Classic Poem

BENEDETTA MINELI., II. The Sister of Mercy.
Is it then so?
-Good friends, who sit and sigh
While I lie smiling, are my life's sands run?
Will my next matins, hymn'd beyond the surn.
Mingle with those of saints and martyrs high?
Shall I with these my grey hairs turn'd to gold.
My aged limbs new clad in garments white.
Stand all transfigured in the angels' sight,
Singing triumphantly that moan of old,
Thy will be done. It was done. O my God.
Thou know'st, when over grief's tempestuous sea
My broken-winged soul fled home to
Thee, I writhed, but never murmur'd at Thy rod.
It fell upon me, stern at first, then soft
As parent's kisses, till the wound was heal'd;
And I went forth a labourer in Thy field:
They best can bind who have been bruised oft.
And Thou wert pitiful. I came heart-sore,
And drank Thy cup because earth's cups ran dry:
Thou slew'st me not for that impiety,
But madest the draught so sweet, I thirst no more. I came for silence, heavy rest, or death:
Thou gavest instead life, peace, and holy toil:
My sighing lips from sorrow didst assoil,
And fill with righteous thankfulness each breath.
Therefore I praise Thee that Thou shuttest Thine ears
Unto my misery: didst Thy will, not mine:
That to this length of days
Thy hand divine, My feet from falling kept, mine eyes from tears.
Sisters, draw near.
Hear my last words serene. When I was young I walk'd in mine own ways,
Worshipp'd—not God: sought not alone
His praise; So He cut down my gourd while it was green.
And then He o'er me threw His holy shade,
That though no other mortal plants might grow,
Mocking the beauty that was long laid low,
I dwelt in peace, and His commands obey'd.
I thank Him for all joy and for all pain:
For healed pangs, for years of calm content:
For blessedness of spending and being spent In
His high service where all loss is gain.
I bless Him for my life and for my death;
But most, that in my death my life is crown'd,
Since I see there, with angels gathering round,
My angel. Ay, love, thou hast kept thy faith, I mine.
The golden portals will not close
Like those of earth, between us.
Reach thy hand! No miserere, sisters.
Chant out grand Deum laudamuts.
Now-'t is all repose.