Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1867-03-23


Pierre Luca, known Of al the town
As the gray porter by the Pitt wall
where the noon shadows OF the gardens IAN,
Sick and in dOlOr waited to lay down
His last cad burden, and beside his mat
The barefoot monk OF La Certosa sat,
Unseen, in square and blOssomlng garden
drifted,
Soft sunset lights through green Val d'ArnO
Unheard, below the living shuttIe-shifted
Backward and forth, and wove, in love or
strife,
But when at last came upward from the street
TInkle of bell nd tread OF measure1 feet,
The sick man started, and strOve 10 rise 10
vain,
Sinking back heavily with moan of pain.
And the monk said, '''1is but the Brotherhood
or Mercy going on some errand good; :.
Their black masks by the palace wall see,
PierO answered family. 'WOe Is me!
This day for the first time in forty years
In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,
Calling me With my brethren OF the mask,
BeCgar and prince alike, to some new task
OF love or pity,-haply from the street
10 bear wretch. plague stricken, or, with
feet
flushed to the quickened ear and feyerish
brain,
To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,
Down the long twilight of the corridors,
Mid tossing arms and faces full OF pain.
love the work: it was it's own reward.
L never counted on il TO Offset
My sins, which are many, or make less my
debt
To the free grace and mercy Of our Lord;
But somehow, father, Il hiss come to be
In these long years so much part OF me-
should not know myself, if lacking It,
But with the work, the worker, too, would
die,
And in NV place some other self would sit
joyful or sad what matters. II not II
And now alfs over, woe II mel''-'my son,
The monk said sCothingly, Thy work il
done;
OF God thou enteTest thy eternal rest.
No toils, no tears, no sOErOws for the lost
Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt Ell
down
Clad in white robes, and wear q golden crown
Forever and forever" PierO tossed
On his sick pill ": miserable me!
l am too poor for such grand company;
The crown would be too neavy tor this gray
Old head; and God forgive me If say
Il would be hard to sit there night and day
Like an image in the Tribune, doing nausht
With these hard hands, that all my life nave
Wrought.
Not for bread only, but for PHYS SAX.
Fm dull at prayers; / could not keep awake
Counting my beads. Mines but crazy head
Scarce worth the saving, If all else be dead.
God knows he leaves behind his better part
love my fellow men; the worst know
/ would do good TO. Will death change me 81
That l shall sit among the lazy saints,
Turning s deaf ear to the sore complaints
OF souls that suffer? Why, L never yet
Lett poor dog in the sirGdd hard besets
Or ass O'erladenl Must L rate man less
Than dog or ass, in holy selishness?
Methinks LOrd, pardon, if the thought b'
sinO
The world of pain were better, if therein
Ones heart might still be human, and desires
OF natural pity drop upon Its fires
Some cooling tears
Thereat the pale monk crossed
His brow, and, muttering, Madmanl thot
art lOstl"
Took mp his pyx and fed; and, left alone,
The sick man closed his eyes with great
ThaS sank into prayer. "Thy will be dOneP
Then was ne made aware by soul or ear.
OF somewhat pure and holy, bending o'ei
him,
And OF a voice like that Of her who bore him
Tender and most compassionate; . Never
fear
For heaven Is love, and God himself is love;
Thy work below shall be thy work above"
And when he looked, 10! il the stern mons'i
place
he saw the shining of an angels face