Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
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 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
WRITTEN AFTER MEETING A YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL MEMBER OF THE ORDER IN THE HOTEL DIEU OF PARIS.
This Poem was reprinted in the Prospectus of an Institution for Sisters of Charity, which it was attempted to establish, some years ago, in the neighbourhood of Hastings; and has since been included in the abridged Biographies of Vincent St. Paul, in use among the Sisters of Charity and Sisters of Mercy, in this country and in France. The benevolent gentleman with whom the idea of establishing a Convent for English Sisters of Charity originated, expended a large sum of money in purchasing and walling in its intended site and gardens; but has not yet succeeded in obtaining the funds requisite for the completion of the edifice. An institution on this plan, which would include Christian ladies of all religious denominations, could hardly fail to prove a blessing to the poor of this country. I have made myself acquainted with the pious labours of the Sisters of Charity in Paris, and can affirm with confidence that the sketch I have drawn (from real life) of a distinguished member of the order is by no means an exaggerated one.
Where fever never burns nor hearts are riven?
That soothing smile, those accents ever bland,
Say, were they born of earth, or caught from heaven?
Whose glorious mission in the skies had birth?
An angel sure in bearing, form, and face,
All but thy tears—and they belong to earth!
A splendour boast that may compare with thine;
Thus bending low yon sufferer's bed beside,
Thy graces mortal, but thy cares divine.
Yet strong to wrestle with earth's wildest woe;
A thing of softest smiles, and tenderest tears,
That once would tremble did a breeze but blow:
Music's rich tones, the rose's odorous breath,
Throughout the crowded lazar-house to roam,
And pierce the haunts of Pestilence and Death.
As loth to break the pain-worn slumberer's rest;
To smooth the pillow, raise the drooping head,
And pour thy balsam on the bleeding breast.
The Christian's hope and promised boon to shew;
And, when all human anodynes are vain,
To nerve the bosom for its final throe.
To that blessed shore where sin and sorrow cease;
To imp the flagging soul for realms of bliss,
And bid the world-worn wanderer part in peace.
No narrow aims thy cherished cares control;
Thou dost all faith, love, pity, watching can,
To heal the body, and to save the soul.
No matter what the suppliant's claim may be;
Thou dost not ask his country or his creed;
To know he suffers is enough for thee.
Whose Master bled a sinful world to save;
Fearless in faith, in conscious virtue bold,
'Tis thine the sick blasphemer's couch to brave;
Lash the wild scorpions of the soul within;
Those writhings fierce, those agonies sublime,
That seem from conscience half their force to win:
The cup of healing in thy gentle hand;—
A woman, strengthened with an angel's might,
The storm of pain and passion to command.
Cool his parched lips, his bleeding wounds to bind;
And, with deep faith, before the Cross to bow
For power to still the tumult of his mind.
There falls like oil on a tempestuous sea;
Hard as his heart may seem, there's yet a chord
Once touched, his ravings all are stilled by thee.
With more than mortal triumph in thine eye;
Then blessed and blessing, turn with tears to range
Where other claimants on thy pity lie.
A willing slave, where'er the wretched call;
I see thee softly flit from bed to bed,
Each wish forestalling, bearing balm to all.
For such as know no human love beside,
Still on thy healing way in mercy move,
Daughter of Pity, thus for ever glide!
Vowed to earth's gloomy “family of pain;”
Whose worth could e'en the'unwilling awe command
Of blood-stained men who owned no other chain.
Whose snow-white folds might dignify a queen;
To fainting souls your cup of life to bear,
And be the angels ye have ever been.
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