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| ON a weary slope of Apennine, | |
| At sober dusk of day’s decline, | |
| Out of the solemn solitude | |
| Of Vallombrosa’s antique wood, | |
| A withered woman, tanned and bent, | 5 |
| Bearing her bundled brushwood went, | |
| Poising it on her palsied head, | |
| As if in penance for prayers unsaid. | |
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| Her dull cheeks channelled were with tears, | |
| Shed in the storms of eighty years; | 10 |
| Her wild hair fell in gusty flow, | |
| White as the foamy brook below: | |
| Still toiled she with her load alone, | |
| With feeble feet but steadfast will, | |
| To gain her little home, that shone | 15 |
| Like a dreary lantern on the hill. | |
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| The mountain child no toil could tame | |
| With lighter load beside her came, | |
| Spake kindly, but its accents fond | |
| Were lost,—soon lost on the heights beyond. | 20 |
| There came the maid in her glowing dress, | |
| The wild-eyed witch of the wilderness, | |
| Her brush-load shadowing her face, | |
| Her upright figure full of grace, | |
| Like those tall pines whose only boughs | 25 |
| Are gathered round their dusky brows; | |
| Singing, she waved her hand, “Good night,” | |
| And round the mountain passed from sight. | |
| |
| There climbed the laborers from their toil, | |
| Brown as their own Italian soil; | 30 |
| Like Satyrs, some in goatskin suits, | |
| Some bearing home the scanty fruits | |
| Of harvest work,—the swinging flasks | |
| Of oil or wine, or little casks, | |
| Under which the dull mule went | 35 |
| Cheered with its bell, and the echoes sent | |
| From others on the higher height, | |
| Saying to the vale, “Good night,”— | |
| “Good night”; and still the withered dame | |
| Slowly staggered on the same. | 40 |
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| Here, astride of his braying beast, | |
| A brown monk came, and then a priest; | |
| Each telling to the shadowy air, | |
| Perchance, their “Ave Maria” prayer; | |
| For the sky was full of vesper showers, | 45 |
| Shook from the many convent towers, | |
| Which fell into the woman’s brain | |
| Like dew upon an arid plain. | |
| These pious men beside her rode,— | |
| She crossed herself beneath her load, | 50 |
| As best she could,—and so “Good night,” | |
| And they rode upward out of sight. | |
| |
| How far, how very far it seemed, | |
| To where that starry taper gleamed, | |
| Placed by her grandchild on the sill | 55 |
| Of the cottage window on the hill! | |
| Many a parent heart before, | |
| Laden till it could bear no more, | |
| Has seen a heavenward light that smiled, | |
| And knew it placed there by a child,— | 60 |
| A long-gone child, whose anxious face | |
| Gazed toward them down the deeps of space, | |
| Longing for the loved to come | |
| To the quiet of that home. | |
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| Steeper and rougher grew the road, | 65 |
| Harder and heavier grew the load; | |
| Her heart beat like a weight of stone | |
| Against her breast. A sigh and moan | |
| Mingled with prayer escaped her lips | |
| Of sorrow, o’er sorrowing night’s eclipse. | 70 |
| “Of all who pass me by,” she said, | |
| “There is never one to lend me aid; | |
| Could I but gain yon wayside shrine, | |
| There would I rest this load of mine, | |
| And tell my sacred rosary through, | 75 |
| And try what patient prayer would do.” | |
| |
| Again she heard the toiling tread | |
| Of one who climbed that way, and said, | |
| “I will be bold, though I should see | |
| A monk or priest, or it should be | 80 |
| The awful abbot, at whose nod | |
| The frighted people toil and plod: | |
| I ’ll ask his aid to yonder place, | |
| Where I may breathe a little space, | |
| And so regain my home.” He came, | 85 |
| And, halting by the ancient dame, | |
| Heard her brief story and request, | |
| Which moved the pity in his breast; | |
| And so he straightway took her load, | |
| Toiling beside her up the road. | 90 |
| Until, with heart that overflowed, | |
| She begged him lay her bundled sticks | |
| Close at the feet of the crucifix. | |
| |
| So down he set her brushwood freight | |
| Against the wayside cross, and straight | 95 |
| She bowed her palsied head to greet | |
| And kiss the sculptured Saviour’s feet; | |
| And then and there she told her grief, | |
| In broken sentences and brief. | |
| And now the memory o’er her came | 100 |
| Of days blown out, like a taper flame, | |
| Never to be relighted, when, | |
| From many a summer hill and glen, | |
| She culled the loveliest blooms to shine | |
| About the feet of this same shrine; | 105 |
| But now, where once her flowers were gay, | |
| Naught but the barren brushwood lay! | |
| She wept a little at the thought, | |
| And prayers and tears a quiet brought, | |
| Until anon, relieved of pain, | 110 |
| She rose to take her load again. | |
| But lo! the bundle of dead wood | |
| Had burst to blossom! and now stood | |
| Dawning upon her marvelling sight, | |
| Filling the air with odorous light! | 115 |
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| Then spake her traveller-friend: “Dear Soul, | |
| Thy perfect faith hath made thee whole! | |
| I am the Burthen-Bearer,—I | |
| Will never pass the o’erladen by. | |
| My feet are on the mountain steep; | 120 |
| They wind through valleys dark and deep; | |
| They print the hot dust of the plain, | |
| And walk the billows of the main. | |
| Wherever is a load to bear, | |
| My willing shoulder still is there! | 125 |
| Thy toil is done!” He took her hand, | |
| And led her through a May-time land; | |
| Where round her pathway seemed to wave | |
| Each votive flower she ever gave | |
| To make her favorite altar bright, | 130 |
| As if the angels, at their blight, | |
| Had borne them to the fields of blue, | |
| Where, planted mid eternal dew, | |
| They bloom, as witnesses arrayed | |
| Of one on earth who toiled and prayed. | 135 |
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