The Tent on the Beach | Page 6

as sweet. For my offence?Of cavil, let her words be ample recompense."
Across the sea one lighthouse star,?With crimson ray that came and went,?Revolving on its tower afar,?Looked through the doorway of the tent.?While outward, over sand-slopes wet,?The lamp flashed down its yellow jet?On the long wash of waves, with red and green?Tangles of weltering weed through the white foam-wreaths seen.
"Sing while we may,--another day?May bring enough of sorrow;'--thus?Our Traveller in his own sweet lay,?His Crimean camp-song, hints to us,"?The lady said. "So let it be;?Sing us a song," exclaimed all three.?She smiled: "I can but marvel at your choice?To hear our poet's words through my poor borrowed voice."
. . . . .
Her window opens to the bay,?On glistening light or misty gray,?And there at dawn and set of day?In prayer she kneels.
"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a borne?From wind and wave the wanderers come;?I only see the tossing foam?Of stranger keels.
"Blown out and in by summer gales,?The stately ships, with crowded sails,?And sailors leaning o'er their rails,?Before me glide;?They come, they go, but nevermore,?Spice-laden from the Indian shore,?I see his swift-winged Isidore?The waves divide.
"O Thou! with whom the night is day?And one the near and far away,?Look out on yon gray waste, and say?Where lingers he.?Alive, perchance, on some lone beach?Or thirsty isle beyond the reach?Of man, he hears the mocking speech?Of wind and sea.
"O dread and cruel deep, reveal?The secret which thy waves conceal,?And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel?And tell your tale.?Let winds that tossed his raven hair?A message from my lost one bear,--?Some thought of me, a last fond prayer?Or dying wail!
"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out?The fears that haunt me round about;?O God! I cannot bear this doubt?That stifles breath.?The worst is better than the dread;?Give me but leave to mourn my dead?Asleep in trust and hope, instead?Of life in death!"
It might have been the evening breeze?That whispered in the garden trees,?It might have been the sound of seas?That rose and fell;?But, with her heart, if not her ear,?The old loved voice she seemed to hear?"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,?For all is well!"?1865
. . . . .
The sweet voice into silence went,?A silence which was almost pain?As through it rolled the long lament,?The cadence of the mournful main.?Glancing his written pages o'er,?The Reader tried his part once more;?Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine?For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.
THE BROTHER OF MERCY.
Piero Luca, known of all the town?As the gray porter by the Pitti wall?Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,?Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down?His last sad burden, and beside his mat?The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.
Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,?Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;?Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted?Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,?In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life?But when at last came upward from the street?Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,?The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,?Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.?And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood?Of Mercy going on some errand good?Their black masks by the palace-wall I see."?Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me!?This day for the first time in forty years?In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,?Calling me with my brethren of the mask,?Beggar and prince alike, to some new task?Of love or pity,--haply from the street?To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet?Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,?To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,?Down the long twilight of the corridors,?Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.?I loved the work: it was its own reward.?I never counted on it to offset?My sins, which are many, or make less my debt?To the free grace and mercy of our Lord;?But somehow, father, it has come to be?In these long years so much a part of me,?I should not know myself, if lacking it,?But with the work the worker too would die,?And in my place some other self would sit?Joyful or sad,--what matters, if not I??And now all's over. Woe is me!"--"My son,"?The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done;?And no more as a servant, but the guest?Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.?No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost,?Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down?Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown?Forever and forever."--Piero tossed?On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me!?I am too poor for such grand company;?The crown would be too heavy for this gray?Old head; and God forgive me if I say?It would be hard to sit there night and day,?Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught?With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,?Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.?I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,?Counting my