"Good Lord, help me!" she is saying: "this can last but little
more!
O my blessed Lord and Master, only help me through the night--
Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the morning light!
For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless lie,
And with only me to serve them,--if I leave them, they may die!
She is better--yes, I know it, but a touch may turn the scale.
I can send for help to-morrow, but to-night I must not fail!"
'T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words she tried
to say
First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died away.
And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the night went
on,
With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all undone;
On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney's empty space,
While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale and
peaceful face.
Was her humble prayer unanswered? Oh, the Lord has many a way
That His children little think of, to send answers when they
pray!
It was long she sat there sleeping--do you think her work was
spoiled?
No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher gently
boiled:
Ne'er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one precious drop
been spilt;
When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden sense of
guilt.
But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision, strange and
sweet,
For a little Child was standing on the hearth-stone at her feet.
And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like the snow,
And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight glow.
And Himself her work was doing! For He kept the fire alive,
And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger might arrive
To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around it piled;
Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the Holy Child.
'T was her Lord who stood before her! And she did not shrink
nor start--
There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing heart.
When her willing hands were weary, when her patient eyes were
closed,
He had finished all she failed in, He had watched while she
reposed.
Do you ask of His appearance? Human words are weak and cold;
'T is enough to say she knew Him--that is all she ever told.
Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day shall come,
When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us welcome
home!
But with that one look He left her, and the vision all had
passed,
(Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour would
last!)
Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no more sound
of rain,
And the morning star was shining through the window's broken
pane.
Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to see,
O'er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day was like
to be,
While the door she softly opened, letting in the morning breeze,
As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and shining
trees.
And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had rolled
away,
Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of misty grey,
Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of the
storm.
And among the trees below her she could see a moving form;
'T was the husband home returning, yes, thank God! he came at
last:
There was no one else would hasten up that mountain road so
fast.
Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in sight
again;
All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in the rain;
Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the villages
asleep,
He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that hillside
steep;
And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step was
light,
But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish of the
night.
Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with laboured
breath,
For he saw his home before him, should he find there life or
death?
How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the wished-for
place!
One step more, his feet had gained it, they were standing face
to face.
"God has helped us!" was her answer to the question in his eye;
And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had gone by.
It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken sunlight fell
Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the buds began
to swell,
As adown the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had pressed,
Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.
It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter strove no
more,
And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the night
before.
Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved along;
Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of song.
But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in her ears!
She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many tears:
Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy voice and
smile,
For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a while.
And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His care had
proved,
When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face she
loved,
On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her He had
come,
As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble earthly home.
As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild bird's
call;
Then, what made her start and linger? 'T was a perfume, that
was all:
Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets were in
bloom;
And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in her room.
*The Lupins*
The simple story of "The Lupins" is very commonly known among the
country people, who often quote it as a remedy for discontent.
*The Lupins*
'T was a day in late November,
When the fruits were gathered in;
Day to dream in, and remember
All the beauty that had been.
Peacefully the year was dying;
Soft the air, and deep the blue;
Brown and bare the fields were lying,
Where the summer harvest grew.
Autumn flowers had bloomed and seeded;
Yet a few of humblest kind,
Waiting till they most were needed,
Brought the pleasant days to mind.
Here and there a red-tipped daisy
Still its small bright face would show;
While above the distance hazy
Rose the mountains, white with snow.
With a light subdued and tender,
Shone the sun on vale and hill,
Where the faded autumn splendour
Left a sober sweetness still.
By a road that wandered, winding,
Far among the hills away,
Walked a man, despondent, finding
Little comfort in the day.
Pale of tint and fine of feature,
Formed with less of strength than grace,
Seldom went a sadder creature,
Seeking work from place to place.
He from noble race descended,
Heir to wealth and honoured name,
Who had oft the poor befriended
When about his door they came,
By a brother's evil doing
Had to poverty been brought:
Now his listless way pursuing,
Ever on the past he thought.
He, to hope no longer clinging,
Drifted, led he knew not where,
By a sound of far-off singing
Floating in the dreamy air,--
Many voices sweetly blending,
Sounding o'er the hills remote,
Every verse the same, and ending
In one plaintive, long-drawn note.
"Olive gatherers, I know them,
Singing songs from tree to tree;
If the road will lead me to them,
There are food and work for me."
He a humble meal was making,
While he warmed him in the sun;
From his pocket slowly taking
Yellow lupins, one by one.
Most forlorn he felt and lonely,
While he ate them on the way;
For those lupins, and they only,
Were his food for all the day.
Since to shame his brother brought him,
Want had often pressed him sore;
Yet misfortune never brought him
Quite so low as this before!
"If my lot be hard and painful,
There 's one comfort still for me;"
(Said he, with a smile disdainful,)
"Poorer, I can never be.
"There's no lower step to stand on,
No more burning shame to feel:
Not a crust to lay my hand on,
Only lupins for a meal!"
He could see the laden table
Where his parents used to dine:
Well for them who were not able
Then the future to divine.
Oh, but he was glad God took them
Ere they saw him fall so low:
How their cherished hope forsook them,
They had never lived to know.
"I, so dearly loved and cared for,
I, on whom such hopes were built,
Whom such blessings were prepared for--
Ruined by a brother's guilt!"
Now he wrung his hands despairing,
Stamped his foot upon the ground;
Bitter thoughts his heart were tearing,--
When he heard a footstep sound.
Then he started, sobered quickly,
Took an attitude sedate,
With that terror, faint and sickly,
Which he often felt of late.
What if some old friend should find him?
But he turned, the story tells,
And he saw a man behind him,
Picking up the lupin shells;
Picking up the shells and eating
What the other cast away.
Now abashed, their eyes were meeting:
'T was a beggar, worn and gray,
Hollow-eyed and thin and wasted;
By his look you might suppose,
He had ne'er a morsel tasted
Since the sun that morning rose.
Stood the younger man astonished,
And no more bewailed his fate;
Only bowed his head, admonished
By the sight of want so great.
Then he said: "Come here, my brother,
And the lupins we will share;
Maybe, if we help each other,
God will have us in His care."
"Thank the Lord! and you, kind master!
May He help you in your need;
Save your soul from all disaster
And remember your good deed!"
Said the beggar, smiling brightly.
And the other thus replied,--
Now content, and walking lightly
By his poorer neighbour's side,--
"Friend, you have a blessing brought me.
And I thank you in my turn,
For a lesson you have taught me
Which I needed much to learn.
"And henceforth will I endeavour
Not to pine for fortune high,
But remember there is ever
Some one lower down than I.
"But alas, when I was younger,
Wealth and honoured state were mine;
Shame, my friend, is worse than hunger:
'T is for this that I repine."
Then the beggar rose up stately,
Looked the other in the face,
Saying (for he wondered greatly),
"Poverty is no disgrace;
"For our Lord, I think, was poorer
Once than you or even I,
And His poor of Heaven are surer
Than the rich who pass them by."
So the two went on together,
Casting on the Lord their care,
Happy in the balmy weather,
Happy in their simple fare.
Now an ancient olive o'er them
Threw its slender lines of shade,
Bending low its boughs before them,
Silver-leafed that cannot fade;
Bearing fruit in winter season,
Still through every change the same:
Tree of peace--they had good reason
Who have called it by that name!
And with that the story leaves them;
You can end it as you please:
Gain that cheers, or loss that grieves them,
Life of toil, or life of ease.
Did some fortune unexpected
Give to one his wealth again?
Or did both, forlorn, neglected,
End their days in want and pain?
Many years have they been dwelling
Where such trifles of the way
Are not counted worth the telling!
Both are with the Lord to-day.
He in whom their souls confided
Did for both a home prepare;
Yet that humble meal divided
Gives a blessing even there.
*The Silver Cross*
The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver Cross" is one of her
many visions, recorded by her confessor.
*The Silver Cross*
Through the streets of old Siena, at the dawning of the day,
Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to sound;
With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of olive gray,
For her soul was with the angels, while her feet were on the
ground.
She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace;
And the air of early morning had just tinged her cheek with
rose:
Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, illumined face,
That the souls in trouble turned to, finding comfort and repose.
And the men their heads uncovered, though they dared not speak
her praise,
When they saw her like a vision down the row street descend;
And they wondered what she looked at, with that far-off dreamy
gaze,
While her lips were often moving, as though talking to a friend.
There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely heard a sound,
Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet they strayed,
Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church where she was
bound;
While the palaces around her stood in silence and in shade.
And the towers built for warfare rose about her, dark and proud,
But their summits caught a glory, as the morning onward came,
And the summer sky beyond them was alight with fleecy cloud,
Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to rose and then to
flame.
By a shrine of the Madonna, at a corner where she passed,
Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary and forlorn,
With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak about him cast;
For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant summer morn.
Said the stranger, "Will you help me?" and she looked on him and
knew,
By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it out for aid,
By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of ashen hue,
That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon him laid.
So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to hear,
Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain for her son;
How to help her he had laboured till the summer time drew near,
And of how the fever took him just before his work was done.
He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile began to come
In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the pity she
bestowed,
And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my mountain home,
And if some good Christian people will but help me on the road.
"For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure and fine,
But my strength too often fails me, and the place is far away;
So I pray you give me something, for a little bread and wine,
That I may not set out fasting on my weary walk to-day."
Then a certain faint confusion with her pity seemed to blend,
And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the shadow of a
cloud,
As she said: "I am no lady, though you call me so, my friend,
But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am vowed.
"I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, nothing more,
For these garments I am wearing are the sisterhood's, not mine,
And the very bread they gave me when I left the convent door
To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did consign.
"I would give you all you ask for if I had it to command."
Then she sighed and would have left him, but the stranger made
her stay,
For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and wasted hand:
"For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send me thus away!"
He had used the name unthinking, but it moved her none the less,
And she turned again toward him, with a softened, solemn air,
While her hand began to wander up and down her simple dress,
As though vaguely it were seeking for some trifle she could
spare.
Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at her waist,
And its silver cross unfastened, which was small and very old,
With the edges worn and rounded and the image half effaced,
Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a cross of gold.
It had been her life companion, in the tempest, in the calm;
She had held it to her bosom when she prayed with troubled mind;
And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in his palm,
"For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the only thing I
find."
So he thanked her and departed, and she thought of him no more,
Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day in church she
prayed;
But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger wore,
And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with him stayed.
Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are in the sun,
And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy town again,
As the people slowly scatter from the church where Mass is done;
But the blessed 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 armed 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.