Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SISTER ANNUNCIATA: 2. ABBESS URSALA'S LECTURE, by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER Poet's Biography First Line: My daughter, do you guess why I chose you Last Line: And know at last even such a peace in death. Alternate Author Name(s): Home, Cecil; Webster, Mrs. Julia Augusta Subject(s): Nuns | ||||||||
My daughter, do you guess why I chose you As my to-day's companion for the hour I warm me in the winter sunshine here, Sitting where many sleep whom I have known My new-come novices like your young self? I am an old woman now, sadly infirm, My senses failing, but I sometimes catch A whisper never meant to reach my ear. I heard yours yesterday. You "think it strange That I should choose to haunt the burial ground Alive: 'twere time enough when I am dead." A careless speech, dear child: if you had thought, You would have phrased your wonder differently. But I will answer it. So many years I have been old that it is out of mind How long I have been face to face with death: And by God's mercy I have long lost fear. None of us should fear death: a nun's true life Begins in Heaven; you should remember this. But I have custom to my aid; at nights When I lie down I think "It may be sleep Or may be death," and close my eyes in calm; And when the sun falls warmest in the day I have myself brought here, and often think How soon I shall be here asleep in Christ, And do not find it an unhappy thought. And there are more companions here for me Than in the convent. For I am so old That there is no one in the convent now Who saw me come, excepting sister Clare, And she bedridden. Yes, no doubt, my child, I have outlived my life and seem to youth A sort of ghost already--just a ghost From old old days, and so I haunt the place Where many like me rise to be with me: I feel them near me here. Poor child, you shrink. Nay, if the blessed spirits really came In presence near us, it were cause for joy: I'd have you long for such revealings given From the higher world. But I meant not so much; Only the thoughts of them and memories That seem to reach me from these quiet graves. There are graves there from which, had I more strength, I could read you many histories which, perhaps, Might move you more to what I fain would teach Than I can do. See, there is one. Look left, The corner grave beneath the sycamore, That with the cross a little fallen slant. There sleeps the saintliest creature! had she lived The Church would surely have enrolled her name Upon its calendar. She was to be Abbess here after me, so was it planned, And often I felt shamed to think how far My fervent-souled successor would surpass My poor endeavours for the convent's good, And how more far surpass them in the life Set for a pattern to the younger nuns. But she was more than holy-lived; on her Came wondrous power from heaven, we knew not what, If inspiration or mere eloquence Moved by a fervour strange to common souls. Myself and many others have at times, Feeling strange influence working in our hearts While she, the rapture on her, spoke and spoke And took authority on her, believed She was a chosen messenger of God, And almost looked to see some miracle Declare her to us. She had visions too, But these came later: she was near her end When they began; but that we did not know. She died one summer--well, well, I forget How many years ago--before your birth. Yes, on a summer evening I know, For the sunset light came full into her room, And 'twas the one next mine. She died one summer; And some months earlier, at this time of year But on a day most different from this, All rain and chill and dreariness, they came And woke me in the morning, telling me Sister Annunciata had been found Stretched in a swoon, and now so long remained Rigid and speechless that death must be near. She had had a vision then, the first she had; She told me of it with her first faint words As she recovered. Some one came, she said, Who had been dear to her, and, whispering close Beside her bed where she lay taking sleep After a half-night's vigil, tempted her To pray to heaven that heaven might be for her Eternal life with one she once had loved-- Whether the same who spoke I gathered not; She said "Ah! make me not remember now Whom the saints' selves have bidden me forget," When I asked her of that matter. Well, she said, While she was struggling in a sort of maze Between a wish to shriek the prayer aloud And a half-sense of something more than her That checked it, and the voice was making moan "Oh Eva do not lose us our last hope," She heard a cry that clanged out like the burst Of treble organ pipes when the high strains Take up the Gloria in our Easter mass, "Annunciata wake, wake." Starting up, Still sobbing, as she said, she knew a dream Had troubled her: but there stood, where the light That trembled dimly from the cloud-barred moon In a gap of sky just fell upon the folds Of their white raiment, two pale shimmering forms Whose faces at the first she did not see. And, when assured they were not also dreams Or fancies of her fevered eyes and brain In the sudden waking, she believed them Angels. But when one spoke she knew--though by what sign She could not tell me that first time--they were St Catherine of Alexandria And our St Catherine of Sienna, each Holding the other's hand. Which spoke the words She knew not--Afterwards she grew to mark Her visions more distinctly; that first time She was amazed and troubled. These the words: "We have rescued thee, but henceforth take thou heed Lest thou be left to struggle by thyself And fall. Thy heart unfaithful to thy Lord Remembers, and God says to thee 'Forget.'" And then they made as if they would have gone, Yet turned to her again and said "Approach And feel our presence, that thou mayest be sure We have been with thee." But, as she advanced, A terror came upon her, and she fell, And knew no more. Thenceforward oftentimes She had most wondrous visions: holy saints Appeared to her, oftenest of all those two Whom she saw first, and heavenly harmonies Waked her of nights, and voices spake to her. And every day we saw her saintlier, And felt her growing more apart from us, As one marked out for deeper purposes Than we could fathom. Yet she still remained Humble among us; always she preferred The lowest offices, and eagerly Abased herself, "I have been proud," she said, "And even proud of pride; my penitence Is to be meaner than the meanest here." Ah well! you may believe that none of us Would so account her. Though I kept her down To the rule of strict obedience like the rest, Believe me that, but for the honour due Unto my office, I perceived myself So poor beside her, so unworthy even To kiss her garment's hem, I could have knelt And cried "Oh saint, take rule upon us all And let me be thy servant;" but I knew What duty my high office laid on me. But think of her, proud as she well might be-- She came of the Albizzi--young as you, Renowned already for the liveliest wit And wisest, after woman's sort, then found Among the brightest ladyhood of Rome, Talked of for beauty too. She, with so much Already tasted of earth's sweetest cup, And so much more yet brimming to her lips At the moment 'twas withdrawn, gave up her life So wholly unto Heaven that, still on earth, She seemed to see the brightness of God's face, And was as if bedazzled by the light Blind to all lower things; and so to her, It was as if in earth was only heaven. How plain I see her dying! You may know She died in happiness. Through several months She saw the visions, they came oftener And oftener, until, towards the last, She saw them nightly. Sometimes too they came In the broad daylight, when she would be lost, As she was often, in her prayers alone In the silent chapel. When the summer grew Towards its fall they left her utterly, And she, already paler than you see St Barbara in the picture in the choir And looking nearer death, she drooped at this, Stricken with anguish; for she read in it A sign of wrath divine against some fault Her holy soul discerned in the perfectness Of a most singularly holy life. So the blow fell on her, and she soon knew-- The first of us she knew, and silently-- That she was dying. Then--she knew not why, For the voices never came again--she felt That she was once more in the grace of God, And a great peace fell on her. This she told When she sent for me on the day when first She did not rise at dawn but quietly Lay on her bed and said "Death is at hand." Three days we watched her weakening. All the while We seldom heard her speak; she lay asleep, Or wept or smiled half-sleeping. On the fourth She roused and thanked me--thanked us all for care And watchings in her illness--me besides For some old kindness, something said or done, I could not rightly gather what she meant, At the time of her first coming. This I know, Her thankfulness, so long kept in her heart, Uttered at such a moment, dwells in me A lesson for my guiding, and I hope That I have seldomer failed in gentleness And a mother's sympathy for the young souls New to our holy bondage who, may be, Are sad and restless for a little while. I said to her "My daughter, I was blessed, Beyond my knowing, when a word of mine Was sown to such ripe fruit in you." Her eyes Looked earnest at me "Mothers smile like you"; And that was all. She spoke not much again, Nor aught to be remembered, but, till day Was passing into sunset she was with us, Lying so still we scarcely could discern Whether she waked or slept. The sunlight fell Right on her bed at evening, and I thought The yellow beams too strong upon her eyes; I moved to shade them, then she took my hand, Just touched it faintly, for her strength was gone, "Such happy rest" she said, "God's rest" and smiled, Then fell asleep. And presently one said "She is dead," and then another "She is dead," And we perceived she was no more with us, Although the smile was strengthening on her face. Some thought it was a wonder nothing strange Was noticed at her death-bed; none of us Would have thought it any wonder had there been Tokens from Heaven plainly granted her Before us all, and she had been shewn forth, As one whose name was henceforth to be famed With more than human honour. But God's will Was not to crown our humble convent here With such a glory. When she was laid out, I took my niece's baby secretly To touch the body, thinking that, perchance, There might be virtue in it, by God's grace And with our many prayers for the poor child, To give its poor blind eyes their sight. Poor child, It was not so to be. Now will you learn A hope from that most holy life? Well, she Who was as I have told you, had at first A restless heart and angry at restraint, And looked, as you may do, with wistful eyes, Back to the world behind. I know not why-- She came of her free-will, even like myself Who loved the quiet of the convent best Quite from the first--and like you too, you say, Who do not love it yet, I think. She might, Had she so chosen, have become the wife Of one whose wealth and greatness were the theme Of all the gossipries of Rome: but she Came here and brought her proud and wayward heart, To fret and chafe at her imprisonment, For many days. I have told you of the end: Do you not think it worth your envying? And who can say 'tis not within your reach? But be persuaded, at the least, of this, That you may learn her joy in heavenly things, And know at last even such a peace in death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAR MEMORY: 2. SOMEONE INSIDE ME REMEMBERS by LUCILLE CLIFTON FAR MEMORY: 5. SINNERMAN by LUCILLE CLIFTON CLARE OF ASSISI by MADELINE DEFREES EXISTING LIGHT; FOR LEE NYE by MADELINE DEFREES GILBERT OF SEMPRINGHAM by MADELINE DEFREES GRANDMOTHER GRANT by MADELINE DEFREES HANGING THE BLUE NUNS; FOR WARREN CARRIER by MADELINE DEFREES IN THE MIDDLE OF PRIEST LAKE by MADELINE DEFREES PSALM FOR A NEW NUN by MADELINE DEFREES CIRCE by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER |
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