XXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
GERALD GRIFFIN.
1. She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy revelled around her—love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.
2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons[255] of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, “I come.”
She put from her person the trappings[256] of pride,
And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved—
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.
3. Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch’s retreat,
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.
4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;
Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem,
Are tending[257] the helpless, or lifted for them;
That voice that once echoed the song of the vain.
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;
And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.
5. Her down bed—a pallet; her trinkets—a bead;
Her lustre—one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed;
Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees;
Her music—the psalm, or sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified[258] there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.
6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined.
Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
She strengthens the weary—she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.
7. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, ’mid the vapor of death;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends over each plague-tainted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.
8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.
Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men,—
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?
[255] Sumˊ-mons, a call.
[256] Trapˊ-pings, ornaments.
[257] Tendˊ-ing, attending; keeping.
[258] Morˊ-ti-fied, subdued; humbled.
XXXII.—REPROOF TO AN AFFECTED[259] SPEAKER.
LA BRUYERE.
1. What do you say? What? I really do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. Upon my word, I do not. O, now I know! you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once: “It is cold to-day.” If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say: “It rains,” “it snows;” or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment[260] me, say, “I think you look well.”
2. “But,” you answer, “that is so common, and so plain, and what every body can say.” Well, and what if they can? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world? I will tell you what, my friend; you and your fine-spoken brethren want one thing—you do not suspect[261] it, and I shall astonish[262] you—you want common sense.
3. Nay, this is not all; you have something too much; you possess an opinion that you have more sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous[263] nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost[264] a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve, and whisper in your ear: “Do not try to show off your sense; have none at all; that is your part. Use plain language, if you can; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some.”
[259] Af-fectˊ-ed, not natural.
[260] Comˊ-pli-ment, praise, flatter.
[261] Sus-pectˊ, mistrust.
[262] As-tonˊ-ish, to amaze.
[263] Pompˊ-ous, ostentatious.
[264] Ac-costˊ, speak to; address.