Classic Poem

All who pass the holy convent
At the darksome dead of night
Know that ghosts are up and walking,
For the windows are alight.

In a solemn, drear procession
'Tis the Ursulines who pace;
And there peeps from hood and linen
Many a young and pretty face.

In their hands they carry tapers —
Strange and red as blood they glow;
And the cloisters dim re-echo
With the murmur of their woe.

They are moving to the chapel;
In the choir, upon the chairs
Made of boxwood, they will seat them,
And begin their songs and prayers.

To such pious tunes were never
Words so wildly linked before.
They are piteous souls unpardoned,
And they knock at heaven's door.

" We were brides of Christ when living,
But through love of earth we strayed,
And we rendered unto Caesar
What to God we should have paid.

" Oh, a uniform is charming,
And moustachios smooth and bold,
And alluring, more than all else,
Caesar's epaulettes of gold.

" And alas! we gave an antler
To the brow that once was grieved
With the cruel thorns to save us:
Our Redeemer we deceived.

" Jesus, ever prone to mercy,
Weeping, turned his face away,
Weeping said, " Ye are accursid,
And your souls are doomed for aye,"

" Grave-arisen ghosts of midnight,
We do penance, weeping sore —
Miserere! miserere! —
'Mid these walls for evermore.

" In the grave there's rest and comfort,
Though 'twere better in the skies —
Miserere! miserere! —
In the warmth of Paradise.

" Gentle Jesus, Oh, forgive us
At the last our deadly sin! —
Miserere! miserere! —
Warm is Heaven; let us in. "

So they sing; and on the key-board
Of the organ overhead
Wildly storm the ghostly fingers
Of a sacristan long dead.