The Crosses on the WallThis 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 WallA Legend of PrimieroCome, children, listen to what I tell,For my words are wise to-day:From Primiero among the hillsWas the legend brought away.And Primiero among the hillsIs 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 farIn 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 hersThrough 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 whileIn 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 removedAnd the feeble left alive?"But where is the good of askingWhen 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 thingsThey were light and swift and strong;And her poor, sick spirit turned awayFrom 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 wordsCould 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 seeAnd pity my cruel fate!Oh, come, and in mercy take awayMy 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 liveWho 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 stoodAs 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 borneWas 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 moreThan 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 inIs 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 strongThat 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 guardTheir innocent lives from shame."She trembles oft when his step she hearsOn a lonely winter night;And she hides her frightened babes afarFrom 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 wallAre 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 bearThe 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 heartThat her daily cross she bore.The children wondered to see her changeSo 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 shameOf how she had once repined.For in their presence she oft forgotHer burden of want and care,Forgot her trouble—forgot, almost,That she had a cross to bear!Suora MariannaSuora MariannaLittle 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 knowHalf 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 excelWas 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 oneWho 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 cellLooking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwellIn 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 meantAnd the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adornWith 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 LordShe 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 edgeOf 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 tryIn 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 partIn 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 feelThat 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 castOn 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 viewedAs 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 sayFirst 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 wayThat 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 arriveTo 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 fellThrough 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 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 hillsWas the legend brought away.And Primiero among the hillsIs 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 farIn 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 hersThrough 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 whileIn 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 removedAnd the feeble left alive?"But where is the good of askingWhen 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 thingsThey were light and swift and strong;And her poor, sick spirit turned awayFrom 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 wordsCould 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 seeAnd pity my cruel fate!Oh, come, and in mercy take awayMy 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 liveWho 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 stoodAs 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 borneWas 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 moreThan 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 inIs 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 strongThat 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 guardTheir innocent lives from shame."She trembles oft when his step she hearsOn a lonely winter night;And she hides her frightened babes afarFrom 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 wallAre 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 bearThe 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 heartThat her daily cross she bore.The children wondered to see her changeSo 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 shameOf how she had once repined.For in their presence she oft forgotHer burden of want and care,Forgot her trouble—forgot, almost,That she had a cross to bear!
Come, children, listen to what I tell,For my words are wise to-day:From Primiero among the hillsWas the legend brought away.
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 hillsIs a little world apart,Where is much to love and much to learn,If you have a willing heart.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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 farIn the dim and distant past;But ever needed, but ever new,As long as the world shall last.
'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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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 hersThrough the short and happy hours?To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees,Or to tend the garden flowers;
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 whileIn her porch with roses gay;To spread the table with plenty piled,And to watch the children play.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 removedAnd the feeble left alive?"
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 askingWhen our helpers disappear?That question never was answered yet,And it never will be, here.
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.
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 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.
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 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.
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 thingsThey were light and swift and strong;And her poor, sick spirit turned awayFrom the gay, unruly throng.
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 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 wordsCould the children's love be gained.
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.
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!
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 seeAnd pity my cruel fate!Oh, come, and in mercy take awayMy burden, for 't is too great!
"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 liveWho has borne a cross like mine!"
"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.
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.
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 stoodAs the Master of them all.
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 borneWas greater than all beside.
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.
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 moreThan her own had ever done!
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:
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.
"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.
"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 inIs the only world she sees.
"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."
"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."
"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.
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!
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 strongThat could such a weight withstand."
"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.
"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 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 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 guardTheir innocent lives from shame.
"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 hearsOn a lonely winter night;And she hides her frightened babes afarFrom their cruel father's sight.
"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?"
"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.
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.
'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.
"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.
"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.
"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 wallAre the most she cares for now."
"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.
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.
"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 bearThe burden for me decreed.
"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!"
"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 heartThat her daily cross she bore.
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 changeSo greatly in look and speech!She met them now with a smile so kind,And a gentle word for each.
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.
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.
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!
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 shameOf how she had once repined.
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 forgotHer burden of want and care,Forgot her trouble—forgot, almost,That she had a cross to bear!
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 knowHalf 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 excelWas 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 oneWho 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 cellLooking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwellIn 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 meantAnd the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adornWith 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 LordShe 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 edgeOf 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 tryIn 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 partIn 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 feelThat 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 castOn 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 viewedAs 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 sayFirst 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 wayThat 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 arriveTo 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 fellThrough 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.
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 knowHalf 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.
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 excelWas the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.
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 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 oneWho will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is done.
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 cellLooking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwellIn her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the wall,Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.
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 meantAnd the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adornWith 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 LordShe 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.
'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.
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 edgeOf 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.
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.
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;
'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.
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 tryIn 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.
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!"
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."
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.
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 partIn 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!"
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 feelThat 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 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.
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.
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 castOn 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 viewedAs 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.
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 sayFirst 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 wayThat 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 arriveTo 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.
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.
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 fellThrough 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.
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.
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.