|line||Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,|
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
|1300||Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.|
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence.
|1305||Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;|
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger; –
Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands; –
|1310||Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket|
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seemed to echo
Softly the words of the Lord: 'The poor ye always have with you.'
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
|1315||Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,|
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.