FRANCESCA'S WORSHIP.
In the deep afternoon, when westering calms
Brooded above the streets of Rome, and hushed
Their noisier clamor, at her orisons,
In San Domenico, Francesca knelt.
All day her charities had overflowed
For others. Husband, children, friends had claimed
Service ungrudged; the poor had gotten their dole,
Doubled by reason of her soothing hands;
Sick eyes had lifted at her coming, as lifts
The parcht Campagna grass at the cool kisses
Of winds that have been dallying with the snows
Of Alban mountain-tops. And now, released
From outward ministries, and free to turn
Inward, and up the solemn aisle of thought
Conduct her soul, she bowed with open page
Before the altar: "Tenuisti manum
Dexteram meam."
On her lips she held
The words caressingly, as she would taste
Each syllable and drain its separate sweetness,
When, breaking on her still seclusion, came
A messenger: "Sweet mistress, grace I pray!
But unaware our lord hath come again,
Bringing his gossips; and he bade me fetch
My lady, if only for a one half hour,
Saying the wine was flavorless without
Her hand to pour it."
At the word she rose,
And unreluctant followed. No undertow
Of hidden regret disturbed the azure calm
Of those clear eyes that still reflected heaven.
Then, when they all had drunk and been refreshed,
And forth had ridden, Francesca sought her place,
And pored again above the Psalter's leaf:
"In voluntate tua deduxisti,"
Conning it over with a tender joy,
As if she verily felt her human hand
Close claspt in God's, and heard Him guiding her
With audible counsel; when there fell a touch
Upon her arm: "The Sister Barbara
Comes seeking wherewithal to dress some wounds
Got in a brawl upon the Esquiline."
And now athwart the western windows streamed
Rainbows of shafted light, as thither again
Francesca came to read her "Offices."
A beam, that seemed a golden pencil held
Within the fingers of the Christ that glowed
In the great oriel, pointed to the words
Where she had paused to do the Sister's hest:
"Cum gloria suscepisti me." She kissed
The blazoned leaf, thanks nestling at her heart,
That now, at last, no duty disallowing,
Her loosened soul out through the sunset bars
Might float, and catch heaven's crystal shimmer. But scarce
Had meditation smoothed the wing of thought
Before the hangings of the door were parted
With yet a further summoning. From a Triton
That spouted in the court her three-year boy,
Who thither had climbed, had fallen, and naught would soothe
The bruised brow save the sweet mother-kiss.
"I come," she said, her forehead half divine
With saintly patience. "For Thou wouldst teach me, Lord,
That Thou art just as near me ministering
At home as in these consecrated aisles;
And 'tis true worship, pouring of the wine
For him I love, or holding 'twixt my hands
The little throbbing head; since where my duty
Calls is the altar where I serve Thee best."
When under the Campagna's purple rim
The sun had sunken so long that all was gray,
Softly across the dusky sacristy
Francesca glided back. The Psalter lay
Scarcely discernible amid the gloom;
But lo the marvel! On the darken'd page
The verse which thrice she had essayed to read
Now shone illuminate, silver-clear, as though
God's hand had written it with the flash of stars.
MARGARET J. PRESTON.