Chapter II: Part 2

They rose next day with the early dawn,
And their hearts were almost light!
The young need little to make them glad,
And the day was fair and bright.

And pleasant 't is to behold the sun,
Though his rosy-tinted ray
Could only shine on the moss-grown tiles
Of the roof across the way.

And the air was sweet in the narrow street
Where the swallows toss and glide;
For a perfume came on the morning breeze
From the hills on every side,--

A perfume faint from the woods afar,
From blossoming fields of corn;
And bells already their chimes began,
For this was a sacred morn.

The Carmine church is near at hand,
And the sisters thither hied;
'T was there they had knelt in happy days
By the dear dead mother's side.

Then home, through the gay and festive street,
Till they reached the chamber bare:
The time had come for the morning meal,
And alas, no bread was there!

The elder girl on her sisters looked,
And her face grew white with pain.
Then said the one who was next in age,
"Let us ask the Lord again!"

So down they knelt on the red-tiled floor,
And the elder bowed her head,
And said aloud, while the others joined,
The prayer for their daily bread.

And then, with a tempest in her heart
That she could no more withstand,
With her arm around the younger girl,
And the other by the hand,

She pleaded, raising her tearful face
To the dying face above,
For those she loved in their helpless state
With more than a sister's love.

"O blessed Jesus! O Lord divine!
Have pity, we wait for Thee!
Look down--Thou seest our empty chest,
Thou knowest how poor we be!

"Oh, send some bread to my sisters dear,
For the cornfields all are Thine!
I 'd rather lie in my grave to-day
Than to see these children pine!

"Thou knowest, Lord, I have done my best;
But my hands have failed at length:
A mother's burden is on me laid
With only a maiden's strength.

"Come, help me! Look at these orphan girls!
Oh, save them from want and woe!--"
Her praying ceased, for they heard a sound,
A knock at the door below.

They rose, and all to the window went:
A beggar was at the door,
A poor, pale stranger, with staff in hand,
Who had never come before.

The Month of Mary was coming in;
And many were on their way
To ask for alms in the Virgin's name
On that beautiful first of May.

"My little sisters," the beggar said,
(And bowed to the maidens three,)
"I pray you spare from your table spread
A morsel of bread for me!

"I come from far, and I 've far to go;
And I 've eaten nought to-day!"
The elder wept, but she answered not;
And the second turned away.

The younger looked with her innocent eyes
In the beggar's pleading face:
"And if we could, we would give you food;
But we 're in as hard a case!

"We finished yesterday all we had--
The half of a loaf, no more!--
We just were asking the Lord for bread,
When we heard you at the door."

"Go, look in the chest, my little maid;
You 'll find there is bread to spare!"
"Alas, we have looked so many times,
And never a crust is there!"

"Look once again, for the love of Him
Whose image I see within:
He never has failed to help His own,
And He will not now begin."

So only lest it should seem unkind
To refuse the small request,
The elder girl with a patient smile
Went back to the empty chest.

She looked--and down on her knees she fell,
With a cry of glad surprise:
The others turned, and their breath stood still,
They could scarce believe their eyes!

'T was full! And the loaves were piled so high
They could close the lid no more.
Their tears fell faster for joy that day
Than they fell for grief before!

But in the midst of their thankful praise
They thought of the starving man:
The little one seized the topmost loaf,
And back to the window ran.

She looked, she called him--he was not there!
They sought him, but all in vain:
He passed away from their sight that day,
And he came no more again.

So ends the story; but ever since
That crucifix bears the name
_La Providenza_; and even now
The house has a sacred fame.

And many kneel where the sisters knelt
Each year on the first of May;
And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers,
And leaves of the scented bay.

The humble room is with roses decked.
And bright with the candles' glow;
And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm,
Float over the street below.

A woman aged and silver-haired
Once told me, with solemn thrill,
How she herself had beheld the chest,
Which stands in the chamber still.

I asked her: "Who was that beggarman?
An angel, do you suppose?
A saint from heaven?" Her face grew grave,
And she answered me, "Who knows?"

And then, with voice to a whisper dropped,
With an awed, mysterious air,
"Some think," she said, "'t was the Lord Himself
Who came at the maiden's prayer."

*Angels in the Churchyard*

The story of the "Angels in the Churchyard" was told me by Signore Bortolo Zanchetta of Bassano, who said that he read it in an old book, but he had lost the book, and could not even remember its name.

*Angels in the Churchyard*

A saint there was, long time ago,
And all in vain I tried
His name to learn, or whence he came,
Or how or where he died.

For he from whom the tale I heard
Could tell me nothing more
Save only that within him dwelt
Of love an endless store.

And in the churchyard once he passed
A summer night in prayer,
For pity of the nameless dead
Who lie forgotten there.

He knew not when the sun went down,
So earnestly he prayed!
He knew not when the twilight glow
Was lost in deepening shade.

And when the fair, round moon arose
Behind the wooded hill,
She looked across the churchyard wall,
And found him praying still.

But when the night was far along,
And when the moon was high,
When all the village lights were out,
And closed was every eye,--

When low above the sleeping dead
The folded daisies slept,
And he alone his patient watch
Until the morning kept,--

Came angels through the churchyard gate,
But in no heavenly guise;
So unadorned, he little thought
They came from Paradise!

The moon lit up their robes of white;
No other glory shone.
He watched them, as they paused before
One sunken, moss-grown stone,

And thrice their silver censers swung,
As at some saintly shrine,
But never incense burnt on earth
Had perfume so divine.

Between the graves they glided on:
Toward a cross they turned--
A wooden cross that bore no name--
And there the incense burned.

A fading garland on it hung,
Of wild flowers simply twined;
Whoever lay in that poor grave
Had left some love behind.

But next they sought a dreary place
Against the northern wall;
He could not see if mound were there,
The nettles grew so tall!

And on to others, three or four,
Their noiseless steps they bent:
Where'er they stayed, the incense rose;
Then, as they came, they went.

But often to that churchyard green
Did he at night repair;
And ever, when the hour returned,
The angels all were there.

He thought them only white-robed priests;
And much he wondered why
Each night at certain graves they stayed,
While others they passed by.

Till, after waiting, wondering long,
One night he forward pressed,
And spoke with one who walked apart,
A step behind the rest.

'T was starlight now; the moon had waned:
He hardly saw the face
Of him he talked with; but he felt
Great peace was in the place.

"Of God's own saints," the angel said,
"A few lie buried here;
And He so loves them that to Him
Their very dust is dear!

"So, while their souls with perfect peace
Are in His presence blest,
He will not that these humble graves
Should all unhonoured rest.

"Each night from heaven He sends us down.
Where'er His flowers are sown--
These bodies that shall one day rise,
All glorious like His own!"

The saint was silent, for his lips
Could find no word to say:
He stood entranced, and like to one
Whose soul is far away.

At length he roused; the stars were dim,
The night had half withdrawn:
A light was in the eastern sky,
The clear pale light of dawn.

Then came a freshening in the air,
A twitter in the trees,
A ripple in the dewy grass
That felt the early breeze;

And sounded from the tower above
The sweet-toned, ancient bell;
While bright and busy over all
The summer morning fell.

The daisies opened; happy birds
Sang in the sunshine free.
The dead alone are sleeping now;
Their morning is to be.

*The Origin of the Indian Corn*

This story was told me by the Contessa Vittoria Percoto Antonini of Palmanuova, who said that she heard it in her youth at a _Fila_, which is a sort of social gathering held in the winter evenings by the _contadini_ in that part of the country.

The winter is cold, and these _contadini_, who are very poor and can ill afford the wood for a fire, meet in the cattle-shed, where the breath of cows and oxen warms the air a little.

They often say, "It is the way that the Gesu Bambino was warmed!" A lantern hangs from one of the beams overhead, and by its dim light the women spin or knit. All talk together, and (as the Contessa Vittoria expresses it) "the boys make themselves agreeable to the girls, very much as though it were a party of ladies and gentlemen."

And from time to time the elder people entertain the company with stories, of which this is a pretty fair specimen.

*The Origin of the Indian Corn*

*A Legend of Friuli*

In the far Italian border land,
With its rolling hills and mountains grand,
And the Alps of Carnia rising near,
Where the snow lies more than half the year;
With crags where the clinging fir-trees grow
Above the chestnuts and vines below,
From the weary, changing world remote,--
There age on age doth a legend float.
The young have learnt it from aged men;
It never was written yet with pen.
It seems at first, when they tell it o'er,
A childish fancy, and nothing more;
And bearing the impress, deep indeed,
Of the hard and struggling lives they lead:
A thing to smile at, and then forget,
Scarce worthy a passing thought--and yet
The simple tale may a lesson teach
If only one can its meaning reach!
Like one of their living, hill-side springs,
That shows the image of common things;
So he who looks on its surface sees
The bending flowers, the arching trees,
The sun, the shadow, the rocks, the sky,
The busy birds that go flitting by,
While deep below is the endless wealth
Of water, given for life and health.

In homely form is the lesson taught;
But worthy still of a reverent thought.
So listen, think; if you have a mind
To seek, and the hidden treasure find:
For Truth, most precious and fair, doth dwell
In the crystal depth of this mountain well.

And this is the story, often told
In the winter evenings long and cold;
In the low-roofed, dimly lighted shed,
Where the breath of oxen serves instead
Of a blazing hearth to warm the place:
A smile of peace is on every face,
And hearts are light, and they often say,
"Our Lord was warmed in the self-same way,
That night when He on the earth was born!"
And the shed no longer seems forlorn,
For it makes them feel Him near at hand:
And they the better can understand
How by His pity and timely aid
The beautiful Indian corn was made.

'T was in the days when He dwelt below,
Before 't was given to man to know
Or who He was or from whence He came;
And the world had hardly heard His name!
He journeyed over the country roads,
He taught the poor, and He eased their loads.
He had no dwelling wherein to rest
With the one or two who loved Him best,
And once in seeking a friendly door
They came to a farmer's threshing-floor.
The hot July had but just begun;
The road lay white in the blinding sun;
The air was heavy with odours sweet;
The sky was pale, as if faint with heat.
Two weary men and two women pale
Were threshing, each with a heavy flail,--
A mile away you could hear the sound
In measured cadence along the ground.
Then, moved with pity at such a sight,
It pleased Him to make their burden light.
At first He prayed them to pause and rest;
They only smiled at the strange request,
And laboured on till He spoke again:
"Fear not, Myself I will thresh the grain!"

At sound of His holy voice, they knew
That what He said He would surely do!
He bade them bring Him a burning brand,
And, though they little could understand,
The brand was brought, and they saw Him bend,
And touch the corn with the lighted end.
Then swiftly, as by a tempest blown,
The straw to the farther side was thrown;
The wheaten kernels, all clear and bright,
Lay piled on high--'t was a pleasant sight!
Another and smaller heap contained
The chaff, and whatever else remained.
'T was threshed and winnowed, and all in one;
The work of days in a moment done!
The happy threshers, with one accord,
Gave thanks and praise to the blessed Lord;
And grateful tears at His feet were shed.

Meanwhile the news through the village spread;
For more than one had been near, and seen
The miracle of the wheat made clean.
From field and garden and cottage door,
The people flocked to the threshing-floor.
Then came a time of such joy supreme
As never had been in thought or dream.
For when they looked on the clean-threshed wheat,
And heard the threshers their tale repeat,
And knew that He had this wonder done,
They knelt and worshipped Him, every one!
Oh, think how happy they were and blest,
Who might awhile in His presence rest!
Think what it would be for you or me
That voice to hear and that face to see!
The children run to Him where He stands,
And cling with their little sunbrowned hands
To His garment; and the parents feel
Their burden lightened while yet they kneel.
"Thank God, who spared us!" the aged say,
"To look on Thy blessed face to-day!"
The sick are healed, and the weak made strong,
And hearts consoled that had suffered long:
A sound of gladness, of praise and prayer,
Floats far away on the summer air.

Amid such transports of young and old,
How was it that one could still be cold?
A certain widow whom all confessed
To be the bravest, perhaps the best,
Among the women the place contained--
Why was it that she aloof remained?

Handsome and stately, and strong of arm
To guard her fatherless babes from harm,
With five little hungry mouths to fill;
For them she laboured with might and will!
But, proud of spirit, she could not bear
That other hearts should her burden share.
Of soul too high for an evil deed,
She scorned the others, but helped their need.
In wit and wisdom the rest excelled,
And yet their kindness too oft repelled;
Accepted nothing, though free to give,
And almost rather had ceased to live
Than share the loaf from a neighbour's shelf.
Yes, proud of her very pride itself!

She nursed it, cherished it, thought it grand,
To guide unaided her house and land,
And thanked the Lord, when she knelt to pray,
That never one in the place could say,
"I help the widow!" And now she stood
Apart from the kneeling multitude,
And half impatient and half amused,
She smiled at the simple words they used,
Of praise and wonder, and thought how she
Could never so weak and childish be!

For her 't was a proud and happy day,
For rest and plenty before her lay:
Herself had sown and herself had reaped;
And now the beautiful sheaves lay heaped,
Not far away, by her open door;
Her heart rejoiced in the ample store!
A neighbour saw her, and called her name:
"Come near! perhaps He will do the same
For thee, and thy summer's work complete;
I know that thou hast not threshed thy wheat!"

She tossed her head with a smile of pride:
"I never yet, since my husband died,
Asked help or favour of any one!
Besides, I saw how the thing was done.
And I can do it as well as He;
He need not turn from His way for me!"
She looked on the awed, adoring crowd,
In scorn a moment; then laughed aloud,
To see the horror among them spread,
At sound of the evil words she said.

Our Lord's disciples, though saints they were,
Had no good wishes that day for her!
Indeed, their patience was greatly tried
To see Him slighted and thrust aside.
One even whispered, "Hast Thou not heard?"
But He said never an angry word!
One look of pity He on her cast,
Then turned, and forth from the village passed,
Along the lane where the grass was brown,
And birds were plucking the thistle-down,
Till under the olives' silver screen
He turned aside, and no more was seen.

And now the widow of heart so proud
Would show to the grave, indignant crowd
Her greater wisdom; with this intent
She calmly in to her fireside went;
Some coals she brought in an iron pan--
"If one can do it, another can!"
She said; and then with a careless smile
She touched the coals to her golden pile.

A flash, a crackle, a blinding blaze
Of flame, that struggles, and soars, and sways,
And sinks a moment, and soars again--
That was the end of the widow's grain!
A few short moments, and nought remained
Of all that her loving toil had gained
But blackened tinder, and embers red,
And the sullen smoke-cloud overhead!

Her friends and neighbours, I fear, meanwhile
Were far less minded to weep than smile;
And hardly one was with pity moved,
For the woman was not greatly loved.
And all were angry, as well as grieved,
To think of the slight our Lord received,
After his wonderful goodness shown,
And when He had made their cares His own!

The boys were ready to dance and shout,
At seeing the red sparks blown about;
The maidens whispered and laughed aside;
Their parents talked on the sin of pride.
To help or comfort her, no one planned,
Except the poorest of all the band;
An aged woman, who near her came,
And drew her back from the scorching flame.
"Poor soul!" she said, "thou hast children five!
And I have none in the world alive.
Keep up thy heart! I am well content
To share with thee what the Lord has sent.
I just have gathered my harvest store,
And when 't is gone, He will send us more!"

In vain they spoke to her, ill or good;
She neither listened nor understood.
She minded not if they frowned or smiled;
Her face was white, and her eyes were wild,
As, lost in horror, she stood and gazed
To see the corn by her labour raised,
Their store of food for the coming year,
Consume before her and disappear!
Then came the cry of a little child,
From sleep awakened, in terror wild.
That cry brought life to her fainting heart;
She turned around with a sudden start,
And said, in a husky voice and low,
"Which way did that Blessed Stranger go?"

A storm of voices around her rose;
The woman's purpose they all oppose.
"_Which way?_" they angrily say; "but how?
Wilt thou have courage to seek him now?
And after thy shameful words to-day,
Is He to stop for thee on His way?
Is He to come when He hears thy call?
But, woman, hast thou no shame at all?"
"Nay, go not near Him!" another said:
"That man has power to strike thee dead,
And thou hast angered Him! Let Him go--
Thy pride has ruined thee; be it so!"

Though none to help her a hand would lend,
That gray-haired woman was still her friend;
She could not speak, for her voice was drowned
In such a tumult of angry sound.
She only made with her wrinkled hand
A sign the widow could understand,
And quick as thought, and before they knew,
Away on her wild pursuit she flew.

Our Blessed Lord, with His followers few,
Had journeyed on for a mile or two,
When, on the brow of a rocky hill,
The others noticed that He stood still
And looked behind Him; they did the same.
A woman running toward them came,
Running and stumbling, and falling oft,
And throwing wildly her arms aloft,
As if entreating them still to stay
Till she could finish the toilsome way!
They looked; and pity their souls possessed
At first in seeing her thus distressed;
But when they knew her, their hearts grew hard,
Nor would they longer her prayers regard.
"Good Lord, that woman it is," they say,
"Who scorned and slighted Thee so to-day.
She knows her folly, perhaps, too late;
For her, most surely, we should not wait!"
"She needs me now!" was His sole reply;
And still He waited--they wondered why!

Down in the dust at His feet she fell:
Her doleful story she could not tell,
For speech had failed, and she vainly tried:
But, stretching her helpless hands, she cried
(With lips that hardly the words could form,
They trembled so with the inward storm),
"Good Lord, have patience, and pity take
On me, for the innocent children's sake!"
And then from her eyes began to pour
A flood of tears, and she said no more.
She dropped her head on her heaving breast;
But He in His wisdom knew the rest.
And when He looked on her, bowed and crushed,
Her pride all broken, her boasting hushed,
"Take heart!" He said: "I will give thee more
And better grain than thou hadst before."

The day was drawing toward a close,
The sky was clear in its deep repose;
The sun, just sinking away from sight,
Had touched with a solemn crimson light
The smoky column that, dark and thin,
Still rose where the widow's sheaves had been.
The neighbours lingered, or came and went
To look, and talk of the day's event.
And, smiling grimly the wreck to view,
Some said: "The widow has had her due!"
But more of them shook their heads and sighed,
To think of the bitter fruits of pride.
And one old woman looked down the lane,
And wished the widow would come again!
The five poor little ones sat forlorn,
Beside the blackened and wasted corn;
And ate the bread that the neighbours brought:
For them, at least, there was pitying thought.
No sin of theirs, if the corn was burned!
And then it was that the Lord returned.

Returned, as ever, to save and bless!
And while the people around Him press,
The widow kneels and the children weep,
He lays His hand on the smouldering heap.
His touch has the evil work undone;
And in the light of the setting sun
The corn returned where the ashes lay;
But not as it was at noon that day.
To twice their size had the kernels grown,
And each with a burning lustre shone.
For, since that grain through the fire has passed,
'T will bear its colour until the last!

A few, in seeing the store increased
Of her who seemed to deserve it least,
Began to murmur; and yet, maybe,
Themselves were more in the wrong than she!
With all her folly, with all her sin--
For all her ignorant pride had been
Far more, alas, than her reason strong,--
She never did Him that grievous wrong
Of thinking He could refuse the prayer
Of one who sought Him in her despair;
Or that her sin, were it twice as great,
Could close His heart to her woful state;
Or lie so heavily on her soul
But what His love could outweigh the whole!
But most rejoiced in the happy sight
Of evil conquered and wrong made right.

And so from ruin and wreck was born
The beautiful, flame-hued Indian corn!

*The Eldest Daughter of the King*

The two stories of the Patriarch, St. John of Alexandria, which are especially interesting, as being without doubt true in all their principal facts, are taken from a short account of that wonderful man, written by St. Leontius, Bishop of Napolis, in Cyprus, who visited Alexandria after the Patriarch's death, and wrote in great part from the dictation of the Patriarch's servant, by name Zaccarias, himself a man of saintly character. The stories must have been written by St. Leontius not long after 620, when the Patriarch died.

*The Eldest Daughter of the King*

Saint John of Alexandria--blessed name,
Recalling ever holy thought and deed!
O heart forever warm with heavenly flame!
O hand forever full for others' need!

Blessed and blessing thousands! Since his day,
Twelve hundred years, and more, have come and gone,
Their beauty dead, their glory passed away:
But in our loving thought he still lives on.

Of all who ever walked on earthly sod,
(Though many loved and saintly names there be,)
I know not if another ever trod
More closely in his Master's steps than he!

To comfort all who suffer,--this alone
His soul desired; for this he prayed and strove
With heart unchanging; and for him were none
Too high for pity, nor too low for love.

And often was he rich, and often poor;
For God upon him had great wealth bestowed,
Which endless store of blessing did procure
To souls that fainted with their weary load.

Nor could he e'er from sorrow turn away,
Nor from a brother's need his hand withhold;
But when his all was spent, men used to say,
The good Lord gave him back a hundredfold.

Enough there was, and ever more to spare,
Though help abundant came at every call.
When prudent friends had prayed him to forbear,
He only said, "God has enough for all."

Till, for their souls' content, he told the truth,--
He being now a grey-haired aged man,--
The holy vision that had blessed his youth,
And changed, of all his life, the course and plan.

"A boy I was, and in my father's home
I slept; 't was night, and I was all alone,
When to my side I felt a presence come;
A hand awakened me that touched my own.

"I saw the chamber all ablaze with light,
And there, before me, stood a lady fair,
With olive crowned, and clad in raiment bright,
Such as, I think, the saints in Heaven may wear.

"Hers was no earthly beauty, but a grace
Most sweet and solemn that no words can reach;
I looked awhile in her celestial face,
And then addressed her, but with timid speech:

"'Who art thou, O my lady, that dost bring
Such glory in the night?' Then answered she:
'I am the eldest daughter of the King,
And more than all my sisters, he loves me.

"'For me He left His glory: it was I
Who led Him on along the thorny road,
To suffer, and for others' sin to die;
For me He shared thy sorrow, bore thy load.

"'Take me for thy companion: I will be
Thy friend as I was His, and by the hand
Will lead thee where at evening thou shalt see
The emperor's face, and in his presence stand.

"While yet the voice was sounding in my ear
The vision ceased; I saw the light no more:
The moon was shining through the window near,
And all the house was silent as before.

"And, waiting till I saw the dawn ascend,
I lay and mused upon this wondrous thing;
And tried, with my child's mind, to comprehend
Who was the eldest daughter of the King,

"I prayed, I pondered long in vain; until
A light from Heaven was on my spirit shed:
And not by wisdom, nor by earthly skill,
I knew the meaning of the words she said.

"When Christ our blessed Lord to earth came down,
And gave His life for lost and thankless men,
And changed His glory for a thorny crown,
'T was Mercy led and did constrain Him then.

"Ah, woe to us, if Mercy had not been
His eldest daughter, and His guide that day!
Then had we died, and perished in our sin,
Unpitied, unforgiven, cast away."

Such was the Patriarch's story, and we know
That Mercy in his heart her dwelling made,
As in no other; and his life below
Was Mercy, in a thousand forms displayed.

And when the summons came that comes to all,
As on a journey distant far he went;
While he, rejoicing, heard the heavenly call,
This token to the stricken church was sent.

A humble convent had his bounty shared,
From Alexandria some few miles away:
And there, where he for rest had oft repaired,
An aged brother sick and dying lay.

For years infirm and helpless had he lain,
But strong in faith, and happy in God's will,
Through all the weary days and nights of pain,
His only work to suffer and lie still.

They two were friends, the Patriarch and he,
For oft the busy saint had loved to turn
From care and work, that peaceful face to see,
And from those patient lips some lesson learn.

And now as he lay dying, glad to go,
Yet thinking, maybe, of his absent friend,
To him was granted in a dream to know,
Of that most holy life, the blessed end.

For, sleeping, he beheld in vision clear
That sombre palace by the poor beloved,
Where the good Patriarch, year after year,
Had all their burdens lightened or removed.

And down the stairway moved a long array
Of priests and others; slowly did they tread,
A grave procession, as on festal day,
And he, the Patriarch, was at their head.

The loved companions of his toil were there,
Who helped him long to labour and endure,
Who knelt beside him in the church at prayer,
Or bore his secret bounty to the poor.

They passed the door where none had knocked in vain,
They crossed the courtyard with its well of stone;
But at the outer gate did all remain
With saddened look, while he went forth alone.

And now the vision changed, he walked no more
The city street that knew his step so well,
But trod a pleasant path, unknown before,
Through a fair land, where peace did ever dwell.

There rose the emperor's palace on a hill,
O'erlooking all the country, where it lay
Spread out beneath it, beautiful and still,
In all the sweetness of an April day.

Grand was that mansion, stately to behold;
To tell its beauty words can ne'er begin,--
The thousand columns, and the domes of gold,
And shining all as from a light within.

He neared the palace--of their own accord
The lofty gates before him open swing,
And in the glory, as it outward poured,
Came forth the eldest daughter of the King,

Came as he saw her on that far-off night
Which star-like through his life's long journey shone,
Wearing her olive crown, her robe of light,
And came to meet him, where he walked alone,

He bowed and knelt before her, for he knew
That presence which had blessed him long before;
While from her folded mantle forth she drew
A crown of olive, like the one she wore,

And placed it on the saintly silvered head;
Then took his hand. He rose; nor did they wait:
The dreamer watched them as they onward sped,
Till, hand in hand, they entered through the gate.

And then, as light concealed them, he awoke,
And to the brethren, gathered in his cell,
In tearful silence listening while he spoke,
He did the story of his vision tell,

And bade them note what hour the dream was sent,
Which some with anxious hearts made haste to do;
Then waited, fearing what the vision meant;
Till time had shown them all they feared was true.

For when the dreaded tidings came at last,
They knew that on that very hour and day
Their much-loved father from this life had passed,
In his own isle of Cyprus, far away.

*Bishop Troilus*

*Bishop Troilus*

*THE MANSION IN HEAVEN*

In pomp and state, with following great, the Bishop Troilus came
To the town of Alexandria, which knew him long by fame,
To see the holy Patriarch, who had been his friend of old,
To hear his words of wisdom, and his saintly life behold.
In youth their paths together lay, and both with one accord
Had chosen then the better part, and thought to serve the Lord;
For half a century now and more had each one gone his way.
The Patriarch nearer was to God, far nearer than that day;
For his soul was like a garden where the flowers that then were
sown,
With care and patient tending, had to perfect beauty grown.

And Troilus? ... In the world's esteem he stood as high, or
higher;
His piety did all men praise, his eloquence admire;
He had fiery words to thrill them, he had flowery words to
please,
And when he preached on festal days, the people swarmed like
bees;
From altar steps to open door there was hardly room to stand.
And 't was not the sermon only, but his presence was so grand;
With his grave and aged beauty, with his form erect and tall,
With saintly face and silver hair, he won the hearts of all.
When through the city he returned, so lofty and serene,
A train of priests attended him, all with obsequious mien;
And children followed open-eyed, and gentle ladies bent
From balcony and window high to see him as he went.
Indeed he was a stately sight in silken raiment clad,
The ring he wore was valued more than aught the Patriarch had;
And the cross upon his bosom, that the people wondering viewed,
Gave back the sunshine, when he walked, from jewels many-hued.
And men said his life was blameless, but it still must be
confessed,
Though the saints were glad to own him, yet the sinners loved
him best.
He was rich, and he was famous, and, as all his life had shown,
He was great in worldly wisdom, and the world will love its own.

But while saints and shiners praised him, there was one who did
not praise,
But whose eyes forever watched him with a sad and anxious gaze;
For the Patriarch, simple-hearted, was not dazzled like the
rest,
And he knew the deadly passion that the Bishop's soul
possessed,--
Yes, more deadly than another, for it lay so still and cold,
Like a serpent coiled within him,--'twas the growing love of
gold.

It had choked away his pleasure, it had eaten up his peace,
As with every year that left him he had seen his wealth
increase,
Till his heart grew dry and withered in the smoke of worldly
care;
But it dulled him with its poison, and he knew not it was there.
Oh, the Patriarch longed to see him from such cruel bondage
free,
And he pleaded hard for Troilus every night on bended knee;
For there yet was time to save him, so he hoped and so believed,
But the days and weeks were passing, and no answer he received.

But with praying he grew bolder, and to combat he began,
And he left his door one morning with a wise and hopeful plan;
And he said in solemn murmur, as he walked along the way,
"I must go and fight with Satan for my brother's soul to-day;
He is cruel, he is cunning, but his arts will be in vain,
The strongest net he ever wove will never bear the strain
Of seeing and of hearing what each day I hear and see,
And the Lord has saved my brother if he will but come with me."

It was in the early morning, long before the noise and heat,
And the life was just beginning in the shady city street,
When he saw a church door open, and he turned and entered in.
"I will ask the Lord to help me in this work that I begin."

There were some who entered near him, and he saw they came in
haste,
Toiling men and burdened women, who had little time to waste;
But they stole some precious minutes in that church to kneel and
pray,
To refresh their souls and cheer them for the labours of the
day;
And they gathered close around him on the pavement, for they
felt
That their prayers would rise the higher if their father with
them knelt.
Then he said to them: "My children, you must help me now indeed,
For my heart and soul are troubled for a friend in sorest need;
He is low with mortal sickness, but no earthly skill can cure.
Pray the Lord to show His mercy to the poorest of the poor."
So they knelt and prayed together, till the morning sun was
high,
For the Patriarch's heart was kindled, and the time went quickly
by.

Troilus too had risen early, and had said his morning prayers,
But he said them somewhat coldly, being filled with other cares.
At that moment he was thinking, while he counted up his store,
Upon certain silver goblets he had seen the day before,
Which a silversmith had brought him, and had hoped that he would
buy.
They were nobly wrought and chiselled, and the price indeed was
high,
But he thought upon his table they would look exceeding fine
When his friends, the rich and noble, should come in with him to
dine;
Then how all of them would envy, and the thought his spirit
cheered,--
When a gentle knock aroused him, and the Patriarch appeared.
Very bright his eyes were shining, and his face was all aglow,
But his voice was strange and solemn, when he told him, "I must
go
To the hospital, my brother, and I came here on my way;
If we both could go together, it would be a happy day.
There I find my greatest blessing, every morning fresh and new,
But far greater, but far sweeter could I share it once with
you."
How the heart of Troilus softened, as those eyes upon him shone,
At their look of earnest pleading, at the tremor in the tone!
Strange it was that look could melt him and that voice could
change him so,
Calling back to life, a moment, what had withered long ago,--
Some old good that stirred within him, often spurned and thrust
aside.
But the flowers the Lord had planted, though they dwindled, had
not died;
He was poor in heavenly treasure, but he loved the Patriarch
still.
"I will come," he answered quickly; "you may lead me where you
will."

There were looks and tones of wonder in the hospital that day,
From the rows of low white couches where the sick and dying lay,
As, with all his train about him, in his splendour and his
pride,
On he walked, the Bishop Troilus, by the simple Patriarch's
side.
But erelong the two were parted, for as Troilus looked around,
He recoiled in shrinking horror from each doleful sight and
sound;
While the Patriarch loved to linger for a while by every bed,
With his strong arms ever ready to sustain a drooping head;
Happy in each humble service, and forgetting all his state,
While he thanked the Lord who sent him on these stricken ones to
wait.
How the pale sad faces brightened into smiles as he drew near,
And what loving words were murmured, faintly murmured in his
ear!

"Does he well," said Bishop Troilus, as he saw him turn and go
From one bedside to another, "does he well to stoop so low?"
Yet had Troilus only known it, they were not the poor alone
Whom his brother served that morning, but their Master and his
own.
There was one but just recovered, light of heart, though poor
and weak,
With a journey long before him, going forth his home to seek,
Far away among the mountains where his wife and children stayed;
But the Patriarch's love had found him ere the stranger sought
his aid,
Giving money for the journey, giving blessed words of cheer.
Then he turned, for time was pressing, and a sadder face lay
near,
Worn by months of pain and languor; he was young, had once been
strong,
He was fading now, but slowly, and perhaps would suffer long,
And the hundred wants of sickness who can know that has not
proved?
He had wearied all about him, but the Patriarch's heart was
moved;
So he heard the long complaining to which no one else gave heed,
Then he left him, soothed and peaceful, with enough for all his
need.
So with one and with another for a moment he would stay,
At each bed he left a blessing, and a blessing brought away,
Till his purse grew light and empty, as had happened oft before;
Though he turned it up and shook it, there was not one penny
more.

Then he turned and sought for Troilus, who that moment, as it
chanced,
With a look subdued and solemn, stood and gazed, like one
entranced,
On the strange, unearthly beauty, on the light of perfect peace
In a woman's face before him; she was nearing her release,
And a glory rested on her from the opening door above;
Yet one shadow marred its splendour when she looked with anxious
love
On a little maid, her daughter, with a pretty, careworn face,
Who had brought two younger children, waiting now for her
embrace,
Wondering why she did not give it, why so deadly still she lay,
For they knew not, though she knew it, she would not live out
the day.
Said the Patriarch: "Brother Troilus, have you nothing you could
give
To this woman and her children, for she has not long to live?
And I see her mind is troubled, and I think, before they part,
Had she something she could leave them, it would ease her
burdened heart;
For myself, I freely promise I will make these babes my care,
But to-day my purse is empty, so I pray you not to spare."

Oh! alas, poor Bishop Troilus! how this pleading broke the spell
That the woman's look had woven, and how low his spirit fell!
For he dearly loved his money, with a passion deep and blind,
As a scholar loves his learning, or a saint his peace of mind.
But the eyes of all were on him at that moment, and he knew
'T was in hopeful expectation of what such a saint would do;
There were many who had entered from the busy street to gaze,
He would not be shamed before them, they should still have cause
to praise;
But his purse would have to open, so he turned and waved his
hand
To the priest who always bore it, with a gesture of command.
"For this woman for her daughter and the two poor babes," said
he,
"Lay down thirty golden pieces in the Patriarch's hand for me."

There were none who had not heard him, for his voice was loud
and clear,
And a low, admiring murmur rose from all the couches near,
While the Patriarch stood rejoicing in the deed his friend had
done;
By himself he judged another, and he thought the victory won.
For one moment Bishop Troilus feels his narrow heart expand,
When the maiden thanks him weeping, and the children kiss his
hand,
And the mother, just departing, from the pillow where she lies,
Turns one happy smile upon him, with a blessing in her eyes.

But alas! on home returning, when the sacrifice was made,
When the Patriarch's holy presence was no longer there to aid,
He did much bewail his money; half in anger, half in pain,
To have parted in a moment with what took so long to gain.
And his heart was in a turmoil, and a pain was in his head,
Till the raging turned to fever, and he threw him on his bed
In a storm of angry passion that no reason could control;
For to him to part with money was like parting with his soul.
But he said no word to any of this rage and inward strife,
And the priests who waited on him were in terror for his life,
And as nothing made him better, they took counsel, and agreed
That the Patriarch, and he only, was the man to meet their need;
So they sent and humbly prayed him if to come he would be
pleased,
For his friend the Bishop Troilus was with sudden illness
seized.

In his chamber lay the Bishop, sick in body, sick in mind;
But the Patriarch, wise in spirit, had his malady divined.
So he came and sat beside him, patient still, but pale with
grief,
While he made one last endeavour for that troubled soul's
relief.
But his friend was sore and angry, and his words he would not
hear,
For the presence now disturbed him that had lately been so dear.
And he lay with face averted, till he heard the Patriarch say,
"I have brought you back the money that you gave away to-day."
Then indeed he started wildly, and his eyes he opened wide,
And he turned and faced his brother with a joy he could not
hide;
For with sudden hope he trembled, and it paled his fevered
cheek;
And the Patriarch's heart was sinking, but he still went on to
speak:
"When I asked your help this morning, I had nothing of my own,
So I left to you the blessing which had else been mine alone;
For those three dear orphan children I had gladly done the
whole,
So their mother up in heaven might be praying for my soul.
And I now have come to ask you if this grace you will resign,--
Will you take again the money, and let your good deed be mine?
Yet I pray you to consider, ere you grant it or refuse,
What a great and heavenly treasure I shall win and you will
lose;
For indeed I would not wrong you, though to me the gain be
great.
So then do not answer rashly,--there is time, we both can wait,
And 't were well to think a little on the words our Master said,
How He left the poor behind, that we might serve them in His
stead;
And whatever help we grant them, be it great or be it small,
To our blessed Lord we give it, to our Lord, who gave us all."

Then made answer Bishop Troilus, "As for what you now propose,
If it please you I am ready, and the bargain we can close.
There are many kinds of service, and each needful in its way,
And I think the Lord has set me in His church to preach and
pray,
And to save the souls that perish, and to teach men how to live,
While your own vocation, brother, is with open hand to give.
Let not one defraud the other, take your part and leave me mine,
For however we may divide it, all the service is divine.
Let us feed God's flock together, for His needy children care,
I the souls, and you the bodies, so the burden we may share."
"Then so be it," said the other, but his voice was low and
grave,
And he prayed to God in silence for the soul he could not save.
"We must write it all in order, we must sign and seal it too,
So that mine may be the blessing, while the gold remains with
you."

So they wrote a contract solemn, to which each one signed his
name,
In which he, the Bishop Troilus, did relinquish every claim
To whatever reward or merit his one pious deed had earned,
Since the thirty golden pieces to his hand had been returned.
Then the Patriarch counted slowly all the pieces, one by one,
In the open hand of Troilus, and his last attempt was done.
All had failed, and heavy-hearted from that chamber forth he
went,
While his friend lay still and smiling in the fullness of
content;
For the fever now had left him, and 't was sweet to lie and
rest,
With no more a thorn to vex him in his smooth, untroubled
breast.
With a dreamy satisfaction he was thinking all the while
How those pretty shining pieces would increase the golden pile
In that chest of hoarded treasure that already held so much;
And he laid his hand upon them with a fond caressing touch.
But his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes were closing
soon,
In the drowsy heat and stillness of the summer afternoon.

Then a dream was sent to bless him, as in quiet sleep he lay,
And it bore him in a vision to the country far away;
And he saw the holy city, where the saints and angels dwell;
Of its glory, of its beauty, mortal tongue can never tell.
There were palm-trees growing stately by the water, crystal
clear;
There was music ever swelling, sometimes far and sometimes near,
As it rose in mystic cadence from the hearts that overflowed
With the joy that reigns forever in their beautiful abode.
And the people of that city whom he met along the way
On the shining golden pavement, oh, how full of peace were they!
For he thought some heavenly vision shone forever in their
sight,
And he looked where they were gazing, but he only saw the light
As it flooded all with glory, and the air it seemed to fill;
But he saw not what they looked on, for his eyes were mortal
still.
Now among those lighted faces there were some he knew before,
Of the poor to whom so often he had closed his heart and door;
Such as in the heavenly city he had little thought to find,
For the sad and sick and needy had been never to his mind:
Of the rich were not so many, yet a few of these beside,
Who by deeds of love and mercy had their Master glorified.
And in perfect health and beauty, among all that bright array,
Was the woman he saw dying in the hospital that day.

All along the road he travelled, to the left and to the right,
Rose the palaces they dwelt in, each a mansion of delight,
But all varying in their beauty, far away as eye could reach,
With a name in golden letters, high above the door of each.
And sweet faces smiled upon him, from the windows here and
there,
Gentle faces free forever from the shade of earthly care;
And he heard the happy voices of the children as they played
In the fair and peaceful gardens, where the roses never fade;
And the things he left behind him seemed so very poor and small,
That he wondered, in that glory, why men cared for them at all.

But oh, wonder of all wonders, when he saw a name that shone
O'er a high and arching doorway, yes, a name that was his own!
Could it be his eyes deceived him? No, he read it o'er and
o'er;
"This," it said, "of Bishop Troilus is the home forevermore."
Oh the beauty of that palace, with such light and splendour
filled,
That he thought the clouds of sunset had been hewn its walls to
gild;
And the golden door stood open, he could catch a glimpse within
Of the vast illumined chambers where no foot had ever been.
He could only gaze bewildered, for the wonder was too great,
And the joy so poured upon him he could hardly bear the weight.
Then he took one step toward it, but a servant of the King
Who from far-off earth that morning had returned on busy wing,
And was bearing gifts and tokens from the scattered church
below,
Came and passed and stood before him, in the courtyard's golden
glow.