Young hearts that came, weighed down by love

or wrong,

Left her kind presence comforted and strong.
Each passing pilgrim and each beggar's right
Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night.
But, more than this, the Nuns could well impart
The deepest mysteries of the healing art;
Their store of herbs and simples was renowned,
And held in wondering faith for miles around.
Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate,
Found help and blessing at the convent gate.

Of all the Nuns, no heart was half so light,
No eyelids veiling glances half so bright,
No step that glided with such noiseless fect,
No face that looked so tender or so sweet,
No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear,
No heart to all the others half so dear,
So surely touched by others' pain or woe,
(Guessing the grief her young life could not
know,)

No soul in childlike faith so undefiled,
As Sister Angela's, the "Convent Child."
For thus they loved to call her. She had known
No home, no love, no kindred, save their own.
An orphan to their tender nursing given,
Child, plaything, pupil, now the Bride of Heaven.
And she it was who trimmed the lamp's red light
That swung before the altar, day and night;
Her hands it was whose patient skill could trace
The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace;
But most of all, her first and dearest care,
The office she would never miss or share,
Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet,
To place before the shrine at Mary's feet.
Nature is bounteous in that region fair,
For even winter has her blossoms there.
Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best,
By telling with what flowers the shrine was
dressed.

In pomp supreme the countless Roses passed,
Battalion on battalion thronging fast,
Each with a different banner, flaming bright,
Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white,
Until they bowed before a new-born queen,
And the pure virgin Lily rose serene.
Though Angela always thought the Mother blest
Must love the time of her own hawthorn best,
Each evening through the year, with equal

care,

She placed her flowers; then kneeling down in prayer,

As their faint perfume rose before the shrine,
So rose her thoughts, as pure and as divine.
She knelt until the shades grew dim without,
Till one by one the altar-lights shone out,
Till one by one the Nuns, like shadows dim,
Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn;
Her voice then led the music's winged flight,
And "Ave, Maria Stella" filled the night.
But wherefore linger on those days of peace?
When storms draw near, then quiet hours must

cease.

War, cruel war, defaced the land, and came
So near the convent with its breath of flame,
That, seeking shelter, frightened peasants fled,
Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread.
Till after a fierce skirmish, down the road,
One night came straggling soldiers, with their

load

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slight.

Day after day she watched beside his bed,
And first in hushed repose the hours fled:
His feverish moans alone the silence stirred,
Or her soft voice, uttering some pious word.
At last the fever left him; day by day
The hours, no longer silent, passed away.
What could she speak of? First, to still his
plaints,

She told him legends of the martyred Saints; Described the pangs, which, through God's plenteous grace,

Had gained their souls so high and bright a place.

This pious artifice soon found success-
Or so she fancied-for he murmured less.
So she described the glorious pomp sublime,
In which the chapel shone at Easter time,
The Banners, Vestments, gold, and colors bright,
Counted how many tapers gave their light;
Then in minute detail went on to say,
How the High Altar looked on Christmas-day;
The kings and shepherds, all in green and red,
And a bright star of jewels overhead.
Then told the sign by which they all had seen
How even Nature loved to greet her Queen,
For, when Our Lady's last procession went
Down the long garden, every head was bent,
And, rosary in hand, each Sister prayed;
As the long floating banners were displayed,
They struck the hawthorn-boughs, and showers
and showers

Of buds and blossoms strewed her way with flowers.

The knight unwearied listened; till at last,
He too described the glories of his past;
Tourney, and joust, and pageant bright and fair,
And all the lovely ladies who were there.
But half incredulous she heard. Could this-
This be the world? this place of love and
bliss!

Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm,

That never failed to bring the gazer harm?
She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened still,
And still the knight described with all his skill
The glorious world of joy, all joys above,
Transfigured in the golden mist of love.
Spread, spread your wings, ye angel guardians
bright,

And shield these dazzling phantoms from her sight!

But no; days passed, matins and vespers rang, And still the quiet Nuns toiled, prayed, and

sang,

And never guessed the fatal, coiling net
Which every day grew near, and nearer yet,
Around their darling; for she went and came
About her duties, outwardly the same.
The same? ah, no! even when she knelt to pray,
Some charmed dream kept all her heart away.
So days went on, until the convent gate
Opened one night. Who durst go forth so late?
Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread,
Two silent, shrouded figures passed and fled.
And all was silent, save the moaning seas,
That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze
That sighed among the perfumed hawthorn-trees.
What need to tell that dream so bright and
brief,

Of joy uncheckered by a dread of grief?
What need to tell how all such dreams must
fade,

Before the slow, foreboding, dreaded shade,
That floated nearer, until pomp and pride,
Pleasure and wealth, were summoned to her
side,

To bid, at least, the noisy hours forget,
And clamor down the whispers of regret?
Still Angela strove to dream, and strove in vain;
Awakened once, she could not sleep again.
She saw, each day and hour, more worthless
grown

The heart for which she cast away her own; And her soul learned, through bitterest inward strife,

The slight, frail love for which she wrecked her life,

The phantom for which all her hope was given, The cold bleak earth for which she bartered heaven!

But all in vain; would even the tenderest heart Now stoop to take so poor an outcast's part?

Years fled, and she grew reckless more and more,
Until the humblest peasant closed his door,
And where she passed, fair dames, in scorn and
pride,

Shuddered, and drew their rustling robes aside.
At last a yearning seemed to fill her soul,
A longing that was stronger than control:
Once more, just once again, to see the place
That knew her young and innocent; to retrace
The long and weary southern path; to gaze
Upon the haven of her childish days;
Once more beneath the convent roof to lie;
Once more to look upon her home-and die!
Weary and worn-her comrades, chill remorse
And black despair, yet a strange silent force
Within her heart, that drew her more and more—
Onward she crawled, and begged from door to
door.

Weighed down with weary days, her failing strength

Grew less each hour, till one day's dawn at length,

As first its rays flooded the world with light, Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright,

Her face

And where, amid the leafy hawthorn-wood,
Just as of old the quiet cloister stood.
Would any know her? Nay, no fear.
Had lost all trace of youth, of joy, of grace,
Of the pure, happy soul they used to know-
The novice Angela-so long ago.

She rang the convent-bell. The well-known sound

Smote on her heart, and bowed her to the ground.
And she, who had not wept for long, dry years,
Felt the strange rush of unaccustomed tears;
Terror and anguish seemed to check her breath,
And stop her heart. O God! could this be
death?

Crouching against the iron gate, she laid
Her weary head against the bars, and prayed:
But nearer footsteps drew, then seemed to wait;
And then she heard the opening of the grate,
And saw the withered face, on which awoke
Pity and sorrow, as the portress spoke,
And asked the stranger's bidding: "Take me
in,"

She faltered, "Sister Monica, from sin,
And sorrow, and despair, that will not cease;
Oh, take me in, and let me die in peace!"
With soothing words the Sister bade her wait,
Until she brought the key to unbar the gate.
The beggar tried to thank her as she lay,
And heard the echoing footsteps die away.
But what soft voice was that which sounded
near,

And stirred strange trouble in her heart to bear?

She raised her head; she saw-she seemed to know

A face that came from long, long years ago:
Herself; yet not as when she fled away,
The young and blooming novice, fair and gay,
But a grave woman, gentle and serene:
The outcast knew it what she might have been.
But, as she gazed and gazed, a radiance bright
Filled all the place with strange and sudden
light;

The Nun was there no longer, but, instead,
A figure with a circle round its head,
A ring of glory; and a face, so meek,
So soft, so tender. . . . Angela strove to speak,
And stretched her hands out, crying, "Mary
mild,

Mother of mercy, help me!-help your child!”
And Mary answered: "From thy bitter past,
Welcome, my child! Oh, welcome home at last!
I filled thy place. Thy flight is known to none,
For all thy daily duties I have done;
Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung,
and slept;

Didst thou not know, poor child, thy place was kept?

Kind hearts are here; yet would the tenderest

one

Have limits to its mercy: God has none.
And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet,
But yet he stoops to give it. More complete
Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,
And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven
Means crowned, not vanquished, when it says,
'Forgiven!""

Back hurried Sister Monica; but where
Was the poor beggar she left lying there?
Gone; and she searched in vain, and sought the
place

For that wan woman, with the piteous face:
But only Angelå at the gateway stood,
Laden with hawthorn-blossoms from the wood.
And never did a day pass by again,

But the old portress, with a sigh of pain,

Would sorrow for her loitering: with a prayer
That the poor beggar, in her wild despair,
Might not have come to any ill; and when
She ended, "God forgive her!" humbly then
Did Angela bow her head, and say, "Amen!"
How pitiful her heart was! all could trace
Something that dimmed the brightness of her
face

After that day, which none had seen before;
Not trouble-but a shadow-nothing more.

Years passed away. Then, one dark day of dread

Saw all the Sisters kneeling round a bed,
Where Angela lay dying; every breath
Struggling beneath the heavy hand of death.
But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek,

She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak.

In sorrowing love they listened; not a sound
Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round.
The very tapers' flames were scarcely stirred,
In such hushed awe the Sisters knelt and heard.
And through that silence Angela told her life;
Her sin, her flight; the sorrow and the strife,
And the return; and then clear, low, and calm,
"Praise God for me, my sisters;
" and the

psalm
Rang up to heaven, far and clear and wide,
Again, and yet again, then sank and died;
While her white face had such a smile of peace,
They saw she never heard the music cease;
And weeping Sisters laid her in her tomb,
Crowned with a wreath of perfumed hawthorn
bloom.

And thus the Legend ended. It may be Something is hidden in the mystery, Besides the lesson of God's pardon shown, Never enough believed, or asked, or known. Have we not all, amid life's petty strife, Some pure ideal of a noble life

And yet

That once seemed possible? Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings, and feel it near,
And just within our reach? It was.
We lost it in this daily jar and fret,
And now live idle in a vague regret.

But still our place is kept, and it will wait,
Ready for us to fill it, soon or late:

No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be what we might have been.
Since Good, though only thought, has life and
breath,

God's life-can always be redeemed from death;
And evil, in its nature, is decay,

And any hour can blot it all away:

The hopes that lost in some far distance seem, May be the truer life, and this the dream.

THE ANGEL'S STORY.

THROUGH the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright: Glistening lamps throughout the City

Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas-night.

While, from every tower and steeple, Pealing bells were sounding clear, (Never with such tones of gladness,

Save when Christmas-time is near,) Many a one that night was merry Who had toiled through all the year.

That night saw old wrongs forgiven,
Friends, long parted, reconciled;
Voices all unused to laughter,

Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, Erom their anxious thoughts beguiled.

Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage,

Peace and feasting in the hall, And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all!

Yet one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom, and sickness, and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chambers,
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning-
For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him,
Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
Many costly toys were lying,

All unheeded, by his bed;
And his tangled golden ringlets
Were on downy pillows spread.

The skill of that mighty City

To save one little life was vainOne little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken;

Nay, his very mother's pain, And the mighty love within her,

Could not give him health again.

So she knelt there still beside him,
She alone with strength to smile,
Promising that he should suffer
No more in a little while,
Murmuring tender song and story
Weary hours to beguile.

Suddenly an unseen Presence

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Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision, With a startled sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered,
Smiling, o'er the little bed;
White his raiment, from his shoulders
Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
And a starlike light was shining
In a Glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaning o'er the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,
Laid him gently on his breast,
Sobs and wailings told the mother
That her darling was at rest.

"All too weak for childish pastimes,
Drearily the hours sped;

On his hands so small and trembling
Leaning his poor aching head,
Or, through dark and painful hours,
Lying sleepless on his bed-

"Dreaming strange and longing fancies
Of cool forests far away;
And of rosy, happy children,
Laughing merrily at play,
Coming home through green lanes, bearing
Trailing boughs of blooming May.

"Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven

Gleamed above that narrow street, And the sultry air of summer

(That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling In the crowded alley's heat.

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps
Slowly forth he tried to crawl,
Through the crowded city's pathways,
Till he reached a garden-wall,
Where 'mid princely halls and mansions
Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches,
Velvet glades where shadows hide;
There were sparkling fountains glancing,
Flowers, which in luxuriant pride
Even wafted breaths of perfume
To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron
Pressed his wan and wistful face,
Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure
At the glories of the place;
Never had his brightest day-dream
Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downward on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan,

Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow

On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses

From the tree you loved so wellPassed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure

And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers,

In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret;

Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhood— Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light— Floated round the orphan's pillow

Through the starry summer night.

"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted;
All too weak to rise he lay;
Did he dream that none spake harshly-
All were strangely kind that day?
Surely then his treasured roses

Must have charmed all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said; When the next day's sun had risen

Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one! our Father
Will no gentle deed disdain ;
Love on the cold earth beginning

Lives divine in heaven again,
While the angel hearts that beat there
Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently
O'er his little burden leant;
While the child gazed from the shining,
Loving eyes that o'er him bent,

To the blooming roses by him,

Wondering what that mystery meant.

JUDGE not; the workings of his brain

And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,

In God's pure light may only be

A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight,
May be a token, that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal fiery foe,

Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

The fall thou darest to despise

Maybe the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after-days!

ONE BY ONE.

ONE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)
Joys are sent thee here below;
Take them readily when given,

Ready too to let them go.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,
Do not fear an armèd band;
One will fade as others greet thee;
Shadows passing through the land.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy Future give

Color and form to mine,

Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul tonight for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret:

Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which
I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel

Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have, staked the whole:

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil ?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?

Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit Change,

Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone-but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake-
Not thou-had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou

wilt surely warn and save me now.