreat 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 HimTheir very dust is dear!"So, while their souls with perfect peaceAre in His presence blest,He will not that these humble gravesShould 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 lipsCould find no word to say:He stood entranced, and like to oneWhose 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 grassThat felt the early breeze;And sounded from the tower aboveThe sweet-toned, ancient bell;While bright and busy over allThe summer morning fell.The daisies opened; happy birdsSang in the sunshine free.The dead alone are sleeping now;Their morning is to be.
A saint there was, long time ago,And all in vain I triedHis name to learn, or whence he came,Or how or where he died.
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 heardCould tell me nothing moreSave only that within him dweltOf love an endless store.
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 passedA summer night in prayer,For pity of the nameless deadWho lie forgotten there.
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 glowWas lost in deepening shade.
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 aroseBehind the wooded hill,She looked across the churchyard wall,And found him praying still.
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,—
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 deadThe folded daisies slept,And he alone his patient watchUntil the morning kept,—
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 thoughtThey came from Paradise!
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 beforeOne sunken, moss-grown stone,
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 earthHad perfume so divine.
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.
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 graveHad left some love behind.
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 placeAgainst the northern wall;He could not see if mound were there,The nettles grew so tall!
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.
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 greenDid he at night repair;And ever, when the hour returned,The angels all were there.
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 whyEach night at certain graves they stayed,While others they passed by.
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.
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 faceOf him he talked with; but he feltGreat peace was in the place.
'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 HimTheir very dust is dear!
"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 peaceAre in His presence blest,He will not that these humble gravesShould all unhonoured rest.
"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!"
"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 lipsCould find no word to say:He stood entranced, and like to oneWhose soul is far away.
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.
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 grassThat felt the early breeze;
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 aboveThe sweet-toned, ancient bell;While bright and busy over allThe summer morning fell.
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 birdsSang in the sunshine free.The dead alone are sleeping now;Their morning is to be.
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