Part 14

VERSE: GIVE ME THY HEART

With echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there!

In the dark church she knelt alone; Her tears were falling fast; "Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death Upon my soul are cast! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chosen the better part?" What voice came through the sacred air?-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"

"Have I not laid before Thy shrine My wealth, oh Lord?" she cried; "Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride? Have I not bade youth's joys retire, And vain delights depart?"-- But sad and tender was the voice-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"

"Have I not, Lord, gone day by day Where Thy poor children dwell; And carried help, and gold, and food? Oh Lord, Thou knowest it well! From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart:"-- More sad, more tender, was the voice-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"

"Have I not worn my strength away With fast and penance sore? Have I not watched and wept?" she cried; "Did Thy dear Saints do more? Have I not gained Thy grace, oh Lord, And won in Heaven my part?"-- It echoed louder in her soul-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"

"For I have loved thee with a love No mortal heart can show; A love so deep, my Saints in heaven Its depths can never know: When pierced and wounded on the Cross, Man's sin and doom were mine, I loved thee with undying love, Immortal and divine!

"I love thee ere the skies were spread; My soul bears all thy pains; To gain thy love my sacred Heart In earthly shrines remains: Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, Without one gift divine, Give it, my child, thy Heart to me, And it shall rest in mine!"

In awe she listened, and the shade Passed from her soul away; In low and trembling voice she cried-- "Lord, help me to obey! Break Thou the chains of earth, oh Lord, That bind and hold my heart; Let it be Thine, and Thine alone, Let none with Thee have part.

"Send down, oh Lord, Thy sacred fire! Consume and cleanse the sin That lingers still within its depths: Let heavenly love begin. That sacred flame Thy Saints have known, Kindle, oh Lord, in me, Thou above all the rest for ever, And all the rest in Thee."

The blessing fell upon her soul; Her angel by her side Knew that the hour of peace was come; Her soul was purified: The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air-- But Peace went with her as she left The sacred Presence there!

VERSE: THE WAYSIDE INN

A little past the village The Inn stood, low and white; Green shady trees behind it, And an orchard on the right; Where over the green paling The red-cheeked apples hung, As if to watch how wearily The sign-board creaked and swung.

The heavy-laden branches, Over the road hung low, Reflected fruit or blossom From the wayside well below; Where children, drawing water, Looked up and paused to see, Amid the apple-branches, A purple Judas Tree.

The road stretched winding onward For many a weary mile-- So dusty foot-sore wanderers Would pause and rest awhile; And panting horses halted, And travellers loved to tell The quiet of the wayside inn, The orchard, and the well.

Here Maurice dwelt; and often The sunburnt boy would stand Gazing upon the distance, And shading with his hand His eyes, while watching vainly For travellers, who might need His aid to loose the bridle, And tend the weary steed.

And once (the boy remembered That morning, many a day-- The dew lay on the hawthorn, The bird sang on the spray) A train of horsemen, nobler Than he had seen before, Up from the distance galloped, And halted at the door.

Upon a milk-white pony, Fit for a faery queen, Was the loveliest little damsel His eyes had ever seen: A serving-man was holding The leading rein, to guide The pony and its mistress, Who cantered by his side.

Her sunny ringlets round her A golden cloud had made, While her large hat was keeping Her calm blue eyes in shade; One hand held fast the silken reins To keep her steed in check, The other pulled his tangled mane, Or stroked his glossy neck.

And as the boy brought water, And loosed the rein, he heard The sweetest voice that thanked him In one low gentle word; She turned her blue eyes from him, Looked up, and smiled to see The hanging purple blossoms Upon the Judas Tree;

And showed it with a gesture, Half pleading, half command, Till he broke the fairest blossom, And laid it in her hand; And she tied it to her saddle With a ribbon from her hair, While her happy laugh rang gaily, Like silver on the air.

But the champing steeds were rested-- The horsemen now spurred on, And down the dusty highway They vanished and were gone. Years passed, and many a traveller Paused at the old inn-door, But the little milk-white pony And the child returned no more.

Years passed, the apple-branches A deeper shadow shed; And many a time the Judas Tree, Blossom and leaf, lay dead; When on the loitering western breeze Came the bells' merry sound, And flowery arches rose, and flags And banners waved around.

Maurice stood there expectant: The bridal train would stay Some moments at the inn-door, The eager watchers say; They come--the cloud of dust draws near-- 'Mid all the state and pride, He only sees the golden hair And blue eyes of the bride.

The same, yet, ah, still fairer; He knew the face once more That bent above the pony's neck Years past at that inn-door: Her shy and smiling eyes looked round, Unconscious of the place, Unconscious of the eager gaze He fixed upon her face.

He plucked a blossom from the tree-- The Judas Tree--and cast Its purple fragrance towards the Bride, A message from the Past. The signal came, the horses plunged-- Once more she smiled around: The purple blossom in the dust Lay trampled on the ground.

Again the slow years fleeted, Their passage only known By the height the Passion-flower Around the porch had grown; And many a passing traveller Paused at the old inn-door, But the bride, so fair and blooming, The bride returned no more.

One winter morning, Maurice, Watching the branches bare, Rustling and waving dimly In the grey and misty air, Saw blazoned on a carriage Once more the well-known shield, The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Upon a silver field.