THE CONFESSION. 51
A crown of thorns. O saint divine, But give me life as pure as thine, For all things else are worthless now.
But I confess, I must confess That all the love for her I knew [ Has doubled, and has cast its all
Before thy feet ; O heed its call, Forgive, though grace be not its due !
Ah, Sceur Marie, in truth, my heart Did prophesy that deep in thee
Was hid the spring, all undeflled,
That gladdened once a fearful child ; Like whom, beloved, comfort me."
The soldier paused, and silent sits His nurse, the gentle Sceur Marie,
In wonder hears him. Dares she own
That charity to love hath grown, And with his pleading joins its plea?
Beneath the hood of saintly hue, Across the cheek so fair and white,
The warm blood steals, a moment burns
Within the gaze that on him turns, Then, veiled, it passes from his sight.
" Do not," she said " your life condemn More harshly than you justly ought.
Temptations are our common lot,
And none have stood and fallen not, Save Him whose blood hath pardon brought ;
And rank, and wealth, and beauty, all Have not the joy which He can give.
In losing self in His employ
I find the highest, purest joy ; O for His sake and service live.
If you have loved me, cease to ask Forgiveness for your love ; for I
Am not the saint you seem to think ;
Yet weak, I tremble on the brink Of sin's deep gulf, temptation nigh."
" O Sceur Marie, too well I know That in your vow you gave the Lord
The wealth and sweetness of your life ;
But in my heart is only strife Against it — speak some loving word,
That bids me hope ; oh, do not go Another way, and leave me here
To grope in darkness and alone,
To ask for bread and find a stone. Can nought to you my love endear? "
�� �
