Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.

By Legends and Lyrics. III. The Story of the Faithful Soul

Adelaide Anne Procter (1825–1864)

THE FETTERED Spirits linger

In purgatorial pain,

With penal fires effacing

Their last faint earthly stain,

Which Life’s imperfect sorrow

Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet, on each feast of Mary

Their sorrow finds release,

For the Great Archangel Michael

Comes down and bids it cease;

And the name of these brief respites

Is called “Our Lady’s Peace.”

Yet once—so runs the Legend—

When the Archangel came

And all these holy spirits

Rejoiced at Mary’s name;

One voice alone was wailing,

Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum

The happy echoes woke,

This one discordant wailing

Through the sweet voices broke;

So when St. Michael questioned,

Thus the poor spirit spoke:—

“I am not cold or thankless,

Although I still complain;

I prize our Lady’s blessing

Although it comes in vain

To still my bitter anguish,

Or quench my ceaseless pain.

“On earth a heart that loved me,

Still lives and mourns me there,

And the shadow of his anguish

Is more than I can bear;

All the torment that I suffer

Is the thought of his despair.

“The evening of my bridal

Death took my Life away;

Not all Love’s passionate pleading

Could gain an hour’s delay.

And he I left has suffered

A whole year since that day.

“If I could only see him,—

If I could only go

And speak one word of comfort

And solace,—then, I know

He would endure with patience,

And strive against his woe.”

Thus the Archangel answered:—

“Your time of pain is brief,

And soon the peace of Heaven

Will give you full relief;

Yet if his earthly comfort

So much outweighs your grief,

“Then through a special mercy

I offer you this grace,—

You may seek him who mourns you,

And look upon his face,

And speak to him of comfort

For one short minute’s space.

“But when that time is ended,

Return here, and remain

A thousand years in torment,

A thousand years in pain:

Thus dearly must you purchase

The comfort he will gain.”

The Lime-trees’ shade at evening

Is spreading broad and wide;

Beneath their fragrant arches,

Pace slowly, side by side,

In low and tender converse,

A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly,

No other sound is there

Except their happy voices:

What is that cold bleak air

That passes through the Lime-trees

And stirs the Bridegroom’s hair?

While one low cry of anguish,

Like the last dying wail

Of some dumb, hunted creature,

Is borne upon the gale:—

Why does the Bridegroom shudder

And turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory’s entrance

The radiant Angels wait;

It was the great St. Michael

Who closed that gloomy gate,

When the poor wandering spirit

Came back to meet her fate.

“Pass on,” thus spoke the Angel;

“Heaven’s joy is deep and vast;

Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit,

For Heaven is yours at last;

In that one minute’s anguish

Your thousand years have passed.”