Kitabı oku: «The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories», sayfa 5

The Lupins

The simple story of "The Lupins" is very commonly known among the country people, who often quote it as a remedy for discontent.

The Lupins

 
'T was a day in late November,
When the fruits were gathered in;
Day to dream in, and remember
All the beauty that had been.
 
 
Peacefully the year was dying;
Soft the air, and deep the blue;
Brown and bare the fields were lying,
Where the summer harvest grew.
 
 
Autumn flowers had bloomed and seeded;
Yet a few of humblest kind,
Waiting till they most were needed,
Brought the pleasant days to mind.
 
 
Here and there a red-tipped daisy
Still its small bright face would show;
While above the distance hazy
Rose the mountains, white with snow.
 
 
With a light subdued and tender,
Shone the sun on vale and hill,
Where the faded autumn splendour
Left a sober sweetness still.
 
 
By a road that wandered, winding,
Far among the hills away,
Walked a man, despondent, finding
Little comfort in the day.
 
 
Pale of tint and fine of feature,
Formed with less of strength than grace,
Seldom went a sadder creature,
Seeking work from place to place.
 
 
He from noble race descended,
Heir to wealth and honoured name,
Who had oft the poor befriended
When about his door they came,
 
 
By a brother's evil doing
Had to poverty been brought:
Now his listless way pursuing,
Ever on the past he thought.
 
 
He, to hope no longer clinging,
Drifted, led he knew not where,
By a sound of far-off singing
Floating in the dreamy air, —
 
 
Many voices sweetly blending,
Sounding o'er the hills remote,
Every verse the same, and ending
In one plaintive, long-drawn note.
 
 
"Olive gatherers, I know them,
Singing songs from tree to tree;
If the road will lead me to them,
There are food and work for me."
 
 
He a humble meal was making,
While he warmed him in the sun;
From his pocket slowly taking
Yellow lupins, one by one.
 
 
Most forlorn he felt and lonely,
While he ate them on the way;
For those lupins, and they only,
Were his food for all the day.
 
 
Since to shame his brother brought him,
Want had often pressed him sore;
Yet misfortune never brought him
Quite so low as this before!
 
 
"If my lot be hard and painful,
There 's one comfort still for me;"
(Said he, with a smile disdainful,)
"Poorer, I can never be.
 
 
"There's no lower step to stand on,
No more burning shame to feel:
Not a crust to lay my hand on,
Only lupins for a meal!"
 
 
He could see the laden table
Where his parents used to dine:
Well for them who were not able
Then the future to divine.
 
 
Oh, but he was glad God took them
Ere they saw him fall so low:
How their cherished hope forsook them,
They had never lived to know.
 
 
"I, so dearly loved and cared for,
I, on whom such hopes were built,
Whom such blessings were prepared for —
Ruined by a brother's guilt!"
 
 
Now he wrung his hands despairing,
Stamped his foot upon the ground;
Bitter thoughts his heart were tearing, —
When he heard a footstep sound.
 
 
Then he started, sobered quickly,
Took an attitude sedate,
With that terror, faint and sickly,
Which he often felt of late.
 
 
What if some old friend should find him?
But he turned, the story tells,
And he saw a man behind him,
Picking up the lupin shells;
 
 
Picking up the shells and eating
What the other cast away.
Now abashed, their eyes were meeting:
'T was a beggar, worn and gray,
 
 
Hollow-eyed and thin and wasted;
By his look you might suppose,
He had ne'er a morsel tasted
Since the sun that morning rose.
 
 
Stood the younger man astonished,
And no more bewailed his fate;
Only bowed his head, admonished
By the sight of want so great.
 
 
Then he said: "Come here, my brother,
And the lupins we will share;
Maybe, if we help each other,
God will have us in His care."
 
 
"Thank the Lord! and you, kind master!
May He help you in your need;
Save your soul from all disaster
And remember your good deed!"
 
 
Said the beggar, smiling brightly.
And the other thus replied, —
Now content, and walking lightly
By his poorer neighbour's side, —
 
 
"Friend, you have a blessing brought me.
And I thank you in my turn,
For a lesson you have taught me
Which I needed much to learn.
 
 
"And henceforth will I endeavour
Not to pine for fortune high,
But remember there is ever
Some one lower down than I.
 
 
"But alas, when I was younger,
Wealth and honoured state were mine;
Shame, my friend, is worse than hunger:
'T is for this that I repine."
 
 
Then the beggar rose up stately,
Looked the other in the face,
Saying (for he wondered greatly),
"Poverty is no disgrace;
 
 
"For our Lord, I think, was poorer
Once than you or even I,
And His poor of Heaven are surer
Than the rich who pass them by."
 
 
So the two went on together,
Casting on the Lord their care,
Happy in the balmy weather,
Happy in their simple fare.
 
 
Now an ancient olive o'er them
Threw its slender lines of shade,
Bending low its boughs before them,
Silver-leafed that cannot fade;
 
 
Bearing fruit in winter season,
Still through every change the same:
Tree of peace – they had good reason
Who have called it by that name!
 
 
And with that the story leaves them;
You can end it as you please:
Gain that cheers, or loss that grieves them,
Life of toil, or life of ease.
 
 
Did some fortune unexpected
Give to one his wealth again?
Or did both, forlorn, neglected,
End their days in want and pain?
 
 
Many years have they been dwelling
Where such trifles of the way
Are not counted worth the telling!
Both are with the Lord to-day.
 
 
He in whom their souls confided
Did for both a home prepare;
Yet that humble meal divided
Gives a blessing even there.
 

The Silver Cross

The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver Cross" is one of her many visions, recorded by her confessor.

The Silver Cross

 
Through the streets of old Siena, at the dawning of the day,
Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to sound;
With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of olive gray,
For her soul was with the angels, while her feet were on the ground.
 
 
She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace;
And the air of early morning had just tinged her cheek with rose:
Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, illumined face,
That the souls in trouble turned to, finding comfort and repose.
 
 
And the men their heads uncovered, though they dared not speak her praise,
When they saw her like a vision down the row street descend;
And they wondered what she looked at, with that far-off dreamy gaze,
While her lips were often moving, as though talking to a friend.
 
 
There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely heard a sound,
Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet they strayed,
Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church where she was bound;
While the palaces around her stood in silence and in shade.
 
 
And the towers built for warfare rose about her, dark and proud,
But their summits caught a glory, as the morning onward came,
And the summer sky beyond them was alight with fleecy cloud,
Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to rose and then to flame.
 
 
By a shrine of the Madonna, at a corner where she passed,
Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary and forlorn,
With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak about him cast;
For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant summer morn.
 
 
Said the stranger, "Will you help me?" and she looked on him and knew,
By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it out for aid,
By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of ashen hue,
That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon him laid.
 
 
So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to hear,
Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain for her son;
How to help her he had laboured till the summer time drew near,
And of how the fever took him just before his work was done.
 
 
He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile began to come
In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the pity she bestowed,
And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my mountain home,
And if some good Christian people will but help me on the road.
 
 
"For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure and fine,
But my strength too often fails me, and the place is far away;
So I pray you give me something, for a little bread and wine,
That I may not set out fasting on my weary walk to-day."
 
 
Then a certain faint confusion with her pity seemed to blend,
And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the shadow of a cloud,
As she said: "I am no lady, though you call me so, my friend,
But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am vowed.
 
 
"I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, nothing more,
For these garments I am wearing are the sisterhood's, not mine,
And the very bread they gave me when I left the convent door
To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did consign.
 
 
"I would give you all you ask for if I had it to command."
Then she sighed and would have left him, but the stranger made her stay,
For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and wasted hand:
"For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send me thus away!"
 
 
He had used the name unthinking, but it moved her none the less,
And she turned again toward him, with a softened, solemn air,
While her hand began to wander up and down her simple dress,
As though vaguely it were seeking for some trifle she could spare.
 
 
Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at her waist,
And its silver cross unfastened, which was small and very old,
With the edges worn and rounded and the image half effaced,
Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a cross of gold.
 
 
It had been her life companion, in the tempest, in the calm;
She had held it to her bosom when she prayed with troubled mind;
And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in his palm,
"For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the only thing I find."
 
 
So he thanked her and departed, and she thought of him no more,
Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day in church she prayed;
But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger wore,
And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with him stayed.
 
 
Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are in the sun,
And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy town again,
As the people slowly scatter from the church where Mass is done;
But the blessèd Caterina in her seat did still remain.
 
 
For the sleep divine was on her, which so often to her came,
When of mortal life the shadow from around her seemed to fall;
And she looked on things celestial with her happy soul aflame:
But that day the dream that held her was the sweetest of them all.
 
 
For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed to her to stand
In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye had never seen;
And a cross of wondrous beauty He was holding in His hand,
Set with every stone most precious and with pearls of light serene.
 
 
And He told her that those treasures were the presents He received
From the souls on earth who love Him, and are seeking Him to please.
Were they deeds of noble service? that was what she first believed,
And she thought, "What happy people who can bring Him gifts like these!"
 
 
For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed to think how far
From the best she ever gave him were the gems in that bright store.
But He held the cross toward her, that was shining like a star,
And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen it e'er before.
 
 
"No," she answered humbly, "never did my eyes the like behold."
But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her like a wave,
For she saw among the jewels and the work of beaten gold
Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of Christ she gave.
 
 
And I think her dream that morning was a message from above,
That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn and understand, —
Though our very best be worthless that we give for Jesus' love,
It will change and turn to glory when He takes it in His hand.
 

The Tears of Repentance

THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE I found in a book called Maraviglie di Dio ne' Suoi Santi, by the Jesuit Father, Padre Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, printed at Bologna in 1696. He says it was written originally by Theophilus Raynaudus.

The Tears of Repentance

PART FIRST

THE MOUNTAIN

 
A wild, sad story I tell to-day,
And I pray you to listen all!
You cannot think how my heart is moved
As the legend I recall, —
 
 
The legend that made me weep so oft,
When I was a child like you!
I tell it now, in my life's decline,
And it brings the tears anew.
 
 
It came to us down through ages long;
For this story had its scene
In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days
Of the empire Byzantine.
 
 
And it tells of a famous mountain chief,
A terrible, fierce brigand,
Who ravaged the country, far and wide,
At the head of an armèd band.
 
 
So hard of heart was this evil man
That he spared not young nor old:
He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,
In his maddening thirst for gold;
 
 
Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,
That peacefully went its way,
And the counted gains of a journey long
Were scattered in one short day!
 
 
He knew no pity, he owned no law,
Nor human, nor yet divine;
Would take the gold from a Prince's chest,
Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.
 
 
In hidden valley, in wild ravine,
On desolate, heath-grown hill,
He buried his treasure away from sight,
And most of it lies there still.
 
 
And none were free in that land to dwell,
Except they a tribute paid;
For the robber chief, who was more than king,
Had this burden on them laid.
 
 
If any dared to resist the claim,
He was met with vengeance dire;
His lands were wasted before the dawn,
And his harvest burned with fire.
 
 
And some day maybe himself was slain,
And left in the road to lie;
To fill with terror the quaking heart
Of the next who journeyed by.
 
 
And many fled to the towns afar,
And their fields were left untilled;
While want and trouble and trembling fear
Had the stricken country filled.
 
 
High up on a mountain's pathless side
Had the robber made his den,
In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme
Over twenty lawless men.
 
 
A price had long on his head been set,
But for that he little cared;
For few were they who could climb the way,
And fewer were those who dared.
 
 
For those who hunted him long before
Had a fearful story brought:
They were not men on the mountain side,
But demons who with them fought!
 
 
For horrible forms arose, they said,
As if from the earth they grew;
And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above
On any who might pursue.
 
 
From town to town and from land to land,
Had his evil fame been spread;
And voices lowered and lips grew grave
When the hated name they said.
 
 
The people's heart had grown faint with fear,
And they thought no hope remained;
But hope again on their vision dawned,
When the Emperor's ear they gained.
 
 
Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then;
He was great in warlike fame,
And he was not one to shrink or quake
At a mountain bandit's name.
 
 
He sent a band of a hundred strong
For the troubled land's release,
To kill the man and his bloody crew,
And to give the country peace.
 
 
For what was a robber chief to him?
He had conquered mighty kings;
He gave the order, and then 't was done,
And he thought of other things.
 
 
But few, alas, of that troop returned,
And they told a ghostly tale;
And women wept, and the strongest men,
As they heard, grew mute and pale.
 
 
Those soldiers oft in the war had been,
And they counted danger light;
From mortal foe had they never turned,
But with demons who could fight?
 
 
The Emperor silent was and grave,
For his thoughts were deep and wise;
He saw that the robber chief was one
Whom he could not well despise.
 
 
There might be reason in what they said,
That the demons gave him aid,
And earthly weapon would ne'er be found
That could make such foes afraid.
 
 
But yet they will flee from sacred things,
And the martyred saints, he knew,
Have holy virtue, that to them clings,
That can all their spells undo.
 
 
But how could such weapon reach the soul
That for years had owned their sway?
A question grave that he pondered long;
But at length he found a way.
 
 
A reliquary he made prepare;
It was all of finest gold:
For as monarch might with monarch treat,
He would serve this bandit bold.
 
 
The gold was his, but the work he gave
To the skilled and patient hand
Of an artist monk, who counted then
For the first in all the land.
 
 
Now see him close to his labour bent,
In a cell remote and high,
Where all he saw of the world without
Was a square of roof and sky.
 
 
A holy man was this artist monk,
And for gain he did not ask,
If only the Lord his work would bless,
For his heart was in the task.
 
 
And day by day from his touch came forth
The image of holy things;
The cross was there, and the clustered vine,
And the dove with outspread wings, —
 
 
The dove that bore in her golden beak
The olive in sign of peace,
And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time
To the prayer that would not cease!
 
 
For pity stirred in him when he thought
Of that dark and stormy breast,
So hard, so hopeless, from God so far,
Where the little shrine would rest.
 
 
And perhaps if angels were looking on,
(And I doubt not some were there!)
They saw that the work was sown with pearls,
And each pearl a burning prayer.
 
 
So weeks went on, and the shrine was done,
And within it, sealed and closed,
Were holy relics of martyred saints
Who near in the church reposed.
 
 
And trusted messengers bore it forth
To the distant mountain land;
With such a weapon they need not fear;
They could meet the famed brigand.
 
 
'T was winter now on the mountain-side,
And the way was long and hard,
As the faithful envoys upward toiled
In their bandit escort's guard, —
 
 
Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs,
For that was the place designed,
Where, after parley and long delay,
Had the meeting been combined.
 
 
No sound but their feet that crushed the snow,
And the world looked sad and dead;
They thought of lives on the mountain lost,
And it was not much they said.
 
 
The sun, as it shone with slanting ray
Through the stripped and silent trees,
Could melt but little the clinging ice
Which to-night again would freeze.
 
 
They reached the grove, and the chief was there,
Like a king in savage state;
Erect and fearless, above them all,
While his men around him wait.
 
 
He stood before them like what he was,
A terrible beast of prey;
But even tigers have something grand,
And he looked as grand as they.
 
 
But, oh, the look that he on them turned!
It was fearful to behold;
It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink,
For their faith had made them bold.
 
 
And looking straight in those gloomy eyes,
With their hard and cruel glare,
"We come," said one, "in the Emperor's name,
And from him a token bear."
 
 
Then said the chief, with a mocking smile,
"And what may my Lord command?"
And made a sign with his evil eye,
For the men on guard to stand.
 
 
No faith had he in a tale so wild,
And he somewhat feared a snare;
There might be others in hiding near,
But he did not greatly care.
 
 
Then forth came he who the relics bore, —
'T was a prudent man and brave, —
And into the hand that all men feared,
He the holy token gave.
 
 
"This gift to you has the Emperor sent,
In token of his good will,"
He said; and at first the fierce brigand
Stood in wonder, hushed and still.
 
 
What felt he then as that holy thing
In his guilty hand he took?
What changed his face for a moment's time
To an almost human look?
 
 
There lay the shrine in his open palm.
Yet he thought it could not be:
"For me?" he asked, but his voice was strange.
And again he said, "for me?"
 
 
Three times the messenger told his tale,
And he said 't was all he knew;
The bandit looked at the wondrous work,
And he could not doubt 't was true.
 
 
So over his neck the chain he hung,
The shrine on his bosom lay
With all its wealth of a thousand prayers;
And they were not cast away.
 
 
Day followed day in the bandit's cave,
And a restless man was he;
A heart so hard and so proud as his
With the saints could ill agree.
 
 
The holy relics that on it lay
Did a strange confusion make;
In all that most he had loved before,
He could no more pleasure take.
 
 
A charm there was in the golden shrine
That had all his soul possessed;
He sat and looked at each sacred sign
With a dreamy sense of rest.
 
 
'T was not the gold that could soothe him thus,
And 't was not the work so fine:
'T was the holy soul of the artist monk,
For it lived in every line.
 
 
Like one who sleeps when the day begins,
And, before his slumbers end,
The morning light and the morning sounds
With his dreaming fancies blend;
 
 
So now and then would his heart be stirred
By a feeling strange and new,
And thoughts he never had known before
In his mind unconscious grew.
 
 
Till on a sudden his blinding pride,
Like a bubble, failed and broke;
With eyes wide open, the guilty man
From his life-long dream awoke.
 
 
From graves forgotten his crimes came forth,
In his face they seemed to stare:
To all one day will such waking come;
God grant it be here, not there.
 
 
Then wild remorse on his heart took hold,
And beneath its burning sting
He shrank from himself as one might shrink
From a venomous, hateful thing.
 
 
For scenes of blood from the years gone by
Forever before him came;
He closed his eyes, and his face he hid,
But he saw them just the same.
 
 
And in the horror he dared not pray,
For he felt his soul accurst,
And he feared to live, and he feared to die,
And he knew not which was worst.
 
 
Yet far on high, and beyond his reach,
He could see a vision dim,
A far-off glory of peace and love;
But he felt 't was not for him.
 
 
Awhile his trouble he hid from all,
For his will was iron strong,
But never was man, since man was made,
Who could bear such torment long,
 
 
A strange, sick longing was growing up
In his spirit, day by day,
A longing for what he most had feared, —
To let justice have her way;
 
 
Until the will to a purpose grew,
To the Emperor's feet to fly,
To own his sin without prayer or plea,
And then give up all and die.
 
 
And so one night, without sound or word,
Away in the dark he stole,
And all that he took for his journey long
Was the weight of a burdened soul.
 
 
They waited long in that den of crime,
But they saw their chief no more;
Or dead or living, they found him not,
Though they searched the mountain o'er.
 
 
And in the country, so long oppressed,
When his sudden flight was known,
They spoke of a wild and fearful night,
When the fiends had claimed their own.
 
 
And soon the tale to a legend turned,
And men trembling used to tell
Of how they carried him, body and soul,
To the place where demons dwell.
 
 
His men, so bold, were in mortal fear
Of what might themselves befall;
So some in a convent refuge sought,
And the rest were scattered all.
 
 
And no one climbed to their empty cave,
For 't was called a haunted place,
Though soon the summer had swept away
Of its horror every trace,
 
 
And mountain strawberries nestled low,
And delicate harebells hung,
In beauty meek, from its broken arch,
Where the swallows reared their young.
 
 
But where had he gone, that man of woe?
Had he found the rest he sought?
In haste he went, but with noiseless tread,
As his bandit life had taught.
 
 
And going downward he met the spring,
With its mingled sun and showers;
But storms of winter he bore within,
And he did not see the flowers.
 
 
And how did he live from day to day,
And the ceaseless strain endure?
Kind hearts there are that can feel for all,
And the poor will help the poor.
 
 
In frightened pity, a shepherd girl,
As she fled o'er the daisied grass,
Would let the bread from her apron fall
On the turf where he should pass;
 
 
Or workmen, eating their noonday meal
On a bank beside the way,
Would give him food, but with outstretched arm,
And they asked him not to stay.
 
 
He went like a shadow taken shape
From some vague and awful dream,
And word of comfort for him was none,
In his misery so extreme.
 
 
Alas, from himself he could not flee,
Though he tried, poor haunted man;
And he reached the city beside the sea,
As the Holy Week began.
 

PART SECOND

 
'T was Sunday morn, and a hundred bells
With their sweet and saintly sound
Were calling the people in to prayer
From the pleasant hills around, —
 
 
The morn when strivings should end in peace,
And each wrong forgotten be,
That Holy Week may its blessing shed
Upon souls from discord free.
 
 
The streets were bright with a moving throng,
And before the palace gate,
With eager eyes and in garments gay,
Did a crowd expectant wait.
 
 
For the Emperor goes in solemn state,
With his court, like all the rest,
To the church with many lamps ablaze,
Where to-day the palms are blest.
 
 
And stately ladies and timid girls,
In their modest plain attire,
From curtained windows are looking down,
And the shifting scene admire.
 
 
They come, they come, from the cool deep shade
Of the courtyard's marble arch, —
The nobles all in their rich array,
And the guards with sounding march.
 
 
And stay, the square is as still as death,
For the Emperor passes now;
The girls at the window hold their breath,
And the people bend and bow.
 
 
But who is this that among them moves
With that quick and stately pace?
What see they all in his rigid look,
That they shrink and give him place?
 
 
Too late the guards would have barred the way,
For he darted swiftly by,
As hunted creatures, when hard beset,
To man in their terror fly.
 
 
And sinking low at the feet of him
He had come so far to see,
He waited silent with folded hands,
Nor asked what his fate should be.
 
 
"Who are you, come in such deep distress,
And what is the grace you seek?"
The Emperor's voice was grave and kind,
And the stranger tried to speak.
 
 
The golden casket he raised in sight,
While he bent his eyes for shame;
Then said he, "I am that wicked man,"
And he told the dreaded name.
 
 
A shudder fell upon all who heard,
But the people nearer drew;
From mouth to mouth, in a whisper low,
The name of the bandit flew.
 
 
While he, uplifting those woful eyes,
In the boldness of despair,
With ne'er a thought of the crowd who heard,
His errand did thus declare:
 
 
"I come not here to confess my sins,
For you know them all too well;
My crimes are many and black and great,
They are more than tongue can tell.
 
 
"But here at your feet my life I lay,
I have nothing else to give;
So now, if it please you, speak the word,
For I am not fit to live."
 
 
The words came straight from his broken heart
In such sad and simple style,
That the Emperor's firm, proud lips were moved
To a somewhat softened smile.
 
 
For his warlike spirit felt the charm
Of that savage strength and grace,
And the strange fierce beauty that lingered still
In the dark and troubled face.
 
 
So grand of form and so lithe of limb,
And still in his manhood's prime,
'T would be a pity for one like him
To perish before his time.
 
 
And 't was well to see him kneeling there,
Whose terror had filled the land,
Like a captive tiger, caught and tamed
By his own imperial hand.
 
 
"Arise," he said, "you have nought to fear,
Take comfort and go your way,
And may God in heaven my sins forgive,
As I pardon yours to-day."
 
 
A murmur rose from the crowded square,
At the sound of words like these;
For some rejoiced in the mercy shown,
And others it did not please.
 
 
Some thanked the Lord for the pardoned man,
And some were to scorn inclined;
And motherly women wiped their eyes,
For the women's hearts are kind.
 
 
"God bless our Emperor," many said;
But others began to frown.
And asked, "Will he turn this wild brigand
Adrift in our peaceful town?"
 
 
No word of thanks did the bandit say,
But he raised one shining fold
Of the robe imperial, trailing low
With its weight of gems and gold.
 
 
The border first to his lips he pressed,
And then to his heavy heart;
Then rose and waited with bended head,
Till he saw them all depart.
 
 
No eye had he for the gorgeous train,
As along the square it passed;
One stately presence was all he knew,
And he watched it till the last.
 
 
A heavy sigh, and he turned away,
But with slow and weary tread;
No rest as yet on the earth for him,
Not even among the dead.
 
 
He lived, and he bore his burden still,
But the dumb despair had ceased:
That word of mercy had brought a change,
And he now had tears, at least;
 
 
He now could pray, though it brought not light,
And he seemed to ask in vain,
And his prayer had more of tears than words,
But it helped him bear the pain.
 
 
And oft in church did they see him kneel
In some corner all alone,
And weep till the great hot drops would fall
On the floor of varied stone.
 
 
And children clung to their mothers' hand,
When they saw that vision wild, —
That haggard face, and that wasting form,
And those lips that never smiled.
 
 
But grief was wearing his life away,
And for him perhaps 't was well;
It was not long on the city street
That his saddening shadow fell.
 
 
A fever slowly within him burned,
Till the springs of life were dry,
And glad he was when they laid him down
On a hospital bed to die.
 
 
His heart was broken, his strength was gone,
He had no more wish to live;
He almost hoped that the Lord on high,
Like the Emperor, might forgive;
 
 
That somewhere down in the peaceful earth
He should find a refuge yet,
A place to rest and his eyes to close,
And the woful past forget.
 
 
He could not lie where the others lay,
For such gloom around him spread,
That soon in a chamber far away
Had they set his friendless bed.
 
 
'T was there he suffered and wept and prayed,
From the eyes of all concealed:
Alas! but it takes a weary time
For a life like his to yield.
 
 
The grand old hospital where he died
Was beneath the watchful care
Of a certain doctor, famed afar
For his skill and learning rare.
 
 
But more than learning and more than skill
Was his heart, so large and kind,
That knew the trouble and felt the needs
Of the sick who near him pined.
 
 
With conscience pure had he served the Lord
From youth till his hair was grey,
Yet only pity he felt, not scorn,
For the many feet that stray.
 
 
In troubled scenes had his life been passed;
He was used to woe and sin,
And when men suffered he did not ask
If their lives had blameless been.
 
 
His part was but to relieve their pain,
And he helped and soothed and cheered;
But most he cared for the stricken man
Whom the others shunned and feared.
 
 
Each art to save him he tried in vain,
And it could but useless prove,
For the poisoned thorn that pierced his heart
Could no earthly hand remove,
 
 
When hope had failed, he would kneel and pray,
And his heart with tears outpour,
That God in mercy would comfort send
To that soul in torment sore.
 
 
And though the burden he might not lift,
He could help its weight to bear;
He talked of mercy, of peace to come,
And he bade him not despair.
 
 
And so, on the last sad night of all,
'T was the brave, good doctor came
To watch alone by the bandit's side,
When he died of grief and shame.
 
 
The spring to summer was wearing on,
'T was the fairest night in May,
When sleep to those eyes in mercy came,
And the deadly strain gave way.
 
 
No candle burned, for the moon was full,
And the peaceful splendour fell
Through the open window, lighting all:
It was like a kind farewell.
 
 
And scents from the garden floated in,
And the silent fireflies came,
And breathed and vanished, and breathed again,
With their soft mysterious flame.
 
 
The doctor watched with a heavy heart,
His head on his hand was bowed;
He thought how many his prayers had been,
But they could not lift the cloud.
 
 
'T was over now, there was nothing left
For his pitying love to do;
The worn-out body would rest at last,
But the guilty soul, – who knew?
 
 
No more to do but to watch and wait
Till the failing breath should cease;
He longed, as the counted minutes flew,
For one parting smile of peace.
 
 
He looked: a handkerchief veiled the eyes,
For they wept until the end,
And sadly still on the wasted cheek
Did a few slow drops descend.
 
 
The peace that oft to the dying comes
Was to him as yet denied, —
No sunset clear after stormy day,
And no brightening ere he died.
 
 
"Alas! he will go away to-night,
And without one hopeful sign,
Away from pity, away from care,
And from such poor help as mine!"
 
 
The doctor sighed, but he hoped as well,
For he said, "It cannot be
That the Lord, who died for all, will have
No mercy for such as he."
 
 
'T was then that sleep on the doctor fell,
And before him stood revealed,
In dreaming vision, a wondrous sight,
From his waking eyes concealed.
 
 
For other watchers were in the room,
And he knew the ghastly throng
Of demon spirits, the very same
Whom the man had served so long.
 
 
And two were leaning across the bed,
And another pressed behind,
And some in the shadow waiting stood,
With a chain his soul to bind.
 
 
But angels watched by the bedside too;
'T was a strange and solemn scene, —
The angels here and the demons there,
And the dying man between.
 
 
The angels looked with a troubled gaze
On the face consumed with grief,
And over the pillow bent and swayed,
As in haste to bring relief.
 
 
And one on the bowed and burdened head
Did a hand in blessing lay,
And he said, "Poor soul, come home with us.
Where the tears are wiped away."
 
 
"Not so," cried one of the demon troop,
"He is black with every sin;
And you may not touch our lawful prey
That we laboured years to win.
 
 
"We bought his soul, and the price we paid,
And our part has well been done;
We helped him ever from crime to crime,
Till his buried wealth was won;
 
 
"And we almost thought him one of us,
He had so well learned our ways;
So go, for we do but seek our own,
And be done with these delays."
 
 
The angel said, "He has wept his sin,
As none ever wept before,
Has mourned till his very life gave way,
And what could a man do more?
 
 
"And our Blessèd Lord, who pities all,
And the sins of all has borne,
Will never His mercy turn away
From a heart so bruised and torn."
 
 
"But how? and shall mercy be for him
Who has mercy never shown?
Can his sorrow bring the dead to life,
Or can tears for blood atone?
 
 
"Is he to rest with the angels now,
Has he done with tears and pain?
To-morrow morn he will wish he lay
On the hospital bed again;
 
 
"There is somewhat more to weep for down
In the place where he must stay!"
The demon looked at his fiendish mates;
And he laughed, and so did they.
 
 
And they gathered close, like hungry wolves,
In their haste to rend and tear;
But they could not touch the helpless head
While that strong white hand was there.
 
 
Then out of the shadow one came forth,
'T was a demon great and tall;
An iron balance he held on high,
As he stood before them all.
 
 
And fiercely he to the angels called,
"Do you dare to claim him still?
Then come, for the scales are in my hand,
We will weigh the good and ill."
 
 
And into the nearest scale he threw,
As he spoke, a parchment roll,
With on it a note of every sin
That had stained the parting soul.
 
 
'T was closely written, without, within,
And the balance downward flew
And struck the ground with a blow, as though
It would break the pavement through.
 
 
"He is ours forever," the demons said,
"If justice the world controls;
For sins so heavy do on him lie,
They would sink a hundred souls!
 
 
"Come, hasten, angels, the time is short,
And words are of no avail;
Come, bring the note of your friend's good deeds,
To lay in the empty scale."
 
 
The angels searched, but they searched in vain,
There was no good deed to bring;
In all that ever that hand had done,
They could find no worthy thing.
 
 
A taunting shout from the demons broke,
And each hard malignant face
With joy and triumph was all aflame;
But the angels held their place,
 
 
Though dimness fell like a passing cloud
On their pure and holy light;
And if ever angel eyes have tears,
There were some in theirs that night.
 
 
But he who had been the first to speak,
With a glimmering hope possessed,
Still sought some good that would turn the scale,
Though it seemed a useless quest.
 
 
He saw the handkerchief where it lay,
And he raised it off the bed,
All wet and clinging, and steeped in tears
That the dying eyes had shed.
 
 
He turned around, but his face was pale,
As the last poor chance he tried;
He laid it down in the empty scale,
And he said, "Let God decide!"
 
 
When, lo! it fell till it touched the earth,
And the demons stood dismayed;
It seemed so little and light a thing,
But it all his sins outweighed.
 
 
But who shall ever the anger tell
Of that black and hateful band,
When most in triumph they felt secure,
The prey had escaped their hand.
 
 
They stood one moment in speechless rage,
And then, with a fearful sound
Of shrieks and curses and rattling chains,
They vanished beneath the ground.
 
 
Then holy peace on the chamber fell,
Till it flooded all the air;
The angels praised and they thanked the Lord,
Who so late had heard their prayer.
 
 
And their clouded glory shone again,
With a clear celestial ray,
As the trembling soul, which that moment passed,
They bore in their arms away.
 
 
Then through the room, as they took their flight,
Did a flood of music stream,
So loud, so sweet, and so close at hand,
That it waked him from his dream.
 
 
He looked around; there was nothing stirred
In the empty, moonlit room,
Where a faint, sweet odour filled the air
From the orange-trees in bloom.
 
 
And the notes divine he had thought to hear
Were only the liquid flow
Of a nightingale's song, that came up clear
From the garden just below.
 
 
Then up from his seat the doctor rose,
And he stood beside the bed;
He knew, when he touched the quiet hand,
That the poor brigand was dead.
 
 
The handkerchief on the pillow lay,
But its weary use was o'er,
And he raised it, heavy and wet with tears,
From the eyes that could weep no more.