.

.

.
The sweet voice into silence went, A silence which was almost pain As through it rolled the long lament, The cadence of the mournful main.
Glancing his written pages o'er, The Reader tried his part once more; Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.
THE BROTHER OF MERCY.
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 naught 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.