The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
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XI.
Where screened by myrtle groves and orange bowers,Saint—favoured Cintra rears her Gothic towers,
A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,
Her only business, penance, fasts and prayer.
Her only joy the shrines with flowers to dress,
Weep with the suffering, and relieve distress.
A poor lay sister she; yet golden rain
Showers from her hand, to glad each barren plain
In other eyes she lights up joy, but ne'er
Those eyes of hers were seen a smile to wear;
From other breasts she plucks the thorn of grief,
But feels her own admits of no relief.
When age and sickness count the hours by groans,
Uncalled she comes to hear and hush their moans;
There ever humble, watchful, patient, kind,
No nauseous task, no servile care declined.
O'er the sick couch all day-all night she hangs,
Till health or death relieve the sufferer's pangs.
No thanks she takes, no praise from man receives,
Her duty done, the rest to God she leaves;
With blessings still where'er that nun they view,
The aged, the young, her sainted steps pursue.
And cry with bended knees, and suppliant air,
“Sister of Mary, name us in thy prayer!”
With beads the night—in gracious acts the day,
So wore her youth, so wears her age away.
Now cease my lay; my tale of woe is o'er,
Irza, farewell! I wake thy lute no more.
| The Isle of Devils | |