VIII.

THE BROTHER OF MERCY.

PIERO LUCA, known of all the town
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down

5 His last sad burden, and beside his mat
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,
Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted

10 Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life:
But when at last came upward from the street
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,
15 Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood
Of Mercy going on some errand good:

6. The monastery of La Certosa is about four miles distant from Florence, the scene of this little poem.

8. The Val d'Arno is the valley of the river Arno, upon which Florence lies.

16. The Brethren of the Misericordia, an association which had its origin in the thirteenth century, is composed mainly of the wealthy and prosperous, whose duty it is to nurse the sick, to aid those who have been injured by accident, and to secure decent burial to the poor and friendless. They are summoned by the sound of a bell, and, when it is heard, the member slips away from ball-room, or dinner party, or wherever he may be puts on the black robe and hood, entirely concealing his face, slit openings being provided for the eyes, and performs the

Their black masks by the palace-wall I see." Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me! 20 This day for the first time in forty years

In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, Calling me with my brethren of the mask, Beggar and prince alike, to some new task Of love or pity, — haply from the street 25 To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors, Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. 30 I loved the work: it was its own reward. I never counted on it to offset

My sins, which are many, or make less my debt To the free grace and mercy of our Lord; But somehow, father, it has come to be 35 In these long years so much a part of me, I should not know myself, if lacking it, But with the work the worker too would die, And in my place some other self would sit Joyful or sad, — what matters, if not I? Woe is me!"

40 And now all 's over.

The monk said soothingly, "thy work is done;
And no more as a servant, but the guest
Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.

No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost

45 Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown Forever and forever." - Piero tossed

On his sick-pillow: "Miserable me !

I am too poor for such grand company;

duty assigned to him. This perfect concealment is to a.d in securing the perfect equality enjoined by the Order.

50 The crown would be too heavy for this gray
Old head; and God forgive me if I say

It would be hard to sit there night and day,
Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught
With these hard hands, that all my life have
wrought,

55 Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.

I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,
Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,
Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.
And if one goes to heaven without a heart,
60 God knows he leaves behind his better part.
I love my fellow-men: the worst I know
I would do good to. Will death change me so
That I shall sit among the lazy saints,
Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints
65 Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet
Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset,
Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less
Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?

Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin !)
70 The world of pain were better, if therein
One's heart might still be human, and desires
Of natural pity drop upon its fires

Some cooling tears."

Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, “Madman! thou art lost!"

75 Took

up his рух and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"

53. The Tribune is a hall in the Uffizi Palace in Florence where are assembled some of the most world-renowned statues mcluding the Venus de' Medici.

66. Strada, street.

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,

Of somewhat pure and holy bending o’er him, Bo And of a voice like that of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear! For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above." And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place 85 He saw the shining of an angel's face!

The Traveller broke the pause. "I've seen
The Brothers down the long street steal,
Black, silent, masked, the crowd between,
And felt to doff my hat and kneel
90 With heart, if not with knee, in prayer,
For blessings on their pious care."

IX.

THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL.

1697.

[SAMUEL SEWALL was one of a family notable in New England annals, and himself an eminent man in his generation. He was born in England in 1652, and was brought by his father to this country in 1661; but his father and grandfather

86. The poem of The Brother of Mercy forms a part of The Tent on the Beach, in which Whittier pictures himself, the Traveller (Bayard Taylor), the Man of Books (J. T. Fields), camping apon Salisbury beach and telling stories.

were both pioneers in New England, and the fam. ily home was in Newbury, Massachusetts. Here Sewall spent his boyhood, but after graduating at Harvard he first essayed preaching, and then entered upon secular pursuits, becoming a member of the government and finally chief justice. He presided at the sad trial of witches, and afterward made public confession of his error in a noble paper which was read in church before the congregation, and assented to by the judge, who stood alone as it was read and bowed at its conclusion. The paper is preserved in the first volume of the Diary of Samuel Sewall, published by the Massachusetts Historical Society. He was an upright man, of tender conscience and reverent mind. His charac ter is well drawn by the poet in lines 13- 20.]

Up and down the village streets
Strange are the forms my fancy meets,
For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid,
And through the veil of a closed lid

5 The ancient worthies I see again:
I hear the tap of the elder's cane,
And his awful periwig I see,

And the silver buckles of shoe and knee.
Stately and slow, with thoughtful air,

Io His black cap hiding his whitened hair,
Walks the Judge of the great Assize,
Samuel Sewall the good and wise.
His face with lines of firmness wrought,
He wears the look of a man unbought,