How she had the corpses buried
When they choked canal and street;
When alone the shackled convicts,
Goaded on with pike and halberd,
Cared to near with quaking feet.
But those days of fear are over,
And the pure canal reflects
Barges decked with pots of flowers
And long rows of tile-faced gables
Which no breeze of death infects.
And once more the city prospers
Through the cunning of its guilds;
While the restless shuttles clatter,
And in peace the busy Fleming
Weaves and tans and brews and builds;
And the bearded Spanish troopers,
Sitting idly in the shade,
Toss their dice with oath and rattle,
Or crack jokes with girls that pass them,
Laughing-eyed and unafraid.
II.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
In thy soul there is some change:
For thy face the while thou watchest
By a pale young Spanish soldier
Works with struggle strong and strange.
Thou hast watched a hundred death-beds
Ever calm without dismay;
Fighting like a steady fighter
While the shade of Death pressed onward
Night on night and day on day;
And when Death had proved the stronger
Thou wouldst heave one sigh at most,
And then turn to some new moaner,
Ready to resume the battle,
Just as steady at thy post.
Now thy soul is filled with anguish
Strange and wild, thou know’st not why;
While a voice unknown and inward
Seems to whisper, far and faintly,
“If he dies, thou too wilt die,”
Many months has he been lying
In thy ward and rises not;
Youth and strength avail him nothing;
Growing daily whiter, whiter;
Dying of men know not what.
And he murmurs: “Sister Mary,
Now the end is nearing fast;
Thou hast nursed me like God’s Angel,
But the hand of God is on me
And thy care must end at last.