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LEGENDS AND LYRICS … SECOND SERIES
LEGENDS AND
LYRICS … SECOND
SERIES
by Adelaide Ann Proctor
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LEGENDS AND LYRICS … SECOND SERIES
VERSE： A LEGEND OF
PROVENCE
The lights extinguished； by the hearth I leant； Half weary with a
listless discontent。 The flickering giant…shadows； gathering near； Closed
round me with a dim and silent fear。 All dull； all dark； save when the
leaping flame； Glancing； lit up a Picture's ancient frame。 Above the hearth
it hung。 Perhaps the night； My foolish tremors； or the gleaming light；
Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint … A Portrait such as Rembrandt
loved to paint … The likeness of a Nun。 I seemed to trace A world of
sorrow in the patient face； In the thin hands folded across her breast … Its
own and the room's shadow hid the rest。 I gazed and dreamed； and the dull
embers stirred； Till an old legend that I once had heard Came back to me；
linked to the mystic gloom Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room。 In the
far south； where clustering vines are hung； Where first the old chivalric
lays were sung； Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France； Angel
and knight and fairy； called Romance； I stood one day。 The warm blue
June was spread Upon the earth； blue summer overhead； Without a cloud
to fleck its radiant glare； Without a breath to stir its sultry air。 All still； all
silent； save the sobbing rush Of rippling waves； that lapsed in silver hush
Upon the beach； where； glittering towards the strand； The purple
Mediterranean kissed the land。
All still； all peaceful； when a convent chime Broke on the mid…day
silence for a time； Then trembling into quiet； seemed to cease； In deeper
silence and more utter peace。 So as I turned to gaze； where gleaming white；
Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight； The Convent lay； one who
had dwelt for long In that fair home of ancient tale and song； Who knew
the story of each cave and hill； And every haunting fancy lingering still
Within the land； spake thus to me； and told The Convent's treasured
Legend； quaint and old：
Long years ago； a dense and flowering wood； Still more concealed
where the white convent stood； Borne on its perfumed wings the title came：
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LEGENDS AND LYRICS … SECOND SERIES
〃Our Lady of the Hawthorns〃 is its name。 Then did that bell； which still
rings out to…day； Bid all the country rise； or eat； or pray。 Before that
convent shrine； the haughty knight Passed the lone vigil of his perilous
fight； For humbler cottage strife or village brawl； The Abbess listened；
prayed； and settled all。 Young hearts that came； weighed down by love or
wrong； Left her kind presence comforted and strong。 Each passing pilgrim；
and each beggar's right Was food； and rest； and shelter for the night。 But；
more than this； the Nuns could well impart The deepest mysteries of the
healing art； Their store of herbs and simples was renowned； And held in
wondering faith for miles around。 Thus strife； love； sorrow； good and evil
fate； Found help and blessing at the convent gate。
Of all the nuns； no heart was half so light； No eyelids veiling glances
half as bright； No step that glided with such noiseless feet； No face that
looked so tender or so sweet； No voice that rose in choir so pure； so clear；
No heart to all the others half so dear； So surely touched by others' pain or
woe； （Guessing the grief her young life could not know；） No soul in
childlike faith so undefiled； As Sister Angela's； the 〃Convent Child。〃 For
thus they loved to call her。 She had known No home； no love； no kindred；
save their own。 An orphan； to their tender nursing given； Child； plaything；
pupil； now the Bride of Heaven。 And she it was who trimmed the lamp's
red light That swung before the altar； day and night； Her hands it was
whose patient skill could trace The finest broidery； weave the costliest lace；
But most of all； her first and dearest care； The office she would never miss
or share； Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet； To place before the
shrine at Mary's feet。 Nature is bounteous in that region fair； For even
winter has her blossoms there。 Thus Angela loved to count each feast the
best； By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed。 In pomp
supreme the countless Roses passed； Battalion on battalion thronging fast；
Each with a different banner； flaming bright； Damask； or striped； or
crimson； pink； or white； Until they bowed before a newborn queen； And
the pure virgin Lily rose serene。 Though Angela always thought the
Mother blest Must love the time of her own hawthorn best； Each evening
through the year； with equal； care； She placed her flowers； then kneeling
down in prayer； As their faint perfume rose before the shrine； So rose her
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LEGENDS AND LYRICS … SECOND SERIES
thoughts； as pure and as divine。 She knelt until the shades grew dim
without； Till one by one the altar lights shone out； Till one by one the
Nuns； like shadows dim； Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn； Her
voice then led the music's winged flight； And 〃Ave； Maris Stella〃 filled the
night。 But wherefore linger on those days of peace？ When storms draw
near； then quiet hours must cease。 War； cruel war； defaced the land； and
came So near the convent with its breath of flame； That； seeking shelter；
frightened peasants fled； Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread； Till
after a fierce skirmish； down the road； One night came straggling soldiers；
with their load Of wounded； dying comrades； and the band； Half pleading
yet as if they could command； Summoned the trembling Sisters； craved
their care； Then rode away； and left the wounded there。 But soon
compassion bade all fear depart。 And bidding every Sister do her part；
Some prepare simples； healing salves； or bands； The Abbess chose the
more experienced hands； To dress the wounds needing most skilful care；
Yet even the