THE NUNNERY.

ALONG the Kentish lanes we speed On the last day of lovely June : Like harvesters among the weed Lining the hedge, we lunch at noon ; Onward ! at last our wheels are stayed Beneath an ancient abbey's shade.

Here, till the Faith's Defender reigned, The Benedictines held their sway : Their pillaged home once more is gained For prayer : an abbess rules to-day Over a few poor nuns, whose days Are spent in labour, prayer, and praise.

• Copyright in U.S.A. by John Lane.

Knock at the nunnery's oaken gate.

"May we, whom Pleasure leads, intrude Upon your peace who only wait

On Heaven, in oloister'd solitude P" 4' Yes, freely enter : all men here

Are welcome, who have hearts sincere."

We break the little chapel's peace. A nun, before its altar bowed, Offers the prayers which never cease Ascending, like an incense cloud, To Heaven, for the world's sins unknown, Their sisters' sorrows, and their own.

We pace the garden ; fall away The centuries, and we seem to be The pilgrims of an earlier day Of unreflective piety : Ere stern reformers found it meet To make man's mind his judgment seat.

The odorous air around is filled With quiet: here meseems might He Whose words divine once calmed and stilled The troubled waves of Galilee, Repose at evening gladly seek, And would, as once with Mary, speak With the young nun who thro' the walks Directs our steps : a soul she seems Happy and innocent : she talks Like one whose early childhood's dreams Have ne'er by doubts been clouded o'er, Or by illusions, held no more.

And other nuns we see, whose forms Show black against the bright June flowers:

Souls who seek shelter from the storms

Of life, in these secluded bowers; Women, who seek the love they crave, The joy they hope, beyond the grave.

Ask not what impulse drove them here : What secret misery of the mind Asks shelter in this narrow sphere, Knowledge or ignorance of their kind; Hope only that their souls have found The peace they seek, on sacred ground.

We in the whirlpool of the town Are driven about : our eyes are bent On Pleasure : they but seek the crown Of Duty, and a calm content ; Then who shall say their lives are vain, If, what we sigh for, they attain P For we are saddened men : we tire Of Life, whose aim we cannot tell ; Hopeless, we live in vain desire,

Like souls which Dante saw in hell ; Our hearts by storms of doubt are driven, But theirs are fixed, and fixed on Heaven.

Come hither, ye who seek release From turmoil; men of fever'd blood !

Here let this order'd nunnery's peace Reprove and calm your restless mood !

Then fare, refreshed, upon your way,—

As we do, on this halcyon day !

JOHN HIIRSTWOOD.