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.To Angela,who had but ready will And tender pity,yet no special skill,Was given the charge of a young foreign knight,Whose wounds were painful,but whose danger slight.Day after day she watched beside his bed,And first in hushed repose 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 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.
