repent?
'T was to save you, not to lose you, that the blessed dream was
sent;
'T is His help, not mine, my brother, you are needing, and you
know,
If we ask it, He will give it, for Himself has told us so.
And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed all the more
If the years were long and many since he left his Father's
door."
"But," said Troilus, "I am aged, and my manhood's strength is
past;
After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at last?"
"Never fear," the Patriarch answered, "there is joy in heaven
to-day,
And they ask not in their gladness if your hair be black or
gray."
So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, by deed and
word,
Gave himself and all his substance to the service of the Lord;
Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored his friend anew
With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised so to do.
And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him again,
Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change was not in vain,
Then he left the past behind him, and a better life began;
From that evening in the garden he became another man.
There was no more train about him when he walked the city
through,
For the priests who once attended now had better work to do;
And the ladies cared no longer from their balconies to lean,
When of worldly pomp and splendour there was nothing to be seen.
For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone no more,
Having gone on works of mercy to increase his heavenly store.
But the poor and needy sought him; he was now their faithful
friend,
And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love they might
depend.
So his closing days were happy, after years of sordid care,
For no gain can bring contentment till the poor have had their
share;
And he lightened many a burden, and he righted many a wrong,
And the wealth became a blessing that had been a curse so long;
And his secret hoard was scattered, and men said that he died
poor,
But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, we may be sure.
*The Crosses on the Wall*
This beautiful legend has for me a most peculiar interest, owing to the
circumstances under which I first heard it. It was taught to me by a
very dear young friend whom I had known and loved from his
infancy,--Piero, the only surviving child of Count Giuseppe Pasolini
Zanelli of Faenza. It was only last October--eight months ago--and we
were all staying together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful
grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto. It was the last evening that we
expected to pass together, and Pierino (we had never been able to give
up calling him by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him, a
collection of popular legends compiled by De Gubernatis, and said that
he had a story to read us. It was "The Crosses on the Wall," and it has
always seemed to me as though he read it on that particular evening to
prepare us for what was to come. For some months he had been not quite
so strong as usual, yet no one felt any particular apprehension, until
on the twenty-eighth of November he died, almost without warning. He was
twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful character,--so good that we
ought to have known he was not for us.
With him two great and ancient families come to an end,--the
Pasolini-Zanelli of Faenza, and the Baroni-Semitecolo of Bassano: these
last are the only descendants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at
Torcello.
*The Crosses on the Wall*
*A Legend of Primiero*
Come, children, listen to what I tell,
For my words are wise to-day:
From Primiero among the hills
Was the legend brought away.
And Primiero among the hills
Is a little world apart,
Where is much to love and much to learn,
If you have a willing heart.
It lies on high, like a stranded ship,
From the parted wave of time;
Not far from the troubled world we know,
But the way is hard to climb.
For the mountains rise and close it in,
With their walls of green and gray;
With crag and forest and smooth-worn cliff,
Where the clouds alone can stray.
And when a house they have builded there,
If a blessing they would win,
Above the door do they write a prayer,
That Christ may dwell therein.
And I think, throughout the ancient town,
On its steep ascending road,
In many a heart, in many a home,
Has He taken His abode.
And when a burden is hard to bear--
And such burdens come to all--
They tell the story I 'm telling now,
Of the crosses on the wall.
'T is a pearl of wisdom, gathered far
In the dim and distant past;
But ever needed, but ever new,
As long as the world shall last.
For never has been since earth was made,
And surely shall never be,
A man so happy or wise or great,
He might from the cross be free.
The tale it is of a widow poor,
And by trouble sorely pressed;
Of how, through sorrow and many tears,
At the end her soul was blest.
She had not been always poor and sad,
For her early years were bright,
With a happy home, and with parents kind,
And herself their hearts' delight!
A mother's darling, a father's pride,
She was fair in form and face;
A sunny creature, a joy to all,
For her sweet and winning grace.
Then, early married to one she loved,
She had still been shielded well;
For her he laboured, for her he thought,
And on her no burden fell.
She worked, indeed; but what work was hers
Through the short and happy hours?
To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees,
Or to tend the garden flowers;
To sit and spin, and to sing the while
In her porch with roses gay;
To spread the table with plenty piled,
And to watch the children play.
Their home was a little nest of peace;
'T was a mile beyond the town,
In that sheltered valley, green with woods,
Where the river murmurs down.
And she never dreamed of change to come,
(Though a change must all expect,)
Till the blow, like lightning, on her fell,
And her happy life was wrecked.
But who could have thought the man would die?
There were few so strong as he!
From his forest work they bore him home,
Struck dead by a falling tree.
A petted child, and a wife beloved,
She had hardly sorrow known,
Till the strong, brave man was borne away,
And she faced the world alone.
Alone, with a babe too young to speak,
And with other children five:
"Oh, why," she asked, "are the strong removed
And the feeble left alive?"
But where is the good of asking
When our helpers disappear?
That question never was answered yet,
And it never will be, here.
There was little time to sit and weep;
She must rise, and bear the strain;
Alone she stood, with the home to keep,
And the children's bread to gain.
The best of herself had gone with him;
She had no more faith nor trust:
She could not bow to the Lord's decree,
For she felt it all unjust.
The good Lord cares for a widow's need,
But on Him she did not call.
She laboured hard, and she fought with fate,
And they lived--but that was all.
She fought her battle with fate, and failed,
As many have failed before;
If against the thorns we push and press,
They will only prick the more.
She could not bear with the children now,
And she called them rude and wild;
Forgetting quite, in her sullen grief,
That she had been once a child.
Yes, wild they were; and like all wild things
They were light and swift and strong;
And her poor, sick spirit turned away
From the gay, unruly throng.
They swam the river, they climbed the trees,
They were full of life and play;
But oft, when their mother's voice they heard,
They hid from her sight away.
They did not love her, and that she knew,
And of that she oft complained;
But not by threats nor by angry words
Could the children's love be gained.
Respect and honour we may command;
They will come at duty's call:
But love, the beautiful thornless rose,
Grows wild, when it grows at all.
And she grew bitter, as time went on,
Grew bitter and hard and sore.
Till one day she cried in her despair,
"I can bear my life no more!
"Look down from Heaven, good Lord, and see
And pity my cruel fate!
Oh, come, and in mercy take away
My burden, for 't is too great!
"My heart is breaking with all its load,
And I feel my life decline;
Never I think did the woman live
Who has borne a cross like mine!"
To her cry for help an answer came,
And solemn it was, and strange!
For a silence deep around her fell,
And the place seemed all to change.
She stood in a sad and sombre room,
Where from ceiling down to floor,
Along the wall and on every side,
There were crosses--nothing more.
There were crosses old, and crosses new,
There were crosses large and small;
And in their midst there was One who stood
As the Master of them all.
Before His presence her eyes dropped low,
And her wild complaining died;
For she knew the cross that He had borne
Was greater than all beside.
And He bade her choose, and take away,
From among the many there,
Another cross, in exchange for hers,
That she found too great to bear.
She looked for those that were least in size,
And she quickly lifted one;
But oh, 't was heavy, and pained her more
Than her own had ever done!
She laid it back with a trembling hand--
"And whose cross is that?" she cried;
"For heavier 't is than even mine!"
And a solemn voice replied:
"That cross belongs to a maiden young,
But of youth she little knows;
For the days to her are days of pain,
And the night brings scant repose.
"A helpless, suffering, useless thing!
And her pain will never cease,
Till death in pity will come one day,
And her troubles end in peace.
"She never has walked the pleasant fields,
Nor has sat beneath the trees;
The hospital wall that shuts her in
Is the only world she sees.
"She has no mother, she has no home,
And in strangers' hands she lies;
With none to care for her while she lives,
Nor weep for her when she dies."
"But why is the cross so small, my Lord,
And why does her heart not break?"
"She counts it little," the answer came,
"For she bears it for my sake."
The widow blushed with a sudden shame;
To her eyes the tears arose:
She dried them soon, and again she turned,
And another cross she chose.
It fell from her hand against the wall,
And she let it there remain:
"That cross shall never be mine," she said,
"Though I take my own again!
"And whose is this that I cannot hold?
For it seems to burn my hand!
And never, I think, was heart so strong
That could such a weight withstand."
"The cross it is of a gentle wife,
And she wears it all unseen;
With early sorrow her hair is white,
But she keeps a smile serene.
"She gave her heart to an evil man,
And she thought him good and true;
And long she trusted and long believed,
But at last the truth she knew.
"She knows that his soul is stained with crime,
But the worst she still conceals;
Abuse and terror her sole reward,
And the Lord knows what she feels!
"She cannot leave him, for love dies hard,
And her children bear his name;
But she prays for grace, to keep and guard
Their innocent lives from shame.
"She trembles oft when his step she hears
On a lonely winter night;
And she hides her frightened babes afar
From their cruel father's sight.
"And she dares not even hope for death,
Though his hand might set her free:
'T were well for her in the grave to rest;
But where would the children be?"
The widow shuddered, her face grew pale,
And she no more turned to look:
She reached her hand to the wall near by,
And a cross by chance she took.
'T was not so large as the first had been,
But it seemed a fearful weight!
"And whose am I holding now?" she asked,
For it did not look so great.
"A mother's cross is the one you bear,"
So the voice in answer said,
"And she once had children six like you;
But her children all are dead.
"She has all besides that earth can give;
She has friends and wealth to spare,
And house and land--but she counts them not,
For the children are not there.
"Time passes slowly, and she grows old;
But she may not yet depart.
In lonely splendour she counts the years,
With an empty, hungry heart.
"And she knows by whom the cross was sent,
And she tries her head to bow;
But six green mounds by the churchyard wall
Are the most she cares for now."
The widow thought of her own wild brood,
And she felt a creeping chill:
And, "Oh, give me back my cross!" she said,
"I will keep and bear it still.
"Forgive me, Lord" (and with that she knelt,
And for very shame she wept).
"I know my sin, that I could not bow,
Nor Thy holy will accept.
"Oh, give me patience, for life is hard;
And the daily strength I need!
And by Thy grace I will try to bear
The burden for me decreed.
"I'll change my ways with the children now,
Though they give me added cares.
Poor babes! I know, if they love me not,
That the blame is mine, not theirs!"
She kept her word as the weeks went on,
And she fought with fate no more:
'T was now with a patient, humble heart
That her daily cross she bore.
The children wondered to see her change
So greatly in look and speech!
She met them now with a smile so kind,
And a gentle word for each.
And soon they learned, from her altered ways,
What her words had vainly taught;
Their love, that long she had claimed in vain,
Came back to her all unsought.
There were merry shouts and dancing feet,
When the mother came in sight;
There were little arms around her thrown,
There were eyes with joy alight.
With love for teacher, they learned to help,
There was work for fingers small:
Her heart grew soft like the earth in spring,
And she thanked the Lord for all!
Her girls so pretty, her boys so brave,
And so helpful all and kind!
She wondered often, and thought with shame
Of how she had once repined.
For in their presence she oft forgot
Her burden of want and care,
Forgot her trouble--forgot, almost,
That she had a cross to bear!
*Suora Marianna*
*Suora Marianna*
Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of mine,
That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan Apennine,
From an aged, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?
It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot know
Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it can give;
But still, try and not forget it! You will need it if you live,
And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin to tire,
You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the fire.
In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country town,
On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping down,
Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the poor,
Who must labour late and early, and much weariness endure;
And the one who did in patience and in all good works excel
Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.
She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task prepared:
No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she never spared.
All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not her own,
Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her throne!
She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace
to choose,
Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot
lose.
There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one
Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is
done.
Was she beautiful? I know not. She had eyes of peaceful light,
And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen
white.
To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold,
And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old.
She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road,
Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode,
Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and her woman's strength
was tried;
For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her
side.
She was happy--oh, so happy!--in her little whitewashed cell
Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to
dwell
In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the
wall,
Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.
'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best,
Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's arms at rest.
But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,
And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant
And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn
With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the
thorn,
Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was
bright,
From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by
night.
So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord
She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies
stored:
He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their
brightness sees;
But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working
bees.
But there came a time--poor sister!--when her rosy cheek grew
pale,
And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as
through a veil;
And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent,
Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she
went.
'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees,
And 't was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground
would freeze,
And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sign and mark;
But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark!
'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed,
That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed.
Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just
begun;
Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the
sun.
All around the grass was springing, and its tender verdure
spread,
Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves, brown and
dead,
Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost touched the
edge
Of the daily lessening snow-drifts, under rock or thorny hedge.
From the wreck of last year's autumn life awakened, strong and
new,
And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the flowers
were few.
Many nights had she been watching, and with little rest by day,
For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless woman lay;
There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost ceased to
burn,
Praying God to help and keep them till the husband should
return.
'T was the old and common story, such as all of us can hear,
If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout the year!
She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret chamber
there,
Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in the air.
She had been a country beauty, for the boys to serenade;
And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes they made,
And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as they grew,
Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to do.
Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient violin,
With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her heart to
win;
And one brilliant April morning he had brought her home, a
bride,
To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain's terraced
side.
'T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from neighbours far
away,
But with love and health and music there was much to make it
gay.
They were happy, careless people, and they thought not to
complain,
Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof let in the
rain:
They could pile the fire with branches, while the winter storms
swept by;
For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the open sky.
Time had come, and brought its changes,--sunshine first, and
then the shade,
Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted. Sickness came, and debts
were made;
Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their troubles did not
cease,
And the poor man's heart was troubled thus to see his land
decrease!
Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now were
children small;
Much he loved them, much he laboured--but he could not feed them
all.
So he left them, heavy-hearted, and his fortune went to try
In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where they die,
With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its fever-laden air;
But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet would
spare.
'T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left behind:
Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife moped and
pined:
Still her children's love sustained her, till this sickness laid
her low;
When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you know.
Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble still she
grew:
Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she knew.
Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long attendance ceased:
"I can do no more," he told her; "you had better call the
priest.
To her husband I have written; he will have the news to-day:
If he cares again to see her, he had best be on his way!"
Now the priest has done his office; at the open door he stands,
And he says to Marianna: "I can leave her in your hands,--
I have other work that calls me; if to-night she chance to die,
You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as well as
I."
So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn and sad,
Still to watch and think and labour with what failing strength
she had.
There was none to share her burden, none to speak to, none to
see--
Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of three,
And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and came
between),
And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not seen.
Two days more! Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside
the bed:
In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin prayers she
said,--
Prayers to help a soul departing;--yet she never quite
despaired!
Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother's life be
spared?
'T was so hard to see her going--such a mother, kind and dear!
There was ne'er another like her in the country, far or near!
(So thought Sister Marianna.) Yet to murmur were a sin.
But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to hold them
in,
Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that she
caressed,
Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against her breast,
She was silent; something moved her that had neither place nor
part
In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she knew by
heart.
Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in every word,
As to one she saw before her--"Thou hast been a child, my Lord!
Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant on my
knees;
Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless hands like
these:
Thou hast known the wants of children, then-- Oh, listen to my
plea,
For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to Thee!
Think, when all was dark around Thee how her love did Thee
enfold;
How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped Thee from
the cold!
How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of tears and
strife,
When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod sought Thy
life!
How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that midnight
journey wild!
Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of this
child!"
Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed to know and
feel
That the Lord was there, and listened to her passionate appeal.
Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light was in her
eye,
For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother would not
die!
Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her! And a change began that
day:
When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had passed away.
So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and hopeful close,
And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister's heart arose.
Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome night it
seemed!
For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the rain had
streamed:
And the wind and rain together made a wild and mournful din,
As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to come in.
Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,
On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set the fire
ablaze,
For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere morning, need to
eat.
"Now, God help me," said the sister, "this night's labour to
complete!"
'T was a meal she knew would please her, which she lovingly
prepared,
Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent table spared,
Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other needed
store,
In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on the floor.
On her work was much depending, so she planned to do her best;
And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a nest,
With the embers laid around it; then she thought again, and cast
On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil too fast.
But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming while she
planned,
And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and listless
hand.
Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this languor, which
she viewed
As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and subdued.
But another fear assailed her--what if she should faint or fall?
And to-night the storm-swept cottage seems so far away from all!
How the fitful wind is moaning! And between the gusts that
blow,
She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine below.