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| SHE once was a lady of honor and wealth; | |
| Bright glowed in her features the roses of health; | |
| Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, | |
| And her motion shook perfume from every fold: | |
| Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side, | 5 |
| And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride; | |
| And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, | |
| When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. | |
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| She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, | |
| That called her to live for her suffering race; | 10 |
| And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, | |
| Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered, “I come.” | |
| She put from her person the trappings of pride, | |
| And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, | |
| Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,— | 15 |
| For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. | |
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| Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost, | |
| That beauty that once was the song and the toast, | |
| No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, | |
| But gliding at dusk to the wretch’s retreat. | 20 |
| Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, | |
| For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame: | |
| Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, | |
| For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. | |
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| Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, | 25 |
| Now bear her alone on the mission of love; | |
| Those hands, that once dangled the perfume and gem, | |
| Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them; | |
| That voice, that once echoed the song of the vain, | |
| Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; | 30 |
| And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, | |
| Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. | |
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| Her down-bed, a pallet—her trinkets, a bead; | |
| Her lustre—one taper, that serves her to read; | |
| Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed; | 35 |
| Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crownèd head; | |
| Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees; | |
| Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease: | |
| The delicate lady lives mortified there, | |
| And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. | 40 |
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| Yet not to the service of heart and of mind | |
| Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined: | |
| Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief | |
| She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. | |
| She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak, | 45 |
| And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; | |
| Where want and affliction on mortals attend, | |
| The Sister of Charity there is a friend. | |
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| Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, | |
| Like an angel she moves, mid the vapors of death; | 50 |
| Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, | |
| Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. | |
| How sweetly she bends o’er each plague-tainted face, | |
| With looks that are lighted with holiest grace; | |
| How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, | 55 |
| For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. | |
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| Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain! | |
| Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain! | |
| Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, | |
| Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. | 60 |
| Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men; | |
| Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen; | |
| How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed | |
| With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid? | |
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