“Have I not, Lord, gone day by day
Where Thy poor children dwell;
And carried help, and gold, and food? 
Oh Lord, Thou knowest it well! 
From many a house, from many a soul,
My hand bids care depart:”—­
More sad, more tender, was the voice—­
“My child, give me thy Heart!”

“Have I not worn my strength away
With fast and penance sore? 
Have I not watched and wept?” she cried;
“Did Thy dear Saints do more? 
Have I not gained Thy grace, oh Lord,
And won in Heaven my part?”—­
It echoed louder in her soul—­
“My child, give me thy Heart!”

“For I have loved thee with a love
No mortal heart can show;
A love so deep, my Saints in heaven
Its depths can never know: 
When pierced and wounded on the Cross,
Man’s sin and doom were mine,
I loved thee with undying love,
Immortal and divine!

“I love thee ere the skies were spread;
My soul bears all thy pains;
To gain thy love my sacred Heart
In earthly shrines remains: 
Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,
Without one gift divine,
Give it, my child, thy Heart to me,
And it shall rest in mine!”

In awe she listened, and the shade
Passed from her soul away;
In low and trembling voice she cried—­
“Lord, help me to obey! 
Break Thou the chains of earth, oh Lord,
That bind and hold my heart;
Let it be Thine, and Thine alone,
Let none with Thee have part.

“Send down, oh Lord, Thy sacred fire! 
Consume and cleanse the sin
That lingers still within its depths: 
Let heavenly love begin. 
That sacred flame Thy Saints have known,
Kindle, oh Lord, in me,
Thou above all the rest for ever,
And all the rest in Thee.”

The blessing fell upon her soul;
Her angel by her side
Knew that the hour of peace was come;
Her soul was purified: 
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air—­
But Peace went with her as she left
The sacred Presence there!

VERSE:  THE WAYSIDE INN

A little past the village
The Inn stood, low and white;
Green shady trees behind it,
And an orchard on the right;
Where over the green paling
The red-cheeked apples hung,
As if to watch how wearily
The sign-board creaked and swung.

The heavy-laden branches,
Over the road hung low,
Reflected fruit or blossom
From the wayside well below;
Where children, drawing water,
Looked up and paused to see,
Amid the apple-branches,
A purple Judas Tree.

The road stretched winding onward
For many a weary mile—­
So dusty foot-sore wanderers
Would pause and rest awhile;
And panting horses halted,
And travellers loved to tell
The quiet of the wayside inn,
The orchard, and the well.

Here Maurice dwelt; and often
The sunburnt boy would stand
Gazing upon the distance,
And shading with his hand
His eyes, while watching vainly
For travellers, who might need
His aid to loose the bridle,
And tend the weary steed.