Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Composite volume > Ballad poetry of Ireland

OF IRELAND. 115
She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace,
That call'd her to live for the suffering race ;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Hose quickly like Mary, and answered, " I com
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride.
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved, —
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.
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.
Porgot in the haUs 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.
Those feet, that to music could gracefully move.
Now bear her alone on the mission of love ;
Tliose hands that once dangled the perfume and gem
Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ;
That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain,
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ;
And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,
Is wet witli the tears of the penitent girl.
Her down-bed a pallet — her trinkets a bead.
Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read ;
Her sculpture — the crucifix nail'd by her bed,
Her paintings one print of the thorn-crowned 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.