Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/205

1864.]

Friar Jerome, for some slight sin,

Done in his youth, was struck with woe.

"When I am dead," quoth Friar Jerome,

"Surely, I think my soul will go

Shuddering through the darkened spheres,

Down to eternal fires below!

I shall not dare from that dread place

To lift mine eyes to Jesus' face,

Nor Mary's, as she sits adored

At the feet of Christ the Lord.

Alas! December's all too brief

For me to hope to wipe away

The memory of my sinful May!"

And Friar Jerome was full of grief,

That April evening, as he lay

On the straw pallet in his cell.

He scarcely heard the curfew-bell

Calling the brotherhood to prayer;

But he arose, for 't was his care

Nightly to feed the hungry poor

That crowded to the Convent-door.

His choicest duty it had been:

But this one night it weighed him down.

"What work for an immortal soul,

To feed and clothe some lazy clown!

Is there no action worth my mood,

No deed of daring, high and pure,

That shall, when I am dead, endure,

A well-spring of perpetual good?"

And straight he thought of those great tomes

With clamps of gold,—the Convent's boast,—

How they endured, while kings and realms

Passed into darkness and were lost;

How they had stood from age to age,

Clad in their yellow vellum-mail,

'Gainst which the Paynim's godless rage,

The Vandal's fire could nought avail:

Though heathen sword-blows fell like hail,

Though cities ran with Christian blood,

Imperishable they had stood!

They did not seem like books to him,

But Heroes, Martyrs, Saints,—themselves

The things they told of, not mere books

Ranged grimly on the oaken shelves.