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.
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 unchequered 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 clamour 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 learnt, 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; what chance remained? what heart Would 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 its first rays flooded the world with light, Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright, And where, amid the leafy hawthorn wood, Just as of old the low white convent stood.
Would any know her? Nay, no fear. Her face 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