Calm in the light of the waning day, And peaceful, the convent garden lies; There, on the hillside cold and gray, The frowning walls and the old towers rise. To and fro in the wind's soft breath The bending ivy sways and swings; To and fro on the slope beneath The Roman pine its shadow flings.
To and fro the white clouds drift Over the old roof gray with moss, Over the sculptured saints that lift Each to the sky his marble cross, Over the stern old belfry tower, Where, from its prison house of stone, A pale-faced clock marks hour by hour The changes that the years have shown.
Free glad birds this prison share, White doves in this old tower dwell. Not for them the call to prayer, Not for them the warning bell. As they flit about the eaves, How their white wings catch the sun! While below through orange leaves Gleams the white cap of the nun.
Spotless kerchief, gown of gray, Forehead wrapped in band of white: These must labor, watch, and pray, These must keep the cross in sight; These are they who walk apart, Who, with purpose undefiled, Seek to fill a woman's heart Without home or love or child.
Is it true that many hands Find that rosary a chain? True that 'neath these snowy bands Throbs, full oft, a restless brain? True that simple robe of gray Covers oft a troubled breast? True that pain and passion's sway Enters even to this rest?
True, that at their holiest shrine, In their hours of greatest good, Comes to them a voice divine, Of a sweeter womanhood? It may be--how can _I_ tell Who, outside the garden wall, Only hear the convent bell. Only see the shadows fall?
The consideration of the interesting subject which I now take up is not new to me. Long ago I found myself thinking about it when occasion to do so presented itself; and in this I was helped by the views of English society presented in the literature of the day, some of the most interesting studies of which are furnished in the novels written by Englishwomen. Indeed, the whole subject of English life and character has long been of the profoundest interest to me; and a recent visit to England is rather the occasion than the cause of much of what I shall write upon it. To say this is due to myself if not to my readers.[1]