Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864 - Various - Страница 2

Piero Luca, known of all the town

As the gray porter by the Pitti wall

Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,

Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down

His last sad burden, and beside his mat

The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,

Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;

Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted

Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,

In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life:

But when at last came upward from the street

Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,

The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,

Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.

And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood

Of Mercy going on some errand good:

Their black masks by the palace-wall I see."—

Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me!

This day for the first time in forty years

In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,

Calling me with my brethren of the mask,

Beggar and prince alike, to some new task

Of love or pity,—haply from the street

To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet

Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,

To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,

Down the long twilight of the corridors,

'Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.

I loved the work: it was its own reward.

I never counted on it to offset

My sins, which are many, or make less my debt

To the free grace and mercy of our Lord;

But somehow, father, it has come to be

In these long years so much a part of me,

I should not know myself, if lacking it,

But with the work the worker too would die,

And in my place some other self would sit

Joyful or sad,—what matters, if not I?

And now all's over. Woe is me!"—"My son,"

The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done;

And no more as a servant, but the guest

Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.

No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost

Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down

Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown

Forever and forever."—Piero tossed

On his sick pillow: "Miserable me!

I am too poor for such grand company;

The crown would be too heavy for this gray

Old head; and God forgive me, if I say

It would be hard to sit there night and day,

Like an image in the Tribune, doing nought

With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,

Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.

I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,

Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,

Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.

And if one goes to heaven without a heart,

God knows he leaves behind his better part.

I love my fellow-men; the worst I know

I would do good to. Will death change me so

That I shall sit among the lazy saints,

Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints

Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet

Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset,

Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less

Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?

Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!)

The world of pain were better, if therein

One's heart might still be human, and desires

Of natural pity drop upon its fires

Some cooling tears."

                                                                            Thereat the pale monk crossed

His brow, and muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"

Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,

The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan

That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,

Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,

And of a voice like that of her who bore him,

Tender and most compassionate: "Be of cheer!

For heaven is love, as God himself is love;

Thy work below shall be thy work above."

And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place

He saw the shining of an angel's face!