Part 5

There were none who had not heard him, for his voice was loud and clear, And a low, admiring murmur rose from all the couches near, While the Patriarch stood rejoicing in the deed his friend had done; By himself he judged another, and he thought the victory won. For one moment Bishop Troilus feels his narrow heart expand, When the maiden thanks him weeping, and the children kiss his hand, And the mother, just departing, from the pillow where she lies, Turns one happy smile upon him, with a blessing in her eyes.

But alas! on home returning, when the sacrifice was made, When the Patriarch's holy presence was no longer there to aid, He did much bewail his money; half in anger, half in pain, To have parted in a moment with what took so long to gain. And his heart was in a turmoil, and a pain was in his head, Till the raging turned to fever, and he threw him on his bed In a storm of angry passion that no reason could control; For to him to part with money was like parting with his soul. But he said no word to any of this rage and inward strife, And the priests who waited on him were in terror for his life, And as nothing made him better, they took counsel, and agreed That the Patriarch, and he only, was the man to meet their need; So they sent and humbly prayed him if to come he would be pleased, For his friend the Bishop Troilus was with sudden illness seized.

In his chamber lay the Bishop, sick in body, sick in mind; But the Patriarch, wise in spirit, had his malady divined. So he came and sat beside him, patient still, but pale with grief, While he made one last endeavour for that troubled soul's relief. But his friend was sore and angry, and his words he would not hear, For the presence now disturbed him that had lately been so dear. And he lay with face averted, till he heard the Patriarch say, "I have brought you back the money that you gave away to-day." Then indeed he started wildly, and his eyes he opened wide, And he turned and faced his brother with a joy he could not hide; For with sudden hope he trembled, and it paled his fevered cheek; And the Patriarch's heart was sinking, but he still went on to speak: "When I asked your help this morning, I had nothing of my own, So I left to you the blessing which had else been mine alone; For those three dear orphan children I had gladly done the whole, So their mother up in heaven might be praying for my soul. And I now have come to ask you if this grace you will resign,-- Will you take again the money, and let your good deed be mine? Yet I pray you to consider, ere you grant it or refuse, What a great and heavenly treasure I shall win and you will lose; For indeed I would not wrong you, though to me the gain be great. So then do not answer rashly,--there is time, we both can wait, And 't were well to think a little on the words our Master said, How He left the poor behind, that we might serve them in His stead; And whatever help we grant them, be it great or be it small, To our blessed Lord we give it, to our Lord, who gave us all."

Then made answer Bishop Troilus, "As for what you now propose, If it please you I am ready, and the bargain we can close. There are many kinds of service, and each needful in its way, And I think the Lord has set me in His church to preach and pray, And to save the souls that perish, and to teach men how to live, While your own vocation, brother, is with open hand to give. Let not one defraud the other, take your part and leave me mine, For however we may divide it, all the service is divine. Let us feed God's flock together, for His needy children care, I the souls, and you the bodies, so the burden we may share." "Then so be it," said the other, but his voice was low and grave, And he prayed to God in silence for the soul he could not save. "We must write it all in order, we must sign and seal it too, So that mine may be the blessing, while the gold remains with you."

So they wrote a contract solemn, to which each one signed his name, In which he, the Bishop Troilus, did relinquish every claim To whatever reward or merit his one pious deed had earned, Since the thirty golden pieces to his hand had been returned. Then the Patriarch counted slowly all the pieces, one by one, In the open hand of Troilus, and his last attempt was done. All had failed, and heavy-hearted from that chamber forth he went, While his friend lay still and smiling in the fullness of content; For the fever now had left him, and 't was sweet to lie and rest, With no more a thorn to vex him in his smooth, untroubled breast. With a dreamy satisfaction he was thinking all the while How those pretty shining pieces would increase the golden pile In that chest of hoarded treasure that already held so much; And he laid his hand upon them with a fond caressing touch. But his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes were closing soon, In the drowsy heat and stillness of the summer afternoon.

Then a dream was sent to bless him, as in quiet sleep he lay, And it bore him in a vision to the country far away; And he saw the holy city, where the saints and angels dwell; Of its glory, of its beauty, mortal tongue can never tell. There were palm-trees growing stately by the water, crystal clear; There was music ever swelling, sometimes far and sometimes near, As it rose in mystic cadence from the hearts that overflowed With the joy that reigns forever in their beautiful abode. And the people of that city whom he met along the way On the shining golden pavement, oh, how full of peace were they! For he thought some heavenly vision shone forever in their sight, And he looked where they were gazing, but he only saw the light As it flooded all with glory, and the air it seemed to fill; But he saw not what they looked on, for his eyes were mortal still. Now among those lighted faces there were some he knew before, Of the poor to whom so often he had closed his heart and door; Such as in the heavenly city he had little thought to find, For the sad and sick and needy had been never to his mind: Of the rich were not so many, yet a few of these beside, Who by deeds of love and mercy had their Master glorified. And in perfect health and beauty, among all that bright array, Was the woman he saw dying in the hospital that day.

All along the road he travelled, to the left and to the right, Rose the palaces they dwelt in, each a mansion of delight, But all varying in their beauty, far away as eye could reach, With a name in golden letters, high above the door of each. And sweet faces smiled upon him, from the windows here and there, Gentle faces free forever from the shade of earthly care; And he heard the happy voices of the children as they played In the fair and peaceful gardens, where the roses never fade; And the things he left behind him seemed so very poor and small, That he wondered, in that glory, why men cared for them at all.

But oh, wonder of all wonders, when he saw a name that shone O'er a high and arching doorway, yes, a name that was his own! Could it be his eyes deceived him? No, he read it o'er and o'er; "This," it said, "of Bishop Troilus is the home forevermore." Oh the beauty of that palace, with such light and splendour filled, That he thought the clouds of sunset had been hewn its walls to gild; And the golden door stood open, he could catch a glimpse within Of the vast illumined chambers where no foot had ever been. He could only gaze bewildered, for the wonder was too great, And the joy so poured upon him he could hardly bear the weight. Then he took one step toward it, but a servant of the King Who from far-off earth that morning had returned on busy wing, And was bearing gifts and tokens from the scattered church below, Came and passed and stood before him, in the courtyard's golden glow.

Then he turned to his companions, for a few had gathered near, And his words fell hard and heavy on the Bishop's listening ear,-- "We must cancel that inscription from the stone, and write thereon That Troilus hath this palace sold unto the Patriarch John, And that thirty golden pieces were the price that he received." Up then started Bishop Troilus, for his soul was sorely grieved, And he tried to speak, but could not, and awoke in his dismay, With his hand upon the money close beside him where he lay.

Now the long bright day was over; as he saw the sun descend,-- "Weary day," the Patriarch thought it; he was glad to see it end. He was walking in his garden where the freshening shadows lay, And the flowers that drooped at noontime stood erect in beauty gay; But their brightness could not cheer him, and he bent his head and sighed, For he thought, with wondering sadness, that the Lord his prayer denied,

Then he heard a step behind him, and he looked; but who was there, Wild of look, like one who struggled with a pain he could not bear? Could it be the stately Bishop? Yes, but oh, how changed to see! And he said with tears and trembling, "O my brother, pray for me!" How the Patriarch's heart rebounded from the weight that on it pressed, At the change so deep and sudden, in those broken words expressed! How his cheek grew red with gladness, how it smoothed his troubled brow! "God forgive me if I doubted, all my prayers are answered now."

"Come," he said, "my brother Troilus, sit beside me, tell me all;" And he led him, pale and helpless, to a seat beside the wall. And there Troilus, clinging closely to that strong and helpful hand, Trusting in the heart that loved him and his thoughts could understand, Told the story of his vision to his awed and listening friend,-- All that dream of light and glory, with its sad, unlooked-for end: But his voice, which trembled ever, wellnigh failed him when he told Of the horror of that waking, with his hand upon the gold; When his eyes, long blind, were opened, and he saw the wreck within, And one fearful moment, showed him what his wasted life had been. "Now," he said, "my courage fails me when I think to mend my ways. I have wasted all God gave me,--mind, and strength, and length of days,-- And the gold I gave my soul for pulls me downward with its weight; Help me if you can, oh, help me! Say it is not yet too late." And he looked with eyes beseeching at the Patriarch, who replied With a smile that fell like sunshine on the faint heart by his side,--

"What! too late for God's forgiveness, when He calls you to repent? 'T was to save you, not to lose you, that the blessed dream was sent; 'T is His help, not mine, my brother, you are needing, and you know, If we ask it, He will give it, for Himself has told us so. And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed all the more If the years were long and many since he left his Father's door." "But," said Troilus, "I am aged, and my manhood's strength is past; After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at last?" "Never fear," the Patriarch answered, "there is joy in heaven to-day, And they ask not in their gladness if your hair be black or gray."

So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, by deed and word, Gave himself and all his substance to the service of the Lord; Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored his friend anew With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised so to do. And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him again, Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change was not in vain,

Then he left the past behind him, and a better life began; From that evening in the garden he became another man. There was no more train about him when he walked the city through, For the priests who once attended now had better work to do; And the ladies cared no longer from their balconies to lean, When of worldly pomp and splendour there was nothing to be seen. For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone no more, Having gone on works of mercy to increase his heavenly store. But the poor and needy sought him; he was now their faithful friend, And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love they might depend.

So his closing days were happy, after years of sordid care, For no gain can bring contentment till the poor have had their share; And he lightened many a burden, and he righted many a wrong, And the wealth became a blessing that had been a curse so long; And his secret hoard was scattered, and men said that he died poor, But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, we may be sure.

*The Crosses on the Wall*

This beautiful legend has for me a most peculiar interest, owing to the circumstances under which I first heard it. It was taught to me by a very dear young friend whom I had known and loved from his infancy,--Piero, the only surviving child of Count Giuseppe Pasolini Zanelli of Faenza. It was only last October--eight months ago--and we were all staying together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto. It was the last evening that we expected to pass together, and Pierino (we had never been able to give up calling him by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him, a collection of popular legends compiled by De Gubernatis, and said that he had a story to read us. It was "The Crosses on the Wall," and it has always seemed to me as though he read it on that particular evening to prepare us for what was to come. For some months he had been not quite so strong as usual, yet no one felt any particular apprehension, until on the twenty-eighth of November he died, almost without warning. He was twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful character,--so good that we ought to have known he was not for us.

With him two great and ancient families come to an end,--the Pasolini-Zanelli of Faenza, and the Baroni-Semitecolo of Bassano: these last are the only descendants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at Torcello.

*The Crosses on the Wall*

*A Legend of Primiero*

Come, children, listen to what I tell, For my words are wise to-day: From Primiero among the hills Was the legend brought away.

And Primiero among the hills Is a little world apart, Where is much to love and much to learn, If you have a willing heart.

It lies on high, like a stranded ship, From the parted wave of time; Not far from the troubled world we know, But the way is hard to climb.

For the mountains rise and close it in, With their walls of green and gray; With crag and forest and smooth-worn cliff, Where the clouds alone can stray.

And when a house they have builded there, If a blessing they would win, Above the door do they write a prayer, That Christ may dwell therein.

And I think, throughout the ancient town, On its steep ascending road, In many a heart, in many a home, Has He taken His abode.

And when a burden is hard to bear-- And such burdens come to all-- They tell the story I 'm telling now, Of the crosses on the wall.

'T is a pearl of wisdom, gathered far In the dim and distant past; But ever needed, but ever new, As long as the world shall last.

For never has been since earth was made, And surely shall never be, A man so happy or wise or great, He might from the cross be free.

The tale it is of a widow poor, And by trouble sorely pressed; Of how, through sorrow and many tears, At the end her soul was blest.

She had not been always poor and sad, For her early years were bright, With a happy home, and with parents kind, And herself their hearts' delight!

A mother's darling, a father's pride, She was fair in form and face; A sunny creature, a joy to all, For her sweet and winning grace.

Then, early married to one she loved, She had still been shielded well; For her he laboured, for her he thought, And on her no burden fell.

She worked, indeed; but what work was hers Through the short and happy hours? To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees, Or to tend the garden flowers;

To sit and spin, and to sing the while In her porch with roses gay; To spread the table with plenty piled, And to watch the children play.

Their home was a little nest of peace; 'T was a mile beyond the town, In that sheltered valley, green with woods, Where the river murmurs down.

And she never dreamed of change to come, (Though a change must all expect,) Till the blow, like lightning, on her fell, And her happy life was wrecked.

But who could have thought the man would die? There were few so strong as he! From his forest work they bore him home, Struck dead by a falling tree.

A petted child, and a wife beloved, She had hardly sorrow known, Till the strong, brave man was borne away, And she faced the world alone.

Alone, with a babe too young to speak, And with other children five: "Oh, why," she asked, "are the strong removed And the feeble left alive?"

But where is the good of asking When our helpers disappear? That question never was answered yet, And it never will be, here.

There was little time to sit and weep; She must rise, and bear the strain; Alone she stood, with the home to keep, And the children's bread to gain.

The best of herself had gone with him; She had no more faith nor trust: She could not bow to the Lord's decree, For she felt it all unjust.

The good Lord cares for a widow's need, But on Him she did not call. She laboured hard, and she fought with fate, And they lived--but that was all.

She fought her battle with fate, and failed, As many have failed before; If against the thorns we push and press, They will only prick the more.

She could not bear with the children now, And she called them rude and wild; Forgetting quite, in her sullen grief, That she had been once a child.

Yes, wild they were; and like all wild things They were light and swift and strong; And her poor, sick spirit turned away From the gay, unruly throng.

They swam the river, they climbed the trees, They were full of life and play; But oft, when their mother's voice they heard, They hid from her sight away.

They did not love her, and that she knew, And of that she oft complained; But not by threats nor by angry words Could the children's love be gained.

Respect and honour we may command; They will come at duty's call: But love, the beautiful thornless rose, Grows wild, when it grows at all.

And she grew bitter, as time went on, Grew bitter and hard and sore. Till one day she cried in her despair, "I can bear my life no more!

"Look down from Heaven, good Lord, and see And pity my cruel fate! Oh, come, and in mercy take away My burden, for 't is too great!

"My heart is breaking with all its load, And I feel my life decline; Never I think did the woman live Who has borne a cross like mine!"

To her cry for help an answer came, And solemn it was, and strange! For a silence deep around her fell, And the place seemed all to change.

She stood in a sad and sombre room, Where from ceiling down to floor, Along the wall and on every side, There were crosses--nothing more.

There were crosses old, and crosses new, There were crosses large and small; And in their midst there was One who stood As the Master of them all.

Before His presence her eyes dropped low, And her wild complaining died; For she knew the cross that He had borne Was greater than all beside.

And He bade her choose, and take away, From among the many there, Another cross, in exchange for hers, That she found too great to bear.

She looked for those that were least in size, And she quickly lifted one; But oh, 't was heavy, and pained her more Than her own had ever done!

She laid it back with a trembling hand-- "And whose cross is that?" she cried; "For heavier 't is than even mine!" And a solemn voice replied:

"That cross belongs to a maiden young, But of youth she little knows; For the days to her are days of pain, And the night brings scant repose.

"A helpless, suffering, useless thing! And her pain will never cease, Till death in pity will come one day, And her troubles end in peace.

"She never has walked the pleasant fields, Nor has sat beneath the trees; The hospital wall that shuts her in Is the only world she sees.

"She has no mother, she has no home, And in strangers' hands she lies; With none to care for her while she lives, Nor weep for her when she dies."

"But why is the cross so small, my Lord, And why does her heart not break?" "She counts it little," the answer came, "For she bears it for my sake."

The widow blushed with a sudden shame; To her eyes the tears arose: She dried them soon, and again she turned, And another cross she chose.

It fell from her hand against the wall, And she let it there remain: "That cross shall never be mine," she said, "Though I take my own again!

"And whose is this that I cannot hold? For it seems to burn my hand! And never, I think, was heart so strong That could such a weight withstand."

"The cross it is of a gentle wife, And she wears it all unseen; With early sorrow her hair is white, But she keeps a smile serene.

"She gave her heart to an evil man, And she thought him good and true; And long she trusted and long believed, But at last the truth she knew.

"She knows that his soul is stained with crime, But the worst she still conceals; Abuse and terror her sole reward, And the Lord knows what she feels!

"She cannot leave him, for love dies hard, And her children bear his name; But she prays for grace, to keep and guard Their innocent lives from shame.

"She trembles oft when his step she hears On a lonely winter night; And she hides her frightened babes afar From their cruel father's sight.

"And she dares not even hope for death, Though his hand might set her free: 'T were well for her in the grave to rest; But where would the children be?"

The widow shuddered, her face grew pale, And she no more turned to look: She reached her hand to the wall near by, And a cross by chance she took.