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110
A LEGEND OF ST. PETER
Saint Peter stood by the golden gate,
In his hand the golden key;
And he spake early and spake late
Unto the Angel who brought in
The souls of the dead shrived clean of sin;
And, ‘Angel of Death,’ said he,
‘Of all the throngs that have hither pressed,
Whom day by day to the shining door,
Morn, noon, and night, thou marshallest,
None cometh of mine own kith and kin;
Yet one there was who, from earthly din
Long cloister-pent, should have grace to win
Where the few-found rich and the many poor
Among the white-robed rest.’
In his hand the golden key;
And he spake early and spake late
Unto the Angel who brought in
The souls of the dead shrived clean of sin;
And, ‘Angel of Death,’ said he,
‘Of all the throngs that have hither pressed,
Whom day by day to the shining door,
Morn, noon, and night, thou marshallest,
None cometh of mine own kith and kin;
Yet one there was who, from earthly din
Long cloister-pent, should have grace to win
Where the few-found rich and the many poor
Among the white-robed rest.’
To him, thus oft importunèd,
When many a year of time had sped,
At last did the Angel Death reply:
‘Thy sister's hour to-night draws nigh;
To-morrow, my Lord, shall she behold
The shining portal, the gates of gold.’
When many a year of time had sped,
At last did the Angel Death reply:
‘Thy sister's hour to-night draws nigh;
To-morrow, my Lord, shall she behold
The shining portal, the gates of gold.’
‘I praise Thee, O God,’ Saint Peter said,
‘Who hast wrought full graciously;
For long to the world hath she been dead;
Its loves forgotten, its joys foregone,
In convent-cell she hath waited lone,
The bride of Heaven to be.
‘Who hast wrought full graciously;
For long to the world hath she been dead;
Its loves forgotten, its joys foregone,
In convent-cell she hath waited lone,
The bride of Heaven to be.
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Her younger sister, more soft and fair,
Alack! for bliss that avails not yearned,
Nor the yoke of her Lord endured to bear,
That brings high guerdon beyond the grave;
To mortal lover her heart she gave,
Hoarded the treasure she could not save,
With the fire of an earthly passion burned,
Too gross for heavenly air.’
Alack! for bliss that avails not yearned,
Nor the yoke of her Lord endured to bear,
That brings high guerdon beyond the grave;
To mortal lover her heart she gave,
Hoarded the treasure she could not save,
With the fire of an earthly passion burned,
Too gross for heavenly air.’
Then thus the Angel Death replied:
‘Such soul, by sorrow crucified,
E'en at the late eleventh hour
The Blood of Christ to save hath power:
So by that dear one's loss may she
Plucked brand-wise from the burning be.’
‘Such soul, by sorrow crucified,
E'en at the late eleventh hour
The Blood of Christ to save hath power:
So by that dear one's loss may she
Plucked brand-wise from the burning be.’
Saint Peter stood by the golden gate
As Dawn spread wide her wing;
And he watched early and watched late,
Till dusk eve hung the heaven with stars;
Then one peered through the portal-bars,
Wan-faced with suffering.
‘Ah! what is this, dear Lord?’ he cried,
‘Or dream, or miracle, I ween!’
For a babe borne dead in her arms he spied,
And she was clad in heaven's own blue,
And white wings from her shoulders flew.
He looked, and bowed the head, and knew
Once more nor common nor unclean
What God had purified.
As Dawn spread wide her wing;
And he watched early and watched late,
Till dusk eve hung the heaven with stars;
Then one peered through the portal-bars,
Wan-faced with suffering.
‘Ah! what is this, dear Lord?’ he cried,
‘Or dream, or miracle, I ween!’
For a babe borne dead in her arms he spied,
And she was clad in heaven's own blue,
And white wings from her shoulders flew.
He looked, and bowed the head, and knew
Once more nor common nor unclean
What God had purified.
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