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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text @@ -0,0 +1,11837 @@ +**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Father Abram J. Ryan's Poems** + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous + +By Abram J. Ryan, (Father Ryan) + +June, 1997 [Etext #937] + + +**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Father Abram J. Ryan's Poems** +******This file should be named 937.txt or 937.zip***** + +Etext by A. Light <alight@mercury.interpath.net> +This etext was created by carefully typing in the text twice, +then electronically comparing the two files and correcting mistakes +until the two files matched. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Father Ryan's Poems + + +By Abram J. Ryan, (Father Ryan) + + + + +Introduction: + + + +In preparing this electronic text of Father Ryan's poems, +I was struck by the biased nature of the memoir included. +While I will not gainsay anyone's right to their beliefs, +I believe it is clearly evident from the poems themselves +that Father Ryan believed strongly in the Southern Cause, +and I do not believe his reaction was entirely emotional, +as seems to be implied. The Memoir also makes mention of +Father Ryan's poem "Reunited", as evidence of his support +for the reunification of the States. To be fair to Ryan, +I would note that such stanzas as + + "The Northern heart and the Southern heart + May beat in peace again; + + "But still till time's last day, + Whatever lips may plight, + The blue is blue, but the gray is gray, + Wrong never accords with Right." + +in `Sentinel Songs', are much more common in his poems. + +I believe it important to notice this, as it demonstrates +that while Ryan loved Peace, he never forsook the Cause. + +Regarding his possible dates of birth, I can do no better +than the Memoir included, but I can at least match places +with dates, to wit: Hagerstown, Md., on 5 February 1838; +or Norfolk, Virginia, sometime in 1838 or 15 August 1839. +His full name was Abram Joseph Ryan, and he was the son +of Matthew and Mary (Coughlin) Ryan. He was ordained in 1856 +and he taught at Niagara, N.Y. and Cape Girardeau, Missouri, +before he became a chaplain in the Confederate Army in 1862. +He edited several publications, including the "Pacificator", +the Catholic weekly "The Star" (New Orleans), +and "The Banner of the South" in Augusta, Georgia. +He was the pastor of St. Mary's Church in Mobile, Alabama +from 1870 to 1883. He died at a Franciscan Monastery +at Louisville, Kentucky, on 22 April 1886. He is buried in Mobile. + +His most famous poem is "The Conquered Banner", +which had its measure inspired by a Gregorian hymn. + + + Alan R. Light, May, 1996, Birmingham, Alabama. + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are marked by tildes (~). +Some obvious errors have been corrected.] + + + + + + +Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous. + +By Abram J. Ryan, (Father Ryan). + +Containing his posthumous poems. + + + + + + + "All Rests with those who Read. A work or thought + Is what each makes it to himself, and may + Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea, + With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, + Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, + Sweeping miles broad o'er the far southwestern woods + With mighty glimpses of the central light -- + Or may be nothing -- bodiless, spiritless." + -- Festus. + + + + + + +[Based on the 1880 edition, the 1896 edition (New York) +from which this was transcribed also includes Ryan's posthumous poems.] + + + + + + + THESE + SIMPLE RHYMES + ARE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOVE + AT THE FEET OF HIS MOTHER + BY HER CHILD THE + AUTHOR + + + + + + +Preface + + + +These verses (which some friends call by the higher title of Poems, +to which appellation the author objects) were written at random -- +off and on, here, there, anywhere -- just when the mood came, +with little of study and less of art, and always in a hurry. + +Hence they are incomplete in finish, as the author is; +tho' he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more of the humble steps +that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries than of the steeps +that lead up to Parnassus and the Home of the Muses. +And souls were always more to him than songs. But still, +somehow -- and he could not tell why -- he sometimes tried to sing. +Here are his simple songs. He never dreamed of taking even lowest place +in the rank of authors. But friends persisted; and, finally, +a young lawyer friend, who has entire charge of his business in the book, +forced him to front the world and its critics. There are verses +connected with the war published in this volume, not for harm-sake, +nor for hate-sake, but simply because the author wrote them. +He could write again in the same tone and key, under the same circumstances. +No more need be said, except that these verses mirror the mind of + THE AUTHOR. + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Memoir of Father Ryan + +Song of the Mystic +Reverie ["Only a few more years!"] +Lines -- 1875 +A Memory +Rhyme +Nocturne ["I sit to-night by the firelight,"] +The Old Year and the New +Erin's Flag +The Sword of Robert Lee +Life +A Laugh -- and A Moan +In Memory of My Brother +"Out of the Depths" +A Thought +March of the Deathless Dead +Reunited +A Memory +At Last +A Land without Ruins +Memories +The Prayer of the South +Feast of the Assumption +Sursum Corda +A Child's Wish +Presentiment +Last of May +"Gone" +Feast of the Sacred Heart +In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne +Tears +Lines (Two Loves) +The Land We Love +In Memoriam +Reverie ["We laugh when our souls are the saddest,"] +I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So +A Blessing +July 9th, 1872 +Wake Me a Song +In Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.) +What? (To Ethel) +The Master's Voice +A "Thought-Flower" +A Death +The Rosary of My Tears +Death +What Ails the World? +A Thought +In Rome +After Sickness +Old Trees +After Seeing Pius IX +Sentinel Songs +Fragments from an Epic Poem +Lake Como +"Peace! Be Still" +Good Friday +My Beads +At Night +Nocturne ["Betimes, I seem to see in dreams"] +Sunless Days +A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?"] +St. Mary's +De Profundis +When? (Death) +The Conquered Banner +A Christmas Chant +"Far Away" +Listen +Wrecked +Dreaming +A Thought +"Yesterdays" +"To-Days" +"To-Morrows" +Inevitable +Sorrow and the Flowers +Hope +Farewells +Song of the River +Dreamland +Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"] +A Song +Parting +St. Stephen +A Flower's Song +The Star's Song +Death of the Flower +Singing-Bird +Now +M * * * +God in the Night +Poets +A Legend +Thoughts +Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"] +C.S.A. +The Seen and The Unseen +Passing Away +The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children) +A Reverie ["Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange!"] +---- Their Story Runneth Thus +Night After the Picnic +Lines ["The death of men is not the death"] +Death of the Prince Imperial +In Memoriam (Father Keeler) +Mobile Mystic Societies +Rest +Follow Me +The Poet's Child +Mother's Way +Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple +St. Bridget +New Year +Zeila (A Story from a Star) +Better than Gold +Sea Dreamings +Sea Rest +Sea Reverie +The Immaculate Conception +Fifty Years at the Altar +Song of the Deathless Voice +To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T. +To Virginia (on Her Birthday) +Epilogue + + Posthumous Poems + +In Remembrance +A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:'] +Only a Dream +The Poet +The Child of the Poet +The Poet Priest +Wilt Pray for Me? + + + + + + +Memoir of Father Ryan + +By John Moran + + + +It is regretted that the materials at hand at this writing +are not sufficient to warrant as extended a notice as the publishers +of the present enlarged volume of Father Ryan's poems would wish, +and as the many friends and admirers of the dead priest and poet desire. +So distinguished a character and so brilliant a man +cannot be passed over lightly, or dealt with sparingly, +if the demand of his friends and the public generally would be satisfied +even in a moderate degree; for Father Ryan's fame is the inheritance +of a great and enlightened nation, and his writings have passed into history +to emblazon its pages and enrich the literature of the present +and succeeding ages, since it is confidently believed that, +with the lapse of time, his fame and his merits will grow brighter +and more enduring. With this appreciation of his merits, +and a realizing sense of what is due to his memory, +and with an equal consciousness of his own want of ability +to do justice to the subject, the writer bespeaks the indulgent criticism +of those who may read the following remarks -- admittedly far short +of what are due to the illustrious dead. + +The exact date and place of Father Ryan's birth are not yet +definitely settled. Some assert that he was born at Norfolk, Va.; +others claim Hagerstown, Md., as the place of his birth; +whilst there is some ground to believe that in Limerick, Ireland, +he first saw the light. The same uncertainty exists as to time. +Some claim to know that he was born in 1834, whilst others fix +with equal certainty, the year 1836 as the time. In the midst of these +conflicting statements, the writer prefers to leave the questions at issue +for future determination, when it is hoped that final and conclusive proof +will be obtained to place them outside the realms of dispute. +Meanwhile, he will present what may be regarded as of primary importance +in forming a correct estimate of the character of the deceased, +and the value of his life-work, which, after all, are the chief ends +sought to be accomplished. + +From the most reliable information that can be obtained, +it is learned that Father Ryan went to St. Louis with his parents +when a lad of some seven or eight years. There he received his early training +under the Brothers of the Christian Schools. Even at that early date +young Ryan showed signs of mental activity which gave promise +of one day producing substantial and lasting results. +He evinced rare aptitude for knowledge, and made rapid progress +in its attainment. His thoughtful mien and modest look soon won for him +the respect and friendship of his teachers and the esteem and affection +of his companions. It was noticed that he had an instinctive reverence +for sacred things and places, and a rich and ardent nature which bespoke +deep spirituality. Discerning eyes soon recognized in the mild youth +the germs of a future vocation to the priesthood. It was, therefore, +prudently resolved to throw around him every possible safeguard +in order to protect and cherish so rare and precious a gift. +The youth himself corresponded to this design, and bent all his energies +towards acquiring the necessary education to fit him +for entering upon the still higher and more extended studies required +for the exalted vocation to which he aspired. In due time he had made +the necessary preparatory studies, and was deemed fitted to enter +the ecclesiastical seminary at Niagara, N.Y., whither he went, +having bid an affectionate farewell to his relatives and numerous friends, +who fervently invoked heaven's blessing upon the pious youth who, they hoped, +would return one day to their midst to offer up the "Clean Oblation" +which is offered up "from the rising of the sun until the going down thereof." + +The heart of the youth as he started for his future home was all aglow +with the fervor that animated him in the pursuit of his high and holy purpose. +He entered the seminary, leaving no regrets or attachments behind him. +One thing only did he appear to regret -- separation from home +and the loved ones to whom he had bid so affectionate an adieu. +Home and parents are ever dear to the pure of heart; for around them cluster +memories too precious and associations too endearing for utterance. +Father -- mother -- home, "trinity of joys", whose completion and perfection +are to be found only in the Trinity in Heaven -- these must ever remain +bright recollections in the lives of all who cherish ennobling sentiments +which do reverence to God and honor to humanity. But if such be +the effect of these sentiments upon the hearts of men in general, +they have a still deeper and more tender effect upon those who, +in response to the call of the Master, "Follow thou Me," +have abandoned all things for His sweet sake, that they may find +a home hereafter in heaven, after having spent themselves +in dispensing His riches and benefits to men. + +Like nearly all great men, Father Ryan owed much to +the early training and example of his truly Christian mother. +Hence the deep affection he ever manifested towards her. +After the lapse of long years, we find his heart still fresh and loving, +pouring out upon the grave of his mother all the wealth of his rich mind +and the affection of his chaste heart. He tells us that +he had placed his poems upon her grave as a garland of affection. +Oh! what a beautiful offering on the part of a gifted son to a devoted mother! +Nature's richest and best gifts consecrated to nature's purest +and holiest sentiments! May we not suppose that the endearing affection +which he cherished for his mother was the source of the inspiration +which drew forth the "splendid brightness of his songs"? +This filial reverence and tender affection, could nothing more +be said in his favor, would speak volumes in his praise. +But how much more can be said, and said truly, were there pen and lips +eloquent enough to proclaim his praises! Mine are unworthy of the task; +yet mine be the duty of recalling some, at least, of the virtues and qualities +that marked him during life; for virtues and estimable qualities he had, +and they were many and conspicuous. Heaven doth know, +earth doth witness, angels have recorded, that he is worthy of praise. +Therefore, in no cold and measured terms shall the writer speak +of the dear and venerated dead, Abram J. Ryan, priest and poet -- +once magic name, still revered and possessed of talismanic power. +If we cannot crown thee, O child of genius, with a wreath of justice, +let us, at least, endeavor to crown thee with a garland of love, +composed of thy own glorious deeds and achievements. + +Having passed through the usual course of studies in an ecclesiastical +seminary with distinction, Father Ryan was duly ordained priest, +and soon afterwards entered upon the active duties of missionary life. +But little was heard of him until the breaking out of the late civil war, +when he entered the Confederate army as a chaplain, +and served in that capacity up to the close of the civil war. +He was then stationed at Nashville, afterwards at Clarksville, Tenn., +and still later at Augusta, Ga., where he founded the ~Banner of the South~, +which exercised great influence over the people of that section, +and continued about five years, when Father Ryan was obliged +to suspend its publication. He then removed to Mobile, Ala., +where he was appointed pastor of St. Mary's Church in 1870, +and continued in that position until 1883, when he obtained leave of absence +from Bishop Quinlan to make an extended lecture tour of the country to further +a praiseworthy and charitable undertaking of great interest to the South. +Bishop Quinlan having died soon afterwards, Father Ryan's leave was extended +by his successor, Bishop Manucy. It was whilst engaged in this mission +that Father Ryan received his death summons. + +During all these changes and journeyings, the busy brain of Father Ryan +was incessantly employed, expending itself in composing +those immortal poems which have won their way to all hearts +and elicited widespread and unmeasured praise from critics +of the highest repute. Like all true poets, Father Ryan touched +the tenderest chords of the human heart, and made them respond +to his own lofty feelings and sublime inspirations. + +Of his priestly character but little need be said. His superiors +and those whom he served know best how well and faithfully +he discharged the sometimes severe and always onerous and responsible duties +of his sacred calling. The merit of his life-work is now +the measure of his reward. As he had in view only God's honor and glory, +and the good of his fellow-men, and directed his labors +and employed his talents to promote these ends, may we not hope +that a merciful Judge has given him a recompense in excess of his deserts, +since, in the bountifulness of His liberality, He is wont to bestow a reward +exceeding our merits? + +But it is not claimed that Father Ryan was without fault. +This would be attributing to him angelic nature or equivalent perfection, +against which, were he living, he would be the first to protest. +He needs no such fulsome or exaggerated praise. He was a man, +though not cast in the common mould, and as such let us view him. +Doubtless he had his faults, and perhaps not a few; +for "the best of men are only the least sinful." But as far as is known, +he had no serious defects or blemishes that would mar the beauty +or disturb the harmonious grandeur of his character in its entirety. +Had his heart been cold and selfish, or his thoughts defiled +with the sordid cares of earth, he never could have sung so sweetly +or soared so sublimely into those serene and heavenly regions +whither his chaste fancy led him. He delighted to roam +in those far-off regions beyond the skies, whose spheres are ruled +and whose realms are governed by those mysterious laws +which have their fountain source in God, and whose operations +are controlled by the exercise of His infinite power and love. +His defects, then, did not seriously impair the integrity of his virtues, +which were many and solid. Chief amongst his virtues may be named +his zeal for the honor and glory of God, and devotion to the Mother of God -- +the latter the necessary outgrowth of the former. The deep and earnest piety +of Father Ryan towards his "Queen and Patroness", as he loved to call her, +bespeaks much in his praise; for, like all truly great men +of the Catholic Church, he saw that it was not only eminently proper, +but also a sublime act of Christian duty, to pay filial reverence and honor +to the Mother of God. Hence Father Ryan crowned Mary with many gems +of rare beauty. Amongst them may be named his beautiful poem "Last of May", +dedicated to the Children of Mary, of the Cathedral of Mobile, Ala. +Few Catholics will read these lines without experiencing feelings +of deep and tender devotion towards their Queen and Mother. + +Father Ryan's was an open, manly character, in which there was +no dissimulation. His generous nature and warm heart were ever moved +by kind impulses and influenced by charitable feelings, +as became his priestly calling. We may readily believe him when he tells us +that he never wrote a line for hate's sake. He shrank instinctively +from all that was mean and sordid. Generosity was a marked trait +of his character, an ennobling principle of his nature, +the motive power of his actions, and the mainspring of his life. +Friendship was likewise congenial to his taste, if not a necessity +of his nature; and with him it meant more than a name. +It was a sacred union formed between kindred spirits -- +a chain of affection whose binding link was fidelity. +Never was he false to its claims, nor known to have violated its obligations. +Hence he was highly esteemed during life by numerous persons +of all classes and denominations; for his sympathies +were as broad as humanity, and as far-reaching as its wants and its miseries. +Yet he was a man of deep conviction and a strict adherent to principle, +or what he conceived to be principle; for we find him long after the war +still clinging to its memories, and slow to accept its results, +which he believed were fraught with disaster to the people of his section. +A Southerner of the most pronounced kind, he was unwilling +to make any concession to his victorious opponents of the North +which could be withheld from them. Perhaps, upon reflection, +it may not appear wholly strange or inexplicable that he should have so acted. +There was, at least, some foundation for his fears with regard to +the ill fate of those of his section. Though peace had been proclaimed, +the rainbow of hope did not encircle the heavens or cast its peaceful shadow +over the South. Dark clouds loomed up over that fair and sunny land, +portentous of evil; for they were surcharged with the lightning of passion. +The chariot wheel of the conqueror had laid waste and desolate the land. +No one knew precisely what would follow; for passion's dark spirit +was abroad and ruling in high places. To make matters worse +and intensify the sufferings of the people still more, they were debarred +from participating in the political affairs of their own States. +Non-residents, and aliens in sympathy and common interest, +were appointed to rule over them, if not to oppress them. +Is it to be wondered at if some refused to bow and kiss the hands +that were uplifted against them? Among such was Father Ryan. +All honor to the man and those who stood by him! Instead of attempting +to cast obloquy upon their memory, we should do them honor +for having maintained in its integrity the dignity of the manhood +with which heaven had blessed them, when earth had deprived them +of all else that was dear and sacred to brave and honorable men! +But how differently Father Ryan acted when the oppressed people of the South +were restored to their rights, and when the great heart of the North +went out in sympathy towards them in their dire affliction +during the awful visitation of the yellow fever, when death reaped +a rich harvest in Memphis and elsewhere, and a sorrow-stricken land +was once more buried in ruin and desolation! It was then, indeed, +that Father Ryan and all good men beheld the grand spectacle +of the whole North coming to the rescue of the afflicted South +with intense and sublime admiration. He then saw for certain +the rainbow of peace span the heavens; and though his section +was wailing under the hand of affliction, he yet took down his harp, +which for years had hung on the weeping willows of his much-loved South, +and, with renewed vigor and strength of heart, again touched its chords +and drew forth in rich tones and glorious melodies his grand poem, "Reunited". +Then it was that the star of peace shone out in the heavens, +resplendent with the brightness and purity of love, +and dispelled the dark and foul spirit of hate which had poisoned the air +and polluted the soil of free Columbia. Then, too, +the angel of affliction and the angel of charity joined hands together +and pronounced the benediction over a restored Union and a reunited people. + +Before proceeding to speak of Father Ryan's poems, a few observations +upon poets and poetry in general may not be deemed inappropriate. +To speak of poets and their merits is by no means an easy matter, +even where one is in every respect fitted to pronounce critical judgment. +It requires rare qualifications for such a task; a wide range of information; +extensive knowledge of the various authors; a keen sense of justice; +a fine sense of appreciation of the merits and demerits of each, +and a rare power of discrimination. These are qualifications seldom combined +in a single person. Hence so few competent critics are to be found. +The writer does not claim to possess all or any one of these powers +in as eminent degree as would fit him for the work of passing +judicious criticism upon the various authors and their works -- +or, indeed, any single one of them. What he will venture to say, therefore, +is by way of preface to the remarks which he is called upon to offer +upon the merits of the particular poet whose productions +he is specially called upon to consider. + +Of poets it may be said, that they are not like other men, +though invested with similar qualities and characteristics. +They differ in this: That they are not cold and calculating in their speech; +they do not analyze and weigh their words with the same precision; +nor are they always master of their feelings. Possessed of +the subtle power of genius, which no mortal can describe, +though all may experience its potent influence, they cannot be confined +within the narrow limits assigned to others less gifted, +nor subjected to fixed methods or unvarying processes of mental action. +No; poets must roam in broader fields, amidst brighter prospects +and more elevated surroundings. They must be left to themselves, +to go where they choose, and evolve their thoughts according to +their own ways and fancies; for ways and fancies they have +which are peculiar to themselves and must be indulged. Genius is ever wont +to be odd, in the sense that it does not and cannot be made to move +in common ruts and channels. This is especially true of poetic genius, +whose life may be said to depend upon the purity of its inspirations +and the breadth and character of its surroundings. + +Much has been said, and deservedly, in favor of the great poets of antiquity. +Unmeasured praise has been bestowed upon the epic grandeur of Homer +and the classical purity of Virgil. They have ever been considered +as foremost amongst the best models of poetic excellence. +Yet there was wanting to them the true sources of poetic inspiration, +whence flow the loftiest conceptions and sublimest emanations of genius. +Homer never rose above the summit of Olympus, nor Virgil above the level of +pagan subjects and surroundings. Therefore they cannot be properly regarded +as the highest and best models, certainly not the safest for Christians, +who can feast their eyes and fill their minds and hearts with more +perfect models and more sublime subjects. The sight of Sinai, where Jehovah, +the God of Israel, is veiled in the awful splendor of His Majesty, +whilst his voice is heard in the loud war and fierce thunderings +amongst the clouds, as the lightnings crown its summit, +is far more grand and imposing, more sublime and inspiring, +than are those subjects presented to us by pagan authors, +however refined and elegant may be the language employed +to convey their thoughts and depict their scenes. Wherefore, +the Biblical narratives furnish the highest and best models +and the richest sources of poetic inspiration; and "all great poets +have had recourse to those ever-living fountains to learn the secret +of elevating our hearts, ennobling our affections, and finding subjects +worthy of their genius." + +The writer would not care to assert that Father Ryan's poems possess +the majestic grandeur and elaborate finish of the great masters, +whose productions have withstood the severe criticism of ages, +and still stand as the highest models of poetic excellence. +His style is not that of Milton, who soared aloft into the eternal mansions +and opened their portals to our astonished and admiring gaze, +picturing to us "God in His first frown and man in his first prevarication." +Nor is it that of Shakespeare, whose deep and subtle mind +fathomed "the dark abysses of the human heart," and laid bare and naked +the varied doings of mankind! Nor is it, least of all, +that of Dante, who, with even greater boldness than Milton, +plunged into the impenetrable depths of the infernal regions, +whose appalling misery and never-ending woe he has described +in words of fearful and awe-inspiring grandeur. Neither is his style +like unto that of any one of the several leading American poets, +so far as their works are known to the writer, though some have said +that his style resembles that of the highly gifted and lamented Poe. + +The writer will not undertake to say what place Father Ryan +will occupy in the Temple of Fame, though he believes that +an enlightened public sentiment would accord to him a high position. +The chief merits of his poems would seem to be the simple sublimity +of his verses; the rare and chaste beauty of his conceptions; +the richness and grandeur of his thoughts, and their easy, natural flow; +the refined elegance and captivating force of the terms he employs +as the medium through which he communicates those thoughts +and the weird fancy which throws around them charms peculiarly their own. +These, and perhaps other merits, will win for their author enduring fame. + +For the future of Father Ryan's poems we need have no fears. +They will pass down through the ages bearing the stamp of genius, +impressed with the majesty of truth, replete with the power +and grandeur of love; these are the purest sources of poetic inspiration; +for both are attributes of the Divinity. Strip poetry of these, +and nothing remains but its mutilated relics and soulless body; +it becomes robbed of its highest glory and its most enduring qualities. + +Though the South may claim Father Ryan as her son of genius, +whose heart beat in sympathy with her hopes and her aspirations +and of whose productions she may well feel proud, yet no section owns him, +since he belongs to our common country, and in a certain sense to mankind, +for the fame of genius is not controlled by sections +or circumscribed within limits; it extends beyond the confines of earth -- +yea, unto eternity itself! It is proper to regard him in this light +as the heritage of the nation, for in the nation's keeping +his fame will be secure and appropriately perpetuated. +All sections will unite in doing honor to his memory, +which is associated with grand intellectual triumphs, +won by the union of the highest gifts of the Creator -- +the union of religion and poetic genius; the former the source and inspiration +of the latter. + +Father Ryan also wrote several works of prose, chief amongst which +is that entitled, "A Crown for Our Queen". Like his poem, "Last of May", +this book was intended as a loving tribute to Mary, the Mother of God, +whom he wished to honor as the highest type and grandest embodiment +of womanhood. If Father Ryan failed to make this work worthy +of the exalted subject -- an opinion by no means expressed -- +it was not from any lack of good-will and earnest purpose on his part. +With him tender affection for the Queen of Heaven was a pure +and holy sentiment, a sublime, and ennobling act of piety. +He saw in her lofty and immaculate beauty the true ideal of woman; +and this explains the deep reverence and delicate sentiment +of respect and sympathy which he exhibited towards all women. +Poetical sentiment and religious feeling he thus happily blended, +as they should ever be, directing and influencing man's action +in his relations and intercourse with woman. + +Three essentially poetical sentiments exist in man, +says a distinguished writer: The love of God, the love of woman, +and the love of country -- the religious, the human, +and the political sentiment. For this reason, continues the same writer, +wherever the knowledge of God is darkened, wherever the face of woman +is veiled, wherever the people are captive or enslaved, there poetry +is like a flame which, for want of fuel, exhausts itself and dies out. +On the contrary, wherever God reigns upon His throne +in all the majesty of His glory, wherever woman rules +by the irresistible power of her enchantments, wherever the people are free, +there poetry has modest roses for the woman, glorious palms for the people, +and splendid wings with which to mount up to the loftiest regions of heaven. + +Father Ryan also won distinction as an orator, a lecturer, and an essayist, +having contributed to several of the leading journals and magazines +of the country. His oratory was not of the cold and unimpassioned kind +which falls upon the ears but fails to make an impression on the heart. +He did not lose sight of the fact that the chief end and aim of oratory +is to arouse men to a sense of duty, deter them from the commission of evil, +and inspire them with high and holy purposes and noble, generous resolves, +the accomplishment of which demands that the living, breathing spirit or soul +should be infused into the words. Though the unction of divine charity +can alone give efficacy to man's words, yet man must not appear to be devoid +of those qualities and attributes which contribute towards making +a lasting impression upon the minds and hearts of those +whose interests are presumed to be dear to him. This was the spirit +that animated Father Ryan, and all his efforts were directed towards +the accomplishment of the objects stated. It is not claimed that +all his discourses were up to the highest standard of literary excellence, +or above the test of exact criticism. Some of his efforts +did not bear evidence of deep thought or careful and exhaustive preparation, +but all exhibited warmth of soul and earnestness of purpose. +It may be well to remark in connection with this, that Father Ryan's health +for many years was such that it would not permit of his engaging +in laborious mental work. And yet he labored much and spoke often; +for his zeal and mental activity were greatly in excess of his strength. +Had his physical powers corresponded to his rare mental endowments, +the value of his productions -- great as it now is -- +would have been enhanced. The marvel is that he was able to sustain +those powers of mind which marked him up to the time of his death. + +Though he had been ailing for years, as has been stated, +yet his wonderful energy of mind made it appear to many that there was +no immediate danger of his life. When the end came it was a surprise to all, +even himself. To him let us hope that it was not unprovided for. +We have the gratifying assurance that it was not so; for we are told +that he had retired into a Franciscan monastery in Louisville, Ky., +to make a retreat, intending, at its close, to finish a "Life of Christ", +on which he was engaged, or purposed to undertake. Little did he think, +apparently at least, that the Angel of Death pursued him +and would soon deliver the final message to him. He did not fear the end. +Why should he? Death has no terrors for the truly Christian soul. +It is not the end, but the beginning of life; not the destroyer, +but the restorer of our rights -- that which puts us in possession +of our eternal home in heaven. Therefore he was not gloomy nor despondent +at the sight of the grave. He saw beyond it the glorious sunshine +of God's presence and the cheering prospect of his love. +The final moment at last came and found him prepared. On the 23d of April, +1886, the soul of Abram J. Ryan, priest and poet, beloved of all who knew him, +passed quietly away, let us hope, from earth to heaven, there to sing +the glorious songs whose melodies are attuned to the harps of angels, +and whose mysterious harmonies ravish with delight the pure souls of the just. +As the setting sun on a calm eve sinks beneath the horizon, +gilding the heavens with its mild yet gorgeous splendor, +so did the grand soul of Father Ryan pass into eternity, +leaving behind the bright light of his genius and virtues -- +the one to illumine the firmament of literature, and the other to serve +as a shining example to men. + +Here the writer would end this imperfect tribute to a truly great character, +did he not wish to remind the reader that he must not regard it +as an entire portrait of the illustrious dead, though he has tried +to present him clothed with some, at least, of the attributes and qualities +which marked him during life. The failure, if such it be, +must be ascribed to his own want of skill and ability +rather than to any lack of merit in the subject. If he has not invested him +with the panoply of his greatness, he has endeavored to strew some flowers +over his grave; and these are love's purest and best offering, +which, were he living, would be most acceptable to the heart of the poet; +for love it was that inspired its tenderest promptings and holiest feelings +and consecrated them to its ennobling influence. + +Another thought, and the writer will bring his remarks to a close. +This thought will be borrowed from the dead priest's poem, "Reunited", +to suggest a sentiment in response to his prayer for a union of all sections +-- a sentiment which cannot fail to meet a ready and generous acceptance +on the part of all true lovers of liberty. The thought is embodied +in the following words, which take the form of an appeal: + +Let all hearts join in the wish that the valor displayed +and the sacrifices endured on both sides during the late civil war +may henceforth unite all sections of our common country more closely +in the bonds of fraternal affection, and cement more firmly +the foundations of our political superstructure, now so vast and imposing, +thus serving as a guaranty for the stability, permanence, +and enduring greatness of the Republic! Thus will we respond +to the prayer of the dead priest, whose poem, the "Lost Cause", +and song of "The Conquered Banner", will mingle harmoniously +with the soft, earnest words and sweet, placid tones +of his peaceful "Reunited". So the songs of the dead poet +will be music to the living until time shall be no more! + + Washington, D.C. + + + + + + +Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous. + + + + + + +Song of the Mystic + + + +I walk down the Valley of Silence -- + Down the dim, voiceless valley -- alone! +And I hear not the fall of a footstep + Around me, save God's and my own; +And the hush of my heart is as holy + As hovers where angels have flown! + +Long ago was I weary of voices + Whose music my heart could not win; +Long ago was I weary of noises + That fretted my soul with their din; +Long ago was I weary of places + Where I met but the human -- and sin. + +I walked in the world with the worldly; + I craved what the world never gave; +And I said: "In the world each Ideal, + That shines like a star on life's wave, +Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, + And sleeps like a dream in a grave." + +And still did I pine for the Perfect, + And still found the False with the True; +I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, + But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: +And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal + Veiled even that glimpse from my view. + +And I toiled on, heart-tired, of the Human, + And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, +Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar + And I heard a voice call me. Since then +I walk down the Valley of Silence + That lies far beyond mortal ken. + +Do you ask what I found in the Valley? + 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. +And I fell at the feet of the Holy, + And above me a voice said: "Be mine." +And there arose from the depths of my spirit + An echo -- "My heart shall be Thine." + +Do you ask how I live in the Valley? + I weep -- and I dream -- and I pray. +But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops + That fall on the roses in May; +And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, + Ascendeth to God night and day. + +In the hush of the Valley of Silence + I dream all the songs that I sing; +And the music floats down the dim Valley, + Till each finds a word for a wing, +That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, + A message of Peace they may bring. + +But far on the deep there are billows + That never shall break on the beach; +And I have heard songs in the Silence + That never shall float into speech; +And I have had dreams in the Valley + Too lofty for language to reach. + +And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley -- + Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! +And they wear holy veils on their faces, + Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; +They pass through the Valley like virgins, + Too pure for the touch of a word! + +Do you ask me the place of the Valley, + Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? +It lieth afar between mountains, + And God and His angels are there: +And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, + And one the bright mountain of Prayer. + + + + +Reverie ["Only a few more years!"] + + + + Only a few more years! + Weary years! + Only a few more tears! + Bitter tears! +And then -- and then -- like other men, + I cease to wander, cease to weep, + Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep; +And out of the day and into the night, +Into the dark and out of the bright + I go, and Death shall veil my face, + The feet of the years shall fast efface + My very name, and every trace +I leave on earth; for the stern years tread -- +Tread out the names of the gone and dead! +And then, ah! then, like other men, + I close my eyes and go to sleep, + Only a few, one hour, shall weep: + Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep! + + Alas! Alas! + How soon we pass! + And ah! we go + So far away; +When go we must, +From the light of Life, and the heat of strife, +To the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust, + We go -- we go -- we may not stay, + We travel the lone, dark, dreary way; +Out of the day and into the night, +Into the darkness, out of the bright. +And then, ah! then, like other men, + We close our eyes and go to sleep; +We hush our hearts and go to sleep; +Only a few, one hour, shall weep: +Ah! me, the grave is lone and deep! + +I saw a flower, at morn, so fair; +I passed at eve, it was not there. + I saw a sunbeam, golden bright, + I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud, + And I saw night + Digging the grave of day; +And day took off her golden crown, +And flung it sorrowfully down. + Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride! + At twilight moaned and died. +And so, alas! like day we pass: + At morn we smile, + At eve we weep, + At morn we wake, + In night we sleep. +We close our eyes and go to sleep: +Ah! me, the grave is still and deep! + + But God is sweet. + My mother told me so, + When I knelt at her feet + Long -- so long -- ago; +She clasped my hands in hers. +Ah! me, that memory stirs + My soul's profoundest deep -- + No wonder that I weep. +She clasped my hands and smiled, +Ah! then I was a child -- + I knew not harm -- + My mother's arm +Was flung around me; and I felt +That when I knelt + To listen to my mother's prayer, + God was with my mother there. + +Yea! "God is sweet!" + She told me so; + She never told me wrong; +And through my years of woe +Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, + And sweet as Angel's song, +Have floated like a dream. + +And, ah! to-night I seem + A very child in my old, old place, + Beneath my mother's blessed face, +And through each sweet remembered word, +This sweetest undertone is heard: + "My child! my child! our God is sweet, + In Life -- in Death -- kneel at his feet -- +Sweet in gladness, sweet in gloom, +Sweeter still beside the tomb." + Why should I wail? Why ought I weep? + The grave -- it is not dark and deep; +Why should I sigh? Why ought I moan? +The grave -- it is not still and lone; + Our God is sweet, our grave is sweet, + We lie there sleeping at His feet, +Where the wicked shall from troubling cease, +And weary hearts shall rest in peace! + + + + +Lines -- 1875 + + + +Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, +And ask of them why do they sigh? +The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, +But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, +And they're sighing to-day, and they'll sigh evermore. +Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; +But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. + +Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, +When the night stars are gleaming on high, +And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, +On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. +They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. +Ask them what ails them: they never reply; +They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. + +Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, +When it passes and murmurs "Good-bye." +The dear little breeze -- how it wishes to stay +Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play; +How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way. +Ask it what ails it: it will not reply; +Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +The breeze will not answer you; neither shall I. + +Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, +When the shout of the storm rends the sky; +They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air +And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, +And they groan like the ghosts in the "land of despair". +Ask them what ails them: they never reply; +Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I. + +Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, +Or list where the rivers rush by; +The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, +And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, +Are moaning forever wherever they glide; +Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. +On -- sad voiced -- they flow, but they never tell why. +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I. + +Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, +And the voices that sound in the sky; +Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me +There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, +And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. +Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. +They sigh -- sigh forever -- but never tell why. +Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? +Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I. + + + + +A Memory + + + +One bright memory shines like a star + In the sky of my spirit forever; +And over my pathway it flashes afar + A radiance that perishes never. + +One bright memory -- only one; + And I walk by the light of its gleaming; +It brightens my days, and when days are done + It shines in the night o'er my dreaming. + +One bright memory, whose golden rays + Illumine the gloom of my sorrows, +And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze + In the shadows of all my to-morrows. + +One bright memory; when I am sad + I lift up my eyes to its shining, +And the clouds pass away, and my spirit grows glad, + And my heart hushes all its repining. + +One bright memory; others have passed + Back into the shadows forever; +But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, + Sheds a light that will pass away never. + +Shine on, shine always, thou star of my days! + And when Death's starless night gathers o'er me, +Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze, + And light the dark valley before me. + + + + +Rhyme + + + + One idle day -- +A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore -- + In a breezeless bay, + We listless lay -- +Our boat a "dream of rest" on the still sea -- + And -- we were four. + + The wind had died +That all day long sang songs unto the deep; + It was eventide, + And far and wide +Sweet silence crept thro' the rifts of sound + With spells of sleep. + + Our gray sail cast +The only cloud that flecked the foamless sea; + And weary at last + Beside the mast +One fell to slumber with a dreamy face, + And -- we were three. + + No ebb! no flow! +No sound! no stir in the wide, wondrous calm; + In the sunset's glow + The shore shelved low +And snow-white, from far ridges screened with shade + Of drooping palm. + + Our hearts were hushed; +All light seemed melting into boundless blue; + But the west was flushed + Where sunset blushed, +Thro' clouds of roses, when another slept + And -- we were two. + + How still the air! +Not e'en a sea-bird o'er us waveward flew; + Peace rested there! + Light everywhere! +Nay! Light! some shadows fell on that fair scene, + And -- we are two. + + Some shadows! Where? +No matter where! all shadows are not seen; + For clouds of care + To skies all fair +Will sudden rise as tears to shining eyes, + And dim their sheen. + + We spake no word, +Tho' each I ween did hear the other's soul. + Not a wavelet stirred, + And yet we heard +The loneliest music of the weariest waves + That ever roll. + + Yea! Peace, you swayed +Your sceptre jeweled with the evening light; + And then you said: + "Here falls no shade, +Here floats no sound, and all the seas and skies + Sleep calm and bright." + + Nay! Peace, not so! +The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's spell + And fear to flow, + But to and fro -- +Beyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas + Will sink and swell. + + No word e'en yet; +Were our eyes speaking while they watched the sky? + And in the sunset + Infinite regret +Swept sighing from the skies into our souls -- + I wonder why? + + A half hour passed -- +'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus. + Words came at last, + Fluttering and fast +As shadows veiling sunsets in the souls + Of each of us. + + The noiseless night +Sped flitting like a ghost where waves of blue + Lost all their light, + As lips once bright +Whence smiles have fled; we or the wavelets sighed, + And -- we were two. + + The day had gone: +And on the dim, high altar of the dark, + Stars, one by one, + Far, faintly shone; +The moonlight trembled, like a mother's smile, + Upon our bark. + + We softly spoke: +The waves seemed listening on the lonely sea, + The winds awoke; + Our whispers broke +The spell of silence; and two eyes unclosed, + And -- we were three. + + "The breeze blows fair," +He said; "the waking waves set towards the shore." + The long brown hair + Of the other there, +Who slumbered near the mast with dreamy face + Stirred -- we were four. + + That starry night, +A mile or so of shadows from the shore, + Two faces bright + With laughter light +Shone on two souls like stars that shine on shrines; + And -- we were four. + + Over the reach +Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew; + We reached the beach, + Nor song, nor speech +Shall ever tell our sacramental thought + When -- we were two. + + + + +Nocturne ["I sit to-night by the firelight,"] + + + +I sit to-night by the firelight, + And I look at the glowing flame, +And I see in the bright red flashes + A Heart, a Face, and a Name. + +How often have I seen pictures + Framed in the firelight's blaze, +Of hearts, of names, and of faces, + And scenes of remembered days! + +How often have I found poems + In the crimson of the coals, +And the swaying flames of the firelight + Unrolled such golden scrolls. + +And my eyes, they were proud to read them, + In letters of living flame, +But to-night, in the fire, I see only + One Heart, one Face, and one Name. + +But where are the olden pictures? + And where are the olden dreams? +Has a change come over my vision? + Or over the fire's bright gleams? + +Not over my vision, surely; + My eyes -- they are still the same, +That used to find in the firelight + So many a face and name. + +Not over the firelight, either, + No change in the coals or blaze +That flicker and flash, as ruddy + To-night as in other days. + +But there must be a change -- I feel it. + To-night not an old picture came; +The fire's bright flames only painted + One Heart, one Face, and one Name. + +Three pictures? No! only one picture; + The Face belongs to the Name, +And the Name names the Heart that is throbbing + Just back of the beautiful flame. + +Who said it, I wonder: "All faces + Must fade in the light of but one; +The soul, like the earth, may have many + Horizons, but only one sun?" + +Who dreamt it? Did I? If I dreamt it + 'Tis true -- every name passes by +Save one; the sun wears many cloudlets + Of gold, but has only one sky. + +And out of the flames have they faded, + The hearts and the faces of yore? +Have they sunk 'neath the gray of the ashes + To rise to my vision no more? + +Yes, surely, or else I would see them + To-night, just as bright as of old, +In the white of the coal's silver flashes, + In the red of the restless flames' gold. + +Do you say I am fickle and faithless? + Else why are the old pictures gone? +And why should the visions of many + Melt into the vision of one? + +Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, + "One Eternal alone reigns above." +Is it true? and all else are but idols, + So the heart can have only one love? + +Only one, all the rest are but idols, + That fall from their shrines soon or late, +When the Love that is Lord of the temple, + Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate. + +To be faithless oft means to be faithful, + To be false often means to be true; +The vale that loves clouds that are golden + Forgets them for skies that are blue. + +To forget often means to remember + What we had forgotten too long; +The fragrance is not the bright flower, + The echo is not the sweet song. + +Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight, + Gaze I ever so long, all the same +I only can see in its glowing + A Heart, a Face, and a Name. + +Farewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces! + Only ashes now under the blaze, +Ye never again will smile on me, + For I'm touching the end of my days. + +And the beautiful fading firelight + Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, +Three pictures -- yet only one picture -- + A Heart, a Face, and a Name. + + + + +The Old Year and the New + + + + How swift they go, + Life's many years, + With their winds of woe + And their storms of tears, +And their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes +Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, +And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom +The clouds of the tempest -- the shadows of the gloom! + + And ah! we pray + With a grief so drear, + That the years may stay + When their graves are near; +Tho' the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright, +With love and with beauty, with life and with light, +The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, +To the hearts that survive them, are evermore dear. + + For the hearts so true + To each Old Year cleaves; + Tho' the hand of the New + Flowery garlands weaves. +But the flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair, +With the past's withered leaflets may never compare; +For dear is each dead leaf -- and dearer each thorn -- +In the wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn. + + Yea! men will cling + With a love to the last, + And wildly fling + Their arms round their past! +As the vine that clings to the oak that falls; +As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls; +For the dust of the past some hearts higher prize +Than the stars that flash out from the future's bright skies. + + And why not so? + The old, Old Years, + They knew and they know + All our hopes and fears; +We walked by their side, and we told them each grief, +And they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief; +And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed +In the hearts of the dead years are buried and sealed. + + Let the New Year sing + At the Old Year's grave: + Will the New Year bring + What the Old Year gave? +Ah! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows, +And his brow is wreathed with many a rose: +But how many thorns do the roses conceal +Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal? + + Let the New Year smile + When the Old Year dies; + In how short a while + Shall the smiles be sighs? +Yea! Stranger-Year, thou hast many a charm, +And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, +But, dearer than thou -- in his shroud of snows -- +Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes. + + Yea! bright New Year, + O'er all the earth, + With song and cheer, + They will hail thy birth; +They will trust thy words in a single hour, +They will love thy face, they will laud thy power; +For the ~New~ has charms which the ~Old~ has not, +And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot. + + + + +Erin's Flag + + + +Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! +Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! +Lift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore, +When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore +That never! no, never! while God gave them life, +And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, +That never! no, never! that banner should yield +As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield: +While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield +And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. + +Lift it up! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of old! +Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, +Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years +Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears! +Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, +And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. +Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, +There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky, +'Tis the sunburst resplendent -- far, flashing on high! +Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh! + +Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green! +The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; +What though the tyrant has trampled it down, +Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? +What though for ages it droops in the dust, +Shall it droop thus forever? No, no! God is just! +Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, +Let him tear the Green Flag -- we will snatch its last shred, +And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, +And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, +And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, +And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, +And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, +Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread; +And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, +And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, +That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; +That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, +'Til the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead +Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said -- +That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red! + +Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home, +Full long has its lot been to wander and roam, +It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, +But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; +Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, +It has flitted and fled -- but it never shall rest, +'Til, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, +And speeds to the shores of its old home again, +Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain +Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. + +Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar! +That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war; +Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, +And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, +And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth +To join in the march to the land of their birth; +And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, +Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, +They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, +They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home!" + + + + +The Sword of Robert Lee + + + +Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, + Flashed the sword of Lee! +Far in the front of the deadly fight, +High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, +Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, + Led us to Victory! + +Out of its scabbard, where, full long, + It slumbered peacefully, +Roused from its rest by the battle's song, +Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, +Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, + Gleamed the sword of Lee! + +Forth from its scabbard, high in air + Beneath Virginia's sky -- +And they who saw it gleaming there, +And knew who bore it, knelt to swear +That where that sword led they would dare + To follow -- and to die! + +Out of its scabbard! Never hand + Waved sword from stain as free, +Nor purer sword led braver band, +Nor braver bled for a brighter land, +Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, + Nor cause a chief like Lee! + +Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed + That sword might victor be; +And when our triumph was delayed, +And many a heart grew sore afraid, +We still hoped on while gleamed the blade + Of noble Robert Lee! + +Forth from its scabbard all in vain + Bright flashed the sword of Lee; +'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, +It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, +Defeated, yet without a stain, + Proudly and peacefully! + + + + +Life + + + +A baby played with the surplice sleeve + Of a gentle priest; while in accents low, +The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe," + And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow +In the name of the Father, and the Son, +And Holy Spirit -- Three in One. + +Spotless as a lily's leaf, + Whiter than the Christmas snow; +Not a sign of sin or grief, + And the babe laughed, sweet and low. + +A smile flitted over the baby's face: + Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing +Just passing then, and leaving a trace + Of its presence as it soared to sing? +A hymn when words and waters win +To grace and life a child of sin. + +Not an outward sign or token, + That a child was saved from woe; +But the bonds of sin were broken, + And the babe laughed, sweet and low. + +A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, + And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast; +Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, + Out of the future, or the past? +Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, +And gall must mingle with the sweet. + +Yea, upon the baby's laughter + Trickled tears: 'tis ever so -- +Mothers dread the dark hereafter; + But the babe laughed sweet and low. + +And the years like waves broke on the shore + Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life; +But her lone heart drifted away before + Her little boy knew an hour of strife; +Drifted away on a Summer's eve, +Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve + +Her humble grave was gently made + Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow; +The wild birds sang where her heart was laid, + And her boy laughed sweet and low. + +He drifted away from his mother's grave, + Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide, +Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, + That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. +Out from the shore and over the deep, +He sailed away and learned to weep. + +Furrowed grew the face once fair, + Under storms of human woe; +Silvered grew the dark brown hair, + And he wailed so sad and low. + +The years swept on as erst they swept, + Bright wavelets once, dark billows now; +Wherever he sailed he ever wept, + A cloud hung over the darkened brow -- +Over the deep and into the dark, +But no one knew where sank his bark. + +Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, + The world still laughed, 'tis ever so -- +God only knows the baby's doom, + That laughed so sweet and low. + + + + +A Laugh -- and A Moan + + + +The brook that down the valley + So musically drips, +Flowed never half so brightly + As the light laugh from her lips. + +Her face was like the lily, + Her heart was like the rose, +Her eyes were like a heaven + Where the sunlight always glows. + +She trod the earth so lightly + Her feet touched not a thorn; +Her words wore all the brightness + Of a young life's happy morn. + +Along her laughter rippled + The melody of joy; +She drank from every chalice, + And tasted no alloy. + +Her life was all a laughter, + Her days were all a smile, +Her heart was pure and happy, + She knew not gloom nor guile. + +She rested on the bosom + Of her mother, like a flower +That blooms far in a valley + Where no storm-clouds ever lower. + +And -- "Merry, merry, merry!" + Rang the bells of every hour, +And -- "Happy, happy, happy!" + In her valley laughed the flower. + +There was not a sign of shadow, + There was not a tear nor thorn, +And the sweet voice of her laughter + Filled with melody the morn. + + * * * * * + +Years passed -- 'twas long, long after, + And I saw a face at prayer; +There was not a sign of laughter, + There was every sign of care. + +For the sunshine all had faded + From the valley and the flower, +And the once fair face was shaded + In life's lonely evening hour. + +And the lips that smiled with laughter + In the valley of the morn, +In the valley of the evening + They were pale and sorrow-worn. + +And I read the old, old lesson + In her face and in her tears, +While she sighed amid the shadows + Of the sunset of her years. + +All the rippling streams of laughter + From our hearts and lips that flow, +Shall be frozen, cold years after, + Into icicles of woe. + + + + +In Memory of My Brother + + + +Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, + True as the truest that wore it, +Brave as the bravest he marched away, +(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay) +Triumphant waved our flag one day -- + He fell in the front before it. + +Firm as the firmest, where duty led, + He hurried without a falter; +Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, +And the day was won -- but the field was red -- +And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed + On his country's hallowed altar. + +On the trampled breast of the battle plain + Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, +On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain, +(His mother dreams they will meet again) +The fairest form amid all the slain, + Like a child asleep he nestled. + +In the solemn shades of the wood that swept + The field where his comrades found him, +They buried him there -- and the big tears crept +Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. +(His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept, + Dreaming her arms were around him.) + +A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, + A grave in the heart of his mother -- +His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; +There is not a name, there is not a stone, +And only the voice of the winds maketh moan +O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn + But -- his memory lives in the other. + + + + +"Out of the Depths" + + + + Lost! Lost! Lost! +The cry went up from a sea -- +The waves were wild with an awful wrath, +Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; + The clouds hung low: + Lost! Lost! Lost! +Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed. + + Lost! Lost! Lost! +The cry floated over the waves -- +Far over the pitiless waves; +It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; +The billows below them were weaving white shrouds + Out of the foam of the surge, + And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: + Lost! Lost! Lost! +Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. + + Lost! Lost! Lost! +Not the sign of a hope was nigh, +In the sea, in the air, or the sky; +And the lifted faces were wan and white, +There was nothing without them but storm and night + And nothing within but fear. + But far to a Father's ear: + Lost! Lost! Lost! +Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. + + Lost! Lost! Lost! +Out of the depths of the sea -- +Out of the night and the sea; +And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed, +And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed. + Saved! Saved! Saved! + And a calm and a joyous cry + Floated up through the starry sky, +In the dark -- in the storm -- "Our Father" is nigh. + + + + +A Thought + + + +The summer rose the sun has flushed + With crimson glory may be sweet; +'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed + Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet. + +The rose that waves upon its tree, + In life sheds perfume all around; +More sweet the perfume floats to me + Of roses trampled on the ground. + +The waving rose with every breath + Scents carelessly the summer air; +The wounded rose bleeds forth in death + A sweetness far more rich and rare. + +It is a truth beyond our ken -- + And yet a truth that all may read -- +It is with roses as with men, + The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. + +The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom + Out of a heart all full of grace, +Gave never forth its full perfume + Until the cross became its vase. + + + + +March of the Deathless Dead + + + +Gather the sacred dust + Of the warriors tried and true, +Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust +And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, + And died for me and you. + +Gather them one and all, + From the private to the chief; +Come they from hovel or princely hall, +They fell for us, and for them should fall + The tears of a Nation's grief. + +Gather the corpses strewn + O'er many a battle plain; +From many a grave that lies so lone, +Without a name and without a stone, + Gather the Southern slain. + +We care not whence they came, + Dear in their lifeless clay! +Whether unknown, or known to fame, +Their cause and country still the same; + They died -- and wore the Gray. + +Wherever the brave have died, + They should not rest apart; +Living, they struggled side by side, +Why should the hand of Death divide + A single heart from heart? + +Gather their scattered clay, + Wherever it may rest; +Just as they marched to the bloody fray, +Just as they fell on the battle day, + Bury them, breast to breast. + +The foeman need not dread + This gathering of the brave; +Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, +We muster once more our deathless dead, + Out of each lonely grave. + +The foeman need not frown, + They all are powerless now; +We gather them here and we lay them down, +And tears and prayers are the only crown + We bring to wreathe each brow. + +And the dead thus meet the dead, + While the living o'er them weep; +And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, +And the hearts that once together bled, + Together still shall sleep. + + + + +Reunited + +[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.] + + + +Purer than thy own white snow, + Nobler than thy mountains' height; +Deeper than the ocean's flow, + Stronger than thy own proud might; +O Northland! to thy sister land, +Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand. + +Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed: + Its mist of green o'er battle plain +For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; + And yet the crimson life-blood stain +From passive swards had never paled, +Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed. + +Between the Northland, bride of snow, + And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, +Swept, deepening ever in its flow, + The stormy wake, in war's dark tide: +No hand might clasp across the tears +And blood and anguish of four deathless years. + +When Summer, like a rose in bloom, + Had blossomed from the bud of Spring, +Oh! who could deem the dews of doom + Upon the blushing lips could cling? +And who could believe its fragrant light +Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight? + +Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, + That e'en from out its brightness spread, +And prostrate, powerless, she fell, + Rachel-like, amid her dead. +Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, +The waiting grave would welcome as its guest. + +The Northland, strong in love, and great, + Forgot the stormy days of strife; +Forgot that souls with dreams of hate + Or unforgiveness e'er were rife. +Forgotten was each thought and hushed; +Save -- she was generous and her foe was crushed. + +No hand might clasp, from land to land; + Yea! there was one to bridge the tide! +For at the touch of Mercy's hand + The North and South stood side by side: +The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, +In Charity's espousals are made one. + +"Thou givest back my sons again," + The Southland to the Northland cries; +"For all my dead, on battle plain, + Thou biddest my dying now uprise: +I still my sobs, I cease my tears, +And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. + +"Blessings on thine every wave, + Blessings on thine every shore, +Blessings that from sorrow save, + Blessings giving more and more, +For all thou gavest thy sister land, +O Northland, in thy generous deed and grand." + + + + +A Memory + + + +Adown the valley dripped a stream, + White lilies drooped on either side; +Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream + In such a place at eventide. + +Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue + That well became the valley fair, +And grassy fringe of greenest hue + Hung round its borders everywhere. + +And where the stream, in wayward whirls, + Went winding in and winding out, +Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls + Without their pride, all strewn about. + +And here and there along the strand, + Where some ambitious wave had strayed, +Rose little monuments of sand + As frail as those by mortals made. + +And many a flower was blooming there + In beauty, yet without a name, +Like humble hearts that often bear + The gifts, but not the palm of fame. + +The rainbow's tints could never vie + With all the colors that they wore; +While bluer than the bluest sky + The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore. + +And on the height, and down the side + Of either hill that hid the place, +Rose elms in all the stately pride + Of youthful strength and ancient race. + +While here and there the trees between -- + Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, +And frowning wrathful -- might be seen + The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. + +And round the rocks crept flowered vines, + And clomb the trees that towered high -- +The type of a lofty thought that twines + Around a truth -- to touch the sky. + +And to that vale, from first of May + Until the last of August went, +Beauty, the exile, came each day + In all her charms, to cast her tent. + +'Twas there, one long-gone August day, + I wandered down the valley fair: +The spell has never passed away + That fell upon my spirit there. + +The summer sunset glorified + The clouded face of dying day, +Which flung a smile upon the tide + And lilies, ere he passed away. + +And o'er the valley's grassy slopes + There fell an evanescent sheen, +That flashed and faded, like the hopes + That haunt us of what might have been. + +And rock and tree flung back the light + Of all the sunset's golden gems, +As if it were beneath their right + To wear such borrowed diadems. + +Low in the west gleam after gleam + Glowed faint and fainter, till the last +Made the dying day a living dream, + To last as long as life shall last. + +And in the arches of the trees + The wild birds slept with folded wing; +And e'en the lips of the summer breeze + That sang all day, had ceased to sing. + +And all was silent, save the rill + That rippled round the lilies' feet, +And sang, while stillness grew more still + To listen to the murmur sweet. + +And now and then it surely seemed + The little stream was laughing low, +As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed + Such dreams as only children know. + +So still that not the faintest breath + Did stir the shadows in the air; +It would have seemed the home of Death, + Had I not felt Life sleeping there. + +And slow and soft, and soft and slow, + From darkling earth and darkened sky +Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro, + And spectral shadows flitted by. + +And then, methought, upon the sward + I saw -- or was it starlight's ray? +Or angels come to watch and guard + The valley till the dawn of day? + +Is every lower life the ward + Of spirits more divinely wrought? +'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard + To think 'tis but a poet's thought. + +But God's or poet's thought, I ween, + My senses did not fail me when +I saw veiled angels watch that scene + And guard its sleep, as they guard men. + +Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed, + As sorrow sings a heart to sleep; +As a mother sings one child to rest, + And for the dead one still will weep. + +I walked adown the singing stream, + The lilies slept on either side; +My heart -- it could not help but dream + At eve, and after eventide. + +Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach + With more than earthly fancies fraught, +That not the strongest wings of speech + Could ever touch their lowest thought. + +Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far -- + Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue -- +That swept around, as sweeps a star + The boundless orbit of the True. + +Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, + Where human passion played no part, +As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, + Or hunt an archangelic heart. + +Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense, + And rose too high to stoop to it, +And framed aloft like frankincense + In censers round the infinite. + +Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight! + And, soaring, bore my heart away +Beyond the far star-bounds of night, + Unto the everlasting day. + +How long I strolled beside the stream + I do not know, nor may I say; +But when the poet ceased to dream + The priest went on his knees to pray. + +I felt as sure a seraph feels + When in some golden hour of grace +God smiles, and suddenly reveals + A new, strange glory in His face. + +Ah! starlit valley! Lilies white! + The poet dreamed -- ye slumbered deep! +But when the priest knelt down that night + And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep? + + * * * * * + +The stream sang down the valley fair, + I saw the wakened lilies nod, +I knew they heard me whisper there, + "How beautiful art Thou, my God!" + + + + +At Last + + + +Into a temple vast and dim, +Solemn and vast and dim, +Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn + Was floating far away, +With eyes that tabernacled tears -- +Her heart the home of tears -- +And cheeks wan with the woes of years, + A woman went one day. + +And, one by one, adown the aisles, +Adown the long, lone aisles, +Their faces bright with holy smiles + That follow after prayer, +The worshipers in silence passed, +In silence slowly passed away; +The woman knelt until the last + Had left her lonely there. + +A holy hush came o'er the place, +O'er the holy place, +The shadows kissed her woe-worn face, + Her forehead touched the floor; +The wreck that drifted thro' the years -- +Sin-driven thro' the years -- +Was floating o'er the tide of tears, + To Mercy's golden shore. + +Her lips were sealed, they could not pray, +They sighed, but could not pray, +All words of prayer had died away + From them long years ago; +But ah! from out her eyes there rose -- +Sad from her eyes there rose -- +The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes + To Heaven -- winged with woe. + +With weary tears, her weary eyes, +Her joyless, weary eyes, +Wailed forth a rosary; and her sighs + And sobs strung all the beads; +The while before her spirit's gaze -- +Her contrite spirit's gaze -- +Moved all the mysteries of her days, + And histories of her deeds. + +Still as a shadow, while she wept, +So desolately wept, +Up thro' the long, lone aisle she crept + Unto an altar fair; +"Mother!" -- her pale lips said no more -- +Could say no more -- +The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore, + For Mary's shrine was there. + + + + +A Land without Ruins + + "A land without ruins is a land without memories -- + a land without memories is a land without history. + A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see; + but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land, + and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely + in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart + and of history. Crowns of roses fade -- crowns of thorns endure. + Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity -- + the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are forgotten -- + the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations." + + + +Yes give me the land where the ruins are spread, +And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead; +Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, +And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. +Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast +Has flashed to the future the fame of the past; +Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays +That tell of the memories of long vanished days; +Yes, give me a land that hath story and song! +Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! +Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot, +And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; +Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb; +There is grandeur in graves -- there is glory in gloom; +For out of the gloom future brightness is born, +As after the night comes the sunrise of morn; +And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown +May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, +And each single wreck in the war path of might +Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right. + + + + +Memories + + + +They come, as the breeze comes over the foam, + Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep -- +The fairest of memories from far-away home, + The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep. + +They come as the stars come out in the sky, + That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep, +And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh + And I welcome them all while I wearily weep. + +They come as a song comes out of the past + A loved mother murmured in days that are dead, +Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last, + When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head. + +They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves, + And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way; +And they murmur around us as murmur the waves + That sigh on the shore at the dying of day. + +They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright; + They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale; +They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night; + They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale. + +There is not a heart that is not haunted so, + Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past, +Its memories will follow wherever we go, + And the days that were first sway the days that are last. + + + + +The Prayer of the South + + + +My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! + My face is wan and white with many woes! +But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, + And for my children pray, and for my foes. +Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie + I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, +I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, + And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done! + +My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast! + My hopes are buried with my children's dust! +My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! + In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? +Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, + When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; +But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, + And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee. + +Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path + I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone, +I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, + And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done! +Pity me, Father of the desolate! + Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; +Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, + And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care. + +Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, + Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, +That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break, + Might go to His and find a sure relief. +Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse? + Or is it night with no to-morrow's sun? +O Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, + And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done. + +My homes are joyless, and a million mourn + Where many met in joys forever flown; +Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn, + Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. +And ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries, + Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; +And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs + Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee. + +Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead -- + Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one! +Above their dust I bow my crownless head + And murmur: Father, still Thy will be done. +Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land + With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair; +But foeman came, and with a ruthless hand, + Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there. + +Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, + And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod, +And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, + To catch one smile of pity from my God. +Around me blight, where all before was bloom, + And so much lost, alas! and nothing won +Save this -- that I can lean on wreck and tomb + And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be done. + +And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet; + The words are bitter, but they hold a balm -- +A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, + And lulls my sorrow into holy calm. +It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings, + When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me! +When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings + Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane? + +My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; + Alas! their hearts have only place for tears! +Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed, + And every sin of those four bloody years; +And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, + And from their hearts take every thought of hate; +And while they climb their Calvary with their cross, + Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight. + +And for my dead, my Father, may I pray? + Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more! +I keep eternal watch above their clay; + Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore; +Forgive my foes -- they know not what they do -- + Forgive them all the tears they made me shed; +Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, + And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead. + +Oh! may my woes be each a carrier dove, + With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears, +Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, + And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. +Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave -- + A desert waste, where all was erst so fair -- +And for my children and my foes I crave + Pity and pardon. Father, hear my prayer! + + + + +Feast of the Assumption + +"A Night Prayer" + + + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +The sun is set; the day is dead: + Thy Feast has fled; +My eyes are wet with tears unshed; + I bow my head; +Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway + I bend my knee, +And, like a homesick child, I pray, + Mary, to thee. + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +And, all the day -- since white-robed priest + In farthest East, +In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast, + I -- I the least -- +Thy least, and last, and lowest child, + I called on thee! +Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild; + Didst think of me? + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +Alas! and no! The angels bright, + With wings as white +As a dream of snow in love and light, + Flashed on thy sight; +They shone like stars around thee, Queen! + I knelt afar -- +A shadow only dims the scene + Where shines a star! + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +And all day long, beyond the sky, + Sweet, pure, and high, +The angel's song swept sounding by + Triumphantly; +And when such music filled thy ear, + Rose round thy throne, +How could I hope that thou wouldst hear + My far, faint moan? + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +And all day long, where altars stand, + Or poor or grand, +A countless throng from every land, + With lifted hand, +Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale + In glad acclaim; +How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail + Thy sweet, pure name? + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear + Nor bend thy ear, +To prayer of woe as mine so drear; + For hearts more dear +Hid me from hearing and from sight + This bright Feast-day; +Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night + I kneel and pray? + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +The sun is set, the day is dead; + Thy Feast hath fled; +My eyes are wet with the tears I shed; + I bow my head; +Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen, + All day; ah! be +To-night what thou hast ever been -- + A mother to me! + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +Thy queenly crown in angels' sight + Is fair and bright; +Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night + Its jeweled light +Shines not as the tender love-light shines, + O Mary! mild, +In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines + For poor, lost child! + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway + Fore'er and aye +In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray + Lay it away. +Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above + Where angels are; +But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love + Thy child afar! + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer + My poor lips dare? +Yea! be to all a Queen most fair, + Crown, sceptre, bear! +But look on me with a mother's eyes + From heaven's bliss; +And waft to me from the starry skies + A mother's kiss! + + Dark! Dark! Dark! +The sun is set; the day is dead; + Her Feast has fled; +Can she forget the sweet blood shed, + The last words said +That evening -- "Woman! behold thy Son! + Oh! priceless right, +Of all His children! The last, least one, + Is heard to-night. + + + + +Sursum Corda + + + +Weary hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, +Ye are wand'ring in the shadows -- ye are sighing for a rest: +There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below, +And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. + Weary hearts! God is Rest. + +Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief; +Ye are pining for repose -- ye are longing for relief: +What the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God above, +And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you lean upon His love. + Lonely hearts! God is Love. + +Restless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, +And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way: +Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toilings all shall cease, +And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for peace. + Restless hearts! God is Peace. + +Breaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and lone, +And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan! +In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy, +And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy. + Broken hearts! God is Joy. + +Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years, +Ye are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet with tears; +In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, +Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur, "Where is home?" + Homeless hearts! God is Home. + + + + +A Child's Wish + +Before an Altar + + + +I wish I were the little key + That locks Love's Captive in, +And lets Him out to go and free + A sinful heart from sin. + +I wish I were the little bell + That tinkles for the Host, +When God comes down each day to dwell + With hearts He loves the most. + +I wish I were the chalice fair, + That holds the Blood of Love, +When every flash lights holy prayer + Upon its way above. + +I wish I were the little flower + So near the Host's sweet face, +Or like the light that half an hour + Burns on the shrine of grace. + +I wish I were the altar where, + As on His mother's breast, +Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er + In Eucharistic rest. + +But, oh! my God, I wish the most + That my poor heart may be +A home all holy for each Host + That comes in love to me. + + + + +Presentiment + +"My Sister" + + + +Cometh a voice from a far-land! + Beautiful, sad, and low; +Shineth a light from the star-land! + Down on the night of my woe; +And a white hand, with a garland, + Biddeth my spirit to go. + +Away and afar from the night-land, + Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, +To the splendors and skies of the light-land, + Where reigneth eternity's day; +To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, + Whose sun never passeth away. + +And I knew the voice; not a sweeter + On earth or in Heaven can be; +And never did shadow pass fleeter + Than it and its strange melody; +And I know I must hasten to meet her, + "Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!" + +And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, + It flashed from the crown that she wore, +And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, + My lips had kissed often of yore! +And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, + Had smiled on me sweetly before. + +And I saw the hand with the garland, + Ethel's hand -- holy and fair; +Who went long ago to the far-land + To weave me the wreath I shall wear; +And to-night I look up to the star-land, + And pray that I soon may be there. + + + + +Last of May + +To the Children of Mary of the Cathedral of Mobile + + + +In the mystical dim of the temple, + In the dream-haunted dim of the day, +The sunlight spoke soft to the shadows, + And said: "With my gold and your gray, +Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin, + And ere her fair feast pass away, +Let us weave there a mantle of glory, + To deck the last evening of May." + +The tapers were lit on the altar, + With garlands of lilies between; +And the steps leading up to the statue + Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen; +The sun-gleams came down from the heavens + Like angels, to hallow the scene, +And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows + That crept to the shrine of the Queen. + +The singers, their hearts in their voices, + Had chanted the anthems of old, +And the last trembling wave of the Vespers + On the far shores of silence had rolled. +And there -- at the Queen-Virgin's altar -- + The sun wove the mantle of gold +While the hands of the twilight were weaving + A fringe for the flash of each fold. + +And wavelessly, in the deep silence, + Three banners hung peaceful and low -- +They bore the bright blue of the heavens, + They wore the pure white of the snow +And beneath them fair children were kneeling, + Whose faces, with graces aglow, +Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful, + And woeless, in life full of woe. + +Their heads wore the veil of the lily, + Their brows wore the wreath of the rose, +And their hearts like their flutterless banners, + Were stilled in a holy repose. +Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, + Whose glad gaze would never disclose +That from eyes that are most like the heavens + The dark rain of tears soonest flows. + +The banners were borne to the railing, + Beneath them, a group from each band; +And they bent their bright folds for the blessing + That fell from the priest's lifted hand. +And he signed the three fair, silken standards, + With a sign never foe could withstand. +What stirred them? The breeze of the evening? + Or a breath from the far angel-land? + +Then came, two by two, to the altar, + The young, and the pure, and the fair, +Their faces the mirror of Heaven, + Their hands folded meekly in prayer; +They came for a simple blue ribbon, + For love of Christ's Mother to wear; +And I believe, with the Children of Mary, + The Angels of Mary were there. + +Ah, faith! simple faith of the children! + You still shame the faith of the old! +Ah, love! simple love of the little, + You still warm the love of the cold! +And the beautiful God who is wandering + Far out in the world's dreary wold, +Finds a home in the hearts of the children + And a rest with the lambs of the fold. + +Swept a voice: was it wafted from Heaven? + Heard you ever the sea when it sings +Where it sleeps on the shore in the night time? + Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings +From the hearts of a thousand bright summers? + Heard you ever the bird, when she springs +To the clouds, till she seems to be only + A song of a shadow on wings? + +Came a voice: and an "Ave Maria" + Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled; +And in the embrace of its music + The souls of a thousand lay stilled. +A voice with the tones of an angel, + Never flower such a sweetness distilled; +It faded away -- but the temple + With its perfume of worship was filled. + +Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar + The white veils swept on, two by two; +And the holiest halo of heaven + Flashed out from the ribbons of blue; +And they laid down the wreaths of the roses + Whose hearts were as pure as their hue; +Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, + Whose loves to the Mother are true! + +And thus, in the dim of the temple, + In the dream-haunted dim of the day, +The Angels and Children of Mary + Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away, +Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows + And wove with their gold and their gray +A mantle of grace and of glory + For the last lovely evening of May. + + + + +"Gone" + +S. M. A. + + + +Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, + Faces that float into far away; +Gone! and we can only dream of you + Each as you fade like a star away. +Fade as a star in the sky from us, + Vainly we look for your light again; +Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us? + "Come!" and our hearts will be bright again. + +Come! and gaze on our face once more, + Bring us the smiles of the olden days; +Come! and shine in your place once more, + And change the dark into golden days. +Gone! gone! gone! Joy is fled for us; + Gone into the night of the nevermore, +And darkness rests where you shed for us + A light we will miss ~forevermore~. + +Faces! ye come in the night to us; + Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep; +Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us; + Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep. +Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, + Faces that float into the far away; +Gone! and we only can dream of you + Till we sink like you and the stars away. + + + + +Feast of the Sacred Heart + + + +Two lights on a lowly altar; + Two snowy cloths for a Feast; +Two vases of dying roses; + The morning comes from the east, +With a gleam for the folds of the vestments + And a grace for the face of the priest. + +The sound of a low, sweet whisper + Floats over a little bread, +And trembles around a chalice, + And the priest bows down his head! +O'er a sign of white on the altar -- + In the cup -- o'er a sign of red. + +As red as the red of roses, + As white as the white of snows! +But the red is a red of a surface + Beneath which a God's blood flows; +And the white is the white of a sunlight + Within which a God's flesh glows. + +Ah! words of the olden Thursday! + Ye come from the far-away! +Ye bring us the Friday's victim + In His own love's olden way; +In the hand of the priest at the altar + His Heart finds a home each day. + +The sight of a Host uplifted! + The silver-sound of a bell! +The gleam of a golden chalice. + Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well; +He made, and He keeps love's promise, + With thee all days to dwell. + +From his hand to his lips that tremble, + From his lips to his heart a-thrill, +Goes the little Host on its love-path, + Still doing the Father's will; +And over the rim of the chalice + The blood flows forth to fill + +The heart of the man anointed + With the waves of a wondrous grace; +A silence falls on the altar -- + An awe on each bended face -- +For the Heart that bled on Calvary + Still beats in the holy place. + +The priest comes down to the railing + Where brows are bowed in prayer; +In the tender clasp of his fingers + A Host lies pure and fair, +And the hearts of Christ and the Christian + Meet there -- and only there! + +Oh! love that is deep and deathless! + Oh! faith that is strong and grand! +Oh! hope that will shine forever, + O'er the wastes of a weary land! +Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven + In the palm of the priest's pure hand. + + + + +In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne + +Superior General of the Congregation of the Mission +and of the Sisters of Charity. + + + +A shadow slept folded in vestments, + The dream of a smile on its face, +Dim, soft as the gleam after sunset + That hangs like a halo of grace +Where the daylight hath died in the valley, + And the twilight hath taken its place. +A shadow! but still on the mortal + There rested the tremulous trace +Of the joy of a spirit immortal, + Passed up to its God in His grace. + +A shadow! hast seen in the summer + A cloud wear the smile of the sun? +On the shadow of death there is flashing + The glory of noble deeds done; +On the face of the dead there is glowing + The light of a holy race run; +And the smile of the face is reflecting + The gleam of the crown he has won. +Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestments + Unstained by the priest who has gone. + +And thro' all the nations the children + Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss; +But the glory that crowns him in heaven + Illumines the gloom of their cross. +They send to the shadow the tribute + Of tears, from the fountains of love, +And they send from their altars sweet prayers + To the throne of their Father above. + +Yea! sorrow weeps over the shadow, + But faith looks aloft to the skies; +And hope, like a rainbow, is flashing + O'er the tears that rain down from their eyes. +They murmur on earth "De Profundis", + The low chant is mingled with sighs; +"Laudate" rings out through the heavens -- + The dead priest hath won his faith's prize. + +His children in sorrow will honor + His grave; every tear is a gem, +And their prayers round his brow in the heavens + Will brighten his fair diadem. +I kneel at his grave and remember, + In love, I am ~still~ one of them. + + + + +Tears + + + +The tears that trickled down our eyes, + They do not touch the earth to-day; +But soar like angels to the skies, + And, like the angels, may not die; + For ah! our immortality + Flows thro' each tear -- sounds in each sigh. + +What waves of tears surge o'er the deep + Of sorrow in our restless souls! +And they are strong, not weak, who weep + Those drops from out the sea that rolls + Within their hearts forevermore, + Without a depth -- without a shore. + +But ah! the tears that are not wept, + The tears that never outward fall; +The tears that grief for years has kept + Within us -- they are best of all; + The tears our eyes shall never know, + Are dearer than the tears that flow. + +Each night upon earth's flowers below, + The dew comes down from darkest skies, +And every night our tears of woe + Go up like dews to Paradise, + To keep in bloom, and make more fair, + The flowers of crowns we yet shall wear. + +For ah! the surest way to God + Is up the lonely streams of tears, +That flow when bending 'neath His rod, + And fill the tide of earthly years. + On laughter's billows hearts are tossed, + On waves of tears no heart is lost. + +Flow on, ye tears! and bear me home; + Flow not! ye tears of deeper woe; +Flow on, ye tears! that are but foam + Of deeper waves that will not flow. + A little while -- I reach the shore + Where tears flow not forevermore! + + + + +Lines (Two Loves) + + + +Two loves came up a long, wide aisle, + And knelt at a low, white gate; +One -- tender and true, with the shyest smile, + One -- strong, true, and elate. + +Two lips spoke in a firm, true way, + And two lips answered soft and low; +In one true hand such a little hand lay + Fluttering, frail as a flake of snow. + +One stately head bent humbly there, + Stilled were the throbbings of human love; +One head drooped down like a lily fair, + Two prayers went, wing to wing, above. + +God blest them both in the holy place, + A long, brief moment the rite was done; +On the human love fell the heavenly grace, + Making two hearts forever one. + +Between two lengthening rows of smiles, + One sweetly shy, one proud, elate, +Two loves passed down the long, wide aisles, + Will they ever forget the low, white gate? + + + + +The Land We Love + + + +Land of the gentle and brave! + Our love is as wide as thy woe; +It deepens beside every grave + Where the heart of a hero lies low. + +Land of the sunniest skies! + Our love glows the more for thy gloom; +Our hearts, by the saddest of ties, + Cling closest to thee in thy doom. + +Land where the desolate weep + In a sorrow no voice may console! +Our tears are but streams, making deep + The ocean of love in our soul. + +Land where the victor's flag waves, + Where only the dead are free! +Each link of the chain that enslaves + But binds us to them and to thee. + +Land where the Sign of the Cross + Its shadow hath everywhere shed! +We measure our love by thy loss, + Thy loss by the graves of our dead! + + + + +In Memoriam + + + +Go! heart of mine! the way is long -- + The night is dark -- the place is far; +Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song, + Beside two graves where Mary's star + Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest, + With Mary's medals on their breast. + +Go! heart! those children loved you so, + Their little lips prayed oft for you! +But ah! those necks are lying low + Round which you twined the badge of blue. + Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast, + With poet's song and prayer of priest. + +Go! like a pilgrim to a shrine, + For that is holy ground where sleep +Children of Mary and of thine; + Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep; + Last summer how their faces smiled + When each was blessed as Mary's child. + + * * * * * + +My heart is gone! I cannot sing! + Beside those children's grave, song dies; +Hush! Poet! -- Priest! Prayer hath a wing + To pass the stars and reach the skies; + Sweet children! from the land of light + Look down and bless my heart to-night. + + + + +Reverie ["We laugh when our souls are the saddest,"] + + + +We laugh when our souls are the saddest, + We shroud all our griefs in a smile; +Our voices may warble their gladdest, + And our souls mourn in anguish the while. + +And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory, + When winter is wailing beneath; +And we tell not the world the sad story + Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath. + +Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter, + And bright as the brook to the sea +But ah! the dark hours that come after + Of moaning for you and for me. + +Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting + As birds, fly the moments of glee! +And we smile, and mayhap grief is sleeting + Its ice upon you and on me. + +And the clouds of the tempest are shifting + O'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright; +And the snows of woe's winter are drifting + Our souls; and each day hides a night. + +For ah! when our souls are enjoying + The mirth which our faces reveal, +There is something -- a something -- alloying + The sweetness of joy that we feel. + +Life's loveliest sky hides the thunder + Whose bolt in a moment may fall; +And our path may be flowery, but under + The flowers there are thorns for us all. + +Ah! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamings + That flash down the valley of night, +Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming, + And leave us, like eagles in flight; + +And fly far away unreturning, + And leave us in terror and tears, +While vain is the spirit's wild yearning + That they may come back in the years. + +Come back! did I say it? but never + Do eagles come back to the cage: +They have gone -- they have gone -- and forever -- + Does youth come back ever to age? + +No! a joy that has left us in sorrow + Smiles never again on our way, +But we meet in the farthest to-morrow + The face of the grief of to-day. + +The brightness whose tremulous glimmer + Has faded we cannot recall; +And the light that grows dimmer and dimmer -- + When gone -- 'tis forever and all. + +Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, + Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom; +Youth's roses perfume not the fingers + Of age groping nigh to the tomb. + +For "the memory of joy is a sadness" -- + The dim twilight after the day; +And the grave where we bury a gladness + Sends a grief like a ghost, on our way. + +No day shall return that has faded, + The dead come not back from the tomb; +The vale of each life must be shaded, + That we may see best from the gloom. + +The height of the homes of our glory, + All radiant with splendors of light; +That we may read clearly life's story -- + "The dark is the dawn of the bright." + + + + +I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So + + + +Some find work where some find rest, + And so the weary world goes on: +I sometimes wonder which is best; + The answer comes when life is gone. + +Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, + And so the dreary night-hours go; +Some hearts beat where some hearts break; + I often wonder why 'tis so. + +Some wills faint where some wills fight, + Some love the tent, and some the field; +I often wonder who are right -- + The ones who strive, or those who yield? + +Some hands fold where other hands + Are lifted bravely in the strife; +And so thro' ages and thro' lands + Move on the two extremes of life. + +Some feet halt where some feet tread, + In tireless march, a thorny way; +Some struggle on where some have fled; + Some seek when others shun the fray. + +Some swords rust where others clash, + Some fall back where some move on; +Some flags furl where others flash + Until the battle has been won. + +Some sleep on while others keep + The vigils of the true and brave: +They will not rest till roses creep + Around their name above a grave. + + + + +A Blessing + + + +Be you near, or be you far, +Let my blessing, like a star, + Shine upon you everywhere! +And in each lone evening hour, +When the twilight folds the flower, + I will fold thy name in prayer. + +In the dark and in the day, +To my heart you know the way, + Sorrow's pale hand keeps the key; +In your sorrow or your sin +You may always enter in; + I will keep a place for thee. + +If God's blessing pass away +From your spirit; if you stray + From his presence, do not wait. +Come to my heart, for I keep +For the hearts that wail and weep, + Ever opened wide -- a gate. + +In your joys to others go, +When your feet walk ways of woe + Only then come back to me; +I will give you tear for tear, +And our tears shall more endear + Thee to me and me to thee. + +For I make my heart the home +Of all hearts in grief that come + Seeking refuge and a rest. +Do not fear me, for you know, +Be your footsteps e'er so low, + I know yours, of all, the best. + +Once you came; and you brought sin; +Did not my hand lead you in -- + Into God's heart, thro' my own? +Did not my voice speak a word +You, for years, had never heard -- + Mystic word in Mercy's tone? + +And a grace fell on your brow, +And I heard your murmured vow, + When I whispered: "Go in peace." +"Go in peace, and sin no more," +Did you not touch Mercy's shore, + Did not sin's wild tempest cease? + +Go! then: thou art good and pure! +If thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure, + Back to me thy footsteps trace! +In my heart for year and year, +Be thou far away or near, + I shall keep for thee a place. + +Yes! I bless you -- near or far -- +And my blessing, like a star, + Shall shine on you everywhere; +And in many a holy hour, +As the sunshine folds the flower, + I will fold thy heart in prayer. + + + + +July 9th, 1872 + + + +Between two pillared clouds of gold + The beautiful gates of evening swung -- +And far and wide from flashing fold + The half-furled banners of light, that hung + O'er green of wood and gray of wold + And over the blue where the river rolled, + The fading gleams of their glory flung. + +The sky wore not a frown all day + To mar the smile of the morning tide; +The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay -- + You never would think they had ever sighed; + The stream went on its sunlit way + In ripples of laughter; happy they + As the hearts that met at Riverside. + +No cloudlet in the sky serene! + Not a silver speck in the golden hue! +But where the woods waved low and green, + And seldom would let the sunlight through, + Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen, + The faces of children might be seen, + And the flash of ribbons of blue. + +It was a children's simple feast, + Yet many were there whose faces told +How far they are from childhood's East + Who have reached the evening of the old! + And father -- mother -- sister -- priest -- + They seemed all day like the very least + Of the little children of the fold. + +The old forgot they were not young, + The young forgot they would e'er be old, +And all day long the trees among, + Where'er their footsteps stayed or strolled, + Came wittiest word from tireless tongue, + And the merriest peals of laughter rung + Where the woods drooped low and the river rolled. + +No cloud upon the faces there, + Not a sorrow came from its hiding place +To cast the shadow of a care + On the fair, sweet brows in that fairest place + For in the sky and in the air, + And in their spirits, and everywhere, + Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace. + +The day was long, but ah! too brief! + Swift to the West bright-winged she fled; +Too soon on ev'ry look and leaf + The last rays flushed which her plumage shed + From an evening cloud -- was it a sign of grief? + And the bright day passed -- is there much relief + That its dream dies not when its gleam is dead? + +Great sky, thou art a prophet still! + And by thy shadows and by thy rays +We read the future if we will, + And all the fates of our future ways; + To-morrows meet us in vale and hill, + And under the trees, and by the rill, + Thou givest the sign of our coming days. + +That evening cloud was a sign, I ween -- + For the sister of that summer day +Shall come next year to the selfsame scene; + The winds will sing the selfsame lay; +The selfsame woods will wave as green, +And Riverside, thy skies serene +Shall robe thee again in a golden sheen; +Yet though thy shadows may weave a screen +Where the children's faces may be seen, +Thou ne'er shall be as thou hast been, + For a face they loved has passed away. + + + + +Wake Me a Song + + + +Out of the silences wake me a song, + Beautiful, sad, and soft, and low; +Let the loveliest music sound along, + And wing each note with a wail of woe: + Dim and drear + As hope's last tear; +Out of the silences wake me a hymn, +Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. + +Out of the stillness in your heart -- + A thousand songs are sleeping there -- +Wake me a song, thou child of art! + The song of a hope in a last despair: + Dark and low, + A chant of woe; +Out of the stillness, tone by tone, +Cold as a snowflake, low as a moan. + +Out of the darkness flash me a song, + Brightly dark and darkly bright; +Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along + The mystical shadows of the night: + Sing it sweet; +Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim, +And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn. + + + + +In Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.) + + + +Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping + In thy lonely battle grave; +Shadows o'er the past are creeping, +Death, the reaper, still is reaping, +Years have swept, and years are sweeping +Many a memory from my keeping, +But I'm waiting still, and weeping + For my beautiful and brave. + +When the battle songs were chanted, + And war's stirring tocsin pealed, +By those songs thy heart was haunted, +And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, +Clamored wildly -- wildly panted: +"Mother! let my wish be granted; +I will ne'er be mocked and taunted +That I fear to meet our vaunted + Foemen on the bloody field. + +"They are thronging, mother! thronging, + To a thousand fields of fame; +Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging +God and thee to crush this longing; +On the muster-roll of glory, +In my country's future story, +On the field of battle gory + I must consecrate my name. + +"Mother! gird my sword around me, + Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-bye.'" +In her arms she wildly wound thee, +To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee, +With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, +And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee, +If you fall, I'll know they found thee + Where the bravest love to die." + +At the altar of their nation, + Stood that mother and her son, +He, the victim of oblation, +Panting for his immolation; +She, in priestess' holy station, +Weeping words of consecration, +While God smiled his approbation, +Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, +Cheered the mother's desolation, + When the sacrifice was done. + +Forth, like many a noble other, + Went he, whispering soft and low: +"Good-bye -- pray for me, my mother; +Sister! kiss me -- farewell, brother;" +And he strove his grief to smother. +Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, +And his parting gaze was tearless +Though his heart was lone and cheerless, + Thus from all he loved to go. + +Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing + In the sunny Southern sky: +On, to death and glory dashing, +On, where swords are clanging, clashing, +On, where balls are crushing, crashing, +On, 'mid perils dread, appalling, +On, they're falling, falling, falling. +On, they're growing fewer, fewer, +On, their hearts beat all the truer, + On, on, on, no fear, no falter, + On, though round the battle-altar +There were wounded victims moaning, +There were dying soldiers groaning; +On, right on, death's danger braving, +Warring where their flag was waving, +While Baptismal blood was laving + All that field of death and slaughter; +On, still on; that bloody lava +Made them braver and made them braver, +On, with never a halt or waver, +On in battle -- bleeding -- bounding, +While the glorious shout swept sounding, + "We will win the day or die!" + +And they won it; routed -- riven -- + Reeled the foemen's proud array: +They had struggled hard, and striven, +Blood in torrents they had given, +But their ranks, dispersed and driven, + Fled, in sullenness, away. + +Many a heart was lonely lying + That would never throb again; +Some were dead, and some were dying; +Those were silent, these were sighing; +Thus to die alone, unattended, +Unbewept and unbefriended, + On that bloody battle-plain. + +When the twilight sadly, slowly + Wrapped its mantle o'er them all, +Thousands, thousands lying lowly, +Hushed in silence deep and holy, +There was one, his blood was flowing +And his last of life was going, + +And his pulse faint, fainter beating +Told his hours were few and fleeting; +And his brow grew white and whiter, +While his eyes grew strangely brighter; +There he lay -- like infant dreaming, +With his sword beside him gleaming, +For the hand in life that grasped it, +True in death still fondly clasped it; +There his comrades found him lying +'Mid the heaps of dead and dying, +And the sternest bent down weeping +O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping: +'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, +And they told us how they found him + Where the bravest love to fall. + +Where the woods, like banners bending, + Drooped in starlight and in gloom, +There, when that sad night was ending, +And the faint, far dawn was blending +With the stars now fast descending; +There they mute and mournful bore him, +With the stars and shadows o'er him, +And they laid him down -- so tender -- +And the next day's sun, in splendor, + Flashed above my brother's tomb. + + + + +What? (To Ethel) + + + +At the golden gates of the visions + I knelt me adown one day; +But sudden my prayer was a silence, + For I heard from the "Far away" +The murmur of many voices + And a silvery censer's sway. + +I bowed in awe, and I listened -- + The deeps of my soul were stirred, +But deepest of all was the meaning + Of the far-off music I heard, +And yet it was stiller than silence, + Its notes were the "Dream of a Word". + +A word that is whispered in heaven, + But cannot be heard below; +It lives on the lips of the angels + Where'er their pure wings glow; +Yet only the "Dream of its Echo" + Ever reaches this valley of woe. + +But I know the word and its meaning; + I reached to its height that day, +When prayer sank into a silence + And my heart was so far away; +But I may not murmur the music, + Nor the word may my lips yet say. + +But some day far in the future, + And up from the dust of the dead, +And out of my lips when speechless + The mystical word shall be said, +'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, + When the soul of the bard has fled. + + + + +The Master's Voice + + + +The waves were weary, and they went to sleep; + The winds were hushed; + The starlight flushed +The furrowed face of all the mighty deep. + +The billows yester eve so dark and wild, + Wore strangely now + A calm upon their brow, +Like that which rests upon a cradled child. + +The sky was bright, and every single star, + With gleaming face, + Was in its place, +And looked upon the sea -- so fair and far. + +And all was still -- still as a temple dim, + When low and faint, + As murmurs plaint, +Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn. + +A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark + Slept Mary's Son -- + The only One +Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark. + +His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair + He dreamed of me + On that still sea -- +The stars He made were gleaming through His hair. + +And lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep; + The sky grew dark: + The little bark +Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep. + +The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat; + The bark was tossed: + Shall all be lost? +But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet. + +The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath, + The winds howled on, + All hope seemed gone, +And darker waves surged round the bark's lone path. + +The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep; + He whispered: "Peace! + Winds -- wild waves, cease! +Be still!" The tempest fled -- the ocean fell asleep. + +And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed, + When life's lone bark + Drifts through the dark +And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost, + +He now, as then, with words of power and peace, + Murmurs: "Stormy deep, + Be still -- still -- and sleep!" +And lo! a great calm comes -- the tempest's perils cease. + + + + +A "Thought-Flower" + + + +Silently -- shadowly -- some lives go, + And the sound of their voices is all unheard; +Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow + Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. + Deep lives these + As the pearl-strewn seas. + +Softly and noiselessly some feet tread + Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark; +They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead, + As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark. + Sweet lives those + In their strange repose. + +Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, + And none may know that they beat at all; +They muffle their music whenever they meet + A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall. + Great hearts those -- + God only knows! + +Soundlessly -- shadowly -- such move on, + Dim as the dream of a child asleep; +And no one knoweth 'till they are gone + How lofty their souls -- their hearts how deep. + Bright souls these -- + God only sees. + +Lonely and hiddenly in the world -- + Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay -- +The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled + Until they fly from the world away, + And find their rest + On "Our Father's" breast, +Where earth's unknown shall be known the best, +And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest. + + + + +A Death + + + +Crushed with a burden of woe, + Wrecked in the tempest of sin: +Death came, and two lips murmured low, +"Ah! once I was white as the snow, +In the happy and pure long ago; +But they say God is sweet -- is it so? + Will He let a poor wayward one in -- +In where the innocent are? + Ah! justice stands guard at the gate; + Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate? +Alas! I have fallen so far! + Oh, God! Oh, my God! 'tis too late! +I have fallen as falls a lost star: + +"The sky does not miss the gone gleam, +But my heart, like the lost star, can dream +Of the sky it has fall'n from. Nay! +I have wandered too far -- far away. +Oh! would that my mother were here; +Is God like a mother? Has He +Any love for a sinner like me?" + +Her face wore the wildness of woe -- + Her words, the wild tones of despair; +Ah! how can a heart sink so low? + How a face that was once bright and so fair, + Can be furrowed and darkened with care? +Wild rushed the hot tears from her eyes, +From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, +Her poor heart was broken; but then +Her God was far gentler than men. + +A voice whispered low at her side, + "Child! God is more gentle than men, +He watches by passion's dark tide, + He sees a wreck drifting -- and then +He beckons with hand and with voice, + And he sees the poor wreck floating in +To the haven on Mercy's bright shore; +And He whispers the whisper of yore: +`The angels of heaven rejoice + O'er the sinner repenting of sin.'" + + * * * * * + +And a silence came down for a while, + And her lips they were moving in prayer, +And her face it wore just such a smile + As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear, +Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, +Ere the soul of the girl knew the wile, + That had led her to passion's despair. + +Death's shadows crept over her face, + And softened the hard marks of care; +Repentance had won a last grace, + And the Angel of Mercy stood there. + + + + +The Rosary of My Tears + + + +Some reckon their age by years, + Some measure their life by art; +But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, + And their lives by the moans of their heart. + +The dials of earth may show + The length, not the depth, of years, +Few or many they come, few or many they go, + But time is best measured by tears. + +Ah! not by the silver gray + That creeps thro' the sunny hair, +And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, + And not by the furrows the fingers of care + +On forehead and face have made. + Not so do we count our years; +Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade + Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. + +For the young are ofttimes old, + Though their brows be bright and fair; +While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold -- + O'er them the spring -- but winter is there. + +And the old are ofttimes young, + When their hair is thin and white; +And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, + And they laugh, for their cross was light. + +But bead, by bead, I tell + The rosary of my years; +From a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well, + And they're blest with a blessing of tears. + +Better a day of strife + Than a century of sleep; +Give me instead of a long stream of life + The tempests and tears of the deep. + +A thousand joys may foam + On the billows of all the years; +But never the foam brings the lone back home -- + It reaches the haven through tears. + + + + +Death + + + +Out of the shadows of sadness, +Into the sunshine of gladness, + Into the light of the blest; +Out of a land very dreary, +Out of a world very weary, + Into the rapture of rest. + +Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, +Into a blissful to-morrow, + Into a day without gloom; +Out of a land filled with sighing, +Land of the dead and the dying, + Into a land without tomb. + +Out of a life of commotion, +Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, + Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er; +Into a land calm and quiet, +Never a storm cometh nigh it, + Never a wreck on its shore. + +Out of a land in whose bowers +Perish and fade all the flowers: + Out of the land of decay, +Into the Eden where fairest +Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest, + Never shall wither away. + +Out of the world of the wailing +Thronged with the anguished and ailing; + Out of the world of the sad, +Into the world that rejoices -- +World of bright visions and voices -- + Into the world of the glad. + +Out of a life ever mournful, +Out of a land very lornful, + Where in bleak exile we roam, +Into a joy-land above us, +Where there's a Father to love us -- + Into our home -- "Sweet Home". + + + + +What Ails the World? + + + +"What ails the world?" the poet cried; + "And why does death walk everywhere? + And why do tears fall anywhere? + And skies have clouds, and souls have care?" +Thus the poet sang, and sighed. + +For he would fain have all things glad, + All lives happy, all hearts bright; + Not a day would end in night, + Not a wrong would vex a right -- +And so he sang -- and he was sad. + +Thro' his very grandest rhymes + Moved a mournful monotone -- + Like a shadow eastward thrown + From a sunset -- like a moan +Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes. + +"What ails the world?" he sang and asked -- + And asked and sang -- but all in vain; + No answer came to any strain, + And no reply to his refrain -- +The mystery moved 'round him masked. + +"What ails the world?" An echo came -- + "Ails the world?" The minstrel bands, + With famous or forgotten hands, + Lift up their lyres in all the lands, +And chant alike, and ask the same + +From him whose soul first soared in song, + A thousand, thousand years away, + To him who sang but yesterday, + In dying or in deathless lay -- +"What ails the world?" comes from the throng. + +They fain would sing the world to rest; + And so they chant in countless keys, + As many as the waves of seas, + And as the breathings of the breeze, +Yet even when they sing their best -- + +When o'er the list'ning world there floats + Such melody as 'raptures men -- + When all look up entranced -- and when + The song of fame floats forth, e'en then +A discord creepeth through the notes -- + +Their sweetest harps have broken strings, + Their grandest accords have their jars, + Like shadows on the light of stars, + And somehow, something ever mars +The songs the greatest minstrel sings. + +And so each song is incomplete, + And not a rhyme can ever round + Into the chords of perfect sound + The tones of thought that e'er surround +The ways walked by the poet's feet. + +"What ails the world?" he sings and sighs; + No answer cometh to his cry. + He asks the earth and asks the sky -- + The echoes of his song pass by +Unanswered -- and the poet dies. + + + + +A Thought + + + +There never was a valley without a faded flower, + There never was a heaven without some little cloud; +The face of day may flash with light in any morning hour, + But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven shroud. + +There never was a river without its mists of gray, + There never was a forest without its fallen leaf; +And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our way, + When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the face of grief. + +There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck, + There never was an ocean without its moaning wave; +And the golden gleams of glory the summer sky that fleck, + Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure-mantled grave. + +There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear, + Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide; +Hope's brightest robes are 'broidered with the sable fringe of fear, + And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either side. + +The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, + And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head, +And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain, + And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd tear is shed. + +For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, + And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh; +For without the dreary winter there has never been a year, + And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer sky. + +The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the grave; + The mother's song scarce hides the ~De Profundis~ of the priest; +You may cull the fairest roses any May-day ever gave, + But they wither while you wear them ere the ending of your feast. + +So this dreary life is passing -- and we move amid its maze, + And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light; +And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of our ways, + Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly bright. + +And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide, + And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key; +And a cross gleams o'er our pathway -- on it hangs the Crucified, + And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, "Follow Me." + Life is a burden; bear it; + Life is a duty; dare it; + Life is a thorn-crown; wear it, + Though it break your heart in twain; + Though the burden crush you down; + Close your lips, and hide your pain, + First the Cross, and then, the Crown. + + + + +In Rome + + + +At last the dream of youth + Stands fair and bright before me, +The sunshine of the home of truth + Falls tremulously o'er me. + +And tower, and spire, and lofty dome + In brightest skies are gleaming; +Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, + Or am I only dreaming? + +No, 'tis no dream; my very eyes + Gaze on the hill-tops seven; +Where crosses rise and kiss the skies, + And grandly point to Heaven. + +Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side, + Each stone an age's story; +They seem the very ghosts of pride + That watch the grave of glory. + +There senates sat, whose sceptre sought + An empire without limit; +There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought + That death would never dim it. + +There rulers reigned; yon heap of stones + Was once their gorgeous palace; +Beside them now, on altar-thrones, + The priests lift up the chalice. + +There legions marched with bucklers bright, + And lances lifted o'er them; +While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, + Unfurled their wings before them. + +There poets sang, whose deathless name + Is linked to deathless verses; +There heroes hushed with shouts of fame + Their trampled victim's curses. + +There marched the warriors back to home, + Beneath yon crumbling portal, +And placed upon the brow of Rome + The proud crown of immortal. + +There soldiers stood with armor on, + In steel-clad ranks and serried, +The while their red swords flashed upon + The slaves whose rights they buried. + +Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, + And fame would not forsake it, +Until a simple cross of wood + Came from the East to break it. + +That Rome is dead -- here is the grave -- + Dead glory rises never; +And countless crosses o'er it wave, + And will wave on forever. + +Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome + Above the hill-tops seven; +It arches o'er the world from Rome, + And leads the world to Heaven. + +____ +December 6, 1872. + + + + +After Sickness + + + +I nearly died, I almost touched the door +That swings between forever and no more; +I think I heard the awful hinges grate, +Hour after hour, while I did weary wait +Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain: +The door half-opened and then closed again. + +What were my thoughts? I had but one regret -- +That I was doomed to live and linger yet +In this dark valley where the stream of tears +Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. +My lips spake not -- my eyes were dull and dim, +But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn -- +A triumph song of many chords and keys, +Transcending language -- as the summer breeze, +Which, through the forest mystically floats, +Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes. +A song of victory -- a chant of bliss: +Wedded to words, it might have been like this: + + "Come, death! but I am fearless, + I shrink not from your frown; + The eyes you close are tearless; + Haste! strike this frail form down. + Come! there is no dissembling + In this last, solemn hour, + But you'll find my heart untrembling + Before your awful power. + My lips grow pale and paler, + My eyes are strangely dim, + I wail not as a wailer, + I sing a victor's hymn. + My limbs grow cold and colder, + My room is all in gloom; + Bold death! -- but I am bolder -- + Come! lead me to my tomb! + 'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary, + 'Tis still, and lone, and deep; + Haste, death! my eyes are weary, + I want to fall asleep. + + `Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry? + Of time why such a loss? + Dost fear the sign I carry? + 'Tis but a simple cross. + Thou wilt not strike? Then hear me: + Come! strike in any hour, + My heart shall never fear thee + Nor flinch before thy power. + I'll meet thee -- time's dread lictor -- + And my wasted lips shall sing: + `Dread death! I am the victor! + Strong death! where is thy sting?'" + +____ +Milan, January, 1873. + + + + +Old Trees + + + +Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom + There's many a warrior laid, +And many a nameless and lonely tomb + Is sheltered beneath your shade. +Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer + We buried the brave and the true, +We fired a volley and left them there + To rest, old trees, with you. + +Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward + Over each grass-grown bed; +'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard + Over the Southern dead; +Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away + Like the leaves you yearly shed, +But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay, + Old trees, to guard "our dead". + + + + +After Seeing Pius IX + + + +I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief + Who fears not human rage, nor human guile; +Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, + But in that grief the starlight of a smile. +Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell +They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell; +A low voice -- strangely sweet -- whose very tone +Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone. +I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet; +"No, no," he said; and then, in accents sweet, +His blessing fell upon my bended head. +He bade me rise; a few more words he said, +Then took me by the hand -- the while he smiled -- +And, going, whispered: "Pray for me, my child." + + + + +Sentinel Songs + + + +When falls the soldier brave, + Dead at the feet of wrong, +The poet sings and guards his grave + With sentinels of song. + +Songs, march! he gives command, + Keep faithful watch and true; +The living and dead of the conquered land + Have now no guards save you. + +Gray ballads! mark ye well! + Thrice holy is your trust! +Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; + Rest arms! and guard their dust. + +List, songs! your watch is long, + The soldiers' guard was brief; +Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, + Ye may not seek relief. + +Go! wearing the gray of grief! + Go! watch o'er the dead in gray! +Go! guard the private and guard the chief, + And sentinel their clay! + +And the songs, in stately rhyme + And with softly sounding tread, +Go forth, to watch for a time -- a time -- + Where sleep the Deathless Dead. + +And the songs, like funeral dirge, + In music soft and low, +Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge + From hearts that are homes of woe. + +What tho' no sculptured shaft + Immortalize each brave? +What tho' no monument epitaphed + Be built above each grave? + +When marble wears away + And monuments are dust, +The songs that guard our soldiers' clay + Will still fulfil their trust. + +With lifted head and stately tread, + Like stars that guard the skies, +Go watch each bed where rest the dead, + Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. + + * * * * * + +When falls the cause of Right, + The poet grasps his pen, +And in gleaming letters of living light + Transmits the truth to men. + +Go, songs! he says who sings; + Go! tell the world this tale; +Bear it afar on your tireless wings: + The Right will yet prevail. + +Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! + Boom o'er the world and say: +Brave men may die -- Right has no death! + Truth never shall pass away! + +Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs! + Go! sob thro' a people's tears! +Sweep the horizons of all the skies, + And throb through a thousand years! + + * * * * * + +And the songs, with brave, sad face, + Go proudly down their way, +Wailing the loss of a conquered race + And waiting an Easter-day. + +Away! away! like the birds, + They soar in their flight sublime; +And the waving wings of the poet's words + Flash down to the end of time. + +When the flag of justice fails, + Ere its folds have yet been furled, +The poet waves its folds in wails + That flutter o'er the world. + +Songs, march! and in rank by rank + The low, wild verses go, +To watch the graves where the grass is dank, + And the martyrs sleep below. + +Songs! halt where there is no name! + Songs! stay where there is no stone! +And wait till you hear the feet of Fame + Coming to where ye moan. + +And the songs, with lips that mourn, + And with hearts that break in twain +At the beck of the bard -- a hope forlorn -- + Watch the plain where sleep the slain. + + * * * * * + +When the warrior's sword is lowered + Ere its stainless sheen grows dim, +The bard flings forth its dying gleam + On the wings of a deathless hymn. + +Songs, fly far o'er the world + And adown to the end of time: +Let the sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled, + Thro' the sheen of the poet's rhyme. + +Songs! fly as the eagles fly! + The bard unbars the cage; +Go, soar away, and afar and high + Wave your wings o'er every age. + +Shriek shrilly o'er each day, + As futureward ye fly, +That the men were right who wore the gray, + And Right can never die. + +And the songs, with waving wing, + Fly far, float far away +From the ages' crest; o'er the world they fling + The shade of the stainless gray. + +Might! sing your triumph-songs! + Each song but sounds a shame; +Go down the world, in loud-voiced throngs, + To win, from the future, fame. + +Our ballads, born of tears, + Will track you on your way, +And win the hearts of the future years + For the men who wore the gray. + +And so -- say what you will -- + In the heart of God's own laws +I have a faith, and my heart believes still + In the triumph of our cause. + +Such hope may all be vain, + And futile be such trust; +But the weary eyes that weep the slain, + And watch above such dust, + +They cannot help but lift + Their visions to the skies; +They watch the clouds, but wait the rift + Through which their hope shall rise. + +The victor wields the sword: + Its blade may broken be +By a thought that sleeps in a deathless word, + To wake in the years to be. + +We wait a grand-voiced bard, + Who, when he sings, will send +Immortal songs' "Imperial Guard" + The Lost Cause to defend. + +He has not come; he will. + But when he chants, his song +Will stir the world to its depths and thrill + The earth with its tale of wrong. + +The fallen cause still waits -- + Its bard has not come yet. +His sun through one of to-morrow's gates + Shall shine, but never set. + +But when he comes he'll sweep + A harp with tears all stringed, +And the very notes he strikes will weep + As they come from his hand woe-winged. + +Ah! grand shall be his strain, + And his songs shall fill all climes, +And the rebels shall rise and march again + Down the lines of his glorious rhymes. + +And through his verse shall gleam + The swords that flashed in vain, +And the men who wore the gray shall seem + To be marshaling again. + +But hush! between his words + Peer faces sad and pale, +And you hear the sound of broken chords + Beat through the poet's wail. + +Through his verse the orphans cry -- + The terrible undertone -- +And the father's curse and the mother's sigh, + And the desolate young wife's moan. + + * * * * * + +But harps are in every land + That await a voice that sings, +And a master-hand -- but the humblest hand + May gently touch its strings. + +I sing with a voice too low + To be heard beyond to-day, +In minor keys of my people's woe, + But my songs pass away. + +To-morrow hears them not -- + To-morrow belongs to Fame -- +My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, + And forgotten shall be my name. + +And yet who knows? Betimes + The grandest songs depart, +While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes + Will echo from heart to heart. + +But, oh! if in song or speech, + In major or minor key, +My voice could over the ages reach, + I would whisper the name of Lee. + +In the night of our defeat + Star after star had gone, +But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet + Where the star of Lee led on. + +But sudden there came a cloud, + Out rung a nation's knell; +Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud, + All fell when the great Lee fell. + +From his men, with scarce a word, + Silence when great hearts part! +But we know he sheathed his stainless sword + In the wound of a broken heart. + +He fled from Fame; but Fame + Sought him in his retreat, +Demanding for the world one name + Made deathless by defeat. + +Nay, Fame! success is best! + All lost! and nothing won: +North, keep the clouds that flush the West, + We have the sinking sun. + +All lost! but by the graves + Where martyred heroes rest, +He wins the most who honor saves -- + Success is not the test. + +All lost! a nation weeps; + By all the tears that fall, +He loses naught who conscience keeps, + Lee's honor saves us all. + +All lost! but e'en defeat + Hath triumphs of her own, +Wrong's paean hath no note so sweet + As trampled Right's proud moan. + +The world shall yet decide, + In truth's clear, far-off light, +That the soldiers who wore the gray, and died + With Lee, were in the right. + +And men, by time made wise, + Shall in the future see +No name hath risen, or ever shall rise, + Like the name of Robert Lee. + +Ah, me! my words are weak, + This task surpasses me; +Dead soldiers! rise from your graves and speak, + And tell how you loved Lee. + +The banner you bore is furled, + And the gray is faded, too! +But in all the colors that deck the world + Your gray blends not with blue. + +The colors are far apart, + Graves sever them in twain; +The Northern heart and the Southern heart + May beat in peace again; + +But still till time's last day, + Whatever lips may plight, +The blue is blue, but the gray is gray, + Wrong never accords with Right. + +Go, Glory! and forever guard + Our chieftain's hallowed dust; +And Honor! keep eternal ward! + And Fame! be this thy trust! + +Go! with your bright emblazoned scroll + And tell the years to be, +The first of names that flash your roll + Is ours -- great Robert Lee. + +Lee wore the gray! since then + 'Tis Right's and Honor's hue! +He honored it, that man of men, + And wrapped it round the true. + +Dead! but his spirit breathes! + Dead! but his heart is ours! +Dead! but his sunny and sad land wreathes + His crown with tears for flowers. + +A statue for his tomb! + Mould it of marble white! +For Wrong, a spectre of death and doom; + An angel of hope for Right. + +But Lee has a thousand graves + In a thousand hearts, I ween; +And teardrops fall from our eyes in waves + That will keep his memory green. + +Ah! Muse, you dare not claim + A nobler man than he, +Nor nobler man hath less of blame, +Nor blameless man hath purer name, +Nor purer name hath grander fame, + Nor fame -- another Lee. + + + + +Fragments from an Epic Poem + + + + A Mystery + +His face was sad; some shadow must have hung +Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, +Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, +Like cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there -- +A shadow; and his face was always sad. + +His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray +Within them met and blended with the blue, +And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream +They looked beyond you into far-away, +And often drooped; his face was always sad. + +His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim, +As if the edges of a cloud of tears +Had gathered there, and only left a mist +That made them moist and kept them ever moist. +He never wept; his face was always sad. + +I mean, not many saw him ever weep, +And yet he seemed as one who often wept, +Or always, tears that were too proud to flow +In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze -- +Froze down into himself; his face was sad. + +And yet sometimes he smiled -- a sudden smile, +As if some far-gone joy came back again, +Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face +A moment like a light through rifts in clouds, +Which falls upon an unforgotten grave; +He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad. + +And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, +And strange as stories of an unknown land, +And full of meanings as the sea of moans. +At times he was so still that silence seemed +To sentinel his lips; and not a word +Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad. + +But then at times his speech flowed like a stream -- +A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells +Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves +Hung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow +It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, +And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad. + +He had his moods of silence and of speech. +I asked him once the reason, and he said: +"When I speak much, my words are only words, +When I speak least, my words are more than words, +When I speak not, I then reveal myself!" +It was his way of saying things -- he spoke +In quaintest riddles; and his face was sad. + +And, when he wished, he wove around his words +A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled +The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold +Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard +Could soften hardest soul; that he so still +Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad. + +He spoke of death as if it were a toy +For thought to play with; and of life he spoke +As of a toy not worth the play of thought; +And of this world he spoke as captives speak +Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men +As one who found pure gold in each of them. +He spoke of women just as if he dreamed +About his mother; and he spoke of God +As if he walked with Him and knew His heart -- +But he was weary, and his face was sad. + +He had a weary way in all he did, +As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross; +And yet the weary went to him for rest. +His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, +And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. +He seemed to have two selves -- his outer self +Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, +And gentle as a child's; that outer self +Kept open all its gates, that who so wished +Might enter them and find therein a place; +And many entered; but his face was sad. + +The inner self he guarded from approach, +He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; +He guarded it with silence and reserve; +Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass +Beyond the portals; and his face was sad. +But whoso entered there -- and few were they -- +So very few -- so very, very few, +They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" +They murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" +They went their ways, but wore a lifted look, +And higher meanings came to common words, +And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; +And, near or far, they never did forget +The "Shadow and the Shrine"; his face was sad. + +He was not young nor old -- yet he was both; +Nor both by turns, but always both at once; +For youth and age commingled in his ways, +His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. +At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, +The child played thro' his words; his face was sad. + +I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: +"The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, +Just born to-day, is not as young as I; +The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms -- +An acorn cradled ages long ago -- +Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." +It was his way -- he always answered thus, +But when he did his face was very sad. + + * * * * * + + + Spirit Song + +Thou wert once the purest wave + Where the tempests roar; +Thou art now a golden wave + On the golden shore -- + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + +Thou wert once the bluest wave + Shadows e'er hung o'er; +Thou art now the brightest wave + On the brightest shore -- + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + +Thou wert once the gentlest wave + Ocean ever bore; +Thou art now the fairest wave + On the fairest shore -- + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + +Whiter foam than thine, O wave, + Wavelet never wore, +Stainless wave; and now you lave + The far and stormless shore -- + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + +Who bade thee go, O bluest wave, + Beyond the tempest's roar? +Who bade thee flow, O fairest wave, + Unto the golden shore, + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +Who waved a hand, O purest wave? + A hand that blessings bore, +And wafted thee, O whitest wave, + Unto the fairest shore, + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +Who winged thy way, O holy wave, + In days and days of yore? +And wept the words: "O winsome wave, + This earth is not thy shore!" + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave -- + The strength a great soul wore -- +And said: "Float up to God! my wave, + His heart shall be thy shore!" + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: + "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, +Float on to God, and leave me, wave, + Upon this rugged shore!" + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, + Dost dream of days of yore? +Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, + Upon the golden shore, + Ever -- ever -- evermore? + +Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, + Beyond the wild storm's roar! +I watch amid the storm, bright wave, + Like rock upon the shore; + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + +Sing at the feet of God, white wave, + Song sweet as one of yore! +I would not bring thee back, heart wave, + To break upon this shore, + Ever -- ever -- evermore! + + * * * * * + +"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; +My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; +Just like a temple when the priest has gone, +And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults +Are buried deep in silence; when the lights +That flashed on altars died away in dark, +And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath +And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. +My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, +Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom +Which seem to linger in the holy place -- +The shadows of the sinners who passed there, +And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon +The marble floor memorials of their tears." + +And while he spake, his words sank low and low, +Until they hid themselves in some still depth +He would not open; and his face was sad. + +When he spoke thus, his very gentleness +Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild, +Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death +Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, +Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. +His words, as tender as a rose's smile, +Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting +Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent +Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain +As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. +Who knows? perhaps it did! + + But he would pass +His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, +And then the olden gentleness, like light +Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, +Would tremble on his face, and he would look +More gentle then than ever, and his tone +Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed. + +I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved +And darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb +That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, +But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, +And all the smiles arose as from the dead, +And wore the glory of an Easter morn; +And passed beneath the sceptre of a hope +Which came from some far region of his heart, +Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. +I marveled much; he answered to my look +With all his own, and wafted me these words: + +"There are transitions in the lives of all. +There are transcendent moments when we stand +In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, +And weak with very strength of human love +We fain would build our tabernacles there; +And, Peter-like, for very human joy +We cry aloud: `'Tis good that we are here;' +Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, +Which glorifies a shadow and is gone. + +"And then we stand upon another mount -- +Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there +For awful hours, to make us there His own +In Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. +We wish to cling to Thabor; He says: `No.' +And what He says is best because most true. +We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: `No.' +And it is true because it is the best. +And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same. + +"They lie apart, distinct and separate, +And yet -- strange mystery! -- they are the same. +For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, +And Thabor is a Calvary in the light. +It is the mystery of Holy Christ! +It is the mystery of you and me! +Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, +And, like the shadows of a dial, we +Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours +The sun tells brightly in the sinless skies. +Dost understand?" I did not understand -- +Or only half; his face was very sad. +"Dost thou not understand me? Then your life +Is shallow as a brook that brawls along +Between two narrow shores; you never wept -- +You never wore great clouds upon your brow +As mountains wear them; and you never wore +Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies +Oft wear them; and your lips -- they never sighed +Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul; +You never reached your arms a-broad -- a-high -- +To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. +Life, only life, can understand a life; +Depth, only depth, can understand the deep. +The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face +Can never learn the story of the sea." + + * * * * * + +One day we strolled together to the sea. +Gray evening and the night had almost met, +We walked between them, silent, to the shore. +The feet of weird faced waves ran up the beach +Like children in mad play, then back again +As if the spirit of the land pursued; +Then up again -- and farther -- and they flung +White, foamy arms around each other's neck; +Then back again with sudden rush and shout, +As if the sea, their mother, called them home; +Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, +But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed +Away, and farther up the beach, and fell +For utter weariness; and loudly sobbed +For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. +But all in vain, for other waves swept on +And trampled them; the sea cried out in grief, +The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands. +It was the flood-tide and the even-tide -- +Between the evening and the night we walked -- +We walked between the billows and the beach, +We walked between the future and the past, +Down to the sea we twain had strolled -- to part. + +The shore was low, with just the faintest rise +Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells, +Until about a stone's far throw they met +A fringe of faded grass, with here and there +A pale-green shrub; and farther into land -- +Another stone's throw farther -- there were trees -- +Tall, dark, wild trees, with intertwining arms, +Each almost touching each, as if they feared +To stand alone and look upon the sea. +The night was in the trees -- the evening on the shore. +We walked between the evening and the night -- +Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. +There lies between man's silence and his speech +A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass +Are never silent, tho' they may not speak; +And yet they more than breathe. It is the vale +Of wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard. +It is the vale of the unutterable. +We walked between our silence and our speech, +And sighed between the sunset and the stars, +One hour beside the sea. + + There was a cloud +Far o'er the reach of waters, hanging low +'Tween sea and sky -- the banner of the storm, +Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays +That fled far down the West had rested there +And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. +Its inner folds were dark -- its central, more. +It did not flutter; there it hung, as calm +As banner in a temple o'er a shrine. +Its shadow only fell upon the sea, +Above the shore the heavens bended blue. +We walked between the cloudless and the cloud, +That hour, beside the sea. + + But, quick as thought, +There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light -- +Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, +Its scabbard in the darkness -- and it tore +The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, +Then quivered far away, and bent and broke +In flashing fragments; + + And there came a peal +That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, +But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach; +Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung +Clouds darker gathered -- and they proudly waved +Like flags before a battle. + + We twain walked -- +We walked between the lightning's parted gleams, +We walked between the thunders of the skies, +We walked between the wavings of the clouds, +We walked between the tremblings of the sea, +We walked between the stillnesses and roars +Of frightened billows; and we walked between +The coming tempest and the dying calm -- +Between the tranquil and the terrible -- +That hour beside the sea. + + There was a rock +Far up the winding beach that jutted in +The sea, and broke the heart of every wave +That struck its breast; not steep enough nor high +To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough +To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock; +Yet not so low as that its brow was laved +By highest tide, yet not sufficient high +To rise beyond the reach of silver spray +That rained up from the waves -- their tears that fell +Upon its face, when they died at its feet. +Around its sides damp seaweed hung in long, +Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. +A tuft or two of grass did green the rock, +A patch or so of moss; the rest was bare. + +Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; +But when we reached the rock the eve and night +Had met; light died; we sat down in the dark +Upon the rock. + + Meantime a thousand clouds +Careered and clashed in air -- a thousand waves +Whirled wildly on in wrath -- a thousand winds +Howled hoarsely on the main, and down the skies +Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, +As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath; +And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, +The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, +And all the horror shrank in horror back +Before the maddest peals that ever leaped +Out from the thunder's throat. + + Within the dark +We silent sat. No rain fell on the rock, +Nor in on land, nor shore; only on sea +The upper and the lower waters met +In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts +Far parted -- parted long -- which meet to break, +Which rush into each other's arms and break +In terror and in tempests wild of tears. +No rain fell on the rock; but flakes of foam +Swept cold against our faces, where we sat +Between the hush and howling of the winds, +Between the swells and sinking of the waves, +Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, +Between the rushings of the maddened rains, +Between the dark beneath and dark above. + +We sat within the dread heart of the night: +One, pale with terror; one, as calm and still +And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock. + + * * * * * + + + + +Lake Como + + + +Winter on the mountains + Summer on the shore, +The robes of sun-gleams woven, + The lake's blue wavelets wore. + +Cold, white, against the heavens, + Flashed winter's crown of snow, +And the blossoms of the spring-tide + Waved brightly far below. + +The mountain's head was dreary, + The cold and cloud were there, +But the mountain's feet were sandaled + With flowers of beauty rare. + +And winding thro' the mountains + The lake's calm wavelets rolled, +And a cloudless sun was gilding + Their ripples with its gold. + +Adown the lake we glided + Thro' all the sunlit day; +The cold snows gleamed above us, + But fair flowers fringed our way + +The snows crept down the mountain, + The flowers crept up the slope, +Till they seemed to meet and mingle, + Like human fear and hope. + +But the same rich, golden sunlight + Fell on the flowers and snow, +Like the smile of God that flashes + On hearts in joy or woe. + +And on the lake's low margin + The trees wore stoles of green, +While here and there, amid them, + A convent cross was seen. + +Anon a ruined castle, + Moss-mantled, loomed in view, +And cast its solemn shadow + Across the water's blue. + +And chapel, cot, and villa, + Met here and there our gaze, +And many a crumbling tower + That told of other days. + +And scattered o'er the waters + The fishing boats lay still, +And sound of song so softly + Came echoed from the hill. + +At times the mountain's shadow + Fell dark across the scene, +And veiled with veil of purple + The wavelets' silver sheen. + +But for a moment only + The lake would wind, and lo! +The waves would near the glory + Of the sunlight's brightest glow. + +At times there fell a silence + Unbroken by a tone, +As if no sound of voices + Had ever there been known. + +Through strange and lonely places + We glided thus for hours; +We saw no other faces + But the faces of the flowers. + +The shores were sad and lonely + As hearts without a love, +While darker and more dreary + The mountains rose above. + +But sudden round a headland + The lake would sweep again, +And voices from a village + Would meet us with their strain. + +Thus all the day we glided, + Until the Vesper bell +Gave to the day, at sunset, + Its sweet and soft farewell. + +Then back again we glided + Upon our homeward way, +When twilight wrapped the waters + And the mountains with its gray. + +But brief the reign of twilight, + The night came quickly on; +The dark brow o'er the mountains, + Star-wreathed, brightly shone. + +And down thro' all the shadows + The star-gleams softly crept, +And kissed, with lips all shining, + The wavelets ere they slept. + +The lake lay in a slumber, + The shadows for its screen, +While silence waved her sceptre + Above the sleeping scene. + +The spirit of the darkness + Moved, ghost-like, everywhere; +Wherever starlight glimmered, + Its shadow, sure, fell there. + +The lone place grew more lonely, + And all along our way +The mysteries of the night-time + Held undisputed sway. + +Thro' silence and thro' darkness + We glided down the tide +That wound around the mountains + That rose on either side. + +No eyes would close in slumber + Within our little bark; +What charmed us so in daylight + So awed us in the dark. + +Upon the deck we lingered, + A whisper scarce was heard; +When hearts are stirred profoundest, + Lips are without a word. + +"Let's say the Chaplet," softly + A voice beside me spake. +"Christ walked once in the darkness + Across an Eastern lake, + +"And to-night we know the secret + That will charm Him to our side: +If we call upon His Mother, + He will meet us on the tide." + +So we said the beads together, + Up and down the little bark; +And I believe that Jesus met us, + With His Mother, in the dark. + +And our prayers were scarcely ended + When, on mountain-top afar, +We beheld the morning meeting + With the night's last fading star. + +And I left the lake; but never + Shall the years to come efface +From my heart the dream and vision + Of that strange and lonely place. + +____ +February 1, 1873. + + + + +"Peace! Be Still" + + + +Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; + For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light, +And when they close wild waves rush on His bark, + And toss it through the dead hours of the night. + +So He slept once upon an eastern lake, + In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will; +A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake, + He softly whispered, and the sea grew still. + +It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep + As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark; +A storm is sweeping all across the deep, + While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark. + +The sky is darkened, and the shore is far, + The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour: +Upon the howling deep there shines no star -- + Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power? + +Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm + That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath; +Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm + The ship of faith upon its homeward path. + +The Master sleeps -- His pilot guards the bark; + He soon will wake, and at His mighty will +The light will shine where all before was dark -- + The wild waves still remember: "Peace! be still." + +____ +Rome, 1873. + + + + +Good Friday + + + +O Heart of Three-in-the evening, + You nestled the thorn-crowned head; +He leaned on you in His sorrow, + And rested on you when dead. + +Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening + He gave you His richest dower; +He met you afar on Calvary, + And made you "His own last hour". + +O Brow of Three-in-the evening, + Thou wearest a crimson crown; +Thou art Priest of the hours forever, + And thy voice, as thou goest down + +The cycles of time, still murmurs + The story of love each day: +"I held in death the Eternal, + In the long and the far-away." + +O Heart of Three-in-the evening, + Mine beats with thine to-day; +Thou tellest the olden story, + I kneel -- and I weep and pray. + +____ +Boulogne, sur mer. + + + + +My Beads + + + +Sweet, blessed beads! I would not part + With one of you for richest gem + That gleams in kingly diadem; +Ye know the history of my heart. + +For I have told you every grief + In all the days of twenty years, + And I have moistened you with tears, +And in your decades found relief. + +Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed + And joys have died; but in my needs + Ye were my friends, my blessed beads! +And ye consoled me when I wailed. + +For many and many a time, in grief, + My weary fingers wandered round + Thy circled chain, and always found +In some Hail Mary sweet relief. + +How many a story you might tell + Of inner life, to all unknown; + I trusted you and you alone, +But ah! ye keep my secrets well. + +Ye are the only chain I wear -- + A sign that I am but the slave, + In life, in death, beyond the grave, +Of Jesus and His Mother fair. + + + + +At Night + + + + Dreary! weary! + Weary! dreary! +Sighs my soul this lonely night. + Farewell gladness! + Welcome sadness! +Vanished are my visions bright. + + Stars are shining! + Winds are pining! +In the sky and o'er the sea; + Shine forever + Stars! but never +Can the starlight gladden me. + + Stars! you nightly + Sparkle brightly, +Scattered o'er your azure dome; + While earth's turning, + There you're burning, +Beacons of a better home. + + Stars! you brighten + And you lighten +Many a heart-grief here below; + But your gleaming + And your beaming +Cannot chase away my woe. + + Stars! you're shining, + I am pining -- +I am dark, but you are bright; + Hanging o'er me + And before me +Is a night you cannot light. + + Night of sorrow, + Whose to-morrow +I may never, never see, + Till upon me + And around me +Dawns a bright eternity. + + Winds! you're sighing, + And you're crying, +Like a mourner o'er a tomb; + Whither go ye, + Whither blow ye, +Wailing through the midnight gloom? + + Chanting lowly, + Softly, lowly, +Like the voice of one in woe; + Winds so lonely, + Why thus moan ye? +Say, what makes you sorrow so? + + Are you grieving + For your leaving +Scenes where all is fair and gay? + For the flowers + In their bowers, +You have met with on your way? + + For fond faces, + For dear places, +That you've seen as on you swept? + Are you sighing, + Are you crying, +O'er the memories they have left? + + Earth is sleeping + While you're sweeping +Through night's solemn silence by; + On forever, + Pausing never -- +How I love to hear you sigh! + + Men are dreaming, + Stars are gleaming +In the far-off heaven's blue; + Bosom aching, + Musing, waking, +Midnight winds, I sigh with you! + + + + +Nocturne ["Betimes, I seem to see in dreams"] + + + +Betimes, I seem to see in dreams + What when awake I may not see; + Can night be God's more than the day? + Do stars, not suns, best light his way? +Who knoweth? Blended lights and shades + Arch aisles down which He walks to me. + +I hear him coming in the night + Afar, and yet I know not how; + His steps make music low and sweet; + Sometimes the nails are in his feet; +Does darkness give God better light + Than day, to find a weary brow? + +Does darkness give man brighter rays + To find the God, in sunshine lost? + Must shadows wrap the trysting-place + Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace? +Who knoweth it? God hath His ways + For every soul here sorrow-tossed. + +The hours of day are like the waves + That fret against the shores of sin: + They touch the human everywhere, + The Bright-Divine fades in their glare; +And God's sweet voice the spirit craves + Is heard too faintly in the din. + +When all the senses are awake, + The mortal presses overmuch + Upon the great immortal part -- + And God seems further from the heart. +Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, + Lose star by star at sunlight's touch? + +But when the sun kneels in the west, + And grandly sinks as great hearts sink; + And in his sinking flings adown + Bright blessings from his fading crown, +The stars begin their song of rest, + And shadows make the thoughtless think. + +The human seems to fade away; + And down the starred and shadowed skies + The heavenly comes -- as memories come + Of home to hearts afar from home; +And thro' the darkness after day + Many a winged angel flies. + +And somehow, tho' the eyes see less, + Our spirits seem to see the more; + When we look thro' night's shadow-bars + The soul sees more than shining stars, +Yea -- sees the very loveliness + That rests upon the "Golden Shore". + +Strange reveries steal o'er us then, + Like keyless chords of instruments, + With music's soul without the notes; + And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats +A melody not made by men, + Nor ever heard by outer sense. + +And "what has been", and "what will be", + And "what is not", but "might have been", + The dim "to be", the "mournful gone", + The little things life rested on +In "Long-ago's", give tone, not key, + To reveries beyond our ken. + + + + +Sunless Days + + + +They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days, + With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; +And thro' the dark we grope along our ways + With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs. + +What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence? + Why does it banish all the bright away? +How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense? + Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray? + +Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know + How oft and suddenly the shadows roll +From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, + To wrap their darkness round the human soul. + +Those days are darker than the very night; + For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams; +But these days bring unto the spirit-sight + The mysteries of gloom, until it seems + +The light is gone forever, and the dark + Hangs like a pall of death above the soul, +Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, + And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll. + +____ +Winter on the Atlantic. + + + + +A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?"] + + + +Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? +Why ask when the night only knoweth? +The night -- and the angel of sleep! +But ever since then a music deep, +Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth +Under each thought of my spirit that groweth +Into the blossom and bloom of speech -- +Under each fancy that cometh and goeth -- +Wayward, as waves when evening breeze bloweth +Out of the sunset and into the beach. +And is it a wonder I wept to-day? +For I mused and thought, but I cannot say +If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. +In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night; +And now -- even now -- 'neath the words I write, +The flush of the dream or the flow of the song -- +I cannot tell which -- moves strangely along. +But why write more? I am puzzled sore: +Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? +Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; +The words of earth are a darksome veil, +The poet weaves it with artful grace; +Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, +Lets it rustle along his rhymes, +But gathers it close, covering the face +Of ev'ry thought that must not part +From out the keeping of his heart. + + + + +St. Mary's + + + + Back to where the roses rest +Round a shrine of holy name, +(Yes -- they knew me when I came) +More of peace and less of fame + Suit my restless heart the best. + + Back to where long quiets brood, +Where the calm is never stirred +By the harshness of a word, +But instead the singing bird + Sweetens all my solitude. + + With the birds and with the flowers +Songs and silences unite, +From the morning unto night; +And somehow a clearer light + Shines along the quiet hours. + + God comes closer to me here -- +Back of ev'ry rose leaf there +He is hiding -- and the air +Thrills with calls to holy prayer; + Earth grows far, and heaven near. + + Every single flower is fraught +With the very sweetest dreams, +Under clouds or under gleams +Changeful ever -- yet meseems + On each leaf I read God's thought. + + Still, at times, as place of death, +Not a sound to vex the ear, +Yet withal it is not drear; +Better for the heart to hear, + Far from men -- God's gentle breath. + + Where men clash, God always clings: +When the human passes by, +Like a cloud from summer sky, +God so gently draweth nigh, + And the brightest blessings brings. + + List! e'en now a wild bird sings, +And the roses seem to hear +Every note that thrills my ear, +Rising to the heavens clear, + And my soul soars on its wings + + Up into the silent skies +Where the sunbeams veil the star, +Up -- beyond the clouds afar, +Where no discords ever mar, + Where rests peace that never dies. + + So I live within the calm, +And the birds and roses know +That the days that come and go +Are as peaceful as the flow + Of a prayer beneath a psalm. + + + + +De Profundis + + + +Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! + Woe are we! woe are we! + And the nights are ages long! +From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips + O my God! woe are we! + Trembleth the mourner's song; + A blight is falling on the fair, + And hope is dying in despair, + And terror walketh everywhere. + +All the hours are full of tears -- + O my God! woe are we! + Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes -- +Every heart is strung with fears, + Woe are we! woe are we! + All the light hath left the skies, + And the living awe struck crowds + See above them only clouds, + And around them only shrouds. + +Ah! the terrible farewells! + Woe are they! woe are they! + When last words sink into moans, +While life's trembling vesper bells -- + O my God! woe are we! + Ring the awful undertones! + Not a sun in any day! + In the night-time not a ray, + And the dying pass away! + +Dark! so dark! above -- below -- + O my God! woe are we! + Cowereth every human life. +Wild the wailing; to and fro! + Woe are all! woe are we! + Death is victor in the strife: + In the hut and in the hall + He is writing on the wall + Dooms for many -- fears for all. + +Thro' the cities burns a breath, + Woe are they! woe are we! + Hot with dread and deadly wrath; +Life and love lock arms in death, + Woe are they! woe are all! + Victims strew the spectre's path; + Shy-eyed children softly creep + Where their mothers wail and weep -- + In the grave their fathers sleep. + +Mothers waft their prayers on high, + O my God! woe are we! + With their dead child on their breast. +And the altars ask the sky -- + O my Christ! woe are we! + "Give the dead, O Father, rest! + Spare thy people! mercy! spare!" + Answer will not come to prayer -- + Horror moveth everywhere. + +And the temples miss the priest -- + O my God! woe are we! + And the cradle mourns the child. +Husband at your bridal feast -- + Woe are you! woe are you! + Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; + They will never smile again -- + Every tie is cut in twain, + All the strength of love is vain. + +Weep? but tears are weak as foam -- + Woe are ye! woe are we! + They but break upon the shore +Winding between here and home -- + Woe are ye! woe are we! + Wailing never! nevermore! + Ah! the dead! they are so lone, + Just a grave, and just a stone, + And the memory of a moan. + +Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet -- + O my God! woe are we! + Tears will trickle into prayers +When we kneel down at His feet -- + Woe are we! woe are we! + With our crosses and our cares. + He will calm the tortured breast, + He will give the troubled rest -- + And the dead He watcheth best. + + + + +When? (Death) + + + +Some day in Spring, + When earth is fair and glad, +And sweet birds sing, + And fewest hearts are sad -- + Shall I die then? + Ah! me, no matter when; +I know it will be sweet + To leave the homes of men + And rest beneath the sod, +To kneel and kiss Thy feet + In Thy home, O my God! + +Some Summer morn + Of splendors and of songs, +When roses hide the thorn + And smile -- the spirit's wrongs -- + Shall I die then? + Ah! me, no matter when; +I know I will rejoice + To leave the haunts of men + And lie beneath the sod, +To hear Thy tender voice + In Thy home, O my God! + +Some Autumn eve, + When chill clouds drape the sky, +When bright things grieve + Because all fair things die -- + Shall I die then? + Ah! me, no matter when, +I know I shall be glad, + Away from the homes of men, + Adown beneath the sod, +My heart will not be sad + In Thy home, O my God! + +Some Wintry day, + When all skies wear a gloom, +And beauteous May + Sleeps in December's tomb, + Shall I die then? + Ah! me, no matter when; +My soul shall throb with joy + To leave the haunts of men + And sleep beneath the sod. +Ah! there is no alloy + In Thy joys, O my God! + +Haste, death! be fleet; +I know it will be sweet + To rest beneath the sod, +To kneel and kiss Thy feet + In heaven, O my God! + + + + +The Conquered Banner + + + +Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; +Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; + Furl it, fold it, it is best; +For there's not a man to wave it, +And there's not a sword to save it, +And there's not one left to lave it +In the blood which heroes gave it; +And its foes now scorn and brave it; + Furl it, hide it -- let it rest! + +Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; +Broken is its staff and shattered; +And the valiant hosts are scattered + Over whom it floated high. +Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; +Hard to think there's none to hold it; +Hard that those who once unrolled it + Now must furl it with a sigh. + +Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! +Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, +And ten thousands wildly, madly, + Swore it should forever wave; +Swore that foeman's sword should never +Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, +Till that flag should float forever + O'er their freedom or their grave! + +Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, +And the hearts that fondly clasped it, + Cold and dead are lying low; +And that Banner -- it is trailing! +While around it sounds the wailing + Of its people in their woe. + +For, though conquered, they adore it! +Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! +Weep for those who fell before it! +Pardon those who trailed and tore it! +But, oh! wildly they deplore it, + Now who furl and fold it so. + +Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, +Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, +And 'twill live in song and story, + Though its folds are in the dust: +For its fame on brightest pages, +Penned by poets and by sages, +Shall go sounding down the ages -- + Furl its folds though now we must. + +Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! +Treat it gently -- it is holy -- + For it droops above the dead. +Touch it not -- unfold it never, +Let it droop there, furled forever, + For its people's hopes are dead! + + + + +A Christmas Chant + + + +They ask me to sing them a Christmas song + That with musical mirth shall ring; +How know I that the world's great throng + Will care for the words I sing? + +Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, + Their voices and hearts are glad; +But I -- I am old, and my locks are gray, + And they tell me my voice is sad. + +Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm + With hopes, bright as life's first spring; +But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm + Hath gone from the songs I sing. + +I have lost the spell that my verse could weave + O'er the souls of the old and young, +And never again -- how it makes me grieve -- + Shall I sing as once I sung. + +Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, + Since my days are so nearly past, +That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve + Is the old man's best and last. + +Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? + Art's sweet but meaningless notes? +Or the music of thought, that, like the chime + Of a grand cathedral, floats + +Out of each word, and along each line, + Into the spirit's ear, +Lifting it up and making it pine + For a something far from here; + +Bearing the wings of the soul aloft + From earth and its shadows dim; +Soothing the breast with a sound as soft + As a dream, or a seraph's hymn; + +Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears + From our being's higher part; +Dimming the eyes with radiant tears + That flow from a spell bound heart? + +Do they want a song that is only a song, + With no mystical meanings rife? +Or a music that solemnly moves along -- + The undertone of a life! + +Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, + Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules -- +A melody moves through my aged heart + Not learned from the books or schools: + +A music I learned in the days long gone -- + I cannot tell where or how -- +But no matter where, it still sounds on + Back of this wrinkled brow. + +And down in my heart I hear it still, + Like the echoes of far-off bells; +Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill + Flowing through fairy dells. + +But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, +And what the words of the old man's song? + +The world they tell me, is so giddy grown + That thought is rare; +And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone + Hold empire there; + +That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; + Can it be true +That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, + And wise are few? + +They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, + With high and low; +That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; + Can it be so? + +That lofty principle hath long been dead + And in a shroud; +That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, + Amid the crowd. + +They tell me, too, that few they are who own + God's law and love; +That thousands, living for this earth alone, + Look not above; + +That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, + Men tread the path, +Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse + Of his dead wrath. + +And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, + Or to the few +Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain + Who still are true? + +No; not for the false shall I strike the strings + Of the lyre that was mute so long; +If I sing at all, the gray bard sings + For the few and the true his song. + +And ah! there is many a changeful mood + That over my spirit steals; +Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, + Whatever he dreams or feels. + +Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve + Are haunting the lonely man, +Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, + He'll sing them as best he can. + +Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke + This holiest night of the year, +Who knows how its melody may wake + A Christmas smile or a tear? + +So on with the mystic song, + With its meaning manifold -- + Two tones in every word, + Two thoughts in every tone; +In the measured words that move along + One meaning shall be heard, + One thought to all be told; + But under it all, to be alone -- +And under it all, to all unknown -- + As safe as under a coffin-lid, + Deep meanings shall be hid. + Find them out who can! +The thoughts concealed and unrevealed + In the song of the lonely man. + + * * * * * + +I'm sitting alone in my silent room + This long December night, +Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom + With many a picture bright. + Ah! how the fire can paint! + Its magic skill, how strange! + How every spark + On the canvas dark + Draws figures and forms so quaint! + And how the pictures change! + One moment how they smile! + And in less than a little while, + In the twinkling of an eye, + Like the gleam of a summer sky, + The beaming smiles all die. + +From gay to grave -- from grave to gay -- +The faces change in the shadows gray; +And just as I wonder who they are, + Over them all, + Like a funeral pall, +The folds of the shadows droop and fall, + And the charm is gone, + And every one + Of the pictures fade away. + +Ah! the fire within my grate + Hath more than Raphael's power, + Is more than Raphael's peer; + It paints for me in a little hour + More than he in a year; +And the pictures hanging 'round me here + This holy Christmas eve +No artist's pencil could create -- + No painter's art conceive; + + Ah! those cheerful faces, + Wearing youthful graces! +I gaze on them until I seem +Half awake and half in dream. + There are brows without a mark, + Features bright without a shade; + There are eyes without a tear; + There are lips unused to sigh. + Ah! never mind -- you soon shall die! + All those faces soon shall fade, + Fade into the dreary dark + Like their pictures hanging here. + -- Lo! those tearful faces, + Bearing age's traces! + +I gaze on them, and they on me, + Until I feel a sorrow steal +Through my heart so drearily; + There are faces furrowed deep; + There are eyes that used to weep; + There are brows beneath a cloud; + There are hearts that want to sleep; + Never mind! the shadows creep + From the death-land; and a shroud, + Tenderly as mother's arm, + Soon shall shield the old from harm, + Soon shall wrap its robe of rest + Round each sorrow-haunted breast +Ah! that face of mother's, +Sister's, too, and brother's -- + And so many others, + Dear is every name -- +And Ethel! Thou art there, +With thy child-face sweet and fair, + And thy heart so bright + In its shroud so white; + Just as I saw you last + In the golden, happy past; +And you seem to wear +Upon your hair -- +Your waving, golden hair -- + The smile of the setting sun. + Ah! me, how years will run! + But all the years cannot efface + Your purest name, your sweetest grace, + From the heart that still is true + Of all the world to you; + The other faces shine, + But none so fair as thine; +And wherever they are to-night, I know + They look the very same + As in their pictures hanging here + This night, to memory dear, + And painted by the flames, +With tombstones in the background, + And shadows for their frames. + + And thus with my pictures only, + And the fancies they unweave, + Alone, and yet not lonely, + I keep my Christmas eve. +I'm sitting alone in my pictured room -- + But, no! they have vanished all -- +I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, + I'm watching the ashes fall. +And far away back of the cheerful blaze +The beautiful visions of by-gone days +Are rising before my raptured gaze. + Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm, + Hast thou a wizard's magic charm +To bring those far-off scenes so near +And make my past days meet me here? + + Tell me -- tell me -- how is it? + The past is past, and here I sit, +And there, lo! there before me rise, + Beyond yon glowing flame, +The summer suns of childhood's skies, + Yes -- yes -- the very same! +I saw them rise long, long ago; +I played beneath their golden glow; + And I remember yet, + I often cried with strange regret + When in the west I saw them set + And there they are again; + The suns, the skies, the very days + Of childhood, just beyond that blaze! + But, ah! such visions almost craze + The old man's puzzled brain! + I thought the past was past! + But, no! it cannot be; + 'Tis here to-night with me! + + How is it, then? the past of men + Is part of one eternity -- + The days of yore we so deplore, + They are not dead -- they are not fled, + They live and live for evermore. + And thus my past comes back to me + With all its visions fair. + + O past! could I go back to thee, + And live forever there! + But, no! there's frost upon my hair; + My feet have trod a path of care; + And worn and wearied here I sit + I am too tired to go to it. + + And thus with visions only, + And the fancies they unweave, + Alone, and yet not lonely, + I keep my Christmas eve. + +I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; + But, no! the fire is dying, +And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, + Are sad, and I hear them sighing. + The wind hath a voice to pine -- + Plaintive, and pensive and low; + Hath it a heart like mine or thine? + Knoweth it weal or woe? + How it wails in a ghost-like strain, + Just against that window pane! +As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, +And wanted to rest with me to-night. + Cease! night-winds, cease! + Why should you be sad? + This is a night of joy and peace, + And heaven and earth are glad! + But still the wind's voice grieves! + Perchance o'er the fallen leaves, + Which, in their summer bloom, +Danced to the music of bird and breeze, +But, torn from the arms of their parent trees, + Lie now in their wintry tomb -- + Mute types of man's own doom. + + And thus with the night winds only, + And the fancies they unweave, + Alone, and yet not lonely, + I keep my Christmas eve. + +How long have I been dreaming here? + Or have I dreamed at all? +My fire is dead -- my pictures fled -- +There's nothing left but shadows drear -- + Shadows on the wall: + + Shifting, flitting, + Round me sitting + In my old arm chair -- + Rising, sinking + Round me, thinking, +Till, in the maze of many a dream, +I'm not myself; and I almost seem + Like one of the shadows there. + Well, let the shadows stay! + I wonder who are they? +I cannot say; but I almost believe +They know to-night is Christmas eve, + And to-morrow Christmas day. + +Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve + To change life's bitter gall to sweet, +And change the sweet to gall again; + To take the thorns from out our feet -- + The thorns and all their dreary pain, + Only to put them back again. + +To take old stings from out our heart -- +Old stings that made them bleed and smart -- +Only to sharpen them the more, +And press them back to the heart's own core. + + Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! +Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, +Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, +Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, +Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, + Bright and dark, and dark and bright. +All these mingle, all these meet, + In this great and solemn night. + +Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve +To melt, with kindly glowing heat, +From off our souls the snow and sleet, +The dreary drift of wintry years, + Only to make the cold winds blow, + Only to make a colder snow; +And make it drift, and drift, and drift, +In flakes so icy-cold and swift, + Until the heart that lies below + Is cold and colder than the snow. + + And thus with the shadows only, + And the dreamings they unweave, + Alone, and yet not lonely, + I keep my Christmas eve. + + 'Tis passing fast! + My fireless, lampless room + Is a mass of moveless gloom; + And without -- a darkness vast, + Solemn -- starless -- still! + Heaven and earth doth fill. + + But list! there soundeth a bell, + With a mystical ding, dong, dell! + Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? + Solemn and slow, + Now loud -- now low; +Pealing the notes of human woe +Over the graves lying under the snow! + Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell! + Trembling along the gale, +Under the stars and over the snow. +Why is it? whence is it sounding so? + Is it a toll of a burial bell? + + Or is it a spirit's wail? + Solemnly, mournfully, + Sad -- and how lornfully! + Ding, dong, dell! + Whence is it? who can tell? +And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, +Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still! +How the sounds tremble! how they thrill! + Every tone + So like a moan; +As if the strange bell's stranger clang +Throbbed with a terrible human pang. + + Ding, dong, dell! + Dismally, drearily, + Ever so wearily. +Far off and faint as a requiem plaint +Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell + Piercingly -- thrillingly, + Icily -- chillingly, + Near -- and more near, + Drearer -- and more drear, +Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell! + + Now sinking lower, + It tolleth slower! +I list, and I hear its sound no more. + And now, methinks, I know that bell, + Know it well -- know its knell -- +For I often heard it sound before. + +It is a bell -- yet not a bell + Whose sound may reach the ear! +It tolls a knell -- yet not a knell + Which earthly sense may hear. +In every soul a bell of dole + Hangs ready to be tolled; +And from that bell a funeral knell + Is often outward rolled; +And memory is the sexton gray + Who tolls the dreary knell; +And nights like this he loves to sway + And swing his mystic bell. +'Twas that I heard and nothing more, + This lonely Christmas eve; +Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, + At Christmas let me grieve. + +Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on + And murmur a holy prayer +Over each grave, and for every one + Lying down lifeless there! + +And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, + Robed in his shadowy stole; +And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, + To respond to his prayer of dole. + + And list! he begins + That psalm for sins, +The first of the mournful seven; + Plaintive and soft + It rises aloft, +Begging the mercy of Heaven + To pity and forgive, + For the sake of those who live, +The dead who have died unshriven. + Miserere! Miserere! +Still your heart and hush your breath! +The voices of despair and death + Are shuddering through the psalm! + Miserere! Miserere! +Lift your hearts! the terror dies! +Up in yonder sinless skies + The psalms sound sweet and calm! + Miserere! Miserere! +Very low, in tender tones, +The music pleads, the music moans, + "I forgive and have forgiven, + The dead whose hearts were shriven." + De profundis! De profundis! +Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! + Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, + And pealed above ten thousand biers; +And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate + Of sinners and of just, +When their souls are going up to God, + Their bodies down to dust. +Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears + From mortal eyes that fall, +And your notes evoke the darkest fears + That human hearts appall! +You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, +And ever your music is sad, so sad, +We seem to hear murmured in every tone, +For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. +Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve +Over our dead on this Christmas eve. + De profundis! De profundis! +And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, +And the spirits immortal from far away, +To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay. + +You think of the dead on Christmas eve, + Wherever the dead are sleeping, +And we from a land where we may not grieve + Look tenderly down on your weeping. +You think us far, we are very near, + From you and the earth, though parted; +We sing to-night to console and cheer + The hearts of the broken-hearted. +The earth watches over the lifeless clay + Of each of its countless sleepers, +And the sleepless spirits that passed away + Watch over all earth's weepers. +We shall meet again in a brighter land, + Where farewell is never spoken; +We shall clasp each other in hand, + And the clasp shall not be broken; +We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, + Where we'll never know a sadness, +And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, + With rapture and with gladness. +The snows shall pass from our graves away, + And you from the earth, remember; +And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, + Shall follow earth's December. +When you think of us think not of the tomb + Where you laid us down in sorrow; +But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, + And wait for the great to-morrow. +And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, + Whispereth soft and low: + Requiescat! Requiescat! + + Peace! Peace! to every one +For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, + In their graves beneath the snow. + +The stars in the far-off heaven +Have long since struck eleven! +And hark! from temple and from tower, +Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour, +Blessed by the Saviour's birth, +And night putteth off the sable stole, +Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, +For one with many a starry gem, +To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, +Who comes to men the King of them, +Yet comes without robe or diadem, +And all turn towards the holy east, +To hear the song of the Christmas feast. + +Four thousand years earth waited, + Four thousand years men prayed, +Four thousand years the nations sighed, + That their King so long delayed. + +The prophets told His coming, + The saintly for Him sighed, +And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem + Shone o'er them when they died. + +Their faces towards the future, + They longed to hail the light +That in the after centuries + Would rise on Christmas night. + +But still the Saviour tarried, + Within His father's home +And the nations wept and wondered why + The promised had not come. + +At last earth's hope was granted, + And God was a child of earth; +And a thousand angels chanted + The lowly midnight birth. + +Ah! Bethlehem was grander + That hour than Paradise; +And the light of earth that night eclipsed + The splendors of the skies. + +Then let us sing the anthem + The angels once did sing; +Until the music of love and praise, + O'er whole wide world will ring. + + Gloria in excelsis! + Sound the thrilling song; + In excelsis Deo! + Roll the hymn along. + Gloria in excelsis! + Let the heavens ring; + In excelsis Deo! + Welcome, new-born King + Gloria in excelsis! + Over the sea and land, + In excelsis Deo! + Chant the anthem grand. + Gloria in excelsis! + Let us all rejoice; + In excelsis Deo! + Lift each heart and voice. + Gloria in excelsis! + Swell the hymn on high; + In excelsis Deo! + Sound it to the sky. + Gloria in excelsis! + Sing it, sinful earth, + In excelsis Deo! + For the Saviour's birth. + +Thus joyfully and victoriously, +Glad and ever so gloriously, +High as the heavens, wide as the earth, +Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth. + + Lo! the day is waking + In the east afar; + Dawn is faintly breaking, + Sunk in every star. + + Christmas eve has vanished + With its shadows gray; + All its griefs are banished + By bright Christmas day. + + Joyful chimes are ringing + O'er the land and seas, + And there comes glad singing, + Borne on every breeze. + + Little ones so merry + Bed-clothes coyly lift, + And, in such a hurry, + Prattle "Christmas gift!" + + Little heads so curly, + Knowing Christmas laws, + Peep out very early + For old "Santa Claus". + + Little eyes are laughing + O'er their Christmas toys, + Older ones are quaffing + Cups of Christmas joys. + + Hearts are joyous, cheerful, + Faces all are gay; + None are sad and tearful + On bright Christmas day. + + Hearts are light and bounding, + All from care are free; + Homes are all resounding + With the sounds of glee. + + Feet with feet are meeting, + Bent on pleasure's way; + Souls to souls give greeting + Warm on Christmas day. + + Gifts are kept a-going + Fast from hand to hand; + Blessings are a-flowing + Over every land. + + One vast wave of gladness + Sweeps its world-wide way, + Drowning every sadness + On this Christmas day. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + Haste around the earth; + Merry, merry Christmas, + Scatter smiles and mirth. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + Be to one and all! + Merry, merry Christmas, + Enter hut and hall. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + Be to rich and poor! + Merry, merry Christmas + Stop at every door. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + Fill each heart with joy! + Merry, merry Christmas + To each girl and boy. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + Better gifts than gold; + Merry, merry Christmas + To the young and old. + + Merry, merry Christmas, + May the coming year + Bring as merry a Christmas + And as bright a cheer. + + + + +"Far Away" + + + +"Far Away!" what does it mean? + A change of heart with a change of place? +When footsteps pass from scene to scene, + Fades soul from soul with face from face? + Are hearts the slaves or lords of space? + +"Far Away!" what does it mean? + Does distance sever there from here? +Can leagues of land part hearts? -- I ween + They cannot; for the trickling tear + Says "Far Away" means "Far More Near". + +"Far Away!" -- the mournful miles + Are but the mystery of space +That blends our sighs, but parts our smiles, + For love will find a meeting place + When face is farthest off from face. + +"Far Away!" we meet in dreams, + As 'round the altar of the night +Far-parted stars send down their gleams + To meet in one embrace of light + And make the brow of darkness bright. + +"Far Away!" we meet in tears, + That tell the path of weary feet; +And all the good-byes of the years + But make the wanderer's welcome sweet, + The rains of parted clouds thus meet. + +"Far Away!" we meet in prayer, + You know the temple and the shrine; +Before it bows the brow of care, + Upon it tapers dimly shine; + 'Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine. + +"Far Away!" it falls between +What is to-day and what has been; +But ah! what is meet, what is not, +In every hour and every spot, +Where lips breathe on "I have forgot." + +"Far Away!" there is no far! +Nor days nor distance e'er can bar +My spirit from your spirits -- nay, +Farewell may waft a face away, +But still with you my heart will stay. + +"Far Away!" I sing its song, +But while the music moves along, +From out each word an echo clear +Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, +"Far Away" means "Far More Near". + + + + +Listen + + + + We borrow, + In our sorrow, +From the sun of some to-morrow + Half the light that gilds to-day; + And the splendor + Flashes tender +O'er hope's footsteps to defend her + From the fears that haunt the way. + + We never + Here can sever +Any now from the forever + Interclasping near and far! + For each minute + Holds within it +All the hours of the infinite, + As one sky holds every star. + + + + +Wrecked + + + +The winds are singing a death-knell + Out on the main to-night; +The sky droops low -- and many a bark + That sailed from harbors bright, + Like many an one before, + Shall enter port no more: +And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore + Before to-morrow's light. + +The clouds are hanging a death-pall + Over the sea to-night; +The stars are veiled -- and the hearts that sailed + Away from harbors bright, +Shall sob their last for their quiet home -- +And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam + Before the morning's light. + +The waves are weaving a death-shroud + Out on the main to-night; +Alas! the last prayer whispered there + By lips with terror white! + Over the ridge of gloom, + Not a star will loom! +God help the souls that will meet their doom + Before the dawn of light! + + * * * * * + +The breeze is singing a joy song + Over the sea to-day; +The storm is dead and the waves are red + With the flush of the morning's ray; +And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep +The eyes that watch for the ships shall weep + For the hearts they bore away. + + + + +Dreaming + + + +The moan of a wintry soul + Melted into a summer song, +And the words, like the wavelet's roll, + Moved murmuringly along. + +And the song flowed far and away, + Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill -- +Each wave of it lit by a ray -- + But the sound was so soft and so still, + +And the tone was so gentle and low, + None heard the song till it had passed; +Till the echo that followed its flow + Came dreamingly back from the past. + +'Twas too late! -- a song never returns + That passes our pathway unheard; +As dust lying dreaming in urns + Is the song lying dead in a word. + +For the birds of the skies have a nest, + And the winds have a home where they sleep, +And songs, like our souls, need a rest, + Where they murmur the while we may weep. + + * * * * * + +But songs -- like the birds o'er the foam, + Where the storm wind is beating their breast, +Fly shoreward -- and oft find a home + In the shelter of words where they rest. + + + + +A Thought + + + +Hearts that are great beat never loud, + They muffle their music when they come; +They hurry away from the thronging crowd + With bended brows and lips half dumb, + +And the world looks on and mutters -- "Proud." + But when great hearts have passed away +Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud, + And in love they kneel around their clay. + +Hearts that are great are always lone, + They never will manifest their best; +Their greatest greatness is unknown -- + Earth knows a little -- God, the rest. + + + + +"Yesterdays" + + + +Gone! and they return no more, + But they leave a light in the heart; +The murmur of waves that kiss a shore + Will never, I know, depart. + +Gone! yet with us still they stay, + And their memories throb through life; +The music that hushes or stirs to-day, + Is toned by their calm or strife. + +Gone! and yet they never go! + We kneel at the shrine of time: +'Tis a mystery no man may know, + Nor tell in a poet's rhyme. + + + + +"To-Days" + + + +Brief while they last, + Long when they are gone; +They catch from the past + A light to still live on. + +Brief! yet I ween + A day may be an age, +The poet's pen may screen + Heart-stories on one page. + +Brief! but in them, + From eve back to morn, +Some find the gem, + Many find the thorn. + +Brief! minutes pass + Soft as flakes of snow, +Shadows o'er the grass + Could not swifter go. + +Brief! but along + All the after-years +To-day will be a song + Of smiles or of tears. + + + + +"To-Morrows" + + + +God knows all things -- but we + In darkness walk our ways; +We wonder what will be, + We ask the nights and days. + +Their lips are sealed; at times + The bards, like prophets, see, +And rays rush o'er their rhymes + From suns of "days to be". + +They see To-morrow's heart, + They read To-morrow's face, +They grasp -- is it by art -- + The far To-morrow's trace? + +They see what is unseen, + And hear what is unheard, +And To-morrow's shade or sheen + Rests on the poet's word. + +As seers see a star + Beyond the brow of night, +So poets scan the far + Prophetic when they write. + +They read a human face, + As readers read their page, +The while their thought will trace + A life from youth to age. + +They have a mournful gift, + Their verses oft are tears; +And sleepless eyes they lift + To look adown the years. + +To-morrows are to-days! + Is it not more than art? +When all life's winding ways + Meet in the poet's heart? + +The present meets the past, + The future, too, is there; +The first enclasps the last + And never folds fore'er. + +It is not all a dream; + A poet's thought is truth; +The things that are -- and seem + From age far back to youth -- + +He holds the tangled threads, + His hands unravel them; +He knows the hearts and heads + For thorns, or diadem. + +Ask him, and he will see + What your To-morrows are; +He'll sing "What is to be" + Beneath each sun and star. + +To-morrows! Dread unknown! + What fates may they not bring? +What is the chord? the tone? + The key in which they sing? + +I see a thousand throngs, + To-morrows for them wait; +I hear a thousand songs + Intoning each one's fate. + +And yours? What will it be? + Hush! song, and let me pray! +God sees it all -- I see + A long, lone, winding way; + +And more! no matter what! + Crosses and crowns you wear: +My song may be forgot, + But Thou shalt not, in prayer. + + + + +Inevitable + + + +What has been will be, + 'Tis the under law of life; +'Tis the song of sky and sea, + To the key of calm and strife. + +For guard we as we may, + What is to be will be, +The dark must fold each day -- + The shore must gird each sea. + +All things are ruled by law; + 'Tis only in man's will +You meet a feeble flaw; + But fate is weaving still + +The web and woof of life, + With hands that have no hearts, +Thro' calmness and thro' strife, + Despite all human arts. + +For fate is master here, + He laughs at human wiles; +He sceptres every tear, + And fetters any smiles. + +What is to be will be, + We cannot help ourselves; +The waves ask not the sea + Where lies the shore that shelves. + +The law is coldest steel, + We live beneath its sway, +It cares not what we feel, + And so pass night and day. + +And sometimes we may think + This cannot -- will not -- be: +Some waves must rise -- some sink, + Out on the midnight sea. + +And we are weak as waves + That sink upon the shore; +We go down into graves -- + Fate chants the nevermore; + +Cometh a voice! Kneel down! + 'Tis God's -- there is no fate -- +He giveth the Cross and Crown, + He opens the jeweled gate. + +He watcheth with such eyes + As only mothers own -- +"Sweet Father in the skies! + Ye call us to a throne." + +There is no fate -- God's love + Is law beneath each law, +And law all laws above + Fore'er, without a flaw. + + + + +Sorrow and the Flowers + +A Memorial Wreath to C. F. + + + + Sorrow: + +A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom, + And only bloom to fade as fast away, +We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb, + And with your dying beauty crown her clay. + +Ye are the tender types of life's decay; + Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath, +From out the hand of June, or heart of May, + Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death. + +My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, + All o'er the weary world for weary years; +I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves + The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears. + +And yet, the while I garland graves as now, + I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe; +Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow, + I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below. + +She was a flower -- fresh, fair and pure, and frail; + A lily in life's morning. God is sweet; +He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail; + Her lily drooped: 'tis blooming at His feet. + +Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower? + I want a garland for another grave; +And who will bring them from the dell and bower, + To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave? + +As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will; + Ye come with fairest flowers: give them to me, +To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory still, + To prove at graves love's immortality. + + + White Rose: + +Her grave is not a grave; it is a shrine, + Where innocence reposes, +Bright over which God's stars must love to shine, + And where, when Winter closes, +Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, +Just like this hand of mine, + The whitest of white roses. + + + Laurel: + +I found it on a mountain slope, + The sunlight on its face; +It caught from clouds a smile of hope + That brightened all the place. + +They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, + And crown the chieftain's head; +But the laurel's leaves love best to grace + The garland of the dead. + + + Wild Flower: + +I would not live in a garden, + But far from the haunts of men; +Nature herself was my warden, + I lived in a lone little glen. +A wild flower out of the wildwood, + Too wild for even a name; +As strange and as simple as childhood, + And wayward, yet sweet all the same. + + + Willow Branch: + +To sorrow's own sweet crown, + With simple grace, +The weeping-willow bends her branches down + Just like a mother's arm, + To shield from harm, + The dead within their resting place. + + + Lily: + +The angel flower of all the flowers: + Its sister flowers, + In all the bowers +Worship the lily, for it brings, + Wherever it blooms, + On shrines or tombs, +A dream surpassing earthly sense +Of heaven's own stainless innocence. + + + Violet Leaves: + + It is too late for violets, + I only bring their leaves, + I looked in vain for mignonettes + To grace the crown grief weaves; + For queenly May, upon her way, + Robs half the bowers + Of all their flowers, + And leaves but leaves to June. + Ah! beauty fades so soon; +And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, +For flowerets are fading fast, one by one. + Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, + Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land. + + + Forget-Me-Not: + +"Forget-me-not!" The sad words strangely quiver +On lips, like shadows falling on a river, + Flowing away, + By night, by day, + Flowing away forever. +The mountain whence the river springs + Murmurs to it, "forget me not;" +The little stream runs on and sings + On to the sea, and every spot + It passes by + Breathes forth a sigh, +"Forget me not!" "forget me not!" + + + A Garland: + +I bring this for her mother; ah, who knows + The lonely deeps within a mother's heart? +Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows + Above, around her, when her children part, +There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone; +It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. +Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms, +A grave is dug within the mother's heart: +She watches it alone; no words of art +Can tell the story of her vigils there. +This garland fading even while 'tis fair, +It is a mother's memory of a grave, +When God hath taken her whom heaven gave. + + + Sorrow: + +Farewell! I go to crown the dead; + Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, +For they whose hearts so faithful love + The lonely grave -- the very clay; +They crown themselves with richer gems +Than flash in royal diadems. + + + + +Hope + + + +Thine eyes are dim: + A mist hath gathered there; +Around their rim + Float many clouds of care, + And there is sorrow every -- everywhere. + +But there is God, + Every -- everywhere; +Beneath His rod + Kneel thou adown in prayer. + +For grief is God's own kiss + Upon a soul. +Look up! the sun of bliss + Will shine where storm-clouds roll. + +Yes, weeper, weep! + 'Twill not be evermore; +I know the darkest deep + Hath e'en the brightest shore. + +So tired! so tired! + A cry of half despair; +Look! at your side -- + And see Who standeth there! + +Your Father! Hush! + A heart beats in His breast; +Now rise and rush + Into His arms -- and rest. + + + + +Farewells + + + +They are so sad to say: no poem tells +The agony of hearts that dwells +In lone and last farewells. + +They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill +To summer's roses, and to summer's rill; +And yet we breathe them still. + +For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away; +Hearts! we said to them, "Stay with us! stay!" +And they said, sighing as they said it, "Nay." + +The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells +The starless story of the night that dwells +In lone and last farewells. + +Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: +Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear; +Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er." + + + + +Song of the River + + + + A river went singing adown to the sea, + A-singing -- low -- singing -- + And the dim rippling river said softly to me, + "I'm bringing, a-bringing -- + While floating along -- + A beautiful song +To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary, +To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary. + A song sweet and calm + As the peacefulest psalm; + And the shore that was sad + Will be grateful and glad, +And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream +Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream; + And the tempests shall cease + And there shall be peace." + From the fairest of fountains, + And farthest of mountains, + From the stillness of snow + Came the stream in its flow. + +Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, + Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair -- +Where the sunlight flashed -- where the shadows lay + Like stories that cloud a face of care, + The river ran on -- and on -- and on -- + Day and night, and night and day; + Going and going, and never gone, + Longing to flow to the "far away", + Staying and staying, and never still; + Going and staying, as if one will + Said, "Beautiful river, go to the sea;" + And another will whispered, "Stay with me:" + And the river made answer, soft and low -- + "I go and stay" -- "I stay and go." + + But what is the song, I said, at last? + To the passing river that never passed; + And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me, + I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea, -- +A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever, +And the river flows on in the same mystic key +That blends in one chord the `forever and never'." + +____ +December 15, 1878. + + + + +Dreamland + + + + Over the silent sea of sleep, + Far away! far away! + Over a strange and starlit deep + Where the beautiful shadows sway; + Dim in the dark, + Glideth a bark, +Where never the waves of a tempest roll -- +Bearing the very "soul of a soul", + Alone, all alone -- + Far away -- far away + To shores all unknown + In the wakings of the day; +To the lovely land of dreams, +Where what is meets with what seems +Brightly dim, dimly bright; +Where the suns meet stars at night, +Where the darkness meets the light + Heart to heart, face to face, + In an infinite embrace. + + * * * * * + + Mornings break, + And we wake, + And we wonder where we went + In the bark + Thro' the dark, + But our wonder is misspent; +For no day can cast a light +On the dreamings of the night. + + + + +Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"] + + + +Sometimes, from the far-away, + Wing a little thought to me; +In the night or in the day, + It will give a rest to me. + +I have praise of many here, + And the world gives me renown; +Let it go -- give me one tear, + 'Twill be a jewel in my crown. + +What care I for earthly fame? + How I shrink from all its glare! +I would rather that my name + Would be shrined in some one's prayer. + +Many hearts are all too much, + Or too little in their praise; +I would rather feel the touch + Of one prayer that thrills all days. + + + + +A Song + +Written in an Album. + + + +Pure faced page! waiting so long + To welcome my muse and me; +Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song + That floats from my spirit to thee. + +And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings, + And sweet as the Summer's birds, +And pure and bright and white be the wings + That will waft thee into words. + +Yea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea + To rest on the far-off beach, +And breathe forth the message I trust to thee, + Tear toned on the shores of speech. + +But ere you go, dip your snowy wing + In a wave of my spirit's deep -- +In a wave that is purest -- then haste and bring + A song to the hearts that weep. + +Oh! bring it, and sing it -- its notes are tears; + Its octaves, the octaves of grief; +Who knows but its tones in the far-off years + May bring to the lone heart relief? + +Yea! bring it, and sing it -- a worded moan + That sweeps thro' the minors of woe, +With mystical meanings in every tone, + And sounds like the sea's lone flow. + + * * * * * + +And the thoughts take the wings of words, and float + Out of my spirit to thee; +But the song dies away into only one note, + And sounds but in only one key. + +And the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest wave + That sobs on the loneliest shore; +And the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave; + And the chord! -- 'tis a sad "nevermore". + +And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach, + And, sighing, sinks back to the sea, +So my song -- it just touches the rude shores of speech, + And its music melts back into me. + +Yea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep, + Let others hear only thy moan -- +But I -- I forever shall hear the grand sweep + Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone. + +Sweep on, mighty song! -- sound down in my heart + As a storm sounding under a sea; +Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, + Nor a note of it float out from me. + + + + +Parting + + + +Farewell! that word has broken hearts + And blinded eyes with tears; +Farewell! one stays, and one departs; + Between them roll the years. + +No wonder why who say it think -- + Farewell! he may fare ill +No wonder that their spirits sink + And all their hopes grow chill. + +Good-bye! that word makes faces pale + And fills the soul with fears; +Good-bye! two words that wing a wail + Which flutters down the years. + +No wonder they who say it feel + Such pangs for those who go; +Good-bye they wish the parted weal, + But ah! they may meet woe. + +Adieu! such is the word for us, + 'Tis more than word -- 'tis prayer; +They do not part, who do part thus, + For God is everywhere. + + + + +St. Stephen + + + +First champion of the Crucified! + Who, when the fight began +Between the Church and worldly pride +So nobly fought, so nobly died, + The foremost in the van; +While rallied to your valiant side + The red-robed martyr-band; +To-night with glad and high acclaim +We venerate thy saintly name; +Accept, Saint Stephen, to thy praise +And glory, these our lowly lays. + +The chosen twelve with chrismed hand + And burning zeal within, +Led forth their small yet fearless band +On Pentecost, and took their stand + Against the world and sin -- +While rang aloud the battle-cry: +"The hated Christians all must die! +As died the Nazarene before, +The God they believe in and adore." +Yet Stephen's heart quailed not with fear + At persecution's cry; +But loving, as he did, the cause +Of Jesus and His faith and laws, + Prepared himself to die. + +He faced his foes with burning zeal, +Such zeal as only saints can feel; +He told them how the Lord had stood +Within their midst, so great and good, +How he had through Judea trod, +How wonders marked his way -- the God, +How he had cured the blind, the lame, +The deaf, the palsied, and the maimed, +And how, with awful, wondrous might, +He raised the dead to life and light; +And how his people knew Him not -- +Had eyes and still had seen Him not, +Had ears and still had heard Him not, +Had hearts and comprehended not. +Then said he, pointing to the right, +Where darkly rose Golgotha's height: +"There have ye slain the Holy One, +Your Saviour and God's only Son." + +They gnashed their teeth in raging ire, + Those dark and cruel men; +They vowed a vengeance deep and dire + Against Saint Stephen then. +Yet he was calm; a radiant light + Around his forehead gleamed; +He raised his eyes, a wondrous sight +He saw, so grand it was and bright, +His soul was filled with such delight + That he an angel seemed. +Then spoke the Saint: "A vision grand + Bursts on me from above: +The doors of heaven open stand, +And at the Father's own right hand + I see the Lord I love." + +"Away with him," the rabble cry, + With swelling rage and hate, +But Stephen still gazed on the sky, +His heart was with his Lord on high, + He heeded not his fate. + +The gathering crowd in fury wild + Rush on the 'raptured Saint, +And seize their victim, mute and mild, +Who, like his master, though reviled, + Still uttered no complaint. + +With angry shouts they rend the air; + They drag him to the city gate; +They bind his hands and feet and there, +While whispered he for them a prayer, + The martyr meets his fate. + +First fearless witness to his belief + In Jesus Crucified, +The red-robed martyrs' noble chief, + Thus for his Master died. +And to the end of time his name +Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim, +And with a mother's pride shall tell +How her great proto-martyr fell. + + + + +A Flower's Song + + + +Star! Star, why dost thou shine + Each night upon my brow? +Why dost thou make me dream the dreams + That I am dreaming now? + +Star! Star, thy home is high -- + I am of humble birth; +Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky, + Mine, only on the earth. + +Star! Star, why make me dream? + My dreams are all untrue; +And why is sorrow dark for me + And heaven bright for you? + +Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray, + And take it off my face; +Within my lowly home I stay, + Thou, in thy lofty place. + +Star! Star, and still I dream, + Along thy light afar +I seem to soar until I seem + To be, like you, a star. + + + + +The Star's Song + + + +Flower! Flower, why repine? + God knows each creature's place; +He hides within me when I shine, + And your leaves hide His face. + +And you are near as I to Him, + And you reveal as much +Of that eternal soundless hymn + Man's words may never touch. + +God sings to man through all my rays + That wreathe the brow of night, +And walks with me thro' all my ways -- + The everlasting light. + +Flower! Flower, why repine? + He chose on lowly earth, +And not in heaven where I shine, + His Bethlehem and birth. + +Flower! Flower, I see Him pass + Each hour of night and day, +Down to an altar and a Mass + Go thou! and fade away. + +Fade away upon His shrine! + Thy light is brighter far +Than all the light wherewith I shine + In heaven, as a star. + + + + +Death of the Flower + + + +I love my mother, the wildwood, + I sleep upon her breast; +A day or two of childhood, + And then I sink to rest. + +I had once a lovely sister -- + She was cradled by my side; +But one Summer day I missed her -- + She had gone to deck a bride. + +And I had another sister, + With cheeks all bright with bloom; +And another morn I missed her -- + She had gone to wreathe a tomb. + +And they told me they had withered, + On the bride's brow and the grave; +Half an hour, and all their fragrance + Died away, which heaven gave. + +Two sweet-faced girls came walking + Thro' my lonely home one day, +And I overheard them talking + Of an altar on their way. + +They were culling flowers around me, + And I said a little prayer +To go with them -- and they found me -- + And upon an altar fair, + +Where the Eucharist was lying + On its mystical death-bed, +I felt myself a-dying, + While the Mass was being said. + +But I lived a little longer, + And I prayed there all the day, +Till the evening Benediction, + When my poor life passed away. + + + + +Singing-Bird + + + +In the valley of my life + Sings a "Singing-Bird", +And its voice thro' calm and strife + Is sweetly heard. + +In the day and thro' the night + Sound the notes, +And its song thro' dark and bright + Ever floats. + +Other warblers cease to sing, + And their voices rest, +And they fold their weary wing + In their quiet nest. + +But my Singing-Bird still sings + Without a cease; +And each song it murmurs brings + My spirit peace. + +"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!" + No one knows, +When your holy songs are heard, + What repose + +Fills my life and soothes my heart; + But I fear +The day -- thy songs, if we must part, + I'll never hear. + +But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!" + Should this e'er be, +The dreams of all thy songs I heard + Shall sing for me. + + + + +Now + + + +Sometimes a single hour + Rings thro' a long life-time, +As from a temple tower + There often falls a chime +From blessed bells, that seems +To fold in Heaven's dreams + Our spirits round a shrine; + Hath such an hour been thine? + +Sometimes -- who knoweth why? + One minute holds a power + That shadows every hour, +Dialed in life's sky. + A cloud that is a speck +When seen from far away + May be a storm, and wreck +The joys of every day. + +Sometimes -- it seems not much, + 'Tis scarcely felt at all -- +Grace gives a gentle touch + To hearts for once and all, +Which in the spirit's strife + May all unnoticed be. +And yet it rules a life; + Hath this e'er come to thee? + +Sometimes one little word, + Whispered sweet and fleet, +That scarcely can be heard, + Our ears will sudden meet. +And all life's hours along + That whisper may vibrate, +And, like a wizard's song, + Decide our ev'ry fate. + +Sometimes a sudden look, + That falleth from some face, +Will steal into each nook + Of life, and leave its trace; +To haunt us to the last, + And sway our ev'ry will +Thro' all the days to be, + For goodness or for ill; +Hath this e'er come to thee? + +Sometimes one minute folds + The hearts of all the years, +Just like the heart that holds + The Infinite in tears; +There be such thing as this -- + Who knoweth why, or how? +A life of woe or bliss + Hangs on some little Now. + + + + +M * * * + + + +When I am dead, and all will soon forget + My words, and face, and ways -- +I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet + Adown thy after days. + +I die first, and you will see my grave; + But child! you must not cry; +For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave + O'er you from yonder sky. + +You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears + Tho' sleeping in a tomb: +My rest would not be rest, if in your years + There floated clouds of gloom. + +For -- from the first -- your soul was dear to mine, + And dearer it became, +Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine + Thy name -- my child! thy name. + +You came to me in girlhood pure and fair, + And in your soul -- and face -- +I saw a likeness to another there + In every trace and grace. + +You came to me in girlhood -- and you brought + An image back to me; +No matter what -- or whose -- I often sought + Another's soul in thee. + +Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became -- + Gentle though I be -- +Gentler than ever when I called thy name, + Gentlest to thee? + +You came to me in girlhood; as your guide + I watched your spirit's ways; +We walked God's holy valleys side by side, + And so went on the days. + +And so went on the years -- 'tis five and more; + Your soul is fairer now; +A light as of a sunset on a shore + Is falling on my brow -- + +Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead + Think this, my child, of me: +I never said -- I never could have said -- + Ungentle words to thee. + +I treated you as I would treat a flower, + I watched you with such care; +And from my lips God heard in many an hour + Your name in many a prayer. + +I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, + On not a leaf a stain; +Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; + I did not watch in vain. + +I guide you still -- in my steps you tread still; + Towards God these ways are set; +'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead + I'll watch and guide you yet. + +'Tis better far that I should go before, + And you awhile should stay; +But I will wait upon the golden shore + To meet my child some day. + +When I am dead; in some lone after time, + If crosses come to thee, +You'll think -- remembering this simple rhyme -- + "He holds a crown for me." + +I guide you here -- I go before you there; + But here or there -- I know -- +Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear + I'll watch where'er you go, + +And wait until you come; when I am dead + Think, sometimes, child, of this: +You must not weep -- follow where I led, + I wait for you in bliss. + + + + +God in the Night + + + +Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: +He walks the world; He puts His holy hand +On every sleeper -- only puts His hand -- +Within it benedictions for each one -- +Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets +A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad. +(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?) +He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow -- +But more than that, He leaves His very breath +Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this, +He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; +And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils +That hide the visions of the world unseen. +The brightest sanctities of highest souls +Have blossomed into beauty in the dark. +How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes +That blight the souls of men are strangely born +Beneath the shadows of the holy night. + +Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet -- +Around Him rustle archangelic wings; +He lingers by the temple where His Christ +Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep; +And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest, +He lingers there to soothe their weariness. +Where mothers weep above the dying child, +He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears, +And consecrates the cradle of her child, +Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. +He shudders past the haunts of sin -- yet leaves +E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts. +Still as a shadow through the night He moves, +With hands all full of blessings, and with heart +All full of everlasting love; ah, me! +How God does love this poor and sinful world! + +The stars behold Him as He passes on, +And arch His path of mercy with their rays; +The stars are grateful -- He gave them their light, +And now they give Him back the light He gave. +The shadows tremble in adoring awe; +They feel His presence, and they know His face. +The shadows, too, are grateful -- could they pray, +How they would flower all His way with prayers! +The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams -- +Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing +A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang. +The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers +Watch their Creator as He passes on, +And mourn they have no hearts to love their God, +And sigh they have no souls to be beloved. +Man -- only man -- the image of his God -- +Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night. + + + + +Poets + + + +Poets are strange -- not always understood + By many is their gift, +Which is for evil or for mighty good -- + To lower or to lift. + +Upon their spirits there hath come a breath; + Who reads their verse +Will rise to higher life, or taste of death + In blessing or in curse. + +The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, + Ordained from very birth +To keep for hearts an everlasting feast -- + To bless or curse the earth. + +They cannot help but sing; they know not why + Their thoughts rush into song, +And float above the world, beneath the sky, + For right or for the wrong. + +They are like angels -- but some angels fell, + While some did keep their place; +Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, + And God's or Satan's face + +Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, + In blessing or in blight, +And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace + Of sunlight or of night. + +They move along life's uttermost extremes, + Unlike all other men; +And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, + Like shadows in a glen. + +They all are dreamers; in the day and night + Ever across their souls +The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright + In mystic rhythm rolls. + +They live within themselves -- they may not tell + What lieth deepest there; +Within their breast a heaven or a hell, + Joy or tormenting care. + +They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, + No matter what they seem; +The stars and sunlight of their nights and days + Move over them in dream. + +They breathe it forth -- their very spirit's breath -- + To bless the world or blight; +To bring to men a higher life or death; + To give them light or night. + +The words of some command the world's acclaim, + And never pass away, +While others' words receive no palm from fame, + And live but for a day. + +But, live or die, their words leave their impress + Fore'er or for an hour, +And mark men's souls -- some more and some the less -- + With good's or evil's power. + + + + +A Legend + + + +He walked alone beside the lonely sea, +The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face, +His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands +Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. +And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair! +Brown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast, +As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns. +His face looked like His Mother's -- only hers +Had not those strange serenities and stirs +That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow. +He wore the seamless robe His Mother made -- +And as He gathered it about His breast, +The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice +Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" -- the white sands felt +The touch of tender tears He wept the while. +He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off +To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave -- +For He had walked across the desert sands +All day long -- and as He bathed His feet +He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years! +And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come +And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave +All weary feet on all their thorny ways." +"Three years! three years!" He murmured still again, +"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will -- +My Father's will -- biddeth Me bide that time." +A little fisher-boy came up the shore +And saw Him -- and, nor bold, nor shy, +Approached, but when he saw the weary face, +Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired." +He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow +Caressingly and blessingly -- and said: +"I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. +Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm +That had been sweeping on the farther shore, +Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell +At His feet and died; and then the boy said: +"Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone; +He took the bird and laid it in His hand, +And breathed on it -- when to his amaze +The little fisher-boy beheld the bird +Flutter a moment and then fly aloft -- +Its little life returned; and then he gazed +With look intensest on the wondrous face +(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) -- and said: +"Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God." +He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: +"I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him, +With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, +Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock +That little boy knelt down, and there adored, +While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified. + + + + +Thoughts + + + +By sound of name, and touch of hand, + Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, +We know each other in this land, + How little must that knowledge be? + +How souls are all the time alone, + No spirit can another reach; +They hide away in realms unknown, + Like waves that never touch a beach. + +We never know each other here, + No soul can here another see -- +To know, we need a light as clear + As that which fills eternity. + +For here we walk by human light, + But there the light of God is ours, +Each day, on earth, is but a night; + Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours. + +I call you thus -- you call me thus -- + Our mortal is the very bar +That parts forever each of us, + As skies, on high, part star from star. + +A name is nothing but a name + For that which, else, would nameless be; +Until our souls, in rapture, claim + Full knowledge in eternity. + + + + +Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"] + + + +The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, + And joy aboundeth everywhere, +The glorious stars crown every night, + And thro' the dark of ev'ry care +Above us shineth heaven's light. + +If from the cradle to the grave + We reckon all our days and hours +We sure will find they give and gave + Much less of thorns and more of flowers; +And tho' some tears must ever lave + +The path we tread, upon them all + The light of smiles forever lies, +As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall, + The sun shines sweeter in the skies. +Life holdeth more of sweet than gall + +For ev'ry one: no matter who -- + Or what their lot -- or high or low; +All hearts have clouds -- but heaven's blue + Wraps robes of bright around each woe; +And this is truest of the true: + +That joy is stronger here than grief, + Fills more of life, far more of years, +And makes the reign of sorrow brief; + Gives more of smiles for less of tears. +Joy is life's tree -- grief but its leaf. + + + + +C.S.A. + + + +Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, +Who living were true and tried for us, +And dying sleep side by side for us; + The Martyr-band + That hallowed our land +With the blood they shed in a tide for us? + +Ah! fearless on many a day for us +They stood in front of the fray for us, +And held the foeman at bay for us; + And tears should fall + Fore'er o'er all +Who fell while wearing the gray for us. + +How many a glorious name for us, +How many a story of fame for us +They left: Would it not be a blame for us + If their memories part + From our land and heart, +And a wrong to them, and shame for us? + +No, no, no, they were brave for us, +And bright were the lives they gave for us; +The land they struggled to save for us + Will not forget + Its warriors yet +Who sleep in so many a grave for us. + +On many and many a plain for us +Their blood poured down all in vain for us, +Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; + They bleed -- we weep, + We live -- they sleep, +"All lost," the only refrain for us. + +But their memories e'er shall remain for us, +And their names, bright names, without stain for us: +The glory they won shall not wane for us, + In legend and lay + Our heroes in Gray +Shall forever live over again for us. + + + + +The Seen and The Unseen + + + +Nature is but the outward vestibule +Which God has placed before an unseen shrine, +The Visible is but a fair, bright vale +That winds around the great Invisible; +The Finite -- it is nothing but a smile +That flashes from the face of Infinite; +A smile with shadows on it -- and 'tis sad +Men bask beneath the smile, but oft forget +The loving Face that very smile conceals. +The Changeable is but the broidered robe +Enwrapped about the great Unchangeable; +The Audible is but an echo, faint, +Low whispered from the far Inaudible; +This earth is but an humble acolyte +A-kneeling on the lowest altar-step +Of this creation's temple, at the Mass +Of Supernature, just to ring the bell +At Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the world +Prepares its heart for consecration's hour. +Nature is but the ever-rustling veil +Which God is wearing, like the Carmelite +Who hides her face behind her virgin veil +To keep it all unseen from mortal eyes, +Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers, +And ceaseless sacrifices night and day, +Shields souls from sin -- and many hearts from harm. + +God hides in nature as a thought doth hide +In humbly-sounding words; and as the thought +Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart +That giveth life and keepeth life alive, +So God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul; +For nature is His word so strangely writ +In heav'n, in all the letters of the stars, +Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds, +And on the seas in syllables of waves, +And in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers, +And on the grasses and the stately trees, +And on the rivers and the mournful rocks +The word is clearly written; blest are they +Who read the word aright -- and understand. + +For God is everywhere -- and He doth find +In every atom which His hand hath made +A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal +His name, love, power, to those who kneel +In holy faith upon this bright below +And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, +To catch the vision of the great beyond. + +Yea! nature is His shadow, and how bright +Must that face be which such a shadow casts? +We walk within it, for "we live and move +And have our being" in His ev'rywhere. +Why is God shy? Why doth He hide Himself? +The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore +Entemples Him; the fragrance of the rose +Folds Him around as blessed incense folds +The altars of His Christ: yet some will walk +Along the temple's wondrous vestibule +And look on and admire -- yet enter not +To find within the Presence, and the Light +Which sheds its rays on all that is without. +And nature is His voice; who list may hear +His name low-murmured every -- everywhere. +In songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers, +In swaying of the trees, and on the seas +The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships +That come and go, His holy, holy name. +The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same; +And some have ears and yet they will not hear +The soundless voice re-echoed everywhere; +And some have hearts that never are enthrilled +By all the grand Hosannahs nature sings. +List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pause +Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, +That hearts with power to love may echo back +Their Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn. + + + + +Passing Away + + + +Life's Vesper-bells are ringing + In the temple of my heart, +And yon sunset, sure, is singing + "Nunc dimittis -- Now depart!" +Ah! the eve is golden-clouded, + But to-morrow's sun shall shine +On this weary body shrouded; + But my soul doth not repine. + +"Let me see the sun descending, + I will see his light no more, +For my life, this eve, is ending; + And to-morrow on the shore +That is fair, and white, and golden, + I will meet my God; and ye +Will forget not all the olden, + Happy hours ye spent with me. + +"I am glad that I am going; + What a strange and sweet delight +Is thro' all my being flowing + When I know that, sure, to-night +I will pass from earth and meet Him + Whom I loved thro' all the years, +Who will crown me when I greet Him, + And will kiss away my tears. + +"My last sun! haste! hurry westward! + In the dark of this to-night +My poor soul that hastens rest-ward + `With the Lamb' will find the light; +Death is coming -- and I hear him, + Soft and stealthy cometh he; +But I do not believe I fear him, + God is now so close to me." + + * * * * * + +Fell the daylight's fading glimmer + On a face so wan and white; +Brighter was his soul, while dimmer + Grew the shadows of the night; +And he died -- and God was near him; + I knelt by him to forgive; +And I sometimes seem to hear him + Whisper -- "Live as I did live." + + + + +The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children) + + + +The shades of night were brooding + O'er the sea, the earth, the sky; +The passing winds were wailing + In a low, unearthly sigh; +The darkness gathered deeper, + For no starry light was shed, +And silence reigned unbroken, + As the silence of the dead. + +The wintry clouds were hanging + From the starless sky so low, +While 'neath them earth lay folded + In a winding shroud of snow. +'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary, + And the blast that swept along +The mountains hoarsely murmured + A fierce, discordant song. + +And mortal men were resting + From the turmoil of the day, +And broken hearts were dreaming + Of the friends long passed away; +And saintly men were keeping + Their vigils through the night, +While angel spirits hovered near + Around their lonely light. + +And wicked men were sinning + In the midnight banquet halls, +Forgetful of that sentence traced + On proud Belshazzar's walls. +On that night, so dark and dismal, + Unillumed by faintest ray, +Might be seen the lonely pilgrim + Wending on his darksome way. + +Slow his steps, for he was weary, + And betimes he paused to rest; +Then he rose, and, pressing onward, + Murmured lowly: "I must haste." +In his hand he held a chaplet, + And his lips were moved in prayer, +For the darkness and the silence + Seemed to whisper God was there. + +On the lonely pilgrim journeyed, + Nought disturbed him on his way, +And his prayers he softly murmured + As the midnight stole away. +Hark! amid the stillness rises + On his ears a distant strain +Softly sounding -- now it ceases -- + Sweetly now it comes again. + +In his path he paused to wonder + While he listened to the sound: +On it came, so sweet, so pensive, + 'Mid the blast that howled around; +And the restless winds seemed soothed + By that music, gentle, mild, +And they slept, as when a mother + Rocks to rest her cradled child. + +Strange and sweet the calm that followed, + Stealing through the midnight air; +Strange and sweet the sounds that floated + Like an angel breathing there. +From the sky the clouds were drifting + Swiftly one by one away, +And the sinless stars were shedding + Here and there a silver ray. + +"Why this change?" the pilgrim whispered -- + "Whence that music? whence its power? +Earthly sounds are not so lovely! + Angels love the midnight hour!" +Bending o'er his staff, he wondered, + Loath to leave that sacred place: +"I must hasten," said he, sadly -- + On he pressed with quickened pace. + +Just before him rose a mountain, + Dark its outline, steep its side -- +Down its slopes that midnight music + Seemed so soothingly to glide. +"I will find it," said the pilgrim, + "Though this mountain I must scale" -- +Scarcely said, when on his vision + Shone a distant light, and pale. + +Glad he was; and now he hastened -- + Brighter, brighter grew the ray -- +Stronger, stronger swelled the music + As he struggled on his way. +Soon he gained the mountain summit, + Lo! a church bursts on his view: +From the church that light was flowing, + And that gentle music, too. + +Near he came -- its door stood open -- + Still he stood in awe and fear; +"Shall I enter spot so holy? + Am I unforbidden here? +I will enter -- something bids me -- + Saintly men are praying here; +Vigils sacred they are keeping, + 'Tis their Matin song I hear." + +Softly, noiselessly, he glided + Through the portal; on his sight +Shone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling; + Down he knelt -- 'twas Christmas night -- +Down, in deepest adoration, + Knelt the lonely pilgrim there; +Joy unearthly, rapture holy, + Blended with his whispered prayer. + +Wrapped his senses were in wonder, + On his soul an awe profound, +As the vision burst upon him, + 'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound. +"Is it real? is it earthly? + Is it all a fleeting dream? +Hark! those choral voices ringing, + Lo! those forms like angels seem." + +On his view there rose an altar, + Glittering 'mid a thousand beams, +Flowing from the burning tapers + In bright, sparkling, silver streams. +From unnumbered crystal vases, + Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers, +Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance + 'Mid the lights in sweetest showers. + +Rich and gorgeous was the altar, + Decked it was in purest white. +Mortal hands had not arrayed it + Thus, upon that Christmas night. +Amid its lights and lovely flowers, + The little tabernacle stood; +Around it all was rich and golden, + It alone was poor and rude. + +Hark! Venite Adoremus! + Round the golden altar sounds -- +See that band of angels kneeling + Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns! +And the pilgrim looked and listened, + And he saw the angels there, +And their snow-white wings were folded, + As they bent in silent prayer. + +Twelve they were; bright rays of glory + Round their brows effulgent shone; +But a wreath of nobler beauty + Seemed to grace and circle one; +And he, beauteous, rose and opened + Wide the tabernacle door: +Hark! Venite Adoremus + Rises -- bending, they adore. + +Lo! a sound of censers swinging! + Clouds of incense weave around +The altar rich a silver mantle, + As the angels' hymns resound. +List! Venite Adoremus + Swells aloud in stronger strain, +And the angels swing the censers, + And they prostrate bend again. + +Rising now, with voice of rapture, + Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone, +"Gloria in Excelsis Deo" + Round the sacramental throne. +Oh! 'twas sweet, 'twas sweet and charming + As the notes triumphant flowed! +Oh! 'twas sweet, while wreathes of incense + Curled, and countless tapers glowed. + +Oh! 'twas grand! that hymn of glory + Earthly sounds cannot compare; +Oh! 'twas grand! it breath'd of heaven, + As the angels sung it there. +Ravished by the strains ecstatic, + Raptured by the vision grand, +Gazed the pilgrim on the altar, + Gazed upon the angel band. + +All was hushed! the floating echoes + Of the hymn had died away; +Vanished were the clouds of incense, + And the censers ceased to sway. +Lo! their wings are gently waving, + And the angels softly rise, +Bending towards the tabernacle, + Worship beaming from their eyes. + +One last, lowly genuflection! + From their brows love burning shone -- +Ah! they're going, they've departed, + All but one, the brightest one. +"Why remains he?" thought the pilgrim, + Ah! he rises beauteously -- +"Listen!" and the angel murmured + Sweetly: "Pilgrim, hail to thee!" + +"Come unto the golden altar, + I'm an angel -- banish fear -- +Come, unite in adoration + With me, for our God is here. +Come thy Jesus here reposes, + Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight -- +Come! adore the Infant Saviour + With me -- for 'tis Christmas night." + +Now approached the pilgrim, trembling, + Now beside the angel bent, +And the deepest, blissful gladness, + With his fervent worship blent. +"Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly, + "Thou hast seen bright angels here, +And hast heard our sacred anthems, + Filled with rapture, filled with fear. + +"We are twelve -- 'twas we who chanted + First the Saviour's lowly birth, +We who brought the joyful tidings + Of His coming, to the earth; +We who sung unto the shepherds, + Watching on the mountain height, +That the Word was made Incarnate + For them on that blessed night. + +"And since then we love to linger + On that festal night on earth; +And we leave our thrones of glory + Here to keep the Saviour's birth. +Happy mortals! happy mortals! + To-night the angels would be men; +And they leave their thrones in heaven, + For the Crib of Bethlehem." + +And the angel led the pilgrim + To the tabernacle door; +Lo! an Infant there was sleeping, + And the angel said: "Adore! +He is sleeping, yet he watches, + See that beam of love divine; +Pilgrim! pay your worship holy + To your Infant God and mine." + +And the spirit slowly, slowly, + Closed the tabernacle door, +While the pilgrim lowly, lowly, + Bent in rapture to adore. +"Pilgrim," spoke the angel sweetly, + "I must bid thee my adieu; +Love! oh! love the Infant Jesus! --" + And he vanished from his view. + + * * * * * + +All was silent -- silent -- silent -- + Faded was the vision bright -- +But the pilgrim long remembered + In his heart that Christmas night. + + + + +A Reverie ["Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange!"] + + + +Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange! +How they yearn to ramble and love to range +Down through the vales of the years long gone, +Up through the future that fast rolls on. + +To-days are dull -- so they wend their ways +Back to their beautiful yesterdays; +The present is blank -- so they wing their flight +To future to-morrows where all seems bright. + +Build them a bright and beautiful home, +They'll soon grow weary and want to roam; +Find them a spot without sorrow or pain, +They may stay a day, but they're off again. + +Those hearts of ours -- how wild! how wild! +They're as hard to tame as an Indian child; +They're as restless as waves on the sounding sea, +Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free. + +Those hearts of ours -- how lone! how lone! +Ever, forever, they mourn and moan; +Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer; +The revelry o'er, they're all the more drear. + +Those hearts of ours -- how warm! how warm! +Like the sun's bright rays, like the Summer's charm; +How they beam and burn! how they gleam and glow +Their flash and flame hide but ashes below. + +Those hearts of ours -- how cold! how cold! +Like December's snow on the waste or wold; +And though our Decembers melt soon into May, +Hearts know Decembers that pass not away. + +Those hearts of ours -- how deep! how deep! +You may sound the sea where the corals sleep, +Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled -- +Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold. + +Where the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been known +The wrecks of the sea lie low and lone; +Thus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow, +There are wrecks far down -- there are graves below. + +Those hearts of ours -- but, after all, +How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small; +Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill, +They're as easy to empty -- as easy to fill. + +One hour of storm and how the streams pour! +One hour of sun and the streams are no more; +One little grief -- how the tears gush and glide! +One smile -- flow they ever so fast, they are dried. + +Those hearts of ours -- how wise! how wise! +They can lift their thoughts till they touch the skies; +They can sink their shafts, like a miner bold, +Where wisdom's mines hide their pearls and gold. + +Aloft they soar with undazzled gaze, +Where the halls of the Day-King burn and blaze; +Or they fly with a wing that will never fail, +O'er the sky's dark sea where the star-ships sail. + +Those hearts of ours -- what fools! what fools! +How they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules! +How they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieve +For what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve. + +Those hearts of ours -- how strong! how strong! +Let a thousand sorrows around them throng, +They can bear them all, and a thousand more, +And they're stronger then than they were before. + +Those hearts of ours -- how weak! how weak! +But a single word of unkindness speak, +Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang, +That one slight word leaves a life-long pang. + +Those hearts of ours -- but I've said enough, +As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough; +I'll rest me now, but I'll come again +Some other day, to resume my strain. + + + + +---- Their Story Runneth Thus + + + +Two little children played among the flowers, +Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; +The children's ages were the very same +E'en to an hour -- and Ethel was her name, +A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes +That seemed to listen just as if they held +The gift of hearing with the power of sight. +Six summers slept upon her low white brow, +And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks. +Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke +Her words were music; and her laughter rang +So like an altar-bell that, had you heard +Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think +Of kneeling down and worshiping the pure. + +They played among the roses -- it was May -- +And "hide and seek", and "seek and hide", all eve +They played together till the sun went down. +Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day: +And tired at last she plucked a crimson rose +And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin; +And he went thro' the garden till he found +The whitest rose of all the roses there, +And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair. +"I give you red -- and you -- you give me white: +What is the meaning?" said she, while a smile, +As radiant as the light of angels' wings, +Swept bright across her face; the while her eyes +Seemed infinite purities half asleep +In sweetest pearls; and he did make reply: +"Sweet Ethel! white dies first; you know, the snow, +(And it is not as white as thy pure face) +Melts soon away; but roses red as mine +Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away." + +She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, +And hand in hand they walked the winding ways +Of that fair garden till they reached her home. +A good-bye and a kiss -- and he was gone. + +She leaned her head upon her mother's breast, +And ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called: +"Does white die first? my mother! and does red +Live longer?" And her mother wondered much +At such strange speech. She fell asleep +With murmurs on her lips of red and white. + +Those children loved as only children can -- +With nothing in their love save their whole selves. +When in their cradles they had been betroth'd; +They knew it in a manner vague and dim -- +Unconscious yet of what betrothal meant. + +The boy -- she called him Merlin -- a love name -- +(And he -- he called her always Ullainee, +No matter why); the boy was full of moods. +Upon his soul and face the dark and bright +Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass +Rippling with his bright prattle; and then, hours +Would come and go, and never hear a word +Fall from his lips, and never see a smile +Upon his face. He was so like a cloud +With ever-changeful hues, as she was like +A golden sunbeam shining on its face. + + * * * * * + +Ten years passed on. They parted and they met +Not often in each year; yet as they grew +In years, a consciousness unto them came +Of human love. + But it was sweet and pure. +There was no passion in it. Reverence, +Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence. + +One night in mid of May their faces met +As pure as all the stars that gazed on them. +They met to part from themselves and the world; +Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed; +Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears +Fell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each: +They were to meet no more. + Their hands were clasped +To tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars +Looked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt, +Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe +Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. +And in the heart of that last parting hour +Eternity was beating. And he said: +"We part to go to Calvary and to God -- +This is our garden of Gethsemane; +And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer +Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: +Not my will, Father! but Thine own be done." +Raptures meet agonies in such heart-hours; +Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms +Around the cold, white neck of grief -- and thus +The while they parted -- sorrow swept their hearts +Like a great, dark stormy sea -- but sudden +A joy, like sunshine -- did it come from God? -- + +Flung over every wave that swept o'er them +A more than golden glory. + Merlin said: +"Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine; +The human satisfies nor you nor me, +(No human love shall ever satisfy -- +Or ever did -- the hearts that lean on it); +You sigh for something higher as do I, +So let our spirits be espoused in God, +And let our wedlock be as soul to soul; +And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring, +And God will bless us both." + She sweetly said: +"Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts; +Let God's own heart be our own holy home +And let us live as only angels live; +And let us love as our own angels love. +'Tis hard to part -- but it is better so -- +God's will is ours, and -- Merlin! let us go." + +And then she sobbed as if her heart would break -- +Perhaps it did; an awful minute passed, +Long as an age and briefer than a flash +Of lightning in the skies. No word was said -- +Only a look which never was forgot. +Between them fell the shadows of the night. +Their faces went away into the dark, +And never met again; and yet their souls +Were twined together in the heart of Christ. + +And Ethel went from earthland long ago; +But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross. +He would not move a nail that nails him there, +He would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there. +He hung himself upon the blessed cross +With Ethel; she has gone to wear the crown +That wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept +Their bodies with their souls from earthly taint. + +And years and years, and weary years, passed on +Into the past. One Autumn afternoon, +When flowers were in their agony of death, +And winds sang "De Profundis" over them, +And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk +Where, in a resting place as calm as sweet, +The dead were lying down; the Autumn sun +Was half way down the west; the hour was three -- +The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, +For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died. +He walked alone amid the virgin's graves +Where virgins slept; a convent stood near by, +And from the solitary cells of nuns +Unto the cells of death the way was short. +Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, +While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew, +Entwining grave and grave. He read the names +Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" +Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name +A cross was graven on the lowly stone. +He passed each grave with reverential awe, +As if he passed an altar, where the Host +Had left a memory of its sacrifice. +And o'er the buried virgins' virgin dust +He walked as prayerfully as tho' he trod +The holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine. +He passed from grave to grave, and read the names +Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names +By which this world had known them into names +Of sacrifice known only to their God; +Veiling their faces they had veiled their names; +The very ones who played with them as girls, +Had they passed there, would know no more than he +Or any stranger where their playmates slept; +And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, +Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, +Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears. +He wondered at the stories that were hid +Forever down within those simple graves. +In a lone corner of that resting-place +Uprose a low white slab that marked a grave +Apart from all the others; long, sad grass +Drooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it +With veil of purest green; around the slab +The whitest of white roses 'twined their arms -- +Roses cold as the snows and pure as songs +Of angels -- and the pale leaflets and thorns +Hid e'en the very name of her who slept +Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when +He reached its side a spell fell on his heart +So suddenly -- he knew not why -- and tears +Went up into his eyes and trickled down +Upon the grass; he was so strangely moved +As if he met a long-gone face he loved. +I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leaves +That hid the name; but as he did, the thorns +Did pierce his hand, and lo! amazed, he read +The very word -- the very, very name +He gave the girl in golden days before -- + + "ULLAINEE". + +He sat beside that lonely grave for long, +He took its grasses in his trembling hand, +He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, +He read the name again, and still again, +He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought +It all might be a dream -- then rubbed his eyes +And read the name again to be more sure; +Then wondered and then wept -- then asked himself: +"What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave? +I dreamed her soul had fled. +Was she the white dove that I saw in dream +Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?" + + The convent bell +Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him +His question. And he rose and went his way +Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked +One hour before the sunset, and the birds +Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. +As silent as a star-gleam came a nun +In answer to his summons at the gate; +Her face was like the picture of a saint, +Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes +Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where +God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn +By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke, +And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone +As only voices own which day and night +Sing hymns to God. + + She locked the massive gate. +He followed her along a flower-fringed walk +That, gently rising, led up to the home +Of virgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomed +Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes, +(For they had fashioned them with holy care, +Into all holy forms -- a chalice, a cross, +And sacred hearts -- and many saintly names, +That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, +Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign), +Were fairer far within the convent walls, +And purer in their fragrance and their bloom +Than all their sisters in the outer world. + +He went into a wide and humble room -- +The floor was painted, and upon the walls, +In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; +Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint +Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke: +"I'll call the mother," and she bowed and went. + +He waited in the wide and humble room, +The only room in that unworldly place +This world could enter; and the pictures looked +Upon his face and down into his soul, +And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood +A crucifix, the figured Christ of which +Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look +More nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe +When he beheld a something in its face +Like his own face. +But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot +Of that strange crucifix he read the name -- + + "ULLAINEE". + +A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul -- +When to the door he heard a footstep come, +And then a voice -- the Mother of the nuns +Had entered -- and in calmest tone began: +"Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song +Had not yet ended when you came; our rule +Forbids our leaving choir; this my excuse." +She bent her head -- the rustle of her veil +Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, +Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to him +And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look +What brought him there, and waited his reply. +"I am a stranger, Sister, hither come," +He said, "upon an errand still more strange; +But thou wilt pardon me and bid me go +If what I crave you cannot rightly grant; +I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time, +Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strong +As life, has brought me to this holy place." + +He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent +Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave +Him no reply, save that her very look +Encouraged him to speak, and he went on: + +He told her Ethel's story from the first, +He told her of the day amid the flowers, +When they were only six sweet summers old; +He told her of the night when all the flowers, +A-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice -- +He told her all; then said: "I saw a stone +In yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep, +And writ on it, all hid by roses white, +I saw a name I never ought forget." + +She wore a startled look, but soon repressed +The wonder that had come into her face. +"Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said + + "ULLAINEE", + +She forward bent her face and pierced his own +With look intensest; and he thought he heard +The trembling of her veil, as if the brow +It mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts +But quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone, +Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule +To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn. +Return to-morrow; then, if so God wills, +I'll see you." + + He gave many thanks, passed out +From that unworldly place into the world. +Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps -- +Swift to the "White-Rose-Grave", his heart: he knelt +Upon its grass and prayed that God might will +The mystery's solution; then he took, +Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose, +The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam +Of summer waves upon a summer sea. + + Then thro' the night he went +And reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts, +Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears +Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil +Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. +A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave, +And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears +That shone like jewels on a diadem, +And two great angels with such shining wings -- +All these and more were in most curious way +Blended in one dream or many dreams. Then +He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept +Again and had another dream. +His dream ran thus -- +(He told me all of it many years ago, +But I forgot the most. I remember this): +A dove, whiter than whiteness' very self, +Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream, +Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It +Flew away across great, long distances, +Thro' forests where the trees were all in dream, +And over wastes where silences held reign, +And down pure valleys, till it reached a shore +By which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; +The dove rested there awhile, rose again +And flew across the sea into the sun; +And then from near or far (he could not say) +Came sound as faint as echo's own echo -- +A low sweet hymn it seemed -- and now +And then he heard, or else he thought he heard, +As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words: +"White dies first!" "White dies first." + +The sun had passed his noon and westward sloped; +He hurried to the cloister and was told +The Mother waited him. He entered in, +Into the wide and pictured room, and there +The Mother sat and gave him welcome twice. +"I prayed last night," she spoke, "to know God's will; +I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints +That they might pray for me, and I might know +My conduct in the matter. Now, kind sir, +What wouldst thou? Tell thy errand." He replied: +"It was not idle curiosity +That brought me hither or that prompts my lips +To ask the story of the `White-Rose-Grave', +To seek the story of the sleeper there +Whose name I knew so long and far away. +Who was she, pray? Dost deem it right to tell?" +There was a pause before the answer came, +As if there was a comfort in her heart, +There was a tremor in her voice when she +Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone +Of whisper more than word: + + "She was a child +Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave, +And who has filled it long -- and yet it seems +To me but one short hour ago we laid +Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around +Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. +We often look for her in places where +Her face was wont to be: among the flowers, +In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years +Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet +It seems to hover here and haunt us all. +I cannot tell you all. It is enough +To see one ray of light for us to judge +The glory of the sun; it is enough +To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue +For us to know the beauty of the sky. +It is enough to tell a little part +Of her most holy life, that you may know +The hidden grace and splendor of the whole." + +"Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all! +Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother." + + She went on, +Unheeding his abruptness: + "One sweet day -- +A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month +Of May, at early morn, ere yet the dew +Had passed from off the flowers and grass -- ere yet +Our nuns had come from holy Mass -- there came, +With summons quick, unto our convent gate +A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew -- +Another dew was moist within her eyes -- +Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me +And as I went she rushed into my arms -- +Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch +That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed +Until I thought her very soul would rush +From her frail body, in a sob, to God. +I let her sob her sorrow all away. +My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs +Sank into sighs -- and they too sank and died +In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat +In this same room -- and gently spoke to her, +And held her hand in mine -- and soothed her +With words of sympathy, until she seemed +As tranquil as myself. + + "And then I asked: +`What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?' +`Mother!' she said, `wilt let me wear the veil? +Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve +Him in this cloistered place? I pray to be -- +Unworthy tho' I be -- to be His spouse. +Nay, Mother -- say not nay -- 'twill break a heart +Already broken;' and she looked on me +With those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more, +More strongly and more sadly than her lips +That I might grant her sudden, strange request. +`Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. `I had,' +She said, `but heaven has her now; and thou +Wilt be my mother -- and the orphan girl +Will make her life her thanks.' + `Thy father, child?' +`Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.' +`And hast nor sister nor brother?' `No,' she said, +`God gave my mother only me; one year +This very day He parted us.' `Poor child,' +I murmured. `Nay, kind Sister,' she replied, +`I have much wealth -- they left me ample means -- +I have true friends who love me and protect. +I was a minor until yesterday; +But yesterday all guardianship did cease, +And I am mistress of myself and all +My worldly means -- and, Sister, they are thine +If thou but take myself -- nay -- don't refuse.' +`Nay -- nay -- my child!' I said; `the only wealth +We wish for is the wealth of soul -- of grace. +Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, +Or buy a single thread of Virgin's veil. +Not all the coins in coffers of a king +Could bribe an entrance here for any one. +God's voice alone can claim a cell -- a veil, +For any one He sends. + Who sent you here, +My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one +Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? +Or, mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps, +A sickly weariness of that bright world +Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.' +`Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke. +`Who sent you, then?' + `A youthful Christ,' she said, +`Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, +Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure -- +Would have been His own gentle John; and would +Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast, +And stood on Friday eve beneath His cross +To take His Mother from Him when He died. +He sent me here -- he said the word last night +In my own garden; this the word he said -- +Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear! +Your heart was born with veil of virgin on; +I hear it rustle every time we meet, +In all your words and smiles; and when you weep +I hear it rustle more. Go -- wear your veil -- +And outward be what inwardly thou art, +And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: +My heart was born with priestly vestments on, +And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood, +And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep -- +And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host, +A silver Dream-Bell rang -- and angels knelt, +Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel say -- +Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart +Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. +My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night +To climb our Calvary and to meet in God; +And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane -- +And He is here, who, in that other, bled; +And they are here who came to comfort Him -- +His angels and our own; and His great prayer, +Ethel, is ours to-night -- let's say it, then: +Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil +And I my vestments." He did send me here.' + +"She paused -- a few stray tears had dropped upon +Her closing words and softened them to sighs. +I listened, inward moved, but outward calm and cold +To the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said: +`I see it is a love-tale after all, +With much of folly and some of fact in it; +It is a heart affair, and in such things +There's little logic, and there's less of sense. +You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head +Outside the gates; nay, go, and find the head +You lost last night -- and then, I am quite sure, +You'll not be anxious to confine your heart +Within this cloistered place.' + She seemed to wince +Beneath my words one moment -- then replied: +`If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, +Dost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more? +If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, +Dost thou do well to chill them into ice? +And were I disappointed in yon world, +Should that debar me from a purer place? +You say it is a love-tale -- so it is; +The vase was human -- but the flower divine; +And if I break the vase with my own hands, +Will you forbid that I should humbly ask +The heart of God to be my lily's vase? +I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth +Save his who yesternight did send me here +To dip it in the very blood of Christ, +And plant it here.' + And then she sobbed outright +A long, deep sob. + I gently said to her: +`Nay, child, I spoke to test thee -- do not weep. +If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come +And find e'en here a home. But God is slow +In all His works and ways, and slower still +When He would deck a bride to grace His court. +Go, now, and in one year -- if thou dost come +Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee; +Nay -- urge me not -- it is our holy rule -- +A year of trial! I must to choir, and thou +Into the world to watch and wait and pray +Until the Bridegroom comes.' + She rose and went +Without a word. + + "And twelvemonth after came, +True to the very day and hour, and said: +`Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? +Where is my cell -- and where my virgin's veil? +Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again? +I came once with my wealth and was refused: +And now I come as poor as Holy Christ +Who had no place to rest His weary head -- +My wealth is gone; I offered it to him +Who sent me here; he sent me speedy word +"Give all unto the poor in quiet way -- +And hide the giving -- ere you give yourself +To God!" `Wilt take me now for my own sake? +I bring my soul -- 'tis little worth I ween, +And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.' + +"`My child,' I said, `thrice welcome -- enter here; +A few short days of silence and of prayer, +And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.' + +"Her novice days went on; much sickness fell +Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks +In awful agonies, and no one heard +A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile +A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide +Her sufferings from us all. When she was well +She was the first to meet the hour of prayer -- +The last to leave it -- and they named her well: +The `Angel of the Cloister'. Once I heard +The Father of our souls say when she passed +`Beneath that veil of sacrificial black +She wears the white robe of her innocence.' +And we -- we believed it. There are sisters here +Of three-score years of service who would say: +`Within our memory never moved a veil +That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.' +And we -- we felt it, and we loved her so, +We treated her as angel and as child. +I never heard her speak about the past, +I never heard her mention e'en a name +Of any in the world. She little spake; +She seemed to have rapt moments -- then she grew +Absent-minded, and would come and ask me +To walk alone and say her Rosary +Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine; +And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed +The very heart of song was breaking on her lips. +The dower of her mind as of her heart, +Was of the richest, and she mastered art +By instinct more than study. Her weak hands +Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful. +There is a picture hanging in our choir +She painted. I remember well the morn +She came to me and told me she had dreamt +A dream; then asked me would I let her paint +Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks +Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day +She kept her cell all busy with her work. +At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth -- +A picture my poor words may not portray. +But you must gaze on it with your own eyes, +And drink its magic and its meanings in; +I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go. + +"In every May for two whole days she kept +Her cell. We humored her in that; but when +The days had passed, and she came forth again, +Her face was tender as a lily's leaf, +With God's smile on it; and for days and days +Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips +Save when in prayer, and then her every look +Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God +Strange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did. + +"I half forgot -- on yonder mantlepiece +You see that wondrous crucifix; one year +She spent on it, and begged to put beneath +That most mysterious word -- `Ullainee'. + +"At last the cloister's angel disappeared; +Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed -- +Her words were missed where every day we met +In recreation's hour. And those who passed +The angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe +A prayer that death might pass the angel by +And let her longer stay, for she lay ill -- +Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. +Ah! many were the orisons that rose +From all our hearts that God might spare her still; +At Benediction and at holy Mass +Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went +To heaven for her; we did love her so -- +Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps +Our love was far too human. Slow and slow +She faded like a flower. And slow and slow +Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow +Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim. +Hope died on all our faces; but on her's +Another and a different hope did shine, +And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose +That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end. +Never such silence o'er the cloister hung -- +We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke, +Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound +Might jar upon her ear. The sisters watched +In turns beside her couch; to each she gave +A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look. +At times her mind did wander; no wild words +Escaped her lips -- she seemed to float away +To far-gone days, and live again in scenes +Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep +She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words +About her mother; and sometimes she sang +The fragments of sweet olden songs -- and when +She woke again, she timidly would ask +If she had spoken in her sleep, and what +She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear +That sleep might open there some long-closed gate +She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud, +A golden cloud upon a summer's day, +Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea, +So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve, +The fourteenth day of August, when the sun +Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud +Around him on descending day's bright throne, +She sent for me and bade me come in haste. +I went into her cell. There was a light +Upon her face, unearthly; and it shone +Like gleam of star upon a dying rose. +I sat beside her couch, and took her hand +In mine -- a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd +Of flesh -- so wasted, white and wan it was. +Her great, brown, wond'ring eyes had sunk away +Deep in their sockets -- and their light shone dim +As tapers dying on an altar. Soft +As a dream of beauty on me fell low, +Last words. + `Mother, the tide is ebbing fast; +But ere it leaves this shore to cross the deep +And seek another, calmer, I would say +A few last words -- and, Mother, I would ask +One favor more, which thou wilt not refuse. +Thou wert a mother to the orphan girl, +Thou gav'st her heart a home, her love a vase, +Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine -- +And thou didst love me, Mother, as she loved +Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away -- +But no, it is not far -- that other heaven +Touches this, Mother; I have felt its touch, +And now I feel its clasp upon my soul. +I'm going from this heaven into that, +To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all. +It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast. +My soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds +To sing the second Vespers of the day +With all the angels. Mother, ere I go, +Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words, +Which, like all last words, tell whate'er was first +In life or tenderest in heart. I came +Unto my convent cell and virgin veil, +Sent by a spirit that had touched my own +As wings of angels touch -- to fly apart +Upon their missions -- till they meet again +In heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing. +The "Angel of the Cloister" you called me -- +Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name -- +My mission's over -- and your angel goes +To-morrow home. This earthly part which stays +You'll lay away within a simple grave -- +But, Mother, on its slab thou'lt grave this name, +"Ullainee!" (she spelt the letters out), +Nor ask me why -- tho' if thou wilt I'll tell; +It is my soul name, given long ago +By one who found it in some Eastern book, +Or dreamt it in a dream, and gave it me -- +Nor ever told the meaning of the name; +And, Mother, should he ever come and read +That name upon my grave, and come to thee +And ask the tidings of "Ullainee", +Thou'lt tell him all -- and watch him if he weeps, +Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved -- +Show him the picture in the chapel choir -- +And watch him if he weeps; and then +There are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer;' +(She pointed to the table in her room); +`Some words of mine and words of his are there. +And keep these simple scrolls until he comes, +And put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch -- +Watch him if he weeps; and tell him this: +I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice, +I kissed my cross a thousand times a day, +I hung and bled upon it in my dreams, +I lived on it -- I loved it to the last.' And then +A low, soft sigh crept thro' the virgin's cell; +I looked upon her face, and death was there." +There was a pause -- and in the pause one wave +Of shining tears swept thro' the Mother's eyes. +"And thus," she said, "our angel passed away. +We buried her, and at her last request +We wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee'. +And I -- (for she asked me one day thus, +The day she hung her picture in the choir) -- +I planted o'er her grave a white rose tree. +The roses crept around the slab and hid +The graven name -- and still we sometimes cull +Her sweet, white roses, and we place them on +Our Chapel-Altar." + Then the Mother rose, +Without another word, and led him thro' +A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs +Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge +Noiselessly -- then into a Chapel dim, +On gospel side of which there was a gate +From ceiling down to floor, and back of that +A long and narrow choir, with many stalls, +Brown-oaken; all along the walls were hung +Saint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon +The faces of the Sisters in their prayers. +Beside a "Mater Dolorosa" hung +The picture of the "Angel of the Choir". +He sees it now thro' vista of the years, +Which stretch between him and that long-gone day, +It hangs within his memory as fresh +In tint and touch and look as long ago. +There was a power in it, as if the soul +Of her who painted it had shrined in it +Its very self; there was a spell in it +That fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes, +And made him dream of God's own holy heart. +The shadow of the picture, in weak words, +Was this, or something very like to this: + ---- A wild, weird wold, +Just like the desolation of a heart, +Stretched far away into infinity; +Above it low, gray skies drooped sadly down, +As if they fain would weep, and all was bare +As bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stood +All mantled with the glory of a light +That flashed from out the heavens, and a cross +With such a pale Christ hanging in its arms +Did crown the mount; and either side the cross +There were two crosses lying on the rocks -- +One of the whitest roses -- ULLAINEE +Was woven into it with buds of Red; +And one of reddest roses -- Merlin's name +Was woven into it with buds of white. +Below the cross and crosses and the mount +The earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear; +Above, a golden glory seemed to hang +Like God's own benediction o'er the names. +I saw the picture once; it moved me so +I ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth; +But words as weak as mine can never paint +That Crucifixion's picture. + Merlin said to me: +"Some day -- some far-off day -- when I am dead, +You have the simple rhymings of two hearts, +And if you think it best, the world may know +A love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE." + + + + +Night After the Picnic + + + +And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" + Rang the bells of all the hours; +"Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!" + Looked and listened all the flowers; +They were wakened from their slumbers, + By the footsteps of the fair; +And they smiled in their awaking + On the faces gathered there. + +"Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!" + Looked the overhanging trees, +For beneath their bending branches + Floated tresses in the breeze. +And they wondered who had wandered + With such voices and so gay; +And their leaflets seemed to whisper + To each other: "Who are they?" + +They were just like little children, + Not a sorrow's shade was there; +And "Merry! Merry! Merry!" + Rang their laughter thro' the air. +There was not a brow grief-darkened, + Was there there a heart in pain? +But "Happy! Happy! Happy!" + Came the happy bells' refrain. + +When the stately trees were bending + O'er a simple, quiet home, +That looked humble as an altar, + Nestling 'neath a lofty dome; +Thither went they gaily! gaily! + Where their coming was a joy, +Just to pass away together + One long day without alloy. + +"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!" + Melted morning's mist away, +Till the sun, in all its splendor, + Lit the borders of the bay. +"Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!" + Glanced the waters that were gray, +While the wavelets whispered "Welcome!" + To us all that happy day. + +And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" + Rang the bell in every heart, +And it chimed, "All day let no one + Think that ye shall ever part. +Go and sip from every moment + Sweets to perfume many years; +Keep your feast, and be too happy + To have thought of any tears." + +There was song with one's soul in it, + And the happy hearts grew still +While they leaned upon the music + Like fair lilies o'er the rill; +Till the notes had softly floated + Into silent seas away +O'er the wavelets, where they listened + While they rocked upon the bay. + +And ---- "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!" + When the song's sweet life was o'er, +Drooped the eyes that will remember + All its echoes evermore. +And "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!" + Beat the hearts of some, I ween, +That can see the unseen mystery + Which a song may strive to screen. + +Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!" + Rang the laughter everywhere, +From the lips that seemed too lightsome + For the sigh of any care. +And the dance went "Merry! Merry!" + Whilst the feet that tripped along, +Bore the hearts that were as happy + As a wild bird's happy song. + +And sweet words with smiles upon them, + Joy-winged, flitted to and fro, +Flushing every face they met with + With the glory of their glow. +Not a brow with cloud upon it -- + Not an eye that seemed to know +What a tear is; not a bosom + That had ever nursed a woe. + +And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!" + Like the ripples of a stream, +Did the bright hours chase each other, + Till it all seemed like a dream; +Till it seemed as if no ~Never~ + Ever in this world had been, +To o'ercloud the ~brief Forever~, + Shining o'er the happy scene. + +Dimly! dimly fell the shadows + Of the tranquil eventide; +But the sound of dance and laughter + Would not die, and had not died; +And still "Happy! Happy! Happy!" + Rang the voiceless vesper bells +O'er the hearts that were too happy + To remember earth's farewells. + +Came the night hours -- faster! faster! + Rose the laughter and the dance, +And the eyes that should look weary + Shone the brighter in their glance: +And they stole from every minute + What no other day could lend -- +They were happy! happy! happy! + But the feast must have an end. + +"Children, come!" the words were cruel -- + 'Twas the death sigh of the feast; +And they came, still merry! merry! + At the bidding of the priest, +Who had heard the joy-bells ringing + Round him all the summer day. +"Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!" + Did he hear an angel say? + +"Happy! happy! still more happy! + Yea, the happiest are they. +I was moving 'mid the children + By the borders of the bay, +And I bring to God no record + Of a single sin this day. + +"Happy! Happy! Happy!" + When your life seems lone and long, +You will hear that feast's bells ringing + Far and faintly thro' my song. + + + + +Lines ["The death of men is not the death"] + + + +The death of men is not the death +Of rights that urged them to the fray; + For men may yield + On battle-field +A noble life with stainless shield, + And swords may rust + Above their dust, + But still, and still + The touch and thrill +Of freedom's vivifying breath + Will nerve a heart and rouse a will + In some hour, in the days to be, +To win back triumphs from defeat; +And those who blame us then will greet + Right's glorious eternity. + +For right lives in a thousand things; + Its cradle is its martyr's grave, +Wherein it rests awhile until + The life that heroisms gave +Will rise again, at God's own will, + And right the wrong, + Which long and long +Did reign above the true and just; +And thro' the songs the poet sings, +Right's vivifying spirit rings; + Each simple rhyme + Keeps step and time +With those who marched away and fell, + And all his lines + Are humble shrines +Where love of right will love to dwell. + + + + +Death of the Prince Imperial + + + +Waileth a woman, "O my God!" +A breaking heart in a broken breath, +A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death! +Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail, +When love's last lily lies dead in the vale! + Let her alone, + Under the rod + With the infinite moan + Of her soul for God. +Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain, + But you never may shrine, + In verse or line, +The pang of the heart that breaks in twain. + +Waileth a woman, "O my God!" +Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache, +Why do your passionate pulses throb? +No lips that speak -- have ye souls that sob? +We carry the cross -- ye wear the crest, + We have our God -- and ye, your shore, +Whither ye rush in the storm to rest; +We have the havens of holy prayer -- +And we have a hope -- have ye despair? + For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore, +Adown the shores and along the years, +In the whitest foam of the saddest tears, +And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves! +Drift over a sea more deep and wide, +For we have sorrow and we have death; +And ye have only the tempest's breath; +But we have God when heart-oppressed, +As a calm and beautiful shore of rest. + +O waves! sad waves! how you flowed between +The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen! + +Waileth a woman, "O my God!" + Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed, +For the love of her love is cold and dead, +The joy of her joy hath forever fled; + A starless and pitiless night hath rushed +On the light of her life -- and far away +In Afric wild lies her poor dead child, +Lies the heart of her heart -- let her alone + Under the rod + With her infinite moan, + O my God! +He was beautiful, pure, and brave, + The brightest grace + Of a royal race; +Only his throne is but a grave; + Is there fate in fame? + Is there doom in names? +Ah! what did the cruel Zulu spears +Care for the prince or his mother's tears? +What did the Zulu's ruthless lance +Care for the hope of the future France? + +Crieth the Empress, "O my son!" +He was her own and her only one, +She had nothing to give him but her love. +'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- above +She gave him an infinite faith in God; + Let her cry her cry +Over her own and only one, +All the glory is gone -- is gone, + Into her broken-hearted sigh. + +Moaneth a mother, "O my child!" + And who can sound that depth of woe? +Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now +She bows her sorrow-wreathed brow -- + (So fame and all its grandeurs go) + Let her alone + Beneath the rod + With her infinite moan, + "O my God!" + + + + +In Memoriam (Father Keeler) + +Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala. +Inscribed to his sister. + + + +"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life, + And woe to us if he goes! + Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair, + Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer; +Let him linger to help us in the strife + On earth, with our sins and woes." + +'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so, +The Angel of Death said: "No! oh! no!" +He was passing away -- and none might save +The virgin priest from a spotless grave. + +"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray, + He taught us to love You so -- + So, so much -- his life is so sweet and fair -- + A still, still song -- and a holy prayer; +He is our Father; oh! let him stay -- + He gone, to whom shall we go?" + +'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so, +But the Angel of Death murmured low: "No, no;" +And the voice of his angel from far away, +Sang to Christ in heav'n: "He must not stay." + +"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne, + And pray with your children there -- + Our hearts need his heart -- 'tis sweet and fair, + Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer, +Goeth he now -- we are lone -- so lone, + And who is there left to care?" + +'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so -- +But the Angel of Death sang: "Children, no!" +And a voice like Christ's from the far away, +Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay." + +From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan: + "O God let my brother stay -- +I need him the most -- oh! me! how lone, + If he passes from earth away -- +O beautiful Christ, for my poor sake +Let him live for me, else my heart will break." + +But the Angel of Death wept: "Poor child! no," +And Christ sang: "Child, I will soothe thy woe." + +"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard, + Let her look on his face once more! +Ah! that prayer was a wail -- without a word -- + She will look on him nevermore!" + +The long gray distances unmoved swept +'Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept. + +He was dying fast, and the hours went by, + Ah! desolate hours were they! +His mind had hidden away somewhere + Back of a fretted and wearied brow, + Ere he passed from life away. + And one who loved him (at dead of night), + Crept up to an altar, where the light +That guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep, + Shone strangely down on his vow: +"Spare him! O God! -- O God! for me, + Take me, beautiful Christ, instead; +Let me taste of death and come to Thee, + I will sleep for him with the dead." + +The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No! +You must suffer and live, but he must go." +And a voice like Christ's sang far away: +"He will come to me, but you must stay." + +We leaned on hope that was all in vain, + 'Till the terrible word at last +Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain, + And his beautiful life had passed. + +Oh! take him away from where he died; + Put him not with the common dead + (For he was so pure and fair); +And the city was stirred, and thousands cried + Whose tears were a very prayer. + +No, no, no, take him home again, + For his bishop's heart beats there; + Cast him not with the common dead, + Let him go home and rest his head, + Ah! his weary and grief-worn head, +On the heart of his father -- he is mild +For he loved him as his own child. + +And they brought him home to the home he blest, + With his life so sweet and fair, +He blessed it more in his deathly rest -- + His face was a chiseled prayer, +White as the snow, pure as the foam + Of a weary wave on the sea, +He drifted back -- and they placed him where + He would love at last to be. + +His Father in God thought over the years + Of the beautiful happy past; +Ah! me! we were happy then; but now, + The sorrow has come, and saddest tears +Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow. + +Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, + People and priests and all? +No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; + When the evening shadows fall, +Let him rest alone -- unwatched, alone, + Just beneath the altar's light, +The holy hosts on their humble throne + Will watch him all thro' the night. + +The doors were closed -- he was still and fair, + What sound moved up the aisles? +The dead priests come with soundless prayer, + Their faces wearing smiles. +And this was the soundless hymn they sung: + "We watch o'er you to-night, +Your life was beautiful, fair, and young, + Not a cloud upon its light. +To-morrow -- to-morrow you will rest +With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest." + +Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd + Bowed down their heads in tears +O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud + (Ah! the happy, happy years!) + They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass + Went slowly, mournfully on, +The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, + The altars cried, and the people wept, +The fairest flower in the church's vale + (Ah! me! how soon we pass!) + In the vase of his coffin slept. + +We bore him out to his resting place, + Children, priests, and all; +There was sorrow on almost ev'ry face -- + And ah! what tears did fall! +Tears from hearts, for a heart asleep, +Tears from sorrow's deepest deep. + +"Dust to dust," he was lowered down; + Children! kneel and pray -- +"Give the white rose priest a flower and crown, + For the white rose passed away." + +And we wept our tears and left him there. + And brought his memory home -- +Ah! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair, + A heavenly hymn -- a sweet, still prayer, +Pure as the snow, white as the foam, + + That seeks a lone, far shore. +Dead Priest! bless from amid the blest, +The hearts that will guard thy place of rest, + Forever, forever, forever more. + + + + +Mobile Mystic Societies + + + +The olden golden stories of the world, + That stirred the past, + And now are dim as dreams, +The lays and legends which the bards unfurled + In lines that last, + All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams. +Fragments and fancies writ on many a page + By deathless pen, +And names, and deeds that all along each age, + Thrill hearts of men. +And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade + Of many climes, +And life's great poems that can never fade + Nor lose their chimes; +And acts and facts that must forever ring + Like temple bells, +That sound or seem to sound where angels sing + Vesper farewells; +And scenes where smiles are strangely touching tears, + 'Tis ever thus, +Strange Mystics! in the meeting of the years + Ye bring to us +All these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh, + Strange power ye hold! +When New Year kneels low in the star-aisled sky + And asks the Old +To bless us all with love, and life, and light, + And when they fold +Each other in their arms, ye stir the sight, + We look, and lo! +The past is passing, and the present seems + To wish to go. +Ye pass between them on your mystic way + Thro' scene and scene, +The Old Year marches through your ranks, away + To what has been, +The while the pageant moves, it scarcely seems + Apart of earth; +The Old Year dies -- and heaven crowns with gleams + The New Year's birth. +And you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace + To enter here; +A prayer -- ascending from an orphan face, + Or just one tear +May meet you in the years that are to be + A blessing rare. +Ye pass beneath the arch of charity, + Who passeth there +Is blest in heaven, and is blest on earth, + And God will care, +Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth, + For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere. + + + + +Rest + + + +My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, + My soul oppressed -- +And I desire, what I have long desired -- + Rest -- only rest. + +'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain, + In barren ways; +'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain, + In harvest days. + +The burden of my days is hard to bear, + But God knows best; +And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer + For rest -- sweet rest. + +'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap + The Autumn yield; +'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep + O'er fruitless field. + +And so I cry a weak and human cry, + So heart oppressed; +And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, + For rest -- for rest. + +My way has wound across the desert years, + And cares infest +My path, and through the flowing of hot tears, + I pine -- for rest. + +'Twas always so; when but a child I laid + On mother's breast +My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed + As now -- for rest. + +And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; + For down the West +Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore + Where I shall rest. + + + + +Follow Me + + + +The Master's voice was sweet: + "I gave My life for thee; +Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss, + Arise and follow Me." +I clasped it in my hand -- + O Thou! who diedst for me, +The day is bright, my step is light, + 'Tis sweet to follow Thee! + +Through the long Summer days + I followed lovingly; +'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near, + His glorious face to see. +Down where the lilies pale + Fringed the bright river's brim, +In pastures green His steps were seen -- + 'Twas sweet to follow Him! + +Oh, sweet to follow Him! + Lord, let me here abide. +The flowers were fair; I lingered there; + I laid His cross aside -- +I saw His face no more + By the bright river's brim; +Before me lay the desert way -- + 'Twas hard to follow Him! + +Yes! hard to follow Him + Into that dreary land! +I was alone; His cross had grown + Too heavy for my hand. +I heard His voice afar + Sound thro' the night air chill; +My weary feet refused to meet + His coming o'er the hill. + +The Master's voice was sad: + "I gave My life for thee; +I bore the cross thro' pain and loss, + Thou hast not followed Me." +So fair the lilies' banks, + So bleak the desert way: +The night was dark, I could not mark + Where His blessed footsteps lay. + +Fairer the lilied banks + Softer the grassy lea; +"The endless bliss of those who best + Have learned to follow Me! +Canst thou not follow Me? +Hath patient love a power no more + To move thy faithless heart? +Wilt thou not follow Me? + These weary feet of Mine +Have stained, and red the pathway dread + In search of thee and thine." + +O Lord! O Love divine! + Once more I follow Thee! +Let me abide so near Thy side + That I Thy face may see. +I clasp Thy pierced hand, + O Thou who diedst for me! +I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss, + So let me cling to Thee. + + + + +The Poet's Child + +Lines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams. + + + +Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song! + The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins; +Dost ever hear faint echoes float along + Thy days and dreams of thy dead father's strains? + Dost ever hear, + In mournful times, + With inner ear, + The strange sweet cadences of thy father's rhymes? + +Child of a child of art, which Heaven doth give + To few, to very few as unto him! +His songs are wandering o'er the world, but live + In his child's heart, in some place lone and dim; + And nights and days + With vestal's eyes + And soundless sighs + Thou keepest watch above thy father's lays. + +Child of a dreamer of dreams all unfulfilled -- + (And thou art, child, a living dream of him) -- +Dost ever feel thy spirit all enthrilled + With his lost dreams when summer days wane dim? + When suns go down, + Thou, song of the dead singer, + Dost sigh at eve and grieve + O'er the brow that paled before it won the crown? + +Child of the patriot! Oh, how he loved his land! + And how he moaned o'er Erin's ev'ry wrong! +Child of the singer! he swept with purest hand + The octaves of all agonies, until his song + Sobbed o'er the sea; + And now through thee + It cometh to me, + Like a shadow song from some Gethsemane. + +Child of the wanderer! and his heart the shrine + Where three loves blended into only one -- +His God's, thy mother's, and his country's; and 'tis thine + To be the living ray of such a glorious sun. + His genius gleams, + My child, within thee, + And dim thy dreams + As stars on the midnight sea. + +Child of thy father, I have read his songs -- + Thou art the sweetest song he ever sung -- +Peaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongs + Swept o'er his heart he stormed. And he was young; + He died too soon -- + So men will say -- + Before he reached Fame's noon; + His songs are letters in a book -- thou art their ray. + + + + +Mother's Way + + + +Oft within our little cottage, + As the shadows gently fall, +While the sunlight touches softly + One sweet face upon the wall, +Do we gather close together, + And in hushed and tender tone +Ask each other's full forgiveness + For the wrong that each has done. +Should you wonder why this custom + At the ending of the day, +Eye and voice would quickly answer: + "It was once our mother's way." + +If our home be bright and cheery, + If it holds a welcome true, +Opening wide its door of greeting + To the many -- not the few; +If we share our father's bounty + With the needy day by day, +'Tis because our hearts remember + This was ever mother's way. + +Sometimes when our hands grow weary, + Or our tasks seem very long; +When our burdens look too heavy, + And we deem the right all wrong; +Then we gain a new, fresh courage, + And we rise to proudly say: +"Let us do our duty bravely -- + This was our dear mother's way." + +Then we keep her memory precious, + While we never cease to pray +That at last, when lengthening shadows + Mark the evening of our day, +They may find us waiting calmly + To go home our mother's way. + + + + +Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple + + + +The priests stood waiting in the holy place, + Impatient of delay + (Isaiah had been read), +When sudden up the aisle there came a face + Like a lost sun's ray; + And the child was led +By Joachim and Anna. Rays of grace + Shone all about the child; +Simeon looked on, and bowed his aged head -- + Looked on the child, and smiled. + +Low were the words of Joachim. He spake + In a tremulous way, + As if he were afraid, +Or as if his heart were just about to break, + And knew not what to say; + And low he bowed his head -- +While Anna wept the while -- he, sobbing, said: + "Priests of the holy temple, will you take +Into your care our child?" +And Simeon, listening, prayed, and strangely smiled. + +A silence for a moment fell on all; + They gazed in mute surprise, + Not knowing what to say, +Till Simeon spake: "Child, hast thou heaven's call?" + And the child's wondrous eyes + (Each look a lost sun's ray) +Turned toward the far mysterious wall. + (Did the veil of the temple sway?) +They looked from the curtain to the little child -- +Simeon seemed to pray, and strangely smiled. + +"Yes; heaven sent me here. Priests, let me in!" + (And the voice was sweet and low.) + "Was it a dream by night? +A voice did call me from this world of sin -- + A spirit-voice I know, + An angel pure and bright. +`Leave father, mother,' said the voice, `and win'; + (I see my angel now) + `The crown of a virgin's vow.' +I am three summers old -- a little child." +And Simeon seemed to pray the while he smiled. + +"Yes, holy priests, our father's God is great, + And all His mercies sweet! + His angel bade me come -- +Come thro' the temple's beautiful gate; + He led my heart and feet + To this, my holy home. +He said to me: `Three years your God will wait + Your heart to greet and meet.' + I am three summers old -- + I see my angel now -- + Brighter his wings than gold -- + He knoweth of my vow." +The priests, in awe, came closer to the child -- +She wore an angel's look -- and Simeon smiled. + +As if she were the very holy ark, + Simeon placed his hand + On the fair, pure head. +The sun had set, and it was growing dark; + The robed priests did stand + Around the child. He said: +"Unto me, priests, and all ye Levites, hark! + This child is God's own gift -- + Let us our voices lift +In holy praise." They gazed upon the child +In wonderment -- and Simeon prayed and smiled. + +And Joachim and Anna went their way -- + The little child, she shed + The tenderest human tears. +The priests and Levites lingered still to pray; + And Simeon said: + "We teach the latter years +The night is passing 'fore the coming day + (Isaiah had been read) +Of our redemption" -- and some way the child +Won all their hearts. Simeon prayed and smiled. + +That night the temple's child knelt down to pray + In the shadows of the aisle -- + She prayed for you and me. +Why did the temple's mystic curtain sway? + Why did the shadows smile? + The child of Love's decree +Had come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleam +The aged Simeon did see in dream +The mystery of the child, +And in his sleep he murmured prayer -- and smiled. + +And twelve years after, up the very aisle + Where Simeon had smiled + Upon her fair, pure face, +She came again, with a mother's smile, + And in her arms a Child, + The very God of grace. +And Simeon took the Infant from her breast, + And, in glad tones and strong, + He sang his glorious song +Of faith, and hope, and everlasting rest. + + + + +St. Bridget + + + +Sweet heaven's smile +Gleamed o'er the isle, + That gems the dreamy sea. +One far gone day, +And flash'd its ray, +More than a thousand years away, + Pure Bridget, over thee. + +White as the snow, +That falls below + To earth on Christmas night, +Thy pure face shone +On every one; +For Christ's sweet grace thy heart had won + To make thy birth-land bright. + +A cloud hangs o'er +Thy Erin's shore -- + Ah! God, 'twas always so. +Ah! virgin fair +Thy heaven pray'r +Will help thy people in their care, + And save them from their woe. + +Thou art in light -- +They are in light; + Thou hast a crown -- they a chain. +The very sod, +Made theirs by God, +Is still by tyrants' footsteps trod; + They pray -- but all in vain. + +Thou! near Christ's throne, +Dost hear the moan + Of all their hearts that grieve; +Ah! virgin sweet, +Kneel at His feet, +Where angels' hymns thy prayer shall greet, + And pray for them this eve. + + + + +New Year + + + +Each year cometh with all his days, + Some are shadowed and some are bright; +He beckons us on until he stays + Kneeling with us 'neath Christmas night. + +Kneeling under the stars that gem + The holy sky, o'er the humble place, +When the world's sweet Child of Bethlehem + Rested on Mary, full of grace. + +Not only the Bethlehem in the East, + But altar Bethlehem everywhere, +When the ~Gloria~ of the first great feast + Rings forth its gladness on the air. + +Each year seemeth loath to go, + And leave the joys of Christmas day; +In lands of sun and in lands of snow, + The year still longs awhile to stay. + +A little while, 'tis hard to part + From this Christ blessed here below, +Old year! and in thy aged heart + I hear thee sing so sweet and low. + +A song like this, but sweeter far, + And yet as if with a human tone, +Under the blessed Christmas star, + And thou descendest from thy throne. + +"A few more days and I am gone, + The hours move swift and sure along; +Yet still I fain would linger on + In hearing of the Christmas song. + +"I bow to Him who rules all years; + Thrice blessed is His high behest; +Nor will He blame me if, with tears, + I pass to my eternal rest. + +"Ah, me! to altars every day + I brought the sun and the holy Mass; +The people came by my light to pray, + While countless priests did onward pass. + +"The words of the Holy Thursday night + To one another from east to west; +And the holy Host on the altar white + Would take its little half-hour's rest. + +"And every minute of every hour + The Mass bell rang with its sound so sweet, +While from shrine to shrine, with tireless power, + And heaven's love, walked the nailed feet. + +"I brought the hours for ~Angelus~ bells, + And from a thousand temple towers +They wound their sweet and blessed spell + Around the hearts of all the hours. + +"Every day has a day of grace + For those who fain would make them so; +I saw o'er the world in every place + The wings of guardian angels glow. + +"Men! could you hear the song I sing -- + But no, alas! it cannot be so! +My heir that comes would only bring + Blessings to bless you here below." + + * * * * * + +Seven days passed; the gray, old year + Calls to his throne the coming heir; +Falls from his eyes the last, sad tear, + And lo! there is gladness everywhere. + +Singing, I hear the whole world sing, + Afar, anear, aloud, alow: +"What to us will the New Year bring!" + Ah! would that each of us might know! + +Is it not truth? as old as true? + List ye, singers, the while ye sing! +Each year bringeth to each of you + What each of you will have him bring. + +The year that cometh is a king, + With better gifts than the old year gave; +If you place on his fingers the holy ring + Of prayer, the king becomes your slave. + + + + +Zeila (A Story from a Star) + + + +From the mystic sidereal spaces, +In the noon of a night 'mid of May, +Came a spirit that murmured to me -- +Or was it the dream of a dream? +No! no! from the purest of places, +Where liveth the highest of races, +In an unfallen sphere far away +(And it wore Immortality's gleam) +Came a Being. Hath seen on the sea +The sheen of some silver star shimmer +'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmer +O'er a wave half in dream on the deep? +It shone on me thus in my sleep. + +Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing, +In the night, of our eyes from the light? +Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest? +Or doth it not toil all the more? +When the earth-wearied frame is reposing, +Is the vision then veiled the less bright? +When the earth from our sight hath been taken, +The fetters of senses off shaken, +The soul, doth it not then awaken +To the light on Infinity's shore? +And is not its vision then best, +And truest, and farthest, and clearest? +In night, is not heaven the nearest? +Ah, me! let the day have his schemers, +Let them work on their ways as they will, +And their workings, I trow, have their worth. +But the unsleeping spirits of dreamers, +In hours when the world-voice is still, +Are building, with faith without falter, +Bright steps up to heaven's high altar, +Where lead all the aisles of the earth. + +Was I sleeping? I know not -- or waking? +The body was resting, I ween; +Meseems it was o'ermuch tired +With the toils of the day that had gone; +When sudden there came the bright breaking +Of light thro' a shadowy screen; +And with the brightness there blended +The voice of the Being descended +From a star ever pure of all sin, +In music too sweet to be lyred +By the lips of the sinful and mortal. +And, oh! how the pure brightness shone! +As shines thro' the summer morn's portal +Rays golden and white as the snow, +As white as the flakes -- ah, no! whiter; +Only angelic wings may be brighter +When they flash o'er the brow of some woe +That walketh this shadowed below. + +The soul loseth never its seeing, +In the goings of night and of day +It graspeth the Infinite Far. +No wonder there may come some Being, +As if it had wandered astray +At times down the wonder-filled way -- +As to me in the midnight of May -- +From its home in some glory-crowned star, +Where evil hath never left traces; +Where dwelleth the highest of races, +Save the angels that circle the throne, +In a grace far beyond all our graces, +Whose Christ is the same as our own. + +Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming +With the gladness of life and of love. +No! no! I am not at all dreaming -- +The Below's hands enclasp the Above. +'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming -- +Creation is many, tho' one, +And we are the last of its creatures. +This earth bears the sign of our sin +(From the highest the evil came in); +Yet ours are the same human features +That veiled long agone the Divine. +How comes it, O holy Creator! +That we, not the first, but the latter +Of varied and numberless beings +Springing forth in Thy loving decreeings, +That we are, of all, the most Thine? + +Yea! we are the least and the lowly, +The half of our history gone, +We look up the Infinite slope +In faith, and we walk on in hope; +But think ye from here to the "Holy +Of Holies" beyond yon still sky, +O'er the stars that forever move on, +I' the heavens beyond the bright Third, +In glory's ineffable light; +Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word +Reign circled by angels all bright -- +Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder +There is naught but the silence of death? +There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder, +And naught but an infinite night? +No! no! the great Father is fonder +Of breathing His life-giving breath +Into beings of numberless races. +And from here on and up to His throne +The Trinity's beautiful faces, +In countlessly various traces, +Are seen in more stars than our own. +This earth telleth not half the story +Of the infinite heart of our God -- +The heavens proclaim of His glory +The least little part, and His power +Broke not its sceptre when earth +Was beckoned by Him into birth. +Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? +Can He rest when His love sways His will? +Will He rest ere His glory shall fill +All spaces below and above +With beings to know and to love? + +Creation -- when was it begun? +Who knows its first day? Nay, none. +And then, what ken among men +Can tell when the last work is done? +Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? +Doth He ever grow weary of giving +To Darknesses rays of His light? +Doth He ever grow weary of giving +To Nothings the rapture of living +And waiting awhile for His sight? +If His will rules His glorious power, +And if love sways His beautiful will, +Is He not, e'en in this very hour, +Going on with love's wonder-work still? + + * * * * * + +Let me pray just awhile, for betimes +My spirit is clouded; and then +Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes, +Till prayer lendeth light to my pen. +And then shall I better unfold +The story to me that was told, +Of the unfallen star far away, +In the noon of the night 'mid of May, +By the beautiful Being who came, +With the pure and the beautiful name. +"Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said, +And passed from my vision afar. +With rapture I bowed down my head, +And dreamed of that unfallen star. + + + + +Better than Gold + + + +Better than grandeur, better than gold, +Than rank and titles a thousand fold, +Is a healthy body and a mind at ease, +And simple pleasures that always please +A heart that can feel for another's woe, +With sympathies large enough to enfold +All men as brothers, is better than gold. + +Better than gold is a conscience clear, +Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, +Doubly blessed with content and health, +Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth, +Lowly living and lofty thought +Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; +For mind and morals in nature's plan +Are the genuine tests of a gentleman. + +Better than gold is the sweet repose +Of the sons of toil when the labors close; +Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, +And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. +Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, +Where luxury pillows its aching head, +The toiler simple opiate deems +A shorter route to the land of dreams. + +Better than gold is a thinking mind, +That in the realm of books can find +A treasure surpassing Australian ore, +And live with the great and good of yore. +The sage's lore and the poet's lay, +The glories of empires passed away; +The world's great dream will thus unfold +And yield a pleasure better than gold. + +Better than gold is a peaceful home +Where all the fireside characters come, +The shrine of love, the heaven of life, +Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. +However humble the home may be, +Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, +The blessings that never were bought or sold, +And centre there, are better than gold. + + + + +Sea Dreamings + + + +To-day a bird on wings as white as foam + That crests the blue-gray wave, +With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home + Seaward. The God who gave +To the birds the virgin-wings of snow +Somehow telleth them the ways they go. + +Unto the Evening went the white-winged bird -- + Gray clouds hung round the West -- +And far away the tempest's tramp was heard. + The bird flew for a rest +Away from the grove, out to the sea -- +Is it only a bird's mystery? + +Nay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of white + That cleft thy waveward way -- +Past the evening and swift into the night, + Out of the calm, bright day -- +And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea, +More than one human heart's history. + +Only men's hearts -- tho' God shows each its way + That leadeth hence to home -- +Unlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray, + Seeking in the far foam +Of this strange world's tempest-trampled main +A resting place -- but they seek in vain. + +Only the bird can rest upon the deep, + And sleep upon the wave, +And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. + And sweet the God who gave +The birds a rest place on the restless sea -- +But this, my heart, is not His way with thee. + +Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll, + And every fleck of foam +Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul + That never shall reach home. +Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace, +My heart, is thy only resting place. + + + + +Sea Rest + + + +Far from "where the roses rest", + Round the altar and the aisle, +Which I loved, of all, the best -- + I have come to rest awhile +By the ever-restless sea -- +Will its waves give rest to me? + +But it is so hard to part + With my roses. Do they know +(Who knows but each has a heart?) + How it grieves my heart to go? +Roses! will the restless sea +Bring, as ye, a rest for me? + +Ye were sweet and still and calm, + Roses red and roses white; +And ye sang a soundless psalm + For me in the day and night. +Roses! will the restless sea +Sing as sweet as ye for me? + +Just a hundred feet away, + Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide; +And the wavelets, blue and gray, + Moan, and white sails windward glide +O'er the ever restless sea +From me, far and peacefully. + +And as many feet away, + Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees; +And they wail, the while they sway + In the sad November breeze, +Echoes in the sighing sea +To me, near and mournfully. + +And beside me sleep the dead, + In the consecrated ground; +Blessed crosses o'er each head. + O'er them all the Requiem sound, +Chanted by the moaning sea, +Echoed by each moss-veiled tree. + +Roses! will you miss my face? + Do you know that I have gone +From your fair and restful place, + Far away where moveth on +Night and day the restless sea? +But I saw eternity + +In your faces. Roses sweet! + Ye were but the virgin veils, +Hiding Him whose holy feet + Walked the waves, whose very wails +Bring to me from Galilee +Rest across the restless sea. + +And who knows? mayhap some wave, + From His footstep long ago, +With the blessing which He gave + After ages ebb and flow, +Cometh in from yonder sea, +With a blessing sweet for me. + +Just last night I watched the deep, + And it shone as shines a shrine, +(Vigils such I often keep) + And the stars did sweetly shine +O'er the altar of the sea; +So they shone in Galilee. + +Roses! round the shrine and aisle! + Which of all I loved the best, +I have gone to rest awhile + Where the wavelets never rest -- +Ye are dearer far to me +Than the ever restless sea. + +I will come to you in dreams, + In the day and in the night, +When the sun's or starlight's gleams + Robe you in your red or white; +Roses! will you dream of me +By the ever restless sea? + +____ +Biloxi, Miss. + + + + +Sea Reverie + + + +Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest? + And tell me why you never go to sleep? +Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed -- + (And the waves are the tears you weep) -- + And thou didst never sin -- what ails the sinless deep? + +To-night I hear you crying on the beach, + Like a weary child on its mother's breast -- +A cry with an infinite and lonesome reach + Of unutterably deep unrest; + And thou didst never sin -- why art thou so distressed? + +But, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm, + Where crieth the lone and the wearied child; +And soft the arms that shield her own from harm; + And her look is unutterably mild -- + But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild, so wild! + +What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright -- + How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast! +O Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so white, + To give thy utter weariness a rest? + (And to-night the winds are a-coming from the West). + + * * * * * + +Where the shadows moan o'er the day's life done, + And the darkness is waiting for the light, +Ah, me! how the shadows ever seek and shun + The sacred, radiant faces of the bright -- + (And the stars are the vestal virgins of the night); + +Or am I dreaming? Do I see and hear + Without me what I feel within? +Is there an inner eye and an inner ear + Thro' which the sounds and silences float in + In reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din? + +I know not. After all, what do I know? + Save only this -- and that is mystery -- +Like the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flow + In unison, and the tides of the sea + Ever reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me. + +Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gray, + Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white? +Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray, + With the sea's ritual, every day and night? + And the suns and stars your only altar light? + +Great Sea! the very rhythm of my song + (And the winds are a-coming from the West), +Like thy waves, moveth uncertainly along; + And my thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest, + Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest. + +____ +Biloxi, Miss. + + + + +The Immaculate Conception + + + +Fell the snow on the festival's vigil + And surpliced the city in white; +I wonder who wove the pure flakelets? + Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night. + +It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol, + And earth wore the surplice at morn, +As pure as the vale's stainless lily + For Mary, the sinlessly born; + +For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness; + And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East, +With the brightest and fairest of flashes, + Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast. + +And round the horizon hung cloudlets, + Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast; +While the earth and the heavens were waiting + For the beautiful Mass of the priest. + +I opened my window, half dreaming; + My soul went away from my eyes, +And my heart began saying "Hail Marys" + Somewhere up in the beautiful skies, + +Where the shadows of sin never rested; + And the angels were waiting to hear +The prayer that ascends with "Our Father", + And keeps hearts and the heavens so near. + +And all the day long -- can you blame me? + "Hail Mary", "Our Father", I said; +And I think that the Christ and His Mother + Were glad of the way that I prayed. + +And I think that the great, bright Archangel + Was listening all the day long +For the echo of every "Hail Mary" + That soared thro' the skies like a song, + +From the hearts of the true and the faithful, + In accents of joy or of woe, +Who kissed in their faith and their fervor + The Festival's surplice of snow. + +I listened, and each passing minute, + I heard in the lands far away +"Hail Mary", "Our Father", and near me + I heard all who knelt down to pray. + +Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel, + And the same as the Christ of our love -- +"Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father" -- + Winging just the same sweet flight above. + +Passed the morning, the noon: came the even -- + The temple of Christ was aflame +With the halo of lights on three altars, + And one wore His own Mother's name. + +Her statue stood there, and around it + Shone the symbolic stars. Was their gleam, +And the flowerets that fragranced her altar, + Were they only the dream of a dream? + +Or were they sweet signs to my vision + Of a truth far beyond mortal ken, +That the Mother had rights in the temple + Of Him she had given to men? + +Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder, + For the Christian to honor her so? +Ought her statue pass out of His temple? + Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow. + +Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices, + I know what their white lips would say; +And I know that the lights on her altar + Would pray with me if they could pray. + +Methinks that the flowers that were fading -- + Sweet virgins that die with the Feast, +Like martyrs, upon her fair altar -- + If they could, they would pray with the priest; + +And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary", + Till they drooped on the altar in death, +And be glad in their dying for giving + To Mary their last sweetest breath. + +Passed the day as a poem that passes + Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings; +Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses -- + Did I hear a faint sound as of wings + +Rustling over the aisles and the altars? + Did they go to her altar and pray? +Or was my heart only a-dreaming + At the close of the Festival day? + +Quiet throngs came into the temple, + As still as the flowers at her feet, +And wherever they knelt, they were gazing + Where the statue looked smiling and sweet. + +"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blended + In a pure and a perfect accord, +And passed by the beautiful Mother + To fall at the feet of our Lord. + +Low toned from the hearts of a thousand + "Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" swept on +To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder + Did they wrong the great name of her Son. + +Her Son and our Saviour -- I wonder + How He heard our "Hail Marys" that night? +Were the words to Him sweet as the music + They once were, and did we pray right? + +Or was it all wrong? Will he punish + Our lips if we make them the home +Of the words of the great, high Archangel + That won Him to sinners to come. + +Ah, me! does He blame my own mother, + Who taught me, a child, at her knee, +To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"? + If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me. + +Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless; + Let me suffer for her if You blame. +Her pure mother's heart knew no better + When she taught me to love the pure name. + +O Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother + Must I hide her name down in my heart? +But, ah! even there you will see it -- + With Thy Mother's name how can I part? + +On Thy name all divine have I rested + In the days when my heart-trials came; +Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human, + And I need Mary's pure human name. + +Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? + I heard -- or I sure seemed to hear -- +"Who blames you for loving My Mother + Is wronging my heart -- do not fear. + +"I am human, e'en here in My heavens, + What I was I am still all the same; +And I still love My beautiful Mother -- + And thou, priest of Mine, do the same." + +I was happy -- because I am human -- + And Christ in the silences heard +"Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father", + Murmured faithfully word after word. + + * * * * * + +Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~ + Down the aisles -- did the starred statue stir? +Or was my heart only a-dreaming + When it turned from her statue and her? + +The door of a white tabernacle + Felt the touch of the hand of the priest -- +Did he waken the Host from its slumbers + To come forth and crown the high Feast? + +To come forth so strangely and silent, + And just for a sweet little while, +And then to go back to its prison. + Thro' the stars -- did the sweet statue smile? + +I knew not; but Mary, the Mother, + I think, almost envied the priest -- +He was taking her place at the altar -- + Did she dream of the days in the East? + +When her hands, and hers only, held Him, + Her Child, in His waking and rest, +Who had strayed in a love that seemed wayward + This eve to shrine in the West. + +Did she dream of the straw of the manger + When she gazed on the altar's pure white? +Did she fear for her Son any danger + In the little Host, helpless, that night? + +No! no! she is trustful as He is -- + What a terrible trust in our race! +The Divine has still faith in the human -- + What a story of infinite grace! + +~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altar + That came from the heart of a saint, +Swept triumph-toned all through the temple -- + Did my ears hear the sound of a plaint? + +'Neath the glorious roll of the singing + To the temple had sorrow crept in? +Or was it the moan of a sinner? + O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win + +In the little half-hour's Benediction + The heart of a sinner again? +And, merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfort + The sorrow that brings Thee its pain. + +Came a hush, and the Host was uplifted, + And It made just the sign of the cross +O'er the low-bended brows of the people. + O Host of the Holy! Thy loss + +To the altar, and temple, and people + Would make this world darkest of night; +And our hearts would grope blindly on through it, + For our love would have lost all its light. + +~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph! + Our souls soared to God on each tone; +And the Host went again to Its prison, + For our Christ fears to leave us alone. + +Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailor! + Thy hand holds the beautiful key +That locks in His prison love's Captive, + And keeps Him in fetters for me. + + * * * * * + +'Twas over -- I gazed on the statue -- + "Our Father", "Hail Mary" still came; +And to-night faith and love cannot help it, + I must still pray the same -- still the same. + +____ +Written at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December 8, 1880. + + + + +Fifty Years at the Altar + + "To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of + some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore; + next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, + known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, + to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour + of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination." + + + +To-day -- fifty years at the altar -- + Thou art, as of old, at thy post! +Tell us, O chasubled soldier! + Art weary of watching the Host? +Fifty years -- Christ's sacred sentry, + To-day thy feet faithful are found +When the cross on the altar is blessing + Thy heart in its sentinel-round. + +The beautiful story of Thabor + Fifty years agone thrilled thy young heart, +When wearing white vestments of glory, + And up the "high mountain apart". +In the fresh, glowing grace of thy priesthood, + Thou didst climb to the summit alone, +While the Feast of Christ's Transfiguration + Was a sweet outward sign of thy own. + +Old priest! on the slope of the summit + Did float down and fall on thine ear +The strong words of weak-hearted Peter. + "O Lord, it is good to be here!" +Thy heart was stronger than Peter's, + And sweeter the tone of thy prayer; +'Twas Calvary thy young feet were climbing, + And old -- thou art still standing there. + +For you, as for him, on bright Thabor, + Forever to stay were not hard; +But when Calvary girdles the altar, + And garments the Eucharist's guard +With sacrifice and with its shadows -- + To keep there forever a feast +Is the glory and grace of the human -- + The altar, the cross, and the priest. + +The crucifix's wardens and watchers, + Like Him, must be heart sacrificed -- +The Christ on the crucifix lifeless + For guard needs a brave human Christ. +To guard Him three hours -- what a glory! + With sacrifice splendors aflame! +Three hours -- and He died on His Calvary -- + How long hast thou lived for His name? + +"Half a century," cries out thy crucifix, + Binding together thy beads; +His look, like thy life, lingers in it, + A light for men's souls in their needs. +Old priest! is thy life not a rosary? + Five decades and more have been said, +In thy heart the warm splendors of Thabor + Beneath the white snows of thy head! + +Fifty years lifting the chalice -- + Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened land! +Thy clasp may be weak, but the chrism, + Old priest! that anointed thy hand +Is as fresh and as strong in its virtue + As in the five decades agone +Thy young hands were touched with its unction, + And thy vestments of white were put on. + +Fifty years! Every day passes + A part of one great, endless feast, +That moves round its orbit of Masses, + And hath nor a West nor an East; +But everywhere hath its pure altars, + At each of its altars a priest +To lift up a Host with a chalice + Till the story of grace shall have ceased. + +Fifty years in the feast's orbit, + Nearly two thousand of days; +Fifty years priest in the priesthood, + Fifty years lit with its rays -- +Lit them but to reflect them + When the adorers' throngs pass +Out of thy life and its glory + Shining each day from thy Mass. + +Half of a century's service! + Wearing thy cassock of black +O'er thy camps, and thy battles, and triumphs! + Old soldier of Jesus! look back +To the day when thou kissed thy first altar + In love with youth's fervor athrill. +From the day when we meet and we greet thee, + So true to the old altar still. + +Fifty long years! what if trials + Did oftentimes darken thy way -- +They marked, like the shadows on dials, + Thy soul's brightest hour every day. +The sun in the height of his splendor, + By the mystical law of his light, +O'er his glories flings vestments of shadows, + And, sinking, leaves stars to the night. + +Old priest! with the heart of a poet + Thou hast written sweet stanzas for men; +Thy life, many versed, is a poem + That puzzles the art of the pen; +The crucifix wrote it and writes it -- + A scripture too deep for my ken; +A record of deeds more than sayings -- + Only God reads it rightly; and then + +My stanzas are just like the shadows + That follow the sun and his sheen, +To tell to the eye that will read them + Where the purest of sunshine has been. +Thy life moves in mystical eclipse, + All hidden from men and their sight; +We look, but we see but its surface, + But God sees the depth of its light. + +Twenty-five years! highest honors + Were thine -- high deserved in the world: +Dawned a day with a grace in its flashing + O'er thy heart from a standard unfurled, +Whose folds bore the mystical motto: + "To the greater glory of God!" +And somehow there opened before thee + A way thou hadst never yet trod. + +Twenty-five years -- still a private + In files where the humblest and last +Stands higher in rank than the highest + Of those who are passing or passed; +Twenty-five years in the vanguard, + Whose name is a spell of their strength, +The light of the folds of whose standard + Lengthens along all the length + +Of the march of the Crucified Jesus. + Loyola was wiser than most +In claiming for him and his soldiers + The name of the Chief of the host; +His name, and his motto, and colors + That never shall know a defeat, +Whose banner, when others are folded, + Shall never float over retreat. + +To-day when the wind wafts the wavelets + To the gray altar steps of yon shore, +Each wearing an alb foam-embroidered, + And kneeling, like priests, to adore +The God of the land -- I will mingle + My prayers, aged priest! with the sea, +While God, for thy fifty years' priesthood, + Will hear thy prayers whispered for me. + + + + +Song of the Deathless Voice + + + +'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en -- +Hour of fairy and of wraith, +When in many a dim-lit green, +'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen, +As the olden legend saith, +All the future may be seen, +And when -- an older story hath -- +Whate'er in life hath ever been +Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath, +Cometh back upon our path. +I was dreaming in my room, +'Mid the shadows, still as they; +Night, in veil of woven gloom, +Wept and trailed her tresses gray +O'er her fair, dead sister -- Day. +To me from some far-away +Crept a voice -- or seemed to creep -- +As a wave-child of the deep, +Frightened by the wild storm's roar +Creeps low-sighing to the shore +Very low and very lone +Came the voice with song of moan, +This, weak-sung in weaker word, +Is the song that night I heard: + + How long! Alas, how long! +How long shall the Celt chant the sad song of hope, + That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of our past? +How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slope + Of Thabors that promise our Transfiguration at last? + How long, O Lord! How long! + + How long, O Fate! How long! +How long shall our sunburst reflect but the sunset of Right, + When gloaming still lights the dim immemorial years? +How long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are wearied of night, + Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling with tears? + How long, O Lord! How long! + + How long, O Right! How long! +How long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did flame + In battle with wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a grave? +How long shall we be but a nation with only a name, + Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave? + How long, O Lord! How long! + + How long! Alas, how long! +How long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out in the sea, + With a cross in the dark? Oh, when shall our Good Friday close? +How long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring only to thee + The wailings, O Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes? + How long, O Lord! How long! + + How long! Alas, how long! +How long shall the cry of the wronged, O Freedom! for thee + Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sorrow below? +How long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be, + When the Celt will forgive, or else tread on the heart of his foe? + How long, O Lord! How long! + +Whence came the voice? Around me gray silence fall; + And without in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky; +And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer at all? + Or, hush! Is't my heart athrill with some deathless old cry? + +Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its forefathers' wrongs -- + They are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released; +Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all the old songs + And sings them the best when it flows thro' the heart of a priest. + +Am I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung? + In the cells of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow? +And old as our race is, is it not still forever as young, + As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow? + +The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all, + For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath; +And sure as the race lives, no matter what fates may befall, + There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path. + +Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line, + Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt, +With a sword in its grasp, if stronger, not truer than mine, + And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded hand felt -- + +The heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong, + The thrill of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe; +And the sheen of that sword is hid in the sheath of the song + As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure Celtic blood flow. + +The ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years, + And still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain; +The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our tears, + Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds and their rain, + +The Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of our isle + Need the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes, +To keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the smile + Of Freedom, that some day -- ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies. + +Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest; + They are living in us whose glorious race will not die -- +Their brave buried hearts are still beating on in each breast + Of the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the infinite sky. + +Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past, + Many voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by; +But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last, + And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die. + + + + +To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T. + + + +Just when the gentle hand of spring + Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf, +And when the blades the warm suns bring + Were given glad promise of golden sheaf; +Just when the birds began to sing + Joy hymns after their winter's grief, +I wandered weary to a place; + Tired of toil, I sought for rest, +Where Nature wore her mildest grace -- + I went where I was more than guest. +Strange, tall trees rose as if they fain + Would wear as crowns the clouds of skies; +The sad winds swept with low refrain + Through branches breathing softest sighs; +And o'er the field and down the lane + Sweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise, +Bloomed up into this world of pain, + Where all that's fairest soonest dies; +And 'neath the trees a little stream + Went winding slowly round and round, +Just like a poet's mystic dream, + With here a silence, there a sound. +The lowly ground, beneath the sheen + Of March day suns, now dim, now bright, +Now emeralds of golden green + In flashing or in fading light; +And here and there throughout the scene + The timid wild flowers met the sight, +While over all the sun and shade + Swept like a strangely woven veil, +Folding the flowers that else might fade, + Guarding young rosebuds from the gale. +And blossoms of most varied hue + Bedecked the forest everywhere, +While valleys wore the robes of blue, + Bright woven by the violets fair; +And there was gladness all around; + It was a place so fair to see, +And yet so simple -- there I found + How sweet a quiet home may be. +Four children -- and thro' all the day + They flung their laughter o'er the place; +Bright as the flowers in happy May, + The children shed a sweet pure grace +Around this quiet home, and they + To father and to mother brought +The smiles of purest love unsought; + It was a happy, happy spot, +Too dear to be fore'er forgot. + Farewell, sweet place! I came as guest; +From toil, in thee I found relief, + I found in thee a home and rest -- +But, ah! the days are far too brief. + Farewell! I go, but with me come +Sweet memories that long will last; + I'll think of thee as of a home +That stands forever in my past. + + + + +To Virginia (on Her Birthday) + + + +Your past is past and never to return, +The long bright yesterday of life's first years, +Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn. +Some held for you a chalice for your tears, +And other days strewed flowers upon your way. +They all are gone beyond your reach, +And thus they are beyond my speech. +I know them not, so that your first gone times +To me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes. +But I can bless your soul and aims to-day, +And I can ask your future to be sweet, +And I can pray that you may never meet +With any cross, you are too weak to bear. +Virginia, Virgin name, and may you wear +Its virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er. +I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer. + + + + +Epilogue + + + +Go, words of mine! and if you live + Only for one brief, little day; +If peace, or joy, or calm you give + To any soul; or if you bring +A something higher to some heart, + I may come back again and sing +Songs free from all the arts of Art. + + -- Abram J. Ryan. + + + + + + + Posthumous Poems + + + + + + +In Remembrance + + + +In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry + "O God! give more of rest and less of night," + My words may rest you; and mayhap a light +Shall flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky; +Then think of me as one who passes by. +A few brief hours -- a golden August day, +We met, we spake -- I pass fore'er away. +Let ev'ry word of mine be golden ray +To brighten thy eclipses; and then wilt pray +That he who passes thee shall meet thee yet +In the "Beyond" where souls may ne'er forget. + + + + +A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:'] + + + +"O Songs!" I said: +"Stop sounding in my soul +Just for a little while and let me sleep, +Resting my head on the breast +Of Silence;" but the rhythmic roll +Of a thousand songs swept on and on, + And a far Voice said: + "When thou art dead +Thy restless heart shall rest." + +And the songs will never let me sleep. +I plead with them; but o'er the deep +They still will roll + On, and on, and on, + Their music never gone. +Ah! world-tired soul! + Just for a little while, +Just like a poor, tired child + Beneath its Mother's smile -- +Only to fall asleep! +Silence! be mother to me! + But -- No! No! No! + The waves will ebb and flow. +I wonder is it best +To never, never rest + Down on the shores of this strange Below? + + + + +Only a Dream + + + +Only a Dream! + It floated thro' + The sky of a lonely sleep +As floats a gleam + Athwart the Blue + Of a golden clouded Deep. + +Only a Dream! + I calmly slept. +Meseems I called a name; + I woke; and, waking, I think I wept +And called -- and called the same. + +Only a Dream! + Graves have no ears; +They give not back the dead; + They will not listen to the saddest tears +That ever may be shed. + +Only a Dream! + Graves keep their own; +They have no hearts to hear; + But the loved will come + From their Heaven-Home +To smile on the sleeper's tear. + + + + +The Poet + + + +The Poet is the loneliest man that lives; + Ah me! God makes him so -- + The sea hath its ebb and flow, +He sings his songs -- but yet he only gives +In the waves of the words of his art +Only the ~foam~ of his heart. + +Its sea rolls on forever, evermore, + Beautiful, vast, and deep; +Only his ~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shore + Of Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep. + +The foam that crests the wave is pure and white; + The ~foam~ is not the ~wave~; +The wave is not the sea -- ~it rolls~ forever on; + The winding shores will crave +A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep; +~Some come~; some always ~sleep~. + + + + +The Child of the Poet + + + +The sunshine of thy Father's fame + Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes, +And flashes sometimes when his name + Like a lost star seeks its skies. + +In the horizons of thy heart + His memory shines for aye, +A light that never shall depart + Nor lose a single ray. + +Thou passest thro' the crowds unknown, + So gentle, so sweet, and so shy; +Thy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low; + Then alone + Art the star in thy Father's sky. + +'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name -- + Thou couldst not ask for more; +Thou art the jewel of thy Father's fame, + He waiteth on the bright and golden shore; +He prayeth in the great Eternity +Beside God's throne for thee. + + + + +The Poet Priest + + + +~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~, + I believe they call him great; +They throng to hear him with a strange desire; + They, silent, come and wait, + And wonder when he opens wide the gate +Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire +Is lit on many altars of many dreams -- +They wait to catch the gleams -- + And then they say, +In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand." + And so his way +Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair; + And people say: +"How happy he must be to win and wear + Praise ev'ry day!" +And all the while he stands far out the crowd, + Strangely ~alone~. +Is it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud -- +No matter which, his spirit maketh moan; +And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense +Creeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense + Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and +He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer + Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand: +If all the world would kneel down at his feet + And give acclaim -- +He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No! +The breath of fame is sweet -- but far more sweet + Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart; +God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep + Along the words of merely human art; +It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep, +Far-off and from so far away -- +It filleth night and day." +~Not~ as of one who ever, ever cares +For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me, +And in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee +In Prayers -- and thou shalt meet with me. + + + + +Wilt Pray for Me? + + + +Wilt pray for me? + They tell me I have Fame; +I plead with thee, + Sometimes just fold my name +In beautiful "Hail Marys"! + And you give me more + Than all the world besides. +It praises Poets for the well-sung lay; +But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray. + It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride; + Some win such crowns and wear; + Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer. + + + + + + +--- + +The living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary lamp, +which sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great Presence +hath departed. + -- Abram J. Ryan + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Father Ryan's Poems. + Binary files differdiff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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