I never saw a Nun before;
And therefore claim indulgence now,
If I presume to question more
Than courtesy might, else, allow:
As one, then, who in darkness pleads,
For light, I ask to be informed
How, by a string of pegs and beads,
A soul is raised, or fed, or warmed.
Tell me, thou sober cabalist,
What is the potent, hidden charm
Hung on that string, or in its twist
Contorted, for repelling harm?
And is thy spirit kept so faint,
It cannot mount to God above;
But here must substitute a saint,
In image, for a heavenly love?
Has He, who lived and died for us—
Whose gifts are light and liberty,
Left in his Word the mitimus
That here confines and fetters thee?
Does He assign a living tomb
For souls, endowed with vital grace;
Or need surrounding convent gloom,
To show the radiance of his face?
And, pensive Nun, now what ’s the chart
That he has drawn, and left below,
That by it every pious heart
May follow on the Lord to know?
Far from temptation, in retreat,
Did he consume his earthly days?
With houseless head, and weary feet,
What were his works? and where his ways?
O! get thy spirit’s wings unfurled!
Hide not thy candle, if ’t is lit:
Be in, but be not of the world,
If thou wouldst shine to lighten it.
Come out, and show that face demure;
And see, if, smit on either cheek,
Thy righteous soul would then endure
To turn the other, and be meek.