Legends and Lyrics, Pt 2 | Page 4

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 as bright,
No step that glided with such noiseless feet,
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 newborn 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,
Maris 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
Of wounded, dying comrades; and the band,
Half

pleading yet as if they could command,
Summoned the trembling
Sisters, craved their care,
Then rode away, and left the wounded there.

But soon compassion bade all fear depart.
And bidding every Sister
do her part,
Some prepare simples, healing salves, or bands,
The
Abbess chose the more experienced hands,
To dress the wounds
needing most skilful care;
Yet even the youngest Novice took her
share.
To Angela, who had but ready will
And tender pity, yet no
special skill,
Was given the charge of a young foreign knight,

Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger 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 colours 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 drew near, and nearer yet,

Around their darling; for she went and came
About her duties,
outwardly the same.
The same?