{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_937/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_937","id":"gutenberg_937","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/937","summary":null,"tags":["American poetry -- 19th century","Category: History - American","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Patriotism -- Poetry","Religion -- Poetry","United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Poetry"],"text":"Ver.04.29.93*END*\n\n\n\n\nFather Ryan's Poems\n\n\nBy Abram J. Ryan, (Father Ryan)\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction:\n\n\n\nIn preparing this electronic text of Father Ryan's poems,\nI was struck by the biased nature of the memoir included.\nWhile I will not gainsay anyone's right to their beliefs,\nI believe it is clearly evident from the poems themselves\nthat Father Ryan believed strongly in the Southern Cause,\nand I do not believe his reaction was entirely emotional,\nas seems to be implied.  The Memoir also makes mention of\nFather Ryan's poem \"Reunited\", as evidence of his support\nfor the reunification of the States.  To be fair to Ryan,\nI would note that such stanzas as\n\n    \"The Northern heart and the Southern heart\n     May beat in peace again;\n\n    \"But still till time's last day,\n     Whatever lips may plight,\n    The blue is blue, but the gray is gray,\n     Wrong never accords with Right.\"\n\nin `Sentinel Songs', are much more common in his poems.\n\nI believe it important to notice this, as it demonstrates\nthat while Ryan loved Peace, he never forsook the Cause.\n\nRegarding his possible dates of birth, I can do no better\nthan the Memoir included, but I can at least match places\nwith dates, to wit:  Hagerstown, Md., on 5 February 1838;\nor Norfolk, Virginia, sometime in 1838 or 15 August 1839.\nHis full name was Abram Joseph Ryan, and he was the son\nof Matthew and Mary (Coughlin) Ryan.  He was ordained in 1856\nand he taught at Niagara, N.Y. and Cape Girardeau, Missouri,\nbefore he became a chaplain in the Confederate Army in 1862.\nHe edited several publications, including the \"Pacificator\",\nthe Catholic weekly \"The Star\" (New Orleans),\nand \"The Banner of the South\" in Augusta, Georgia.\nHe was the pastor of St. Mary's Church in Mobile, Alabama\nfrom 1870 to 1883.  He died at a Franciscan Monastery\nat Louisville, Kentucky, on 22 April 1886.  He is buried in Mobile.\n\nHis most famous poem is \"The Conquered Banner\",\nwhich had its measure inspired by a Gregorian hymn.\n\n\n   Alan R. Light, May, 1996, Birmingham, Alabama.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Note on text:  Italicized words or phrases are marked by tildes (~).\nSome obvious errors have been corrected.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPoems:  Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous.\n\nBy Abram J. Ryan, (Father Ryan).\n\nContaining his posthumous poems.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  \"All Rests with those who Read.  A work or thought\n  Is what each makes it to himself, and may\n  Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea,\n  With shoals of life rushing; or like the air,\n  Benighted with the wing of the wild dove,\n  Sweeping miles broad o'er the far southwestern woods\n  With mighty glimpses of the central light --\n  Or may be nothing -- bodiless, spiritless.\"\n                                             -- Festus.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Based on the 1880 edition, the 1896 edition (New York)\nfrom which this was transcribed also includes Ryan's posthumous poems.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n              THESE\n          SIMPLE RHYMES\n  ARE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOVE\n    AT THE FEET OF HIS MOTHER\n         BY HER CHILD THE\n              AUTHOR\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPreface\n\n\n\nThese verses (which some friends call by the higher title of Poems,\nto which appellation the author objects) were written at random --\noff and on, here, there, anywhere -- just when the mood came,\nwith little of study and less of art, and always in a hurry.\n\nHence they are incomplete in finish, as the author is;\ntho' he thinks they are true in tone.  His feet know more of the humble steps\nthat lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries than of the steeps\nthat lead up to Parnassus and the Home of the Muses.\nAnd souls were always more to him than songs.  But still,\nsomehow -- and he could not tell why -- he sometimes tried to sing.\nHere are his simple songs.  He never dreamed of taking even lowest place\nin the rank of authors.  But friends persisted; and, finally,\na young lawyer friend, who has entire charge of his business in the book,\nforced him to front the world and its critics.  There are verses\nconnected with the war published in this volume, not for harm-sake,\nnor for hate-sake, but simply because the author wrote them.\nHe could write again in the same tone and key, under the same circumstances.\nNo more need be said, except that these verses mirror the mind of\n                                                                   THE AUTHOR.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n\nMemoir of Father Ryan\n\nSong of the Mystic\nReverie [\"Only a few more years!\"]\nLines -- 1875\nA Memory\nRhyme\nNocturne [\"I sit to-night by the firelight,\"]\nThe Old Year and the New\nErin's Flag\nThe Sword of Robert Lee\nLife\nA Laugh -- and A Moan\nIn Memory of My Brother\n\"Out of the Depths\"\nA Thought\nMarch of the Deathless Dead\nReunited\nA Memory\nAt Last\nA Land without Ruins\nMemories\nThe Prayer of the South\nFeast of the Assumption\nSursum Corda\nA Child's Wish\nPresentiment\nLast of May\n\"Gone\"\nFeast of the Sacred Heart\nIn Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne\nTears\nLines (Two Loves)\nThe Land We Love\nIn Memoriam\nReverie [\"We laugh when our souls are the saddest,\"]\nI Often Wonder Why 'Tis So\nA Blessing\nJuly 9th, 1872\nWake Me a Song\nIn Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)\nWhat?  (To Ethel)\nThe Master's Voice\nA \"Thought-Flower\"\nA Death\nThe Rosary of My Tears\nDeath\nWhat Ails the World?\nA Thought\nIn Rome\nAfter Sickness\nOld Trees\nAfter Seeing Pius IX\nSentinel Songs\nFragments from an Epic Poem\nLake Como\n\"Peace! Be Still\"\nGood Friday\nMy Beads\nAt Night\nNocturne [\"Betimes, I seem to see in dreams\"]\nSunless Days\nA Reverie [\"Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?\"]\nSt. Mary's\nDe Profundis\nWhen?  (Death)\nThe Conquered Banner\nA Christmas Chant\n\"Far Away\"\nListen\nWrecked\nDreaming\nA Thought\n\"Yesterdays\"\n\"To-Days\"\n\"To-Morrows\"\nInevitable\nSorrow and the Flowers\nHope\nFarewells\nSong of the River\nDreamland\nLines [\"Sometimes, from the far-away,\"]\nA Song\nParting\nSt. Stephen\nA Flower's Song\nThe Star's Song\nDeath of the Flower\nSinging-Bird\nNow\nM * * *\nGod in the Night\nPoets\nA Legend\nThoughts\nLines [\"The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,\"]\nC.S.A.\nThe Seen and The Unseen\nPassing Away\nThe Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children)\nA Reverie [\"Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange!\"]\n---- Their Story Runneth Thus\nNight After the Picnic\nLines [\"The death of men is not the death\"]\nDeath of the Prince Imperial\nIn Memoriam (Father Keeler)\nMobile Mystic Societies\nRest\nFollow Me\nThe Poet's Child\nMother's Way\nFeast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple\nSt. Bridget\nNew Year\nZeila (A Story from a Star)\nBetter than Gold\nSea Dreamings\nSea Rest\nSea Reverie\nThe Immaculate Conception\nFifty Years at the Altar\nSong of the Deathless Voice\nTo Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.\nTo Virginia (on Her Birthday)\nEpilogue\n\n  Posthumous Poems\n\nIn Remembrance\nA Reverie [`\"O Songs!\" I said:']\nOnly a Dream\nThe Poet\nThe Child of the Poet\nThe Poet Priest\nWilt Pray for Me?\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMemoir of Father Ryan\n\nBy John Moran\n\n\n\nIt is regretted that the materials at hand at this writing\nare not sufficient to warrant as extended a notice as the publishers\nof the present enlarged volume of Father Ryan's poems would wish,\nand as the many friends and admirers of the dead priest and poet desire.\nSo distinguished a character and so brilliant a man\ncannot be passed over lightly, or dealt with sparingly,\nif the demand of his friends and the public generally would be satisfied\neven in a moderate degree; for Father Ryan's fame is the inheritance\nof a great and enlightened nation, and his writings have passed into history\nto emblazon its pages and enrich the literature of the present\nand succeeding ages, since it is confidently believed that,\nwith the lapse of time, his fame and his merits will grow brighter\nand more enduring.  With this appreciation of his merits,\nand a realizing sense of what is due to his memory,\nand with an equal consciousness of his own want of ability\nto do justice to the subject, the writer bespeaks the indulgent criticism\nof those who may read the following remarks -- admittedly far short\nof what are due to the illustrious dead.\n\nThe exact date and place of Father Ryan's birth are not yet\ndefinitely settled.  Some assert that he was born at Norfolk, Va.;\nothers claim Hagerstown, Md., as the place of his birth;\nwhilst there is some ground to believe that in Limerick, Ireland,\nhe first saw the light.  The same uncertainty exists as to time.\nSome claim to know that he was born in 1834, whilst others fix\nwith equal certainty, the year 1836 as the time.  In the midst of these\nconflicting statements, the writer prefers to leave the questions at issue\nfor future determination, when it is hoped that final and conclusive proof\nwill be obtained to place them outside the realms of dispute.\nMeanwhile, he will present what may be regarded as of primary importance\nin forming a correct estimate of the character of the deceased,\nand the value of his life-work, which, after all, are the chief ends\nsought to be accomplished.\n\nFrom the most reliable information that can be obtained,\nit is learned that Father Ryan went to St. Louis with his parents\nwhen a lad of some seven or eight years.  There he received his early training\nunder the Brothers of the Christian Schools.  Even at that early date\nyoung Ryan showed signs of mental activity which gave promise\nof one day producing substantial and lasting results.\nHe evinced rare aptitude for knowledge, and made rapid progress\nin its attainment.  His thoughtful mien and modest look soon won for him\nthe respect and friendship of his teachers and the esteem and affection\nof his companions.  It was noticed that he had an instinctive reverence\nfor sacred things and places, and a rich and ardent nature which bespoke\ndeep spirituality.  Discerning eyes soon recognized in the mild youth\nthe germs of a future vocation to the priesthood.  It was, therefore,\nprudently resolved to throw around him every possible safeguard\nin order to protect and cherish so rare and precious a gift.\nThe youth himself corresponded to this design, and bent all his energies\ntowards acquiring the necessary education to fit him\nfor entering upon the still higher and more extended studies required\nfor the exalted vocation to which he aspired.  In due time he had made\nthe necessary preparatory studies, and was deemed fitted to enter\nthe ecclesiastical seminary at Niagara, N.Y., whither he went,\nhaving bid an affectionate farewell to his relatives and numerous friends,\nwho fervently invoked heaven's blessing upon the pious youth who, they hoped,\nwould return one day to their midst to offer up the \"Clean Oblation\"\nwhich is offered up \"from the rising of the sun until the going down thereof.\"\n\nThe heart of the youth as he started for his future home was all aglow\nwith the fervor that animated him in the pursuit of his high and holy purpose.\nHe entered the seminary, leaving no regrets or attachments behind him.\nOne thing only did he appear to regret -- separation from home\nand the loved ones to whom he had bid so affectionate an adieu.\nHome and parents are ever dear to the pure of heart; for around them cluster\nmemories too precious and associations too endearing for utterance.\nFather -- mother -- home, \"trinity of joys\", whose completion and perfection\nare to be found only in the Trinity in Heaven -- these must ever remain\nbright recollections in the lives of all who cherish ennobling sentiments\nwhich do reverence to God and honor to humanity.  But if such be\nthe effect of these sentiments upon the hearts of men in general,\nthey have a still deeper and more tender effect upon those who,\nin response to the call of the Master, \"Follow thou Me,\"\nhave abandoned all things for His sweet sake, that they may find\na home hereafter in heaven, after having spent themselves\nin dispensing His riches and benefits to men.\n\nLike nearly all great men, Father Ryan owed much to\nthe early training and example of his truly Christian mother.\nHence the deep affection he ever manifested towards her.\nAfter the lapse of long years, we find his heart still fresh and loving,\npouring out upon the grave of his mother all the wealth of his rich mind\nand the affection of his chaste heart.  He tells us that\nhe had placed his poems upon her grave as a garland of affection.\nOh! what a beautiful offering on the part of a gifted son to a devoted mother!\nNature's richest and best gifts consecrated to nature's purest\nand holiest sentiments!  May we not suppose that the endearing affection\nwhich he cherished for his mother was the source of the inspiration\nwhich drew forth the \"splendid brightness of his songs\"?\nThis filial reverence and tender affection, could nothing more\nbe said in his favor, would speak volumes in his praise.\nBut how much more can be said, and said truly, were there pen and lips\neloquent enough to proclaim his praises!  Mine are unworthy of the task;\nyet mine be the duty of recalling some, at least, of the virtues and qualities\nthat marked him during life; for virtues and estimable qualities he had,\nand they were many and conspicuous.  Heaven doth know,\nearth doth witness, angels have recorded, that he is worthy of praise.\nTherefore, in no cold and measured terms shall the writer speak\nof the dear and venerated dead, Abram J. Ryan, priest and poet --\nonce magic name, still revered and possessed of talismanic power.\nIf we cannot crown thee, O child of genius, with a wreath of justice,\nlet us, at least, endeavor to crown thee with a garland of love,\ncomposed of thy own glorious deeds and achievements.\n\nHaving passed through the usual course of studies in an ecclesiastical\nseminary with distinction, Father Ryan was duly ordained priest,\nand soon afterwards entered upon the active duties of missionary life.\nBut little was heard of him until the breaking out of the late civil war,\nwhen he entered the Confederate army as a chaplain,\nand served in that capacity up to the close of the civil war.\nHe was then stationed at Nashville, afterwards at Clarksville, Tenn.,\nand still later at Augusta, Ga., where he founded the ~Banner of the South~,\nwhich exercised great influence over the people of that section,\nand continued about five years, when Father Ryan was obliged\nto suspend its publication.  He then removed to Mobile, Ala.,\nwhere he was appointed pastor of St. Mary's Church in 1870,\nand continued in that position until 1883, when he obtained leave of absence\nfrom Bishop Quinlan to make an extended lecture tour of the country to further\na praiseworthy and charitable undertaking of great interest to the South.\nBishop Quinlan having died soon afterwards, Father Ryan's leave was extended\nby his successor, Bishop Manucy.  It was whilst engaged in this mission\nthat Father Ryan received his death summons.\n\nDuring all these changes and journeyings, the busy brain of Father Ryan\nwas incessantly employed, expending itself in composing\nthose immortal poems which have won their way to all hearts\nand elicited widespread and unmeasured praise from critics\nof the highest repute.  Like all true poets, Father Ryan touched\nthe tenderest chords of the human heart, and made them respond\nto his own lofty feelings and sublime inspirations.\n\nOf his priestly character but little need be said.  His superiors\nand those whom he served know best how well and faithfully\nhe discharged the sometimes severe and always onerous and responsible duties\nof his sacred calling.  The merit of his life-work is now\nthe measure of his reward.  As he had in view only God's honor and glory,\nand the good of his fellow-men, and directed his labors\nand employed his talents to promote these ends, may we not hope\nthat a merciful Judge has given him a recompense in excess of his deserts,\nsince, in the bountifulness of His liberality, He is wont to bestow a reward\nexceeding our merits?\n\nBut it is not claimed that Father Ryan was without fault.\nThis would be attributing to him angelic nature or equivalent perfection,\nagainst which, were he living, he would be the first to protest.\nHe needs no such fulsome or exaggerated praise.  He was a man,\nthough not cast in the common mould, and as such let us view him.\nDoubtless he had his faults, and perhaps not a few;\nfor \"the best of men are only the least sinful.\"  But as far as is known,\nhe had no serious defects or blemishes that would mar the beauty\nor disturb the harmonious grandeur of his character in its entirety.\nHad his heart been cold and selfish, or his thoughts defiled\nwith the sordid cares of earth, he never could have sung so sweetly\nor soared so sublimely into those serene and heavenly regions\nwhither his chaste fancy led him.  He delighted to roam\nin those far-off regions beyond the skies, whose spheres are ruled\nand whose realms are governed by those mysterious laws\nwhich have their fountain source in God, and whose operations\nare controlled by the exercise of His infinite power and love.\nHis defects, then, did not seriously impair the integrity of his virtues,\nwhich were many and solid.  Chief amongst his virtues may be named\nhis zeal for the honor and glory of God, and devotion to the Mother of God --\nthe latter the necessary outgrowth of the former.  The deep and earnest piety\nof Father Ryan towards his \"Queen and Patroness\", as he loved to call her,\nbespeaks much in his praise; for, like all truly great men\nof the Catholic Church, he saw that it was not only eminently proper,\nbut also a sublime act of Christian duty, to pay filial reverence and honor\nto the Mother of God.  Hence Father Ryan crowned Mary with many gems\nof rare beauty.  Amongst them may be named his beautiful poem \"Last of May\",\ndedicated to the Children of Mary, of the Cathedral of Mobile, Ala.\nFew Catholics will read these lines without experiencing feelings\nof deep and tender devotion towards their Queen and Mother.\n\nFather Ryan's was an open, manly character, in which there was\nno dissimulation.  His generous nature and warm heart were ever moved\nby kind impulses and influenced by charitable feelings,\nas became his priestly calling.  We may readily believe him when he tells us\nthat he never wrote a line for hate's sake.  He shrank instinctively\nfrom all that was mean and sordid.  Generosity was a marked trait\nof his character, an ennobling principle of his nature,\nthe motive power of his actions, and the mainspring of his life.\nFriendship was likewise congenial to his taste, if not a necessity\nof his nature; and with him it meant more than a name.\nIt was a sacred union formed between kindred spirits --\na chain of affection whose binding link was fidelity.\nNever was he false to its claims, nor known to have violated its obligations.\nHence he was highly esteemed during life by numerous persons\nof all classes and denominations; for his sympathies\nwere as broad as humanity, and as far-reaching as its wants and its miseries.\nYet he was a man of deep conviction and a strict adherent to principle,\nor what he conceived to be principle; for we find him long after the war\nstill clinging to its memories, and slow to accept its results,\nwhich he believed were fraught with disaster to the people of his section.\nA Southerner of the most pronounced kind, he was unwilling\nto make any concession to his victorious opponents of the North\nwhich could be withheld from them.  Perhaps, upon reflection,\nit may not appear wholly strange or inexplicable that he should have so acted.\nThere was, at least, some foundation for his fears with regard to\nthe ill fate of those of his section.  Though peace had been proclaimed,\nthe rainbow of hope did not encircle the heavens or cast its peaceful shadow\nover the South.  Dark clouds loomed up over that fair and sunny land,\nportentous of evil; for they were surcharged with the lightning of passion.\nThe chariot wheel of the conqueror had laid waste and desolate the land.\nNo one knew precisely what would follow; for passion's dark spirit\nwas abroad and ruling in high places.  To make matters worse\nand intensify the sufferings of the people still more, they were debarred\nfrom participating in the political affairs of their own States.\nNon-residents, and aliens in sympathy and common interest,\nwere appointed to rule over them, if not to oppress them.\nIs it to be wondered at if some refused to bow and kiss the hands\nthat were uplifted against them?  Among such was Father Ryan.\nAll honor to the man and those who stood by him!  Instead of attempting\nto cast obloquy upon their memory, we should do them honor\nfor having maintained in its integrity the dignity of the manhood\nwith which heaven had blessed them, when earth had deprived them\nof all else that was dear and sacred to brave and honorable men!\nBut how differently Father Ryan acted when the oppressed people of the South\nwere restored to their rights, and when the great heart of the North\nwent out in sympathy towards them in their dire affliction\nduring the awful visitation of the yellow fever, when death reaped\na rich harvest in Memphis and elsewhere, and a sorrow-stricken land\nwas once more buried in ruin and desolation!  It was then, indeed,\nthat Father Ryan and all good men beheld the grand spectacle\nof the whole North coming to the rescue of the afflicted South\nwith intense and sublime admiration.  He then saw for certain\nthe rainbow of peace span the heavens; and though his section\nwas wailing under the hand of affliction, he yet took down his harp,\nwhich for years had hung on the weeping willows of his much-loved South,\nand, with renewed vigor and strength of heart, again touched its chords\nand drew forth in rich tones and glorious melodies his grand poem, \"Reunited\".\nThen it was that the star of peace shone out in the heavens,\nresplendent with the brightness and purity of love,\nand dispelled the dark and foul spirit of hate which had poisoned the air\nand polluted the soil of free Columbia.  Then, too,\nthe angel of affliction and the angel of charity joined hands together\nand pronounced the benediction over a restored Union and a reunited people.\n\nBefore proceeding to speak of Father Ryan's poems, a few observations\nupon poets and poetry in general may not be deemed inappropriate.\nTo speak of poets and their merits is by no means an easy matter,\neven where one is in every respect fitted to pronounce critical judgment.\nIt requires rare qualifications for such a task; a wide range of information;\nextensive knowledge of the various authors; a keen sense of justice;\na fine sense of appreciation of the merits and demerits of each,\nand a rare power of discrimination.  These are qualifications seldom combined\nin a single person.  Hence so few competent critics are to be found.\nThe writer does not claim to possess all or any one of these powers\nin as eminent degree as would fit him for the work of passing\njudicious criticism upon the various authors and their works --\nor, indeed, any single one of them.  What he will venture to say, therefore,\nis by way of preface to the remarks which he is called upon to offer\nupon the merits of the particular poet whose productions\nhe is specially called upon to consider.\n\nOf poets it may be said, that they are not like other men,\nthough invested with similar qualities and characteristics.\nThey differ in this:  That they are not cold and calculating in their speech;\nthey do not analyze and weigh their words with the same precision;\nnor are they always master of their feelings.  Possessed of\nthe subtle power of genius, which no mortal can describe,\nthough all may experience its potent influence, they cannot be confined\nwithin the narrow limits assigned to others less gifted,\nnor subjected to fixed methods or unvarying processes of mental action.\nNo; poets must roam in broader fields, amidst brighter prospects\nand more elevated surroundings.  They must be left to themselves,\nto go where they choose, and evolve their thoughts according to\ntheir own ways and fancies; for ways and fancies they have\nwhich are peculiar to themselves and must be indulged.  Genius is ever wont\nto be odd, in the sense that it does not and cannot be made to move\nin common ruts and channels.  This is especially true of poetic genius,\nwhose life may be said to depend upon the purity of its inspirations\nand the breadth and character of its surroundings.\n\nMuch has been said, and deservedly, in favor of the great poets of antiquity.\nUnmeasured praise has been bestowed upon the epic grandeur of Homer\nand the classical purity of Virgil.  They have ever been considered\nas foremost amongst the best models of poetic excellence.\nYet there was wanting to them the true sources of poetic inspiration,\nwhence flow the loftiest conceptions and sublimest emanations of genius.\nHomer never rose above the summit of Olympus, nor Virgil above the level of\npagan subjects and surroundings.  Therefore they cannot be properly regarded\nas the highest and best models, certainly not the safest for Christians,\nwho can feast their eyes and fill their minds and hearts with more\nperfect models and more sublime subjects.  The sight of Sinai, where Jehovah,\nthe God of Israel, is veiled in the awful splendor of His Majesty,\nwhilst his voice is heard in the loud war and fierce thunderings\namongst the clouds, as the lightnings crown its summit,\nis far more grand and imposing, more sublime and inspiring,\nthan are those subjects presented to us by pagan authors,\nhowever refined and elegant may be the language employed\nto convey their thoughts and depict their scenes.  Wherefore,\nthe Biblical narratives furnish the highest and best models\nand the richest sources of poetic inspiration; and \"all great poets\nhave had recourse to those ever-living fountains to learn the secret\nof elevating our hearts, ennobling our affections, and finding subjects\nworthy of their genius.\"\n\nThe writer would not care to assert that Father Ryan's poems possess\nthe majestic grandeur and elaborate finish of the great masters,\nwhose productions have withstood the severe criticism of ages,\nand still stand as the highest models of poetic excellence.\nHis style is not that of Milton, who soared aloft into the eternal mansions\nand opened their portals to our astonished and admiring gaze,\npicturing to us \"God in His first frown and man in his first prevarication.\"\nNor is it that of Shakespeare, whose deep and subtle mind\nfathomed \"the dark abysses of the human heart,\" and laid bare and naked\nthe varied doings of mankind!  Nor is it, least of all,\nthat of Dante, who, with even greater boldness than Milton,\nplunged into the impenetrable depths of the infernal regions,\nwhose appalling misery and never-ending woe he has described\nin words of fearful and awe-inspiring grandeur.  Neither is his style\nlike unto that of any one of the several leading American poets,\nso far as their works are known to the writer, though some have said\nthat his style resembles that of the highly gifted and lamented Poe.\n\nThe writer will not undertake to say what place Father Ryan\nwill occupy in the Temple of Fame, though he believes that\nan enlightened public sentiment would accord to him a high position.\nThe chief merits of his poems would seem to be the simple sublimity\nof his verses; the rare and chaste beauty of his conceptions;\nthe richness and grandeur of his thoughts, and their easy, natural flow;\nthe refined elegance and captivating force of the terms he employs\nas the medium through which he communicates those thoughts\nand the weird fancy which throws around them charms peculiarly their own.\nThese, and perhaps other merits, will win for their author enduring fame.\n\nFor the future of Father Ryan's poems we need have no fears.\nThey will pass down through the ages bearing the stamp of genius,\nimpressed with the majesty of truth, replete with the power\nand grandeur of love; these are the purest sources of poetic inspiration;\nfor both are attributes of the Divinity.  Strip poetry of these,\nand nothing remains but its mutilated relics and soulless body;\nit becomes robbed of its highest glory and its most enduring qualities.\n\nThough the South may claim Father Ryan as her son of genius,\nwhose heart beat in sympathy with her hopes and her aspirations\nand of whose productions she may well feel proud, yet no section owns him,\nsince he belongs to our common country, and in a certain sense to mankind,\nfor the fame of genius is not controlled by sections\nor circumscribed within limits; it extends beyond the confines of earth --\nyea, unto eternity itself!  It is proper to regard him in this light\nas the heritage of the nation, for in the nation's keeping\nhis fame will be secure and appropriately perpetuated.\nAll sections will unite in doing honor to his memory,\nwhich is associated with grand intellectual triumphs,\nwon by the union of the highest gifts of the Creator --\nthe union of religion and poetic genius; the former the source and inspiration\nof the latter.\n\nFather Ryan also wrote several works of prose, chief amongst which\nis that entitled, \"A Crown for Our Queen\".  Like his poem, \"Last of May\",\nthis book was intended as a loving tribute to Mary, the Mother of God,\nwhom he wished to honor as the highest type and grandest embodiment\nof womanhood.  If Father Ryan failed to make this work worthy\nof the exalted subject -- an opinion by no means expressed --\nit was not from any lack of good-will and earnest purpose on his part.\nWith him tender affection for the Queen of Heaven was a pure\nand holy sentiment, a sublime, and ennobling act of piety.\nHe saw in her lofty and immaculate beauty the true ideal of woman;\nand this explains the deep reverence and delicate sentiment\nof respect and sympathy which he exhibited towards all women.\nPoetical sentiment and religious feeling he thus happily blended,\nas they should ever be, directing and influencing man's action\nin his relations and intercourse with woman.\n\nThree essentially poetical sentiments exist in man,\nsays a distinguished writer:  The love of God, the love of woman,\nand the love of country -- the religious, the human,\nand the political sentiment.  For this reason, continues the same writer,\nwherever the knowledge of God is darkened, wherever the face of woman\nis veiled, wherever the people are captive or enslaved, there poetry\nis like a flame which, for want of fuel, exhausts itself and dies out.\nOn the contrary, wherever God reigns upon His throne\nin all the majesty of His glory, wherever woman rules\nby the irresistible power of her enchantments, wherever the people are free,\nthere poetry has modest roses for the woman, glorious palms for the people,\nand splendid wings with which to mount up to the loftiest regions of heaven.\n\nFather Ryan also won distinction as an orator, a lecturer, and an essayist,\nhaving contributed to several of the leading journals and magazines\nof the country.  His oratory was not of the cold and unimpassioned kind\nwhich falls upon the ears but fails to make an impression on the heart.\nHe did not lose sight of the fact that the chief end and aim of oratory\nis to arouse men to a sense of duty, deter them from the commission of evil,\nand inspire them with high and holy purposes and noble, generous resolves,\nthe accomplishment of which demands that the living, breathing spirit or soul\nshould be infused into the words.  Though the unction of divine charity\ncan alone give efficacy to man's words, yet man must not appear to be devoid\nof those qualities and attributes which contribute towards making\na lasting impression upon the minds and hearts of those\nwhose interests are presumed to be dear to him.  This was the spirit\nthat animated Father Ryan, and all his efforts were directed towards\nthe accomplishment of the objects stated.  It is not claimed that\nall his discourses were up to the highest standard of literary excellence,\nor above the test of exact criticism.  Some of his efforts\ndid not bear evidence of deep thought or careful and exhaustive preparation,\nbut all exhibited warmth of soul and earnestness of purpose.\nIt may be well to remark in connection with this, that Father Ryan's health\nfor many years was such that it would not permit of his engaging\nin laborious mental work.  And yet he labored much and spoke often;\nfor his zeal and mental activity were greatly in excess of his strength.\nHad his physical powers corresponded to his rare mental endowments,\nthe value of his productions -- great as it now is --\nwould have been enhanced.  The marvel is that he was able to sustain\nthose powers of mind which marked him up to the time of his death.\n\nThough he had been ailing for years, as has been stated,\nyet his wonderful energy of mind made it appear to many that there was\nno immediate danger of his life.  When the end came it was a surprise to all,\neven himself.  To him let us hope that it was not unprovided for.\nWe have the gratifying assurance that it was not so; for we are told\nthat he had retired into a Franciscan monastery in Louisville, Ky.,\nto make a retreat, intending, at its close, to finish a \"Life of Christ\",\non which he was engaged, or purposed to undertake.  Little did he think,\napparently at least, that the Angel of Death pursued him\nand would soon deliver the final message to him.  He did not fear the end.\nWhy should he?  Death has no terrors for the truly Christian soul.\nIt is not the end, but the beginning of life; not the destroyer,\nbut the restorer of our rights -- that which puts us in possession\nof our eternal home in heaven.  Therefore he was not gloomy nor despondent\nat the sight of the grave.  He saw beyond it the glorious sunshine\nof God's presence and the cheering prospect of his love.\nThe final moment at last came and found him prepared.  On the 23d of April,\n1886, the soul of Abram J. Ryan, priest and poet, beloved of all who knew him,\npassed quietly away, let us hope, from earth to heaven, there to sing\nthe glorious songs whose melodies are attuned to the harps of angels,\nand whose mysterious harmonies ravish with delight the pure souls of the just.\nAs the setting sun on a calm eve sinks beneath the horizon,\ngilding the heavens with its mild yet gorgeous splendor,\nso did the grand soul of Father Ryan pass into eternity,\nleaving behind the bright light of his genius and virtues --\nthe one to illumine the firmament of literature, and the other to serve\nas a shining example to men.\n\nHere the writer would end this imperfect tribute to a truly great character,\ndid he not wish to remind the reader that he must not regard it\nas an entire portrait of the illustrious dead, though he has tried\nto present him clothed with some, at least, of the attributes and qualities\nwhich marked him during life.  The failure, if such it be,\nmust be ascribed to his own want of skill and ability\nrather than to any lack of merit in the subject.  If he has not invested him\nwith the panoply of his greatness, he has endeavored to strew some flowers\nover his grave; and these are love's purest and best offering,\nwhich, were he living, would be most acceptable to the heart of the poet;\nfor love it was that inspired its tenderest promptings and holiest feelings\nand consecrated them to its ennobling influence.\n\nAnother thought, and the writer will bring his remarks to a close.\nThis thought will be borrowed from the dead priest's poem, \"Reunited\",\nto suggest a sentiment in response to his prayer for a union of all sections\n-- a sentiment which cannot fail to meet a ready and generous acceptance\non the part of all true lovers of liberty.  The thought is embodied\nin the following words, which take the form of an appeal:\n\nLet all hearts join in the wish that the valor displayed\nand the sacrifices endured on both sides during the late civil war\nmay henceforth unite all sections of our common country more closely\nin the bonds of fraternal affection, and cement more firmly\nthe foundations of our political superstructure, now so vast and imposing,\nthus serving as a guaranty for the stability, permanence,\nand enduring greatness of the Republic!  Thus will we respond\nto the prayer of the dead priest, whose poem, the \"Lost Cause\",\nand song of \"The Conquered Banner\", will mingle harmoniously\nwith the soft, earnest words and sweet, placid tones\nof his peaceful \"Reunited\".  So the songs of the dead poet\nwill be music to the living until time shall be no more!\n\n  Washington, D.C.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPoems:  Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSong of the Mystic\n\n\n\nI walk down the Valley of Silence --\n Down the dim, voiceless valley -- alone!\nAnd I hear not the fall of a footstep\n Around me, save God's and my own;\nAnd the hush of my heart is as holy\n As hovers where angels have flown!\n\nLong ago was I weary of voices\n Whose music my heart could not win;\nLong ago was I weary of noises\n That fretted my soul with their din;\nLong ago was I weary of places\n Where I met but the human -- and sin.\n\nI walked in the world with the worldly;\n I craved what the world never gave;\nAnd I said:  \"In the world each Ideal,\n That shines like a star on life's wave,\nIs wrecked on the shores of the Real,\n And sleeps like a dream in a grave.\"\n\nAnd still did I pine for the Perfect,\n And still found the False with the True;\nI sought 'mid the Human for Heaven,\n But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue:\nAnd I wept when the clouds of the Mortal\n Veiled even that glimpse from my view.\n\nAnd I toiled on, heart-tired, of the Human,\n And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men,\nTill I knelt, long ago, at an altar\n And I heard a voice call me.  Since then\nI walk down the Valley of Silence\n That lies far beyond mortal ken.\n\nDo you ask what I found in the Valley?\n 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine.\nAnd I fell at the feet of the Holy,\n And above me a voice said:  \"Be mine.\"\nAnd there arose from the depths of my spirit\n An echo -- \"My heart shall be Thine.\"\n\nDo you ask how I live in the Valley?\n I weep -- and I dream -- and I pray.\nBut my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops\n That fall on the roses in May;\nAnd my prayer, like a perfume from censers,\n Ascendeth to God night and day.\n\nIn the hush of the Valley of Silence\n I dream all the songs that I sing;\nAnd the music floats down the dim Valley,\n Till each finds a word for a wing,\nThat to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge,\n A message of Peace they may bring.\n\nBut far on the deep there are billows\n That never shall break on the beach;\nAnd I have heard songs in the Silence\n That never shall float into speech;\nAnd I have had dreams in the Valley\n Too lofty for language to reach.\n\nAnd I have seen Thoughts in the Valley --\n Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred!\nAnd they wear holy veils on their faces,\n Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;\nThey pass through the Valley like virgins,\n Too pure for the touch of a word!\n\nDo you ask me the place of the Valley,\n Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?\nIt lieth afar between mountains,\n And God and His angels are there:\nAnd one is the dark mount of Sorrow,\n And one the bright mountain of Prayer.\n\n\n\n\nReverie [\"Only a few more years!\"]\n\n\n\n    Only a few more years!\n     Weary years!\n    Only a few more tears!\n     Bitter tears!\nAnd then -- and then -- like other men,\n I cease to wander, cease to weep,\n Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep;\nAnd out of the day and into the night,\nInto the dark and out of the bright\n I go, and Death shall veil my face,\n The feet of the years shall fast efface\n My very name, and every trace\nI leave on earth; for the stern years tread --\nTread out the names of the gone and dead!\nAnd then, ah! then, like other men,\n I close my eyes and go to sleep,\n Only a few, one hour, shall weep:\n Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep!\n\n    Alas!  Alas!\n     How soon we pass!\n    And ah! we go\n     So far away;\nWhen go we must,\nFrom the light of Life, and the heat of strife,\nTo the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust,\n We go -- we go -- we may not stay,\n We travel the lone, dark, dreary way;\nOut of the day and into the night,\nInto the darkness, out of the bright.\nAnd then, ah! then, like other men,\n We close our eyes and go to sleep;\nWe hush our hearts and go to sleep;\nOnly a few, one hour, shall weep:\nAh! me, the grave is lone and deep!\n\nI saw a flower, at morn, so fair;\nI passed at eve, it was not there.\n I saw a sunbeam, golden bright,\n I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud,\n And I saw night\n Digging the grave of day;\nAnd day took off her golden crown,\nAnd flung it sorrowfully down.\n Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride!\n At twilight moaned and died.\nAnd so, alas! like day we pass:\n   At morn we smile,\n   At eve we weep,\n   At morn we wake,\n In night we sleep.\nWe close our eyes and go to sleep:\nAh! me, the grave is still and deep!\n\n    But God is sweet.\n     My mother told me so,\n    When I knelt at her feet\n     Long -- so long -- ago;\nShe clasped my hands in hers.\nAh! me, that memory stirs\n My soul's profoundest deep --\n No wonder that I weep.\nShe clasped my hands and smiled,\nAh! then I was a child --\n   I knew not harm --\n   My mother's arm\nWas flung around me; and I felt\nThat when I knelt\n To listen to my mother's prayer,\n God was with my mother there.\n\nYea! \"God is sweet!\"\n   She told me so;\n She never told me wrong;\nAnd through my years of woe\nHer whispers soft, and sad, and low,\n And sweet as Angel's song,\nHave floated like a dream.\n\nAnd, ah! to-night I seem\n A very child in my old, old place,\n Beneath my mother's blessed face,\nAnd through each sweet remembered word,\nThis sweetest undertone is heard:\n \"My child! my child! our God is sweet,\n In Life -- in Death -- kneel at his feet --\nSweet in gladness, sweet in gloom,\nSweeter still beside the tomb.\"\n Why should I wail?  Why ought I weep?\n The grave -- it is not dark and deep;\nWhy should I sigh?  Why ought I moan?\nThe grave -- it is not still and lone;\n Our God is sweet, our grave is sweet,\n We lie there sleeping at His feet,\nWhere the wicked shall from troubling cease,\nAnd weary hearts shall rest in peace!\n\n\n\n\nLines -- 1875\n\n\n\nGo down where the wavelets are kissing the shore,\nAnd ask of them why do they sigh?\nThe poets have asked them a thousand times o'er,\nBut they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before,\nAnd they're sighing to-day, and they'll sigh evermore.\nAsk them what ails them:  they will not reply;\nBut they'll sigh on forever and never tell why!\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nThe waves will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\nGo stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep,\nWhen the night stars are gleaming on high,\nAnd hear how the billows are moaning in sleep,\nOn the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep.\nThey're moaning forever wherever they sweep.\nAsk them what ails them:  they never reply;\nThey moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nThe waves will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\nGo list to the breeze at the waning of day,\nWhen it passes and murmurs \"Good-bye.\"\nThe dear little breeze -- how it wishes to stay\nWhere the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play;\nHow it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way.\nAsk it what ails it:  it will not reply;\nIts voice is a sad one, it never told why.\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nThe breeze will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\nGo watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair,\nWhen the shout of the storm rends the sky;\nThey rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air\nAnd they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair,\nAnd they groan like the ghosts in the \"land of despair\".\nAsk them what ails them:  they never reply;\nTheir voices are mournful, they will not tell why.\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nThe blasts will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\nGo stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side,\nOr list where the rivers rush by;\nThe streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide,\nAnd the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide,\nAre moaning forever wherever they glide;\nAsk them what ails them:  they will not reply.\nOn -- sad voiced -- they flow, but they never tell why.\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nEarth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\nGo list to the voices of air, earth and sea,\nAnd the voices that sound in the sky;\nTheir songs may be joyful to some, but to me\nThere's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key,\nAnd thousands of sighs swell their grand melody.\nAsk them what ails them:  they will not reply.\nThey sigh -- sigh forever -- but never tell why.\nWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh?\nTheir lips will not answer you; neither shall I.\n\n\n\n\nA Memory\n\n\n\nOne bright memory shines like a star\n In the sky of my spirit forever;\nAnd over my pathway it flashes afar\n A radiance that perishes never.\n\nOne bright memory -- only one;\n And I walk by the light of its gleaming;\nIt brightens my days, and when days are done\n It shines in the night o'er my dreaming.\n\nOne bright memory, whose golden rays\n Illumine the gloom of my sorrows,\nAnd I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze\n In the shadows of all my to-morrows.\n\nOne bright memory; when I am sad\n I lift up my eyes to its shining,\nAnd the clouds pass away, and my spirit grows glad,\n And my heart hushes all its repining.\n\nOne bright memory; others have passed\n Back into the shadows forever;\nBut it, far and fair, bright and true to the last,\n Sheds a light that will pass away never.\n\nShine on, shine always, thou star of my days!\n And when Death's starless night gathers o'er me,\nBeam brighter than ever adown on my gaze,\n And light the dark valley before me.\n\n\n\n\nRhyme\n\n\n\n    One idle day --\nA mile or so of sunlit waves off shore --\n    In a breezeless bay,\n    We listless lay --\nOur boat a \"dream of rest\" on the still sea --\n    And -- we were four.\n\n    The wind had died\nThat all day long sang songs unto the deep;\n    It was eventide,\n    And far and wide\nSweet silence crept thro' the rifts of sound\n    With spells of sleep.\n\n    Our gray sail cast\nThe only cloud that flecked the foamless sea;\n    And weary at last\n    Beside the mast\nOne fell to slumber with a dreamy face,\n    And -- we were three.\n\n    No ebb! no flow!\nNo sound! no stir in the wide, wondrous calm;\n    In the sunset's glow\n    The shore shelved low\nAnd snow-white, from far ridges screened with shade\n    Of drooping palm.\n\n    Our hearts were hushed;\nAll light seemed melting into boundless blue;\n    But the west was flushed\n    Where sunset blushed,\nThro' clouds of roses, when another slept\n    And -- we were two.\n\n    How still the air!\nNot e'en a sea-bird o'er us waveward flew;\n    Peace rested there!\n    Light everywhere!\nNay! Light! some shadows fell on that fair scene,\n    And -- we are two.\n\n    Some shadows!  Where?\nNo matter where! all shadows are not seen;\n    For clouds of care\n    To skies all fair\nWill sudden rise as tears to shining eyes,\n    And dim their sheen.\n\n    We spake no word,\nTho' each I ween did hear the other's soul.\n    Not a wavelet stirred,\n    And yet we heard\nThe loneliest music of the weariest waves\n    That ever roll.\n\n    Yea! Peace, you swayed\nYour sceptre jeweled with the evening light;\n    And then you said:\n    \"Here falls no shade,\nHere floats no sound, and all the seas and skies\n    Sleep calm and bright.\"\n\n    Nay! Peace, not so!\nThe wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's spell\n    And fear to flow,\n    But to and fro --\nBeyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas\n    Will sink and swell.\n\n    No word e'en yet;\nWere our eyes speaking while they watched the sky?\n    And in the sunset\n    Infinite regret\nSwept sighing from the skies into our souls --\n    I wonder why?\n\n    A half hour passed --\n'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus.\n    Words came at last,\n    Fluttering and fast\nAs shadows veiling sunsets in the souls\n    Of each of us.\n\n    The noiseless night\nSped flitting like a ghost where waves of blue\n    Lost all their light,\n    As lips once bright\nWhence smiles have fled; we or the wavelets sighed,\n    And -- we were two.\n\n    The day had gone:\nAnd on the dim, high altar of the dark,\n    Stars, one by one,\n    Far, faintly shone;\nThe moonlight trembled, like a mother's smile,\n    Upon our bark.\n\n    We softly spoke:\nThe waves seemed listening on the lonely sea,\n    The winds awoke;\n    Our whispers broke\nThe spell of silence; and two eyes unclosed,\n    And -- we were three.\n\n    \"The breeze blows fair,\"\nHe said; \"the waking waves set towards the shore.\"\n    The long brown hair\n    Of the other there,\nWho slumbered near the mast with dreamy face\n    Stirred -- we were four.\n\n    That starry night,\nA mile or so of shadows from the shore,\n    Two faces bright\n    With laughter light\nShone on two souls like stars that shine on shrines;\n    And -- we were four.\n\n    Over the reach\nOf dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew;\n    We reached the beach,\n    Nor song, nor speech\nShall ever tell our sacramental thought\n    When -- we were two.\n\n\n\n\nNocturne [\"I sit to-night by the firelight,\"]\n\n\n\nI sit to-night by the firelight,\n And I look at the glowing flame,\nAnd I see in the bright red flashes\n A Heart, a Face, and a Name.\n\nHow often have I seen pictures\n Framed in the firelight's blaze,\nOf hearts, of names, and of faces,\n And scenes of remembered days!\n\nHow often have I found poems\n In the crimson of the coals,\nAnd the swaying flames of the firelight\n Unrolled such golden scrolls.\n\nAnd my eyes, they were proud to read them,\n In letters of living flame,\nBut to-night, in the fire, I see only\n One Heart, one Face, and one Name.\n\nBut where are the olden pictures?\n And where are the olden dreams?\nHas a change come over my vision?\n Or over the fire's bright gleams?\n\nNot over my vision, surely;\n My eyes -- they are still the same,\nThat used to find in the firelight\n So many a face and name.\n\nNot over the firelight, either,\n No change in the coals or blaze\nThat flicker and flash, as ruddy\n To-night as in other days.\n\nBut there must be a change -- I feel it.\n To-night not an old picture came;\nThe fire's bright flames only painted\n One Heart, one Face, and one Name.\n\nThree pictures?  No! only one picture;\n The Face belongs to the Name,\nAnd the Name names the Heart that is throbbing\n Just back of the beautiful flame.\n\nWho said it, I wonder:  \"All faces\n Must fade in the light of but one;\nThe soul, like the earth, may have many\n Horizons, but only one sun?\"\n\nWho dreamt it?  Did I?  If I dreamt it\n 'Tis true -- every name passes by\nSave one; the sun wears many cloudlets\n Of gold, but has only one sky.\n\nAnd out of the flames have they faded,\n The hearts and the faces of yore?\nHave they sunk 'neath the gray of the ashes\n To rise to my vision no more?\n\nYes, surely, or else I would see them\n To-night, just as bright as of old,\nIn the white of the coal's silver flashes,\n In the red of the restless flames' gold.\n\nDo you say I am fickle and faithless?\n Else why are the old pictures gone?\nAnd why should the visions of many\n Melt into the vision of one?\n\nNay! list to the voice of the Heavens,\n \"One Eternal alone reigns above.\"\nIs it true? and all else are but idols,\n So the heart can have only one love?\n\nOnly one, all the rest are but idols,\n That fall from their shrines soon or late,\nWhen the Love that is Lord of the temple,\n Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate.\n\nTo be faithless oft means to be faithful,\n To be false often means to be true;\nThe vale that loves clouds that are golden\n Forgets them for skies that are blue.\n\nTo forget often means to remember\n What we had forgotten too long;\nThe fragrance is not the bright flower,\n The echo is not the sweet song.\n\nAm I dreaming?  No, there is the firelight,\n Gaze I ever so long, all the same\nI only can see in its glowing\n A Heart, a Face, and a Name.\n\nFarewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces!\n Only ashes now under the blaze,\nYe never again will smile on me,\n For I'm touching the end of my days.\n\nAnd the beautiful fading firelight\n Paints, now, with a pencil of flame,\nThree pictures -- yet only one picture --\n A Heart, a Face, and a Name.\n\n\n\n\nThe Old Year and the New\n\n\n\n    How swift they go,\n     Life's many years,\n    With their winds of woe\n     And their storms of tears,\nAnd their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes\nAre lit with the flashes of starriest hopes,\nAnd their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom\nThe clouds of the tempest -- the shadows of the gloom!\n\n    And ah! we pray\n     With a grief so drear,\n    That the years may stay\n     When their graves are near;\nTho' the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright,\nWith love and with beauty, with life and with light,\nThe dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier,\nTo the hearts that survive them, are evermore dear.\n\n    For the hearts so true\n     To each Old Year cleaves;\n    Tho' the hand of the New\n     Flowery garlands weaves.\nBut the flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair,\nWith the past's withered leaflets may never compare;\nFor dear is each dead leaf -- and dearer each thorn --\nIn the wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn.\n\n    Yea! men will cling\n     With a love to the last,\n    And wildly fling\n     Their arms round their past!\nAs the vine that clings to the oak that falls;\nAs the ivy twines round the crumbled walls;\nFor the dust of the past some hearts higher prize\nThan the stars that flash out from the future's bright skies.\n\n    And why not so?\n     The old, Old Years,\n    They knew and they know\n     All our hopes and fears;\nWe walked by their side, and we told them each grief,\nAnd they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief;\nAnd the stories of hearts that may not be revealed\nIn the hearts of the dead years are buried and sealed.\n\n    Let the New Year sing\n     At the Old Year's grave:\n    Will the New Year bring\n     What the Old Year gave?\nAh! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows,\nAnd his brow is wreathed with many a rose:\nBut how many thorns do the roses conceal\nWhich the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal?\n\n    Let the New Year smile\n     When the Old Year dies;\n    In how short a while\n     Shall the smiles be sighs?\nYea! Stranger-Year, thou hast many a charm,\nAnd thy face is fair and thy greeting warm,\nBut, dearer than thou -- in his shroud of snows --\nIs the furrowed face of the Year that goes.\n\n    Yea! bright New Year,\n     O'er all the earth,\n    With song and cheer,\n     They will hail thy birth;\nThey will trust thy words in a single hour,\nThey will love thy face, they will laud thy power;\nFor the ~New~ has charms which the ~Old~ has not,\nAnd the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot.\n\n\n\n\nErin's Flag\n\n\n\nUnroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze!\nLet it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas!\nLift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore,\nWhen its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore\nThat never! no, never! while God gave them life,\nAnd they had an arm and a sword for the strife,\nThat never! no, never! that banner should yield\nAs long as the heart of a Celt was its shield:\nWhile the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield\nAnd his last drop of blood was unshed on the field.\n\nLift it up! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of old!\nNot a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold,\nTho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years\nHave drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears!\nThough the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom,\nAnd around it the thunders of Tyranny boom.\nLook aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by,\nThere's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky,\n'Tis the sunburst resplendent -- far, flashing on high!\nErin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh!\n\nLift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green!\nThe blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen;\nWhat though the tyrant has trampled it down,\nAre its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown?\nWhat though for ages it droops in the dust,\nShall it droop thus forever?  No, no!  God is just!\nTake it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread,\nLet him tear the Green Flag -- we will snatch its last shred,\nAnd beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled,\nAnd we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead,\nAnd we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed,\nAnd we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread,\nAnd we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed,\nDied down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread;\nAnd we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled,\nAnd we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed,\nThat we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread;\nThat we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed,\n'Til the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead\nShall prove to our foe that we meant what we said --\nThat we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red!\n\nLift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home,\nFull long has its lot been to wander and roam,\nIt has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world,\nBut its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled;\nLike a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West,\nIt has flitted and fled -- but it never shall rest,\n'Til, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main,\nAnd speeds to the shores of its old home again,\nWhere its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain\nShall wave with a glory that never shall wane.\n\nTake it up! take it up! bear it back from afar!\nThat banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war;\nLay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky,\nAnd swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die,\nAnd shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth\nTo join in the march to the land of their birth;\nAnd wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome,\nHave been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam,\nThey'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam,\nThey'll sail to the music of \"Home, Sweet Home!\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Sword of Robert Lee\n\n\n\nForth from its scabbard, pure and bright,\n   Flashed the sword of Lee!\nFar in the front of the deadly fight,\nHigh o'er the brave in the cause of Right,\nIts stainless sheen, like a beacon light,\n   Led us to Victory!\n\nOut of its scabbard, where, full long,\n   It slumbered peacefully,\nRoused from its rest by the battle's song,\nShielding the feeble, smiting the strong,\nGuarding the right, avenging the wrong,\n   Gleamed the sword of Lee!\n\nForth from its scabbard, high in air\n   Beneath Virginia's sky --\nAnd they who saw it gleaming there,\nAnd knew who bore it, knelt to swear\nThat where that sword led they would dare\n   To follow -- and to die!\n\nOut of its scabbard!  Never hand\n   Waved sword from stain as free,\nNor purer sword led braver band,\nNor braver bled for a brighter land,\nNor brighter land had a cause so grand,\n   Nor cause a chief like Lee!\n\nForth from its scabbard!  How we prayed\n   That sword might victor be;\nAnd when our triumph was delayed,\nAnd many a heart grew sore afraid,\nWe still hoped on while gleamed the blade\n   Of noble Robert Lee!\n\nForth from its scabbard all in vain\n   Bright flashed the sword of Lee;\n'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,\nIt sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,\nDefeated, yet without a stain,\n   Proudly and peacefully!\n\n\n\n\nLife\n\n\n\nA baby played with the surplice sleeve\n Of a gentle priest; while in accents low,\nThe sponsors murmured the grand \"I believe,\"\n And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow\nIn the name of the Father, and the Son,\nAnd Holy Spirit -- Three in One.\n\nSpotless as a lily's leaf,\n Whiter than the Christmas snow;\nNot a sign of sin or grief,\n And the babe laughed, sweet and low.\n\nA smile flitted over the baby's face:\n Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing\nJust passing then, and leaving a trace\n Of its presence as it soared to sing?\nA hymn when words and waters win\nTo grace and life a child of sin.\n\nNot an outward sign or token,\n That a child was saved from woe;\nBut the bonds of sin were broken,\n And the babe laughed, sweet and low.\n\nA cloud rose up to the mother's eyes,\n And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast;\nCame the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs,\n Out of the future, or the past?\nAh! gleam and gloom must ever meet,\nAnd gall must mingle with the sweet.\n\nYea, upon the baby's laughter\n Trickled tears:  'tis ever so --\nMothers dread the dark hereafter;\n But the babe laughed sweet and low.\n\nAnd the years like waves broke on the shore\n Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life;\nBut her lone heart drifted away before\n Her little boy knew an hour of strife;\nDrifted away on a Summer's eve,\nEre the orphaned child knew how to grieve\n\nHer humble grave was gently made\n Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow;\nThe wild birds sang where her heart was laid,\n And her boy laughed sweet and low.\n\nHe drifted away from his mother's grave,\n Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide,\nTill he heard the moan of the mighty wave,\n That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide.\nOut from the shore and over the deep,\nHe sailed away and learned to weep.\n\nFurrowed grew the face once fair,\n Under storms of human woe;\nSilvered grew the dark brown hair,\n And he wailed so sad and low.\n\nThe years swept on as erst they swept,\n Bright wavelets once, dark billows now;\nWherever he sailed he ever wept,\n A cloud hung over the darkened brow --\nOver the deep and into the dark,\nBut no one knew where sank his bark.\n\nWild roses watched his mother's tomb,\n The world still laughed, 'tis ever so --\nGod only knows the baby's doom,\n That laughed so sweet and low.\n\n\n\n\nA Laugh -- and A Moan\n\n\n\nThe brook that down the valley\n So musically drips,\nFlowed never half so brightly\n As the light laugh from her lips.\n\nHer face was like the lily,\n Her heart was like the rose,\nHer eyes were like a heaven\n Where the sunlight always glows.\n\nShe trod the earth so lightly\n Her feet touched not a thorn;\nHer words wore all the brightness\n Of a young life's happy morn.\n\nAlong her laughter rippled\n The melody of joy;\nShe drank from every chalice,\n And tasted no alloy.\n\nHer life was all a laughter,\n Her days were all a smile,\nHer heart was pure and happy,\n She knew not gloom nor guile.\n\nShe rested on the bosom\n Of her mother, like a flower\nThat blooms far in a valley\n Where no storm-clouds ever lower.\n\nAnd -- \"Merry, merry, merry!\"\n Rang the bells of every hour,\nAnd -- \"Happy, happy, happy!\"\n In her valley laughed the flower.\n\nThere was not a sign of shadow,\n There was not a tear nor thorn,\nAnd the sweet voice of her laughter\n Filled with melody the morn.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nYears passed -- 'twas long, long after,\n And I saw a face at prayer;\nThere was not a sign of laughter,\n There was every sign of care.\n\nFor the sunshine all had faded\n From the valley and the flower,\nAnd the once fair face was shaded\n In life's lonely evening hour.\n\nAnd the lips that smiled with laughter\n In the valley of the morn,\nIn the valley of the evening\n They were pale and sorrow-worn.\n\nAnd I read the old, old lesson\n In her face and in her tears,\nWhile she sighed amid the shadows\n Of the sunset of her years.\n\nAll the rippling streams of laughter\n From our hearts and lips that flow,\nShall be frozen, cold years after,\n Into icicles of woe.\n\n\n\n\nIn Memory of My Brother\n\n\n\nYoung as the youngest who donned the Gray,\n   True as the truest that wore it,\nBrave as the bravest he marched away,\n(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay)\nTriumphant waved our flag one day --\n   He fell in the front before it.\n\nFirm as the firmest, where duty led,\n   He hurried without a falter;\nBold as the boldest he fought and bled,\nAnd the day was won -- but the field was red --\nAnd the blood of his fresh young heart was shed\n   On his country's hallowed altar.\n\nOn the trampled breast of the battle plain\n   Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,\nOn his pale, pure face not a mark of pain,\n(His mother dreams they will meet again)\nThe fairest form amid all the slain,\n   Like a child asleep he nestled.\n\nIn the solemn shades of the wood that swept\n   The field where his comrades found him,\nThey buried him there -- and the big tears crept\nInto strong men's eyes that had seldom wept.\n(His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept,\n   Dreaming her arms were around him.)\n\nA grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown,\n   A grave in the heart of his mother --\nHis clay in the one lies lifeless and lone;\nThere is not a name, there is not a stone,\nAnd only the voice of the winds maketh moan\nO'er the grave where never a flower is strewn\n   But -- his memory lives in the other.\n\n\n\n\n\"Out of the Depths\"\n\n\n\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nThe cry went up from a sea --\nThe waves were wild with an awful wrath,\nNot a light shone down on the lone ship's path;\n        The clouds hung low:\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nRose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.\n\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nThe cry floated over the waves --\nFar over the pitiless waves;\nIt smote on the dark and it rended the clouds;\nThe billows below them were weaving white shrouds\n    Out of the foam of the surge,\n    And the wind-voices chanted a dirge:\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nWailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.\n\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nNot the sign of a hope was nigh,\nIn the sea, in the air, or the sky;\nAnd the lifted faces were wan and white,\nThere was nothing without them but storm and night\n    And nothing within but fear.\n    But far to a Father's ear:\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nFloated the wail of the tempest-tossed.\n\n        Lost!  Lost!  Lost!\nOut of the depths of the sea --\nOut of the night and the sea;\nAnd the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed,\nAnd the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed.\n        Saved!  Saved!  Saved!\n    And a calm and a joyous cry\n    Floated up through the starry sky,\nIn the dark -- in the storm -- \"Our Father\" is nigh.\n\n\n\n\nA Thought\n\n\n\nThe summer rose the sun has flushed\n With crimson glory may be sweet;\n'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed\n Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.\n\nThe rose that waves upon its tree,\n In life sheds perfume all around;\nMore sweet the perfume floats to me\n Of roses trampled on the ground.\n\nThe waving rose with every breath\n Scents carelessly the summer air;\nThe wounded rose bleeds forth in death\n A sweetness far more rich and rare.\n\nIt is a truth beyond our ken --\n And yet a truth that all may read --\nIt is with roses as with men,\n The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.\n\nThe flower which Bethlehem saw bloom\n Out of a heart all full of grace,\nGave never forth its full perfume\n Until the cross became its vase.\n\n\n\n\nMarch of the Deathless Dead\n\n\n\nGather the sacred dust\n   Of the warriors tried and true,\nWho bore the flag of a Nation's trust\nAnd fell in a cause, though lost, still just,\n   And died for me and you.\n\nGather them one and all,\n   From the private to the chief;\nCome they from hovel or princely hall,\nThey fell for us, and for them should fall\n   The tears of a Nation's grief.\n\nGather the corpses strewn\n   O'er many a battle plain;\nFrom many a grave that lies so lone,\nWithout a name and without a stone,\n   Gather the Southern slain.\n\nWe care not whence they came,\n   Dear in their lifeless clay!\nWhether unknown, or known to fame,\nTheir cause and country still the same;\n   They died -- and wore the Gray.\n\nWherever the brave have died,\n   They should not rest apart;\nLiving, they struggled side by side,\nWhy should the hand of Death divide\n   A single heart from heart?\n\nGather their scattered clay,\n   Wherever it may rest;\nJust as they marched to the bloody fray,\nJust as they fell on the battle day,\n   Bury them, breast to breast.\n\nThe foeman need not dread\n   This gathering of the brave;\nWithout sword or flag, and with soundless tread,\nWe muster once more our deathless dead,\n   Out of each lonely grave.\n\nThe foeman need not frown,\n   They all are powerless now;\nWe gather them here and we lay them down,\nAnd tears and prayers are the only crown\n   We bring to wreathe each brow.\n\nAnd the dead thus meet the dead,\n   While the living o'er them weep;\nAnd the men by Lee and Stonewall led,\nAnd the hearts that once together bled,\n   Together still shall sleep.\n\n\n\n\nReunited\n\n[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.]\n\n\n\nPurer than thy own white snow,\n Nobler than thy mountains' height;\nDeeper than the ocean's flow,\n Stronger than thy own proud might;\nO Northland! to thy sister land,\nWas late thy mercy's generous deed and grand.\n\nNigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed:\n Its mist of green o'er battle plain\nFor nigh two decades Spring had breathed;\n And yet the crimson life-blood stain\nFrom passive swards had never paled,\nNor fields, where all were brave and some had failed.\n\nBetween the Northland, bride of snow,\n And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride,\nSwept, deepening ever in its flow,\n The stormy wake, in war's dark tide:\nNo hand might clasp across the tears\nAnd blood and anguish of four deathless years.\n\nWhen Summer, like a rose in bloom,\n Had blossomed from the bud of Spring,\nOh! who could deem the dews of doom\n Upon the blushing lips could cling?\nAnd who could believe its fragrant light\nWould e'er be freighted with the breath of blight?\n\nYet o'er the Southland crept the spell,\n That e'en from out its brightness spread,\nAnd prostrate, powerless, she fell,\n Rachel-like, amid her dead.\nHer bravest, fairest, purest, best,\nThe waiting grave would welcome as its guest.\n\nThe Northland, strong in love, and great,\n Forgot the stormy days of strife;\nForgot that souls with dreams of hate\n Or unforgiveness e'er were rife.\nForgotten was each thought and hushed;\nSave -- she was generous and her foe was crushed.\n\nNo hand might clasp, from land to land;\n Yea! there was one to bridge the tide!\nFor at the touch of Mercy's hand\n The North and South stood side by side:\nThe Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun,\nIn Charity's espousals are made one.\n\n\"Thou givest back my sons again,\"\n The Southland to the Northland cries;\n\"For all my dead, on battle plain,\n Thou biddest my dying now uprise:\nI still my sobs, I cease my tears,\nAnd thou hast recompensed my anguished years.\n\n\"Blessings on thine every wave,\n Blessings on thine every shore,\nBlessings that from sorrow save,\n Blessings giving more and more,\nFor all thou gavest thy sister land,\nO Northland, in thy generous deed and grand.\"\n\n\n\n\nA Memory\n\n\n\nAdown the valley dripped a stream,\n White lilies drooped on either side;\nOur hearts, in spite of us, will dream\n In such a place at eventide.\n\nBright wavelets wove the scarf of blue\n That well became the valley fair,\nAnd grassy fringe of greenest hue\n Hung round its borders everywhere.\n\nAnd where the stream, in wayward whirls,\n Went winding in and winding out,\nLay shells, that wore the look of pearls\n Without their pride, all strewn about.\n\nAnd here and there along the strand,\n Where some ambitious wave had strayed,\nRose little monuments of sand\n As frail as those by mortals made.\n\nAnd many a flower was blooming there\n In beauty, yet without a name,\nLike humble hearts that often bear\n The gifts, but not the palm of fame.\n\nThe rainbow's tints could never vie\n With all the colors that they wore;\nWhile bluer than the bluest sky\n The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore.\n\nAnd on the height, and down the side\n Of either hill that hid the place,\nRose elms in all the stately pride\n Of youthful strength and ancient race.\n\nWhile here and there the trees between --\n Bearing the scars of battle-shocks,\nAnd frowning wrathful -- might be seen\n The moss-veiled faces of the rocks.\n\nAnd round the rocks crept flowered vines,\n And clomb the trees that towered high --\nThe type of a lofty thought that twines\n Around a truth -- to touch the sky.\n\nAnd to that vale, from first of May\n Until the last of August went,\nBeauty, the exile, came each day\n In all her charms, to cast her tent.\n\n'Twas there, one long-gone August day,\n I wandered down the valley fair:\nThe spell has never passed away\n That fell upon my spirit there.\n\nThe summer sunset glorified\n The clouded face of dying day,\nWhich flung a smile upon the tide\n And lilies, ere he passed away.\n\nAnd o'er the valley's grassy slopes\n There fell an evanescent sheen,\nThat flashed and faded, like the hopes\n That haunt us of what might have been.\n\nAnd rock and tree flung back the light\n Of all the sunset's golden gems,\nAs if it were beneath their right\n To wear such borrowed diadems.\n\nLow in the west gleam after gleam\n Glowed faint and fainter, till the last\nMade the dying day a living dream,\n To last as long as life shall last.\n\nAnd in the arches of the trees\n The wild birds slept with folded wing;\nAnd e'en the lips of the summer breeze\n That sang all day, had ceased to sing.\n\nAnd all was silent, save the rill\n That rippled round the lilies' feet,\nAnd sang, while stillness grew more still\n To listen to the murmur sweet.\n\nAnd now and then it surely seemed\n The little stream was laughing low,\nAs if its sleepy wavelets dreamed\n Such dreams as only children know.\n\nSo still that not the faintest breath\n Did stir the shadows in the air;\nIt would have seemed the home of Death,\n Had I not felt Life sleeping there.\n\nAnd slow and soft, and soft and slow,\n From darkling earth and darkened sky\nWide wings of gloom waved to and fro,\n And spectral shadows flitted by.\n\nAnd then, methought, upon the sward\n I saw -- or was it starlight's ray?\nOr angels come to watch and guard\n The valley till the dawn of day?\n\nIs every lower life the ward\n Of spirits more divinely wrought?\n'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard\n To think 'tis but a poet's thought.\n\nBut God's or poet's thought, I ween,\n My senses did not fail me when\nI saw veiled angels watch that scene\n And guard its sleep, as they guard men.\n\nSweet sang the stream as on it pressed,\n As sorrow sings a heart to sleep;\nAs a mother sings one child to rest,\n And for the dead one still will weep.\n\nI walked adown the singing stream,\n The lilies slept on either side;\nMy heart -- it could not help but dream\n At eve, and after eventide.\n\nAh! dreams of such a lofty reach\n With more than earthly fancies fraught,\nThat not the strongest wings of speech\n Could ever touch their lowest thought.\n\nDreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far --\n Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue --\nThat swept around, as sweeps a star\n The boundless orbit of the True.\n\nYea! dreams all free from earthly taint,\n Where human passion played no part,\nAs pure as thoughts that thrill a saint,\n Or hunt an archangelic heart.\n\nAh! dreams that did not rise from sense,\n And rose too high to stoop to it,\nAnd framed aloft like frankincense\n In censers round the infinite.\n\nYea! dreams that vied with angels' flight!\n And, soaring, bore my heart away\nBeyond the far star-bounds of night,\n Unto the everlasting day.\n\nHow long I strolled beside the stream\n I do not know, nor may I say;\nBut when the poet ceased to dream\n The priest went on his knees to pray.\n\nI felt as sure a seraph feels\n When in some golden hour of grace\nGod smiles, and suddenly reveals\n A new, strange glory in His face.\n\nAh! starlit valley!  Lilies white!\n The poet dreamed -- ye slumbered deep!\nBut when the priest knelt down that night\n And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep?\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nThe stream sang down the valley fair,\n I saw the wakened lilies nod,\nI knew they heard me whisper there,\n \"How beautiful art Thou, my God!\"\n\n\n\n\nAt Last\n\n\n\nInto a temple vast and dim,\nSolemn and vast and dim,\nJust when the last sweet Vesper Hymn\n   Was floating far away,\nWith eyes that tabernacled tears --\nHer heart the home of tears --\nAnd cheeks wan with the woes of years,\n   A woman went one day.\n\nAnd, one by one, adown the aisles,\nAdown the long, lone aisles,\nTheir faces bright with holy smiles\n   That follow after prayer,\nThe worshipers in silence passed,\nIn silence slowly passed away;\nThe woman knelt until the last\n   Had left her lonely there.\n\nA holy hush came o'er the place,\nO'er the holy place,\nThe shadows kissed her woe-worn face,\n   Her forehead touched the floor;\nThe wreck that drifted thro' the years --\nSin-driven thro' the years --\nWas floating o'er the tide of tears,\n   To Mercy's golden shore.\n\nHer lips were sealed, they could not pray,\nThey sighed, but could not pray,\nAll words of prayer had died away\n   From them long years ago;\nBut ah! from out her eyes there rose --\nSad from her eyes there rose --\nThe prayer of tears, which swiftest goes\n   To Heaven -- winged with woe.\n\nWith weary tears, her weary eyes,\nHer joyless, weary eyes,\nWailed forth a rosary; and her sighs\n   And sobs strung all the beads;\nThe while before her spirit's gaze --\nHer contrite spirit's gaze --\nMoved all the mysteries of her days,\n   And histories of her deeds.\n\nStill as a shadow, while she wept,\nSo desolately wept,\nUp thro' the long, lone aisle she crept\n   Unto an altar fair;\n\"Mother!\" -- her pale lips said no more --\nCould say no more --\nThe wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore,\n   For Mary's shrine was there.\n\n\n\n\nA Land without Ruins\n\n  \"A land without ruins is a land without memories --\n  a land without memories is a land without history.\n  A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see;\n  but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land,\n  and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely\n  in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart\n  and of history.  Crowns of roses fade -- crowns of thorns endure.\n  Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity --\n  the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are forgotten --\n  the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations.\"\n\n\n\nYes give me the land where the ruins are spread,\nAnd the living tread light on the hearts of the dead;\nYes, give me a land that is blest by the dust,\nAnd bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just.\nYes, give me the land where the battle's red blast\nHas flashed to the future the fame of the past;\nYes, give me the land that hath legends and lays\nThat tell of the memories of long vanished days;\nYes, give me a land that hath story and song!\nEnshrine the strife of the right with the wrong!\nYes, give me a land with a grave in each spot,\nAnd names in the graves that shall not be forgot;\nYes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb;\nThere is grandeur in graves -- there is glory in gloom;\nFor out of the gloom future brightness is born,\nAs after the night comes the sunrise of morn;\nAnd the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown\nMay yet form the footstool of liberty's throne,\nAnd each single wreck in the war path of might\nShall yet be a rock in the temple of right.\n\n\n\n\nMemories\n\n\n\nThey come, as the breeze comes over the foam,\n Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep --\nThe fairest of memories from far-away home,\n The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep.\n\nThey come as the stars come out in the sky,\n That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep,\nAnd their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh\n And I welcome them all while I wearily weep.\n\nThey come as a song comes out of the past\n A loved mother murmured in days that are dead,\nWhose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last,\n When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head.\n\nThey come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves,\n And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way;\nAnd they murmur around us as murmur the waves\n That sigh on the shore at the dying of day.\n\nThey come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright;\n They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale;\nThey come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night;\n They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale.\n\nThere is not a heart that is not haunted so,\n Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past,\nIts memories will follow wherever we go,\n And the days that were first sway the days that are last.\n\n\n\n\nThe Prayer of the South\n\n\n\nMy brow is bent beneath a heavy rod!\n My face is wan and white with many woes!\nBut I will lift my poor chained hands to God,\n And for my children pray, and for my foes.\nBeside the graves where thousands lowly lie\n I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son,\nI turn my gaze to my own sunny sky,\n And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done!\n\nMy heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast!\n My hopes are buried with my children's dust!\nMy joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast!\n In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust?\nAh! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft,\n When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free;\nBut conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft,\n And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee.\n\nAmid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path\n I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone,\nI still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath,\n And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done!\nPity me, Father of the desolate!\n Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear;\nLook down in mercy on my wretched fate,\n And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care.\n\nPity me, Father, for His holy sake,\n Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief,\nThat hearts of earth, whenever they shall break,\n Might go to His and find a sure relief.\nAh, me, how dark!  Is this a brief eclipse?\n Or is it night with no to-morrow's sun?\nO Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips,\n And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done.\n\nMy homes are joyless, and a million mourn\n Where many met in joys forever flown;\nWhose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn,\n Where many smiled, but one is left to moan.\nAnd ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries,\n Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me;\nAnd groans of men and sounds of women's sighs\n Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee.\n\nBeneath my feet ten thousand children dead --\n Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one!\nAbove their dust I bow my crownless head\n And murmur:  Father, still Thy will be done.\nAh! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land\n With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair;\nBut foeman came, and with a ruthless hand,\n Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.\n\nGirdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn,\n And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod,\nAnd turn my face, with tears all wet and worn,\n To catch one smile of pity from my God.\nAround me blight, where all before was bloom,\n And so much lost, alas! and nothing won\nSave this -- that I can lean on wreck and tomb\n And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be done.\n\nAnd oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet;\n The words are bitter, but they hold a balm --\nA balm that heals the wounds of my defeat,\n And lulls my sorrow into holy calm.\nIt is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings,\n When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me!\nWhen Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings\n Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?\n\nMy children, Father, Thy forgiveness need;\n Alas! their hearts have only place for tears!\nForgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed,\n And every sin of those four bloody years;\nAnd give them strength to bear their boundless loss,\n And from their hearts take every thought of hate;\nAnd while they climb their Calvary with their cross,\n Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight.\n\nAnd for my dead, my Father, may I pray?\n Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more!\nI keep eternal watch above their clay;\n Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore;\nForgive my foes -- they know not what they do --\n Forgive them all the tears they made me shed;\nForgive them, though my noblest sons they slew,\n And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead.\n\nOh! may my woes be each a carrier dove,\n With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears,\nWill bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love,\n And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears.\nFather, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave --\n A desert waste, where all was erst so fair --\nAnd for my children and my foes I crave\n Pity and pardon.  Father, hear my prayer!\n\n\n\n\nFeast of the Assumption\n\n\"A Night Prayer\"\n\n\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nThe sun is set; the day is dead:\n    Thy Feast has fled;\nMy eyes are wet with tears unshed;\n    I bow my head;\nWhere the star-fringed shadows softly sway\n    I bend my knee,\nAnd, like a homesick child, I pray,\n    Mary, to thee.\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nAnd, all the day -- since white-robed priest\n    In farthest East,\nIn dawn's first ray -- began the Feast,\n    I -- I the least --\nThy least, and last, and lowest child,\n    I called on thee!\nVirgin! didst hear? my words were wild;\n    Didst think of me?\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nAlas! and no!  The angels bright,\n    With wings as white\nAs a dream of snow in love and light,\n    Flashed on thy sight;\nThey shone like stars around thee, Queen!\n    I knelt afar --\nA shadow only dims the scene\n    Where shines a star!\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nAnd all day long, beyond the sky,\n    Sweet, pure, and high,\nThe angel's song swept sounding by\n    Triumphantly;\nAnd when such music filled thy ear,\n    Rose round thy throne,\nHow could I hope that thou wouldst hear\n    My far, faint moan?\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nAnd all day long, where altars stand,\n    Or poor or grand,\nA countless throng from every land,\n    With lifted hand,\nWinged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale\n    In glad acclaim;\nHow couldst thou hear my lone lips wail\n    Thy sweet, pure name?\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nAlas! and no! Thou didst not hear\n    Nor bend thy ear,\nTo prayer of woe as mine so drear;\n    For hearts more dear\nHid me from hearing and from sight\n    This bright Feast-day;\nWilt hear me, Mother, if in its night\n    I kneel and pray?\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nThe sun is set, the day is dead;\n    Thy Feast hath fled;\nMy eyes are wet with the tears I shed;\n    I bow my head;\nAngels and altars hailed thee, Queen,\n    All day; ah! be\nTo-night what thou hast ever been --\n    A mother to me!\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nThy queenly crown in angels' sight\n    Is fair and bright;\nAh! lay it down; for, oh! to-night\n    Its jeweled light\nShines not as the tender love-light shines,\n    O Mary! mild,\nIn the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines\n    For poor, lost child!\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nSceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway\n    Fore'er and aye\nIn angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray\n    Lay it away.\nLet thy sceptre wave in the realms above\n    Where angels are;\nBut, Mother! fold in thine arms of love\n    Thy child afar!\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nMary, I call!  Wilt hear the prayer\n    My poor lips dare?\nYea! be to all a Queen most fair,\n    Crown, sceptre, bear!\nBut look on me with a mother's eyes\n    From heaven's bliss;\nAnd waft to me from the starry skies\n    A mother's kiss!\n\n    Dark!  Dark!  Dark!\nThe sun is set; the day is dead;\n    Her Feast has fled;\nCan she forget the sweet blood shed,\n    The last words said\nThat evening -- \"Woman! behold thy Son!\n    Oh! priceless right,\nOf all His children!  The last, least one,\n    Is heard to-night.\n\n\n\n\nSursum Corda\n\n\n\nWeary hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed,\nYe are wand'ring in the shadows -- ye are sighing for a rest:\nThere is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below,\nAnd the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe.\n            Weary hearts!  God is Rest.\n\nLonely hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief;\nYe are pining for repose -- ye are longing for relief:\nWhat the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God above,\nAnd your grief shall turn to gladness, if you lean upon His love.\n            Lonely hearts!  God is Love.\n\nRestless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day,\nAnd the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way:\nYe are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toilings all shall cease,\nAnd your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for peace.\n            Restless hearts!  God is Peace.\n\nBreaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and lone,\nAnd low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan!\nIn the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy,\nAnd a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy.\n            Broken hearts!  God is Joy.\n\nHomeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years,\nYe are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet with tears;\nIn bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam,\nYe look away from earth-land, and ye murmur, \"Where is home?\"\n            Homeless hearts!  God is Home.\n\n\n\n\nA Child's Wish\n\nBefore an Altar\n\n\n\nI wish I were the little key\n That locks Love's Captive in,\nAnd lets Him out to go and free\n A sinful heart from sin.\n\nI wish I were the little bell\n That tinkles for the Host,\nWhen God comes down each day to dwell\n With hearts He loves the most.\n\nI wish I were the chalice fair,\n That holds the Blood of Love,\nWhen every flash lights holy prayer\n Upon its way above.\n\nI wish I were the little flower\n So near the Host's sweet face,\nOr like the light that half an hour\n Burns on the shrine of grace.\n\nI wish I were the altar where,\n As on His mother's breast,\nChrist nestles, like a child, fore'er\n In Eucharistic rest.\n\nBut, oh! my God, I wish the most\n That my poor heart may be\nA home all holy for each Host\n That comes in love to me.\n\n\n\n\nPresentiment\n\n\"My Sister\"\n\n\n\nCometh a voice from a far-land!\n Beautiful, sad, and low;\nShineth a light from the star-land!\n Down on the night of my woe;\nAnd a white hand, with a garland,\n Biddeth my spirit to go.\n\nAway and afar from the night-land,\n Where sorrow o'ershadows my way,\nTo the splendors and skies of the light-land,\n Where reigneth eternity's day;\nTo the cloudless and shadowless bright-land,\n Whose sun never passeth away.\n\nAnd I knew the voice; not a sweeter\n On earth or in Heaven can be;\nAnd never did shadow pass fleeter\n Than it and its strange melody;\nAnd I know I must hasten to meet her,\n \"Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!\"\n\nAnd I saw the light; 'twas not seeming,\n It flashed from the crown that she wore,\nAnd the brow, that with jewels was gleaming,\n My lips had kissed often of yore!\nAnd the eyes, that with rapture were beaming,\n Had smiled on me sweetly before.\n\nAnd I saw the hand with the garland,\n Ethel's hand -- holy and fair;\nWho went long ago to the far-land\n To weave me the wreath I shall wear;\nAnd to-night I look up to the star-land,\n And pray that I soon may be there.\n\n\n\n\nLast of May\n\nTo the Children of Mary of the Cathedral of Mobile\n\n\n\nIn the mystical dim of the temple,\n In the dream-haunted dim of the day,\nThe sunlight spoke soft to the shadows,\n And said:  \"With my gold and your gray,\nLet us meet at the shrine of the Virgin,\n And ere her fair feast pass away,\nLet us weave there a mantle of glory,\n To deck the last evening of May.\"\n\nThe tapers were lit on the altar,\n With garlands of lilies between;\nAnd the steps leading up to the statue\n Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen;\nThe sun-gleams came down from the heavens\n Like angels, to hallow the scene,\nAnd they seemed to kneel down with the shadows\n That crept to the shrine of the Queen.\n\nThe singers, their hearts in their voices,\n Had chanted the anthems of old,\nAnd the last trembling wave of the Vespers\n On the far shores of silence had rolled.\nAnd there -- at the Queen-Virgin's altar --\n The sun wove the mantle of gold\nWhile the hands of the twilight were weaving\n A fringe for the flash of each fold.\n\nAnd wavelessly, in the deep silence,\n Three banners hung peaceful and low --\nThey bore the bright blue of the heavens,\n They wore the pure white of the snow\nAnd beneath them fair children were kneeling,\n Whose faces, with graces aglow,\nSeemed sinless, in land that is sinful,\n And woeless, in life full of woe.\n\nTheir heads wore the veil of the lily,\n Their brows wore the wreath of the rose,\nAnd their hearts like their flutterless banners,\n Were stilled in a holy repose.\nTheir shadowless eyes were uplifted,\n Whose glad gaze would never disclose\nThat from eyes that are most like the heavens\n The dark rain of tears soonest flows.\n\nThe banners were borne to the railing,\n Beneath them, a group from each band;\nAnd they bent their bright folds for the blessing\n That fell from the priest's lifted hand.\nAnd he signed the three fair, silken standards,\n With a sign never foe could withstand.\nWhat stirred them?  The breeze of the evening?\n Or a breath from the far angel-land?\n\nThen came, two by two, to the altar,\n The young, and the pure, and the fair,\nTheir faces the mirror of Heaven,\n Their hands folded meekly in prayer;\nThey came for a simple blue ribbon,\n For love of Christ's Mother to wear;\nAnd I believe, with the Children of Mary,\n The Angels of Mary were there.\n\nAh, faith! simple faith of the children!\n You still shame the faith of the old!\nAh, love! simple love of the little,\n You still warm the love of the cold!\nAnd the beautiful God who is wandering\n Far out in the world's dreary wold,\nFinds a home in the hearts of the children\n And a rest with the lambs of the fold.\n\nSwept a voice:  was it wafted from Heaven?\n Heard you ever the sea when it sings\nWhere it sleeps on the shore in the night time?\n Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings\nFrom the hearts of a thousand bright summers?\n Heard you ever the bird, when she springs\nTo the clouds, till she seems to be only\n A song of a shadow on wings?\n\nCame a voice:  and an \"Ave Maria\"\n Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled;\nAnd in the embrace of its music\n The souls of a thousand lay stilled.\nA voice with the tones of an angel,\n Never flower such a sweetness distilled;\nIt faded away -- but the temple\n With its perfume of worship was filled.\n\nThen back to the Queen-Virgin's altar\n The white veils swept on, two by two;\nAnd the holiest halo of heaven\n Flashed out from the ribbons of blue;\nAnd they laid down the wreaths of the roses\n Whose hearts were as pure as their hue;\nAh! they to the Christ are the truest,\n Whose loves to the Mother are true!\n\nAnd thus, in the dim of the temple,\n In the dream-haunted dim of the day,\nThe Angels and Children of Mary\n Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away,\nWhere the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows\n And wove with their gold and their gray\nA mantle of grace and of glory\n For the last lovely evening of May.\n\n\n\n\n\"Gone\"\n\nS. M. A.\n\n\n\nGone! and there's not a gleam of you,\n Faces that float into far away;\nGone! and we can only dream of you\n Each as you fade like a star away.\nFade as a star in the sky from us,\n Vainly we look for your light again;\nHear ye the sound of a sigh from us?\n \"Come!\" and our hearts will be bright again.\n\nCome! and gaze on our face once more,\n Bring us the smiles of the olden days;\nCome! and shine in your place once more,\n And change the dark into golden days.\nGone! gone! gone!  Joy is fled for us;\n Gone into the night of the nevermore,\nAnd darkness rests where you shed for us\n A light we will miss ~forevermore~.\n\nFaces! ye come in the night to us;\n Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep;\nShadows! ye bring nothing bright to us;\n Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep.\nGone! and there's not a gleam of you,\n Faces that float into the far away;\nGone! and we only can dream of you\n Till we sink like you and the stars away.\n\n\n\n\nFeast of the Sacred Heart\n\n\n\nTwo lights on a lowly altar;\n Two snowy cloths for a Feast;\nTwo vases of dying roses;\n The morning comes from the east,\nWith a gleam for the folds of the vestments\n And a grace for the face of the priest.\n\nThe sound of a low, sweet whisper\n Floats over a little bread,\nAnd trembles around a chalice,\n And the priest bows down his head!\nO'er a sign of white on the altar --\n In the cup -- o'er a sign of red.\n\nAs red as the red of roses,\n As white as the white of snows!\nBut the red is a red of a surface\n Beneath which a God's blood flows;\nAnd the white is the white of a sunlight\n Within which a God's flesh glows.\n\nAh! words of the olden Thursday!\n Ye come from the far-away!\nYe bring us the Friday's victim\n In His own love's olden way;\nIn the hand of the priest at the altar\n His Heart finds a home each day.\n\nThe sight of a Host uplifted!\n The silver-sound of a bell!\nThe gleam of a golden chalice.\n Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well;\nHe made, and He keeps love's promise,\n With thee all days to dwell.\n\nFrom his hand to his lips that tremble,\n From his lips to his heart a-thrill,\nGoes the little Host on its love-path,\n Still doing the Father's will;\nAnd over the rim of the chalice\n The blood flows forth to fill\n\nThe heart of the man anointed\n With the waves of a wondrous grace;\nA silence falls on the altar --\n An awe on each bended face --\nFor the Heart that bled on Calvary\n Still beats in the holy place.\n\nThe priest comes down to the railing\n Where brows are bowed in prayer;\nIn the tender clasp of his fingers\n A Host lies pure and fair,\nAnd the hearts of Christ and the Christian\n Meet there -- and only there!\n\nOh! love that is deep and deathless!\n Oh! faith that is strong and grand!\nOh! hope that will shine forever,\n O'er the wastes of a weary land!\nChrist's Heart finds an earthly heaven\n In the palm of the priest's pure hand.\n\n\n\n\nIn Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne\n\nSuperior General of the Congregation of the Mission\nand of the Sisters of Charity.\n\n\n\nA shadow slept folded in vestments,\n The dream of a smile on its face,\nDim, soft as the gleam after sunset\n That hangs like a halo of grace\nWhere the daylight hath died in the valley,\n And the twilight hath taken its place.\nA shadow! but still on the mortal\n There rested the tremulous trace\nOf the joy of a spirit immortal,\n Passed up to its God in His grace.\n\nA shadow! hast seen in the summer\n A cloud wear the smile of the sun?\nOn the shadow of death there is flashing\n The glory of noble deeds done;\nOn the face of the dead there is glowing\n The light of a holy race run;\nAnd the smile of the face is reflecting\n The gleam of the crown he has won.\nStill, shadow! sleep on in the vestments\n Unstained by the priest who has gone.\n\nAnd thro' all the nations the children\n Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss;\nBut the glory that crowns him in heaven\n Illumines the gloom of their cross.\nThey send to the shadow the tribute\n Of tears, from the fountains of love,\nAnd they send from their altars sweet prayers\n To the throne of their Father above.\n\nYea! sorrow weeps over the shadow,\n But faith looks aloft to the skies;\nAnd hope, like a rainbow, is flashing\n O'er the tears that rain down from their eyes.\nThey murmur on earth \"De Profundis\",\n The low chant is mingled with sighs;\n\"Laudate\" rings out through the heavens --\n The dead priest hath won his faith's prize.\n\nHis children in sorrow will honor\n His grave; every tear is a gem,\nAnd their prayers round his brow in the heavens\n Will brighten his fair diadem.\nI kneel at his grave and remember,\n In love, I am ~still~ one of them.\n\n\n\n\nTears\n\n\n\nThe tears that trickled down our eyes,\n They do not touch the earth to-day;\nBut soar like angels to the skies,\n And, like the angels, may not die;\n    For ah! our immortality\n    Flows thro' each tear -- sounds in each sigh.\n\nWhat waves of tears surge o'er the deep\n Of sorrow in our restless souls!\nAnd they are strong, not weak, who weep\n Those drops from out the sea that rolls\n    Within their hearts forevermore,\n    Without a depth -- without a shore.\n\nBut ah! the tears that are not wept,\n The tears that never outward fall;\nThe tears that grief for years has kept\n Within us -- they are best of all;\n    The tears our eyes shall never know,\n    Are dearer than the tears that flow.\n\nEach night upon earth's flowers below,\n The dew comes down from darkest skies,\nAnd every night our tears of woe\n Go up like dews to Paradise,\n    To keep in bloom, and make more fair,\n    The flowers of crowns we yet shall wear.\n\nFor ah! the surest way to God\n Is up the lonely streams of tears,\nThat flow when bending 'neath His rod,\n And fill the tide of earthly years.\n    On laughter's billows hearts are tossed,\n    On waves of tears no heart is lost.\n\nFlow on, ye tears! and bear me home;\n Flow not! ye tears of deeper woe;\nFlow on, ye tears! that are but foam\n Of deeper waves that will not flow.\n    A little while -- I reach the shore\n    Where tears flow not forevermore!\n\n\n\n\nLines (Two Loves)\n\n\n\nTwo loves came up a long, wide aisle,\n And knelt at a low, white gate;\nOne -- tender and true, with the shyest smile,\n One -- strong, true, and elate.\n\nTwo lips spoke in a firm, true way,\n And two lips answered soft and low;\nIn one true hand such a little hand lay\n Fluttering, frail as a flake of snow.\n\nOne stately head bent humbly there,\n Stilled were the throbbings of human love;\nOne head drooped down like a lily fair,\n Two prayers went, wing to wing, above.\n\nGod blest them both in the holy place,\n A long, brief moment the rite was done;\nOn the human love fell the heavenly grace,\n Making two hearts forever one.\n\nBetween two lengthening rows of smiles,\n One sweetly shy, one proud, elate,\nTwo loves passed down the long, wide aisles,\n Will they ever forget the low, white gate?\n\n\n\n\nThe Land We Love\n\n\n\nLand of the gentle and brave!\n Our love is as wide as thy woe;\nIt deepens beside every grave\n Where the heart of a hero lies low.\n\nLand of the sunniest skies!\n Our love glows the more for thy gloom;\nOur hearts, by the saddest of ties,\n Cling closest to thee in thy doom.\n\nLand where the desolate weep\n In a sorrow no voice may console!\nOur tears are but streams, making deep\n The ocean of love in our soul.\n\nLand where the victor's flag waves,\n Where only the dead are free!\nEach link of the chain that enslaves\n But binds us to them and to thee.\n\nLand where the Sign of the Cross\n Its shadow hath everywhere shed!\nWe measure our love by thy loss,\n Thy loss by the graves of our dead!\n\n\n\n\nIn Memoriam\n\n\n\nGo! heart of mine! the way is long --\n The night is dark -- the place is far;\nGo! kneel and pray, or chant a song,\n Beside two graves where Mary's star\n  Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest,\n  With Mary's medals on their breast.\n\nGo! heart! those children loved you so,\n Their little lips prayed oft for you!\nBut ah! those necks are lying low\n Round which you twined the badge of blue.\n  Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast,\n  With poet's song and prayer of priest.\n\nGo! like a pilgrim to a shrine,\n For that is holy ground where sleep\nChildren of Mary and of thine;\n Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep;\n  Last summer how their faces smiled\n  When each was blessed as Mary's child.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nMy heart is gone! I cannot sing!\n Beside those children's grave, song dies;\nHush!  Poet! -- Priest!  Prayer hath a wing\n To pass the stars and reach the skies;\n  Sweet children! from the land of light\n  Look down and bless my heart to-night.\n\n\n\n\nReverie [\"We laugh when our souls are the saddest,\"]\n\n\n\nWe laugh when our souls are the saddest,\n We shroud all our griefs in a smile;\nOur voices may warble their gladdest,\n And our souls mourn in anguish the while.\n\nAnd our eyes wear a summer's bright glory,\n When winter is wailing beneath;\nAnd we tell not the world the sad story\n Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath.\n\nAh! fast flow the moments of laughter,\n And bright as the brook to the sea\nBut ah! the dark hours that come after\n Of moaning for you and for me.\n\nYea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting\n As birds, fly the moments of glee!\nAnd we smile, and mayhap grief is sleeting\n Its ice upon you and on me.\n\nAnd the clouds of the tempest are shifting\n O'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright;\nAnd the snows of woe's winter are drifting\n Our souls; and each day hides a night.\n\nFor ah! when our souls are enjoying\n The mirth which our faces reveal,\nThere is something -- a something -- alloying\n The sweetness of joy that we feel.\n\nLife's loveliest sky hides the thunder\n Whose bolt in a moment may fall;\nAnd our path may be flowery, but under\n The flowers there are thorns for us all.\n\nAh! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamings\n That flash down the valley of night,\nWave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming,\n And leave us, like eagles in flight;\n\nAnd fly far away unreturning,\n And leave us in terror and tears,\nWhile vain is the spirit's wild yearning\n That they may come back in the years.\n\nCome back! did I say it? but never\n Do eagles come back to the cage:\nThey have gone -- they have gone -- and forever --\n Does youth come back ever to age?\n\nNo! a joy that has left us in sorrow\n Smiles never again on our way,\nBut we meet in the farthest to-morrow\n The face of the grief of to-day.\n\nThe brightness whose tremulous glimmer\n Has faded we cannot recall;\nAnd the light that grows dimmer and dimmer --\n When gone -- 'tis forever and all.\n\nNot a ray of it anywhere lingers,\n Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom;\nYouth's roses perfume not the fingers\n Of age groping nigh to the tomb.\n\nFor \"the memory of joy is a sadness\" --\n The dim twilight after the day;\nAnd the grave where we bury a gladness\n Sends a grief like a ghost, on our way.\n\nNo day shall return that has faded,\n The dead come not back from the tomb;\nThe vale of each life must be shaded,\n That we may see best from the gloom.\n\nThe height of the homes of our glory,\n All radiant with splendors of light;\nThat we may read clearly life's story --\n \"The dark is the dawn of the bright.\"\n\n\n\n\nI Often Wonder Why 'Tis So\n\n\n\nSome find work where some find rest,\n And so the weary world goes on:\nI sometimes wonder which is best;\n The answer comes when life is gone.\n\nSome eyes sleep when some eyes wake,\n And so the dreary night-hours go;\nSome hearts beat where some hearts break;\n I often wonder why 'tis so.\n\nSome wills faint where some wills fight,\n Some love the tent, and some the field;\nI often wonder who are right --\n The ones who strive, or those who yield?\n\nSome hands fold where other hands\n Are lifted bravely in the strife;\nAnd so thro' ages and thro' lands\n Move on the two extremes of life.\n\nSome feet halt where some feet tread,\n In tireless march, a thorny way;\nSome struggle on where some have fled;\n Some seek when others shun the fray.\n\nSome swords rust where others clash,\n Some fall back where some move on;\nSome flags furl where others flash\n Until the battle has been won.\n\nSome sleep on while others keep\n The vigils of the true and brave:\nThey will not rest till roses creep\n Around their name above a grave.\n\n\n\n\nA Blessing\n\n\n\nBe you near, or be you far,\nLet my blessing, like a star,\n Shine upon you everywhere!\nAnd in each lone evening hour,\nWhen the twilight folds the flower,\n I will fold thy name in prayer.\n\nIn the dark and in the day,\nTo my heart you know the way,\n Sorrow's pale hand keeps the key;\nIn your sorrow or your sin\nYou may always enter in;\n I will keep a place for thee.\n\nIf God's blessing pass away\nFrom your spirit; if you stray\n From his presence, do not wait.\nCome to my heart, for I keep\nFor the hearts that wail and weep,\n Ever opened wide -- a gate.\n\nIn your joys to others go,\nWhen your feet walk ways of woe\n Only then come back to me;\nI will give you tear for tear,\nAnd our tears shall more endear\n Thee to me and me to thee.\n\nFor I make my heart the home\nOf all hearts in grief that come\n Seeking refuge and a rest.\nDo not fear me, for you know,\nBe your footsteps e'er so low,\n I know yours, of all, the best.\n\nOnce you came; and you brought sin;\nDid not my hand lead you in --\n Into God's heart, thro' my own?\nDid not my voice speak a word\nYou, for years, had never heard --\n Mystic word in Mercy's tone?\n\nAnd a grace fell on your brow,\nAnd I heard your murmured vow,\n When I whispered:  \"Go in peace.\"\n\"Go in peace, and sin no more,\"\nDid you not touch Mercy's shore,\n Did not sin's wild tempest cease?\n\nGo! then:  thou art good and pure!\nIf thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure,\n Back to me thy footsteps trace!\nIn my heart for year and year,\nBe thou far away or near,\n I shall keep for thee a place.\n\nYes! I bless you -- near or far --\nAnd my blessing, like a star,\n Shall shine on you everywhere;\nAnd in many a holy hour,\nAs the sunshine folds the flower,\n I will fold thy heart in prayer.\n\n\n\n\nJuly 9th, 1872\n\n\n\nBetween two pillared clouds of gold\n The beautiful gates of evening swung --\nAnd far and wide from flashing fold\n The half-furled banners of light, that hung\n  O'er green of wood and gray of wold\n  And over the blue where the river rolled,\n The fading gleams of their glory flung.\n\nThe sky wore not a frown all day\n To mar the smile of the morning tide;\nThe soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay --\n You never would think they had ever sighed;\n  The stream went on its sunlit way\n  In ripples of laughter; happy they\n As the hearts that met at Riverside.\n\nNo cloudlet in the sky serene!\n Not a silver speck in the golden hue!\nBut where the woods waved low and green,\n And seldom would let the sunlight through,\n  Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen,\n  The faces of children might be seen,\n And the flash of ribbons of blue.\n\nIt was a children's simple feast,\n Yet many were there whose faces told\nHow far they are from childhood's East\n Who have reached the evening of the old!\n  And father -- mother -- sister -- priest --\n  They seemed all day like the very least\n Of the little children of the fold.\n\nThe old forgot they were not young,\n The young forgot they would e'er be old,\nAnd all day long the trees among,\n Where'er their footsteps stayed or strolled,\n  Came wittiest word from tireless tongue,\n  And the merriest peals of laughter rung\n Where the woods drooped low and the river rolled.\n\nNo cloud upon the faces there,\n Not a sorrow came from its hiding place\nTo cast the shadow of a care\n On the fair, sweet brows in that fairest place\n  For in the sky and in the air,\n  And in their spirits, and everywhere,\n Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace.\n\nThe day was long, but ah! too brief!\n Swift to the West bright-winged she fled;\nToo soon on ev'ry look and leaf\n The last rays flushed which her plumage shed\n  From an evening cloud -- was it a sign of grief?\n  And the bright day passed -- is there much relief\n That its dream dies not when its gleam is dead?\n\nGreat sky, thou art a prophet still!\n And by thy shadows and by thy rays\nWe read the future if we will,\n And all the fates of our future ways;\n  To-morrows meet us in vale and hill,\n  And under the trees, and by the rill,\n Thou givest the sign of our coming days.\n\nThat evening cloud was a sign, I ween --\n For the sister of that summer day\nShall come next year to the selfsame scene;\n The winds will sing the selfsame lay;\nThe selfsame woods will wave as green,\nAnd Riverside, thy skies serene\nShall robe thee again in a golden sheen;\nYet though thy shadows may weave a screen\nWhere the children's faces may be seen,\nThou ne'er shall be as thou hast been,\n For a face they loved has passed away.\n\n\n\n\nWake Me a Song\n\n\n\nOut of the silences wake me a song,\n Beautiful, sad, and soft, and low;\nLet the loveliest music sound along,\n And wing each note with a wail of woe:\n    Dim and drear\n    As hope's last tear;\nOut of the silences wake me a hymn,\nWhose sounds are like shadows soft and dim.\n\nOut of the stillness in your heart --\n A thousand songs are sleeping there --\nWake me a song, thou child of art!\n The song of a hope in a last despair:\n    Dark and low,\n    A chant of woe;\nOut of the stillness, tone by tone,\nCold as a snowflake, low as a moan.\n\nOut of the darkness flash me a song,\n Brightly dark and darkly bright;\nLet it sweep as a lone star sweeps along\n The mystical shadows of the night:\n    Sing it sweet;\nWhere nothing is drear, or dark, or dim,\nAnd earth-song soars into heavenly hymn.\n\n\n\n\nIn Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)\n\n\n\nThou art sleeping, brother, sleeping\n   In thy lonely battle grave;\nShadows o'er the past are creeping,\nDeath, the reaper, still is reaping,\nYears have swept, and years are sweeping\nMany a memory from my keeping,\nBut I'm waiting still, and weeping\n   For my beautiful and brave.\n\nWhen the battle songs were chanted,\n   And war's stirring tocsin pealed,\nBy those songs thy heart was haunted,\nAnd thy spirit, proud, undaunted,\nClamored wildly -- wildly panted:\n\"Mother! let my wish be granted;\nI will ne'er be mocked and taunted\nThat I fear to meet our vaunted\n   Foemen on the bloody field.\n\n\"They are thronging, mother! thronging,\n   To a thousand fields of fame;\nLet me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging\nGod and thee to crush this longing;\nOn the muster-roll of glory,\nIn my country's future story,\nOn the field of battle gory\n   I must consecrate my name.\n\n\"Mother! gird my sword around me,\n   Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-bye.'\"\nIn her arms she wildly wound thee,\nTo thy birth-land's cause she bound thee,\nWith fond prayers and blessings crowned thee,\nAnd she sobbed:  \"When foes surround thee,\nIf you fall, I'll know they found thee\n   Where the bravest love to die.\"\n\nAt the altar of their nation,\n   Stood that mother and her son,\nHe, the victim of oblation,\nPanting for his immolation;\nShe, in priestess' holy station,\nWeeping words of consecration,\nWhile God smiled his approbation,\nBlessed the boy's self-abnegation,\nCheered the mother's desolation,\n   When the sacrifice was done.\n\nForth, like many a noble other,\n   Went he, whispering soft and low:\n\"Good-bye -- pray for me, my mother;\nSister! kiss me -- farewell, brother;\"\nAnd he strove his grief to smother.\nForth, with footsteps firm and fearless,\nAnd his parting gaze was tearless\nThough his heart was lone and cheerless,\n   Thus from all he loved to go.\n\nLo! yon flag of freedom flashing\n   In the sunny Southern sky:\nOn, to death and glory dashing,\nOn, where swords are clanging, clashing,\nOn, where balls are crushing, crashing,\nOn, 'mid perils dread, appalling,\nOn, they're falling, falling, falling.\nOn, they're growing fewer, fewer,\nOn, their hearts beat all the truer,\n   On, on, on, no fear, no falter,\n   On, though round the battle-altar\nThere were wounded victims moaning,\nThere were dying soldiers groaning;\nOn, right on, death's danger braving,\nWarring where their flag was waving,\nWhile Baptismal blood was laving\n   All that field of death and slaughter;\nOn, still on; that bloody lava\nMade them braver and made them braver,\nOn, with never a halt or waver,\nOn in battle -- bleeding -- bounding,\nWhile the glorious shout swept sounding,\n   \"We will win the day or die!\"\n\nAnd they won it; routed -- riven --\n   Reeled the foemen's proud array:\nThey had struggled hard, and striven,\nBlood in torrents they had given,\nBut their ranks, dispersed and driven,\n   Fled, in sullenness, away.\n\nMany a heart was lonely lying\n   That would never throb again;\nSome were dead, and some were dying;\nThose were silent, these were sighing;\nThus to die alone, unattended,\nUnbewept and unbefriended,\n   On that bloody battle-plain.\n\nWhen the twilight sadly, slowly\n   Wrapped its mantle o'er them all,\nThousands, thousands lying lowly,\nHushed in silence deep and holy,\nThere was one, his blood was flowing\nAnd his last of life was going,\n\nAnd his pulse faint, fainter beating\nTold his hours were few and fleeting;\nAnd his brow grew white and whiter,\nWhile his eyes grew strangely brighter;\nThere he lay -- like infant dreaming,\nWith his sword beside him gleaming,\nFor the hand in life that grasped it,\nTrue in death still fondly clasped it;\nThere his comrades found him lying\n'Mid the heaps of dead and dying,\nAnd the sternest bent down weeping\nO'er the lonely sleeper sleeping:\n'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him,\nAnd they told us how they found him\n   Where the bravest love to fall.\n\nWhere the woods, like banners bending,\n   Drooped in starlight and in gloom,\nThere, when that sad night was ending,\nAnd the faint, far dawn was blending\nWith the stars now fast descending;\nThere they mute and mournful bore him,\nWith the stars and shadows o'er him,\nAnd they laid him down -- so tender --\nAnd the next day's sun, in splendor,\n   Flashed above my brother's tomb.\n\n\n\n\nWhat?  (To Ethel)\n\n\n\nAt the golden gates of the visions\n I knelt me adown one day;\nBut sudden my prayer was a silence,\n For I heard from the \"Far away\"\nThe murmur of many voices\n And a silvery censer's sway.\n\nI bowed in awe, and I listened --\n The deeps of my soul were stirred,\nBut deepest of all was the meaning\n Of the far-off music I heard,\nAnd yet it was stiller than silence,\n Its notes were the \"Dream of a Word\".\n\nA word that is whispered in heaven,\n But cannot be heard below;\nIt lives on the lips of the angels\n Where'er their pure wings glow;\nYet only the \"Dream of its Echo\"\n Ever reaches this valley of woe.\n\nBut I know the word and its meaning;\n I reached to its height that day,\nWhen prayer sank into a silence\n And my heart was so far away;\nBut I may not murmur the music,\n Nor the word may my lips yet say.\n\nBut some day far in the future,\n And up from the dust of the dead,\nAnd out of my lips when speechless\n The mystical word shall be said,\n'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit,\n When the soul of the bard has fled.\n\n\n\n\nThe Master's Voice\n\n\n\nThe waves were weary, and they went to sleep;\n    The winds were hushed;\n    The starlight flushed\nThe furrowed face of all the mighty deep.\n\nThe billows yester eve so dark and wild,\n    Wore strangely now\n    A calm upon their brow,\nLike that which rests upon a cradled child.\n\nThe sky was bright, and every single star,\n    With gleaming face,\n    Was in its place,\nAnd looked upon the sea -- so fair and far.\n\nAnd all was still -- still as a temple dim,\n    When low and faint,\n    As murmurs plaint,\nDies the last note of the Vesper hymn.\n\nA bark slept on the sea, and in the bark\n    Slept Mary's Son --\n    The only One\nWhose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.\n\nHis brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair\n    He dreamed of me\n    On that still sea --\nThe stars He made were gleaming through His hair.\n\nAnd lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep;\n    The sky grew dark:\n    The little bark\nFelt all the waves awaking from their sleep.\n\nThe winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat;\n    The bark was tossed:\n    Shall all be lost?\nBut Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet.\n\nThe tempest raged in all its mighty wrath,\n    The winds howled on,\n    All hope seemed gone,\nAnd darker waves surged round the bark's lone path.\n\nThe sleeper woke!  He gazed upon the deep;\n    He whispered:  \"Peace!\n    Winds -- wild waves, cease!\nBe still!\"  The tempest fled -- the ocean fell asleep.\n\nAnd ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed,\n    When life's lone bark\n    Drifts through the dark\nAnd 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost,\n\nHe now, as then, with words of power and peace,\n    Murmurs:  \"Stormy deep,\n    Be still -- still -- and sleep!\"\nAnd lo! a great calm comes -- the tempest's perils cease.\n\n\n\n\nA \"Thought-Flower\"\n\n\n\nSilently -- shadowly -- some lives go,\n And the sound of their voices is all unheard;\nOr, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow\n Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred.\n    Deep lives these\n    As the pearl-strewn seas.\n\nSoftly and noiselessly some feet tread\n Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark;\nThey move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead,\n As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark.\n    Sweet lives those\n    In their strange repose.\n\nCalmly and lowly some hearts beat,\n And none may know that they beat at all;\nThey muffle their music whenever they meet\n A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall.\n    Great hearts those --\n    God only knows!\n\nSoundlessly -- shadowly -- such move on,\n Dim as the dream of a child asleep;\nAnd no one knoweth 'till they are gone\n How lofty their souls -- their hearts how deep.\n    Bright souls these --\n    God only sees.\n\nLonely and hiddenly in the world --\n Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay --\nThe tremulous wings of their hearts are furled\n Until they fly from the world away,\n    And find their rest\n    On \"Our Father's\" breast,\nWhere earth's unknown shall be known the best,\nAnd the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest.\n\n\n\n\nA Death\n\n\n\nCrushed with a burden of woe,\n Wrecked in the tempest of sin:\nDeath came, and two lips murmured low,\n\"Ah! once I was white as the snow,\nIn the happy and pure long ago;\nBut they say God is sweet -- is it so?\n Will He let a poor wayward one in --\nIn where the innocent are?\n Ah! justice stands guard at the gate;\n Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate?\nAlas! I have fallen so far!\n Oh, God! Oh, my God! 'tis too late!\nI have fallen as falls a lost star:\n\n\"The sky does not miss the gone gleam,\nBut my heart, like the lost star, can dream\nOf the sky it has fall'n from.  Nay!\nI have wandered too far -- far away.\nOh! would that my mother were here;\nIs God like a mother?  Has He\nAny love for a sinner like me?\"\n\nHer face wore the wildness of woe --\n Her words, the wild tones of despair;\nAh! how can a heart sink so low?\n How a face that was once bright and so fair,\n Can be furrowed and darkened with care?\nWild rushed the hot tears from her eyes,\nFrom her lips rushed the wildest of sighs,\nHer poor heart was broken; but then\nHer God was far gentler than men.\n\nA voice whispered low at her side,\n \"Child! God is more gentle than men,\nHe watches by passion's dark tide,\n He sees a wreck drifting -- and then\nHe beckons with hand and with voice,\n And he sees the poor wreck floating in\nTo the haven on Mercy's bright shore;\nAnd He whispers the whisper of yore:\n`The angels of heaven rejoice\n O'er the sinner repenting of sin.'\"\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd a silence came down for a while,\n And her lips they were moving in prayer,\nAnd her face it wore just such a smile\n As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear,\nEre the heart of the girl knew a guile,\nEre the soul of the girl knew the wile,\n That had led her to passion's despair.\n\nDeath's shadows crept over her face,\n And softened the hard marks of care;\nRepentance had won a last grace,\n And the Angel of Mercy stood there.\n\n\n\n\nThe Rosary of My Tears\n\n\n\nSome reckon their age by years,\n Some measure their life by art;\nBut some tell their days by the flow of their tears,\n And their lives by the moans of their heart.\n\nThe dials of earth may show\n The length, not the depth, of years,\nFew or many they come, few or many they go,\n But time is best measured by tears.\n\nAh! not by the silver gray\n That creeps thro' the sunny hair,\nAnd not by the scenes that we pass on our way,\n And not by the furrows the fingers of care\n\nOn forehead and face have made.\n Not so do we count our years;\nNot by the sun of the earth, but the shade\n Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.\n\nFor the young are ofttimes old,\n Though their brows be bright and fair;\nWhile their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold --\n O'er them the spring -- but winter is there.\n\nAnd the old are ofttimes young,\n When their hair is thin and white;\nAnd they sing in age, as in youth they sung,\n And they laugh, for their cross was light.\n\nBut bead, by bead, I tell\n The rosary of my years;\nFrom a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well,\n And they're blest with a blessing of tears.\n\nBetter a day of strife\n Than a century of sleep;\nGive me instead of a long stream of life\n The tempests and tears of the deep.\n\nA thousand joys may foam\n On the billows of all the years;\nBut never the foam brings the lone back home --\n It reaches the haven through tears.\n\n\n\n\nDeath\n\n\n\nOut of the shadows of sadness,\nInto the sunshine of gladness,\n Into the light of the blest;\nOut of a land very dreary,\nOut of a world very weary,\n Into the rapture of rest.\n\nOut of to-day's sin and sorrow,\nInto a blissful to-morrow,\n Into a day without gloom;\nOut of a land filled with sighing,\nLand of the dead and the dying,\n Into a land without tomb.\n\nOut of a life of commotion,\nTempest-swept oft as the ocean,\n Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er;\nInto a land calm and quiet,\nNever a storm cometh nigh it,\n Never a wreck on its shore.\n\nOut of a land in whose bowers\nPerish and fade all the flowers:\n Out of the land of decay,\nInto the Eden where fairest\nOf flowerets, and sweetest and rarest,\n Never shall wither away.\n\nOut of the world of the wailing\nThronged with the anguished and ailing;\n Out of the world of the sad,\nInto the world that rejoices --\nWorld of bright visions and voices --\n Into the world of the glad.\n\nOut of a life ever mournful,\nOut of a land very lornful,\n Where in bleak exile we roam,\nInto a joy-land above us,\nWhere there's a Father to love us --\n Into our home -- \"Sweet Home\".\n\n\n\n\nWhat Ails the World?\n\n\n\n\"What ails the world?\" the poet cried;\n   \"And why does death walk everywhere?\n   And why do tears fall anywhere?\n   And skies have clouds, and souls have care?\"\nThus the poet sang, and sighed.\n\nFor he would fain have all things glad,\n   All lives happy, all hearts bright;\n   Not a day would end in night,\n   Not a wrong would vex a right --\nAnd so he sang -- and he was sad.\n\nThro' his very grandest rhymes\n   Moved a mournful monotone --\n   Like a shadow eastward thrown\n   From a sunset -- like a moan\nTangled in a joy-bell's chimes.\n\n\"What ails the world?\" he sang and asked --\n   And asked and sang -- but all in vain;\n   No answer came to any strain,\n   And no reply to his refrain --\nThe mystery moved 'round him masked.\n\n\"What ails the world?\"  An echo came --\n   \"Ails the world?\"  The minstrel bands,\n   With famous or forgotten hands,\n   Lift up their lyres in all the lands,\nAnd chant alike, and ask the same\n\nFrom him whose soul first soared in song,\n   A thousand, thousand years away,\n   To him who sang but yesterday,\n   In dying or in deathless lay --\n\"What ails the world?\" comes from the throng.\n\nThey fain would sing the world to rest;\n   And so they chant in countless keys,\n   As many as the waves of seas,\n   And as the breathings of the breeze,\nYet even when they sing their best --\n\nWhen o'er the list'ning world there floats\n   Such melody as 'raptures men --\n   When all look up entranced -- and when\n   The song of fame floats forth, e'en then\nA discord creepeth through the notes --\n\nTheir sweetest harps have broken strings,\n   Their grandest accords have their jars,\n   Like shadows on the light of stars,\n   And somehow, something ever mars\nThe songs the greatest minstrel sings.\n\nAnd so each song is incomplete,\n   And not a rhyme can ever round\n   Into the chords of perfect sound\n   The tones of thought that e'er surround\nThe ways walked by the poet's feet.\n\n\"What ails the world?\" he sings and sighs;\n   No answer cometh to his cry.\n   He asks the earth and asks the sky --\n   The echoes of his song pass by\nUnanswered -- and the poet dies.\n\n\n\n\nA Thought\n\n\n\nThere never was a valley without a faded flower,\n There never was a heaven without some little cloud;\nThe face of day may flash with light in any morning hour,\n But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven shroud.\n\nThere never was a river without its mists of gray,\n There never was a forest without its fallen leaf;\nAnd joy may walk beside us down the windings of our way,\n When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the face of grief.\n\nThere never was a seashore without its drifting wreck,\n There never was an ocean without its moaning wave;\nAnd the golden gleams of glory the summer sky that fleck,\n Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure-mantled grave.\n\nThere never was a streamlet, however crystal clear,\n Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide;\nHope's brightest robes are 'broidered with the sable fringe of fear,\n And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either side.\n\nThe shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain,\n And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head,\nAnd the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain,\n And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd tear is shed.\n\nFor no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear,\n And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh;\nFor without the dreary winter there has never been a year,\n And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer sky.\n\nThe cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the grave;\n The mother's song scarce hides the ~De Profundis~ of the priest;\nYou may cull the fairest roses any May-day ever gave,\n But they wither while you wear them ere the ending of your feast.\n\nSo this dreary life is passing -- and we move amid its maze,\n And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light;\nAnd our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of our ways,\n Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly bright.\n\nAnd our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide,\n And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key;\nAnd a cross gleams o'er our pathway -- on it hangs the Crucified,\n And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, \"Follow Me.\"\n      Life is a burden; bear it;\n      Life is a duty; dare it;\n      Life is a thorn-crown; wear it,\n   Though it break your heart in twain;\n    Though the burden crush you down;\n   Close your lips, and hide your pain,\n    First the Cross, and then, the Crown.\n\n\n\n\nIn Rome\n\n\n\nAt last the dream of youth\n Stands fair and bright before me,\nThe sunshine of the home of truth\n Falls tremulously o'er me.\n\nAnd tower, and spire, and lofty dome\n In brightest skies are gleaming;\nWalk I, to-day, the ways of Rome,\n Or am I only dreaming?\n\nNo, 'tis no dream; my very eyes\n Gaze on the hill-tops seven;\nWhere crosses rise and kiss the skies,\n And grandly point to Heaven.\n\nGray ruins loom on ev'ry side,\n Each stone an age's story;\nThey seem the very ghosts of pride\n That watch the grave of glory.\n\nThere senates sat, whose sceptre sought\n An empire without limit;\nThere grandeur dreamed its dream and thought\n That death would never dim it.\n\nThere rulers reigned; yon heap of stones\n Was once their gorgeous palace;\nBeside them now, on altar-thrones,\n The priests lift up the chalice.\n\nThere legions marched with bucklers bright,\n And lances lifted o'er them;\nWhile flags, like eagles plumed for flight,\n Unfurled their wings before them.\n\nThere poets sang, whose deathless name\n Is linked to deathless verses;\nThere heroes hushed with shouts of fame\n Their trampled victim's curses.\n\nThere marched the warriors back to home,\n Beneath yon crumbling portal,\nAnd placed upon the brow of Rome\n The proud crown of immortal.\n\nThere soldiers stood with armor on,\n In steel-clad ranks and serried,\nThe while their red swords flashed upon\n The slaves whose rights they buried.\n\nHere pagan pride, with sceptre, stood,\n And fame would not forsake it,\nUntil a simple cross of wood\n Came from the East to break it.\n\nThat Rome is dead -- here is the grave --\n Dead glory rises never;\nAnd countless crosses o'er it wave,\n And will wave on forever.\n\nBeyond the Tiber gleams a dome\n Above the hill-tops seven;\nIt arches o'er the world from Rome,\n And leads the world to Heaven.\n\n____\nDecember 6, 1872.\n\n\n\n\nAfter Sickness\n\n\n\nI nearly died, I almost touched the door\nThat swings between forever and no more;\nI think I heard the awful hinges grate,\nHour after hour, while I did weary wait\nDeath's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain:\nThe door half-opened and then closed again.\n\nWhat were my thoughts?  I had but one regret --\nThat I was doomed to live and linger yet\nIn this dark valley where the stream of tears\nFlows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years.\nMy lips spake not -- my eyes were dull and dim,\nBut thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn --\nA triumph song of many chords and keys,\nTranscending language -- as the summer breeze,\nWhich, through the forest mystically floats,\nTranscends the reach of mortal music's notes.\nA song of victory -- a chant of bliss:\nWedded to words, it might have been like this:\n\n   \"Come, death! but I am fearless,\n    I shrink not from your frown;\n   The eyes you close are tearless;\n    Haste! strike this frail form down.\n   Come! there is no dissembling\n    In this last, solemn hour,\n   But you'll find my heart untrembling\n    Before your awful power.\n   My lips grow pale and paler,\n    My eyes are strangely dim,\n   I wail not as a wailer,\n    I sing a victor's hymn.\n   My limbs grow cold and colder,\n    My room is all in gloom;\n   Bold death! -- but I am bolder --\n    Come! lead me to my tomb!\n   'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary,\n    'Tis still, and lone, and deep;\n   Haste, death! my eyes are weary,\n    I want to fall asleep.\n\n   `Strike quick!  Why dost thou tarry?\n    Of time why such a loss?\n   Dost fear the sign I carry?\n    'Tis but a simple cross.\n   Thou wilt not strike?  Then hear me:\n    Come! strike in any hour,\n   My heart shall never fear thee\n    Nor flinch before thy power.\n   I'll meet thee -- time's dread lictor --\n    And my wasted lips shall sing:\n   `Dread death! I am the victor!\n    Strong death! where is thy sting?'\"\n\n____\nMilan, January, 1873.\n\n\n\n\nOld Trees\n\n\n\nOld trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom\n There's many a warrior laid,\nAnd many a nameless and lonely tomb\n Is sheltered beneath your shade.\nOld trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer\n We buried the brave and the true,\nWe fired a volley and left them there\n To rest, old trees, with you.\n\nOld trees, old trees! keep watch and ward\n Over each grass-grown bed;\n'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard\n Over the Southern dead;\nOld trees, old trees! we shall pass away\n Like the leaves you yearly shed,\nBut ye, lone sentinels, still must stay,\n Old trees, to guard \"our dead\".\n\n\n\n\nAfter Seeing Pius IX\n\n\n\nI saw his face to-day; he looks a chief\n Who fears not human rage, nor human guile;\nUpon his cheeks the twilight of a grief,\n But in that grief the starlight of a smile.\nDeep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell\nThey are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell;\nA low voice -- strangely sweet -- whose very tone\nTells how these lips speak oft with God alone.\nI kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet;\n\"No, no,\" he said; and then, in accents sweet,\nHis blessing fell upon my bended head.\nHe bade me rise; a few more words he said,\nThen took me by the hand -- the while he smiled --\nAnd, going, whispered:  \"Pray for me, my child.\"\n\n\n\n\nSentinel Songs\n\n\n\nWhen falls the soldier brave,\n Dead at the feet of wrong,\nThe poet sings and guards his grave\n With sentinels of song.\n\nSongs, march! he gives command,\n Keep faithful watch and true;\nThe living and dead of the conquered land\n Have now no guards save you.\n\nGray ballads! mark ye well!\n Thrice holy is your trust!\nGo! halt by the fields where warriors fell;\n Rest arms! and guard their dust.\n\nList, songs! your watch is long,\n The soldiers' guard was brief;\nWhilst right is right, and wrong is wrong,\n Ye may not seek relief.\n\nGo! wearing the gray of grief!\n Go! watch o'er the dead in gray!\nGo! guard the private and guard the chief,\n And sentinel their clay!\n\nAnd the songs, in stately rhyme\n And with softly sounding tread,\nGo forth, to watch for a time -- a time --\n Where sleep the Deathless Dead.\n\nAnd the songs, like funeral dirge,\n In music soft and low,\nSing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge\n From hearts that are homes of woe.\n\nWhat tho' no sculptured shaft\n Immortalize each brave?\nWhat tho' no monument epitaphed\n Be built above each grave?\n\nWhen marble wears away\n And monuments are dust,\nThe songs that guard our soldiers' clay\n Will still fulfil their trust.\n\nWith lifted head and stately tread,\n Like stars that guard the skies,\nGo watch each bed where rest the dead,\n Brave songs, with sleepless eyes.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nWhen falls the cause of Right,\n The poet grasps his pen,\nAnd in gleaming letters of living light\n Transmits the truth to men.\n\nGo, songs! he says who sings;\n Go! tell the world this tale;\nBear it afar on your tireless wings:\n The Right will yet prevail.\n\nSongs! sound like the thunder's breath!\n Boom o'er the world and say:\nBrave men may die -- Right has no death!\n Truth never shall pass away!\n\nGo! sing thro' a nation's sighs!\n Go! sob thro' a people's tears!\nSweep the horizons of all the skies,\n And throb through a thousand years!\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd the songs, with brave, sad face,\n Go proudly down their way,\nWailing the loss of a conquered race\n And waiting an Easter-day.\n\nAway! away! like the birds,\n They soar in their flight sublime;\nAnd the waving wings of the poet's words\n Flash down to the end of time.\n\nWhen the flag of justice fails,\n Ere its folds have yet been furled,\nThe poet waves its folds in wails\n That flutter o'er the world.\n\nSongs, march! and in rank by rank\n The low, wild verses go,\nTo watch the graves where the grass is dank,\n And the martyrs sleep below.\n\nSongs! halt where there is no name!\n Songs! stay where there is no stone!\nAnd wait till you hear the feet of Fame\n Coming to where ye moan.\n\nAnd the songs, with lips that mourn,\n And with hearts that break in twain\nAt the beck of the bard -- a hope forlorn --\n Watch the plain where sleep the slain.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nWhen the warrior's sword is lowered\n Ere its stainless sheen grows dim,\nThe bard flings forth its dying gleam\n On the wings of a deathless hymn.\n\nSongs, fly far o'er the world\n And adown to the end of time:\nLet the sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled,\n Thro' the sheen of the poet's rhyme.\n\nSongs! fly as the eagles fly!\n The bard unbars the cage;\nGo, soar away, and afar and high\n Wave your wings o'er every age.\n\nShriek shrilly o'er each day,\n As futureward ye fly,\nThat the men were right who wore the gray,\n And Right can never die.\n\nAnd the songs, with waving wing,\n Fly far, float far away\nFrom the ages' crest; o'er the world they fling\n The shade of the stainless gray.\n\nMight! sing your triumph-songs!\n Each song but sounds a shame;\nGo down the world, in loud-voiced throngs,\n To win, from the future, fame.\n\nOur ballads, born of tears,\n Will track you on your way,\nAnd win the hearts of the future years\n For the men who wore the gray.\n\nAnd so -- say what you will --\n In the heart of God's own laws\nI have a faith, and my heart believes still\n In the triumph of our cause.\n\nSuch hope may all be vain,\n And futile be such trust;\nBut the weary eyes that weep the slain,\n And watch above such dust,\n\nThey cannot help but lift\n Their visions to the skies;\nThey watch the clouds, but wait the rift\n Through which their hope shall rise.\n\nThe victor wields the sword:\n Its blade may broken be\nBy a thought that sleeps in a deathless word,\n To wake in the years to be.\n\nWe wait a grand-voiced bard,\n Who, when he sings, will send\nImmortal songs' \"Imperial Guard\"\n The Lost Cause to defend.\n\nHe has not come; he will.\n But when he chants, his song\nWill stir the world to its depths and thrill\n The earth with its tale of wrong.\n\nThe fallen cause still waits --\n Its bard has not come yet.\nHis sun through one of to-morrow's gates\n Shall shine, but never set.\n\nBut when he comes he'll sweep\n A harp with tears all stringed,\nAnd the very notes he strikes will weep\n As they come from his hand woe-winged.\n\nAh! grand shall be his strain,\n And his songs shall fill all climes,\nAnd the rebels shall rise and march again\n Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.\n\nAnd through his verse shall gleam\n The swords that flashed in vain,\nAnd the men who wore the gray shall seem\n To be marshaling again.\n\nBut hush! between his words\n Peer faces sad and pale,\nAnd you hear the sound of broken chords\n Beat through the poet's wail.\n\nThrough his verse the orphans cry --\n The terrible undertone --\nAnd the father's curse and the mother's sigh,\n And the desolate young wife's moan.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nBut harps are in every land\n That await a voice that sings,\nAnd a master-hand -- but the humblest hand\n May gently touch its strings.\n\nI sing with a voice too low\n To be heard beyond to-day,\nIn minor keys of my people's woe,\n But my songs pass away.\n\nTo-morrow hears them not --\n To-morrow belongs to Fame --\nMy songs, like the birds', will be forgot,\n And forgotten shall be my name.\n\nAnd yet who knows?  Betimes\n The grandest songs depart,\nWhile the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes\n Will echo from heart to heart.\n\nBut, oh! if in song or speech,\n In major or minor key,\nMy voice could over the ages reach,\n I would whisper the name of Lee.\n\nIn the night of our defeat\n Star after star had gone,\nBut the way was bright to our soldiers' feet\n Where the star of Lee led on.\n\nBut sudden there came a cloud,\n Out rung a nation's knell;\nOur cause was wrapped in its winding shroud,\n All fell when the great Lee fell.\n\nFrom his men, with scarce a word,\n Silence when great hearts part!\nBut we know he sheathed his stainless sword\n In the wound of a broken heart.\n\nHe fled from Fame; but Fame\n Sought him in his retreat,\nDemanding for the world one name\n Made deathless by defeat.\n\nNay, Fame! success is best!\n All lost! and nothing won:\nNorth, keep the clouds that flush the West,\n We have the sinking sun.\n\nAll lost! but by the graves\n Where martyred heroes rest,\nHe wins the most who honor saves --\n Success is not the test.\n\nAll lost! a nation weeps;\n By all the tears that fall,\nHe loses naught who conscience keeps,\n Lee's honor saves us all.\n\nAll lost! but e'en defeat\n Hath triumphs of her own,\nWrong's paean hath no note so sweet\n As trampled Right's proud moan.\n\nThe world shall yet decide,\n In truth's clear, far-off light,\nThat the soldiers who wore the gray, and died\n With Lee, were in the right.\n\nAnd men, by time made wise,\n Shall in the future see\nNo name hath risen, or ever shall rise,\n Like the name of Robert Lee.\n\nAh, me! my words are weak,\n This task surpasses me;\nDead soldiers! rise from your graves and speak,\n And tell how you loved Lee.\n\nThe banner you bore is furled,\n And the gray is faded, too!\nBut in all the colors that deck the world\n Your gray blends not with blue.\n\nThe colors are far apart,\n Graves sever them in twain;\nThe Northern heart and the Southern heart\n May beat in peace again;\n\nBut still till time's last day,\n Whatever lips may plight,\nThe blue is blue, but the gray is gray,\n Wrong never accords with Right.\n\nGo, Glory! and forever guard\n Our chieftain's hallowed dust;\nAnd Honor! keep eternal ward!\n And Fame! be this thy trust!\n\nGo! with your bright emblazoned scroll\n And tell the years to be,\nThe first of names that flash your roll\n Is ours -- great Robert Lee.\n\nLee wore the gray! since then\n 'Tis Right's and Honor's hue!\nHe honored it, that man of men,\n And wrapped it round the true.\n\nDead! but his spirit breathes!\n Dead! but his heart is ours!\nDead! but his sunny and sad land wreathes\n His crown with tears for flowers.\n\nA statue for his tomb!\n Mould it of marble white!\nFor Wrong, a spectre of death and doom;\n An angel of hope for Right.\n\nBut Lee has a thousand graves\n In a thousand hearts, I ween;\nAnd teardrops fall from our eyes in waves\n That will keep his memory green.\n\nAh! Muse, you dare not claim\n A nobler man than he,\nNor nobler man hath less of blame,\nNor blameless man hath purer name,\nNor purer name hath grander fame,\n Nor fame -- another Lee.\n\n\n\n\nFragments from an Epic Poem\n\n\n\n    A Mystery\n\nHis face was sad; some shadow must have hung\nAbove his soul; its folds, now falling dark,\nNow almost bright; but dark or not so dark,\nLike cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there --\nA shadow; and his face was always sad.\n\nHis eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray\nWithin them met and blended with the blue,\nAnd when they gazed they seemed almost to dream\nThey looked beyond you into far-away,\nAnd often drooped; his face was always sad.\n\nHis eyes were deep; I often saw them dim,\nAs if the edges of a cloud of tears\nHad gathered there, and only left a mist\nThat made them moist and kept them ever moist.\nHe never wept; his face was always sad.\n\nI mean, not many saw him ever weep,\nAnd yet he seemed as one who often wept,\nOr always, tears that were too proud to flow\nIn outer streams, but shrunk within and froze --\nFroze down into himself; his face was sad.\n\nAnd yet sometimes he smiled -- a sudden smile,\nAs if some far-gone joy came back again,\nSurprised his heart, and flashed across his face\nA moment like a light through rifts in clouds,\nWhich falls upon an unforgotten grave;\nHe rarely laughed; his face was ever sad.\n\nAnd when he spoke his words were sad as wails,\nAnd strange as stories of an unknown land,\nAnd full of meanings as the sea of moans.\nAt times he was so still that silence seemed\nTo sentinel his lips; and not a word\nWould leave his heart; his face was strangely sad.\n\nBut then at times his speech flowed like a stream --\nA deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells\nOf lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves\nHung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow\nIt rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers,\nAnd deepened as it flowed; his face was sad.\n\nHe had his moods of silence and of speech.\nI asked him once the reason, and he said:\n\"When I speak much, my words are only words,\nWhen I speak least, my words are more than words,\nWhen I speak not, I then reveal myself!\"\nIt was his way of saying things -- he spoke\nIn quaintest riddles; and his face was sad.\n\nAnd, when he wished, he wove around his words\nA nameless spell that marvelously thrilled\nThe dullest ear.  'Twas strange that he so cold\nCould warm the coldest heart; that he so hard\nCould soften hardest soul; that he so still\nCould rouse the stillest mind:  his face was sad.\n\nHe spoke of death as if it were a toy\nFor thought to play with; and of life he spoke\nAs of a toy not worth the play of thought;\nAnd of this world he spoke as captives speak\nOf prisons where they pine; he spoke of men\nAs one who found pure gold in each of them.\nHe spoke of women just as if he dreamed\nAbout his mother; and he spoke of God\nAs if he walked with Him and knew His heart --\nBut he was weary, and his face was sad.\n\nHe had a weary way in all he did,\nAs if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross;\nAnd yet the weary went to him for rest.\nHis heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy,\nAnd yet the joyless were rejoiced by him.\nHe seemed to have two selves -- his outer self\nWas free to any passer-by, and kind to all,\nAnd gentle as a child's; that outer self\nKept open all its gates, that who so wished\nMight enter them and find therein a place;\nAnd many entered; but his face was sad.\n\nThe inner self he guarded from approach,\nHe kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine;\nHe guarded it with silence and reserve;\nIts gates were locked and watched, and none might pass\nBeyond the portals; and his face was sad.\nBut whoso entered there -- and few were they --\nSo very few -- so very, very few,\nThey never did forget; they said:  \"How strange!\"\nThey murmured still:  \"How strange! how strangely strange!\"\nThey went their ways, but wore a lifted look,\nAnd higher meanings came to common words,\nAnd lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones;\nAnd, near or far, they never did forget\nThe \"Shadow and the Shrine\"; his face was sad.\n\nHe was not young nor old -- yet he was both;\nNor both by turns, but always both at once;\nFor youth and age commingled in his ways,\nHis words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts.\nAt times the \"old man\" tottered in his thoughts,\nThe child played thro' his words; his face was sad.\n\nI one day asked his age; he smiled and said:\n\"The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast,\nJust born to-day, is not as young as I;\nThe moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms --\nAn acorn cradled ages long ago --\nIs old, in sooth, but not as old as I.\"\nIt was his way -- he always answered thus,\nBut when he did his face was very sad.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\n\n    Spirit Song\n\nThou wert once the purest wave\n Where the tempests roar;\nThou art now a golden wave\n On the golden shore --\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\nThou wert once the bluest wave\n Shadows e'er hung o'er;\nThou art now the brightest wave\n On the brightest shore --\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\nThou wert once the gentlest wave\n Ocean ever bore;\nThou art now the fairest wave\n On the fairest shore --\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\nWhiter foam than thine, O wave,\n Wavelet never wore,\nStainless wave; and now you lave\n The far and stormless shore --\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\nWho bade thee go, O bluest wave,\n Beyond the tempest's roar?\nWho bade thee flow, O fairest wave,\n Unto the golden shore,\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nWho waved a hand, O purest wave?\n A hand that blessings bore,\nAnd wafted thee, O whitest wave,\n Unto the fairest shore,\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nWho winged thy way, O holy wave,\n In days and days of yore?\nAnd wept the words:  \"O winsome wave,\n This earth is not thy shore!\"\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nWho gave thee strength, O snowy wave --\n The strength a great soul wore --\nAnd said:  \"Float up to God! my wave,\n His heart shall be thy shore!\"\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nWho said to thee, O poor, weak wave:\n \"Thy wail shall soon be o'er,\nFloat on to God, and leave me, wave,\n Upon this rugged shore!\"\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nAnd thou hast reached His feet!  Glad wave,\n Dost dream of days of yore?\nDost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave,\n Upon the golden shore,\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore?\n\nThou sleepest in the calm, calm wave,\n Beyond the wild storm's roar!\nI watch amid the storm, bright wave,\n Like rock upon the shore;\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\nSing at the feet of God, white wave,\n Song sweet as one of yore!\nI would not bring thee back, heart wave,\n To break upon this shore,\n  Ever -- ever -- evermore!\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\n\"No, no,\" he gently spoke:  \"You know me not;\nMy mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone;\nJust like a temple when the priest has gone,\nAnd all the hymns that rolled along the vaults\nAre buried deep in silence; when the lights\nThat flashed on altars died away in dark,\nAnd when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath\nAnd beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine.\nMy mind is like a temple, solemn, still,\nUntenanted save by the ghosts of gloom\nWhich seem to linger in the holy place --\nThe shadows of the sinners who passed there,\nAnd wept, and spirit-shriven left upon\nThe marble floor memorials of their tears.\"\n\nAnd while he spake, his words sank low and low,\nUntil they hid themselves in some still depth\nHe would not open; and his face was sad.\n\nWhen he spoke thus, his very gentleness\nPassed slowly from him, and his look, so mild,\nGrew marble cold; a pallor as of death\nWhitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes,\nDry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep.\nHis words, as tender as a rose's smile,\nSlow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting\nHimself the most; his brow, at such times, bent\nMost lowly down, and wore such look of pain\nAs though it bore an unseen crown of thorns.\nWho knows? perhaps it did!\n\n                            But he would pass\nHis hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes,\nAnd then the olden gentleness, like light\nWhich seems transfigured by the touch of dark,\nWould tremble on his face, and he would look\nMore gentle then than ever, and his tone\nWould sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.\n\nI saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved\nAnd darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb\nThat hid the dust of dead and buried smiles,\nBut, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne,\nAnd all the smiles arose as from the dead,\nAnd wore the glory of an Easter morn;\nAnd passed beneath the sceptre of a hope\nWhich came from some far region of his heart,\nCame up into his eyes, and reigned a queen.\nI marveled much; he answered to my look\nWith all his own, and wafted me these words:\n\n\"There are transitions in the lives of all.\nThere are transcendent moments when we stand\nIn Thabor's glory with the chosen three,\nAnd weak with very strength of human love\nWe fain would build our tabernacles there;\nAnd, Peter-like, for very human joy\nWe cry aloud:  `'Tis good that we are here;'\nSwift are these moments, like the smile of God,\nWhich glorifies a shadow and is gone.\n\n\"And then we stand upon another mount --\nDark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there\nFor awful hours, to make us there His own\nIn Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way.\nWe wish to cling to Thabor; He says:  `No.'\nAnd what He says is best because most true.\nWe fain would fly from Calvary; He says:  `No.'\nAnd it is true because it is the best.\nAnd yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same.\n\n\"They lie apart, distinct and separate,\nAnd yet -- strange mystery! -- they are the same.\nFor Calvary is a Thabor in the dark,\nAnd Thabor is a Calvary in the light.\nIt is the mystery of Holy Christ!\nIt is the mystery of you and me!\nEarth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun,\nAnd, like the shadows of a dial, we\nTell, darkly, in the vale the very hours\nThe sun tells brightly in the sinless skies.\nDost understand?\"  I did not understand --\nOr only half; his face was very sad.\n\"Dost thou not understand me?  Then your life\nIs shallow as a brook that brawls along\nBetween two narrow shores; you never wept --\nYou never wore great clouds upon your brow\nAs mountains wear them; and you never wore\nStrange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies\nOft wear them; and your lips -- they never sighed\nGrand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul;\nYou never reached your arms a-broad -- a-high --\nTo grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky.\nLife, only life, can understand a life;\nDepth, only depth, can understand the deep.\nThe dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face\nCan never learn the story of the sea.\"\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nOne day we strolled together to the sea.\nGray evening and the night had almost met,\nWe walked between them, silent, to the shore.\nThe feet of weird faced waves ran up the beach\nLike children in mad play, then back again\nAs if the spirit of the land pursued;\nThen up again -- and farther -- and they flung\nWhite, foamy arms around each other's neck;\nThen back again with sudden rush and shout,\nAs if the sea, their mother, called them home;\nThen leaned upon her breast, as if so tired,\nBut swiftly tore themselves away and rushed\nAway, and farther up the beach, and fell\nFor utter weariness; and loudly sobbed\nFor strength to rise and flow back to the deep.\nBut all in vain, for other waves swept on\nAnd trampled them; the sea cried out in grief,\nThe gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands.\nIt was the flood-tide and the even-tide --\nBetween the evening and the night we walked --\nWe walked between the billows and the beach,\nWe walked between the future and the past,\nDown to the sea we twain had strolled -- to part.\n\nThe shore was low, with just the faintest rise\nOf many-colored sands and shreds of shells,\nUntil about a stone's far throw they met\nA fringe of faded grass, with here and there\nA pale-green shrub; and farther into land --\nAnother stone's throw farther -- there were trees --\nTall, dark, wild trees, with intertwining arms,\nEach almost touching each, as if they feared\nTo stand alone and look upon the sea.\nThe night was in the trees -- the evening on the shore.\nWe walked between the evening and the night --\nBetween the trees and tide we silent strolled.\nThere lies between man's silence and his speech\nA shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass\nAre never silent, tho' they may not speak;\nAnd yet they more than breathe.  It is the vale\nOf wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard.\nIt is the vale of the unutterable.\nWe walked between our silence and our speech,\nAnd sighed between the sunset and the stars,\nOne hour beside the sea.\n\n                          There was a cloud\nFar o'er the reach of waters, hanging low\n'Tween sea and sky -- the banner of the storm,\nIts edges faintly bright, as if the rays\nThat fled far down the West had rested there\nAnd slumbered, and had left a dream of light.\nIts inner folds were dark -- its central, more.\nIt did not flutter; there it hung, as calm\nAs banner in a temple o'er a shrine.\nIts shadow only fell upon the sea,\nAbove the shore the heavens bended blue.\nWe walked between the cloudless and the cloud,\nThat hour, beside the sea.\n\n                            But, quick as thought,\nThere gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light --\nIts hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea,\nIts scabbard in the darkness -- and it tore\nThe bannered cloud into a thousand shreds,\nThen quivered far away, and bent and broke\nIn flashing fragments;\n\n                       And there came a peal\nThat shook the mighty sea from shore to shore,\nBut did not stir a sand-grain on the beach;\nThen silence fell, and where the low cloud hung\nClouds darker gathered -- and they proudly waved\nLike flags before a battle.\n\n                             We twain walked --\nWe walked between the lightning's parted gleams,\nWe walked between the thunders of the skies,\nWe walked between the wavings of the clouds,\nWe walked between the tremblings of the sea,\nWe walked between the stillnesses and roars\nOf frightened billows; and we walked between\nThe coming tempest and the dying calm --\nBetween the tranquil and the terrible --\nThat hour beside the sea.\n\n                           There was a rock\nFar up the winding beach that jutted in\nThe sea, and broke the heart of every wave\nThat struck its breast; not steep enough nor high\nTo be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough\nTo be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock;\nYet not so low as that its brow was laved\nBy highest tide, yet not sufficient high\nTo rise beyond the reach of silver spray\nThat rained up from the waves -- their tears that fell\nUpon its face, when they died at its feet.\nAround its sides damp seaweed hung in long,\nSad tresses, dripping down into the sea.\nA tuft or two of grass did green the rock,\nA patch or so of moss; the rest was bare.\n\nAdown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night;\nBut when we reached the rock the eve and night\nHad met; light died; we sat down in the dark\nUpon the rock.\n\n                Meantime a thousand clouds\nCareered and clashed in air -- a thousand waves\nWhirled wildly on in wrath -- a thousand winds\nHowled hoarsely on the main, and down the skies\nInto the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed,\nAs if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath;\nAnd, like a thousand serpents intercoiled,\nThe lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared,\nAnd all the horror shrank in horror back\nBefore the maddest peals that ever leaped\nOut from the thunder's throat.\n\n                                Within the dark\nWe silent sat.  No rain fell on the rock,\nNor in on land, nor shore; only on sea\nThe upper and the lower waters met\nIn wild delirium, like a thousand hearts\nFar parted -- parted long -- which meet to break,\nWhich rush into each other's arms and break\nIn terror and in tempests wild of tears.\nNo rain fell on the rock; but flakes of foam\nSwept cold against our faces, where we sat\nBetween the hush and howling of the winds,\nBetween the swells and sinking of the waves,\nBetween the stormy sea and stilly shore,\nBetween the rushings of the maddened rains,\nBetween the dark beneath and dark above.\n\nWe sat within the dread heart of the night:\nOne, pale with terror; one, as calm and still\nAnd stern and moveless as the lone, low rock.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\n\n\n\nLake Como\n\n\n\nWinter on the mountains\n Summer on the shore,\nThe robes of sun-gleams woven,\n The lake's blue wavelets wore.\n\nCold, white, against the heavens,\n Flashed winter's crown of snow,\nAnd the blossoms of the spring-tide\n Waved brightly far below.\n\nThe mountain's head was dreary,\n The cold and cloud were there,\nBut the mountain's feet were sandaled\n With flowers of beauty rare.\n\nAnd winding thro' the mountains\n The lake's calm wavelets rolled,\nAnd a cloudless sun was gilding\n Their ripples with its gold.\n\nAdown the lake we glided\n Thro' all the sunlit day;\nThe cold snows gleamed above us,\n But fair flowers fringed our way\n\nThe snows crept down the mountain,\n The flowers crept up the slope,\nTill they seemed to meet and mingle,\n Like human fear and hope.\n\nBut the same rich, golden sunlight\n Fell on the flowers and snow,\nLike the smile of God that flashes\n On hearts in joy or woe.\n\nAnd on the lake's low margin\n The trees wore stoles of green,\nWhile here and there, amid them,\n A convent cross was seen.\n\nAnon a ruined castle,\n Moss-mantled, loomed in view,\nAnd cast its solemn shadow\n Across the water's blue.\n\nAnd chapel, cot, and villa,\n Met here and there our gaze,\nAnd many a crumbling tower\n That told of other days.\n\nAnd scattered o'er the waters\n The fishing boats lay still,\nAnd sound of song so softly\n Came echoed from the hill.\n\nAt times the mountain's shadow\n Fell dark across the scene,\nAnd veiled with veil of purple\n The wavelets' silver sheen.\n\nBut for a moment only\n The lake would wind, and lo!\nThe waves would near the glory\n Of the sunlight's brightest glow.\n\nAt times there fell a silence\n Unbroken by a tone,\nAs if no sound of voices\n Had ever there been known.\n\nThrough strange and lonely places\n We glided thus for hours;\nWe saw no other faces\n But the faces of the flowers.\n\nThe shores were sad and lonely\n As hearts without a love,\nWhile darker and more dreary\n The mountains rose above.\n\nBut sudden round a headland\n The lake would sweep again,\nAnd voices from a village\n Would meet us with their strain.\n\nThus all the day we glided,\n Until the Vesper bell\nGave to the day, at sunset,\n Its sweet and soft farewell.\n\nThen back again we glided\n Upon our homeward way,\nWhen twilight wrapped the waters\n And the mountains with its gray.\n\nBut brief the reign of twilight,\n The night came quickly on;\nThe dark brow o'er the mountains,\n Star-wreathed, brightly shone.\n\nAnd down thro' all the shadows\n The star-gleams softly crept,\nAnd kissed, with lips all shining,\n The wavelets ere they slept.\n\nThe lake lay in a slumber,\n The shadows for its screen,\nWhile silence waved her sceptre\n Above the sleeping scene.\n\nThe spirit of the darkness\n Moved, ghost-like, everywhere;\nWherever starlight glimmered,\n Its shadow, sure, fell there.\n\nThe lone place grew more lonely,\n And all along our way\nThe mysteries of the night-time\n Held undisputed sway.\n\nThro' silence and thro' darkness\n We glided down the tide\nThat wound around the mountains\n That rose on either side.\n\nNo eyes would close in slumber\n Within our little bark;\nWhat charmed us so in daylight\n So awed us in the dark.\n\nUpon the deck we lingered,\n A whisper scarce was heard;\nWhen hearts are stirred profoundest,\n Lips are without a word.\n\n\"Let's say the Chaplet,\" softly\n A voice beside me spake.\n\"Christ walked once in the darkness\n Across an Eastern lake,\n\n\"And to-night we know the secret\n That will charm Him to our side:\nIf we call upon His Mother,\n He will meet us on the tide.\"\n\nSo we said the beads together,\n Up and down the little bark;\nAnd I believe that Jesus met us,\n With His Mother, in the dark.\n\nAnd our prayers were scarcely ended\n When, on mountain-top afar,\nWe beheld the morning meeting\n With the night's last fading star.\n\nAnd I left the lake; but never\n Shall the years to come efface\nFrom my heart the dream and vision\n Of that strange and lonely place.\n\n____\nFebruary 1, 1873.\n\n\n\n\n\"Peace! Be Still\"\n\n\n\nSometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark;\n For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light,\nAnd when they close wild waves rush on His bark,\n And toss it through the dead hours of the night.\n\nSo He slept once upon an eastern lake,\n In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will;\nA cry smote on Him, and when He did wake,\n He softly whispered, and the sea grew still.\n\nIt is a mystery:  but He seems to sleep\n As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark;\nA storm is sweeping all across the deep,\n While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark.\n\nThe sky is darkened, and the shore is far,\n The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour:\nUpon the howling deep there shines no star --\n Why sleeps He still?  Why does He hide His power?\n\nFear not! a holy hand is on the helm\n That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath;\nQuail not! the wildest waves can never whelm\n The ship of faith upon its homeward path.\n\nThe Master sleeps -- His pilot guards the bark;\n He soon will wake, and at His mighty will\nThe light will shine where all before was dark --\n The wild waves still remember:  \"Peace! be still.\"\n\n____\nRome, 1873.\n\n\n\n\nGood Friday\n\n\n\nO Heart of Three-in-the evening,\n You nestled the thorn-crowned head;\nHe leaned on you in His sorrow,\n And rested on you when dead.\n\nAh! Holy Three-in-the evening\n He gave you His richest dower;\nHe met you afar on Calvary,\n And made you \"His own last hour\".\n\nO Brow of Three-in-the evening,\n Thou wearest a crimson crown;\nThou art Priest of the hours forever,\n And thy voice, as thou goest down\n\nThe cycles of time, still murmurs\n The story of love each day:\n\"I held in death the Eternal,\n In the long and the far-away.\"\n\nO Heart of Three-in-the evening,\n Mine beats with thine to-day;\nThou tellest the olden story,\n I kneel -- and I weep and pray.\n\n____\nBoulogne, sur mer.\n\n\n\n\nMy Beads\n\n\n\nSweet, blessed beads! I would not part\n With one of you for richest gem\n That gleams in kingly diadem;\nYe know the history of my heart.\n\nFor I have told you every grief\n In all the days of twenty years,\n And I have moistened you with tears,\nAnd in your decades found relief.\n\nAh! time has fled, and friends have failed\n And joys have died; but in my needs\n Ye were my friends, my blessed beads!\nAnd ye consoled me when I wailed.\n\nFor many and many a time, in grief,\n My weary fingers wandered round\n Thy circled chain, and always found\nIn some Hail Mary sweet relief.\n\nHow many a story you might tell\n Of inner life, to all unknown;\n I trusted you and you alone,\nBut ah! ye keep my secrets well.\n\nYe are the only chain I wear --\n A sign that I am but the slave,\n In life, in death, beyond the grave,\nOf Jesus and His Mother fair.\n\n\n\n\nAt Night\n\n\n\n   Dreary! weary!\n   Weary! dreary!\nSighs my soul this lonely night.\n   Farewell gladness!\n   Welcome sadness!\nVanished are my visions bright.\n\n   Stars are shining!\n   Winds are pining!\nIn the sky and o'er the sea;\n   Shine forever\n   Stars! but never\nCan the starlight gladden me.\n\n   Stars! you nightly\n   Sparkle brightly,\nScattered o'er your azure dome;\n   While earth's turning,\n   There you're burning,\nBeacons of a better home.\n\n   Stars! you brighten\n   And you lighten\nMany a heart-grief here below;\n   But your gleaming\n   And your beaming\nCannot chase away my woe.\n\n   Stars! you're shining,\n   I am pining --\nI am dark, but you are bright;\n   Hanging o'er me\n   And before me\nIs a night you cannot light.\n\n   Night of sorrow,\n   Whose to-morrow\nI may never, never see,\n   Till upon me\n   And around me\nDawns a bright eternity.\n\n   Winds! you're sighing,\n   And you're crying,\nLike a mourner o'er a tomb;\n   Whither go ye,\n   Whither blow ye,\nWailing through the midnight gloom?\n\n   Chanting lowly,\n   Softly, lowly,\nLike the voice of one in woe;\n   Winds so lonely,\n   Why thus moan ye?\nSay, what makes you sorrow so?\n\n   Are you grieving\n   For your leaving\nScenes where all is fair and gay?\n   For the flowers\n   In their bowers,\nYou have met with on your way?\n\n   For fond faces,\n   For dear places,\nThat you've seen as on you swept?\n   Are you sighing,\n   Are you crying,\nO'er the memories they have left?\n\n   Earth is sleeping\n   While you're sweeping\nThrough night's solemn silence by;\n   On forever,\n   Pausing never --\nHow I love to hear you sigh!\n\n   Men are dreaming,\n   Stars are gleaming\nIn the far-off heaven's blue;\n   Bosom aching,\n   Musing, waking,\nMidnight winds, I sigh with you!\n\n\n\n\nNocturne [\"Betimes, I seem to see in dreams\"]\n\n\n\nBetimes, I seem to see in dreams\n What when awake I may not see;\n  Can night be God's more than the day?\n  Do stars, not suns, best light his way?\nWho knoweth?  Blended lights and shades\n Arch aisles down which He walks to me.\n\nI hear him coming in the night\n Afar, and yet I know not how;\n  His steps make music low and sweet;\n  Sometimes the nails are in his feet;\nDoes darkness give God better light\n Than day, to find a weary brow?\n\nDoes darkness give man brighter rays\n To find the God, in sunshine lost?\n  Must shadows wrap the trysting-place\n  Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace?\nWho knoweth it?  God hath His ways\n For every soul here sorrow-tossed.\n\nThe hours of day are like the waves\n That fret against the shores of sin:\n  They touch the human everywhere,\n  The Bright-Divine fades in their glare;\nAnd God's sweet voice the spirit craves\n Is heard too faintly in the din.\n\nWhen all the senses are awake,\n The mortal presses overmuch\n  Upon the great immortal part --\n  And God seems further from the heart.\nMust souls, like skies, when day-dawns break,\n Lose star by star at sunlight's touch?\n\nBut when the sun kneels in the west,\n And grandly sinks as great hearts sink;\n  And in his sinking flings adown\n  Bright blessings from his fading crown,\nThe stars begin their song of rest,\n And shadows make the thoughtless think.\n\nThe human seems to fade away;\n And down the starred and shadowed skies\n  The heavenly comes -- as memories come\n  Of home to hearts afar from home;\nAnd thro' the darkness after day\n Many a winged angel flies.\n\nAnd somehow, tho' the eyes see less,\n Our spirits seem to see the more;\n  When we look thro' night's shadow-bars\n  The soul sees more than shining stars,\nYea -- sees the very loveliness\n That rests upon the \"Golden Shore\".\n\nStrange reveries steal o'er us then,\n Like keyless chords of instruments,\n  With music's soul without the notes;\n  And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats\nA melody not made by men,\n Nor ever heard by outer sense.\n\nAnd \"what has been\", and \"what will be\",\n And \"what is not\", but \"might have been\",\n  The dim \"to be\", the \"mournful gone\",\n  The little things life rested on\nIn \"Long-ago's\", give tone, not key,\n To reveries beyond our ken.\n\n\n\n\nSunless Days\n\n\n\nThey come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days,\n With not a light all o'er their clouded skies;\nAnd thro' the dark we grope along our ways\n With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.\n\nWhat is the dark?  Why cometh it? and whence?\n Why does it banish all the bright away?\nHow does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense?\n Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?\n\nHast felt it?  I have felt it, and I know\n How oft and suddenly the shadows roll\nFrom out the depths of some dim realm of woe,\n To wrap their darkness round the human soul.\n\nThose days are darker than the very night;\n For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams;\nBut these days bring unto the spirit-sight\n The mysteries of gloom, until it seems\n\nThe light is gone forever, and the dark\n Hangs like a pall of death above the soul,\nWhich rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark,\n And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.\n\n____\nWinter on the Atlantic.\n\n\n\n\nA Reverie [\"Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?\"]\n\n\n\nDid I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?\nWhy ask when the night only knoweth?\nThe night -- and the angel of sleep!\nBut ever since then a music deep,\nLike a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth\nUnder each thought of my spirit that groweth\nInto the blossom and bloom of speech --\nUnder each fancy that cometh and goeth --\nWayward, as waves when evening breeze bloweth\nOut of the sunset and into the beach.\nAnd is it a wonder I wept to-day?\nFor I mused and thought, but I cannot say\nIf I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream.\nIn the silence of sleep, and the noon of night;\nAnd now -- even now -- 'neath the words I write,\nThe flush of the dream or the flow of the song --\nI cannot tell which -- moves strangely along.\nBut why write more?  I am puzzled sore:\nDid I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?\nAh! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail;\nThe words of earth are a darksome veil,\nThe poet weaves it with artful grace;\nLifts it off from his thoughts at times,\nLets it rustle along his rhymes,\nBut gathers it close, covering the face\nOf ev'ry thought that must not part\nFrom out the keeping of his heart.\n\n\n\n\nSt. Mary's\n\n\n\n Back to where the roses rest\nRound a shrine of holy name,\n(Yes -- they knew me when I came)\nMore of peace and less of fame\n Suit my restless heart the best.\n\n Back to where long quiets brood,\nWhere the calm is never stirred\nBy the harshness of a word,\nBut instead the singing bird\n Sweetens all my solitude.\n\n With the birds and with the flowers\nSongs and silences unite,\nFrom the morning unto night;\nAnd somehow a clearer light\n Shines along the quiet hours.\n\n God comes closer to me here --\nBack of ev'ry rose leaf there\nHe is hiding -- and the air\nThrills with calls to holy prayer;\n Earth grows far, and heaven near.\n\n Every single flower is fraught\nWith the very sweetest dreams,\nUnder clouds or under gleams\nChangeful ever -- yet meseems\n On each leaf I read God's thought.\n\n Still, at times, as place of death,\nNot a sound to vex the ear,\nYet withal it is not drear;\nBetter for the heart to hear,\n Far from men -- God's gentle breath.\n\n Where men clash, God always clings:\nWhen the human passes by,\nLike a cloud from summer sky,\nGod so gently draweth nigh,\n And the brightest blessings brings.\n\n List! e'en now a wild bird sings,\nAnd the roses seem to hear\nEvery note that thrills my ear,\nRising to the heavens clear,\n And my soul soars on its wings\n\n Up into the silent skies\nWhere the sunbeams veil the star,\nUp -- beyond the clouds afar,\nWhere no discords ever mar,\n Where rests peace that never dies.\n\n So I live within the calm,\nAnd the birds and roses know\nThat the days that come and go\nAre as peaceful as the flow\n Of a prayer beneath a psalm.\n\n\n\n\nDe Profundis\n\n\n\nAh! days so dark with death's eclipse!\n   Woe are we! woe are we!\n  And the nights are ages long!\nFrom breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  Trembleth the mourner's song;\n   A blight is falling on the fair,\n   And hope is dying in despair,\n   And terror walketh everywhere.\n\nAll the hours are full of tears --\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes --\nEvery heart is strung with fears,\n   Woe are we! woe are we!\n  All the light hath left the skies,\n   And the living awe struck crowds\n   See above them only clouds,\n   And around them only shrouds.\n\nAh! the terrible farewells!\n   Woe are they! woe are they!\n  When last words sink into moans,\nWhile life's trembling vesper bells --\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  Ring the awful undertones!\n   Not a sun in any day!\n   In the night-time not a ray,\n   And the dying pass away!\n\nDark! so dark! above -- below --\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  Cowereth every human life.\nWild the wailing; to and fro!\n   Woe are all! woe are we!\n  Death is victor in the strife:\n   In the hut and in the hall\n   He is writing on the wall\n   Dooms for many -- fears for all.\n\nThro' the cities burns a breath,\n   Woe are they! woe are we!\n  Hot with dread and deadly wrath;\nLife and love lock arms in death,\n   Woe are they! woe are all!\n  Victims strew the spectre's path;\n   Shy-eyed children softly creep\n   Where their mothers wail and weep --\n   In the grave their fathers sleep.\n\nMothers waft their prayers on high,\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  With their dead child on their breast.\nAnd the altars ask the sky --\n   O my Christ! woe are we!\n  \"Give the dead, O Father, rest!\n   Spare thy people! mercy! spare!\"\n   Answer will not come to prayer --\n   Horror moveth everywhere.\n\nAnd the temples miss the priest --\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  And the cradle mourns the child.\nHusband at your bridal feast --\n   Woe are you! woe are you!\n  Think how those poor dead eyes smiled;\n   They will never smile again --\n   Every tie is cut in twain,\n   All the strength of love is vain.\n\nWeep? but tears are weak as foam --\n   Woe are ye! woe are we!\n  They but break upon the shore\nWinding between here and home --\n   Woe are ye! woe are we!\n  Wailing never! nevermore!\n   Ah! the dead! they are so lone,\n   Just a grave, and just a stone,\n   And the memory of a moan.\n\nPray! yes, pray! for God is sweet --\n   O my God! woe are we!\n  Tears will trickle into prayers\nWhen we kneel down at His feet --\n   Woe are we! woe are we!\n  With our crosses and our cares.\n   He will calm the tortured breast,\n   He will give the troubled rest --\n   And the dead He watcheth best.\n\n\n\n\nWhen?  (Death)\n\n\n\nSome day in Spring,\n When earth is fair and glad,\nAnd sweet birds sing,\n And fewest hearts are sad --\n    Shall I die then?\n    Ah! me, no matter when;\nI know it will be sweet\n    To leave the homes of men\n And rest beneath the sod,\nTo kneel and kiss Thy feet\n In Thy home, O my God!\n\nSome Summer morn\n Of splendors and of songs,\nWhen roses hide the thorn\n And smile -- the spirit's wrongs --\n    Shall I die then?\n    Ah! me, no matter when;\nI know I will rejoice\n    To leave the haunts of men\n And lie beneath the sod,\nTo hear Thy tender voice\n In Thy home, O my God!\n\nSome Autumn eve,\n When chill clouds drape the sky,\nWhen bright things grieve\n Because all fair things die --\n    Shall I die then?\n    Ah! me, no matter when,\nI know I shall be glad,\n    Away from the homes of men,\n Adown beneath the sod,\nMy heart will not be sad\n In Thy home, O my God!\n\nSome Wintry day,\n When all skies wear a gloom,\nAnd beauteous May\n Sleeps in December's tomb,\n    Shall I die then?\n    Ah! me, no matter when;\nMy soul shall throb with joy\n    To leave the haunts of men\n And sleep beneath the sod.\nAh! there is no alloy\n In Thy joys, O my God!\n\nHaste, death! be fleet;\nI know it will be sweet\n To rest beneath the sod,\nTo kneel and kiss Thy feet\n In heaven, O my God!\n\n\n\n\nThe Conquered Banner\n\n\n\nFurl that Banner, for 'tis weary;\nRound its staff 'tis drooping dreary;\n   Furl it, fold it, it is best;\nFor there's not a man to wave it,\nAnd there's not a sword to save it,\nAnd there's not one left to lave it\nIn the blood which heroes gave it;\nAnd its foes now scorn and brave it;\n   Furl it, hide it -- let it rest!\n\nTake that Banner down! 'tis tattered;\nBroken is its staff and shattered;\nAnd the valiant hosts are scattered\n   Over whom it floated high.\nOh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;\nHard to think there's none to hold it;\nHard that those who once unrolled it\n   Now must furl it with a sigh.\n\nFurl that Banner! furl it sadly!\nOnce ten thousands hailed it gladly,\nAnd ten thousands wildly, madly,\n   Swore it should forever wave;\nSwore that foeman's sword should never\nHearts like theirs entwined dissever,\nTill that flag should float forever\n   O'er their freedom or their grave!\n\nFurl it! for the hands that grasped it,\nAnd the hearts that fondly clasped it,\n   Cold and dead are lying low;\nAnd that Banner -- it is trailing!\nWhile around it sounds the wailing\n   Of its people in their woe.\n\nFor, though conquered, they adore it!\nLove the cold, dead hands that bore it!\nWeep for those who fell before it!\nPardon those who trailed and tore it!\nBut, oh! wildly they deplore it,\n   Now who furl and fold it so.\n\nFurl that Banner!  True, 'tis gory,\nYet 'tis wreathed around with glory,\nAnd 'twill live in song and story,\n   Though its folds are in the dust:\nFor its fame on brightest pages,\nPenned by poets and by sages,\nShall go sounding down the ages --\n   Furl its folds though now we must.\n\nFurl that Banner, softly, slowly!\nTreat it gently -- it is holy --\n   For it droops above the dead.\nTouch it not -- unfold it never,\nLet it droop there, furled forever,\n   For its people's hopes are dead!\n\n\n\n\nA Christmas Chant\n\n\n\nThey ask me to sing them a Christmas song\n That with musical mirth shall ring;\nHow know I that the world's great throng\n Will care for the words I sing?\n\nLet the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay,\n Their voices and hearts are glad;\nBut I -- I am old, and my locks are gray,\n And they tell me my voice is sad.\n\nAh! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm\n With hopes, bright as life's first spring;\nBut the spring hath fled, and the golden charm\n Hath gone from the songs I sing.\n\nI have lost the spell that my verse could weave\n O'er the souls of the old and young,\nAnd never again -- how it makes me grieve --\n Shall I sing as once I sung.\n\nWhy ask a song? ah! perchance you believe,\n Since my days are so nearly past,\nThat the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve\n Is the old man's best and last.\n\nDo you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme?\n Art's sweet but meaningless notes?\nOr the music of thought, that, like the chime\n Of a grand cathedral, floats\n\nOut of each word, and along each line,\n Into the spirit's ear,\nLifting it up and making it pine\n For a something far from here;\n\nBearing the wings of the soul aloft\n From earth and its shadows dim;\nSoothing the breast with a sound as soft\n As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;\n\nEvoking the solemnest hopes and fears\n From our being's higher part;\nDimming the eyes with radiant tears\n That flow from a spell bound heart?\n\nDo they want a song that is only a song,\n With no mystical meanings rife?\nOr a music that solemnly moves along --\n The undertone of a life!\n\nWell, then, I'll sing, though I know no art,\n Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules --\nA melody moves through my aged heart\n Not learned from the books or schools:\n\nA music I learned in the days long gone --\n I cannot tell where or how --\nBut no matter where, it still sounds on\n Back of this wrinkled brow.\n\nAnd down in my heart I hear it still,\n Like the echoes of far-off bells;\nLike the dreamy sound of a summer rill\n Flowing through fairy dells.\n\nBut what shall I sing for the world's gay throng,\nAnd what the words of the old man's song?\n\nThe world they tell me, is so giddy grown\n That thought is rare;\nAnd thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone\n Hold empire there;\n\nThat fools have prestige, place and power and fame;\n Can it be true\nThat wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame,\n And wise are few?\n\nThey tell me, too, that all is venal, vain,\n With high and low;\nThat truth and honor are the slaves of gain;\n Can it be so?\n\nThat lofty principle hath long been dead\n And in a shroud;\nThat virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head,\n Amid the crowd.\n\nThey tell me, too, that few they are who own\n God's law and love;\nThat thousands, living for this earth alone,\n Look not above;\n\nThat daily, hourly, from the bad to worse,\n Men tread the path,\nBlaspheming God, and careless of the curse\n Of his dead wrath.\n\nAnd must I sing for slaves of sordid gain,\n Or to the few\nShall I not dedicate this Christmas strain\n Who still are true?\n\nNo; not for the false shall I strike the strings\n Of the lyre that was mute so long;\nIf I sing at all, the gray bard sings\n For the few and the true his song.\n\nAnd ah! there is many a changeful mood\n That over my spirit steals;\nBeneath their spell, and in verses rude,\n Whatever he dreams or feels.\n\nWhatever the fancies this Christmas eve\n Are haunting the lonely man,\nWhether they gladden, or whether they grieve,\n He'll sing them as best he can.\n\nThough some of the strings of his lyre are broke\n This holiest night of the year,\nWho knows how its melody may wake\n A Christmas smile or a tear?\n\nSo on with the mystic song,\n   With its meaning manifold --\n    Two tones in every word,\n   Two thoughts in every tone;\nIn the measured words that move along\n    One meaning shall be heard,\n   One thought to all be told;\n   But under it all, to be alone --\nAnd under it all, to all unknown --\n    As safe as under a coffin-lid,\n    Deep meanings shall be hid.\n   Find them out who can!\nThe thoughts concealed and unrevealed\n   In the song of the lonely man.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nI'm sitting alone in my silent room\n This long December night,\nWatching the fire-flame fill the gloom\n With many a picture bright.\n  Ah! how the fire can paint!\n   Its magic skill, how strange!\n    How every spark\n    On the canvas dark\n  Draws figures and forms so quaint!\n   And how the pictures change!\n    One moment how they smile!\n    And in less than a little while,\n   In the twinkling of an eye,\n   Like the gleam of a summer sky,\n    The beaming smiles all die.\n\nFrom gay to grave -- from grave to gay --\nThe faces change in the shadows gray;\nAnd just as I wonder who they are,\n    Over them all,\n    Like a funeral pall,\nThe folds of the shadows droop and fall,\n    And the charm is gone,\n    And every one\n    Of the pictures fade away.\n\nAh! the fire within my grate\n   Hath more than Raphael's power,\n    Is more than Raphael's peer;\n   It paints for me in a little hour\n    More than he in a year;\nAnd the pictures hanging 'round me here\n This holy Christmas eve\nNo artist's pencil could create --\n No painter's art conceive;\n\n    Ah! those cheerful faces,\n    Wearing youthful graces!\nI gaze on them until I seem\nHalf awake and half in dream.\n There are brows without a mark,\n    Features bright without a shade;\n    There are eyes without a tear;\n There are lips unused to sigh.\n Ah! never mind -- you soon shall die!\n    All those faces soon shall fade,\n    Fade into the dreary dark\n    Like their pictures hanging here.\n    -- Lo! those tearful faces,\n    Bearing age's traces!\n\nI gaze on them, and they on me,\n    Until I feel a sorrow steal\nThrough my heart so drearily;\n    There are faces furrowed deep;\n    There are eyes that used to weep;\n     There are brows beneath a cloud;\n    There are hearts that want to sleep;\n    Never mind! the shadows creep\n     From the death-land; and a shroud,\n    Tenderly as mother's arm,\n    Soon shall shield the old from harm,\n     Soon shall wrap its robe of rest\n     Round each sorrow-haunted breast\nAh! that face of mother's,\nSister's, too, and brother's --\n    And so many others,\n    Dear is every name --\nAnd Ethel!  Thou art there,\nWith thy child-face sweet and fair,\n     And thy heart so bright\n     In its shroud so white;\n     Just as I saw you last\n     In the golden, happy past;\nAnd you seem to wear\nUpon your hair --\nYour waving, golden hair --\n    The smile of the setting sun.\n    Ah! me, how years will run!\n    But all the years cannot efface\n    Your purest name, your sweetest grace,\n    From the heart that still is true\n    Of all the world to you;\n    The other faces shine,\n    But none so fair as thine;\nAnd wherever they are to-night, I know\n    They look the very same\n    As in their pictures hanging here\n    This night, to memory dear,\n    And painted by the flames,\nWith tombstones in the background,\n    And shadows for their frames.\n\n    And thus with my pictures only,\n     And the fancies they unweave,\n    Alone, and yet not lonely,\n     I keep my Christmas eve.\nI'm sitting alone in my pictured room --\n   But, no! they have vanished all --\nI'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom,\n   I'm watching the ashes fall.\nAnd far away back of the cheerful blaze\nThe beautiful visions of by-gone days\nAre rising before my raptured gaze.\n   Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm,\n   Hast thou a wizard's magic charm\nTo bring those far-off scenes so near\nAnd make my past days meet me here?\n\n    Tell me -- tell me -- how is it?\n    The past is past, and here I sit,\nAnd there, lo! there before me rise,\n Beyond yon glowing flame,\nThe summer suns of childhood's skies,\n Yes -- yes -- the very same!\nI saw them rise long, long ago;\nI played beneath their golden glow;\n And I remember yet,\n I often cried with strange regret\n When in the west I saw them set\n    And there they are again;\n    The suns, the skies, the very days\n    Of childhood, just beyond that blaze!\n     But, ah! such visions almost craze\n     The old man's puzzled brain!\n    I thought the past was past!\n     But, no! it cannot be;\n     'Tis here to-night with me!\n\n How is it, then? the past of men\n  Is part of one eternity --\n The days of yore we so deplore,\n They are not dead -- they are not fled,\n  They live and live for evermore.\n And thus my past comes back to me\n  With all its visions fair.\n\n O past! could I go back to thee,\n    And live forever there!\n    But, no! there's frost upon my hair;\n    My feet have trod a path of care;\n     And worn and wearied here I sit\n     I am too tired to go to it.\n\n    And thus with visions only,\n     And the fancies they unweave,\n    Alone, and yet not lonely,\n     I keep my Christmas eve.\n\nI am sitting alone in my fire-lit room;\n   But, no! the fire is dying,\nAnd the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom,\n   Are sad, and I hear them sighing.\n    The wind hath a voice to pine --\n     Plaintive, and pensive and low;\n    Hath it a heart like mine or thine?\n     Knoweth it weal or woe?\n    How it wails in a ghost-like strain,\n    Just against that window pane!\nAs if it were tired of its long, cold flight,\nAnd wanted to rest with me to-night.\n    Cease! night-winds, cease!\n     Why should you be sad?\n    This is a night of joy and peace,\n     And heaven and earth are glad!\n    But still the wind's voice grieves!\n     Perchance o'er the fallen leaves,\n    Which, in their summer bloom,\nDanced to the music of bird and breeze,\nBut, torn from the arms of their parent trees,\n    Lie now in their wintry tomb --\n    Mute types of man's own doom.\n\n And thus with the night winds only,\n  And the fancies they unweave,\n Alone, and yet not lonely,\n  I keep my Christmas eve.\n\nHow long have I been dreaming here?\n   Or have I dreamed at all?\nMy fire is dead -- my pictures fled --\nThere's nothing left but shadows drear --\n   Shadows on the wall:\n\n    Shifting, flitting,\n    Round me sitting\n   In my old arm chair --\n    Rising, sinking\n    Round me, thinking,\nTill, in the maze of many a dream,\nI'm not myself; and I almost seem\n   Like one of the shadows there.\n    Well, let the shadows stay!\n    I wonder who are they?\nI cannot say; but I almost believe\nThey know to-night is Christmas eve,\n    And to-morrow Christmas day.\n\nAh! there's nothing like a Christmas eve\n To change life's bitter gall to sweet,\nAnd change the sweet to gall again;\n To take the thorns from out our feet --\n    The thorns and all their dreary pain,\n    Only to put them back again.\n\nTo take old stings from out our heart --\nOld stings that made them bleed and smart --\nOnly to sharpen them the more,\nAnd press them back to the heart's own core.\n\n Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve!\nFears and hopes, and hopes and fears,\nTears and smiles, and smiles and tears,\nCheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers,\nSweet and bitter, bitter, sweet,\n Bright and dark, and dark and bright.\nAll these mingle, all these meet,\n In this great and solemn night.\n\nAh! there's nothing like a Christmas eve\nTo melt, with kindly glowing heat,\nFrom off our souls the snow and sleet,\nThe dreary drift of wintry years,\n Only to make the cold winds blow,\n Only to make a colder snow;\nAnd make it drift, and drift, and drift,\nIn flakes so icy-cold and swift,\n Until the heart that lies below\n Is cold and colder than the snow.\n\n And thus with the shadows only,\n  And the dreamings they unweave,\n Alone, and yet not lonely,\n  I keep my Christmas eve.\n\n   'Tis passing fast!\n    My fireless, lampless room\n    Is a mass of moveless gloom;\n   And without -- a darkness vast,\n    Solemn -- starless -- still!\n    Heaven and earth doth fill.\n\n   But list! there soundeth a bell,\n   With a mystical ding, dong, dell!\n    Is it, say, is it a funeral knell?\n    Solemn and slow,\n    Now loud -- now low;\nPealing the notes of human woe\nOver the graves lying under the snow!\n   Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell!\n   Trembling along the gale,\nUnder the stars and over the snow.\nWhy is it? whence is it sounding so?\n    Is it a toll of a burial bell?\n\n   Or is it a spirit's wail?\n    Solemnly, mournfully,\n    Sad -- and how lornfully!\n     Ding, dong, dell!\n    Whence is it? who can tell?\nAnd the marvelous notes they sink and swell,\nSadder, and sadder, and sadder still!\nHow the sounds tremble! how they thrill!\n     Every tone\n     So like a moan;\nAs if the strange bell's stranger clang\nThrobbed with a terrible human pang.\n\n    Ding, dong, dell!\n    Dismally, drearily,\n    Ever so wearily.\nFar off and faint as a requiem plaint\nFloats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell\n    Piercingly -- thrillingly,\n    Icily -- chillingly,\n    Near -- and more near,\n    Drearer -- and more drear,\nSoundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!\n\n    Now sinking lower,\n    It tolleth slower!\nI list, and I hear its sound no more.\n   And now, methinks, I know that bell,\n   Know it well -- know its knell --\nFor I often heard it sound before.\n\nIt is a bell -- yet not a bell\n Whose sound may reach the ear!\nIt tolls a knell -- yet not a knell\n Which earthly sense may hear.\nIn every soul a bell of dole\n Hangs ready to be tolled;\nAnd from that bell a funeral knell\n Is often outward rolled;\nAnd memory is the sexton gray\n Who tolls the dreary knell;\nAnd nights like this he loves to sway\n And swing his mystic bell.\n'Twas that I heard and nothing more,\n This lonely Christmas eve;\nThen, for the dead I'll meet no more,\n At Christmas let me grieve.\n\nNight, be a priest! put your star-stole on\n And murmur a holy prayer\nOver each grave, and for every one\n Lying down lifeless there!\n\nAnd over the dead stands the high priest, Night,\n Robed in his shadowy stole;\nAnd beside him I kneel as his acolyte,\n To respond to his prayer of dole.\n\n    And list! he begins\n    That psalm for sins,\nThe first of the mournful seven;\n    Plaintive and soft\n    It rises aloft,\nBegging the mercy of Heaven\n    To pity and forgive,\n    For the sake of those who live,\nThe dead who have died unshriven.\n    Miserere! Miserere!\nStill your heart and hush your breath!\nThe voices of despair and death\n   Are shuddering through the psalm!\n    Miserere! Miserere!\nLift your hearts! the terror dies!\nUp in yonder sinless skies\n   The psalms sound sweet and calm!\n    Miserere! Miserere!\nVery low, in tender tones,\nThe music pleads, the music moans,\n   \"I forgive and have forgiven,\n   The dead whose hearts were shriven.\"\n    De profundis! De profundis!\nPsalm of the dead and disconsolate!\n Thou hast sounded through a thousand years,\n And pealed above ten thousand biers;\nAnd still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate\n   Of sinners and of just,\nWhen their souls are going up to God,\n   Their bodies down to dust.\nDread hymn! you wring the saddest tears\n   From mortal eyes that fall,\nAnd your notes evoke the darkest fears\n   That human hearts appall!\nYou sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad,\nAnd ever your music is sad, so sad,\nWe seem to hear murmured in every tone,\nFor the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse.\nPsalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve\nOver our dead on this Christmas eve.\n    De profundis! De profundis!\nAnd the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay,\nAnd the spirits immortal from far away,\nTo the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.\n\nYou think of the dead on Christmas eve,\n Wherever the dead are sleeping,\nAnd we from a land where we may not grieve\n Look tenderly down on your weeping.\nYou think us far, we are very near,\n From you and the earth, though parted;\nWe sing to-night to console and cheer\n The hearts of the broken-hearted.\nThe earth watches over the lifeless clay\n Of each of its countless sleepers,\nAnd the sleepless spirits that passed away\n Watch over all earth's weepers.\nWe shall meet again in a brighter land,\n Where farewell is never spoken;\nWe shall clasp each other in hand,\n And the clasp shall not be broken;\nWe shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime,\n Where we'll never know a sadness,\nAnd our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime,\n With rapture and with gladness.\nThe snows shall pass from our graves away,\n And you from the earth, remember;\nAnd the flowers of a bright, eternal May,\n Shall follow earth's December.\nWhen you think of us think not of the tomb\n Where you laid us down in sorrow;\nBut look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom,\n And wait for the great to-morrow.\nAnd the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on,\n Whispereth soft and low:\n    Requiescat! Requiescat!\n\n      Peace! Peace! to every one\nFor whom we grieve this Christmas eve,\n In their graves beneath the snow.\n\nThe stars in the far-off heaven\nHave long since struck eleven!\nAnd hark! from temple and from tower,\nSoundeth time's grandest midnight hour,\nBlessed by the Saviour's birth,\nAnd night putteth off the sable stole,\nSymbol of sorrow and sign of dole,\nFor one with many a starry gem,\nTo honor the Babe of Bethlehem,\nWho comes to men the King of them,\nYet comes without robe or diadem,\nAnd all turn towards the holy east,\nTo hear the song of the Christmas feast.\n\nFour thousand years earth waited,\n Four thousand years men prayed,\nFour thousand years the nations sighed,\n That their King so long delayed.\n\nThe prophets told His coming,\n The saintly for Him sighed,\nAnd the star of the Babe of Bethlehem\n Shone o'er them when they died.\n\nTheir faces towards the future,\n They longed to hail the light\nThat in the after centuries\n Would rise on Christmas night.\n\nBut still the Saviour tarried,\n Within His father's home\nAnd the nations wept and wondered why\n The promised had not come.\n\nAt last earth's hope was granted,\n And God was a child of earth;\nAnd a thousand angels chanted\n The lowly midnight birth.\n\nAh! Bethlehem was grander\n That hour than Paradise;\nAnd the light of earth that night eclipsed\n The splendors of the skies.\n\nThen let us sing the anthem\n The angels once did sing;\nUntil the music of love and praise,\n O'er whole wide world will ring.\n\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Sound the thrilling song;\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    Roll the hymn along.\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Let the heavens ring;\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    Welcome, new-born King\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Over the sea and land,\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    Chant the anthem grand.\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Let us all rejoice;\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    Lift each heart and voice.\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Swell the hymn on high;\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    Sound it to the sky.\n   Gloria in excelsis!\n    Sing it, sinful earth,\n   In excelsis Deo!\n    For the Saviour's birth.\n\nThus joyfully and victoriously,\nGlad and ever so gloriously,\nHigh as the heavens, wide as the earth,\nSwelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.\n\n   Lo! the day is waking\n    In the east afar;\n   Dawn is faintly breaking,\n    Sunk in every star.\n\n   Christmas eve has vanished\n    With its shadows gray;\n   All its griefs are banished\n    By bright Christmas day.\n\n   Joyful chimes are ringing\n    O'er the land and seas,\n   And there comes glad singing,\n    Borne on every breeze.\n\n   Little ones so merry\n    Bed-clothes coyly lift,\n   And, in such a hurry,\n    Prattle \"Christmas gift!\"\n\n   Little heads so curly,\n    Knowing Christmas laws,\n   Peep out very early\n    For old \"Santa Claus\".\n\n   Little eyes are laughing\n    O'er their Christmas toys,\n   Older ones are quaffing\n    Cups of Christmas joys.\n\n   Hearts are joyous, cheerful,\n    Faces all are gay;\n   None are sad and tearful\n    On bright Christmas day.\n\n   Hearts are light and bounding,\n    All from care are free;\n   Homes are all resounding\n    With the sounds of glee.\n\n   Feet with feet are meeting,\n    Bent on pleasure's way;\n   Souls to souls give greeting\n    Warm on Christmas day.\n\n   Gifts are kept a-going\n    Fast from hand to hand;\n   Blessings are a-flowing\n    Over every land.\n\n   One vast wave of gladness\n    Sweeps its world-wide way,\n   Drowning every sadness\n    On this Christmas day.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Haste around the earth;\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Scatter smiles and mirth.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Be to one and all!\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Enter hut and hall.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Be to rich and poor!\n   Merry, merry Christmas\n    Stop at every door.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Fill each heart with joy!\n   Merry, merry Christmas\n    To each girl and boy.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    Better gifts than gold;\n   Merry, merry Christmas\n    To the young and old.\n\n   Merry, merry Christmas,\n    May the coming year\n   Bring as merry a Christmas\n    And as bright a cheer.\n\n\n\n\n\"Far Away\"\n\n\n\n\"Far Away!\" what does it mean?\n A change of heart with a change of place?\nWhen footsteps pass from scene to scene,\n Fades soul from soul with face from face?\n Are hearts the slaves or lords of space?\n\n\"Far Away!\" what does it mean?\n Does distance sever there from here?\nCan leagues of land part hearts? -- I ween\n They cannot; for the trickling tear\n Says \"Far Away\" means \"Far More Near\".\n\n\"Far Away!\" -- the mournful miles\n Are but the mystery of space\nThat blends our sighs, but parts our smiles,\n For love will find a meeting place\n When face is farthest off from face.\n\n\"Far Away!\" we meet in dreams,\n As 'round the altar of the night\nFar-parted stars send down their gleams\n To meet in one embrace of light\n And make the brow of darkness bright.\n\n\"Far Away!\" we meet in tears,\n That tell the path of weary feet;\nAnd all the good-byes of the years\n But make the wanderer's welcome sweet,\n The rains of parted clouds thus meet.\n\n\"Far Away!\" we meet in prayer,\n You know the temple and the shrine;\nBefore it bows the brow of care,\n Upon it tapers dimly shine;\n 'Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine.\n\n\"Far Away!\" it falls between\nWhat is to-day and what has been;\nBut ah! what is meet, what is not,\nIn every hour and every spot,\nWhere lips breathe on \"I have forgot.\"\n\n\"Far Away!\" there is no far!\nNor days nor distance e'er can bar\nMy spirit from your spirits -- nay,\nFarewell may waft a face away,\nBut still with you my heart will stay.\n\n\"Far Away!\" I sing its song,\nBut while the music moves along,\nFrom out each word an echo clear\nFalls trembling on my spirit's ear,\n\"Far Away\" means \"Far More Near\".\n\n\n\n\nListen\n\n\n\n    We borrow,\n    In our sorrow,\nFrom the sun of some to-morrow\n Half the light that gilds to-day;\n    And the splendor\n    Flashes tender\nO'er hope's footsteps to defend her\n From the fears that haunt the way.\n\n    We never\n    Here can sever\nAny now from the forever\n Interclasping near and far!\n    For each minute\n    Holds within it\nAll the hours of the infinite,\n As one sky holds every star.\n\n\n\n\nWrecked\n\n\n\nThe winds are singing a death-knell\n Out on the main to-night;\nThe sky droops low -- and many a bark\n That sailed from harbors bright,\n    Like many an one before,\n    Shall enter port no more:\nAnd a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore\n Before to-morrow's light.\n\nThe clouds are hanging a death-pall\n Over the sea to-night;\nThe stars are veiled -- and the hearts that sailed\n Away from harbors bright,\nShall sob their last for their quiet home --\nAnd, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam\n Before the morning's light.\n\nThe waves are weaving a death-shroud\n Out on the main to-night;\nAlas! the last prayer whispered there\n By lips with terror white!\n    Over the ridge of gloom,\n    Not a star will loom!\nGod help the souls that will meet their doom\n Before the dawn of light!\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nThe breeze is singing a joy song\n Over the sea to-day;\nThe storm is dead and the waves are red\n With the flush of the morning's ray;\nAnd the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep\nThe eyes that watch for the ships shall weep\n For the hearts they bore away.\n\n\n\n\nDreaming\n\n\n\nThe moan of a wintry soul\n Melted into a summer song,\nAnd the words, like the wavelet's roll,\n Moved murmuringly along.\n\nAnd the song flowed far and away,\n Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill --\nEach wave of it lit by a ray --\n But the sound was so soft and so still,\n\nAnd the tone was so gentle and low,\n None heard the song till it had passed;\nTill the echo that followed its flow\n Came dreamingly back from the past.\n\n'Twas too late! -- a song never returns\n That passes our pathway unheard;\nAs dust lying dreaming in urns\n Is the song lying dead in a word.\n\nFor the birds of the skies have a nest,\n And the winds have a home where they sleep,\nAnd songs, like our souls, need a rest,\n Where they murmur the while we may weep.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nBut songs -- like the birds o'er the foam,\n Where the storm wind is beating their breast,\nFly shoreward -- and oft find a home\n In the shelter of words where they rest.\n\n\n\n\nA Thought\n\n\n\nHearts that are great beat never loud,\n They muffle their music when they come;\nThey hurry away from the thronging crowd\n With bended brows and lips half dumb,\n\nAnd the world looks on and mutters -- \"Proud.\"\n But when great hearts have passed away\nMen gather in awe and kiss their shroud,\n And in love they kneel around their clay.\n\nHearts that are great are always lone,\n They never will manifest their best;\nTheir greatest greatness is unknown --\n Earth knows a little -- God, the rest.\n\n\n\n\n\"Yesterdays\"\n\n\n\nGone! and they return no more,\n But they leave a light in the heart;\nThe murmur of waves that kiss a shore\n Will never, I know, depart.\n\nGone! yet with us still they stay,\n And their memories throb through life;\nThe music that hushes or stirs to-day,\n Is toned by their calm or strife.\n\nGone! and yet they never go!\n We kneel at the shrine of time:\n'Tis a mystery no man may know,\n Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.\n\n\n\n\n\"To-Days\"\n\n\n\nBrief while they last,\n Long when they are gone;\nThey catch from the past\n A light to still live on.\n\nBrief! yet I ween\n A day may be an age,\nThe poet's pen may screen\n Heart-stories on one page.\n\nBrief! but in them,\n From eve back to morn,\nSome find the gem,\n Many find the thorn.\n\nBrief! minutes pass\n Soft as flakes of snow,\nShadows o'er the grass\n Could not swifter go.\n\nBrief! but along\n All the after-years\nTo-day will be a song\n Of smiles or of tears.\n\n\n\n\n\"To-Morrows\"\n\n\n\nGod knows all things -- but we\n In darkness walk our ways;\nWe wonder what will be,\n We ask the nights and days.\n\nTheir lips are sealed; at times\n The bards, like prophets, see,\nAnd rays rush o'er their rhymes\n From suns of \"days to be\".\n\nThey see To-morrow's heart,\n They read To-morrow's face,\nThey grasp -- is it by art --\n The far To-morrow's trace?\n\nThey see what is unseen,\n And hear what is unheard,\nAnd To-morrow's shade or sheen\n Rests on the poet's word.\n\nAs seers see a star\n Beyond the brow of night,\nSo poets scan the far\n Prophetic when they write.\n\nThey read a human face,\n As readers read their page,\nThe while their thought will trace\n A life from youth to age.\n\nThey have a mournful gift,\n Their verses oft are tears;\nAnd sleepless eyes they lift\n To look adown the years.\n\nTo-morrows are to-days!\n Is it not more than art?\nWhen all life's winding ways\n Meet in the poet's heart?\n\nThe present meets the past,\n The future, too, is there;\nThe first enclasps the last\n And never folds fore'er.\n\nIt is not all a dream;\n A poet's thought is truth;\nThe things that are -- and seem\n From age far back to youth --\n\nHe holds the tangled threads,\n His hands unravel them;\nHe knows the hearts and heads\n For thorns, or diadem.\n\nAsk him, and he will see\n What your To-morrows are;\nHe'll sing \"What is to be\"\n Beneath each sun and star.\n\nTo-morrows!  Dread unknown!\n What fates may they not bring?\nWhat is the chord? the tone?\n The key in which they sing?\n\nI see a thousand throngs,\n To-morrows for them wait;\nI hear a thousand songs\n Intoning each one's fate.\n\nAnd yours?  What will it be?\n Hush! song, and let me pray!\nGod sees it all -- I see\n A long, lone, winding way;\n\nAnd more! no matter what!\n Crosses and crowns you wear:\nMy song may be forgot,\n But Thou shalt not, in prayer.\n\n\n\n\nInevitable\n\n\n\nWhat has been will be,\n 'Tis the under law of life;\n'Tis the song of sky and sea,\n To the key of calm and strife.\n\nFor guard we as we may,\n What is to be will be,\nThe dark must fold each day --\n The shore must gird each sea.\n\nAll things are ruled by law;\n 'Tis only in man's will\nYou meet a feeble flaw;\n But fate is weaving still\n\nThe web and woof of life,\n With hands that have no hearts,\nThro' calmness and thro' strife,\n Despite all human arts.\n\nFor fate is master here,\n He laughs at human wiles;\nHe sceptres every tear,\n And fetters any smiles.\n\nWhat is to be will be,\n We cannot help ourselves;\nThe waves ask not the sea\n Where lies the shore that shelves.\n\nThe law is coldest steel,\n We live beneath its sway,\nIt cares not what we feel,\n And so pass night and day.\n\nAnd sometimes we may think\n This cannot -- will not -- be:\nSome waves must rise -- some sink,\n Out on the midnight sea.\n\nAnd we are weak as waves\n That sink upon the shore;\nWe go down into graves --\n Fate chants the nevermore;\n\nCometh a voice!  Kneel down!\n 'Tis God's -- there is no fate --\nHe giveth the Cross and Crown,\n He opens the jeweled gate.\n\nHe watcheth with such eyes\n As only mothers own --\n\"Sweet Father in the skies!\n Ye call us to a throne.\"\n\nThere is no fate -- God's love\n Is law beneath each law,\nAnd law all laws above\n Fore'er, without a flaw.\n\n\n\n\nSorrow and the Flowers\n\nA Memorial Wreath to C. F.\n\n\n\n    Sorrow:\n\nA garland for a grave!  Fair flowers that bloom,\n And only bloom to fade as fast away,\nWe twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb,\n And with your dying beauty crown her clay.\n\nYe are the tender types of life's decay;\n Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath,\nFrom out the hand of June, or heart of May,\n Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death.\n\nMy name is Sorrow.  I have knelt at graves,\n All o'er the weary world for weary years;\nI kneel there still, and still my anguish laves\n The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears.\n\nAnd yet, the while I garland graves as now,\n I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe;\nWhilst joy is crowning many a living brow,\n I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below.\n\nShe was a flower -- fresh, fair and pure, and frail;\n A lily in life's morning.  God is sweet;\nHe reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail;\n Her lily drooped:  'tis blooming at His feet.\n\nWhere are the flowers to crown the faded flower?\n I want a garland for another grave;\nAnd who will bring them from the dell and bower,\n To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave?\n\nAs though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will;\n Ye come with fairest flowers:  give them to me,\nTo crown our Claudia.  Love leads memory still,\n To prove at graves love's immortality.\n\n\n    White Rose:\n\nHer grave is not a grave; it is a shrine,\n Where innocence reposes,\nBright over which God's stars must love to shine,\n And where, when Winter closes,\nFair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine,\nJust like this hand of mine,\n The whitest of white roses.\n\n\n    Laurel:\n\nI found it on a mountain slope,\n The sunlight on its face;\nIt caught from clouds a smile of hope\n That brightened all the place.\n\nThey wreathe with it the warrior's brow,\n And crown the chieftain's head;\nBut the laurel's leaves love best to grace\n The garland of the dead.\n\n\n    Wild Flower:\n\nI would not live in a garden,\n But far from the haunts of men;\nNature herself was my warden,\n I lived in a lone little glen.\nA wild flower out of the wildwood,\n Too wild for even a name;\nAs strange and as simple as childhood,\n And wayward, yet sweet all the same.\n\n\n    Willow Branch:\n\nTo sorrow's own sweet crown,\n With simple grace,\nThe weeping-willow bends her branches down\n    Just like a mother's arm,\n    To shield from harm,\n The dead within their resting place.\n\n\n    Lily:\n\nThe angel flower of all the flowers:\n   Its sister flowers,\n   In all the bowers\nWorship the lily, for it brings,\n   Wherever it blooms,\n   On shrines or tombs,\nA dream surpassing earthly sense\nOf heaven's own stainless innocence.\n\n\n    Violet Leaves:\n\n   It is too late for violets,\n    I only bring their leaves,\n   I looked in vain for mignonettes\n    To grace the crown grief weaves;\n   For queenly May, upon her way,\n      Robs half the bowers\n      Of all their flowers,\n    And leaves but leaves to June.\n    Ah! beauty fades so soon;\nAnd the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun,\nFor flowerets are fading fast, one by one.\n Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland,\n Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.\n\n\n    Forget-Me-Not:\n\n\"Forget-me-not!\"  The sad words strangely quiver\nOn lips, like shadows falling on a river,\n      Flowing away,\n      By night, by day,\n   Flowing away forever.\nThe mountain whence the river springs\n Murmurs to it, \"forget me not;\"\nThe little stream runs on and sings\n On to the sea, and every spot\n    It passes by\n    Breathes forth a sigh,\n\"Forget me not!\" \"forget me not!\"\n\n\n    A Garland:\n\nI bring this for her mother; ah, who knows\n The lonely deeps within a mother's heart?\nBeneath the wildest wave of woe that flows\n Above, around her, when her children part,\nThere is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone;\nIt sheds no tears, it never maketh moan.\nWhene'er a child dies from a mother's arms,\nA grave is dug within the mother's heart:\nShe watches it alone; no words of art\nCan tell the story of her vigils there.\nThis garland fading even while 'tis fair,\nIt is a mother's memory of a grave,\nWhen God hath taken her whom heaven gave.\n\n\n    Sorrow:\n\nFarewell! I go to crown the dead;\n Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day,\nFor they whose hearts so faithful love\n The lonely grave -- the very clay;\nThey crown themselves with richer gems\nThan flash in royal diadems.\n\n\n\n\nHope\n\n\n\nThine eyes are dim:\n A mist hath gathered there;\nAround their rim\n Float many clouds of care,\n And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.\n\nBut there is God,\n Every -- everywhere;\nBeneath His rod\n Kneel thou adown in prayer.\n\nFor grief is God's own kiss\n Upon a soul.\nLook up! the sun of bliss\n Will shine where storm-clouds roll.\n\nYes, weeper, weep!\n 'Twill not be evermore;\nI know the darkest deep\n Hath e'en the brightest shore.\n\nSo tired! so tired!\n A cry of half despair;\nLook! at your side --\n And see Who standeth there!\n\nYour Father!  Hush!\n A heart beats in His breast;\nNow rise and rush\n Into His arms -- and rest.\n\n\n\n\nFarewells\n\n\n\nThey are so sad to say:  no poem tells\nThe agony of hearts that dwells\nIn lone and last farewells.\n\nThey are like deaths:  they bring a wintry chill\nTo summer's roses, and to summer's rill;\nAnd yet we breathe them still.\n\nFor pure as altar-lights hearts pass away;\nHearts! we said to them, \"Stay with us! stay!\"\nAnd they said, sighing as they said it, \"Nay.\"\n\nThe sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells\nThe starless story of the night that dwells\nIn lone and last farewells.\n\nTwo faces meet here, there, or anywhere:\nEach wears the thoughts the other face may wear;\nTheir hearts may break, breathing, \"Farewell fore'er.\"\n\n\n\n\nSong of the River\n\n\n\n   A river went singing adown to the sea,\n    A-singing -- low -- singing --\n   And the dim rippling river said softly to me,\n    \"I'm bringing, a-bringing --\n       While floating along --\n       A beautiful song\nTo the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,\nTo the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary.\n       A song sweet and calm\n       As the peacefulest psalm;\n       And the shore that was sad\n       Will be grateful and glad,\nAnd the weariest wave from its dreariest dream\nWill wake to the sound of the song of the stream;\n       And the tempests shall cease\n       And there shall be peace.\"\n       From the fairest of fountains,\n       And farthest of mountains,\n       From the stillness of snow\n       Came the stream in its flow.\n\nDown the slopes where the rocks are gray,\n Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair --\nWhere the sunlight flashed -- where the shadows lay\n Like stories that cloud a face of care,\n  The river ran on -- and on -- and on --\n   Day and night, and night and day;\n  Going and going, and never gone,\n   Longing to flow to the \"far away\",\n  Staying and staying, and never still;\n  Going and staying, as if one will\n  Said, \"Beautiful river, go to the sea;\"\n  And another will whispered, \"Stay with me:\"\n  And the river made answer, soft and low --\n  \"I go and stay\" -- \"I stay and go.\"\n\n  But what is the song, I said, at last?\n  To the passing river that never passed;\n  And a white, white wave whispered, \"List to me,\n  I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea, --\nA song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever,\nAnd the river flows on in the same mystic key\nThat blends in one chord the `forever and never'.\"\n\n____\nDecember 15, 1878.\n\n\n\n\nDreamland\n\n\n\n  Over the silent sea of sleep,\n   Far away! far away!\n  Over a strange and starlit deep\n   Where the beautiful shadows sway;\n    Dim in the dark,\n    Glideth a bark,\nWhere never the waves of a tempest roll --\nBearing the very \"soul of a soul\",\n   Alone, all alone --\n  Far away -- far away\n   To shores all unknown\n  In the wakings of the day;\nTo the lovely land of dreams,\nWhere what is meets with what seems\nBrightly dim, dimly bright;\nWhere the suns meet stars at night,\nWhere the darkness meets the light\n   Heart to heart, face to face,\n   In an infinite embrace.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\n   Mornings break,\n   And we wake,\n  And we wonder where we went\n   In the bark\n   Thro' the dark,\n  But our wonder is misspent;\nFor no day can cast a light\nOn the dreamings of the night.\n\n\n\n\nLines [\"Sometimes, from the far-away,\"]\n\n\n\nSometimes, from the far-away,\n Wing a little thought to me;\nIn the night or in the day,\n It will give a rest to me.\n\nI have praise of many here,\n And the world gives me renown;\nLet it go -- give me one tear,\n 'Twill be a jewel in my crown.\n\nWhat care I for earthly fame?\n How I shrink from all its glare!\nI would rather that my name\n Would be shrined in some one's prayer.\n\nMany hearts are all too much,\n Or too little in their praise;\nI would rather feel the touch\n Of one prayer that thrills all days.\n\n\n\n\nA Song\n\nWritten in an Album.\n\n\n\nPure faced page! waiting so long\n To welcome my muse and me;\nFold to thy breast, like a mother, the song\n That floats from my spirit to thee.\n\nAnd song! sound soft as the streamlet sings,\n And sweet as the Summer's birds,\nAnd pure and bright and white be the wings\n That will waft thee into words.\n\nYea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea\n To rest on the far-off beach,\nAnd breathe forth the message I trust to thee,\n Tear toned on the shores of speech.\n\nBut ere you go, dip your snowy wing\n In a wave of my spirit's deep --\nIn a wave that is purest -- then haste and bring\n A song to the hearts that weep.\n\nOh! bring it, and sing it -- its notes are tears;\n Its octaves, the octaves of grief;\nWho knows but its tones in the far-off years\n May bring to the lone heart relief?\n\nYea! bring it, and sing it -- a worded moan\n That sweeps thro' the minors of woe,\nWith mystical meanings in every tone,\n And sounds like the sea's lone flow.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd the thoughts take the wings of words, and float\n Out of my spirit to thee;\nBut the song dies away into only one note,\n And sounds but in only one key.\n\nAnd the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest wave\n That sobs on the loneliest shore;\nAnd the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave;\n And the chord! -- 'tis a sad \"nevermore\".\n\nAnd just like the wavelet that moans on the beach,\n And, sighing, sinks back to the sea,\nSo my song -- it just touches the rude shores of speech,\n And its music melts back into me.\n\nYea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep,\n Let others hear only thy moan --\nBut I -- I forever shall hear the grand sweep\n Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone.\n\nSweep on, mighty song! -- sound down in my heart\n As a storm sounding under a sea;\nNot a sound of thy music shall pass into art,\n Nor a note of it float out from me.\n\n\n\n\nParting\n\n\n\nFarewell! that word has broken hearts\n And blinded eyes with tears;\nFarewell! one stays, and one departs;\n Between them roll the years.\n\nNo wonder why who say it think --\n Farewell! he may fare ill\nNo wonder that their spirits sink\n And all their hopes grow chill.\n\nGood-bye! that word makes faces pale\n And fills the soul with fears;\nGood-bye! two words that wing a wail\n Which flutters down the years.\n\nNo wonder they who say it feel\n Such pangs for those who go;\nGood-bye they wish the parted weal,\n But ah! they may meet woe.\n\nAdieu! such is the word for us,\n 'Tis more than word -- 'tis prayer;\nThey do not part, who do part thus,\n For God is everywhere.\n\n\n\n\nSt. Stephen\n\n\n\nFirst champion of the Crucified!\n Who, when the fight began\nBetween the Church and worldly pride\nSo nobly fought, so nobly died,\n The foremost in the van;\nWhile rallied to your valiant side\n The red-robed martyr-band;\nTo-night with glad and high acclaim\nWe venerate thy saintly name;\nAccept, Saint Stephen, to thy praise\nAnd glory, these our lowly lays.\n\nThe chosen twelve with chrismed hand\n And burning zeal within,\nLed forth their small yet fearless band\nOn Pentecost, and took their stand\n Against the world and sin --\nWhile rang aloud the battle-cry:\n\"The hated Christians all must die!\nAs died the Nazarene before,\nThe God they believe in and adore.\"\nYet Stephen's heart quailed not with fear\n At persecution's cry;\nBut loving, as he did, the cause\nOf Jesus and His faith and laws,\n Prepared himself to die.\n\nHe faced his foes with burning zeal,\nSuch zeal as only saints can feel;\nHe told them how the Lord had stood\nWithin their midst, so great and good,\nHow he had through Judea trod,\nHow wonders marked his way -- the God,\nHow he had cured the blind, the lame,\nThe deaf, the palsied, and the maimed,\nAnd how, with awful, wondrous might,\nHe raised the dead to life and light;\nAnd how his people knew Him not --\nHad eyes and still had seen Him not,\nHad ears and still had heard Him not,\nHad hearts and comprehended not.\nThen said he, pointing to the right,\nWhere darkly rose Golgotha's height:\n\"There have ye slain the Holy One,\nYour Saviour and God's only Son.\"\n\nThey gnashed their teeth in raging ire,\n Those dark and cruel men;\nThey vowed a vengeance deep and dire\n Against Saint Stephen then.\nYet he was calm; a radiant light\n Around his forehead gleamed;\nHe raised his eyes, a wondrous sight\nHe saw, so grand it was and bright,\nHis soul was filled with such delight\n That he an angel seemed.\nThen spoke the Saint:  \"A vision grand\n Bursts on me from above:\nThe doors of heaven open stand,\nAnd at the Father's own right hand\n I see the Lord I love.\"\n\n\"Away with him,\" the rabble cry,\n With swelling rage and hate,\nBut Stephen still gazed on the sky,\nHis heart was with his Lord on high,\n He heeded not his fate.\n\nThe gathering crowd in fury wild\n Rush on the 'raptured Saint,\nAnd seize their victim, mute and mild,\nWho, like his master, though reviled,\n Still uttered no complaint.\n\nWith angry shouts they rend the air;\n They drag him to the city gate;\nThey bind his hands and feet and there,\nWhile whispered he for them a prayer,\n The martyr meets his fate.\n\nFirst fearless witness to his belief\n In Jesus Crucified,\nThe red-robed martyrs' noble chief,\n Thus for his Master died.\nAnd to the end of time his name\nOur Holy Church shall e'er proclaim,\nAnd with a mother's pride shall tell\nHow her great proto-martyr fell.\n\n\n\n\nA Flower's Song\n\n\n\nStar!  Star, why dost thou shine\n Each night upon my brow?\nWhy dost thou make me dream the dreams\n That I am dreaming now?\n\nStar!  Star, thy home is high --\n I am of humble birth;\nThy feet walk shining o'er the sky,\n Mine, only on the earth.\n\nStar!  Star, why make me dream?\n My dreams are all untrue;\nAnd why is sorrow dark for me\n And heaven bright for you?\n\nStar!  Star, oh, hide thy ray,\n And take it off my face;\nWithin my lowly home I stay,\n Thou, in thy lofty place.\n\nStar!  Star, and still I dream,\n Along thy light afar\nI seem to soar until I seem\n To be, like you, a star.\n\n\n\n\nThe Star's Song\n\n\n\nFlower!  Flower, why repine?\n God knows each creature's place;\nHe hides within me when I shine,\n And your leaves hide His face.\n\nAnd you are near as I to Him,\n And you reveal as much\nOf that eternal soundless hymn\n Man's words may never touch.\n\nGod sings to man through all my rays\n That wreathe the brow of night,\nAnd walks with me thro' all my ways --\n The everlasting light.\n\nFlower!  Flower, why repine?\n He chose on lowly earth,\nAnd not in heaven where I shine,\n His Bethlehem and birth.\n\nFlower!  Flower, I see Him pass\n Each hour of night and day,\nDown to an altar and a Mass\n Go thou! and fade away.\n\nFade away upon His shrine!\n Thy light is brighter far\nThan all the light wherewith I shine\n In heaven, as a star.\n\n\n\n\nDeath of the Flower\n\n\n\nI love my mother, the wildwood,\n I sleep upon her breast;\nA day or two of childhood,\n And then I sink to rest.\n\nI had once a lovely sister --\n She was cradled by my side;\nBut one Summer day I missed her --\n She had gone to deck a bride.\n\nAnd I had another sister,\n With cheeks all bright with bloom;\nAnd another morn I missed her --\n She had gone to wreathe a tomb.\n\nAnd they told me they had withered,\n On the bride's brow and the grave;\nHalf an hour, and all their fragrance\n Died away, which heaven gave.\n\nTwo sweet-faced girls came walking\n Thro' my lonely home one day,\nAnd I overheard them talking\n Of an altar on their way.\n\nThey were culling flowers around me,\n And I said a little prayer\nTo go with them -- and they found me --\n And upon an altar fair,\n\nWhere the Eucharist was lying\n On its mystical death-bed,\nI felt myself a-dying,\n While the Mass was being said.\n\nBut I lived a little longer,\n And I prayed there all the day,\nTill the evening Benediction,\n When my poor life passed away.\n\n\n\n\nSinging-Bird\n\n\n\nIn the valley of my life\n Sings a \"Singing-Bird\",\nAnd its voice thro' calm and strife\n Is sweetly heard.\n\nIn the day and thro' the night\n Sound the notes,\nAnd its song thro' dark and bright\n Ever floats.\n\nOther warblers cease to sing,\n And their voices rest,\nAnd they fold their weary wing\n In their quiet nest.\n\nBut my Singing-Bird still sings\n Without a cease;\nAnd each song it murmurs brings\n My spirit peace.\n\n\"Singing-Bird!\" O \"Singing-Bird!\"\n No one knows,\nWhen your holy songs are heard,\n What repose\n\nFills my life and soothes my heart;\n But I fear\nThe day -- thy songs, if we must part,\n I'll never hear.\n\nBut \"Singing-Bird!\" ah! \"Singing-Bird!\"\n Should this e'er be,\nThe dreams of all thy songs I heard\n Shall sing for me.\n\n\n\n\nNow\n\n\n\nSometimes a single hour\n Rings thro' a long life-time,\nAs from a temple tower\n There often falls a chime\nFrom blessed bells, that seems\nTo fold in Heaven's dreams\n Our spirits round a shrine;\n Hath such an hour been thine?\n\nSometimes -- who knoweth why?\n One minute holds a power\n That shadows every hour,\nDialed in life's sky.\n A cloud that is a speck\nWhen seen from far away\n May be a storm, and wreck\nThe joys of every day.\n\nSometimes -- it seems not much,\n 'Tis scarcely felt at all --\nGrace gives a gentle touch\n To hearts for once and all,\nWhich in the spirit's strife\n May all unnoticed be.\nAnd yet it rules a life;\n Hath this e'er come to thee?\n\nSometimes one little word,\n Whispered sweet and fleet,\nThat scarcely can be heard,\n Our ears will sudden meet.\nAnd all life's hours along\n That whisper may vibrate,\nAnd, like a wizard's song,\n Decide our ev'ry fate.\n\nSometimes a sudden look,\n That falleth from some face,\nWill steal into each nook\n Of life, and leave its trace;\nTo haunt us to the last,\n And sway our ev'ry will\nThro' all the days to be,\n For goodness or for ill;\nHath this e'er come to thee?\n\nSometimes one minute folds\n The hearts of all the years,\nJust like the heart that holds\n The Infinite in tears;\nThere be such thing as this --\n Who knoweth why, or how?\nA life of woe or bliss\n Hangs on some little Now.\n\n\n\n\nM * * *\n\n\n\nWhen I am dead, and all will soon forget\n My words, and face, and ways --\nI, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet\n Adown thy after days.\n\nI die first, and you will see my grave;\n But child! you must not cry;\nFor my dead hand will brightest blessings wave\n O'er you from yonder sky.\n\nYou must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears\n Tho' sleeping in a tomb:\nMy rest would not be rest, if in your years\n There floated clouds of gloom.\n\nFor -- from the first -- your soul was dear to mine,\n And dearer it became,\nUntil my soul, in every prayer, would twine\n Thy name -- my child! thy name.\n\nYou came to me in girlhood pure and fair,\n And in your soul -- and face --\nI saw a likeness to another there\n In every trace and grace.\n\nYou came to me in girlhood -- and you brought\n An image back to me;\nNo matter what -- or whose -- I often sought\n Another's soul in thee.\n\nDidst ever mark how, sometimes, I became --\n Gentle though I be --\nGentler than ever when I called thy name,\n Gentlest to thee?\n\nYou came to me in girlhood; as your guide\n I watched your spirit's ways;\nWe walked God's holy valleys side by side,\n And so went on the days.\n\nAnd so went on the years -- 'tis five and more;\n Your soul is fairer now;\nA light as of a sunset on a shore\n Is falling on my brow --\n\nIs falling, soon to fade; when I am dead\n Think this, my child, of me:\nI never said -- I never could have said --\n Ungentle words to thee.\n\nI treated you as I would treat a flower,\n I watched you with such care;\nAnd from my lips God heard in many an hour\n Your name in many a prayer.\n\nI watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew,\n On not a leaf a stain;\nYour soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true;\n I did not watch in vain.\n\nI guide you still -- in my steps you tread still;\n Towards God these ways are set;\n'Twill soon be over:  child! when I am dead\n I'll watch and guide you yet.\n\n'Tis better far that I should go before,\n And you awhile should stay;\nBut I will wait upon the golden shore\n To meet my child some day.\n\nWhen I am dead; in some lone after time,\n If crosses come to thee,\nYou'll think -- remembering this simple rhyme --\n \"He holds a crown for me.\"\n\nI guide you here -- I go before you there;\n But here or there -- I know --\nWhether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear\n I'll watch where'er you go,\n\nAnd wait until you come; when I am dead\n Think, sometimes, child, of this:\nYou must not weep -- follow where I led,\n I wait for you in bliss.\n\n\n\n\nGod in the Night\n\n\n\nDeep in the dark I hear the feet of God:\nHe walks the world; He puts His holy hand\nOn every sleeper -- only puts His hand --\nWithin it benedictions for each one --\nThen passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets\nA watcher waiting for Him, He is glad.\n(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?)\nHe rests His hand upon the watcher's brow --\nBut more than that, He leaves His very breath\nUpon the watcher's soul; and more than this,\nHe stays for holy hours where watchers pray;\nAnd more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils\nThat hide the visions of the world unseen.\nThe brightest sanctities of highest souls\nHave blossomed into beauty in the dark.\nHow extremes meet! the very darkest crimes\nThat blight the souls of men are strangely born\nBeneath the shadows of the holy night.\n\nDeep in the dark I hear his holy feet --\nAround Him rustle archangelic wings;\nHe lingers by the temple where His Christ\nIs watching in His Eucharistic sleep;\nAnd where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest,\nHe lingers there to soothe their weariness.\nWhere mothers weep above the dying child,\nHe stays to bless the mother's bitter tears,\nAnd consecrates the cradle of her child,\nWhich is to her her spirit's awful cross.\nHe shudders past the haunts of sin -- yet leaves\nE'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts.\nStill as a shadow through the night He moves,\nWith hands all full of blessings, and with heart\nAll full of everlasting love; ah, me!\nHow God does love this poor and sinful world!\n\nThe stars behold Him as He passes on,\nAnd arch His path of mercy with their rays;\nThe stars are grateful -- He gave them their light,\nAnd now they give Him back the light He gave.\nThe shadows tremble in adoring awe;\nThey feel His presence, and they know His face.\nThe shadows, too, are grateful -- could they pray,\nHow they would flower all His way with prayers!\nThe sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams --\nWere their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing\nA grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang.\nThe lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers\nWatch their Creator as He passes on,\nAnd mourn they have no hearts to love their God,\nAnd sigh they have no souls to be beloved.\nMan -- only man -- the image of his God --\nLets God pass by when He walks forth at night.\n\n\n\n\nPoets\n\n\n\nPoets are strange -- not always understood\n By many is their gift,\nWhich is for evil or for mighty good --\n To lower or to lift.\n\nUpon their spirits there hath come a breath;\n Who reads their verse\nWill rise to higher life, or taste of death\n In blessing or in curse.\n\nThe Poet is great Nature's own high priest,\n Ordained from very birth\nTo keep for hearts an everlasting feast --\n To bless or curse the earth.\n\nThey cannot help but sing; they know not why\n Their thoughts rush into song,\nAnd float above the world, beneath the sky,\n For right or for the wrong.\n\nThey are like angels -- but some angels fell,\n While some did keep their place;\nTheir poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,\n And God's or Satan's face\n\nLooks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,\n In blessing or in blight,\nAnd leaves upon your soul a grace or trace\n Of sunlight or of night.\n\nThey move along life's uttermost extremes,\n Unlike all other men;\nAnd in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,\n Like shadows in a glen.\n\nThey all are dreamers; in the day and night\n Ever across their souls\nThe wondrous mystery of the dark or bright\n In mystic rhythm rolls.\n\nThey live within themselves -- they may not tell\n What lieth deepest there;\nWithin their breast a heaven or a hell,\n Joy or tormenting care.\n\nThey are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,\n No matter what they seem;\nThe stars and sunlight of their nights and days\n Move over them in dream.\n\nThey breathe it forth -- their very spirit's breath --\n To bless the world or blight;\nTo bring to men a higher life or death;\n To give them light or night.\n\nThe words of some command the world's acclaim,\n And never pass away,\nWhile others' words receive no palm from fame,\n And live but for a day.\n\nBut, live or die, their words leave their impress\n Fore'er or for an hour,\nAnd mark men's souls -- some more and some the less --\n With good's or evil's power.\n\n\n\n\nA Legend\n\n\n\nHe walked alone beside the lonely sea,\nThe slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,\nHis shadow fluttered on the pure white sands\nLike the weary wing of a soundless prayer.\nAnd He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!\nBrown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast,\nAs if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.\nHis face looked like His Mother's -- only hers\nHad not those strange serenities and stirs\nThat paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.\nHe wore the seamless robe His Mother made --\nAnd as He gathered it about His breast,\nThe wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice\nMurmur, \"Oh! My Mother\" -- the white sands felt\nThe touch of tender tears He wept the while.\nHe walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off\nTo bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave --\nFor He had walked across the desert sands\nAll day long -- and as He bathed His feet\nHe murmured to Himself, \"Three years! three years!\nAnd then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come\nAnd make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave\nAll weary feet on all their thorny ways.\"\n\"Three years! three years!\" He murmured still again,\n\"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will --\nMy Father's will -- biddeth Me bide that time.\"\nA little fisher-boy came up the shore\nAnd saw Him -- and, nor bold, nor shy,\nApproached, but when he saw the weary face,\nSaid mournfully to Him:  \"You look a-tired.\"\nHe placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow\nCaressingly and blessingly -- and said:\n\"I am so tired to wait.\"  The boy spake not.\nSudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm\nThat had been sweeping on the farther shore,\nCame fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell\nAt His feet and died; and then the boy said:\n\"Poor little bird,\" in such a piteous tone;\nHe took the bird and laid it in His hand,\nAnd breathed on it -- when to his amaze\nThe little fisher-boy beheld the bird\nFlutter a moment and then fly aloft --\nIts little life returned; and then he gazed\nWith look intensest on the wondrous face\n(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) -- and said:\n\"Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God.\"\nHe leaned down towards the boy and softly said:\n\"I am thy Christ.\"  The day they followed Him,\nWith cross upon His shoulders, to His death,\nWithin the shadow of a shelt'ring rock\nThat little boy knelt down, and there adored,\nWhile others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.\n\n\n\n\nThoughts\n\n\n\nBy sound of name, and touch of hand,\n Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see,\nWe know each other in this land,\n How little must that knowledge be?\n\nHow souls are all the time alone,\n No spirit can another reach;\nThey hide away in realms unknown,\n Like waves that never touch a beach.\n\nWe never know each other here,\n No soul can here another see --\nTo know, we need a light as clear\n As that which fills eternity.\n\nFor here we walk by human light,\n But there the light of God is ours,\nEach day, on earth, is but a night;\n Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.\n\nI call you thus -- you call me thus --\n Our mortal is the very bar\nThat parts forever each of us,\n As skies, on high, part star from star.\n\nA name is nothing but a name\n For that which, else, would nameless be;\nUntil our souls, in rapture, claim\n Full knowledge in eternity.\n\n\n\n\nLines [\"The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,\"]\n\n\n\nThe world is sweet, and fair, and bright,\n And joy aboundeth everywhere,\nThe glorious stars crown every night,\n And thro' the dark of ev'ry care\nAbove us shineth heaven's light.\n\nIf from the cradle to the grave\n We reckon all our days and hours\nWe sure will find they give and gave\n Much less of thorns and more of flowers;\nAnd tho' some tears must ever lave\n\nThe path we tread, upon them all\n The light of smiles forever lies,\nAs o'er the rains, from clouds that fall,\n The sun shines sweeter in the skies.\nLife holdeth more of sweet than gall\n\nFor ev'ry one:  no matter who --\n Or what their lot -- or high or low;\nAll hearts have clouds -- but heaven's blue\n Wraps robes of bright around each woe;\nAnd this is truest of the true:\n\nThat joy is stronger here than grief,\n Fills more of life, far more of years,\nAnd makes the reign of sorrow brief;\n Gives more of smiles for less of tears.\nJoy is life's tree -- grief but its leaf.\n\n\n\n\nC.S.A.\n\n\n\nDo we weep for the heroes who died for us,\nWho living were true and tried for us,\nAnd dying sleep side by side for us;\n   The Martyr-band\n   That hallowed our land\nWith the blood they shed in a tide for us?\n\nAh! fearless on many a day for us\nThey stood in front of the fray for us,\nAnd held the foeman at bay for us;\n   And tears should fall\n   Fore'er o'er all\nWho fell while wearing the gray for us.\n\nHow many a glorious name for us,\nHow many a story of fame for us\nThey left:  Would it not be a blame for us\n   If their memories part\n   From our land and heart,\nAnd a wrong to them, and shame for us?\n\nNo, no, no, they were brave for us,\nAnd bright were the lives they gave for us;\nThe land they struggled to save for us\n   Will not forget\n   Its warriors yet\nWho sleep in so many a grave for us.\n\nOn many and many a plain for us\nTheir blood poured down all in vain for us,\nRed, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;\n   They bleed -- we weep,\n   We live -- they sleep,\n\"All lost,\" the only refrain for us.\n\nBut their memories e'er shall remain for us,\nAnd their names, bright names, without stain for us:\nThe glory they won shall not wane for us,\n   In legend and lay\n   Our heroes in Gray\nShall forever live over again for us.\n\n\n\n\nThe Seen and The Unseen\n\n\n\nNature is but the outward vestibule\nWhich God has placed before an unseen shrine,\nThe Visible is but a fair, bright vale\nThat winds around the great Invisible;\nThe Finite -- it is nothing but a smile\nThat flashes from the face of Infinite;\nA smile with shadows on it -- and 'tis sad\nMen bask beneath the smile, but oft forget\nThe loving Face that very smile conceals.\nThe Changeable is but the broidered robe\nEnwrapped about the great Unchangeable;\nThe Audible is but an echo, faint,\nLow whispered from the far Inaudible;\nThis earth is but an humble acolyte\nA-kneeling on the lowest altar-step\nOf this creation's temple, at the Mass\nOf Supernature, just to ring the bell\nAt Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the world\nPrepares its heart for consecration's hour.\nNature is but the ever-rustling veil\nWhich God is wearing, like the Carmelite\nWho hides her face behind her virgin veil\nTo keep it all unseen from mortal eyes,\nYet by her vigils and her holy prayers,\nAnd ceaseless sacrifices night and day,\nShields souls from sin -- and many hearts from harm.\n\nGod hides in nature as a thought doth hide\nIn humbly-sounding words; and as the thought\nBeats through the lowly word like pulse of heart\nThat giveth life and keepeth life alive,\nSo God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul;\nFor nature is His word so strangely writ\nIn heav'n, in all the letters of the stars,\nBeneath the stars in alphabets of clouds,\nAnd on the seas in syllables of waves,\nAnd in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers,\nAnd on the grasses and the stately trees,\nAnd on the rivers and the mournful rocks\nThe word is clearly written; blest are they\nWho read the word aright -- and understand.\n\nFor God is everywhere -- and He doth find\nIn every atom which His hand hath made\nA shrine to hide His presence, and reveal\nHis name, love, power, to those who kneel\nIn holy faith upon this bright below\nAnd lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery,\nTo catch the vision of the great beyond.\n\nYea! nature is His shadow, and how bright\nMust that face be which such a shadow casts?\nWe walk within it, for \"we live and move\nAnd have our being\" in His ev'rywhere.\nWhy is God shy?  Why doth He hide Himself?\nThe tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore\nEntemples Him; the fragrance of the rose\nFolds Him around as blessed incense folds\nThe altars of His Christ:  yet some will walk\nAlong the temple's wondrous vestibule\nAnd look on and admire -- yet enter not\nTo find within the Presence, and the Light\nWhich sheds its rays on all that is without.\nAnd nature is His voice; who list may hear\nHis name low-murmured every -- everywhere.\nIn songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers,\nIn swaying of the trees, and on the seas\nThe blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships\nThat come and go, His holy, holy name.\nThe winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same;\nAnd some have ears and yet they will not hear\nThe soundless voice re-echoed everywhere;\nAnd some have hearts that never are enthrilled\nBy all the grand Hosannahs nature sings.\nList!  Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pause\nSounds sweetly out of all creation's heart,\nThat hearts with power to love may echo back\nTheir Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn.\n\n\n\n\nPassing Away\n\n\n\nLife's Vesper-bells are ringing\n In the temple of my heart,\nAnd yon sunset, sure, is singing\n \"Nunc dimittis -- Now depart!\"\nAh! the eve is golden-clouded,\n But to-morrow's sun shall shine\nOn this weary body shrouded;\n But my soul doth not repine.\n\n\"Let me see the sun descending,\n I will see his light no more,\nFor my life, this eve, is ending;\n And to-morrow on the shore\nThat is fair, and white, and golden,\n I will meet my God; and ye\nWill forget not all the olden,\n Happy hours ye spent with me.\n\n\"I am glad that I am going;\n What a strange and sweet delight\nIs thro' all my being flowing\n When I know that, sure, to-night\nI will pass from earth and meet Him\n Whom I loved thro' all the years,\nWho will crown me when I greet Him,\n And will kiss away my tears.\n\n\"My last sun! haste! hurry westward!\n In the dark of this to-night\nMy poor soul that hastens rest-ward\n `With the Lamb' will find the light;\nDeath is coming -- and I hear him,\n Soft and stealthy cometh he;\nBut I do not believe I fear him,\n God is now so close to me.\"\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nFell the daylight's fading glimmer\n On a face so wan and white;\nBrighter was his soul, while dimmer\n Grew the shadows of the night;\nAnd he died -- and God was near him;\n I knelt by him to forgive;\nAnd I sometimes seem to hear him\n Whisper -- \"Live as I did live.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children)\n\n\n\nThe shades of night were brooding\n O'er the sea, the earth, the sky;\nThe passing winds were wailing\n In a low, unearthly sigh;\nThe darkness gathered deeper,\n For no starry light was shed,\nAnd silence reigned unbroken,\n As the silence of the dead.\n\nThe wintry clouds were hanging\n From the starless sky so low,\nWhile 'neath them earth lay folded\n In a winding shroud of snow.\n'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary,\n And the blast that swept along\nThe mountains hoarsely murmured\n A fierce, discordant song.\n\nAnd mortal men were resting\n From the turmoil of the day,\nAnd broken hearts were dreaming\n Of the friends long passed away;\nAnd saintly men were keeping\n Their vigils through the night,\nWhile angel spirits hovered near\n Around their lonely light.\n\nAnd wicked men were sinning\n In the midnight banquet halls,\nForgetful of that sentence traced\n On proud Belshazzar's walls.\nOn that night, so dark and dismal,\n Unillumed by faintest ray,\nMight be seen the lonely pilgrim\n Wending on his darksome way.\n\nSlow his steps, for he was weary,\n And betimes he paused to rest;\nThen he rose, and, pressing onward,\n Murmured lowly:  \"I must haste.\"\nIn his hand he held a chaplet,\n And his lips were moved in prayer,\nFor the darkness and the silence\n Seemed to whisper God was there.\n\nOn the lonely pilgrim journeyed,\n Nought disturbed him on his way,\nAnd his prayers he softly murmured\n As the midnight stole away.\nHark! amid the stillness rises\n On his ears a distant strain\nSoftly sounding -- now it ceases --\n Sweetly now it comes again.\n\nIn his path he paused to wonder\n While he listened to the sound:\nOn it came, so sweet, so pensive,\n 'Mid the blast that howled around;\nAnd the restless winds seemed soothed\n By that music, gentle, mild,\nAnd they slept, as when a mother\n Rocks to rest her cradled child.\n\nStrange and sweet the calm that followed,\n Stealing through the midnight air;\nStrange and sweet the sounds that floated\n Like an angel breathing there.\nFrom the sky the clouds were drifting\n Swiftly one by one away,\nAnd the sinless stars were shedding\n Here and there a silver ray.\n\n\"Why this change?\" the pilgrim whispered --\n \"Whence that music? whence its power?\nEarthly sounds are not so lovely!\n Angels love the midnight hour!\"\nBending o'er his staff, he wondered,\n Loath to leave that sacred place:\n\"I must hasten,\" said he, sadly --\n On he pressed with quickened pace.\n\nJust before him rose a mountain,\n Dark its outline, steep its side --\nDown its slopes that midnight music\n Seemed so soothingly to glide.\n\"I will find it,\" said the pilgrim,\n \"Though this mountain I must scale\" --\nScarcely said, when on his vision\n Shone a distant light, and pale.\n\nGlad he was; and now he hastened --\n Brighter, brighter grew the ray --\nStronger, stronger swelled the music\n As he struggled on his way.\nSoon he gained the mountain summit,\n Lo! a church bursts on his view:\nFrom the church that light was flowing,\n And that gentle music, too.\n\nNear he came -- its door stood open --\n Still he stood in awe and fear;\n\"Shall I enter spot so holy?\n Am I unforbidden here?\nI will enter -- something bids me --\n Saintly men are praying here;\nVigils sacred they are keeping,\n 'Tis their Matin song I hear.\"\n\nSoftly, noiselessly, he glided\n Through the portal; on his sight\nShone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling;\n Down he knelt -- 'twas Christmas night --\nDown, in deepest adoration,\n Knelt the lonely pilgrim there;\nJoy unearthly, rapture holy,\n Blended with his whispered prayer.\n\nWrapped his senses were in wonder,\n On his soul an awe profound,\nAs the vision burst upon him,\n 'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound.\n\"Is it real? is it earthly?\n Is it all a fleeting dream?\nHark! those choral voices ringing,\n Lo! those forms like angels seem.\"\n\nOn his view there rose an altar,\n Glittering 'mid a thousand beams,\nFlowing from the burning tapers\n In bright, sparkling, silver streams.\nFrom unnumbered crystal vases,\n Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers,\nShedding 'round their balmy fragrance\n 'Mid the lights in sweetest showers.\n\nRich and gorgeous was the altar,\n Decked it was in purest white.\nMortal hands had not arrayed it\n Thus, upon that Christmas night.\nAmid its lights and lovely flowers,\n The little tabernacle stood;\nAround it all was rich and golden,\n It alone was poor and rude.\n\nHark! Venite Adoremus!\n Round the golden altar sounds --\nSee that band of angels kneeling\n Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns!\nAnd the pilgrim looked and listened,\n And he saw the angels there,\nAnd their snow-white wings were folded,\n As they bent in silent prayer.\n\nTwelve they were; bright rays of glory\n Round their brows effulgent shone;\nBut a wreath of nobler beauty\n Seemed to grace and circle one;\nAnd he, beauteous, rose and opened\n Wide the tabernacle door:\nHark! Venite Adoremus\n Rises -- bending, they adore.\n\nLo! a sound of censers swinging!\n Clouds of incense weave around\nThe altar rich a silver mantle,\n As the angels' hymns resound.\nList! Venite Adoremus\n Swells aloud in stronger strain,\nAnd the angels swing the censers,\n And they prostrate bend again.\n\nRising now, with voice of rapture,\n Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone,\n\"Gloria in Excelsis Deo\"\n Round the sacramental throne.\nOh! 'twas sweet, 'twas sweet and charming\n As the notes triumphant flowed!\nOh! 'twas sweet, while wreathes of incense\n Curled, and countless tapers glowed.\n\nOh! 'twas grand! that hymn of glory\n Earthly sounds cannot compare;\nOh! 'twas grand! it breath'd of heaven,\n As the angels sung it there.\nRavished by the strains ecstatic,\n Raptured by the vision grand,\nGazed the pilgrim on the altar,\n Gazed upon the angel band.\n\nAll was hushed! the floating echoes\n Of the hymn had died away;\nVanished were the clouds of incense,\n And the censers ceased to sway.\nLo! their wings are gently waving,\n And the angels softly rise,\nBending towards the tabernacle,\n Worship beaming from their eyes.\n\nOne last, lowly genuflection!\n From their brows love burning shone --\nAh! they're going, they've departed,\n All but one, the brightest one.\n\"Why remains he?\" thought the pilgrim,\n Ah! he rises beauteously --\n\"Listen!\" and the angel murmured\n Sweetly:  \"Pilgrim, hail to thee!\"\n\n\"Come unto the golden altar,\n I'm an angel -- banish fear --\nCome, unite in adoration\n With me, for our God is here.\nCome thy Jesus here reposes,\n Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight --\nCome! adore the Infant Saviour\n With me -- for 'tis Christmas night.\"\n\nNow approached the pilgrim, trembling,\n Now beside the angel bent,\nAnd the deepest, blissful gladness,\n With his fervent worship blent.\n\"Pilgrim,\" said the spirit, softly,\n \"Thou hast seen bright angels here,\nAnd hast heard our sacred anthems,\n Filled with rapture, filled with fear.\n\n\"We are twelve -- 'twas we who chanted\n First the Saviour's lowly birth,\nWe who brought the joyful tidings\n Of His coming, to the earth;\nWe who sung unto the shepherds,\n Watching on the mountain height,\nThat the Word was made Incarnate\n For them on that blessed night.\n\n\"And since then we love to linger\n On that festal night on earth;\nAnd we leave our thrones of glory\n Here to keep the Saviour's birth.\nHappy mortals! happy mortals!\n To-night the angels would be men;\nAnd they leave their thrones in heaven,\n For the Crib of Bethlehem.\"\n\nAnd the angel led the pilgrim\n To the tabernacle door;\nLo! an Infant there was sleeping,\n And the angel said:  \"Adore!\nHe is sleeping, yet he watches,\n See that beam of love divine;\nPilgrim! pay your worship holy\n To your Infant God and mine.\"\n\nAnd the spirit slowly, slowly,\n Closed the tabernacle door,\nWhile the pilgrim lowly, lowly,\n Bent in rapture to adore.\n\"Pilgrim,\" spoke the angel sweetly,\n \"I must bid thee my adieu;\nLove! oh! love the Infant Jesus! --\"\n And he vanished from his view.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nAll was silent -- silent -- silent --\n Faded was the vision bright --\nBut the pilgrim long remembered\n In his heart that Christmas night.\n\n\n\n\nA Reverie [\"Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange!\"]\n\n\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange!\nHow they yearn to ramble and love to range\nDown through the vales of the years long gone,\nUp through the future that fast rolls on.\n\nTo-days are dull -- so they wend their ways\nBack to their beautiful yesterdays;\nThe present is blank -- so they wing their flight\nTo future to-morrows where all seems bright.\n\nBuild them a bright and beautiful home,\nThey'll soon grow weary and want to roam;\nFind them a spot without sorrow or pain,\nThey may stay a day, but they're off again.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how wild! how wild!\nThey're as hard to tame as an Indian child;\nThey're as restless as waves on the sounding sea,\nLike the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how lone! how lone!\nEver, forever, they mourn and moan;\nLet them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer;\nThe revelry o'er, they're all the more drear.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how warm! how warm!\nLike the sun's bright rays, like the Summer's charm;\nHow they beam and burn! how they gleam and glow\nTheir flash and flame hide but ashes below.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how cold! how cold!\nLike December's snow on the waste or wold;\nAnd though our Decembers melt soon into May,\nHearts know Decembers that pass not away.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how deep! how deep!\nYou may sound the sea where the corals sleep,\nWhere never a billow hath rumbled or rolled --\nDepths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold.\n\nWhere the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been known\nThe wrecks of the sea lie low and lone;\nThus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow,\nThere are wrecks far down -- there are graves below.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- but, after all,\nHow shallow and narrow, how tiny and small;\nLike scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill,\nThey're as easy to empty -- as easy to fill.\n\nOne hour of storm and how the streams pour!\nOne hour of sun and the streams are no more;\nOne little grief -- how the tears gush and glide!\nOne smile -- flow they ever so fast, they are dried.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how wise! how wise!\nThey can lift their thoughts till they touch the skies;\nThey can sink their shafts, like a miner bold,\nWhere wisdom's mines hide their pearls and gold.\n\nAloft they soar with undazzled gaze,\nWhere the halls of the Day-King burn and blaze;\nOr they fly with a wing that will never fail,\nO'er the sky's dark sea where the star-ships sail.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- what fools! what fools!\nHow they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules!\nHow they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieve\nFor what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how strong! how strong!\nLet a thousand sorrows around them throng,\nThey can bear them all, and a thousand more,\nAnd they're stronger then than they were before.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- how weak! how weak!\nBut a single word of unkindness speak,\nLike a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang,\nThat one slight word leaves a life-long pang.\n\nThose hearts of ours -- but I've said enough,\nAs I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough;\nI'll rest me now, but I'll come again\nSome other day, to resume my strain.\n\n\n\n\n---- Their Story Runneth Thus\n\n\n\nTwo little children played among the flowers,\nTheir mothers were of kin, tho' far apart;\nThe children's ages were the very same\nE'en to an hour -- and Ethel was her name,\nA fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes\nThat seemed to listen just as if they held\nThe gift of hearing with the power of sight.\nSix summers slept upon her low white brow,\nAnd dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks.\nHer voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke\nHer words were music; and her laughter rang\nSo like an altar-bell that, had you heard\nIts silvery sound a-ringing, you would think\nOf kneeling down and worshiping the pure.\n\nThey played among the roses -- it was May --\nAnd \"hide and seek\", and \"seek and hide\", all eve\nThey played together till the sun went down.\nEarth held no happier hearts than theirs that day:\nAnd tired at last she plucked a crimson rose\nAnd gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin;\nAnd he went thro' the garden till he found\nThe whitest rose of all the roses there,\nAnd placed it in her long, brown, waving hair.\n\"I give you red -- and you -- you give me white:\nWhat is the meaning?\" said she, while a smile,\nAs radiant as the light of angels' wings,\nSwept bright across her face; the while her eyes\nSeemed infinite purities half asleep\nIn sweetest pearls; and he did make reply:\n\"Sweet Ethel! white dies first; you know, the snow,\n(And it is not as white as thy pure face)\nMelts soon away; but roses red as mine\nWill bloom when all the snow hath passed away.\"\n\nShe sighed a little sigh, then laughed again,\nAnd hand in hand they walked the winding ways\nOf that fair garden till they reached her home.\nA good-bye and a kiss -- and he was gone.\n\nShe leaned her head upon her mother's breast,\nAnd ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called:\n\"Does white die first? my mother! and does red\nLive longer?\"  And her mother wondered much\nAt such strange speech.  She fell asleep\nWith murmurs on her lips of red and white.\n\nThose children loved as only children can --\nWith nothing in their love save their whole selves.\nWhen in their cradles they had been betroth'd;\nThey knew it in a manner vague and dim --\nUnconscious yet of what betrothal meant.\n\nThe boy -- she called him Merlin -- a love name --\n(And he -- he called her always Ullainee,\nNo matter why); the boy was full of moods.\nUpon his soul and face the dark and bright\nWere strangely intermingled.  Hours would pass\nRippling with his bright prattle; and then, hours\nWould come and go, and never hear a word\nFall from his lips, and never see a smile\nUpon his face.  He was so like a cloud\nWith ever-changeful hues, as she was like\nA golden sunbeam shining on its face.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nTen years passed on.  They parted and they met\nNot often in each year; yet as they grew\nIn years, a consciousness unto them came\nOf human love.\n            But it was sweet and pure.\nThere was no passion in it.  Reverence,\nLike Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence.\n\nOne night in mid of May their faces met\nAs pure as all the stars that gazed on them.\nThey met to part from themselves and the world;\nTheir hearts just touched to separate and bleed;\nTheir eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears\nFell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each:\nThey were to meet no more.\n            Their hands were clasped\nTo tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars\nLooked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt,\nOr seemed to kneel, around them with the awe\nEvoked from any heart by sacrifice.\nAnd in the heart of that last parting hour\nEternity was beating.  And he said:\n\"We part to go to Calvary and to God --\nThis is our garden of Gethsemane;\nAnd here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer\nWhose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard:\nNot my will, Father! but Thine own be done.\"\nRaptures meet agonies in such heart-hours;\nGladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms\nAround the cold, white neck of grief -- and thus\nThe while they parted -- sorrow swept their hearts\nLike a great, dark stormy sea -- but sudden\nA joy, like sunshine -- did it come from God? --\n\nFlung over every wave that swept o'er them\nA more than golden glory.\n            Merlin said:\n\"Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine;\nThe human satisfies nor you nor me,\n(No human love shall ever satisfy --\nOr ever did -- the hearts that lean on it);\nYou sigh for something higher as do I,\nSo let our spirits be espoused in God,\nAnd let our wedlock be as soul to soul;\nAnd prayer shall be the golden marriage ring,\nAnd God will bless us both.\"\n            She sweetly said:\n\"Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts;\nLet God's own heart be our own holy home\nAnd let us live as only angels live;\nAnd let us love as our own angels love.\n'Tis hard to part -- but it is better so --\nGod's will is ours, and -- Merlin! let us go.\"\n\nAnd then she sobbed as if her heart would break --\nPerhaps it did; an awful minute passed,\nLong as an age and briefer than a flash\nOf lightning in the skies.  No word was said --\nOnly a look which never was forgot.\nBetween them fell the shadows of the night.\nTheir faces went away into the dark,\nAnd never met again; and yet their souls\nWere twined together in the heart of Christ.\n\nAnd Ethel went from earthland long ago;\nBut Merlin stays still hanging on his cross.\nHe would not move a nail that nails him there,\nHe would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there.\nHe hung himself upon the blessed cross\nWith Ethel; she has gone to wear the crown\nThat wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept\nTheir bodies with their souls from earthly taint.\n\nAnd years and years, and weary years, passed on\nInto the past.  One Autumn afternoon,\nWhen flowers were in their agony of death,\nAnd winds sang \"De Profundis\" over them,\nAnd skies were sad with shadows, he did walk\nWhere, in a resting place as calm as sweet,\nThe dead were lying down; the Autumn sun\nWas half way down the west; the hour was three --\nThe holiest hour of all the twenty-four,\nFor Jesus leaned His head on it, and died.\nHe walked alone amid the virgin's graves\nWhere virgins slept; a convent stood near by,\nAnd from the solitary cells of nuns\nUnto the cells of death the way was short.\nLow, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave,\nWhile in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew,\nEntwining grave and grave.  He read the names\nEngraven on the stones, and \"Rest in peace\"\nWas written 'neath them all, and o'er each name\nA cross was graven on the lowly stone.\nHe passed each grave with reverential awe,\nAs if he passed an altar, where the Host\nHad left a memory of its sacrifice.\nAnd o'er the buried virgins' virgin dust\nHe walked as prayerfully as tho' he trod\nThe holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine.\nHe passed from grave to grave, and read the names\nOf those whose own pure lips had changed the names\nBy which this world had known them into names\nOf sacrifice known only to their God;\nVeiling their faces they had veiled their names;\nThe very ones who played with them as girls,\nHad they passed there, would know no more than he\nOr any stranger where their playmates slept;\nAnd then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts,\nTheir thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams,\nTheir joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears.\nHe wondered at the stories that were hid\nForever down within those simple graves.\nIn a lone corner of that resting-place\nUprose a low white slab that marked a grave\nApart from all the others; long, sad grass\nDrooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it\nWith veil of purest green; around the slab\nThe whitest of white roses 'twined their arms --\nRoses cold as the snows and pure as songs\nOf angels -- and the pale leaflets and thorns\nHid e'en the very name of her who slept\nBeneath.  He walked on to the grave, but when\nHe reached its side a spell fell on his heart\nSo suddenly -- he knew not why -- and tears\nWent up into his eyes and trickled down\nUpon the grass; he was so strangely moved\nAs if he met a long-gone face he loved.\nI believe he prayed.  He lifted then the leaves\nThat hid the name; but as he did, the thorns\nDid pierce his hand, and lo! amazed, he read\nThe very word -- the very, very name\nHe gave the girl in golden days before --\n\n               \"ULLAINEE\".\n\nHe sat beside that lonely grave for long,\nHe took its grasses in his trembling hand,\nHe toyed with them and wet them with his tears,\nHe read the name again, and still again,\nHe thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought\nIt all might be a dream -- then rubbed his eyes\nAnd read the name again to be more sure;\nThen wondered and then wept -- then asked himself:\n\"What means it all?  Can this be Ethel's grave?\nI dreamed her soul had fled.\nWas she the white dove that I saw in dream\nFly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?\"\n\n            The convent bell\nRang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him\nHis question.  And he rose and went his way\nUnto the convent gate; long shadows marked\nOne hour before the sunset, and the birds\nWere singing Vespers in the convent trees.\nAs silent as a star-gleam came a nun\nIn answer to his summons at the gate;\nHer face was like the picture of a saint,\nOr like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes\nWere like a half-closed tabernacle, where\nGod's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn\nBy ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke,\nAnd bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone\nAs only voices own which day and night\nSing hymns to God.\n\n            She locked the massive gate.\nHe followed her along a flower-fringed walk\nThat, gently rising, led up to the home\nOf virgin hearts.  The very flowers that bloomed\nWithin the place, in beds of sacred shapes,\n(For they had fashioned them with holy care,\nInto all holy forms -- a chalice, a cross,\nAnd sacred hearts -- and many saintly names,\nThat, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers,\nTheir souls might feast upon some mystic sign),\nWere fairer far within the convent walls,\nAnd purer in their fragrance and their bloom\nThan all their sisters in the outer world.\n\nHe went into a wide and humble room --\nThe floor was painted, and upon the walls,\nIn humble frames, most holy paintings hung;\nJesus and Mary and many an olden saint\nWere there.  And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke:\n\"I'll call the mother,\" and she bowed and went.\n\nHe waited in the wide and humble room,\nThe only room in that unworldly place\nThis world could enter; and the pictures looked\nUpon his face and down into his soul,\nAnd strangely stirred him.  On the mantle stood\nA crucifix, the figured Christ of which\nDid seem to suffer; and he rose to look\nMore nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe\nWhen he beheld a something in its face\nLike his own face.\nBut more amazed he grew, when, at the foot\nOf that strange crucifix he read the name --\n\n               \"ULLAINEE\".\n\nA whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul --\nWhen to the door he heard a footstep come,\nAnd then a voice -- the Mother of the nuns\nHad entered -- and in calmest tone began:\n\"Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song\nHad not yet ended when you came; our rule\nForbids our leaving choir; this my excuse.\"\nShe bent her head -- the rustle of her veil\nWas like the trembling of an angel's wing,\nHer voice's tone as sweet.  She turned to him\nAnd seemed to ask him with her still, calm look\nWhat brought him there, and waited his reply.\n\"I am a stranger, Sister, hither come,\"\nHe said, \"upon an errand still more strange;\nBut thou wilt pardon me and bid me go\nIf what I crave you cannot rightly grant;\nI would not dare intrude, nor claim your time,\nSave that a friendship, deep as death, and strong\nAs life, has brought me to this holy place.\"\n\nHe paused.  She looked at him an instant, bent\nHer lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave\nHim no reply, save that her very look\nEncouraged him to speak, and he went on:\n\nHe told her Ethel's story from the first,\nHe told her of the day amid the flowers,\nWhen they were only six sweet summers old;\nHe told her of the night when all the flowers,\nA-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice --\nHe told her all; then said:  \"I saw a stone\nIn yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep,\nAnd writ on it, all hid by roses white,\nI saw a name I never ought forget.\"\n\nShe wore a startled look, but soon repressed\nThe wonder that had come into her face.\n\"Whose name?\" she calmly spoke.  But when he said\n\n               \"ULLAINEE\",\n\nShe forward bent her face and pierced his own\nWith look intensest; and he thought he heard\nThe trembling of her veil, as if the brow\nIt mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts\nBut quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone,\nSpoke thus:  \"'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule\nTo close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn.\nReturn to-morrow; then, if so God wills,\nI'll see you.\"\n\n            He gave many thanks, passed out\nFrom that unworldly place into the world.\nStraight to the lonely graveyard went his steps --\nSwift to the \"White-Rose-Grave\", his heart:  he knelt\nUpon its grass and prayed that God might will\nThe mystery's solution; then he took,\nWhere it was drooping on the slab, a rose,\nThe whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam\nOf summer waves upon a summer sea.\n\n            Then thro' the night he went\nAnd reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts,\nSleep came, and coming found the dew of tears\nUndried within his eyes, and flung her veil\nAround him.  Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream.\nA rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave,\nAnd cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears\nThat shone like jewels on a diadem,\nAnd two great angels with such shining wings --\nAll these and more were in most curious way\nBlended in one dream or many dreams.  Then\nHe woke wearier in his mind.  Then slept\nAgain and had another dream.\nHis dream ran thus --\n(He told me all of it many years ago,\nBut I forgot the most.  I remember this):\nA dove, whiter than whiteness' very self,\nFluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream,\nBearing in its flight a spotless rose.  It\nFlew away across great, long distances,\nThro' forests where the trees were all in dream,\nAnd over wastes where silences held reign,\nAnd down pure valleys, till it reached a shore\nBy which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun;\nThe dove rested there awhile, rose again\nAnd flew across the sea into the sun;\nAnd then from near or far (he could not say)\nCame sound as faint as echo's own echo --\nA low sweet hymn it seemed -- and now\nAnd then he heard, or else he thought he heard,\nAs if it were the hymn's refrain, the words:\n\"White dies first!\"  \"White dies first.\"\n\nThe sun had passed his noon and westward sloped;\nHe hurried to the cloister and was told\nThe Mother waited him.  He entered in,\nInto the wide and pictured room, and there\nThe Mother sat and gave him welcome twice.\n\"I prayed last night,\" she spoke, \"to know God's will;\nI prayed to Holy Mary and the saints\nThat they might pray for me, and I might know\nMy conduct in the matter.  Now, kind sir,\nWhat wouldst thou?  Tell thy errand.\"  He replied:\n\"It was not idle curiosity\nThat brought me hither or that prompts my lips\nTo ask the story of the `White-Rose-Grave',\nTo seek the story of the sleeper there\nWhose name I knew so long and far away.\nWho was she, pray?  Dost deem it right to tell?\"\nThere was a pause before the answer came,\nAs if there was a comfort in her heart,\nThere was a tremor in her voice when she\nUnclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone\nOf whisper more than word:\n\n            \"She was a child\nOf lofty gift and grace who fills that grave,\nAnd who has filled it long -- and yet it seems\nTo me but one short hour ago we laid\nHer body there.  Her mem'ry clings around\nOur hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet.\nWe often look for her in places where\nHer face was wont to be:  among the flowers,\nIn chapel, underneath those trees.  Long years\nHave passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet\nIt seems to hover here and haunt us all.\nI cannot tell you all.  It is enough\nTo see one ray of light for us to judge\nThe glory of the sun; it is enough\nTo catch one glimpse of heaven's blue\nFor us to know the beauty of the sky.\nIt is enough to tell a little part\nOf her most holy life, that you may know\nThe hidden grace and splendor of the whole.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" he interrupted her; \"all! all!\nThou'lt tell me all, kind Mother.\"\n\n            She went on,\nUnheeding his abruptness:\n            \"One sweet day --\nA feast of Holy Virgin, in the month\nOf May, at early morn, ere yet the dew\nHad passed from off the flowers and grass -- ere yet\nOur nuns had come from holy Mass -- there came,\nWith summons quick, unto our convent gate\nA fair young girl.  Her feet were wet with dew --\nAnother dew was moist within her eyes --\nHer large, brown, wond'ring eyes.  She asked for me\nAnd as I went she rushed into my arms --\nLike weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch\nThat sheltered it from storm.  She sobbed and sobbed\nUntil I thought her very soul would rush\nFrom her frail body, in a sob, to God.\nI let her sob her sorrow all away.\nMy words were waiting for a calm.  Her sobs\nSank into sighs -- and they too sank and died\nIn faintest breath.  I bore her to a seat\nIn this same room -- and gently spoke to her,\nAnd held her hand in mine -- and soothed her\nWith words of sympathy, until she seemed\nAs tranquil as myself.\n\n            \"And then I asked:\n`What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?'\n`Mother!' she said, `wilt let me wear the veil?\nWilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve\nHim in this cloistered place?  I pray to be --\nUnworthy tho' I be -- to be His spouse.\nNay, Mother -- say not nay -- 'twill break a heart\nAlready broken;' and she looked on me\nWith those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more,\nMore strongly and more sadly than her lips\nThat I might grant her sudden, strange request.\n`Hast thou a mother?' questioned I.  `I had,'\nShe said, `but heaven has her now; and thou\nWilt be my mother -- and the orphan girl\nWill make her life her thanks.'\n            `Thy father, child?'\n`Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.'\n`And hast nor sister nor brother?'  `No,' she said,\n`God gave my mother only me; one year\nThis very day He parted us.'  `Poor child,'\nI murmured.  `Nay, kind Sister,' she replied,\n`I have much wealth -- they left me ample means --\nI have true friends who love me and protect.\nI was a minor until yesterday;\nBut yesterday all guardianship did cease,\nAnd I am mistress of myself and all\nMy worldly means -- and, Sister, they are thine\nIf thou but take myself -- nay -- don't refuse.'\n`Nay -- nay -- my child!' I said; `the only wealth\nWe wish for is the wealth of soul -- of grace.\nNot all your gold could unlock yonder gate,\nOr buy a single thread of Virgin's veil.\nNot all the coins in coffers of a king\nCould bribe an entrance here for any one.\nGod's voice alone can claim a cell -- a veil,\nFor any one He sends.\n            Who sent you here,\nMy child?  Thyself?  Or did some holy one\nDirect thy steps?  Or else some sudden grief?\nOr, mayhap, disappointment?  Or, perhaps,\nA sickly weariness of that bright world\nHath cloyed thy spirit?  Tell me, which is it.'\n`Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke.\n`Who sent you, then?'\n            `A youthful Christ,' she said,\n`Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ,\nWould have been His belov'd Disciple, sure --\nWould have been His own gentle John; and would\nHave leaned on Thursday night upon His breast,\nAnd stood on Friday eve beneath His cross\nTo take His Mother from Him when He died.\nHe sent me here -- he said the word last night\nIn my own garden; this the word he said --\nOh! had you heard him whisper:  \"Ethel, dear!\nYour heart was born with veil of virgin on;\nI hear it rustle every time we meet,\nIn all your words and smiles; and when you weep\nI hear it rustle more.  Go -- wear your veil --\nAnd outward be what inwardly thou art,\nAnd hast been from the first.  And, Ethel, list:\nMy heart was born with priestly vestments on,\nAnd at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood,\nAnd said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep --\nAnd when I lifted up a white Dream-Host,\nA silver Dream-Bell rang -- and angels knelt,\nOr seemed to kneel, in worship.  Ethel say --\nThou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart\nNor more than I would tear the veil from thine.\nMy vested and thy veiled heart part to-night\nTo climb our Calvary and to meet in God;\nAnd this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane --\nAnd He is here, who, in that other, bled;\nAnd they are here who came to comfort Him --\nHis angels and our own; and His great prayer,\nEthel, is ours to-night -- let's say it, then:\nFather! Thy will be done!  Go find your veil\nAnd I my vestments.\"  He did send me here.'\n\n\"She paused -- a few stray tears had dropped upon\nHer closing words and softened them to sighs.\nI listened, inward moved, but outward calm and cold\nTo the girl's strange story.  Then, smiling, said:\n`I see it is a love-tale after all,\nWith much of folly and some of fact in it;\nIt is a heart affair, and in such things\nThere's little logic, and there's less of sense.\nYou brought your heart, dear child, but left your head\nOutside the gates; nay, go, and find the head\nYou lost last night -- and then, I am quite sure,\nYou'll not be anxious to confine your heart\nWithin this cloistered place.'\n            She seemed to wince\nBeneath my words one moment -- then replied:\n`If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here,\nDost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more?\nIf merely warmth of feelings urged me here,\nDost thou do well to chill them into ice?\nAnd were I disappointed in yon world,\nShould that debar me from a purer place?\nYou say it is a love-tale -- so it is;\nThe vase was human -- but the flower divine;\nAnd if I break the vase with my own hands,\nWill you forbid that I should humbly ask\nThe heart of God to be my lily's vase?\nI'd trust my lily to no heart on earth\nSave his who yesternight did send me here\nTo dip it in the very blood of Christ,\nAnd plant it here.'\n            And then she sobbed outright\nA long, deep sob.\n            I gently said to her:\n`Nay, child, I spoke to test thee -- do not weep.\nIf thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come\nAnd find e'en here a home.  But God is slow\nIn all His works and ways, and slower still\nWhen He would deck a bride to grace His court.\nGo, now, and in one year -- if thou dost come\nThy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee;\nNay -- urge me not -- it is our holy rule --\nA year of trial!  I must to choir, and thou\nInto the world to watch and wait and pray\nUntil the Bridegroom comes.'\n            She rose and went\nWithout a word.\n\n            \"And twelvemonth after came,\nTrue to the very day and hour, and said:\n`Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago?\nWhere is my cell -- and where my virgin's veil?\nWilt try me more?  Wilt send me back again?\nI came once with my wealth and was refused:\nAnd now I come as poor as Holy Christ\nWho had no place to rest His weary head --\nMy wealth is gone; I offered it to him\nWho sent me here; he sent me speedy word\n\"Give all unto the poor in quiet way --\nAnd hide the giving -- ere you give yourself\nTo God!\"  `Wilt take me now for my own sake?\nI bring my soul -- 'tis little worth I ween,\nAnd yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.'\n\n\"`My child,' I said, `thrice welcome -- enter here;\nA few short days of silence and of prayer,\nAnd thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'\n\n\"Her novice days went on; much sickness fell\nUpon her.  Oft she lay for weary weeks\nIn awful agonies, and no one heard\nA murmur from her lips.  She oft would smile\nA sunny, playful smile, that she might hide\nHer sufferings from us all.  When she was well\nShe was the first to meet the hour of prayer --\nThe last to leave it -- and they named her well:\nThe `Angel of the Cloister'.  Once I heard\nThe Father of our souls say when she passed\n`Beneath that veil of sacrificial black\nShe wears the white robe of her innocence.'\nAnd we -- we believed it.  There are sisters here\nOf three-score years of service who would say:\n`Within our memory never moved a veil\nThat hid so saintly and so pure a heart.'\nAnd we -- we felt it, and we loved her so,\nWe treated her as angel and as child.\nI never heard her speak about the past,\nI never heard her mention e'en a name\nOf any in the world.  She little spake;\nShe seemed to have rapt moments -- then she grew\nAbsent-minded, and would come and ask me\nTo walk alone and say her Rosary\nBeneath the trees.  She had a voice divine;\nAnd when she sang for us, in truth it seemed\nThe very heart of song was breaking on her lips.\nThe dower of her mind as of her heart,\nWas of the richest, and she mastered art\nBy instinct more than study.  Her weak hands\nMoved ceaselessly amid the beautiful.\nThere is a picture hanging in our choir\nShe painted.  I remember well the morn\nShe came to me and told me she had dreamt\nA dream; then asked me would I let her paint\nHer dream.  I gave permission.  Weeks and weeks\nWent by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day\nShe kept her cell all busy with her work.\nAt last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth --\nA picture my poor words may not portray.\nBut you must gaze on it with your own eyes,\nAnd drink its magic and its meanings in;\nI'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.\n\n\"In every May for two whole days she kept\nHer cell.  We humored her in that; but when\nThe days had passed, and she came forth again,\nHer face was tender as a lily's leaf,\nWith God's smile on it; and for days and days\nThereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips\nSave when in prayer, and then her every look\nWas rapt, as if her soul did hold with God\nStrange converse.  And, who knows? mayhap she did.\n\n\"I half forgot -- on yonder mantlepiece\nYou see that wondrous crucifix; one year\nShe spent on it, and begged to put beneath\nThat most mysterious word -- `Ullainee'.\n\n\"At last the cloister's angel disappeared;\nHer face was missed at choir, her voice was missed --\nHer words were missed where every day we met\nIn recreation's hour.  And those who passed\nThe angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe\nA prayer that death might pass the angel by\nAnd let her longer stay, for she lay ill --\nHer frail, pure life was ebbing fast away.\nAh! many were the orisons that rose\nFrom all our hearts that God might spare her still;\nAt Benediction and at holy Mass\nOur hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went\nTo heaven for her; we did love her so --\nPerhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps\nOur love was far too human.  Slow and slow\nShe faded like a flower.  And slow and slow\nHer pale cheeks whitened more.  And slow and slow\nHer large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim.\nHope died on all our faces; but on her's\nAnother and a different hope did shine,\nAnd from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose\nThat made her watchers weep.  Fast came the end.\nNever such silence o'er the cloister hung --\nWe walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke,\nOur voices fell to whispers, lest a sound\nMight jar upon her ear.  The sisters watched\nIn turns beside her couch; to each she gave\nA gentle word, a smile, a thankful look.\nAt times her mind did wander; no wild words\nEscaped her lips -- she seemed to float away\nTo far-gone days, and live again in scenes\nWhose hours were bright and happy.  In her sleep\nShe ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words\nAbout her mother; and sometimes she sang\nThe fragments of sweet olden songs -- and when\nShe woke again, she timidly would ask\nIf she had spoken in her sleep, and what\nShe said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear\nThat sleep might open there some long-closed gate\nShe would keep locked.  And softly as a cloud,\nA golden cloud upon a summer's day,\nFloats from the heart of land out o'er the sea,\nSo her sweet life was passing.  One bright eve,\nThe fourteenth day of August, when the sun\nWas wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud\nAround him on descending day's bright throne,\nShe sent for me and bade me come in haste.\nI went into her cell.  There was a light\nUpon her face, unearthly; and it shone\nLike gleam of star upon a dying rose.\nI sat beside her couch, and took her hand\nIn mine -- a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd\nOf flesh -- so wasted, white and wan it was.\nHer great, brown, wond'ring eyes had sunk away\nDeep in their sockets -- and their light shone dim\nAs tapers dying on an altar.  Soft\nAs a dream of beauty on me fell low,\nLast words.\n            `Mother, the tide is ebbing fast;\nBut ere it leaves this shore to cross the deep\nAnd seek another, calmer, I would say\nA few last words -- and, Mother, I would ask\nOne favor more, which thou wilt not refuse.\nThou wert a mother to the orphan girl,\nThou gav'st her heart a home, her love a vase,\nHer weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine --\nAnd thou didst love me, Mother, as she loved\nWhom I shall meet to-morrow, far away --\nBut no, it is not far -- that other heaven\nTouches this, Mother; I have felt its touch,\nAnd now I feel its clasp upon my soul.\nI'm going from this heaven into that,\nTo-morrow, Mother.  Yes, I dreamt it all.\nIt was the sunset of Our Lady's feast.\nMy soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds\nTo sing the second Vespers of the day\nWith all the angels.  Mother, ere I go,\nThou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words,\nWhich, like all last words, tell whate'er was first\nIn life or tenderest in heart.  I came\nUnto my convent cell and virgin veil,\nSent by a spirit that had touched my own\nAs wings of angels touch -- to fly apart\nUpon their missions -- till they meet again\nIn heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing.\nThe \"Angel of the Cloister\" you called me --\nUnworthy sure of such a beauteous name --\nMy mission's over -- and your angel goes\nTo-morrow home.  This earthly part which stays\nYou'll lay away within a simple grave --\nBut, Mother, on its slab thou'lt grave this name,\n\"Ullainee!\" (she spelt the letters out),\nNor ask me why -- tho' if thou wilt I'll tell;\nIt is my soul name, given long ago\nBy one who found it in some Eastern book,\nOr dreamt it in a dream, and gave it me --\nNor ever told the meaning of the name;\nAnd, Mother, should he ever come and read\nThat name upon my grave, and come to thee\nAnd ask the tidings of \"Ullainee\",\nThou'lt tell him all -- and watch him if he weeps,\nShow him the crucifix my poor hands carved --\nShow him the picture in the chapel choir --\nAnd watch him if he weeps; and then\nThere are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer;'\n(She pointed to the table in her room);\n`Some words of mine and words of his are there.\nAnd keep these simple scrolls until he comes,\nAnd put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch --\nWatch him if he weeps; and tell him this:\nI tasted all the sweets of sacrifice,\nI kissed my cross a thousand times a day,\nI hung and bled upon it in my dreams,\nI lived on it -- I loved it to the last.'  And then\nA low, soft sigh crept thro' the virgin's cell;\nI looked upon her face, and death was there.\"\nThere was a pause -- and in the pause one wave\nOf shining tears swept thro' the Mother's eyes.\n\"And thus,\" she said, \"our angel passed away.\nWe buried her, and at her last request\nWe wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee'.\nAnd I -- (for she asked me one day thus,\nThe day she hung her picture in the choir) --\nI planted o'er her grave a white rose tree.\nThe roses crept around the slab and hid\nThe graven name -- and still we sometimes cull\nHer sweet, white roses, and we place them on\nOur Chapel-Altar.\"\n            Then the Mother rose,\nWithout another word, and led him thro'\nA long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs\nUnto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge\nNoiselessly -- then into a Chapel dim,\nOn gospel side of which there was a gate\nFrom ceiling down to floor, and back of that\nA long and narrow choir, with many stalls,\nBrown-oaken; all along the walls were hung\nSaint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon\nThe faces of the Sisters in their prayers.\nBeside a \"Mater Dolorosa\" hung\nThe picture of the \"Angel of the Choir\".\nHe sees it now thro' vista of the years,\nWhich stretch between him and that long-gone day,\nIt hangs within his memory as fresh\nIn tint and touch and look as long ago.\nThere was a power in it, as if the soul\nOf her who painted it had shrined in it\nIts very self; there was a spell in it\nThat fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes,\nAnd made him dream of God's own holy heart.\nThe shadow of the picture, in weak words,\nWas this, or something very like to this:\n            ---- A wild, weird wold,\nJust like the desolation of a heart,\nStretched far away into infinity;\nAbove it low, gray skies drooped sadly down,\nAs if they fain would weep, and all was bare\nAs bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stood\nAll mantled with the glory of a light\nThat flashed from out the heavens, and a cross\nWith such a pale Christ hanging in its arms\nDid crown the mount; and either side the cross\nThere were two crosses lying on the rocks --\nOne of the whitest roses -- ULLAINEE\nWas woven into it with buds of Red;\nAnd one of reddest roses -- Merlin's name\nWas woven into it with buds of white.\nBelow the cross and crosses and the mount\nThe earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear;\nAbove, a golden glory seemed to hang\nLike God's own benediction o'er the names.\nI saw the picture once; it moved me so\nI ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth;\nBut words as weak as mine can never paint\nThat Crucifixion's picture.\n            Merlin said to me:\n\"Some day -- some far-off day -- when I am dead,\nYou have the simple rhymings of two hearts,\nAnd if you think it best, the world may know\nA love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE.\"\n\n\n\n\nNight After the Picnic\n\n\n\nAnd \"Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n Rang the bells of all the hours;\n\"Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!\"\n Looked and listened all the flowers;\nThey were wakened from their slumbers,\n By the footsteps of the fair;\nAnd they smiled in their awaking\n On the faces gathered there.\n\n\"Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!\"\n Looked the overhanging trees,\nFor beneath their bending branches\n Floated tresses in the breeze.\nAnd they wondered who had wandered\n With such voices and so gay;\nAnd their leaflets seemed to whisper\n To each other:  \"Who are they?\"\n\nThey were just like little children,\n Not a sorrow's shade was there;\nAnd \"Merry! Merry! Merry!\"\n Rang their laughter thro' the air.\nThere was not a brow grief-darkened,\n Was there there a heart in pain?\nBut \"Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n Came the happy bells' refrain.\n\nWhen the stately trees were bending\n O'er a simple, quiet home,\nThat looked humble as an altar,\n Nestling 'neath a lofty dome;\nThither went they gaily! gaily!\n Where their coming was a joy,\nJust to pass away together\n One long day without alloy.\n\n\"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!\"\n Melted morning's mist away,\nTill the sun, in all its splendor,\n Lit the borders of the bay.\n\"Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!\"\n Glanced the waters that were gray,\nWhile the wavelets whispered \"Welcome!\"\n To us all that happy day.\n\nAnd \"Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n Rang the bell in every heart,\nAnd it chimed, \"All day let no one\n Think that ye shall ever part.\nGo and sip from every moment\n Sweets to perfume many years;\nKeep your feast, and be too happy\n To have thought of any tears.\"\n\nThere was song with one's soul in it,\n And the happy hearts grew still\nWhile they leaned upon the music\n Like fair lilies o'er the rill;\nTill the notes had softly floated\n Into silent seas away\nO'er the wavelets, where they listened\n While they rocked upon the bay.\n\nAnd ---- \"Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!\"\n When the song's sweet life was o'er,\nDrooped the eyes that will remember\n All its echoes evermore.\nAnd \"Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!\"\n Beat the hearts of some, I ween,\nThat can see the unseen mystery\n Which a song may strive to screen.\n\nThen \"Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!\"\n Rang the laughter everywhere,\nFrom the lips that seemed too lightsome\n For the sigh of any care.\nAnd the dance went \"Merry! Merry!\"\n Whilst the feet that tripped along,\nBore the hearts that were as happy\n As a wild bird's happy song.\n\nAnd sweet words with smiles upon them,\n Joy-winged, flitted to and fro,\nFlushing every face they met with\n With the glory of their glow.\nNot a brow with cloud upon it --\n Not an eye that seemed to know\nWhat a tear is; not a bosom\n That had ever nursed a woe.\n\nAnd how \"Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!\"\n Like the ripples of a stream,\nDid the bright hours chase each other,\n Till it all seemed like a dream;\nTill it seemed as if no ~Never~\n Ever in this world had been,\nTo o'ercloud the ~brief Forever~,\n Shining o'er the happy scene.\n\nDimly! dimly fell the shadows\n Of the tranquil eventide;\nBut the sound of dance and laughter\n Would not die, and had not died;\nAnd still \"Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n Rang the voiceless vesper bells\nO'er the hearts that were too happy\n To remember earth's farewells.\n\nCame the night hours -- faster! faster!\n Rose the laughter and the dance,\nAnd the eyes that should look weary\n Shone the brighter in their glance:\nAnd they stole from every minute\n What no other day could lend --\nThey were happy! happy! happy!\n But the feast must have an end.\n\n\"Children, come!\" the words were cruel --\n 'Twas the death sigh of the feast;\nAnd they came, still merry! merry!\n At the bidding of the priest,\nWho had heard the joy-bells ringing\n Round him all the summer day.\n\"Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n Did he hear an angel say?\n\n\"Happy! happy! still more happy!\n Yea, the happiest are they.\nI was moving 'mid the children\n By the borders of the bay,\nAnd I bring to God no record\n Of a single sin this day.\n\n\"Happy! Happy! Happy!\"\n When your life seems lone and long,\nYou will hear that feast's bells ringing\n Far and faintly thro' my song.\n\n\n\n\nLines [\"The death of men is not the death\"]\n\n\n\nThe death of men is not the death\nOf rights that urged them to the fray;\n   For men may yield\n   On battle-field\nA noble life with stainless shield,\n   And swords may rust\n   Above their dust,\n   But still, and still\n   The touch and thrill\nOf freedom's vivifying breath\n   Will nerve a heart and rouse a will\n   In some hour, in the days to be,\nTo win back triumphs from defeat;\nAnd those who blame us then will greet\n   Right's glorious eternity.\n\nFor right lives in a thousand things;\n   Its cradle is its martyr's grave,\nWherein it rests awhile until\n   The life that heroisms gave\nWill rise again, at God's own will,\n   And right the wrong,\n   Which long and long\nDid reign above the true and just;\nAnd thro' the songs the poet sings,\nRight's vivifying spirit rings;\n   Each simple rhyme\n   Keeps step and time\nWith those who marched away and fell,\n   And all his lines\n   Are humble shrines\nWhere love of right will love to dwell.\n\n\n\n\nDeath of the Prince Imperial\n\n\n\nWaileth a woman, \"O my God!\"\nA breaking heart in a broken breath,\nA hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death!\nCan words catch the chords of the winds that wail,\nWhen love's last lily lies dead in the vale!\n      Let her alone,\n       Under the rod\n      With the infinite moan\n       Of her soul for God.\nAh! song! you may echo the sound of pain,\n      But you never may shrine,\n      In verse or line,\nThe pang of the heart that breaks in twain.\n\nWaileth a woman, \"O my God!\"\nWind-driven waves with no hearts that ache,\nWhy do your passionate pulses throb?\nNo lips that speak -- have ye souls that sob?\nWe carry the cross -- ye wear the crest,\n We have our God -- and ye, your shore,\nWhither ye rush in the storm to rest;\nWe have the havens of holy prayer --\nAnd we have a hope -- have ye despair?\n For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore,\nAdown the shores and along the years,\nIn the whitest foam of the saddest tears,\nAnd we, as ye, O waves, gray waves!\nDrift over a sea more deep and wide,\nFor we have sorrow and we have death;\nAnd ye have only the tempest's breath;\nBut we have God when heart-oppressed,\nAs a calm and beautiful shore of rest.\n\nO waves! sad waves! how you flowed between\nThe crownless Prince and the exiled Queen!\n\nWaileth a woman, \"O my God!\"\n Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed,\nFor the love of her love is cold and dead,\nThe joy of her joy hath forever fled;\n A starless and pitiless night hath rushed\nOn the light of her life -- and far away\nIn Afric wild lies her poor dead child,\nLies the heart of her heart -- let her alone\n      Under the rod\n       With her infinite moan,\n      O my God!\nHe was beautiful, pure, and brave,\n      The brightest grace\n      Of a royal race;\nOnly his throne is but a grave;\n      Is there fate in fame?\n      Is there doom in names?\nAh! what did the cruel Zulu spears\nCare for the prince or his mother's tears?\nWhat did the Zulu's ruthless lance\nCare for the hope of the future France?\n\nCrieth the Empress, \"O my son!\"\nHe was her own and her only one,\nShe had nothing to give him but her love.\n'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- above\nShe gave him an infinite faith in God;\n Let her cry her cry\nOver her own and only one,\nAll the glory is gone -- is gone,\n Into her broken-hearted sigh.\n\nMoaneth a mother, \"O my child!\"\n And who can sound that depth of woe?\nHomeless, throneless, crownless -- now\nShe bows her sorrow-wreathed brow --\n (So fame and all its grandeurs go)\n      Let her alone\n       Beneath the rod\n      With her infinite moan,\n       \"O my God!\"\n\n\n\n\nIn Memoriam (Father Keeler)\n\nFather Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala.\nInscribed to his sister.\n\n\n\n\"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life,\n    And woe to us if he goes!\n Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair,\n Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer;\nLet him linger to help us in the strife\n    On earth, with our sins and woes.\"\n\n'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so,\nThe Angel of Death said:  \"No! oh! no!\"\nHe was passing away -- and none might save\nThe virgin priest from a spotless grave.\n\n\"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray,\n    He taught us to love You so --\n So, so much -- his life is so sweet and fair --\n A still, still song -- and a holy prayer;\nHe is our Father; oh! let him stay --\n    He gone, to whom shall we go?\"\n\n'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so,\nBut the Angel of Death murmured low:  \"No, no;\"\nAnd the voice of his angel from far away,\nSang to Christ in heav'n:  \"He must not stay.\"\n\n\"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne,\n    And pray with your children there --\n Our hearts need his heart -- 'tis sweet and fair,\n Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer,\nGoeth he now -- we are lone -- so lone,\n    And who is there left to care?\"\n\n'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so --\nBut the Angel of Death sang:  \"Children, no!\"\nAnd a voice like Christ's from the far away,\nSounded sweet and low:  \"He may not stay.\"\n\nFrom his sister's heart swept the wildest moan:\n    \"O God let my brother stay --\nI need him the most -- oh! me! how lone,\n    If he passes from earth away --\nO beautiful Christ, for my poor sake\nLet him live for me, else my heart will break.\"\n\nBut the Angel of Death wept:  \"Poor child! no,\"\nAnd Christ sang:  \"Child, I will soothe thy woe.\"\n\n\"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard,\n Let her look on his face once more!\nAh! that prayer was a wail -- without a word --\n She will look on him nevermore!\"\n\nThe long gray distances unmoved swept\n'Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept.\n\nHe was dying fast, and the hours went by,\n    Ah! desolate hours were they!\nHis mind had hidden away somewhere\n Back of a fretted and wearied brow,\n    Ere he passed from life away.\n And one who loved him (at dead of night),\n Crept up to an altar, where the light\nThat guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep,\n Shone strangely down on his vow:\n\"Spare him! O God! -- O God! for me,\n Take me, beautiful Christ, instead;\nLet me taste of death and come to Thee,\n I will sleep for him with the dead.\"\n\nThe Angel of Death said:  \"No! Priest! No!\nYou must suffer and live, but he must go.\"\nAnd a voice like Christ's sang far away:\n\"He will come to me, but you must stay.\"\n\nWe leaned on hope that was all in vain,\n 'Till the terrible word at last\nTold our stricken hearts he was out of pain,\n And his beautiful life had passed.\n\nOh! take him away from where he died;\n Put him not with the common dead\n    (For he was so pure and fair);\nAnd the city was stirred, and thousands cried\n    Whose tears were a very prayer.\n\nNo, no, no, take him home again,\n For his bishop's heart beats there;\n    Cast him not with the common dead,\n    Let him go home and rest his head,\n    Ah! his weary and grief-worn head,\nOn the heart of his father -- he is mild\nFor he loved him as his own child.\n\nAnd they brought him home to the home he blest,\n With his life so sweet and fair,\nHe blessed it more in his deathly rest --\n His face was a chiseled prayer,\nWhite as the snow, pure as the foam\n Of a weary wave on the sea,\nHe drifted back -- and they placed him where\n He would love at last to be.\n\nHis Father in God thought over the years\n Of the beautiful happy past;\nAh! me! we were happy then; but now,\n The sorrow has come, and saddest tears\nKiss the dead priest's virgin brow.\n\nWho will watch o'er the dead young priest,\n People and priests and all?\nNo, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast;\n When the evening shadows fall,\nLet him rest alone -- unwatched, alone,\n Just beneath the altar's light,\nThe holy hosts on their humble throne\n Will watch him all thro' the night.\n\nThe doors were closed -- he was still and fair,\n What sound moved up the aisles?\nThe dead priests come with soundless prayer,\n Their faces wearing smiles.\nAnd this was the soundless hymn they sung:\n \"We watch o'er you to-night,\nYour life was beautiful, fair, and young,\n Not a cloud upon its light.\nTo-morrow -- to-morrow you will rest\nWith the virgin priests whom Christ has blest.\"\n\nKyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd\n Bowed down their heads in tears\nO'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud\n    (Ah! the happy, happy years!)\n They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass\n    Went slowly, mournfully on,\nThe Pontiff's singing was all a wail,\n The altars cried, and the people wept,\nThe fairest flower in the church's vale\n (Ah! me! how soon we pass!)\n In the vase of his coffin slept.\n\nWe bore him out to his resting place,\n Children, priests, and all;\nThere was sorrow on almost ev'ry face --\n And ah! what tears did fall!\nTears from hearts, for a heart asleep,\nTears from sorrow's deepest deep.\n\n\"Dust to dust,\" he was lowered down;\n Children! kneel and pray --\n\"Give the white rose priest a flower and crown,\n For the white rose passed away.\"\n\nAnd we wept our tears and left him there.\n And brought his memory home --\nAh! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair,\n A heavenly hymn -- a sweet, still prayer,\nPure as the snow, white as the foam,\n\n That seeks a lone, far shore.\nDead Priest! bless from amid the blest,\nThe hearts that will guard thy place of rest,\n Forever, forever, forever more.\n\n\n\n\nMobile Mystic Societies\n\n\n\nThe olden golden stories of the world,\n   That stirred the past,\n And now are dim as dreams,\nThe lays and legends which the bards unfurled\n   In lines that last,\n All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams.\nFragments and fancies writ on many a page\n   By deathless pen,\nAnd names, and deeds that all along each age,\n   Thrill hearts of men.\nAnd pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade\n   Of many climes,\nAnd life's great poems that can never fade\n   Nor lose their chimes;\nAnd acts and facts that must forever ring\n   Like temple bells,\nThat sound or seem to sound where angels sing\n   Vesper farewells;\nAnd scenes where smiles are strangely touching tears,\n   'Tis ever thus,\nStrange Mystics! in the meeting of the years\n   Ye bring to us\nAll these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh,\n   Strange power ye hold!\nWhen New Year kneels low in the star-aisled sky\n   And asks the Old\nTo bless us all with love, and life, and light,\n   And when they fold\nEach other in their arms, ye stir the sight,\n   We look, and lo!\nThe past is passing, and the present seems\n   To wish to go.\nYe pass between them on your mystic way\n   Thro' scene and scene,\nThe Old Year marches through your ranks, away\n   To what has been,\nThe while the pageant moves, it scarcely seems\n   Apart of earth;\nThe Old Year dies -- and heaven crowns with gleams\n   The New Year's birth.\nAnd you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace\n   To enter here;\nA prayer -- ascending from an orphan face,\n   Or just one tear\nMay meet you in the years that are to be\n   A blessing rare.\nYe pass beneath the arch of charity,\n   Who passeth there\nIs blest in heaven, and is blest on earth,\n   And God will care,\nBeyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth,\n   For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.\n\n\n\n\nRest\n\n\n\nMy feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,\n   My soul oppressed --\nAnd I desire, what I have long desired --\n   Rest -- only rest.\n\n'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,\n   In barren ways;\n'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,\n   In harvest days.\n\nThe burden of my days is hard to bear,\n   But God knows best;\nAnd I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer\n   For rest -- sweet rest.\n\n'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap\n   The Autumn yield;\n'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep\n   O'er fruitless field.\n\nAnd so I cry a weak and human cry,\n   So heart oppressed;\nAnd so I sigh a weak and human sigh,\n   For rest -- for rest.\n\nMy way has wound across the desert years,\n   And cares infest\nMy path, and through the flowing of hot tears,\n   I pine -- for rest.\n\n'Twas always so; when but a child I laid\n   On mother's breast\nMy wearied little head; e'en then I prayed\n   As now -- for rest.\n\nAnd I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er;\n   For down the West\nLife's sun is setting, and I see the shore\n   Where I shall rest.\n\n\n\n\nFollow Me\n\n\n\nThe Master's voice was sweet:\n \"I gave My life for thee;\nBear thou this cross thro' pain and loss,\n Arise and follow Me.\"\nI clasped it in my hand --\n O Thou! who diedst for me,\nThe day is bright, my step is light,\n 'Tis sweet to follow Thee!\n\nThrough the long Summer days\n I followed lovingly;\n'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near,\n His glorious face to see.\nDown where the lilies pale\n Fringed the bright river's brim,\nIn pastures green His steps were seen --\n 'Twas sweet to follow Him!\n\nOh, sweet to follow Him!\n Lord, let me here abide.\nThe flowers were fair; I lingered there;\n I laid His cross aside --\nI saw His face no more\n By the bright river's brim;\nBefore me lay the desert way --\n 'Twas hard to follow Him!\n\nYes! hard to follow Him\n Into that dreary land!\nI was alone; His cross had grown\n Too heavy for my hand.\nI heard His voice afar\n Sound thro' the night air chill;\nMy weary feet refused to meet\n His coming o'er the hill.\n\nThe Master's voice was sad:\n \"I gave My life for thee;\nI bore the cross thro' pain and loss,\n Thou hast not followed Me.\"\nSo fair the lilies' banks,\n So bleak the desert way:\nThe night was dark, I could not mark\n Where His blessed footsteps lay.\n\nFairer the lilied banks\n Softer the grassy lea;\n\"The endless bliss of those who best\n Have learned to follow Me!\nCanst thou not follow Me?\nHath patient love a power no more\n To move thy faithless heart?\nWilt thou not follow Me?\n These weary feet of Mine\nHave stained, and red the pathway dread\n In search of thee and thine.\"\n\nO Lord! O Love divine!\n Once more I follow Thee!\nLet me abide so near Thy side\n That I Thy face may see.\nI clasp Thy pierced hand,\n O Thou who diedst for me!\nI'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss,\n So let me cling to Thee.\n\n\n\n\nThe Poet's Child\n\nLines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams.\n\n\n\nChild of the heart of a child of sweetest song!\n The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins;\nDost ever hear faint echoes float along\n Thy days and dreams of thy dead father's strains?\n       Dost ever hear,\n      In mournful times,\n       With inner ear,\n The strange sweet cadences of thy father's rhymes?\n\nChild of a child of art, which Heaven doth give\n To few, to very few as unto him!\nHis songs are wandering o'er the world, but live\n In his child's heart, in some place lone and dim;\n      And nights and days\n       With vestal's eyes\n       And soundless sighs\n Thou keepest watch above thy father's lays.\n\nChild of a dreamer of dreams all unfulfilled --\n (And thou art, child, a living dream of him) --\nDost ever feel thy spirit all enthrilled\n With his lost dreams when summer days wane dim?\n      When suns go down,\n       Thou, song of the dead singer,\n       Dost sigh at eve and grieve\n O'er the brow that paled before it won the crown?\n\nChild of the patriot!  Oh, how he loved his land!\n And how he moaned o'er Erin's ev'ry wrong!\nChild of the singer! he swept with purest hand\n The octaves of all agonies, until his song\n      Sobbed o'er the sea;\n       And now through thee\n      It cometh to me,\n Like a shadow song from some Gethsemane.\n\nChild of the wanderer! and his heart the shrine\n Where three loves blended into only one --\nHis God's, thy mother's, and his country's; and 'tis thine\n To be the living ray of such a glorious sun.\n      His genius gleams,\n       My child, within thee,\n      And dim thy dreams\n As stars on the midnight sea.\n\nChild of thy father, I have read his songs --\n Thou art the sweetest song he ever sung --\nPeaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongs\n Swept o'er his heart he stormed.  And he was young;\n      He died too soon --\n       So men will say --\n      Before he reached Fame's noon;\n His songs are letters in a book -- thou art their ray.\n\n\n\n\nMother's Way\n\n\n\nOft within our little cottage,\n As the shadows gently fall,\nWhile the sunlight touches softly\n One sweet face upon the wall,\nDo we gather close together,\n And in hushed and tender tone\nAsk each other's full forgiveness\n For the wrong that each has done.\nShould you wonder why this custom\n At the ending of the day,\nEye and voice would quickly answer:\n \"It was once our mother's way.\"\n\nIf our home be bright and cheery,\n If it holds a welcome true,\nOpening wide its door of greeting\n To the many -- not the few;\nIf we share our father's bounty\n With the needy day by day,\n'Tis because our hearts remember\n This was ever mother's way.\n\nSometimes when our hands grow weary,\n Or our tasks seem very long;\nWhen our burdens look too heavy,\n And we deem the right all wrong;\nThen we gain a new, fresh courage,\n And we rise to proudly say:\n\"Let us do our duty bravely --\n This was our dear mother's way.\"\n\nThen we keep her memory precious,\n While we never cease to pray\nThat at last, when lengthening shadows\n Mark the evening of our day,\nThey may find us waiting calmly\n To go home our mother's way.\n\n\n\n\nFeast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple\n\n\n\nThe priests stood waiting in the holy place,\n     Impatient of delay\n      (Isaiah had been read),\nWhen sudden up the aisle there came a face\n     Like a lost sun's ray;\n      And the child was led\nBy Joachim and Anna.  Rays of grace\n Shone all about the child;\nSimeon looked on, and bowed his aged head --\n Looked on the child, and smiled.\n\nLow were the words of Joachim.  He spake\n     In a tremulous way,\n      As if he were afraid,\nOr as if his heart were just about to break,\n     And knew not what to say;\n      And low he bowed his head --\nWhile Anna wept the while -- he, sobbing, said:\n \"Priests of the holy temple, will you take\nInto your care our child?\"\nAnd Simeon, listening, prayed, and strangely smiled.\n\nA silence for a moment fell on all;\n     They gazed in mute surprise,\n      Not knowing what to say,\nTill Simeon spake:  \"Child, hast thou heaven's call?\"\n     And the child's wondrous eyes\n      (Each look a lost sun's ray)\nTurned toward the far mysterious wall.\n (Did the veil of the temple sway?)\nThey looked from the curtain to the little child --\nSimeon seemed to pray, and strangely smiled.\n\n\"Yes; heaven sent me here.  Priests, let me in!\"\n     (And the voice was sweet and low.)\n      \"Was it a dream by night?\nA voice did call me from this world of sin --\n     A spirit-voice I know,\n      An angel pure and bright.\n`Leave father, mother,' said the voice, `and win';\n     (I see my angel now)\n     `The crown of a virgin's vow.'\nI am three summers old -- a little child.\"\nAnd Simeon seemed to pray the while he smiled.\n\n\"Yes, holy priests, our father's God is great,\n     And all His mercies sweet!\n      His angel bade me come --\nCome thro' the temple's beautiful gate;\n     He led my heart and feet\n      To this, my holy home.\nHe said to me:  `Three years your God will wait\n     Your heart to greet and meet.'\n      I am three summers old --\n     I see my angel now --\n      Brighter his wings than gold --\n     He knoweth of my vow.\"\nThe priests, in awe, came closer to the child --\nShe wore an angel's look -- and Simeon smiled.\n\nAs if she were the very holy ark,\n     Simeon placed his hand\n      On the fair, pure head.\nThe sun had set, and it was growing dark;\n     The robed priests did stand\n      Around the child.  He said:\n\"Unto me, priests, and all ye Levites, hark!\n     This child is God's own gift --\n     Let us our voices lift\nIn holy praise.\"  They gazed upon the child\nIn wonderment -- and Simeon prayed and smiled.\n\nAnd Joachim and Anna went their way --\n     The little child, she shed\n      The tenderest human tears.\nThe priests and Levites lingered still to pray;\n     And Simeon said:\n      \"We teach the latter years\nThe night is passing 'fore the coming day\n     (Isaiah had been read)\nOf our redemption\" -- and some way the child\nWon all their hearts.  Simeon prayed and smiled.\n\nThat night the temple's child knelt down to pray\n     In the shadows of the aisle --\n      She prayed for you and me.\nWhy did the temple's mystic curtain sway?\n     Why did the shadows smile?\n      The child of Love's decree\nHad come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleam\nThe aged Simeon did see in dream\nThe mystery of the child,\nAnd in his sleep he murmured prayer -- and smiled.\n\nAnd twelve years after, up the very aisle\n     Where Simeon had smiled\n      Upon her fair, pure face,\nShe came again, with a mother's smile,\n     And in her arms a Child,\n      The very God of grace.\nAnd Simeon took the Infant from her breast,\n     And, in glad tones and strong,\n     He sang his glorious song\nOf faith, and hope, and everlasting rest.\n\n\n\n\nSt. Bridget\n\n\n\nSweet heaven's smile\nGleamed o'er the isle,\n That gems the dreamy sea.\nOne far gone day,\nAnd flash'd its ray,\nMore than a thousand years away,\n Pure Bridget, over thee.\n\nWhite as the snow,\nThat falls below\n To earth on Christmas night,\nThy pure face shone\nOn every one;\nFor Christ's sweet grace thy heart had won\n To make thy birth-land bright.\n\nA cloud hangs o'er\nThy Erin's shore --\n Ah! God, 'twas always so.\nAh! virgin fair\nThy heaven pray'r\nWill help thy people in their care,\n And save them from their woe.\n\nThou art in light --\nThey are in light;\n Thou hast a crown -- they a chain.\nThe very sod,\nMade theirs by God,\nIs still by tyrants' footsteps trod;\n They pray -- but all in vain.\n\nThou! near Christ's throne,\nDost hear the moan\n Of all their hearts that grieve;\nAh! virgin sweet,\nKneel at His feet,\nWhere angels' hymns thy prayer shall greet,\n And pray for them this eve.\n\n\n\n\nNew Year\n\n\n\nEach year cometh with all his days,\n Some are shadowed and some are bright;\nHe beckons us on until he stays\n Kneeling with us 'neath Christmas night.\n\nKneeling under the stars that gem\n The holy sky, o'er the humble place,\nWhen the world's sweet Child of Bethlehem\n Rested on Mary, full of grace.\n\nNot only the Bethlehem in the East,\n But altar Bethlehem everywhere,\nWhen the ~Gloria~ of the first great feast\n Rings forth its gladness on the air.\n\nEach year seemeth loath to go,\n And leave the joys of Christmas day;\nIn lands of sun and in lands of snow,\n The year still longs awhile to stay.\n\nA little while, 'tis hard to part\n From this Christ blessed here below,\nOld year! and in thy aged heart\n I hear thee sing so sweet and low.\n\nA song like this, but sweeter far,\n And yet as if with a human tone,\nUnder the blessed Christmas star,\n And thou descendest from thy throne.\n\n\"A few more days and I am gone,\n The hours move swift and sure along;\nYet still I fain would linger on\n In hearing of the Christmas song.\n\n\"I bow to Him who rules all years;\n Thrice blessed is His high behest;\nNor will He blame me if, with tears,\n I pass to my eternal rest.\n\n\"Ah, me! to altars every day\n I brought the sun and the holy Mass;\nThe people came by my light to pray,\n While countless priests did onward pass.\n\n\"The words of the Holy Thursday night\n To one another from east to west;\nAnd the holy Host on the altar white\n Would take its little half-hour's rest.\n\n\"And every minute of every hour\n The Mass bell rang with its sound so sweet,\nWhile from shrine to shrine, with tireless power,\n And heaven's love, walked the nailed feet.\n\n\"I brought the hours for ~Angelus~ bells,\n And from a thousand temple towers\nThey wound their sweet and blessed spell\n Around the hearts of all the hours.\n\n\"Every day has a day of grace\n For those who fain would make them so;\nI saw o'er the world in every place\n The wings of guardian angels glow.\n\n\"Men! could you hear the song I sing --\n But no, alas! it cannot be so!\nMy heir that comes would only bring\n Blessings to bless you here below.\"\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nSeven days passed; the gray, old year\n Calls to his throne the coming heir;\nFalls from his eyes the last, sad tear,\n And lo! there is gladness everywhere.\n\nSinging, I hear the whole world sing,\n Afar, anear, aloud, alow:\n\"What to us will the New Year bring!\"\n Ah! would that each of us might know!\n\nIs it not truth? as old as true?\n List ye, singers, the while ye sing!\nEach year bringeth to each of you\n What each of you will have him bring.\n\nThe year that cometh is a king,\n With better gifts than the old year gave;\nIf you place on his fingers the holy ring\n Of prayer, the king becomes your slave.\n\n\n\n\nZeila (A Story from a Star)\n\n\n\nFrom the mystic sidereal spaces,\nIn the noon of a night 'mid of May,\nCame a spirit that murmured to me --\nOr was it the dream of a dream?\nNo! no! from the purest of places,\nWhere liveth the highest of races,\nIn an unfallen sphere far away\n(And it wore Immortality's gleam)\nCame a Being.  Hath seen on the sea\nThe sheen of some silver star shimmer\n'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmer\nO'er a wave half in dream on the deep?\nIt shone on me thus in my sleep.\n\nWas I sleeping?  Is sleep but the closing,\nIn the night, of our eyes from the light?\nDoth the spirit of man e'en then rest?\nOr doth it not toil all the more?\nWhen the earth-wearied frame is reposing,\nIs the vision then veiled the less bright?\nWhen the earth from our sight hath been taken,\nThe fetters of senses off shaken,\nThe soul, doth it not then awaken\nTo the light on Infinity's shore?\nAnd is not its vision then best,\nAnd truest, and farthest, and clearest?\nIn night, is not heaven the nearest?\nAh, me! let the day have his schemers,\nLet them work on their ways as they will,\nAnd their workings, I trow, have their worth.\nBut the unsleeping spirits of dreamers,\nIn hours when the world-voice is still,\nAre building, with faith without falter,\nBright steps up to heaven's high altar,\nWhere lead all the aisles of the earth.\n\nWas I sleeping?  I know not -- or waking?\nThe body was resting, I ween;\nMeseems it was o'ermuch tired\nWith the toils of the day that had gone;\nWhen sudden there came the bright breaking\nOf light thro' a shadowy screen;\nAnd with the brightness there blended\nThe voice of the Being descended\nFrom a star ever pure of all sin,\nIn music too sweet to be lyred\nBy the lips of the sinful and mortal.\nAnd, oh! how the pure brightness shone!\nAs shines thro' the summer morn's portal\nRays golden and white as the snow,\nAs white as the flakes -- ah, no! whiter;\nOnly angelic wings may be brighter\nWhen they flash o'er the brow of some woe\nThat walketh this shadowed below.\n\nThe soul loseth never its seeing,\nIn the goings of night and of day\nIt graspeth the Infinite Far.\nNo wonder there may come some Being,\nAs if it had wandered astray\nAt times down the wonder-filled way --\nAs to me in the midnight of May --\nFrom its home in some glory-crowned star,\nWhere evil hath never left traces;\nWhere dwelleth the highest of races,\nSave the angels that circle the throne,\nIn a grace far beyond all our graces,\nWhose Christ is the same as our own.\n\nYea! I ween the star spaces are teeming\nWith the gladness of life and of love.\nNo! no! I am not at all dreaming --\nThe Below's hands enclasp the Above.\n'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming --\nCreation is many, tho' one,\nAnd we are the last of its creatures.\nThis earth bears the sign of our sin\n(From the highest the evil came in);\nYet ours are the same human features\nThat veiled long agone the Divine.\nHow comes it, O holy Creator!\nThat we, not the first, but the latter\nOf varied and numberless beings\nSpringing forth in Thy loving decreeings,\nThat we are, of all, the most Thine?\n\nYea! we are the least and the lowly,\nThe half of our history gone,\nWe look up the Infinite slope\nIn faith, and we walk on in hope;\nBut think ye from here to the \"Holy\nOf Holies\" beyond yon still sky,\nO'er the stars that forever move on,\nI' the heavens beyond the bright Third,\nIn glory's ineffable light;\nWhere the Father, and Spirit, and Word\nReign circled by angels all bright --\nAh! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder\nThere is naught but the silence of death?\nThere's naught of love's wish or life's wonder,\nAnd naught but an infinite night?\nNo! no! the great Father is fonder\nOf breathing His life-giving breath\nInto beings of numberless races.\nAnd from here on and up to His throne\nThe Trinity's beautiful faces,\nIn countlessly various traces,\nAre seen in more stars than our own.\nThis earth telleth not half the story\nOf the infinite heart of our God --\nThe heavens proclaim of His glory\nThe least little part, and His power\nBroke not its sceptre when earth\nWas beckoned by Him into birth.\nIs He resting, I wonder, to-night?\nCan He rest when His love sways His will?\nWill He rest ere His glory shall fill\nAll spaces below and above\nWith beings to know and to love?\n\nCreation -- when was it begun?\nWho knows its first day?  Nay, none.\nAnd then, what ken among men\nCan tell when the last work is done?\nIs He resting, I wonder, to-night?\nDoth He ever grow weary of giving\nTo Darknesses rays of His light?\nDoth He ever grow weary of giving\nTo Nothings the rapture of living\nAnd waiting awhile for His sight?\nIf His will rules His glorious power,\nAnd if love sways His beautiful will,\nIs He not, e'en in this very hour,\nGoing on with love's wonder-work still?\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nLet me pray just awhile, for betimes\nMy spirit is clouded; and then\nStrange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes,\nTill prayer lendeth light to my pen.\nAnd then shall I better unfold\nThe story to me that was told,\nOf the unfallen star far away,\nIn the noon of the night 'mid of May,\nBy the beautiful Being who came,\nWith the pure and the beautiful name.\n\"Call me Zeila,\" the bright spirit said,\nAnd passed from my vision afar.\nWith rapture I bowed down my head,\nAnd dreamed of that unfallen star.\n\n\n\n\nBetter than Gold\n\n\n\nBetter than grandeur, better than gold,\nThan rank and titles a thousand fold,\nIs a healthy body and a mind at ease,\nAnd simple pleasures that always please\nA heart that can feel for another's woe,\nWith sympathies large enough to enfold\nAll men as brothers, is better than gold.\n\nBetter than gold is a conscience clear,\nThough toiling for bread in an humble sphere,\nDoubly blessed with content and health,\nUntried by the lusts and cares of wealth,\nLowly living and lofty thought\nAdorn and ennoble a poor man's cot;\nFor mind and morals in nature's plan\nAre the genuine tests of a gentleman.\n\nBetter than gold is the sweet repose\nOf the sons of toil when the labors close;\nBetter than gold is the poor man's sleep,\nAnd the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.\nBring sleeping draughts on the downy bed,\nWhere luxury pillows its aching head,\nThe toiler simple opiate deems\nA shorter route to the land of dreams.\n\nBetter than gold is a thinking mind,\nThat in the realm of books can find\nA treasure surpassing Australian ore,\nAnd live with the great and good of yore.\nThe sage's lore and the poet's lay,\nThe glories of empires passed away;\nThe world's great dream will thus unfold\nAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.\n\nBetter than gold is a peaceful home\nWhere all the fireside characters come,\nThe shrine of love, the heaven of life,\nHallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.\nHowever humble the home may be,\nOr tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,\nThe blessings that never were bought or sold,\nAnd centre there, are better than gold.\n\n\n\n\nSea Dreamings\n\n\n\nTo-day a bird on wings as white as foam\n   That crests the blue-gray wave,\nWith the vesper light upon its breast, flew home\n   Seaward.  The God who gave\nTo the birds the virgin-wings of snow\nSomehow telleth them the ways they go.\n\nUnto the Evening went the white-winged bird --\n   Gray clouds hung round the West --\nAnd far away the tempest's tramp was heard.\n   The bird flew for a rest\nAway from the grove, out to the sea --\nIs it only a bird's mystery?\n\nNay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of white\n   That cleft thy waveward way --\nPast the evening and swift into the night,\n   Out of the calm, bright day --\nAnd thou didst teach me, bird of the sea,\nMore than one human heart's history.\n\nOnly men's hearts -- tho' God shows each its way\n   That leadeth hence to home --\nUnlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray,\n   Seeking in the far foam\nOf this strange world's tempest-trampled main\nA resting place -- but they seek in vain.\n\nOnly the bird can rest upon the deep,\n   And sleep upon the wave,\nAnd dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep.\n   And sweet the God who gave\nThe birds a rest place on the restless sea --\nBut this, my heart, is not His way with thee.\n\nOver the world, ah! passion's tempests roll,\n   And every fleck of foam\nWhitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul\n   That never shall reach home.\nAh! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace,\nMy heart, is thy only resting place.\n\n\n\n\nSea Rest\n\n\n\nFar from \"where the roses rest\",\n Round the altar and the aisle,\nWhich I loved, of all, the best --\n I have come to rest awhile\nBy the ever-restless sea --\nWill its waves give rest to me?\n\nBut it is so hard to part\n With my roses.  Do they know\n(Who knows but each has a heart?)\n How it grieves my heart to go?\nRoses! will the restless sea\nBring, as ye, a rest for me?\n\nYe were sweet and still and calm,\n Roses red and roses white;\nAnd ye sang a soundless psalm\n For me in the day and night.\nRoses! will the restless sea\nSing as sweet as ye for me?\n\nJust a hundred feet away,\n Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide;\nAnd the wavelets, blue and gray,\n Moan, and white sails windward glide\nO'er the ever restless sea\nFrom me, far and peacefully.\n\nAnd as many feet away,\n Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees;\nAnd they wail, the while they sway\n In the sad November breeze,\nEchoes in the sighing sea\nTo me, near and mournfully.\n\nAnd beside me sleep the dead,\n In the consecrated ground;\nBlessed crosses o'er each head.\n O'er them all the Requiem sound,\nChanted by the moaning sea,\nEchoed by each moss-veiled tree.\n\nRoses! will you miss my face?\n Do you know that I have gone\nFrom your fair and restful place,\n Far away where moveth on\nNight and day the restless sea?\nBut I saw eternity\n\nIn your faces.  Roses sweet!\n Ye were but the virgin veils,\nHiding Him whose holy feet\n Walked the waves, whose very wails\nBring to me from Galilee\nRest across the restless sea.\n\nAnd who knows? mayhap some wave,\n From His footstep long ago,\nWith the blessing which He gave\n After ages ebb and flow,\nCometh in from yonder sea,\nWith a blessing sweet for me.\n\nJust last night I watched the deep,\n And it shone as shines a shrine,\n(Vigils such I often keep)\n And the stars did sweetly shine\nO'er the altar of the sea;\nSo they shone in Galilee.\n\nRoses! round the shrine and aisle!\n Which of all I loved the best,\nI have gone to rest awhile\n Where the wavelets never rest --\nYe are dearer far to me\nThan the ever restless sea.\n\nI will come to you in dreams,\n In the day and in the night,\nWhen the sun's or starlight's gleams\n Robe you in your red or white;\nRoses! will you dream of me\nBy the ever restless sea?\n\n____\nBiloxi, Miss.\n\n\n\n\nSea Reverie\n\n\n\nStrange Sea! why is it that you never rest?\n And tell me why you never go to sleep?\nThou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed --\n (And the waves are the tears you weep) --\n And thou didst never sin -- what ails the sinless deep?\n\nTo-night I hear you crying on the beach,\n Like a weary child on its mother's breast --\nA cry with an infinite and lonesome reach\n Of unutterably deep unrest;\n And thou didst never sin -- why art thou so distressed?\n\nBut, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm,\n Where crieth the lone and the wearied child;\nAnd soft the arms that shield her own from harm;\n And her look is unutterably mild --\n But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild, so wild!\n\nWhat ails thee, Sea?  The midnight stars are bright --\n How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast!\nO Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so white,\n To give thy utter weariness a rest?\n (And to-night the winds are a-coming from the West).\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nWhere the shadows moan o'er the day's life done,\n And the darkness is waiting for the light,\nAh, me! how the shadows ever seek and shun\n The sacred, radiant faces of the bright --\n (And the stars are the vestal virgins of the night);\n\nOr am I dreaming?  Do I see and hear\n Without me what I feel within?\nIs there an inner eye and an inner ear\n Thro' which the sounds and silences float in\n In reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din?\n\nI know not.  After all, what do I know?\n Save only this -- and that is mystery --\nLike the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flow\n In unison, and the tides of the sea\n Ever reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me.\n\nWaves, are ye priests in surplices of gray,\n Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white?\nIs the beach your altar where ye come to pray,\n With the sea's ritual, every day and night?\n And the suns and stars your only altar light?\n\nGreat Sea! the very rhythm of my song\n (And the winds are a-coming from the West),\nLike thy waves, moveth uncertainly along;\n And my thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest,\n Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest.\n\n____\nBiloxi, Miss.\n\n\n\n\nThe Immaculate Conception\n\n\n\nFell the snow on the festival's vigil\n And surpliced the city in white;\nI wonder who wove the pure flakelets?\n Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.\n\nIt fitted the Feast:  'twas a symbol,\n And earth wore the surplice at morn,\nAs pure as the vale's stainless lily\n For Mary, the sinlessly born;\n\nFor Mary, conceived in all sinlessness;\n And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East,\nWith the brightest and fairest of flashes,\n Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast.\n\nAnd round the horizon hung cloudlets,\n Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast;\nWhile the earth and the heavens were waiting\n For the beautiful Mass of the priest.\n\nI opened my window, half dreaming;\n My soul went away from my eyes,\nAnd my heart began saying \"Hail Marys\"\n Somewhere up in the beautiful skies,\n\nWhere the shadows of sin never rested;\n And the angels were waiting to hear\nThe prayer that ascends with \"Our Father\",\n And keeps hearts and the heavens so near.\n\nAnd all the day long -- can you blame me?\n \"Hail Mary\", \"Our Father\", I said;\nAnd I think that the Christ and His Mother\n Were glad of the way that I prayed.\n\nAnd I think that the great, bright Archangel\n Was listening all the day long\nFor the echo of every \"Hail Mary\"\n That soared thro' the skies like a song,\n\nFrom the hearts of the true and the faithful,\n In accents of joy or of woe,\nWho kissed in their faith and their fervor\n The Festival's surplice of snow.\n\nI listened, and each passing minute,\n I heard in the lands far away\n\"Hail Mary\", \"Our Father\", and near me\n I heard all who knelt down to pray.\n\nPray the same as I prayed, and the angel,\n And the same as the Christ of our love --\n\"Our Father\", \"Hail Mary\", \"Our Father\" --\n Winging just the same sweet flight above.\n\nPassed the morning, the noon:  came the even --\n The temple of Christ was aflame\nWith the halo of lights on three altars,\n And one wore His own Mother's name.\n\nHer statue stood there, and around it\n Shone the symbolic stars.  Was their gleam,\nAnd the flowerets that fragranced her altar,\n Were they only the dream of a dream?\n\nOr were they sweet signs to my vision\n Of a truth far beyond mortal ken,\nThat the Mother had rights in the temple\n Of Him she had given to men?\n\nWas it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder,\n For the Christian to honor her so?\nOught her statue pass out of His temple?\n Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow.\n\nAh, me! had the pure flakelets voices,\n I know what their white lips would say;\nAnd I know that the lights on her altar\n Would pray with me if they could pray.\n\nMethinks that the flowers that were fading --\n Sweet virgins that die with the Feast,\nLike martyrs, upon her fair altar --\n If they could, they would pray with the priest;\n\nAnd would murmur \"Our Father\", \"Hail Mary\",\n Till they drooped on the altar in death,\nAnd be glad in their dying for giving\n To Mary their last sweetest breath.\n\nPassed the day as a poem that passes\n Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings;\nMoved the minutes from Masses to Masses --\n Did I hear a faint sound as of wings\n\nRustling over the aisles and the altars?\n Did they go to her altar and pray?\nOr was my heart only a-dreaming\n At the close of the Festival day?\n\nQuiet throngs came into the temple,\n As still as the flowers at her feet,\nAnd wherever they knelt, they were gazing\n Where the statue looked smiling and sweet.\n\n\"Our Fathers\", \"Hail Marys\" were blended\n In a pure and a perfect accord,\nAnd passed by the beautiful Mother\n To fall at the feet of our Lord.\n\nLow toned from the hearts of a thousand\n \"Our Fathers\", \"Hail Marys\" swept on\nTo the star-wreathed statue.  I wonder\n Did they wrong the great name of her Son.\n\nHer Son and our Saviour -- I wonder\n How He heard our \"Hail Marys\" that night?\nWere the words to Him sweet as the music\n They once were, and did we pray right?\n\nOr was it all wrong?  Will he punish\n Our lips if we make them the home\nOf the words of the great, high Archangel\n That won Him to sinners to come.\n\nAh, me! does He blame my own mother,\n Who taught me, a child, at her knee,\nTo say, with \"Our Father\", \"Hail Mary\"?\n If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me.\n\nLet my mother, O Jesus! be blameless;\n Let me suffer for her if You blame.\nHer pure mother's heart knew no better\n When she taught me to love the pure name.\n\nO Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother\n Must I hide her name down in my heart?\nBut, ah! even there you will see it --\n With Thy Mother's name how can I part?\n\nOn Thy name all divine have I rested\n In the days when my heart-trials came;\nSweet Christ, like to Thee I am human,\n And I need Mary's pure human name.\n\nDid I hear a voice? or was I dreaming?\n I heard -- or I sure seemed to hear --\n\"Who blames you for loving My Mother\n Is wronging my heart -- do not fear.\n\n\"I am human, e'en here in My heavens,\n What I was I am still all the same;\nAnd I still love My beautiful Mother --\n And thou, priest of Mine, do the same.\"\n\nI was happy -- because I am human --\n And Christ in the silences heard\n\"Our Father\", \"Hail Mary\", \"Our Father\",\n Murmured faithfully word after word.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\nSwept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~\n Down the aisles -- did the starred statue stir?\nOr was my heart only a-dreaming\n When it turned from her statue and her?\n\nThe door of a white tabernacle\n Felt the touch of the hand of the priest --\nDid he waken the Host from its slumbers\n To come forth and crown the high Feast?\n\nTo come forth so strangely and silent,\n And just for a sweet little while,\nAnd then to go back to its prison.\n Thro' the stars -- did the sweet statue smile?\n\nI knew not; but Mary, the Mother,\n I think, almost envied the priest --\nHe was taking her place at the altar --\n Did she dream of the days in the East?\n\nWhen her hands, and hers only, held Him,\n Her Child, in His waking and rest,\nWho had strayed in a love that seemed wayward\n This eve to shrine in the West.\n\nDid she dream of the straw of the manger\n When she gazed on the altar's pure white?\nDid she fear for her Son any danger\n In the little Host, helpless, that night?\n\nNo! no! she is trustful as He is --\n What a terrible trust in our race!\nThe Divine has still faith in the human --\n What a story of infinite grace!\n\n~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altar\n That came from the heart of a saint,\nSwept triumph-toned all through the temple --\n Did my ears hear the sound of a plaint?\n\n'Neath the glorious roll of the singing\n To the temple had sorrow crept in?\nOr was it the moan of a sinner?\n O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win\n\nIn the little half-hour's Benediction\n The heart of a sinner again?\nAnd, merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfort\n The sorrow that brings Thee its pain.\n\nCame a hush, and the Host was uplifted,\n And It made just the sign of the cross\nO'er the low-bended brows of the people.\n O Host of the Holy! Thy loss\n\nTo the altar, and temple, and people\n Would make this world darkest of night;\nAnd our hearts would grope blindly on through it,\n For our love would have lost all its light.\n\n~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph!\n Our souls soared to God on each tone;\nAnd the Host went again to Its prison,\n For our Christ fears to leave us alone.\n\nBlessed priest! strange thou art His jailor!\n Thy hand holds the beautiful key\nThat locks in His prison love's Captive,\n And keeps Him in fetters for me.\n\n     *    *    *    *    *\n\n'Twas over -- I gazed on the statue --\n \"Our Father\", \"Hail Mary\" still came;\nAnd to-night faith and love cannot help it,\n I must still pray the same -- still the same.\n\n____\nWritten at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December 8, 1880.\n\n\n\n\nFifty Years at the Altar\n\n  \"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of\n  some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore;\n  next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness,\n  known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least,\n  to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour\n  of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination.\"\n\n\n\nTo-day -- fifty years at the altar --\n Thou art, as of old, at thy post!\nTell us, O chasubled soldier!\n Art weary of watching the Host?\nFifty years -- Christ's sacred sentry,\n To-day thy feet faithful are found\nWhen the cross on the altar is blessing\n Thy heart in its sentinel-round.\n\nThe beautiful story of Thabor\n Fifty years agone thrilled thy young heart,\nWhen wearing white vestments of glory,\n And up the \"high mountain apart\".\nIn the fresh, glowing grace of thy priesthood,\n Thou didst climb to the summit alone,\nWhile the Feast of Christ's Transfiguration\n Was a sweet outward sign of thy own.\n\nOld priest! on the slope of the summit\n Did float down and fall on thine ear\nThe strong words of weak-hearted Peter.\n \"O Lord, it is good to be here!\"\nThy heart was stronger than Peter's,\n And sweeter the tone of thy prayer;\n'Twas Calvary thy young feet were climbing,\n And old -- thou art still standing there.\n\nFor you, as for him, on bright Thabor,\n Forever to stay were not hard;\nBut when Calvary girdles the altar,\n And garments the Eucharist's guard\nWith sacrifice and with its shadows --\n To keep there forever a feast\nIs the glory and grace of the human --\n The altar, the cross, and the priest.\n\nThe crucifix's wardens and watchers,\n Like Him, must be heart sacrificed --\nThe Christ on the crucifix lifeless\n For guard needs a brave human Christ.\nTo guard Him three hours -- what a glory!\n With sacrifice splendors aflame!\nThree hours -- and He died on His Calvary --\n How long hast thou lived for His name?\n\n\"Half a century,\" cries out thy crucifix,\n Binding together thy beads;\nHis look, like thy life, lingers in it,\n A light for men's souls in their needs.\nOld priest! is thy life not a rosary?\n Five decades and more have been said,\nIn thy heart the warm splendors of Thabor\n Beneath the white snows of thy head!\n\nFifty years lifting the chalice --\n Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened land!\nThy clasp may be weak, but the chrism,\n Old priest! that anointed thy hand\nIs as fresh and as strong in its virtue\n As in the five decades agone\nThy young hands were touched with its unction,\n And thy vestments of white were put on.\n\nFifty years!  Every day passes\n A part of one great, endless feast,\nThat moves round its orbit of Masses,\n And hath nor a West nor an East;\nBut everywhere hath its pure altars,\n At each of its altars a priest\nTo lift up a Host with a chalice\n Till the story of grace shall have ceased.\n\nFifty years in the feast's orbit,\n Nearly two thousand of days;\nFifty years priest in the priesthood,\n Fifty years lit with its rays --\nLit them but to reflect them\n When the adorers' throngs pass\nOut of thy life and its glory\n Shining each day from thy Mass.\n\nHalf of a century's service!\n Wearing thy cassock of black\nO'er thy camps, and thy battles, and triumphs!\n Old soldier of Jesus! look back\nTo the day when thou kissed thy first altar\n In love with youth's fervor athrill.\nFrom the day when we meet and we greet thee,\n So true to the old altar still.\n\nFifty long years! what if trials\n Did oftentimes darken thy way --\nThey marked, like the shadows on dials,\n Thy soul's brightest hour every day.\nThe sun in the height of his splendor,\n By the mystical law of his light,\nO'er his glories flings vestments of shadows,\n And, sinking, leaves stars to the night.\n\nOld priest! with the heart of a poet\n Thou hast written sweet stanzas for men;\nThy life, many versed, is a poem\n That puzzles the art of the pen;\nThe crucifix wrote it and writes it --\n A scripture too deep for my ken;\nA record of deeds more than sayings --\n Only God reads it rightly; and then\n\nMy stanzas are just like the shadows\n That follow the sun and his sheen,\nTo tell to the eye that will read them\n Where the purest of sunshine has been.\nThy life moves in mystical eclipse,\n All hidden from men and their sight;\nWe look, but we see but its surface,\n But God sees the depth of its light.\n\nTwenty-five years! highest honors\n Were thine -- high deserved in the world:\nDawned a day with a grace in its flashing\n O'er thy heart from a standard unfurled,\nWhose folds bore the mystical motto:\n \"To the greater glory of God!\"\nAnd somehow there opened before thee\n A way thou hadst never yet trod.\n\nTwenty-five years -- still a private\n In files where the humblest and last\nStands higher in rank than the highest\n Of those who are passing or passed;\nTwenty-five years in the vanguard,\n Whose name is a spell of their strength,\nThe light of the folds of whose standard\n Lengthens along all the length\n\nOf the march of the Crucified Jesus.\n Loyola was wiser than most\nIn claiming for him and his soldiers\n The name of the Chief of the host;\nHis name, and his motto, and colors\n That never shall know a defeat,\nWhose banner, when others are folded,\n Shall never float over retreat.\n\nTo-day when the wind wafts the wavelets\n To the gray altar steps of yon shore,\nEach wearing an alb foam-embroidered,\n And kneeling, like priests, to adore\nThe God of the land -- I will mingle\n My prayers, aged priest! with the sea,\nWhile God, for thy fifty years' priesthood,\n Will hear thy prayers whispered for me.\n\n\n\n\nSong of the Deathless Voice\n\n\n\n'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en --\nHour of fairy and of wraith,\nWhen in many a dim-lit green,\n'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen,\nAs the olden legend saith,\nAll the future may be seen,\nAnd when -- an older story hath --\nWhate'er in life hath ever been\nLoveful, hopeful, or of wrath,\nCometh back upon our path.\nI was dreaming in my room,\n'Mid the shadows, still as they;\nNight, in veil of woven gloom,\nWept and trailed her tresses gray\nO'er her fair, dead sister -- Day.\nTo me from some far-away\nCrept a voice -- or seemed to creep --\nAs a wave-child of the deep,\nFrightened by the wild storm's roar\nCreeps low-sighing to the shore\nVery low and very lone\nCame the voice with song of moan,\nThis, weak-sung in weaker word,\nIs the song that night I heard:\n\n      How long!  Alas, how long!\nHow long shall the Celt chant the sad song of hope,\n That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of our past?\nHow long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slope\n Of Thabors that promise our Transfiguration at last?\n      How long, O Lord!  How long!\n\n      How long, O Fate!  How long!\nHow long shall our sunburst reflect but the sunset of Right,\n When gloaming still lights the dim immemorial years?\nHow long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are wearied of night,\n Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling with tears?\n      How long, O Lord!  How long!\n\n      How long, O Right!  How long!\nHow long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did flame\n In battle with wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a grave?\nHow long shall we be but a nation with only a name,\n Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave?\n      How long, O Lord!  How long!\n\n      How long!  Alas, how long!\nHow long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out in the sea,\n With a cross in the dark?  Oh, when shall our Good Friday close?\nHow long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring only to thee\n The wailings, O Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes?\n      How long, O Lord!  How long!\n\n      How long!  Alas, how long!\nHow long shall the cry of the wronged, O Freedom! for thee\n Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sorrow below?\nHow long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be,\n When the Celt will forgive, or else tread on the heart of his foe?\n      How long, O Lord!  How long!\n\nWhence came the voice?  Around me gray silence fall;\n And without in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky;\nAnd who is the singer?  Or hear I a singer at all?\n Or, hush!  Is't my heart athrill with some deathless old cry?\n\nAh! blood forgets not in its flowing its forefathers' wrongs --\n They are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released;\nBlood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all the old songs\n And sings them the best when it flows thro' the heart of a priest.\n\nAm I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung?\n In the cells of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow?\nAnd old as our race is, is it not still forever as young,\n As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow?\n\nThe blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all,\n For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath;\nAnd sure as the race lives, no matter what fates may befall,\n There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path.\n\nAye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line,\n Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt,\nWith a sword in its grasp, if stronger, not truer than mine,\n And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded hand felt --\n\nThe heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong,\n The thrill of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe;\nAnd the sheen of that sword is hid in the sheath of the song\n As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure Celtic blood flow.\n\nThe ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years,\n And still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain;\nThe chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our tears,\n Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds and their rain,\n\nThe Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of our isle\n Need the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes,\nTo keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the smile\n Of Freedom, that some day -- ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies.\n\nOur dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest;\n They are living in us whose glorious race will not die --\nTheir brave buried hearts are still beating on in each breast\n Of the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the infinite sky.\n\nMany days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past,\n Many voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by;\nBut the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last,\n And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die.\n\n\n\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.\n\n\n\nJust when the gentle hand of spring\n Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf,\nAnd when the blades the warm suns bring\n Were given glad promise of golden sheaf;\nJust when the birds began to sing\n Joy hymns after their winter's grief,\nI wandered weary to a place;\n Tired of toil, I sought for rest,\nWhere Nature wore her mildest grace --\n I went where I was more than guest.\nStrange, tall trees rose as if they fain\n Would wear as crowns the clouds of skies;\nThe sad winds swept with low refrain\n Through branches breathing softest sighs;\nAnd o'er the field and down the lane\n Sweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise,\nBloomed up into this world of pain,\n Where all that's fairest soonest dies;\nAnd 'neath the trees a little stream\n Went winding slowly round and round,\nJust like a poet's mystic dream,\n With here a silence, there a sound.\nThe lowly ground, beneath the sheen\n Of March day suns, now dim, now bright,\nNow emeralds of golden green\n In flashing or in fading light;\nAnd here and there throughout the scene\n The timid wild flowers met the sight,\nWhile over all the sun and shade\n Swept like a strangely woven veil,\nFolding the flowers that else might fade,\n Guarding young rosebuds from the gale.\nAnd blossoms of most varied hue\n Bedecked the forest everywhere,\nWhile valleys wore the robes of blue,\n Bright woven by the violets fair;\nAnd there was gladness all around;\n It was a place so fair to see,\nAnd yet so simple -- there I found\n How sweet a quiet home may be.\nFour children -- and thro' all the day\n They flung their laughter o'er the place;\nBright as the flowers in happy May,\n The children shed a sweet pure grace\nAround this quiet home, and they\n To father and to mother brought\nThe smiles of purest love unsought;\n It was a happy, happy spot,\nToo dear to be fore'er forgot.\n Farewell, sweet place!  I came as guest;\nFrom toil, in thee I found relief,\n I found in thee a home and rest --\nBut, ah! the days are far too brief.\n Farewell!  I go, but with me come\nSweet memories that long will last;\n I'll think of thee as of a home\nThat stands forever in my past.\n\n\n\n\nTo Virginia (on Her Birthday)\n\n\n\nYour past is past and never to return,\nThe long bright yesterday of life's first years,\nIts days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn.\nSome held for you a chalice for your tears,\nAnd other days strewed flowers upon your way.\nThey all are gone beyond your reach,\nAnd thus they are beyond my speech.\nI know them not, so that your first gone times\nTo me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes.\nBut I can bless your soul and aims to-day,\nAnd I can ask your future to be sweet,\nAnd I can pray that you may never meet\nWith any cross, you are too weak to bear.\nVirginia, Virgin name, and may you wear\nIts virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er.\nI breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer.\n\n\n\n\nEpilogue\n\n\n\nGo, words of mine! and if you live\n Only for one brief, little day;\nIf peace, or joy, or calm you give\n To any soul; or if you bring\nA something higher to some heart,\n I may come back again and sing\nSongs free from all the arts of Art.\n\n                    -- Abram J. Ryan.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Posthumous Poems\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIn Remembrance\n\n\n\nIn the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry\n \"O God! give more of rest and less of night,\"\n My words may rest you; and mayhap a light\nShall flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky;\nThen think of me as one who passes by.\nA few brief hours -- a golden August day,\nWe met, we spake -- I pass fore'er away.\nLet ev'ry word of mine be golden ray\nTo brighten thy eclipses; and then wilt pray\nThat he who passes thee shall meet thee yet\nIn the \"Beyond\" where souls may ne'er forget.\n\n\n\n\nA Reverie [`\"O Songs!\" I said:']\n\n\n\n\"O Songs!\" I said:\n\"Stop sounding in my soul\nJust for a little while and let me sleep,\nResting my head on the breast\nOf Silence;\" but the rhythmic roll\nOf a thousand songs swept on and on,\n And a far Voice said:\n \"When thou art dead\nThy restless heart shall rest.\"\n\nAnd the songs will never let me sleep.\nI plead with them; but o'er the deep\nThey still will roll\n On, and on, and on,\n Their music never gone.\nAh! world-tired soul!\n Just for a little while,\nJust like a poor, tired child\n Beneath its Mother's smile --\nOnly to fall asleep!\nSilence! be mother to me!\n But -- No! No! No!\n The waves will ebb and flow.\nI wonder is it best\nTo never, never rest\n Down on the shores of this strange Below?\n\n\n\n\nOnly a Dream\n\n\n\nOnly a Dream!\n     It floated thro'\n The sky of a lonely sleep\nAs floats a gleam\n   Athwart the Blue\n Of a golden clouded Deep.\n\nOnly a Dream!\n   I calmly slept.\nMeseems I called a name;\n I woke; and, waking, I think I wept\nAnd called -- and called the same.\n\nOnly a Dream!\n   Graves have no ears;\nThey give not back the dead;\n They will not listen to the saddest tears\nThat ever may be shed.\n\nOnly a Dream!\n   Graves keep their own;\nThey have no hearts to hear;\n But the loved will come\n From their Heaven-Home\nTo smile on the sleeper's tear.\n\n\n\n\nThe Poet\n\n\n\nThe Poet is the loneliest man that lives;\n Ah me! God makes him so --\n The sea hath its ebb and flow,\nHe sings his songs -- but yet he only gives\nIn the waves of the words of his art\nOnly the ~foam~ of his heart.\n\nIts sea rolls on forever, evermore,\n Beautiful, vast, and deep;\nOnly his ~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shore\n Of Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep.\n\nThe foam that crests the wave is pure and white;\n The ~foam~ is not the ~wave~;\nThe wave is not the sea -- ~it rolls~ forever on;\n The winding shores will crave\nA kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep;\n~Some come~; some always ~sleep~.\n\n\n\n\nThe Child of the Poet\n\n\n\nThe sunshine of thy Father's fame\n Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes,\nAnd flashes sometimes when his name\n Like a lost star seeks its skies.\n\nIn the horizons of thy heart\n His memory shines for aye,\nA light that never shall depart\n Nor lose a single ray.\n\nThou passest thro' the crowds unknown,\n So gentle, so sweet, and so shy;\nThy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low;\n                    Then alone\n Art the star in thy Father's sky.\n\n'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name --\n Thou couldst not ask for more;\nThou art the jewel of thy Father's fame,\n He waiteth on the bright and golden shore;\nHe prayeth in the great Eternity\nBeside God's throne for thee.\n\n\n\n\nThe Poet Priest\n\n\n\n~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~,\n I believe they call him great;\nThey throng to hear him with a strange desire;\n They, silent, come and wait,\n And wonder when he opens wide the gate\nOf some strange, inner temple, where the fire\nIs lit on many altars of many dreams --\nThey wait to catch the gleams --\n And then they say,\nIn praiseful words:  \"'Tis beautiful and grand.\"\n And so his way\nIs strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair;\n                    And people say:\n\"How happy he must be to win and wear\n                    Praise ev'ry day!\"\nAnd all the while he stands far out the crowd,\n                    Strangely ~alone~.\nIs it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud --\nNo matter which, his spirit maketh moan;\nAnd all the while a lonely, lonesome sense\nCreeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense\n Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and\nHe seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer\n Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand:\nIf all the world would kneel down at his feet\n                    And give acclaim --\nHe fain would say:  \"Oh! No! No! No!\nThe breath of fame is sweet -- but far more sweet\n Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart;\nGod's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep\n Along the words of merely human art;\nIt cometh from some far-off hidden Deep,\nFar-off and from so far away --\nIt filleth night and day.\"\n~Not~ as of one who ever, ever cares\nFor earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me,\nAnd in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee\nIn Prayers -- and thou shalt meet with me.\n\n\n\n\nWilt Pray for Me?\n\n\n\nWilt pray for me?\n   They tell me I have Fame;\nI plead with thee,\n   Sometimes just fold my name\nIn beautiful \"Hail Marys\"!\n   And you give me more\n    Than all the world besides.\nIt praises Poets for the well-sung lay;\nBut ah! it hath forgotten how to pray.\n It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride;\n Some win such crowns and wear;\n Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n---\n\nThe living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary lamp,\nwhich sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great Presence\nhath departed.\n                                        -- Abram J. Ryan","title":"Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":65015}