first the old chivalric lays were sung; Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France, Angel and Knight and Fairy, called Romance, I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread Upon the earth; blue summer overhead, Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare, Without a breath to stir its sultry air.
All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush Upon the beach; where, glittering towards the strand, The purple Mediterranean kissed the land.
All still, all peaceful; when a convent chime Broke on the midday silence for a time, Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, In deeper silence and more utter peace.
So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white, Half hid by shadowy trees from passers’ sight, The convent lay, one who had dwelt for long In that fair home of ancient tale and song, Who knew the story of each cave and hill, And every haunting fancy lingering still Within the land, spake thus to me, and told The convent’s treasured legend, quaint and old:
Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, Still more concealed where the white convent stood, Borne on its perfumed wings the title came: “Our Lady of the Hawthorns” is its name.
Then did that bell, which still rings out today Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray.
Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight; For humbler cottage strife, or village brawl, The abbess listened, prayed, and settled all.
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 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 the new-born queen, And the pure virgin lily rose serene.
Though Angela always thought the Mother blest, Must love the time of her own hawthorns 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, And thus to Angela, whose ready will And pity could not cover lack of skill, The charge of a young wounded knight must fall, A case which seemed least dangerous of them all.
Day after day she watched beside his bed, And first in utter quiet 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 plaint, She told him legends of the martyr’d 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.
And so she told the pomp and grand array In which the chapel shone on Easter Day, Described the 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 white, And a large star of jewels gleaming bright.
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 that 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 That every day drew 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.
