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| THIS is the convent where they tend the sick, | |
| Comfort the dying, make the ailing strong; | |
| Covered, you see, with ivy, very thick; | |
| Haunt of the birds, alive with bloom and song. | |
| |
| The happy sick are smiling in their beds, | 5 |
| The happy sisters flitting to and fro; | |
| Ah, blessings on the wise and gentle heads | |
| That planned this place a hundred years ago! | |
| |
| To build the walls a woman crossed the sea, | |
| Travelled with tender feet a weary road. | 10 |
| I ’ll tell you now the little history | |
| Of Sister Mary of the Love of God. | |
| |
| A lovely maiden of a high estate, | |
| She danced away her days in careless glee; | |
| A bird beside her window came and sate, | 15 |
| And piped and sang, “The Lord has need of thee!” | |
| |
| Deep in the night, when everything was still, | |
| The restless dance, the music’s merry clang, | |
| That bird would perch upon the window sill: | |
| “The Lord hath need of thee,” it piped and sang. | 20 |
| |
| She rose and fled her chamber in affright, | |
| And roused with eager call the minstrel gray: | |
| “The birds are singing strange things in the night; | |
| Tune me, O minstrel, something blythe and gay!” | |
| |
| The minstrel struck his harp with ready power; | 25 |
| The laughing echoes wakened merrily; | |
| The lady turned as white as lily-flower,— | |
| The music trilled, “The Lord has need of thee!” | |
| |
| Her guests came round her and her ballroom blazed, | |
| While lively footsteps on the floor did beat; | 30 |
| The lady led the dance with looks amazed,— | |
| “The Lord doth need thee!” said the dancer’s feet. | |
| |
| The feast was spread, and flowed the rarest wine | |
| In golden goblets clinking round the board; | |
| The flashing cups from hand to hand did shine, | 35 |
| And rang and chaimed “Go, give thee to the Lord!” | |
| |
| Within her chamber long the lady sate, | |
| Then raised her downcast face, all pale and sweet: | |
| “There is a beggar lying at the gate— | |
| Go, bring him in, that I may wash his feet.” | 40 |
| |
| They looked upon her robes of satin sheen, | |
| They looked upon her eyes so strange and glad; | |
| They whispered, “She is not as she hath been;” | |
| Her damsels wept, “Our lady hath gone mad!” | |
| |
| But in the night she stole away alone. | 45 |
| Then sang the minstrels many a mournful rhyme, | |
| Till some forgot her as one never known, | |
| And others said, “She hath some heavy crime.” | |
| |
| Ah me, it is a hundred years ago!— | |
| This ivy on the walls is thick, you see; | 50 |
| The world would laugh if I should tell it so | |
| Of Sister Mary’s little history. | |
| |
| Another dances in her shoes to-day; | |
| One wears that gem of hers, another this; | |
| But she is happy and the poor are gay, | 55 |
| The sick are smiling and the dead in bliss! | |
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