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?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;would even the tenderest heart Now 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 first its 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 quiet cloister 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.
