BY VINCENZO CATENA, IN THE CHURCH OF SANTA MARIA MATER DOMINI, AT VENICE. ST. CHRISTINA. (KNEELING.) I KNEW, I knew, it would be so, That, in this long-expected hour, Thou would'st not leave me, Christ, my Lord! My poor blind-hearted enemies Have brought me here to die, -- even here, In this my old delight, the Lake Of dear Bolsena; they have tied About my weak and slender neck A ponderous millstone, that my frame May be dragged down to surest death Within that undulating tomb. The stone is there, -- the cord is there, But the gross weight I cannot feel, For round me, even while I pray, Beautiful-winged childly shapes Are gathering, smiling glorious smiles. With what deep looks of sympathy They dwell upon me! with what care Some raise the cord, some raise the stone, So that it cannot sway me down. O my soul's lover! Saviour Christ! I take this earnest of thy grace, Assured that I shall lay aside The coil of this tormented flesh, Without a thought of fear or pain, -- That, when this mortal shell is cast Into the stifling element, That instrument of my distress Will, at thy blessed will, be changed Into the very air of Heaven. CHORUS OF ANGELS. SISTER Christine, sweetest Sister, Know you not from whom we come? See, we kneel around you kneeling, Offering kind and loving duty, All we can to soothe your suffering, All we can to make you glad! Ah! we see you look with wonder, That our small and tender hands Can raise up this heavy stone, Without show of pain or labour: Do you believe then, That, because our long gold hair, And our rosy-rounded faces, And our laughing lips and eyes, And our baby-moulded limbs Are like those of earthly children, We have not the strength, the glory, and the power, Which our Father gives unto his dear ones, -- Which he will give to you, most happy Christine, For you have loved him? CHRIST. (ABOVE, SPEAKING TO AN ANGEL.) ANGEL! to thee is given the noble charge To bear this martyr-mantle perfect-white To my dear daughter Christine there below; That she, when clothed thus worthily, may pass From the hard triumph of her prison-life To the embraces of essential Love. ANGEL. (KNEELING, AND HOLDING THE MANTLE.) BURNING with delight, I haste This high mission to perform, -- But it is an awful task, Even for an Angel's hands, Such a power of God to hold, As the sign of Martyrdom. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 32 by JAMES JOYCE ARMOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DEAD IN THE SIERRAS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER SONNET: 23. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE by JOHN MILTON PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 8 by EDWARD TAYLOR TANGLED TRAILS by GLADYS NAOMI ARNOLD |