University of Virginia Library

In one of these my heroine dwelt alone
An exile and a penitent: her home,
The smallest of two villas which were call'd
By the same name, stood in the garden grounds
Of its more spacious neighbour. Those who know
The wondrous beauties of that flowr'y land
Will see in fancy such a fairy place
As was this southern garden! Tow'rds the left
(Looking to seaward) rose the boundary
Which shut this Eden from the outer world—
A sunny wall of stucco, painted pink,
Where, sporting in and out the frequent chinks
Left by the clumsy scaffolding, she watch'd
The playful pointed lizards in the sun.
She often strove to catch them, but in vain;
Like many other far more precious things
They glided thro' her fingers, or, at times
Half blinded with the glory of the sun,
She only grasp'd a shadow, scaring thus
The fleet reality, which slid away
Leaving her empty-handed.

Near this wall
Was built a shady summer-house or bow'r
In which there was a window, garlanded
With many-colour'd roses, clematis,
And tendrils of the scarlet passion-flow'r.
Oft sitting in this leafy balcony
That over-look'd the narrow stone-paved way
Which led down from the mountains to the town
She mused for hours, fann'd by delicious air,
And list'ning to the unaccustom'd sounds
Wafted around her. Tinkling southern chimes,
The ratt'ling hoofs of heavy-laden mules,
The cracking whips of sun-burnt muleteers
Who goaded on with curses or with songs
The patient creatures, smother'd with their bells
And scarlet tassels. Seated carelessly
Amongst their panniers, knitting as they rode,
The black-eyed peasant-women laugh'd and joked
And shouted to the men. Or, sadder sounds
Would reach her, when the brown Franciscan friars
Pass'd, bearing to their convent in the hills
The silent dead. The painted effigies
Upon the waving banners which they bore
Reach'd almost to the window where she sat,—
The twinkling candles, and the crucifix
Uplifted high in air, to which there hung
The ghastly figure of a naked Christ
Surrounded by the horrid instruments
Of human torture, sponge, and murd'rous spear
And wreath of biting thorns—all these recall'd
With painful vividness the agony
Of God on earth; anon, from time to time
Long after the procession pass'd her by,
Borne back upon the gentle southern breeze
She heard again that dismal monotone.
The convent had been hidden in the shade
Of sombre olive-trees, but that aloft
Its pointed belfry, roof'd with colour'd tiles
Betray'd the refuge of those holy men
Who here had fled the turmoil of the world
Vowing to bear perpetual poverty
And live according to the godly rules
Dictated by St. Francis. Or, again,
When western breezes, with their balmy breath,
Changed the dim branches to a shining sea
Of glist'ning brightness, turning heavenwards
The silver under lining of their leaves,
Then Constance could behold betwixt the boughs
The high enclosing walls, and thro' the gates
Could catch a glimpse of tombstones gay with flow'rs
And color'd crosses, many deck'd like shrines
With off'rings of affection; for 'twas there
Towards the convent gates that Constance oft
Would take her morning stroll, or, with her book
'Twas there she sat beneath the olive-trees
And watch'd the monks, clad in their russet gowns,
Go forth in twos and threes, some bearing sacks
And empty baskets, making for the town
To beg or market. She would try to guess
What cause induced each individual
To live this life, and wove strange histories
Of blighted hopes, or unrequited love,
Or sad bereavement, making of the world
A place so desolate, that it were best
To shut its mem'ries out with iron gates
And massive walls; but these were only dreams
Of one who thought that all the world, like her,
Had lov'd and suffer'd;—this religious sect,
Mostly recruited from a peasantry
Sunk in the lowest depths of ignorance
And superstition, scarcely boasted one
Whose life would be more worthy to record
Than that of a dumb animal which toils
And helps to till the fertile earth, whose flow'rs
It is too dull and weary to admire—
For them no sentimental griefs of heart
Or morbid longings for a solitude
Remote from haunts of men! those iron ills
Of human life, disease and poverty,
Had driven fishermen too old to fish,
Or muleteers too lame to drive their mules,
Into this forced seclusion, nothing loth
They changed their well-worn homespun coats of blue
For the brown, heavy-looking, holy cloth
Of the Franciscan order;—ill they learnt
And even worse pronounced their Latin pray'rs,
These poor Italian peasants, but their dress,
Their shaven tonsures, and their sandal'd feet
Fill'd Constance with a sense of mystic awe—
To her they seem'd the pious chosen few
Who, for the love of Christ, had put away
Those evil lusts and longings of the flesh
So dear to man, and here in solitude
And constant pray'r had buried evermore
The recollections of their stormy lives.