# Littell's Living Age/Volume 132/Issue 1706/Morbegno

* MORBEGNO.
* There is a long straight road in Lombardy
* Bordered with stunted trees and maize and vines,
* And at its side the stealthy Adda slides,
* Spreading the poison of its humid breath;
* While dismal mists like wandering spectres steal
* From rush-grown marshes and from osier beds,
* And lay their cruel hands on human life,
* Strangling its joy with clutch of fell disease.
* We travelled on this road one summer day,
* And at Morbegno rested for an hour;
* The deadly mists hung close around the town,
* The faded town, with houses gaunt and old,
* And frescoes peeling from the mildewed walls,
* And trouble-smitten people in the streets.
* I see them still — those piteous haunting eyes
* That gaze out wistfully from lifelong woe,
* The vacant smile, the sad distorted face,
* The wrinkled skin, the aimless feeble hands.
* And through the mists there came a sound of bells,
* In chimes that still had sweetness of their own,
* But yet had lost the clue which guided them,
* And had forgotten what they used to say.
* O sweet, sad bells! O never-ended chime!
* My voice went forth to God with those wild notes —
* "Hast thou, indeed, made all men here for naught?
* Do they not cry aloud these souls of thine
* Whom thou hast formed to suffer till they die?
* What have they done, these weary stricken ones,
* That age to age should hand their misery down,
* One generation sending on thy curse
* To that which follows in its hopeless track?
* I call thee Father, and in thy great name
* Thy spirit binds to mine in bonds of love
* All human beings on this world of thine:
* Brothers and sisters thou hast made us, Lord.
* I cannot bear the woe of these I love,
* Let me but suffer for them. O my God,
* Gather thy wrath, thy vengeance in one cup,
* And pour it out on me, but give them joy.
* "Of old it 'was expedient one should die,
* And that all should not perish.' Let it be
* Thy will once more, and bid the plague be stayed.
* See, in their misery they kneel to thee,
* These men and women who must bear thy curse,
* See how they gather round the wayside shrine
* And lift their weary hands to him who hangs
* Upon the cross, and comforts human hearts
* By having known the worst of human pain.
* The 'Man of Sorrows' is their only God;
* What should they know of One who reigns alone
* Above all suffering and human want,
* In endless plenitude of joy unknown
* To them by anything which life can show?"
* Such my wild prayer, and in my soul I heard
* An answer wrought of pain and faith and hope.
* "O foolish human heart that wrongest me,
* How long shall I bear with you, yea, how long
* Suffer you still to take my name in vain?
* How can those half-blind eyes that scan the gloom
* See anything aright of all my work,
* And seeing not, why judge me in the dark?
* Perchance some day the clearer light will show
* That pain, disease, and grief are gifts as great
* As strength and health and joy, which seem so dear.
* Perchance some day in gazing back on life,
* From some high standing-place much further on,
* Your soul will give its verdict. 'Even this,
* This place of doom in all its dreariness
* Was nearer to the blessed light of God
* Than I who pitied, and who prayed for it,' —
* And you shall envy those who suffered here,
* Who worked God's will through loathsomest disease,
* And helped the world's redemption by their pain."
* I bowed my head, my heart was humbled now.
* "Father, forgive me. Like Morbegno's bells
* The ending of my cry is lost in doubt,
* Accept once more that plea made long ago
* By one who trusted thee. O, not alone
* For those he saw, Christ prayed his latest prayer,
* We know not what we do, or say, or think.
* Father, forgive us. Let thy will be done." —
* And if it be that human misery
* Is working out God's will, ye suffring ones,
* Bear on through all things, for your rich reward
* Is greater than our human hearts can grasp,
* Is deeper than our finite souls can reach.
* O weary men, your pain is dear to God;
* O women, who must bring your children forth
* Knowing them born to lives of misery,
* Take comfort, the eternal will is sweet,
* And ye are working out its large behest
* Though life is bitter. Children, with those eyes
* So full of sorrow, and of coming doom,
* Our Father loves you, and the end is great
* Though hidden far away from human sight.
* Brothers and sisters, I could almost think
* I hear the secret told which no man knows,
* When I recall those patient weary eyes,
* That gaze out wistfully on lifelong woe.
* And God stays in Morbegno till the end,
* While we pass on to Como and forget.
* Macmillan's Magazine. F. M. Owen.