Father Ryan's Poems

Father Ryan's Poems

By Abram J. Ryan
Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous.

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 Father Ryan's Poems

Song of the Mystic

I walk down the Valley of Silence -- Down the dim, voiceless valley
-- alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God's and
my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels
have flown!
Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not
win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human -- and sin.
I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world
never gave; And I said: "In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star
on life's wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a
dream in a grave."
And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the
True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse
of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that
glimpse from my view.
And I toiled on, heart-tired, of the Human, And I moaned 'mid the
mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call
me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond
mortal ken.
Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my Trysting Place with
the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said:
"Be mine." And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo -- "My
heart shall be Thine."
Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep -- and I dream -- and I
pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in
May; And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, Ascendeth to God
night and day.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a
wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace
they may bring.
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But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the
beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into
speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to
reach.
And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley -- Ah! me, how my spirit
was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can
scarcely be heard; They pass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure
for the touch of a word!
Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed
by Care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are
there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright
mountain of Prayer.

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Reverie ["Only a few more years!"]

Only a few more years! Weary years! Only a few

more tears! Bitter tears! And then -- and then -- like other men, I
cease to wander, cease to weep, Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep;
And out of the day and into the night, Into the dark and out of the bright
I go, and Death shall veil my face, The feet of the years shall fast efface
My very name, and every trace I leave on earth; for the stern years tread --
Tread out the names of the gone and dead! And then, ah! then, like other
men, I close my eyes and go to sleep, Only a few, one hour, shall weep:
Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep!
Alas! Alas! How soon we pass! And ah! we go
So far away; When go we must, From the light of Life, and the heat of
strife, To the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust, We go -- we go --
we may not stay, We travel the lone, dark, dreary way; Out of the day
and into the night, Into the darkness, out of the bright. And then, ah! then,
like other men, We close our eyes and go to sleep; We hush our hearts
and go to sleep; Only a few, one hour, shall weep: Ah! me, the grave is
lone and deep!
I saw a flower, at morn, so fair; I passed at eve, it was not there. I
saw a sunbeam, golden bright, I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud,
And I saw night Digging the grave of day; And day took off her golden
crown, And flung it sorrowfully down. Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride! At
twilight moaned and died. And so, alas! like day we pass: At morn we
smile, At eve we weep, At morn we wake, In night we sleep.
We close our eyes and go to sleep: Ah! me, the grave is still and deep!
But God is sweet. My mother told me so, When I
knelt at her feet Long -- so long -- ago; She clasped my hands in
hers. Ah! me, that memory stirs My soul's profoundest deep -- No
wonder that I weep. She clasped my hands and smiled, Ah! then I was a
child -- I knew not harm -- My mother's arm Was flung around
me; and I felt That when I knelt To listen to my mother's prayer, God
was with my mother there.
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Yea! "God is sweet!" She told me so; She never told me wrong;
And through my years of woe Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, And
sweet as Angel's song, Have floated like a dream.
And, ah! to-night I seem A very child in my old, old place, Beneath
my mother's blessed face, And through each sweet remembered word, This
sweetest undertone is heard: "My child! my child! our God is sweet, In
Life -- in Death -- kneel at his feet -- Sweet in gladness, sweet in gloom,
Sweeter still beside the tomb." Why should I wail? Why ought I weep?
The grave -- it is not dark and deep; Why should I sigh? Why ought I
moan? The grave -- it is not still and lone; Our God is sweet, our grave is
sweet, We lie there sleeping at His feet, Where the wicked shall from
troubling cease, And weary hearts shall rest in peace!

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Lines -- 1875

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, And ask of them
why do they sigh? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, But
they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, And they're sighing to-
day, and they'll sigh evermore. Ask them what ails them: they will not
reply; But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! Why does your
poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, When the night
stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep,
On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. They're moaning
forever wherever they sweep. Ask them what ails them: they never reply;
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why Why does your poetry
sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, When it passes and murmurs
"Good-bye." The dear little breeze -- how it wishes to stay Where the
flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play; How it sighs when it
flies on its wearisome way. Ask it what ails it: it will not reply; Its voice
is a sad one, it never told why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The breeze will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, When the shout
of the storm rends the sky; They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the
air And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, And they groan
like the ghosts in the "land of despair". Ask them what ails them: they
never reply; Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. Why does
your poetry sound like a sigh? The blasts will not answer you; neither
shall I.
Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, Or list where the rivers rush
by; The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, And the rivers that
roll in their oceanward tide, Are moaning forever wherever they glide; Ask
them what ails them: they will not reply. On -- sad voiced -- they flow,
but they never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Earth's
streams will not answer you; neither shall I.
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Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, And the voices that sound in
the sky; Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There's a sigh in
each chord and a sigh in each key, And thousands of sighs swell their
grand melody. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. They sigh --
sigh forever -- but never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I.

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A Memory

One bright memory shines like a star In the sky of my spirit forever;
And over my pathway it flashes afar A radiance that perishes never.
One bright memory -- only one; And I walk by the light of its
gleaming; It brightens my days, and when days are done It shines in the
night o'er my dreaming.
One bright memory, whose golden rays Illumine the gloom of my
sorrows, And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze In the shadows
of all my to-morrows.
One bright memory; when I am sad I lift up my eyes to its shining,
And the clouds pass away, and my spirit grows glad, And my heart
hushes all its repining.
One bright memory; others have passed Back into the shadows
forever; But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, Sheds a light that
will pass away never.
Shine on, shine always, thou star of my days! And when Death's
starless night gathers o'er me, Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze,
And light the dark valley before me.

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Rhyme

One idle day -- A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore -- In a

breezeless bay, We listless lay -- Our boat a "dream of rest" on the
still sea -- And -- we were four.
The wind had died That all day long sang songs unto the deep;
It was eventide, And far and wide Sweet silence crept thro' the rifts
of sound With spells of sleep.
Our gray sail cast The only cloud that flecked the foamless sea;
And weary at last Beside the mast One fell to slumber with a dreamy
face, And -- we were three.
No ebb! no flow! No sound! no stir in the wide, wondrous calm;
In the sunset's glow The shore shelved low And snow-white, from
far ridges screened with shade Of drooping palm.
Our hearts were hushed; All light seemed melting into boundless
blue; But the west was flushed Where sunset blushed, Thro'
clouds of roses, when another slept And -- we were two.
How still the air! Not e'en a sea-bird o'er us waveward flew;
Peace rested there! Light everywhere! Nay! Light! some shadows
fell on that fair scene, And -- we are two.
Some shadows! Where? No matter where! all shadows are not
seen; For clouds of care To skies all fair Will sudden rise as
tears to shining eyes, And dim their sheen.
We spake no word, Tho' each I ween did hear the other's soul.
Not a wavelet stirred, And yet we heard The loneliest music of the
weariest waves That ever roll.
Yea! Peace, you swayed Your sceptre jeweled with the evening
light; And then you said: "Here falls no shade, Here floats no
sound, and all the seas and skies Sleep calm and bright."
Nay! Peace, not so! The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's
spell And fear to flow, But to and fro -- Beyond their reach lone
waves on troubled seas Will sink and swell.
No word e'en yet; Were our eyes speaking while they watched the
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sky? And in the sunset Infinite regret Swept sighing from the
skies into our souls -- I wonder why?
A half hour passed -- 'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus.
Words came at last, Fluttering and fast As shadows veiling sunsets in
the souls Of each of us.
The noiseless night Sped flitting like a ghost where waves of blue
Lost all their light, As lips once bright Whence smiles have fled; we
or the wavelets sighed, And -- we were two.
The day had gone: And on the dim, high altar of the dark,
Stars, one by one, Far, faintly shone; The moonlight trembled, like a
mother's smile, Upon our bark.
We softly spoke: The waves seemed listening on the lonely sea,
The winds awoke; Our whispers broke The spell of silence; and two
eyes unclosed, And -- we were three.
"The breeze blows fair," He said; "the waking waves set towards
the shore." The long brown hair Of the other there, Who
slumbered near the mast with dreamy face Stirred -- we were four.
That starry night, A mile or so of shadows from the shore,
Two faces bright With laughter light Shone on two souls like stars
that shine on shrines; And -- we were four.
Over the reach Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew;
We reached the beach, Nor song, nor speech Shall ever tell our
sacramental thought When -- we were two.

Nocturne ["I sit to-night by the firelight,"]

I sit to-night by the firelight, And I look at the glowing flame, And I
see in the bright red flashes A Heart, a Face, and a Name.
How often have I seen pictures Framed in the firelight's blaze, Of
hearts, of names, and of faces, And scenes of remembered days!
How often have I found poems In the crimson of the coals, And the
swaying flames of the firelight Unrolled such golden scrolls.
And my eyes, they were proud to read them, In letters of living
flame, But to-night, in the fire, I see only One Heart, one Face, and one

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Name.
But where are the olden pictures? And where are the olden dreams?
Has a change come over my vision? Or over the fire's bright gleams?
Not over my vision, surely; My eyes -- they are still the same, That
used to find in the firelight So many a face and name.
Not over the firelight, either, No change in the coals or blaze That
flicker and flash, as ruddy To-night as in other days.
But there must be a change -- I feel it. To-night not an old picture
came; The fire's bright flames only painted One Heart, one Face, and
one Name.
Three pictures? No! only one picture; The Face belongs to the
Name, And the Name names the Heart that is throbbing Just back of the
beautiful flame.
Who said it, I wonder: "All faces Must fade in the light of but one;
The soul, like the earth, may have many Horizons, but only one sun?"
Who dreamt it? Did I? If I dreamt it 'Tis true -- every name
passes by Save one; the sun wears many cloudlets Of gold, but has only
one sky.
And out of the flames have they faded, The hearts and the faces of
yore? Have they sunk 'neath the gray of the ashes To rise to my vision no
more?
Yes, surely, or else I would see them To-night, just as bright as of old,
In the white of the coal's silver flashes, In the red of the restless flames'
gold.
Do you say I am fickle and faithless? Else why are the old pictures
gone? And why should the visions of many Melt into the vision of one?
Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, "One Eternal alone reigns
above." Is it true? and all else are but idols, So the heart can have only
one love?
Only one, all the rest are but idols, That fall from their shrines soon
or late, When the Love that is Lord of the temple, Comes with sceptre
and crown to the gate.
To be faithless oft means to be faithful, To be false often means to be
true; The vale that loves clouds that are golden Forgets them for skies

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that are blue.

To forget often means to remember What we had forgotten too long;
The fragrance is not the bright flower, The echo is not the sweet song.
Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight, Gaze I ever so long, all
the same I only can see in its glowing A Heart, a Face, and a Name.
Farewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces! Only ashes now under the
blaze, Ye never again will smile on me, For I'm touching the end of my
days.
And the beautiful fading firelight Paints, now, with a pencil of flame,
Three pictures -- yet only one picture -- A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

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The Old Year and the New

How swift they go, Life's many years, With their

winds of woe And their storms of tears, And their darkest of nights
whose shadowy slopes Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, And their
sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom The clouds of the tempest --
the shadows of the gloom!
And ah! we pray With a grief so drear, That the years
may stay When their graves are near; Tho' the brows of To-
morrows be radiant and bright, With love and with beauty, with life and
with light, The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, To the hearts
that survive them, are evermore dear.
For the hearts so true To each Old Year cleaves; Tho'
the hand of the New Flowery garlands weaves. But the flowers of
the future, tho' fragrant and fair, With the past's withered leaflets may
never compare; For dear is each dead leaf -- and dearer each thorn -- In the
wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn.
Yea! men will cling With a love to the last, And
wildly fling Their arms round their past! As the vine that clings to
the oak that falls; As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls; For the dust
of the past some hearts higher prize Than the stars that flash out from the
future's bright skies.
And why not so? The old, Old Years, They knew and
they know All our hopes and fears; We walked by their side, and we
told them each grief, And they kissed off our tears while they whispered
relief; And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed In the hearts of
the dead years are buried and sealed.
Let the New Year sing At the Old Year's grave: Will
the New Year bring What the Old Year gave? Ah! the Stranger-Year
trips over the snows, And his brow is wreathed with many a rose: But how
many thorns do the roses conceal Which the roses, when withered, shall so
soon reveal?
Let the New Year smile When the Old Year dies; In
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how short a while Shall the smiles be sighs? Yea! Stranger-Year,

thou hast many a charm, And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, But,
dearer than thou -- in his shroud of snows -- Is the furrowed face of the
Year that goes.
Yea! bright New Year, O'er all the earth, With song
and cheer, They will hail thy birth; They will trust thy words in a
single hour, They will love thy face, they will laud thy power; For the
~New~ has charms which the ~Old~ has not, And the Stranger's face
makes the Friend's forgot.

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Erin's Flag

Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! Let it float o'er the land,
let it flash o'er the seas! Lift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore,
When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never! no,
never! while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the
strife, That never! no, never! that banner should yield As long as the heart
of a Celt was its shield: While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield
And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field.
Lift it up! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of old! Not a stain on its green,
not a blot on its gold, Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long
years Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears! Though
the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, And around it the thunders
of Tyranny boom. Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, There's
a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky, 'Tis the sunburst
resplendent -- far, flashing on high! Erin's dark night is waning, her day-
dawn is nigh!
Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green! The blood of its sons has
but brightened its sheen; What though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are
its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? What though for ages it
droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? No, no! God is just!
Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, Let him tear the Green
Flag -- we will snatch its last shred, And beneath it we'll bleed as our
forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, And
we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, And we'll vow by the
wrecks which through Erin he spread, And we'll swear by the thousands
who, famished, unfed, Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread;
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by
the bones in each coffinless bed, That we'll battle the Briton through
danger and dread; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 'Til
the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to our foe that
we meant what we said -- That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down
the red!
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Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home, Full long has its lot
been to wander and roam, It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world,
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; Like a weary-
winged bird, to the East and the West, It has flitted and fled -- but it never
shall rest, 'Til, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to
the shores of its old home again, Where its fetterless folds o'er each
mountain and plain Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane.
Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar! That banner must blaze
'mid the lightnings of war; Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to
the sky, And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, And shout to the
clans scattered far o'er the earth To join in the march to the land of their
birth; And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, Have been
fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, They'll bound on the sea, and away
o'er the foam, They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home!"

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The Sword of Robert Lee

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of
Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to Victory!
Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the
strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of
Lee!
Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky -- And
they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare To follow -- and to die!
Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor
brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might
victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew
sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble
Robert Lee!
Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully!

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Life

A baby played with the surplice sleeve Of a gentle priest; while in

accents low, The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe," And the
priest bade the mystic waters to flow In the name of the Father, and the
Son, And Holy Spirit -- Three in One.
Spotless as a lily's leaf, Whiter than the Christmas snow; Not a sign
of sin or grief, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.
A smile flitted over the baby's face: Or was it the gleam of its angel's
wing Just passing then, and leaving a trace Of its presence as it soared to
sing? A hymn when words and waters win To grace and life a child of sin.
Not an outward sign or token, That a child was saved from woe; But
the bonds of sin were broken, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.
A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, And out of the cloud grief's rain
fell fast; Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, Out of the
future, or the past? Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, And gall must
mingle with the sweet.
Yea, upon the baby's laughter Trickled tears: 'tis ever so -- Mothers
dread the dark hereafter; But the babe laughed sweet and low.
And the years like waves broke on the shore Of the mother's heart,
and her baby's life; But her lone heart drifted away before Her little boy
knew an hour of strife; Drifted away on a Summer's eve, Ere the orphaned
child knew how to grieve
Her humble grave was gently made Where roses bloomed in
Summer's glow; The wild birds sang where her heart was laid, And her
boy laughed sweet and low.
He drifted away from his mother's grave, Like a fragile flower on a
great stream's tide, Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, That
welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. Out from the shore and over the
deep, He sailed away and learned to weep.
Furrowed grew the face once fair, Under storms of human woe;
Silvered grew the dark brown hair, And he wailed so sad and low.
The years swept on as erst they swept, Bright wavelets once, dark
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billows now; Wherever he sailed he ever wept, A cloud hung over the
darkened brow -- Over the deep and into the dark, But no one knew where
sank his bark.
Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, The world still laughed, 'tis
ever so -- God only knows the baby's doom, That laughed so sweet and
low.

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A Laugh -- and A Moan

The brook that down the valley So musically drips, Flowed never
half so brightly As the light laugh from her lips.
Her face was like the lily, Her heart was like the rose, Her eyes were
like a heaven Where the sunlight always glows.
She trod the earth so lightly Her feet touched not a thorn; Her words
wore all the brightness Of a young life's happy morn.
Along her laughter rippled The melody of joy; She drank from every
chalice, And tasted no alloy.
Her life was all a laughter, Her days were all a smile, Her heart was
pure and happy, She knew not gloom nor guile.
She rested on the bosom Of her mother, like a flower That blooms
far in a valley Where no storm-clouds ever lower.
And -- "Merry, merry, merry!" Rang the bells of every hour, And --
"Happy, happy, happy!" In her valley laughed the flower.
There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn, And
the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the morn.
* * * * *
Years passed -- 'twas long, long after, And I saw a face at prayer;
There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care.
For the sunshine all had faded From the valley and the flower, And
the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely evening hour.
And the lips that smiled with laughter In the valley of the morn, In
the valley of the evening They were pale and sorrow-worn.
And I read the old, old lesson In her face and in her tears, While she
sighed amid the shadows Of the sunset of her years.
All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that
flow, Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe.

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In Memory of My Brother

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest
that wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the
cheeks of his mother lay) Triumphant waved our flag one day -- He
fell in the front before it.
Firm as the firmest, where duty led, He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won -- but the
field was red -- And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed On
his country's hallowed altar. On the trampled breast of the battle plain
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, On his pale, pure face not a mark
of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again) The fairest form amid
all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled.
In the solemn shades of the wood that swept The field where his
comrades found him, They buried him there -- and the big tears crept Into
strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. (His mother -- God pity her --
smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him.)
A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the
heart of his mother -- His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; There is not
a name, there is not a stone, And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn But -- his memory lives
in the other.

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"Out of the Depths"

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry went up from a sea -- The

waves were wild with an awful wrath, Not a light shone down on the lone
ship's path; The clouds hung low: Lost! Lost!
Lost! Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry floated over the waves -- Far
over the pitiless waves; It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; The
billows below them were weaving white shrouds Out of the foam of
the surge, And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: Lost!
Lost! Lost! Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost! Not the sign of a hope was nigh, In the
sea, in the air, or the sky; And the lifted faces were wan and white, There
was nothing without them but storm and night And nothing within
but fear. But far to a Father's ear: Lost! Lost! Lost!
Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost! Out of the depths of the sea -- Out of
the night and the sea; And the waves and the winds of the storm were
hushed, And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed.
Saved! Saved! Saved! And a calm and a joyous cry Floated
up through the starry sky, In the dark -- in the storm -- "Our Father" is
nigh.

A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory may be
sweet; 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed Beneath the wind's and
tempest's feet.
The rose that waves upon its tree, In life sheds perfume all around;
More sweet the perfume floats to me Of roses trampled on the ground.
The waving rose with every breath Scents carelessly the summer air;
The wounded rose bleeds forth in death A sweetness far more rich and
rare.
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It is a truth beyond our ken -- And yet a truth that all may read -- It is
with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.
The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of
grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase.

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March of the Deathless Dead

Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore
the flag of a Nation's trust And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
And died for me and you.
Gather them one and all, From the private to the chief; Come they
from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall
The tears of a Nation's grief.
Gather the corpses strewn O'er many a battle plain; From many a
grave that lies so lone, Without a name and without a stone, Gather
the Southern slain.
We care not whence they came, Dear in their lifeless clay!
Whether unknown, or known to fame, Their cause and country still the
same; They died -- and wore the Gray.
Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart; Living,
they struggled side by side, Why should the hand of Death divide A
single heart from heart?
Gather their scattered clay, Wherever it may rest; Just as they
marched to the bloody fray, Just as they fell on the battle day, Bury
them, breast to breast.
The foeman need not dread This gathering of the brave; Without
sword or flag, and with soundless tread, We muster once more our
deathless dead, Out of each lonely grave.
The foeman need not frown, They all are powerless now; We
gather them here and we lay them down, And tears and prayers are the
only crown We bring to wreathe each brow.
And the dead thus meet the dead, While the living o'er them weep;
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together
bled, Together still shall sleep.

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Reunited
[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.]

Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountains' height;
Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; O
Northland! to thy sister land, Was late thy mercy's generous deed and
grand.
Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed: Its mist of green o'er
battle plain For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; And yet the
crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields,
where all were brave and some had failed.
Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest
sun's fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in
war's dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears And blood and
anguish of four deathless years.
When Summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of
Spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips
could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e'er be
freighted with the breath of blight?
Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its
brightness spread, And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid
her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would
welcome as its guest.
The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of
strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate Or unforgiveness e'er were
rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed; Save -- she was generous
and her foe was crushed.
No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge
the tide! For at the touch of Mercy's hand The North and South stood
side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity's espousals
are made one.
"Thou givest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland
cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now
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uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my

anguished years.
"Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore,
Blessings that from sorrow save, Blessings giving more and more, For
all thou gavest thy sister land, O Northland, in thy generous deed and
grand."

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A Memory

Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either

side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place at eventide.
Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue That well became the valley
fair, And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders
everywhere.
And where the stream, in wayward whirls, Went winding in and
winding out, Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls Without their pride,
all strewn about.
And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave
had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals
made.
And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a
name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts, but not the palm of
fame.
The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore;
While bluer than the bluest sky The stream flowed on 'tween shore and
shore.
And on the height, and down the side Of either hill that hid the place,
Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race.
While here and there the trees between -- Bearing the scars of battle-
shocks, And frowning wrathful -- might be seen The moss-veiled faces
of the rocks.
And round the rocks crept flowered vines, And clomb the trees that
towered high -- The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a truth --
to touch the sky.
And to that vale, from first of May Until the last of August went,
Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent.
'Twas there, one long-gone August day, I wandered down the valley
fair: The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there.
The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day, Which
flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away.
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 Father Ryan's Poems

And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen,
That flashed and faded, like the hopes That haunt us of what might have
been.
And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden
gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems.
Low in the west gleam after gleam Glowed faint and fainter, till the
last Made the dying day a living dream, To last as long as life shall last.
And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing;
And e'en the lips of the summer breeze That sang all day, had ceased to
sing.
And all was silent, save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet,
And sang, while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet.
And now and then it surely seemed The little stream was laughing
low, As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed Such dreams as only children
know.
So still that not the faintest breath Did stir the shadows in the air; It
would have seemed the home of Death, Had I not felt Life sleeping
there.
And slow and soft, and soft and slow, From darkling earth and
darkened sky Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro, And spectral
shadows flitted by.
And then, methought, upon the sward I saw -- or was it starlight's ray?
Or angels come to watch and guard The valley till the dawn of day?
Is every lower life the ward Of spirits more divinely wrought? 'Tis
sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard To think 'tis but a poet's thought.
But God's or poet's thought, I ween, My senses did not fail me when
I saw veiled angels watch that scene And guard its sleep, as they guard
men.
Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed, As sorrow sings a heart to
sleep; As a mother sings one child to rest, And for the dead one still will
weep.
I walked adown the singing stream, The lilies slept on either side;
My heart -- it could not help but dream At eve, and after eventide.
Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach With more than earthly fancies

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fraught, That not the strongest wings of speech Could ever touch their
lowest thought.
Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far -- Heart-fancies flashing
Heaven's hue -- That swept around, as sweeps a star The boundless orbit
of the True.
Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, Where human passion played
no part, As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, Or hunt an archangelic
heart.
Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense, And rose too high to stoop
to it, And framed aloft like frankincense In censers round the infinite.
Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight! And, soaring, bore my
heart away Beyond the far star-bounds of night, Unto the everlasting
day.
How long I strolled beside the stream I do not know, nor may I say;
But when the poet ceased to dream The priest went on his knees to pray.
I felt as sure a seraph feels When in some golden hour of grace God
smiles, and suddenly reveals A new, strange glory in His face.
Ah! starlit valley! Lilies white! The poet dreamed -- ye slumbered
deep! But when the priest knelt down that night And prayed, why woke
ye from your sleep?
* * * * *
The stream sang down the valley fair, I saw the wakened lilies nod, I
knew they heard me whisper there, "How beautiful art Thou, my God!"

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At Last

Into a temple vast and dim, Solemn and vast and dim, Just when the
last sweet Vesper Hymn Was floating far away, With eyes that
tabernacled tears -- Her heart the home of tears -- And cheeks wan with
the woes of years, A woman went one day.
And, one by one, adown the aisles, Adown the long, lone aisles, Their
faces bright with holy smiles That follow after prayer, The worshipers
in silence passed, In silence slowly passed away; The woman knelt until
the last Had left her lonely there.
A holy hush came o'er the place, O'er the holy place, The shadows
kissed her woe-worn face, Her forehead touched the floor; The wreck
that drifted thro' the years -- Sin-driven thro' the years -- Was floating o'er
the tide of tears, To Mercy's golden shore.
Her lips were sealed, they could not pray, They sighed, but could not
pray, All words of prayer had died away From them long years ago;
But ah! from out her eyes there rose -- Sad from her eyes there rose -- The
prayer of tears, which swiftest goes To Heaven -- winged with woe.
With weary tears, her weary eyes, Her joyless, weary eyes, Wailed
forth a rosary; and her sighs And sobs strung all the beads; The while
before her spirit's gaze -- Her contrite spirit's gaze -- Moved all the
mysteries of her days, And histories of her deeds.
Still as a shadow, while she wept, So desolately wept, Up thro' the
long, lone aisle she crept Unto an altar fair; "Mother!" -- her pale lips
said no more -- Could say no more -- The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's
shore, For Mary's shrine was there.

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A Land without Ruins

"A land without ruins is a land without memories -- a land
without memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel
crown may be fair to see; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the
brow of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it
becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the
sympathy of the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade -- crowns
of thorns endure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of
humanity -- the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are
forgotten -- the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle
of nations."

Yes give me the land where the ruins are spread, And the living tread
light on the hearts of the dead; Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust,
And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. Yes, give me the land
where the battle's red blast Has flashed to the future the fame of the past;
Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays That tell of the memories
of long vanished days; Yes, give me a land that hath story and song!
Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! Yes, give me a land with a
grave in each spot, And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; Yes,
give me the land of the wreck and the tomb; There is grandeur in graves --
there is glory in gloom; For out of the gloom future brightness is born, As
after the night comes the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead with
the grass overgrown May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, And
each single wreck in the war path of might Shall yet be a rock in the
temple of right.

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Memories

They come, as the breeze comes over the foam, Waking the waves
that are sinking to sleep -- The fairest of memories from far-away home,
The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep.
They come as the stars come out in the sky, That shimmer wherever
the shadows may sweep, And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh
And I welcome them all while I wearily weep.
They come as a song comes out of the past A loved mother
murmured in days that are dead, Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the
last, When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head.
They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves, And they
follow our footsteps on life's winding way; And they murmur around us as
murmur the waves That sigh on the shore at the dying of day.
They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright; They come, sweet
as smiles to the lips that are pale; They come, dim as dreams in the depths
of the night; They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale.
There is not a heart that is not haunted so, Though far we may stray
from the scenes of the past, Its memories will follow wherever we go,
And the days that were first sway the days that are last.

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The Prayer of the South

My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! My face is wan and white

with many woes! But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, And for
my children pray, and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands
lowly lie I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, I turn my gaze
to my own sunny sky, And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done!
My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast! My hopes are buried
with my children's dust! My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! In
whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long
and oft, When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; But conquered
now, and crushed, I look aloft, And sorrow leads me, Father, back to
Thee.
Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path I kneel, and wailing
o'er my glories gone, I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath,
And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done! Pity me, Father of the desolate!
Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; Look down in mercy on my
wretched fate, And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care.
Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, Whose broken heart bled at the
feet of grief, That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break, Might go to
His and find a sure relief. Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse? Or
is it night with no to-morrow's sun? O Father! Father! with my pale, sad
lips, And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done.
My homes are joyless, and a million mourn Where many met in joys
forever flown; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn,
Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. And ah! the widow's wails,
the orphan's cries, Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; And
groans of men and sounds of women's sighs Commingle, Father, with
my prayer to Thee.
Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead -- Oh! how I loved each
known and nameless one! Above their dust I bow my crownless head
And murmur: Father, still Thy will be done. Ah! Father, Thou didst deck
my own loved land With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair; But
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foeman came, and with a ruthless hand, Spread ruin, wreck, and
desolation there.
Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, And garmented with
grief, I kiss Thy rod, And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, To
catch one smile of pity from my God. Around me blight, where all before
was bloom, And so much lost, alas! and nothing won Save this -- that I
can lean on wreck and tomb And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be
done.
And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet; The words are bitter, but
they hold a balm -- A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, And lulls
my sorrow into holy calm. It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings,
When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me! When Jesus prayed it did
not angels' wings Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?
My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; Alas! their hearts have
only place for tears! Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed, And
every sin of those four bloody years; And give them strength to bear their
boundless loss, And from their hearts take every thought of hate; And
while they climb their Calvary with their cross, Oh! help them, Father, to
endure its weight.
And for my dead, my Father, may I pray? Ah! sighs may soothe, but
prayer shall soothe me more! I keep eternal watch above their clay; Oh!
rest their souls, my Father, I implore; Forgive my foes -- they know not
what they do -- Forgive them all the tears they made me shed; Forgive
them, though my noblest sons they slew, And bless them, though they
curse my poor, dear dead.
Oh! may my woes be each a carrier dove, With swift, white wings,
that, bathing in my tears, Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love,
And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin,
wreck, and grave -- A desert waste, where all was erst so fair -- And for
my children and my foes I crave Pity and pardon. Father, hear my
prayer!

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 Father Ryan's Poems

Feast of the Assumption

"A Night Prayer"

Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead: Thy
Feast has fled; My eyes are wet with tears unshed; I bow my head;
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway I bend my knee, And,
like a homesick child, I pray, Mary, to thee.
Dark! Dark! Dark! And, all the day -- since white-robed priest
In farthest East, In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast, I -- I the least -
- Thy least, and last, and lowest child, I called on thee! Virgin! didst
hear? my words were wild; Didst think of me?
Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no! The angels bright,
With wings as white As a dream of snow in love and light, Flashed
on thy sight; They shone like stars around thee, Queen! I knelt afar --
A shadow only dims the scene Where shines a star!
Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long, beyond the sky,
Sweet, pure, and high, The angel's song swept sounding by
Triumphantly; And when such music filled thy ear, Rose round thy
throne, How could I hope that thou wouldst hear My far, faint moan?
Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long, where altars stand,
Or poor or grand, A countless throng from every land, With lifted
hand, Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale In glad acclaim;
How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail Thy sweet, pure name?
Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear
Nor bend thy ear, To prayer of woe as mine so drear; For hearts more
dear Hid me from hearing and from sight This bright Feast-day; Wilt
hear me, Mother, if in its night I kneel and pray?
Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set, the day is dead; Thy
Feast hath fled; My eyes are wet with the tears I shed; I bow my
head; Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen, All day; ah! be To-night
what thou hast ever been -- A mother to me!
Dark! Dark! Dark! Thy queenly crown in angels' sight Is
fair and bright; Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night Its jeweled light
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Shines not as the tender love-light shines, O Mary! mild, In the

mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines For poor, lost child!
Dark! Dark! Dark! Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway
Fore'er and aye In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray Lay it away. Let
thy sceptre wave in the realms above Where angels are; But, Mother!
fold in thine arms of love Thy child afar!
Dark! Dark! Dark! Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer
My poor lips dare? Yea! be to all a Queen most fair, Crown, sceptre,
bear! But look on me with a mother's eyes From heaven's bliss; And
waft to me from the starry skies A mother's kiss!
Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead; Her
Feast has fled; Can she forget the sweet blood shed, The last words
said That evening -- "Woman! behold thy Son! Oh! priceless right,
Of all His children! The last, least one, Is heard to-night.

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Sursum Corda

Weary hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, Ye are

wand'ring in the shadows -- ye are sighing for a rest: There is darkness in
the heavens, and the earth is bleak below, And the joys we taste to-day
may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary hearts! God is Rest.
Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief; Ye are pining
for repose -- ye are longing for relief: What the world hath never given,
kneel and ask of God above, And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you
lean upon His love. Lonely hearts! God is Love.
Restless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the
flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way: Ye are
waiting, ye are waiting, till your toilings all shall cease, And your ev'ry
restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for peace. Restless
hearts! God is Peace.
Breaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and lone, And low
voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan! In the sweetest of your
pleasures there was bitterest alloy, And a starless night hath followed on
the sunset of your joy. Broken hearts! God is Joy.
Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years, Ye
are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet with tears; In bright or
blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, Ye look away from earth-land,
and ye murmur, "Where is home?" Homeless hearts!
God is Home.

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A Child's Wish
Before an Altar

I wish I were the little key That locks Love's Captive in, And lets
Him out to go and free A sinful heart from sin.
I wish I were the little bell That tinkles for the Host, When God
comes down each day to dwell With hearts He loves the most.
I wish I were the chalice fair, That holds the Blood of Love, When
every flash lights holy prayer Upon its way above.
I wish I were the little flower So near the Host's sweet face, Or like
the light that half an hour Burns on the shrine of grace.
I wish I were the altar where, As on His mother's breast, Christ
nestles, like a child, fore'er In Eucharistic rest.
But, oh! my God, I wish the most That my poor heart may be A
home all holy for each Host That comes in love to me.

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HAPTER Presentiment
"My Sister"

Cometh a voice from a far-land! Beautiful, sad, and low; Shineth a

light from the star-land! Down on the night of my woe; And a white
hand, with a garland, Biddeth my spirit to go.
Away and afar from the night-land, Where sorrow o'ershadows my
way, To the splendors and skies of the light-land, Where reigneth
eternity's day; To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, Whose sun
never passeth away.
And I knew the voice; not a sweeter On earth or in Heaven can be;
And never did shadow pass fleeter Than it and its strange melody; And I
know I must hasten to meet her, "Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!"
And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, It flashed from the crown that
she wore, And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, My lips had
kissed often of yore! And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, Had
smiled on me sweetly before.
And I saw the hand with the garland, Ethel's hand -- holy and fair;
Who went long ago to the far-land To weave me the wreath I shall wear;
And to-night I look up to the star-land, And pray that I soon may be
there.

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Last of May
To the Children of Mary of the Cathedral of Mobile

In the mystical dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the

day, The sunlight spoke soft to the shadows, And said: "With my gold
and your gray, Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin, And ere her fair
feast pass away, Let us weave there a mantle of glory, To deck the last
evening of May."
The tapers were lit on the altar, With garlands of lilies between; And
the steps leading up to the statue Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen;
The sun-gleams came down from the heavens Like angels, to hallow the
scene, And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows That crept to
the shrine of the Queen.
The singers, their hearts in their voices, Had chanted the anthems of
old, And the last trembling wave of the Vespers On the far shores of
silence had rolled. And there -- at the Queen-Virgin's altar -- The sun
wove the mantle of gold While the hands of the twilight were weaving A
fringe for the flash of each fold.
And wavelessly, in the deep silence, Three banners hung peaceful
and low -- They bore the bright blue of the heavens, They wore the pure
white of the snow And beneath them fair children were kneeling, Whose
faces, with graces aglow, Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful, And
woeless, in life full of woe.
Their heads wore the veil of the lily, Their brows wore the wreath of
the rose, And their hearts like their flutterless banners, Were stilled in a
holy repose. Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, Whose glad gaze
would never disclose That from eyes that are most like the heavens The
dark rain of tears soonest flows.
The banners were borne to the railing, Beneath them, a group from
each band; And they bent their bright folds for the blessing That fell
from the priest's lifted hand. And he signed the three fair, silken standards,
With a sign never foe could withstand. What stirred them? The breeze of
the evening? Or a breath from the far angel-land?
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Then came, two by two, to the altar, The young, and the pure, and
the fair, Their faces the mirror of Heaven, Their hands folded meekly in
prayer; They came for a simple blue ribbon, For love of Christ's Mother
to wear; And I believe, with the Children of Mary, The Angels of Mary
were there.
Ah, faith! simple faith of the children! You still shame the faith of
the old! Ah, love! simple love of the little, You still warm the love of the
cold! And the beautiful God who is wandering Far out in the world's
dreary wold, Finds a home in the hearts of the children And a rest with
the lambs of the fold.
Swept a voice: was it wafted from Heaven? Heard you ever the sea
when it sings Where it sleeps on the shore in the night time? Heard you
ever the hymns the breeze brings From the hearts of a thousand bright
summers? Heard you ever the bird, when she springs To the clouds, till
she seems to be only A song of a shadow on wings?
Came a voice: and an "Ave Maria" Rose out of a heart rapture-
thrilled; And in the embrace of its music The souls of a thousand lay
stilled. A voice with the tones of an angel, Never flower such a
sweetness distilled; It faded away -- but the temple With its perfume of
worship was filled.
Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar The white veils swept on, two
by two; And the holiest halo of heaven Flashed out from the ribbons of
blue; And they laid down the wreaths of the roses Whose hearts were as
pure as their hue; Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, Whose loves to
the Mother are true!
And thus, in the dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the
day, The Angels and Children of Mary Met ere their Queen's Feast
passed away, Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows And
wove with their gold and their gray A mantle of grace and of glory For
the last lovely evening of May.

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S. M. A.

Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into far away;
Gone! and we can only dream of you Each as you fade like a star away.
Fade as a star in the sky from us, Vainly we look for your light again;
Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us? "Come!" and our hearts will be
bright again.
Come! and gaze on our face once more, Bring us the smiles of the
olden days; Come! and shine in your place once more, And change the
dark into golden days. Gone! gone! gone! Joy is fled for us; Gone into
the night of the nevermore, And darkness rests where you shed for us A
light we will miss ~forevermore~.
Faces! ye come in the night to us; Shadows! ye float in the sky of
sleep; Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us; Faces! ye are but the sigh
of sleep. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into the
far away; Gone! and we only can dream of you Till we sink like you and
the stars away.

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Feast of the Sacred Heart

Two lights on a lowly altar; Two snowy cloths for a Feast; Two vases
of dying roses; The morning comes from the east, With a gleam for the
folds of the vestments And a grace for the face of the priest.
The sound of a low, sweet whisper Floats over a little bread, And
trembles around a chalice, And the priest bows down his head! O'er a
sign of white on the altar -- In the cup -- o'er a sign of red.
As red as the red of roses, As white as the white of snows! But the
red is a red of a surface Beneath which a God's blood flows; And the
white is the white of a sunlight Within which a God's flesh glows.
Ah! words of the olden Thursday! Ye come from the far-away! Ye
bring us the Friday's victim In His own love's olden way; In the hand of
the priest at the altar His Heart finds a home each day.
The sight of a Host uplifted! The silver-sound of a bell! The gleam
of a golden chalice. Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well; He made, and He keeps
love's promise, With thee all days to dwell.
From his hand to his lips that tremble, From his lips to his heart a-
thrill, Goes the little Host on its love-path, Still doing the Father's will;
And over the rim of the chalice The blood flows forth to fill
The heart of the man anointed With the waves of a wondrous grace;
A silence falls on the altar -- An awe on each bended face -- For the
Heart that bled on Calvary Still beats in the holy place.
The priest comes down to the railing Where brows are bowed in
prayer; In the tender clasp of his fingers A Host lies pure and fair, And
the hearts of Christ and the Christian Meet there -- and only there!
Oh! love that is deep and deathless! Oh! faith that is strong and
grand! Oh! hope that will shine forever, O'er the wastes of a weary land!
Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven In the palm of the priest's pure
hand.

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n Memory of Very Rev. J. B.

Etienne
Superior General of the Congregation of the Mission and of the Sisters
of Charity.

A shadow slept folded in vestments, The dream of a smile on its face,

Dim, soft as the gleam after sunset That hangs like a halo of grace
Where the daylight hath died in the valley, And the twilight hath taken
its place. A shadow! but still on the mortal There rested the tremulous
trace Of the joy of a spirit immortal, Passed up to its God in His grace.
A shadow! hast seen in the summer A cloud wear the smile of the
sun? On the shadow of death there is flashing The glory of noble deeds
done; On the face of the dead there is glowing The light of a holy race
run; And the smile of the face is reflecting The gleam of the crown he
has won. Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestments Unstained by the priest
who has gone.
And thro' all the nations the children Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss;
But the glory that crowns him in heaven Illumines the gloom of their
cross. They send to the shadow the tribute Of tears, from the fountains of
love, And they send from their altars sweet prayers To the throne of their
Father above.
Yea! sorrow weeps over the shadow, But faith looks aloft to the skies;
And hope, like a rainbow, is flashing O'er the tears that rain down from
their eyes. They murmur on earth "De Profundis", The low chant is
mingled with sighs; "Laudate" rings out through the heavens -- The dead
priest hath won his faith's prize.
His children in sorrow will honor His grave; every tear is a gem, And
their prayers round his brow in the heavens Will brighten his fair diadem.
I kneel at his grave and remember, In love, I am ~still~ one of them.

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Tears

The tears that trickled down our eyes, They do not touch the earth to-
day; But soar like angels to the skies, And, like the angels, may not die;
For ah! our immortality Flows thro' each tear -- sounds in each sigh.
What waves of tears surge o'er the deep Of sorrow in our restless
souls! And they are strong, not weak, who weep Those drops from out
the sea that rolls Within their hearts forevermore, Without a
depth -- without a shore.
But ah! the tears that are not wept, The tears that never outward fall;
The tears that grief for years has kept Within us -- they are best of all;
The tears our eyes shall never know, Are dearer than the tears that
flow.
Each night upon earth's flowers below, The dew comes down from
darkest skies, And every night our tears of woe Go up like dews to
Paradise, To keep in bloom, and make more fair, The flowers
of crowns we yet shall wear.
For ah! the surest way to God Is up the lonely streams of tears, That
flow when bending 'neath His rod, And fill the tide of earthly years.
On laughter's billows hearts are tossed, On waves of tears no heart is
lost.
Flow on, ye tears! and bear me home; Flow not! ye tears of deeper
woe; Flow on, ye tears! that are but foam Of deeper waves that will not
flow. A little while -- I reach the shore Where tears flow not
forevermore!

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Lines (Two Loves)

Two loves came up a long, wide aisle, And knelt at a low, white gate;
One -- tender and true, with the shyest smile, One -- strong, true, and
elate.
Two lips spoke in a firm, true way, And two lips answered soft and
low; In one true hand such a little hand lay Fluttering, frail as a flake of
snow.
One stately head bent humbly there, Stilled were the throbbings of
human love; One head drooped down like a lily fair, Two prayers went,
wing to wing, above.
God blest them both in the holy place, A long, brief moment the rite
was done; On the human love fell the heavenly grace, Making two hearts
forever one.
Between two lengthening rows of smiles, One sweetly shy, one
proud, elate, Two loves passed down the long, wide aisles, Will they
ever forget the low, white gate?

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The Land We Love

Land of the gentle and brave! Our love is as wide as thy woe; It
deepens beside every grave Where the heart of a hero lies low.
Land of the sunniest skies! Our love glows the more for thy gloom;
Our hearts, by the saddest of ties, Cling closest to thee in thy doom.
Land where the desolate weep In a sorrow no voice may console!
Our tears are but streams, making deep The ocean of love in our soul.
Land where the victor's flag waves, Where only the dead are free!
Each link of the chain that enslaves But binds us to them and to thee.
Land where the Sign of the Cross Its shadow hath everywhere shed!
We measure our love by thy loss, Thy loss by the graves of our dead!

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In Memoriam

Go! heart of mine! the way is long -- The night is dark -- the place is
far; Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song, Beside two graves where
Mary's star Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest, With Mary's
medals on their breast.
Go! heart! those children loved you so, Their little lips prayed oft for
you! But ah! those necks are lying low Round which you twined the
badge of blue. Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast, With poet's
song and prayer of priest.
Go! like a pilgrim to a shrine, For that is holy ground where sleep
Children of Mary and of thine; Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep;
Last summer how their faces smiled When each was blessed as Mary's
child.
* * * * *
My heart is gone! I cannot sing! Beside those children's grave, song
dies; Hush! Poet! -- Priest! Prayer hath a wing To pass the stars and
reach the skies; Sweet children! from the land of light Look down
and bless my heart to-night.

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Reverie ["We laugh when our souls

are the saddest,"]

We laugh when our souls are the saddest, We shroud all our griefs in
a smile; Our voices may warble their gladdest, And our souls mourn in
anguish the while.
And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory, When winter is wailing
beneath; And we tell not the world the sad story Of the thorn hidden
back of the wreath.
Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter, And bright as the brook to
the sea But ah! the dark hours that come after Of moaning for you and
for me.
Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting As birds, fly the moments of
glee! And we smile, and mayhap grief is sleeting Its ice upon you and on
me.
And the clouds of the tempest are shifting O'er the heart, tho' the
face may be bright; And the snows of woe's winter are drifting Our souls;
and each day hides a night.
For ah! when our souls are enjoying The mirth which our faces
reveal, There is something -- a something -- alloying The sweetness of
joy that we feel.
Life's loveliest sky hides the thunder Whose bolt in a moment may
fall; And our path may be flowery, but under The flowers there are
thorns for us all.
Ah! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamings That flash down the
valley of night, Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming,
And leave us, like eagles in flight;
And fly far away unreturning, And leave us in terror and tears, While
vain is the spirit's wild yearning That they may come back in the years.
Come back! did I say it? but never Do eagles come back to the cage:
They have gone -- they have gone -- and forever -- Does youth come
back ever to age?

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 Father Ryan's Poems

No! a joy that has left us in sorrow Smiles never again on our way,
But we meet in the farthest to-morrow The face of the grief of to-day.
The brightness whose tremulous glimmer Has faded we cannot recall;
And the light that grows dimmer and dimmer -- When gone -- 'tis
forever and all.
Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, Not a gleam of it gilds the vast
gloom; Youth's roses perfume not the fingers Of age groping nigh to the
tomb.
For "the memory of joy is a sadness" -- The dim twilight after the
day; And the grave where we bury a gladness Sends a grief like a ghost,
on our way.
No day shall return that has faded, The dead come not back from the
tomb; The vale of each life must be shaded, That we may see best from
the gloom.
The height of the homes of our glory, All radiant with splendors of
light; That we may read clearly life's story -- "The dark is the dawn of
the bright."

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I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So

Some find work where some find rest, And so the weary world goes
on: I sometimes wonder which is best; The answer comes when life is
gone.
Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, And so the dreary night-
hours go; Some hearts beat where some hearts break; I often wonder
why 'tis so.
Some wills faint where some wills fight, Some love the tent, and
some the field; I often wonder who are right -- The ones who strive, or
those who yield?
Some hands fold where other hands Are lifted bravely in the strife;
And so thro' ages and thro' lands Move on the two extremes of life.
Some feet halt where some feet tread, In tireless march, a thorny way;
Some struggle on where some have fled; Some seek when others shun
the fray.
Some swords rust where others clash, Some fall back where some
move on; Some flags furl where others flash Until the battle has been
won.
Some sleep on while others keep The vigils of the true and brave:
They will not rest till roses creep Around their name above a grave.

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A Blessing

Be you near, or be you far, Let my blessing, like a star, Shine upon
you everywhere! And in each lone evening hour, When the twilight folds
the flower, I will fold thy name in prayer.
In the dark and in the day, To my heart you know the way, Sorrow's
pale hand keeps the key; In your sorrow or your sin You may always enter
in; I will keep a place for thee.
If God's blessing pass away From your spirit; if you stray From his
presence, do not wait. Come to my heart, for I keep For the hearts that
wail and weep, Ever opened wide -- a gate. In your joys to others go,
When your feet walk ways of woe Only then come back to me; I will
give you tear for tear, And our tears shall more endear Thee to me and
me to thee.
For I make my heart the home Of all hearts in grief that come
Seeking refuge and a rest. Do not fear me, for you know, Be your
footsteps e'er so low, I know yours, of all, the best.
Once you came; and you brought sin; Did not my hand lead you in --
Into God's heart, thro' my own? Did not my voice speak a word You, for
years, had never heard -- Mystic word in Mercy's tone?
And a grace fell on your brow, And I heard your murmured vow,
When I whispered: "Go in peace." "Go in peace, and sin no more," Did
you not touch Mercy's shore, Did not sin's wild tempest cease?
Go! then: thou art good and pure! If thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure,
Back to me thy footsteps trace! In my heart for year and year, Be thou far
away or near, I shall keep for thee a place.
Yes! I bless you -- near or far -- And my blessing, like a star, Shall
shine on you everywhere; And in many a holy hour, As the sunshine folds
the flower, I will fold thy heart in prayer.

July 9th, 1872

Between two pillared clouds of gold The beautiful gates of evening

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swung -- And far and wide from flashing fold The half-furled banners of
light, that hung O'er green of wood and gray of wold And over the
blue where the river rolled, The fading gleams of their glory flung.
The sky wore not a frown all day To mar the smile of the morning
tide; The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay -- You never would think
they had ever sighed; The stream went on its sunlit way In ripples of
laughter; happy they As the hearts that met at Riverside.
No cloudlet in the sky serene! Not a silver speck in the golden hue!
But where the woods waved low and green, And seldom would let the
sunlight through, Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen, The faces
of children might be seen, And the flash of ribbons of blue.
It was a children's simple feast, Yet many were there whose faces
told How far they are from childhood's East Who have reached the
evening of the old! And father -- mother -- sister -- priest -- They
seemed all day like the very least Of the little children of the fold.
The old forgot they were not young, The young forgot they would
e'er be old, And all day long the trees among, Where'er their footsteps
stayed or strolled, Came wittiest word from tireless tongue, And the
merriest peals of laughter rung Where the woods drooped low and the
river rolled.
No cloud upon the faces there, Not a sorrow came from its hiding
place To cast the shadow of a care On the fair, sweet brows in that fairest
place For in the sky and in the air, And in their spirits, and
everywhere, Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace.
The day was long, but ah! too brief! Swift to the West bright-winged
she fled; Too soon on ev'ry look and leaf The last rays flushed which her
plumage shed From an evening cloud -- was it a sign of grief? And
the bright day passed -- is there much relief That its dream dies not when
its gleam is dead?
Great sky, thou art a prophet still! And by thy shadows and by thy
rays We read the future if we will, And all the fates of our future ways;
To-morrows meet us in vale and hill, And under the trees, and by the
rill, Thou givest the sign of our coming days.
That evening cloud was a sign, I ween -- For the sister of that

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summer day Shall come next year to the selfsame scene; The winds will
sing the selfsame lay; The selfsame woods will wave as green, And
Riverside, thy skies serene Shall robe thee again in a golden sheen; Yet
though thy shadows may weave a screen Where the children's faces may
be seen, Thou ne'er shall be as thou hast been, For a face they loved has
passed away.

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Wake Me a Song

Out of the silences wake me a song, Beautiful, sad, and soft, and low;
Let the loveliest music sound along, And wing each note with a wail of
woe: Dim and drear As hope's last tear; Out of the silences
wake me a hymn, Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim.
Out of the stillness in your heart -- A thousand songs are sleeping
there -- Wake me a song, thou child of art! The song of a hope in a last
despair: Dark and low, A chant of woe; Out of the stillness,
tone by tone, Cold as a snowflake, low as a moan.
Out of the darkness flash me a song, Brightly dark and darkly bright;
Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along The mystical shadows of the
night: Sing it sweet; Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim, And
earth-song soars into heavenly hymn.

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In Memoriam (David J. Ryan,

C.S.A.)

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping In thy lonely battle grave;

Shadows o'er the past are creeping, Death, the reaper, still is reaping, Years
have swept, and years are sweeping Many a memory from my keeping,
But I'm waiting still, and weeping For my beautiful and brave.
When the battle songs were chanted, And war's stirring tocsin
pealed, By those songs thy heart was haunted, And thy spirit, proud,
undaunted, Clamored wildly -- wildly panted: "Mother! let my wish be
granted; I will ne'er be mocked and taunted That I fear to meet our vaunted
Foemen on the bloody field.
"They are thronging, mother! thronging, To a thousand fields of
fame; Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging God and thee to crush this
longing; On the muster-roll of glory, In my country's future story, On the
field of battle gory I must consecrate my name.
"Mother! gird my sword around me, Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-
bye.'" In her arms she wildly wound thee, To thy birth-land's cause she
bound thee, With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, And she
sobbed: "When foes surround thee, If you fall, I'll know they found thee
Where the bravest love to die."
At the altar of their nation, Stood that mother and her son, He, the
victim of oblation, Panting for his immolation; She, in priestess' holy
station, Weeping words of consecration, While God smiled his
approbation, Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, Cheered the mother's
desolation, When the sacrifice was done.
Forth, like many a noble other, Went he, whispering soft and low:
"Good-bye -- pray for me, my mother; Sister! kiss me -- farewell,
brother;" And he strove his grief to smother. Forth, with footsteps firm and
fearless, And his parting gaze was tearless Though his heart was lone and
cheerless, Thus from all he loved to go.
Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing In the sunny Southern sky: On,

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 Father Ryan's Poems

to death and glory dashing, On, where swords are clanging, clashing, On,
where balls are crushing, crashing, On, 'mid perils dread, appalling, On,
they're falling, falling, falling. On, they're growing fewer, fewer, On, their
hearts beat all the truer, On, on, on, no fear, no falter, On, though
round the battle-altar There were wounded victims moaning, There were
dying soldiers groaning; On, right on, death's danger braving, Warring
where their flag was waving, While Baptismal blood was laving All
that field of death and slaughter; On, still on; that bloody lava Made them
braver and made them braver, On, with never a halt or waver, On in battle
-- bleeding -- bounding, While the glorious shout swept sounding,
"We will win the day or die!"
And they won it; routed -- riven -- Reeled the foemen's proud
array: They had struggled hard, and striven, Blood in torrents they had
given, But their ranks, dispersed and driven, Fled, in sullenness, away.
Many a heart was lonely lying That would never throb again;
Some were dead, and some were dying; Those were silent, these were
sighing; Thus to die alone, unattended, Unbewept and unbefriended,
On that bloody battle-plain.
When the twilight sadly, slowly Wrapped its mantle o'er them all,
Thousands, thousands lying lowly, Hushed in silence deep and holy, There
was one, his blood was flowing And his last of life was going,
And his pulse faint, fainter beating Told his hours were few and
fleeting; And his brow grew white and whiter, While his eyes grew
strangely brighter; There he lay -- like infant dreaming, With his sword
beside him gleaming, For the hand in life that grasped it, True in death still
fondly clasped it; There his comrades found him lying 'Mid the heaps of
dead and dying, And the sternest bent down weeping O'er the lonely
sleeper sleeping: 'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, And they told
us how they found him Where the bravest love to fall.
Where the woods, like banners bending, Drooped in starlight and
in gloom, There, when that sad night was ending, And the faint, far dawn
was blending With the stars now fast descending; There they mute and
mournful bore him, With the stars and shadows o'er him, And they laid
him down -- so tender -- And the next day's sun, in splendor, Flashed

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above my brother's tomb.

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What? (To Ethel)

At the golden gates of the visions I knelt me adown one day; But
sudden my prayer was a silence, For I heard from the "Far away" The
murmur of many voices And a silvery censer's sway.
I bowed in awe, and I listened -- The deeps of my soul were stirred,
But deepest of all was the meaning Of the far-off music I heard, And yet
it was stiller than silence, Its notes were the "Dream of a Word".
A word that is whispered in heaven, But cannot be heard below; It
lives on the lips of the angels Where'er their pure wings glow; Yet only
the "Dream of its Echo" Ever reaches this valley of woe.
But I know the word and its meaning; I reached to its height that day,
When prayer sank into a silence And my heart was so far away; But I
may not murmur the music, Nor the word may my lips yet say.
But some day far in the future, And up from the dust of the dead,
And out of my lips when speechless The mystical word shall be said,
'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, When the soul of the bard has fled.

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The Master's Voice

The waves were weary, and they went to sleep; The winds were
hushed; The starlight flushed The furrowed face of all the mighty
deep.
The billows yester eve so dark and wild, Wore strangely now
A calm upon their brow, Like that which rests upon a cradled child.
The sky was bright, and every single star, With gleaming face,
Was in its place, And looked upon the sea -- so fair and far.
And all was still -- still as a temple dim, When low and faint,
As murmurs plaint, Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn.
A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark Slept Mary's Son --
The only One Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.
His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair He dreamed
of me On that still sea -- The stars He made were gleaming through
His hair.
And lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep; The sky grew dark:
The little bark Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep.
The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat; The bark was
tossed: Shall all be lost? But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet.
The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath, The winds howled on,
All hope seemed gone, And darker waves surged round the bark's lone
path.
The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep; He whispered:
"Peace! Winds -- wild waves, cease! Be still!" The tempest fled --
the ocean fell asleep.
And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed, When life's
lone bark Drifts through the dark And 'mid the wildest waves where
all seems lost,
He now, as then, with words of power and peace, Murmurs:
"Stormy deep, Be still -- still -- and sleep!" And lo! a great calm
comes -- the tempest's perils cease.

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A "Thought-Flower"

Silently -- shadowly -- some lives go, And the sound of their voices
is all unheard; Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow Of beautiful
waves which no storm hath stirred. Deep lives these As the
pearl-strewn seas.
Softly and noiselessly some feet tread Lone ways on earth, without
leaving a mark; They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead, As still
as the gleam of a star thro' the dark. Sweet lives those In their
strange repose.
Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, And none may know that they
beat at all; They muffle their music whenever they meet A few in a hut
or a crowd in a hall. Great hearts those -- God only knows!
Soundlessly -- shadowly -- such move on, Dim as the dream of a
child asleep; And no one knoweth 'till they are gone How lofty their
souls -- their hearts how deep. Bright souls these -- God only
sees.
Lonely and hiddenly in the world -- Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to
stay -- The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled Until they fly from
the world away, And find their rest On "Our Father's" breast,
Where earth's unknown shall be known the best, And the hidden hearts
shall be brightest blest.

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A Death

Crushed with a burden of woe, Wrecked in the tempest of sin: Death

came, and two lips murmured low, "Ah! once I was white as the snow, In
the happy and pure long ago; But they say God is sweet -- is it so? Will
He let a poor wayward one in -- In where the innocent are? Ah! justice
stands guard at the gate; Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate? Alas! I
have fallen so far! Oh, God! Oh, my God! 'tis too late! I have fallen as
falls a lost star:
"The sky does not miss the gone gleam, But my heart, like the lost star,
can dream Of the sky it has fall'n from. Nay! I have wandered too far --
far away. Oh! would that my mother were here; Is God like a mother?
Has He Any love for a sinner like me?"
Her face wore the wildness of woe -- Her words, the wild tones of
despair; Ah! how can a heart sink so low? How a face that was once
bright and so fair, Can be furrowed and darkened with care? Wild rushed
the hot tears from her eyes, From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, Her
poor heart was broken; but then Her God was far gentler than men.
A voice whispered low at her side, "Child! God is more gentle than
men, He watches by passion's dark tide, He sees a wreck drifting -- and
then He beckons with hand and with voice, And he sees the poor wreck
floating in To the haven on Mercy's bright shore; And He whispers the
whisper of yore: `The angels of heaven rejoice O'er the sinner repenting
of sin.'"
* * * * *
And a silence came down for a while, And her lips they were moving
in prayer, And her face it wore just such a smile As, perhaps, it was oft
wont to wear, Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, Ere the soul of the girl
knew the wile, That had led her to passion's despair.
Death's shadows crept over her face, And softened the hard marks of
care; Repentance had won a last grace, And the Angel of Mercy stood
there.

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The Rosary of My Tears

Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art; But
some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their lives by the
moans of their heart.
The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth, of years, Few
or many they come, few or many they go, But time is best measured by
tears.
Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps thro' the sunny hair, And not
by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by the furrows the
fingers of care
On forehead and face have made. Not so do we count our years; Not
by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our
tears.
For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brows be bright and fair;
While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold -- O'er them the
spring -- but winter is there.
And the old are ofttimes young, When their hair is thin and white;
And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their
cross was light.
But bead, by bead, I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a
cross they lead; 'tis well, And they're blest with a blessing of tears.
Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a
long stream of life The tempests and tears of the deep.
A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never
the foam brings the lone back home -- It reaches the haven through tears.

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Death

Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the sunshine of gladness, Into

the light of the blest; Out of a land very dreary, Out of a world very weary,
Into the rapture of rest.
Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, Into a blissful to-morrow, Into a day
without gloom; Out of a land filled with sighing, Land of the dead and the
dying, Into a land without tomb.
Out of a life of commotion, Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, Dark
with the wrecks drifting o'er; Into a land calm and quiet, Never a storm
cometh nigh it, Never a wreck on its shore.
Out of a land in whose bowers Perish and fade all the flowers: Out of
the land of decay, Into the Eden where fairest Of flowerets, and sweetest
and rarest, Never shall wither away.
Out of the world of the wailing Thronged with the anguished and
ailing; Out of the world of the sad, Into the world that rejoices -- World
of bright visions and voices -- Into the world of the glad.
Out of a life ever mournful, Out of a land very lornful, Where in
bleak exile we roam, Into a joy-land above us, Where there's a Father to
love us -- Into our home -- "Sweet Home".

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What Ails the World?

"What ails the world?" the poet cried; "And why does death walk
everywhere? And why do tears fall anywhere? And skies have
clouds, and souls have care?" Thus the poet sang, and sighed.
For he would fain have all things glad, All lives happy, all hearts
bright; Not a day would end in night, Not a wrong would vex a
right -- And so he sang -- and he was sad.
Thro' his very grandest rhymes Moved a mournful monotone --
Like a shadow eastward thrown From a sunset -- like a moan Tangled
in a joy-bell's chimes.
"What ails the world?" he sang and asked -- And asked and sang --
but all in vain; No answer came to any strain, And no reply to his
refrain -- The mystery moved 'round him masked.
"What ails the world?" An echo came -- "Ails the world?" The
minstrel bands, With famous or forgotten hands, Lift up their
lyres in all the lands, And chant alike, and ask the same
From him whose soul first soared in song, A thousand, thousand
years away, To him who sang but yesterday, In dying or in
deathless lay -- "What ails the world?" comes from the throng.
They fain would sing the world to rest; And so they chant in
countless keys, As many as the waves of seas, And as the
breathings of the breeze, Yet even when they sing their best --
When o'er the list'ning world there floats Such melody as 'raptures
men -- When all look up entranced -- and when The song of fame
floats forth, e'en then A discord creepeth through the notes --
Their sweetest harps have broken strings, Their grandest accords
have their jars, Like shadows on the light of stars, And somehow,
something ever mars The songs the greatest minstrel sings.
And so each song is incomplete, And not a rhyme can ever round
Into the chords of perfect sound The tones of thought that e'er
surround The ways walked by the poet's feet.
"What ails the world?" he sings and sighs; No answer cometh to
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his cry. He asks the earth and asks the sky -- The echoes of his
song pass by Unanswered -- and the poet dies.

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A Thought

There never was a valley without a faded flower, There never was a
heaven without some little cloud; The face of day may flash with light in
any morning hour, But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven
shroud.
There never was a river without its mists of gray, There never was a
forest without its fallen leaf; And joy may walk beside us down the
windings of our way, When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the
face of grief.
There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck, There never
was an ocean without its moaning wave; And the golden gleams of glory
the summer sky that fleck, Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their
azure-mantled grave.
There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear, Without a
shadow resting in the ripples of its tide; Hope's brightest robes are
'broidered with the sable fringe of fear, And she lures us, but abysses girt
her path on either side.
The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, And the
shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head, And the highest
hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain, And the smile has
scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd tear is shed.
For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, And those
lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh; For without the
dreary winter there has never been a year, And the tempests hide their
terrors in the calmest summer sky.
The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the grave; The
mother's song scarce hides the ~De Profundis~ of the priest; You may cull
the fairest roses any May-day ever gave, But they wither while you wear
them ere the ending of your feast.
So this dreary life is passing -- and we move amid its maze, And we
grope along together, half in darkness, half in light; And our hearts are
often burdened by the mysteries of our ways, Which are never all in
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shadow and are never wholly bright.

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide, And our
hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key; And a cross
gleams o'er our pathway -- on it hangs the Crucified, And He answers all
our yearnings by the whisper, "Follow Me." Life is a burden; bear
it; Life is a duty; dare it; Life is a thorn-crown; wear it,
Though it break your heart in twain; Though the burden crush you
down; Close your lips, and hide your pain, First the Cross, and
then, the Crown.

In Rome

At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The
sunshine of the home of truth Falls tremulously o'er me.
And tower, and spire, and lofty dome In brightest skies are gleaming;
Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, Or am I only dreaming?
No, 'tis no dream; my very eyes Gaze on the hill-tops seven; Where
crosses rise and kiss the skies, And grandly point to Heaven.
Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side, Each stone an age's story; They seem
the very ghosts of pride That watch the grave of glory.
There senates sat, whose sceptre sought An empire without limit;
There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought That death would never
dim it.
There rulers reigned; yon heap of stones Was once their gorgeous
palace; Beside them now, on altar-thrones, The priests lift up the chalice.
There legions marched with bucklers bright, And lances lifted o'er
them; While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, Unfurled their wings
before them.
There poets sang, whose deathless name Is linked to deathless verses;
There heroes hushed with shouts of fame Their trampled victim's curses.
There marched the warriors back to home, Beneath yon crumbling
portal, And placed upon the brow of Rome The proud crown of
immortal.
There soldiers stood with armor on, In steel-clad ranks and serried,

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The while their red swords flashed upon The slaves whose rights they
buried.
Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, And fame would not forsake it,
Until a simple cross of wood Came from the East to break it.
That Rome is dead -- here is the grave -- Dead glory rises never; And
countless crosses o'er it wave, And will wave on forever.
Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome Above the hill-tops seven; It arches
o'er the world from Rome, And leads the world to Heaven.
____ December 6, 1872.

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After Sickness

I nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever
and no more; I think I heard the awful hinges grate, Hour after hour, while
I did weary wait Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain: The door half-
opened and then closed again.
What were my thoughts? I had but one regret -- That I was doomed
to live and linger yet In this dark valley where the stream of tears Flows,
and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. My lips spake not -- my eyes were
dull and dim, But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn -- A
triumph song of many chords and keys, Transcending language -- as the
summer breeze, Which, through the forest mystically floats, Transcends
the reach of mortal music's notes. A song of victory -- a chant of bliss:
Wedded to words, it might have been like this:
"Come, death! but I am fearless, I shrink not from your frown;
The eyes you close are tearless; Haste! strike this frail form down.
Come! there is no dissembling In this last, solemn hour, But
you'll find my heart untrembling Before your awful power. My
lips grow pale and paler, My eyes are strangely dim, I wail not
as a wailer, I sing a victor's hymn. My limbs grow cold and
colder, My room is all in gloom; Bold death! -- but I am bolder -
- Come! lead me to my tomb! 'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary,
'Tis still, and lone, and deep; Haste, death! my eyes are weary, I
want to fall asleep.
`Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry? Of time why such a
loss? Dost fear the sign I carry? 'Tis but a simple cross.
Thou wilt not strike? Then hear me: Come! strike in any hour,
My heart shall never fear thee Nor flinch before thy power. I'll
meet thee -- time's dread lictor -- And my wasted lips shall sing:
`Dread death! I am the victor! Strong death! where is thy sting?'"
____ Milan, January, 1873.

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Old Trees

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom There's many a warrior
laid, And many a nameless and lonely tomb Is sheltered beneath your
shade. Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer We buried the brave
and the true, We fired a volley and left them there To rest, old trees, with
you.
Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward Over each grass-grown
bed; 'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard Over the Southern dead;
Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay, Old trees, to guard "our dead".

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After Seeing Pius IX

I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief Who fears not human rage,
nor human guile; Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, But in that
grief the starlight of a smile. Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell
They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell; A low voice -- strangely
sweet -- whose very tone Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone. I
kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet; "No, no," he said; and then, in
accents sweet, His blessing fell upon my bended head. He bade me rise; a
few more words he said, Then took me by the hand -- the while he smiled
-- And, going, whispered: "Pray for me, my child."

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Sentinel Songs

When falls the soldier brave, Dead at the feet of wrong, The poet
sings and guards his grave With sentinels of song.
Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The
living and dead of the conquered land Have now no guards save you.
Gray ballads! mark ye well! Thrice holy is your trust! Go! halt by the
fields where warriors fell; Rest arms! and guard their dust.
List, songs! your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief; Whilst
right is right, and wrong is wrong, Ye may not seek relief.
Go! wearing the gray of grief! Go! watch o'er the dead in gray! Go!
guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay!
And the songs, in stately rhyme And with softly sounding tread, Go
forth, to watch for a time -- a time -- Where sleep the Deathless Dead.
And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low, Sing round
the graves, whilst hot tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe.
What tho' no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave? What tho' no
monument epitaphed Be built above each grave?
When marble wears away And monuments are dust, The songs that
guard our soldiers' clay Will still fulfil their trust.
With lifted head and stately tread, Like stars that guard the skies, Go
watch each bed where rest the dead, Brave songs, with sleepless eyes.
* * * * *
When falls the cause of Right, The poet grasps his pen, And in
gleaming letters of living light Transmits the truth to men.
Go, songs! he says who sings; Go! tell the world this tale; Bear it
afar on your tireless wings: The Right will yet prevail.
Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! Boom o'er the world and say:
Brave men may die -- Right has no death! Truth never shall pass away!
Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs! Go! sob thro' a people's tears! Sweep
the horizons of all the skies, And throb through a thousand years!
* * * * *
And the songs, with brave, sad face, Go proudly down their way,
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Wailing the loss of a conquered race And waiting an Easter-day.

Away! away! like the birds, They soar in their flight sublime; And
the waving wings of the poet's words Flash down to the end of time.
When the flag of justice fails, Ere its folds have yet been furled, The
poet waves its folds in wails That flutter o'er the world.
Songs, march! and in rank by rank The low, wild verses go, To watch
the graves where the grass is dank, And the martyrs sleep below.
Songs! halt where there is no name! Songs! stay where there is no
stone! And wait till you hear the feet of Fame Coming to where ye
moan.
And the songs, with lips that mourn, And with hearts that break in
twain At the beck of the bard -- a hope forlorn -- Watch the plain where
sleep the slain.
* * * * *
When the warrior's sword is lowered Ere its stainless sheen grows
dim, The bard flings forth its dying gleam On the wings of a deathless
hymn.
Songs, fly far o'er the world And adown to the end of time: Let the
sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled, Thro' the sheen of the poet's
rhyme.
Songs! fly as the eagles fly! The bard unbars the cage; Go, soar away,
and afar and high Wave your wings o'er every age.
Shriek shrilly o'er each day, As futureward ye fly, That the men were
right who wore the gray, And Right can never die.
And the songs, with waving wing, Fly far, float far away From the
ages' crest; o'er the world they fling The shade of the stainless gray.
Might! sing your triumph-songs! Each song but sounds a shame; Go
down the world, in loud-voiced throngs, To win, from the future, fame.
Our ballads, born of tears, Will track you on your way, And win the
hearts of the future years For the men who wore the gray.
And so -- say what you will -- In the heart of God's own laws I have
a faith, and my heart believes still In the triumph of our cause.
Such hope may all be vain, And futile be such trust; But the weary
eyes that weep the slain, And watch above such dust,

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They cannot help but lift Their visions to the skies; They watch the
clouds, but wait the rift Through which their hope shall rise.
The victor wields the sword: Its blade may broken be By a thought
that sleeps in a deathless word, To wake in the years to be.
We wait a grand-voiced bard, Who, when he sings, will send
Immortal songs' "Imperial Guard" The Lost Cause to defend.
He has not come; he will. But when he chants, his song Will stir the
world to its depths and thrill The earth with its tale of wrong.
The fallen cause still waits -- Its bard has not come yet. His sun
through one of to-morrow's gates Shall shine, but never set.
But when he comes he'll sweep A harp with tears all stringed, And
the very notes he strikes will weep As they come from his hand woe-
winged.
Ah! grand shall be his strain, And his songs shall fill all climes, And
the rebels shall rise and march again Down the lines of his glorious
rhymes.
And through his verse shall gleam The swords that flashed in vain,
And the men who wore the gray shall seem To be marshaling again.
But hush! between his words Peer faces sad and pale, And you hear
the sound of broken chords Beat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry -- The terrible undertone -- And
the father's curse and the mother's sigh, And the desolate young wife's
moan.
* * * * *
But harps are in every land That await a voice that sings, And a
master-hand -- but the humblest hand May gently touch its strings.
I sing with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day, In minor keys
of my people's woe, But my songs pass away.
To-morrow hears them not -- To-morrow belongs to Fame -- My
songs, like the birds', will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name.
And yet who knows? Betimes The grandest songs depart, While
the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart.
But, oh! if in song or speech, In major or minor key, My voice could
over the ages reach, I would whisper the name of Lee.

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In the night of our defeat Star after star had gone, But the way was
bright to our soldiers' feet Where the star of Lee led on.
But sudden there came a cloud, Out rung a nation's knell; Our cause
was wrapped in its winding shroud, All fell when the great Lee fell.
From his men, with scarce a word, Silence when great hearts part!
But we know he sheathed his stainless sword In the wound of a broken
heart.
He fled from Fame; but Fame Sought him in his retreat, Demanding
for the world one name Made deathless by defeat.
Nay, Fame! success is best! All lost! and nothing won: North, keep
the clouds that flush the West, We have the sinking sun.
All lost! but by the graves Where martyred heroes rest, He wins the
most who honor saves -- Success is not the test.
All lost! a nation weeps; By all the tears that fall, He loses naught
who conscience keeps, Lee's honor saves us all.
All lost! but e'en defeat Hath triumphs of her own, Wrong's paean
hath no note so sweet As trampled Right's proud moan.
The world shall yet decide, In truth's clear, far-off light, That the
soldiers who wore the gray, and died With Lee, were in the right.
And men, by time made wise, Shall in the future see No name hath
risen, or ever shall rise, Like the name of Robert Lee.
Ah, me! my words are weak, This task surpasses me; Dead soldiers!
rise from your graves and speak, And tell how you loved Lee.
The banner you bore is furled, And the gray is faded, too! But in all
the colors that deck the world Your gray blends not with blue.
The colors are far apart, Graves sever them in twain; The Northern
heart and the Southern heart May beat in peace again;
But still till time's last day, Whatever lips may plight, The blue is
blue, but the gray is gray, Wrong never accords with Right.
Go, Glory! and forever guard Our chieftain's hallowed dust; And
Honor! keep eternal ward! And Fame! be this thy trust!
Go! with your bright emblazoned scroll And tell the years to be, The
first of names that flash your roll Is ours -- great Robert Lee.
Lee wore the gray! since then 'Tis Right's and Honor's hue! He

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honored it, that man of men, And wrapped it round the true.
Dead! but his spirit breathes! Dead! but his heart is ours! Dead! but
his sunny and sad land wreathes His crown with tears for flowers.
A statue for his tomb! Mould it of marble white! For Wrong, a
spectre of death and doom; An angel of hope for Right.
But Lee has a thousand graves In a thousand hearts, I ween; And
teardrops fall from our eyes in waves That will keep his memory green.
Ah! Muse, you dare not claim A nobler man than he, Nor nobler man
hath less of blame, Nor blameless man hath purer name, Nor purer name
hath grander fame, Nor fame -- another Lee.

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A Mystery
His face was sad; some shadow must have hung Above his soul; its
folds, now falling dark, Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, Like
cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there -- A shadow; and his face was
always sad.
His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray Within them met and
blended with the blue, And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream
They looked beyond you into far-away, And often drooped; his face was
always sad.
His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim, As if the edges of a cloud
of tears Had gathered there, and only left a mist That made them moist and
kept them ever moist. He never wept; his face was always sad.
I mean, not many saw him ever weep, And yet he seemed as one who
often wept, Or always, tears that were too proud to flow In outer streams,
but shrunk within and froze -- Froze down into himself; his face was sad.
And yet sometimes he smiled -- a sudden smile, As if some far-gone
joy came back again, Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face A
moment like a light through rifts in clouds, Which falls upon an
unforgotten grave; He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad.
And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, And strange as
stories of an unknown land, And full of meanings as the sea of moans. At
times he was so still that silence seemed To sentinel his lips; and not a
word Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad.
But then at times his speech flowed like a stream -- A deep and dreamy
stream through lonely dells Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves
Hung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow It rippled on lone shores fair-
fringed with flowers, And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad.
He had his moods of silence and of speech. I asked him once the
reason, and he said: "When I speak much, my words are only words,
When I speak least, my words are more than words, When I speak not, I
then reveal myself!" It was his way of saying things -- he spoke In
quaintest riddles; and his face was sad.
And, when he wished, he wove around his words A nameless spell that
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marvelously thrilled The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold Could
warm the coldest heart; that he so hard Could soften hardest soul; that he
so still Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad.
He spoke of death as if it were a toy For thought to play with; and of
life he spoke As of a toy not worth the play of thought; And of this world
he spoke as captives speak Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men
As one who found pure gold in each of them. He spoke of women just as
if he dreamed About his mother; and he spoke of God As if he walked
with Him and knew His heart -- But he was weary, and his face was sad.
He had a weary way in all he did, As if he dragged a chain, or bore a
cross; And yet the weary went to him for rest. His heart seemed scarce to
know an earthly joy, And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. He seemed
to have two selves -- his outer self Was free to any passer-by, and kind to
all, And gentle as a child's; that outer self Kept open all its gates, that who
so wished Might enter them and find therein a place; And many entered;
but his face was sad.
The inner self he guarded from approach, He kept it sealed and sacred
as a shrine; He guarded it with silence and reserve; Its gates were locked
and watched, and none might pass Beyond the portals; and his face was
sad. But whoso entered there -- and few were they -- So very few -- so
very, very few, They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" They
murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" They went their
ways, but wore a lifted look, And higher meanings came to common
words, And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; And, near or far,
they never did forget The "Shadow and the Shrine"; his face was sad.
He was not young nor old -- yet he was both; Nor both by turns, but
always both at once; For youth and age commingled in his ways, His
words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. At times the "old man"
tottered in his thoughts, The child played thro' his words; his face was sad.
I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: "The rose that sleeps upon
yon valley's breast, Just born to-day, is not as young as I; The moss-robed
oak of twice a thousand storms -- An acorn cradled ages long ago -- Is old,
in sooth, but not as old as I." It was his way -- he always answered thus,
But when he did his face was very sad.

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* * * * *

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Spirit Song
Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art
now a golden wave On the golden shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!
Thou wert once the bluest wave Shadows e'er hung o'er; Thou art
now the brightest wave On the brightest shore -- Ever -- ever --
evermore!
Thou wert once the gentlest wave Ocean ever bore; Thou art now the
fairest wave On the fairest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!
Whiter foam than thine, O wave, Wavelet never wore, Stainless
wave; and now you lave The far and stormless shore -- Ever -- ever --
evermore!
Who bade thee go, O bluest wave, Beyond the tempest's roar? Who
bade thee flow, O fairest wave, Unto the golden shore, Ever -- ever --
evermore?
Who waved a hand, O purest wave? A hand that blessings bore, And
wafted thee, O whitest wave, Unto the fairest shore, Ever -- ever --
evermore?
Who winged thy way, O holy wave, In days and days of yore? And
wept the words: "O winsome wave, This earth is not thy shore!"
Ever -- ever -- evermore?
Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave -- The strength a great soul
wore -- And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy
shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?
Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: "Thy wail shall soon be o'er,
Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever
-- ever -- evermore?
And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of
yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore,
Ever -- ever -- evermore?
Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar!
I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever -
- ever -- evermore!
Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I
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would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore,
Ever -- ever -- evermore!
* * * * *
"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a
temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And
all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when
the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers,
with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the
shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the
ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place -- The shadows of
the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The
marble floor memorials of their tears."
And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid
themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad.
When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and
his look, so mild, Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips,
and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed
to sleep. His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns,
but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most
lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen
crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!
But he would pass His hand upon
his brow, or touch his eyes, And then the olden gentleness, like light
Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, Would tremble on his face,
and he would look More gentle then than ever, and his tone Would
sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.
I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved And darkened; ah! his
face was like a tomb That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, But,
suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, And all the smiles arose as from
the dead, And wore the glory of an Easter morn; And passed beneath the
sceptre of a hope Which came from some far region of his heart, Came up
into his eyes, and reigned a queen. I marveled much; he answered to my
look With all his own, and wafted me these words:
"There are transitions in the lives of all. There are transcendent

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moments when we stand In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, And
weak with very strength of human love We fain would build our
tabernacles there; And, Peter-like, for very human joy We cry aloud:
`'Tis good that we are here;' Swift are these moments, like the smile of
God, Which glorifies a shadow and is gone.
"And then we stand upon another mount -- Dark, rugged Calvary; and
God keeps us there For awful hours, to make us there His own In
Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. We wish to cling to Thabor; He says:
`No.' And what He says is best because most true. We fain would fly from
Calvary; He says: `No.' And it is true because it is the best. And yet, my
friend, these two mounts are the same.
"They lie apart, distinct and separate, And yet -- strange mystery! --
they are the same. For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, And Thabor is a
Calvary in the light. It is the mystery of Holy Christ! It is the mystery of
you and me! Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, And, like
the shadows of a dial, we Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours The sun
tells brightly in the sinless skies. Dost understand?" I did not understand
-- Or only half; his face was very sad. "Dost thou not understand me?
Then your life Is shallow as a brook that brawls along Between two
narrow shores; you never wept -- You never wore great clouds upon your
brow As mountains wear them; and you never wore Strange glories in
your eyes, as sunset skies Oft wear them; and your lips -- they never
sighed Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul; You never
reached your arms a-broad -- a-high -- To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp
the sky. Life, only life, can understand a life; Depth, only depth, can
understand the deep. The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face Can never
learn the story of the sea."
* * * * *
One day we strolled together to the sea. Gray evening and the night
had almost met, We walked between them, silent, to the shore. The feet of
weird faced waves ran up the beach Like children in mad play, then back
again As if the spirit of the land pursued; Then up again -- and farther --
and they flung White, foamy arms around each other's neck; Then back
again with sudden rush and shout, As if the sea, their mother, called them

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home; Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, But swiftly tore
themselves away and rushed Away, and farther up the beach, and fell For
utter weariness; and loudly sobbed For strength to rise and flow back to
the deep. But all in vain, for other waves swept on And trampled them; the
sea cried out in grief, The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the
sands. It was the flood-tide and the even-tide -- Between the evening and
the night we walked -- We walked between the billows and the beach, We
walked between the future and the past, Down to the sea we twain had
strolled -- to part.
The shore was low, with just the faintest rise Of many-colored sands
and shreds of shells, Until about a stone's far throw they met A fringe of
faded grass, with here and there A pale-green shrub; and farther into land -
- Another stone's throw farther -- there were trees -- Tall, dark, wild trees,
with intertwining arms, Each almost touching each, as if they feared To
stand alone and look upon the sea. The night was in the trees -- the
evening on the shore. We walked between the evening and the night --
Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. There lies between man's
silence and his speech A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass Are
never silent, tho' they may not speak; And yet they more than breathe. It
is the vale Of wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard. It is the vale of
the unutterable. We walked between our silence and our speech, And
sighed between the sunset and the stars, One hour beside the sea.
There was a cloud Far o'er the reach
of waters, hanging low 'Tween sea and sky -- the banner of the storm, Its
edges faintly bright, as if the rays That fled far down the West had rested
there And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. Its inner folds were
dark -- its central, more. It did not flutter; there it hung, as calm As banner
in a temple o'er a shrine. Its shadow only fell upon the sea, Above the
shore the heavens bended blue. We walked between the cloudless and the
cloud, That hour, beside the sea.
But, quick as thought, There
gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light -- Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed
in the sea, Its scabbard in the darkness -- and it tore The bannered cloud
into a thousand shreds, Then quivered far away, and bent and broke In

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flashing fragments;
And there came a peal That shook the
mighty sea from shore to shore, But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach;
Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung Clouds darker gathered --
and they proudly waved Like flags before a battle.
We twain walked -- We walked
between the lightning's parted gleams, We walked between the thunders of
the skies, We walked between the wavings of the clouds, We walked
between the tremblings of the sea, We walked between the stillnesses and
roars Of frightened billows; and we walked between The coming tempest
and the dying calm -- Between the tranquil and the terrible -- That hour
beside the sea.
There was a rock Far up the winding
beach that jutted in The sea, and broke the heart of every wave That struck
its breast; not steep enough nor high To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough
To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock; Yet not so low as that its brow was
laved By highest tide, yet not sufficient high To rise beyond the reach of
silver spray That rained up from the waves -- their tears that fell Upon its
face, when they died at its feet. Around its sides damp seaweed hung in
long, Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. A tuft or two of grass did
green the rock, A patch or so of moss; the rest was bare.
Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; But when we
reached the rock the eve and night Had met; light died; we sat down in the
dark Upon the rock.
Meantime a thousand clouds Careered and clashed
in air -- a thousand waves Whirled wildly on in wrath -- a thousand winds
Howled hoarsely on the main, and down the skies Into the hollow seas the
fierce rain rushed, As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath; And, like a
thousand serpents intercoiled, The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed
and glared, And all the horror shrank in horror back Before the maddest
peals that ever leaped Out from the thunder's throat.
Within the dark We silent sat.
No rain fell on the rock, Nor in on land, nor shore; only on sea The upper
and the lower waters met In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts Far

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parted -- parted long -- which meet to break, Which rush into each other's
arms and break In terror and in tempests wild of tears. No rain fell on the
rock; but flakes of foam Swept cold against our faces, where we sat
Between the hush and howling of the winds, Between the swells and
sinking of the waves, Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, Between
the rushings of the maddened rains, Between the dark beneath and dark
above.
We sat within the dread heart of the night: One, pale with terror; one,
as calm and still And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock.
* * * * *

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Lake Como

Winter on the mountains Summer on the shore, The robes of sun-

gleams woven, The lake's blue wavelets wore.
Cold, white, against the heavens, Flashed winter's crown of snow,
And the blossoms of the spring-tide Waved brightly far below.
The mountain's head was dreary, The cold and cloud were there, But
the mountain's feet were sandaled With flowers of beauty rare.
And winding thro' the mountains The lake's calm wavelets rolled,
And a cloudless sun was gilding Their ripples with its gold.
Adown the lake we glided Thro' all the sunlit day; The cold snows
gleamed above us, But fair flowers fringed our way
The snows crept down the mountain, The flowers crept up the slope,
Till they seemed to meet and mingle, Like human fear and hope.
But the same rich, golden sunlight Fell on the flowers and snow,
Like the smile of God that flashes On hearts in joy or woe.
And on the lake's low margin The trees wore stoles of green, While
here and there, amid them, A convent cross was seen.
Anon a ruined castle, Moss-mantled, loomed in view, And cast its
solemn shadow Across the water's blue.
And chapel, cot, and villa, Met here and there our gaze, And many a
crumbling tower That told of other days.
And scattered o'er the waters The fishing boats lay still, And sound
of song so softly Came echoed from the hill.
At times the mountain's shadow Fell dark across the scene, And
veiled with veil of purple The wavelets' silver sheen.
But for a moment only The lake would wind, and lo! The waves
would near the glory Of the sunlight's brightest glow.
At times there fell a silence Unbroken by a tone, As if no sound of
voices Had ever there been known.
Through strange and lonely places We glided thus for hours; We saw
no other faces But the faces of the flowers.
The shores were sad and lonely As hearts without a love, While
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darker and more dreary The mountains rose above.

But sudden round a headland The lake would sweep again, And
voices from a village Would meet us with their strain.
Thus all the day we glided, Until the Vesper bell Gave to the day, at
sunset, Its sweet and soft farewell.
Then back again we glided Upon our homeward way, When twilight
wrapped the waters And the mountains with its gray.
But brief the reign of twilight, The night came quickly on; The dark
brow o'er the mountains, Star-wreathed, brightly shone.
And down thro' all the shadows The star-gleams softly crept, And
kissed, with lips all shining, The wavelets ere they slept.
The lake lay in a slumber, The shadows for its screen, While silence
waved her sceptre Above the sleeping scene.
The spirit of the darkness Moved, ghost-like, everywhere; Wherever
starlight glimmered, Its shadow, sure, fell there.
The lone place grew more lonely, And all along our way The
mysteries of the night-time Held undisputed sway.
Thro' silence and thro' darkness We glided down the tide That wound
around the mountains That rose on either side.
No eyes would close in slumber Within our little bark; What
charmed us so in daylight So awed us in the dark.
Upon the deck we lingered, A whisper scarce was heard; When
hearts are stirred profoundest, Lips are without a word.
"Let's say the Chaplet," softly A voice beside me spake. "Christ
walked once in the darkness Across an Eastern lake,
"And to-night we know the secret That will charm Him to our side:
If we call upon His Mother, He will meet us on the tide."
So we said the beads together, Up and down the little bark; And I
believe that Jesus met us, With His Mother, in the dark.
And our prayers were scarcely ended When, on mountain-top afar,
We beheld the morning meeting With the night's last fading star.
And I left the lake; but never Shall the years to come efface From
my heart the dream and vision Of that strange and lonely place.
____ February 1, 1873.

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"Peace! Be Still"

Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; For, oh! His eyes are
this world's only light, And when they close wild waves rush on His bark,
And toss it through the dead hours of the night.
So He slept once upon an eastern lake, In Peter's bark, while wild
waves raved at will; A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake, He
softly whispered, and the sea grew still.
It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep As erst he slept in Peter's
waved-rocked bark; A storm is sweeping all across the deep, While Pius
prays, like Peter, in the dark.
The sky is darkened, and the shore is far, The tempest's strength
grows fiercer every hour: Upon the howling deep there shines no star --
Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power?
Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm That guides the bark thro' all the
tempest's wrath; Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm The ship
of faith upon its homeward path.
The Master sleeps -- His pilot guards the bark; He soon will wake,
and at His mighty will The light will shine where all before was dark --
The wild waves still remember: "Peace! be still."
____ Rome, 1873.

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Good Friday

O Heart of Three-in-the evening, You nestled the thorn-crowned

head; He leaned on you in His sorrow, And rested on you when dead.
Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening He gave you His richest dower; He
met you afar on Calvary, And made you "His own last hour".
O Brow of Three-in-the evening, Thou wearest a crimson crown;
Thou art Priest of the hours forever, And thy voice, as thou goest down
The cycles of time, still murmurs The story of love each day: "I held
in death the Eternal, In the long and the far-away."
O Heart of Three-in-the evening, Mine beats with thine to-day; Thou
tellest the olden story, I kneel -- and I weep and pray.
____ Boulogne, sur mer.

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My Beads

Sweet, blessed beads! I would not part With one of you for richest
gem That gleams in kingly diadem; Ye know the history of my heart.
For I have told you every grief In all the days of twenty years, And
I have moistened you with tears, And in your decades found relief.
Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed And joys have died; but in
my needs Ye were my friends, my blessed beads! And ye consoled me
when I wailed.
For many and many a time, in grief, My weary fingers wandered
round Thy circled chain, and always found In some Hail Mary sweet
relief.
How many a story you might tell Of inner life, to all unknown; I
trusted you and you alone, But ah! ye keep my secrets well.
Ye are the only chain I wear -- A sign that I am but the slave, In life,
in death, beyond the grave, Of Jesus and His Mother fair.

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At Night

Dreary! weary! Weary! dreary! Sighs my soul this lonely night.

Farewell gladness! Welcome sadness! Vanished are my visions bright.
Stars are shining! Winds are pining! In the sky and o'er the sea;
Shine forever Stars! but never Can the starlight gladden me.
Stars! you nightly Sparkle brightly, Scattered o'er your azure
dome; While earth's turning, There you're burning, Beacons of a
better home.
Stars! you brighten And you lighten Many a heart-grief here
below; But your gleaming And your beaming Cannot chase away
my woe.
Stars! you're shining, I am pining -- I am dark, but you are
bright; Hanging o'er me And before me Is a night you cannot
light.
Night of sorrow, Whose to-morrow I may never, never see,
Till upon me And around me Dawns a bright eternity.
Winds! you're sighing, And you're crying, Like a mourner o'er
a tomb; Whither go ye, Whither blow ye, Wailing through the
midnight gloom?
Chanting lowly, Softly, lowly, Like the voice of one in woe;
Winds so lonely, Why thus moan ye? Say, what makes you sorrow so?
Are you grieving For your leaving Scenes where all is fair and
gay? For the flowers In their bowers, You have met with on your
way?
For fond faces, For dear places, That you've seen as on you
swept? Are you sighing, Are you crying, O'er the memories they
have left?
Earth is sleeping While you're sweeping Through night's
solemn silence by; On forever, Pausing never -- How I love to
hear you sigh!
Men are dreaming, Stars are gleaming In the far-off heaven's
blue; Bosom aching, Musing, waking, Midnight winds, I sigh
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with you!

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Nocturne ["Betimes, I seem to see

in dreams"]

Betimes, I seem to see in dreams What when awake I may not see;
Can night be God's more than the day? Do stars, not suns, best light his
way? Who knoweth? Blended lights and shades Arch aisles down
which He walks to me.
I hear him coming in the night Afar, and yet I know not how; His
steps make music low and sweet; Sometimes the nails are in his feet;
Does darkness give God better light Than day, to find a weary brow?
Does darkness give man brighter rays To find the God, in sunshine
lost? Must shadows wrap the trysting-place Where God meets hearts
with gentlest grace? Who knoweth it? God hath His ways For every
soul here sorrow-tossed.
The hours of day are like the waves That fret against the shores of
sin: They touch the human everywhere, The Bright-Divine fades in
their glare; And God's sweet voice the spirit craves Is heard too faintly in
the din.
When all the senses are awake, The mortal presses overmuch
Upon the great immortal part -- And God seems further from the heart.
Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, Lose star by star at
sunlight's touch?
But when the sun kneels in the west, And grandly sinks as great
hearts sink; And in his sinking flings adown Bright blessings from
his fading crown, The stars begin their song of rest, And shadows make
the thoughtless think.
The human seems to fade away; And down the starred and shadowed
skies The heavenly comes -- as memories come Of home to hearts
afar from home; And thro' the darkness after day Many a winged angel
flies.
And somehow, tho' the eyes see less, Our spirits seem to see the
more; When we look thro' night's shadow-bars The soul sees more

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than shining stars, Yea -- sees the very loveliness That rests upon the
"Golden Shore".
Strange reveries steal o'er us then, Like keyless chords of
instruments, With music's soul without the notes; And subtle, sad,
and sweet there floats A melody not made by men, Nor ever heard by
outer sense.
And "what has been", and "what will be", And "what is not", but
"might have been", The dim "to be", the "mournful gone", The little
things life rested on In "Long-ago's", give tone, not key, To reveries
beyond our ken.

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Sunless Days

They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days, With not a light all o'er
their clouded skies; And thro' the dark we grope along our ways With
hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.
What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence? Why does it
banish all the bright away? How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense?
Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?
Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know How oft and suddenly the
shadows roll From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, To wrap
their darkness round the human soul.
Those days are darker than the very night; For nights have stars, and
sleep, and happy dreams; But these days bring unto the spirit-sight The
mysteries of gloom, until it seems
The light is gone forever, and the dark Hangs like a pall of death
above the soul, Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, And
sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.
____ Winter on the Atlantic.

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A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song?

or sing in a dream?"]

Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Why ask when the night
only knoweth? The night -- and the angel of sleep! But ever since then a
music deep, Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth Under each
thought of my spirit that groweth Into the blossom and bloom of speech --
Under each fancy that cometh and goeth -- Wayward, as waves when
evening breeze bloweth Out of the sunset and into the beach. And is it a
wonder I wept to-day? For I mused and thought, but I cannot say If I
dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. In the silence of sleep, and the
noon of night; And now -- even now -- 'neath the words I write, The flush
of the dream or the flow of the song -- I cannot tell which -- moves
strangely along. But why write more? I am puzzled sore: Did I dream of
a song? or sing in a dream? Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; The
words of earth are a darksome veil, The poet weaves it with artful grace;
Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, Lets it rustle along his rhymes, But
gathers it close, covering the face Of ev'ry thought that must not part From
out the keeping of his heart.

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St. Mary's

Back to where the roses rest Round a shrine of holy name, (Yes --
they knew me when I came) More of peace and less of fame Suit my
restless heart the best.
Back to where long quiets brood, Where the calm is never stirred By
the harshness of a word, But instead the singing bird Sweetens all my
solitude.
With the birds and with the flowers Songs and silences unite, From
the morning unto night; And somehow a clearer light Shines along the
quiet hours.
God comes closer to me here -- Back of ev'ry rose leaf there He is
hiding -- and the air Thrills with calls to holy prayer; Earth grows far,
and heaven near.
Every single flower is fraught With the very sweetest dreams, Under
clouds or under gleams Changeful ever -- yet meseems On each leaf I
read God's thought.
Still, at times, as place of death, Not a sound to vex the ear, Yet
withal it is not drear; Better for the heart to hear, Far from men -- God's
gentle breath.
Where men clash, God always clings: When the human passes by,
Like a cloud from summer sky, God so gently draweth nigh, And the
brightest blessings brings.
List! e'en now a wild bird sings, And the roses seem to hear Every
note that thrills my ear, Rising to the heavens clear, And my soul soars
on its wings
Up into the silent skies Where the sunbeams veil the star, Up --
beyond the clouds afar, Where no discords ever mar, Where rests peace
that never dies.
So I live within the calm, And the birds and roses know That the days
that come and go Are as peaceful as the flow Of a prayer beneath a
psalm.

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De Profundis

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! Woe are we! woe are we!
And the nights are ages long! From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips O
my God! woe are we! Trembleth the mourner's song; A blight is
falling on the fair, And hope is dying in despair, And terror
walketh everywhere.
All the hours are full of tears -- O my God! woe are we! Grief
keeps watch in brightest eyes -- Every heart is strung with fears, Woe
are we! woe are we! All the light hath left the skies, And the living
awe struck crowds See above them only clouds, And around them
only shrouds.
Ah! the terrible farewells! Woe are they! woe are they! When
last words sink into moans, While life's trembling vesper bells -- O
my God! woe are we! Ring the awful undertones! Not a sun in any
day! In the night-time not a ray, And the dying pass away!
Dark! so dark! above -- below -- O my God! woe are we!
Cowereth every human life. Wild the wailing; to and fro! Woe are all!
woe are we! Death is victor in the strife: In the hut and in the hall
He is writing on the wall Dooms for many -- fears for all.
Thro' the cities burns a breath, Woe are they! woe are we! Hot
with dread and deadly wrath; Life and love lock arms in death, Woe
are they! woe are all! Victims strew the spectre's path; Shy-eyed
children softly creep Where their mothers wail and weep -- In the
grave their fathers sleep.
Mothers waft their prayers on high, O my God! woe are we!
With their dead child on their breast. And the altars ask the sky -- O
my Christ! woe are we! "Give the dead, O Father, rest! Spare thy
people! mercy! spare!" Answer will not come to prayer -- Horror
moveth everywhere.
And the temples miss the priest -- O my God! woe are we! And
the cradle mourns the child. Husband at your bridal feast -- Woe are
you! woe are you! Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; They
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will never smile again -- Every tie is cut in twain, All the strength
of love is vain.
Weep? but tears are weak as foam -- Woe are ye! woe are we!
They but break upon the shore Winding between here and home --
Woe are ye! woe are we! Wailing never! nevermore! Ah! the dead!
they are so lone, Just a grave, and just a stone, And the memory
of a moan.
Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet -- O my God! woe are we!
Tears will trickle into prayers When we kneel down at His feet -- Woe
are we! woe are we! With our crosses and our cares. He will calm
the tortured breast, He will give the troubled rest -- And the dead
He watcheth best.

When? (Death)

Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds
sing, And fewest hearts are sad -- Shall I die then? Ah! me,
no matter when; I know it will be sweet To leave the homes of men
And rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In Thy home, O my
God!
Some Summer morn Of splendors and of songs, When roses hide the
thorn And smile -- the spirit's wrongs -- Shall I die then? Ah!
me, no matter when; I know I will rejoice To leave the haunts of men
And lie beneath the sod, To hear Thy tender voice In Thy home, O my
God!
Some Autumn eve, When chill clouds drape the sky, When bright
things grieve Because all fair things die -- Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when, I know I shall be glad, Away from the
homes of men, Adown beneath the sod, My heart will not be sad In
Thy home, O my God!
Some Wintry day, When all skies wear a gloom, And beauteous May
Sleeps in December's tomb, Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter
when; My soul shall throb with joy To leave the haunts of men And
sleep beneath the sod. Ah! there is no alloy In Thy joys, O my God!

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Haste, death! be fleet; I know it will be sweet To rest beneath the sod,
To kneel and kiss Thy feet In heaven, O my God!

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The Conquered Banner

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a
sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which
heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it --
let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis
hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those
who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined
dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their
grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped
it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner -- it is trailing! While
around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it! Love the cold, dead hands that
bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and
tore it! But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so.
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For
its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go
sounding down the ages -- Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently -- it is holy -- For it
droops above the dead. Touch it not -- unfold it never, Let it droop there,
furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead!

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A Christmas Chant

They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth
shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng Will care for the
words I sing?
Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, Their voices and
hearts are glad; But I -- I am old, and my locks are gray, And they tell
me my voice is sad.
Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm With hopes, bright
as life's first spring; But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm Hath
gone from the songs I sing.
I have lost the spell that my verse could weave O'er the souls of the
old and young, And never again -- how it makes me grieve -- Shall I sing
as once I sung.
Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, Since my days are so
nearly past, That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve Is the old
man's best and last.
Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? Art's sweet but
meaningless notes? Or the music of thought, that, like the chime Of a
grand cathedral, floats
Out of each word, and along each line, Into the spirit's ear, Lifting it
up and making it pine For a something far from here;
Bearing the wings of the soul aloft From earth and its shadows dim;
Soothing the breast with a sound as soft As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;
Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears From our being's higher part;
Dimming the eyes with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart?
Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings
rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along -- The undertone of a life!
Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor
rules -- A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the
books or schools:
A music I learned in the days long gone -- I cannot tell where or how
-- But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow.
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And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells;
Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells.
But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words
of the old man's song?
The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And
thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there;
That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true
That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few?
They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That
truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so?
That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue
walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd.
They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love;
That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above;
That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path,
Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath.
And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not
dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true?
No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was
mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true
his song.
And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals;
Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels.
Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve Are haunting the lonely man,
Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, He'll sing them as best he
can.
Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke This holiest night of
the year, Who knows how its melody may wake A Christmas smile or a
tear?
So on with the mystic song, With its meaning manifold --
Two tones in every word, Two thoughts in every tone; In the
measured words that move along One meaning shall be heard,
One thought to all be told; But under it all, to be alone -- And under it
all, to all unknown -- As safe as under a coffin-lid, Deep

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meanings shall be hid. Find them out who can! The thoughts
concealed and unrevealed In the song of the lonely man.
* * * * *
I'm sitting alone in my silent room This long December night,
Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom With many a picture bright. Ah!
how the fire can paint! Its magic skill, how strange! How every
spark On the canvas dark Draws figures and forms so quaint!
And how the pictures change! One moment how they smile!
And in less than a little while, In the twinkling of an eye, Like the
gleam of a summer sky, The beaming smiles all die.
From gay to grave -- from grave to gay -- The faces change in the
shadows gray; And just as I wonder who they are, Over them all,
Like a funeral pall, The folds of the shadows droop and fall, And the
charm is gone, And every one Of the pictures fade away.
Ah! the fire within my grate Hath more than Raphael's power,
Is more than Raphael's peer; It paints for me in a little hour
More than he in a year; And the pictures hanging 'round me here This
holy Christmas eve No artist's pencil could create -- No painter's art
conceive;
Ah! those cheerful faces, Wearing youthful graces! I gaze on
them until I seem Half awake and half in dream. There are brows
without a mark, Features bright without a shade; There are eyes
without a tear; There are lips unused to sigh. Ah! never mind -- you
soon shall die! All those faces soon shall fade, Fade into the
dreary dark Like their pictures hanging here. -- Lo! those
tearful faces, Bearing age's traces!
I gaze on them, and they on me, Until I feel a sorrow steal
Through my heart so drearily; There are faces furrowed deep;
There are eyes that used to weep; There are brows beneath a cloud;
There are hearts that want to sleep; Never mind! the shadows creep
From the death-land; and a shroud, Tenderly as mother's arm,
Soon shall shield the old from harm, Soon shall wrap its robe of
rest Round each sorrow-haunted breast Ah! that face of mother's,
Sister's, too, and brother's -- And so many others, Dear is every

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name -- And Ethel! Thou art there, With thy child-face sweet and fair,
And thy heart so bright In its shroud so white; Just as I saw
you last In the golden, happy past; And you seem to wear Upon
your hair -- Your waving, golden hair -- The smile of the setting sun.
Ah! me, how years will run! But all the years cannot efface
Your purest name, your sweetest grace, From the heart that still is
true Of all the world to you; The other faces shine, But
none so fair as thine; And wherever they are to-night, I know They
look the very same As in their pictures hanging here This night,
to memory dear, And painted by the flames, With tombstones in the
background, And shadows for their frames.
And thus with my pictures only, And the fancies they
unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.
I'm sitting alone in my pictured room -- But, no! they have vanished
all -- I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, I'm watching the
ashes fall. And far away back of the cheerful blaze The beautiful visions of
by-gone days Are rising before my raptured gaze. Ah! Christmas fire,
so bright and warm, Hast thou a wizard's magic charm To bring those
far-off scenes so near And make my past days meet me here?
Tell me -- tell me -- how is it? The past is past, and here I sit,
And there, lo! there before me rise, Beyond yon glowing flame, The
summer suns of childhood's skies, Yes -- yes -- the very same! I saw
them rise long, long ago; I played beneath their golden glow; And I
remember yet, I often cried with strange regret When in the west I saw
them set And there they are again; The suns, the skies, the very
days Of childhood, just beyond that blaze! But, ah! such
visions almost craze The old man's puzzled brain! I thought
the past was past! But, no! it cannot be; 'Tis here to-night
with me!
How is it, then? the past of men Is part of one eternity -- The
days of yore we so deplore, They are not dead -- they are not fled,
They live and live for evermore. And thus my past comes back to me
With all its visions fair.
O past! could I go back to thee, And live forever there!

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But, no! there's frost upon my hair; My feet have trod a path of care;
And worn and wearied here I sit I am too tired to go to it.
And thus with visions only, And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.
I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; But, no! the fire is dying,
And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, Are sad, and I hear
them sighing. The wind hath a voice to pine -- Plaintive, and
pensive and low; Hath it a heart like mine or thine? Knoweth
it weal or woe? How it wails in a ghost-like strain, Just against
that window pane! As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, And wanted to
rest with me to-night. Cease! night-winds, cease! Why should
you be sad? This is a night of joy and peace, And heaven and
earth are glad! But still the wind's voice grieves! Perchance
o'er the fallen leaves, Which, in their summer bloom, Danced to the
music of bird and breeze, But, torn from the arms of their parent trees,
Lie now in their wintry tomb -- Mute types of man's own doom.
And thus with the night winds only, And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.
How long have I been dreaming here? Or have I dreamed at all?
My fire is dead -- my pictures fled -- There's nothing left but shadows
drear -- Shadows on the wall:
Shifting, flitting, Round me sitting In my old arm chair
-- Rising, sinking Round me, thinking, Till, in the maze of
many a dream, I'm not myself; and I almost seem Like one of the
shadows there. Well, let the shadows stay! I wonder who are
they? I cannot say; but I almost believe They know to-night is Christmas
eve, And to-morrow Christmas day.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To change life's bitter gall to
sweet, And change the sweet to gall again; To take the thorns from out
our feet -- The thorns and all their dreary pain, Only to put
them back again.
To take old stings from out our heart -- Old stings that made them
bleed and smart -- Only to sharpen them the more, And press them back to
the heart's own core.

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Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! Fears and hopes, and hopes and
fears, Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, Cheers and sighs, and sighs
and cheers, Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, Bright and dark, and dark and
bright. All these mingle, all these meet, In this great and solemn night.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To melt, with kindly glowing
heat, From off our souls the snow and sleet, The dreary drift of wintry
years, Only to make the cold winds blow, Only to make a colder snow;
And make it drift, and drift, and drift, In flakes so icy-cold and swift,
Until the heart that lies below Is cold and colder than the snow.
And thus with the shadows only, And the dreamings they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.
'Tis passing fast! My fireless, lampless room Is a mass
of moveless gloom; And without -- a darkness vast, Solemn --
starless -- still! Heaven and earth doth fill.
But list! there soundeth a bell, With a mystical ding, dong, dell!
Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? Solemn and slow, Now loud --
now low; Pealing the notes of human woe Over the graves lying under the
snow! Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell! Trembling along the gale,
Under the stars and over the snow. Why is it? whence is it sounding so?
Is it a toll of a burial bell?
Or is it a spirit's wail? Solemnly, mournfully, Sad -- and
how lornfully! Ding, dong, dell! Whence is it? who can tell?
And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, Sadder, and sadder, and
sadder still! How the sounds tremble! how they thrill! Every tone
So like a moan; As if the strange bell's stranger clang Throbbed with a
terrible human pang.
Ding, dong, dell! Dismally, drearily, Ever so wearily.
Far off and faint as a requiem plaint Floats the deep-toned voice of the
mystic bell Piercingly -- thrillingly, Icily -- chillingly,
Near -- and more near, Drearer -- and more drear, Soundeth the wild,
weird, ding, dong, dell!
Now sinking lower, It tolleth slower! I list, and I hear its
sound no more. And now, methinks, I know that bell, Know it
well -- know its knell -- For I often heard it sound before.

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It is a bell -- yet not a bell Whose sound may reach the ear! It tolls a
knell -- yet not a knell Which earthly sense may hear. In every soul a
bell of dole Hangs ready to be tolled; And from that bell a funeral knell
Is often outward rolled; And memory is the sexton gray Who tolls the
dreary knell; And nights like this he loves to sway And swing his mystic
bell. 'Twas that I heard and nothing more, This lonely Christmas eve;
Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, At Christmas let me grieve.
Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on And murmur a holy prayer
Over each grave, and for every one Lying down lifeless there!
And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, Robed in his
shadowy stole; And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, To respond to his
prayer of dole.
And list! he begins That psalm for sins, The first of the
mournful seven; Plaintive and soft It rises aloft, Begging the
mercy of Heaven To pity and forgive, For the sake of those
who live, The dead who have died unshriven. Miserere! Miserere!
Still your heart and hush your breath! The voices of despair and death
Are shuddering through the psalm! Miserere! Miserere! Lift your
hearts! the terror dies! Up in yonder sinless skies The psalms sound
sweet and calm! Miserere! Miserere! Very low, in tender tones, The
music pleads, the music moans, "I forgive and have forgiven, The
dead whose hearts were shriven." De profundis! De profundis! Psalm
of the dead and disconsolate! Thou hast sounded through a thousand
years, And pealed above ten thousand biers; And still, sad psalm, you
mourn the fate Of sinners and of just, When their souls are going up to
God, Their bodies down to dust. Dread hymn! you wring the saddest
tears From mortal eyes that fall, And your notes evoke the darkest
fears That human hearts appall! You sound o'er the good, you sound
o'er the bad, And ever your music is sad, so sad, We seem to hear
murmured in every tone, For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse.
Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve Over our dead on this
Christmas eve. De profundis! De profundis! And the night chants the
psalm o'er the mortal clay, And the spirits immortal from far away, To the
music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.

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You think of the dead on Christmas eve, Wherever the dead are
sleeping, And we from a land where we may not grieve Look tenderly
down on your weeping. You think us far, we are very near, From you and
the earth, though parted; We sing to-night to console and cheer The
hearts of the broken-hearted. The earth watches over the lifeless clay Of
each of its countless sleepers, And the sleepless spirits that passed away
Watch over all earth's weepers. We shall meet again in a brighter land,
Where farewell is never spoken; We shall clasp each other in hand, And
the clasp shall not be broken; We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime,
Where we'll never know a sadness, And our lives shall be filled, like a
Christmas chime, With rapture and with gladness. The snows shall pass
from our graves away, And you from the earth, remember; And the
flowers of a bright, eternal May, Shall follow earth's December. When
you think of us think not of the tomb Where you laid us down in sorrow;
But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, And wait for the great to-
morrow. And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, Whispereth soft
and low: Requiescat! Requiescat!
Peace! Peace! to every one For whom we grieve this Christmas
eve, In their graves beneath the snow.
The stars in the far-off heaven Have long since struck eleven! And
hark! from temple and from tower, Soundeth time's grandest midnight
hour, Blessed by the Saviour's birth, And night putteth off the sable stole,
Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, For one with many a starry gem, To
honor the Babe of Bethlehem, Who comes to men the King of them, Yet
comes without robe or diadem, And all turn towards the holy east, To hear
the song of the Christmas feast.
Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed,
Four thousand years the nations sighed, That their King so long delayed.
The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed, And the
star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died.
Their faces towards the future, They longed to hail the light That in
the after centuries Would rise on Christmas night.
But still the Saviour tarried, Within His father's home And the
nations wept and wondered why The promised had not come.

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At last earth's hope was granted, And God was a child of earth; And
a thousand angels chanted The lowly midnight birth.
Ah! Bethlehem was grander That hour than Paradise; And the light
of earth that night eclipsed The splendors of the skies.
Then let us sing the anthem The angels once did sing; Until the
music of love and praise, O'er whole wide world will ring.
Gloria in excelsis! Sound the thrilling song; In excelsis
Deo! Roll the hymn along. Gloria in excelsis! Let the
heavens ring; In excelsis Deo! Welcome, new-born King
Gloria in excelsis! Over the sea and land, In excelsis Deo!
Chant the anthem grand. Gloria in excelsis! Let us all rejoice;
In excelsis Deo! Lift each heart and voice. Gloria in excelsis!
Swell the hymn on high; In excelsis Deo! Sound it to the sky.
Gloria in excelsis! Sing it, sinful earth, In excelsis Deo!
For the Saviour's birth.
Thus joyfully and victoriously, Glad and ever so gloriously, High as
the heavens, wide as the earth, Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.
Lo! the day is waking In the east afar; Dawn is faintly
breaking, Sunk in every star.
Christmas eve has vanished With its shadows gray; All
its griefs are banished By bright Christmas day.
Joyful chimes are ringing O'er the land and seas, And
there comes glad singing, Borne on every breeze.
Little ones so merry Bed-clothes coyly lift, And, in such
a hurry, Prattle "Christmas gift!"
Little heads so curly, Knowing Christmas laws, Peep out
very early For old "Santa Claus".
Little eyes are laughing O'er their Christmas toys, Older
ones are quaffing Cups of Christmas joys.
Hearts are joyous, cheerful, Faces all are gay; None are
sad and tearful On bright Christmas day.
Hearts are light and bounding, All from care are free;
Homes are all resounding With the sounds of glee.
Feet with feet are meeting, Bent on pleasure's way; Souls

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to souls give greeting Warm on Christmas day.

Gifts are kept a-going Fast from hand to hand; Blessings
are a-flowing Over every land.
One vast wave of gladness Sweeps its world-wide way,
Drowning every sadness On this Christmas day.
Merry, merry Christmas, Haste around the earth; Merry,
merry Christmas, Scatter smiles and mirth.
Merry, merry Christmas, Be to one and all! Merry, merry
Christmas, Enter hut and hall.
Merry, merry Christmas, Be to rich and poor! Merry,
merry Christmas Stop at every door.
Merry, merry Christmas, Fill each heart with joy! Merry,
merry Christmas To each girl and boy.
Merry, merry Christmas, Better gifts than gold; Merry,
merry Christmas To the young and old.
Merry, merry Christmas, May the coming year Bring as
merry a Christmas And as bright a cheer.

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"Far Away"

"Far Away!" what does it mean? A change of heart with a change of

place? When footsteps pass from scene to scene, Fades soul from soul
with face from face? Are hearts the slaves or lords of space?
"Far Away!" what does it mean? Does distance sever there from here?
Can leagues of land part hearts? -- I ween They cannot; for the trickling
tear Says "Far Away" means "Far More Near".
"Far Away!" -- the mournful miles Are but the mystery of space That
blends our sighs, but parts our smiles, For love will find a meeting place
When face is farthest off from face.
"Far Away!" we meet in dreams, As 'round the altar of the night Far-
parted stars send down their gleams To meet in one embrace of light
And make the brow of darkness bright.
"Far Away!" we meet in tears, That tell the path of weary feet; And
all the good-byes of the years But make the wanderer's welcome sweet,
The rains of parted clouds thus meet.
"Far Away!" we meet in prayer, You know the temple and the shrine;
Before it bows the brow of care, Upon it tapers dimly shine; 'Tis
mercy's home, and yours and mine.
"Far Away!" it falls between What is to-day and what has been; But ah!
what is meet, what is not, In every hour and every spot, Where lips breathe
on "I have forgot."
"Far Away!" there is no far! Nor days nor distance e'er can bar My
spirit from your spirits -- nay, Farewell may waft a face away, But still
with you my heart will stay.
"Far Away!" I sing its song, But while the music moves along, From
out each word an echo clear Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, "Far Away"
means "Far More Near".

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Listen

We borrow, In our sorrow, From the sun of some to-morrow

Half the light that gilds to-day; And the splendor Flashes tender
O'er hope's footsteps to defend her From the fears that haunt the way.
We never Here can sever Any now from the forever
Interclasping near and far! For each minute Holds within it All
the hours of the infinite, As one sky holds every star.

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Wrecked

The winds are singing a death-knell Out on the main to-night; The
sky droops low -- and many a bark That sailed from harbors bright,
Like many an one before, Shall enter port no more: And a wreck
shall drift to some unknown shore Before to-morrow's light.
The clouds are hanging a death-pall Over the sea to-night; The stars
are veiled -- and the hearts that sailed Away from harbors bright, Shall
sob their last for their quiet home -- And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling
foam Before the morning's light.
The waves are weaving a death-shroud Out on the main to-night;
Alas! the last prayer whispered there By lips with terror white!
Over the ridge of gloom, Not a star will loom! God help the souls
that will meet their doom Before the dawn of light!
* * * * *
The breeze is singing a joy song Over the sea to-day; The storm is
dead and the waves are red With the flush of the morning's ray; And the
sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep The eyes that watch for the ships shall
weep For the hearts they bore away.

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Dreaming

The moan of a wintry soul Melted into a summer song, And the
words, like the wavelet's roll, Moved murmuringly along.
And the song flowed far and away, Like the voice of a half-sleeping
rill -- Each wave of it lit by a ray -- But the sound was so soft and so
still,
And the tone was so gentle and low, None heard the song till it had
passed; Till the echo that followed its flow Came dreamingly back from
the past.
'Twas too late! -- a song never returns That passes our pathway
unheard; As dust lying dreaming in urns Is the song lying dead in a
word.
For the birds of the skies have a nest, And the winds have a home
where they sleep, And songs, like our souls, need a rest, Where they
murmur the while we may weep.
* * * * *
But songs -- like the birds o'er the foam, Where the storm wind is
beating their breast, Fly shoreward -- and oft find a home In the shelter
of words where they rest.

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A Thought

Hearts that are great beat never loud, They muffle their music when
they come; They hurry away from the thronging crowd With bended
brows and lips half dumb, And the world looks on and mutters --
"Proud." But when great hearts have passed away Men gather in awe
and kiss their shroud, And in love they kneel around their clay.
Hearts that are great are always lone, They never will manifest their
best; Their greatest greatness is unknown -- Earth knows a little -- God,
the rest.

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"Yesterdays"

Gone! and they return no more, But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore Will never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay, And their memories throb through
life; The music that hushes or stirs to-day, Is toned by their calm or
strife.
Gone! and yet they never go! We kneel at the shrine of time: 'Tis a
mystery no man may know, Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.

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"To-Days"

Brief while they last, Long when they are gone; They catch from the
past A light to still live on.
Brief! yet I ween A day may be an age, The poet's pen may screen
Heart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them, From eve back to morn, Some find the gem,
Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes pass Soft as flakes of snow, Shadows o'er the grass
Could not swifter go.
Brief! but along All the after-years To-day will be a song Of smiles
or of tears.

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"To-Morrows"

God knows all things -- but we In darkness walk our ways; We

wonder what will be, We ask the nights and days.
Their lips are sealed; at times The bards, like prophets, see, And rays
rush o'er their rhymes From suns of "days to be".
They see To-morrow's heart, They read To-morrow's face, They
grasp -- is it by art -- The far To-morrow's trace?
They see what is unseen, And hear what is unheard, And To-
morrow's shade or sheen Rests on the poet's word.
As seers see a star Beyond the brow of night, So poets scan the far
Prophetic when they write.
They read a human face, As readers read their page, The while their
thought will trace A life from youth to age.
They have a mournful gift, Their verses oft are tears; And sleepless
eyes they lift To look adown the years.
To-morrows are to-days! Is it not more than art? When all life's
winding ways Meet in the poet's heart?
The present meets the past, The future, too, is there; The first
enclasps the last And never folds fore'er.
It is not all a dream; A poet's thought is truth; The things that are --
and seem From age far back to youth --
He holds the tangled threads, His hands unravel them; He knows the
hearts and heads For thorns, or diadem.
Ask him, and he will see What your To-morrows are; He'll sing
"What is to be" Beneath each sun and star.
To-morrows! Dread unknown! What fates may they not bring?
What is the chord? the tone? The key in which they sing?
I see a thousand throngs, To-morrows for them wait; I hear a
thousand songs Intoning each one's fate.
And yours? What will it be? Hush! song, and let me pray! God
sees it all -- I see A long, lone, winding way;
And more! no matter what! Crosses and crowns you wear: My song
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may be forgot, But Thou shalt not, in prayer.

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Inevitable

What has been will be, 'Tis the under law of life; 'Tis the song of sky
and sea, To the key of calm and strife.
For guard we as we may, What is to be will be, The dark must fold
each day -- The shore must gird each sea.
All things are ruled by law; 'Tis only in man's will You meet a feeble
flaw; But fate is weaving still
The web and woof of life, With hands that have no hearts, Thro'
calmness and thro' strife, Despite all human arts.
For fate is master here, He laughs at human wiles; He sceptres every
tear, And fetters any smiles.
What is to be will be, We cannot help ourselves; The waves ask not
the sea Where lies the shore that shelves.
The law is coldest steel, We live beneath its sway, It cares not what
we feel, And so pass night and day.
And sometimes we may think This cannot -- will not -- be: Some
waves must rise -- some sink, Out on the midnight sea.
And we are weak as waves That sink upon the shore; We go down
into graves -- Fate chants the nevermore;
Cometh a voice! Kneel down! 'Tis God's -- there is no fate -- He
giveth the Cross and Crown, He opens the jeweled gate.
He watcheth with such eyes As only mothers own -- "Sweet Father
in the skies! Ye call us to a throne."
There is no fate -- God's love Is law beneath each law, And law all
laws above Fore'er, without a flaw.

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Sorrow and the Flowers

A Memorial Wreath to C. F.

Sorrow:
A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom, And only bloom to
fade as fast away, We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb, And
with your dying beauty crown her clay.
Ye are the tender types of life's decay; Your beauty, and your love-
enfragranced breath, From out the hand of June, or heart of May, Fair
flowers! tell less of life and more of death.
My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, All o'er the weary
world for weary years; I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves The
sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears.
And yet, the while I garland graves as now, I bring fair wreaths to
deck the place of woe; Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow, I
crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below.
She was a flower -- fresh, fair and pure, and frail; A lily in life's
morning. God is sweet; He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail;
Her lily drooped: 'tis blooming at His feet.
Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower? I want a garland
for another grave; And who will bring them from the dell and bower, To
crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave?
As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will; Ye come with fairest
flowers: give them to me, To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory
still, To prove at graves love's immortality.
White Rose:
Her grave is not a grave; it is a shrine, Where innocence reposes,
Bright over which God's stars must love to shine, And where, when
Winter closes, Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, Just like
this hand of mine, The whitest of white roses.
Laurel:
I found it on a mountain slope, The sunlight on its face; It caught
from clouds a smile of hope That brightened all the place.
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They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, And crown the chieftain's
head; But the laurel's leaves love best to grace The garland of the dead.
Wild Flower:
I would not live in a garden, But far from the haunts of men; Nature
herself was my warden, I lived in a lone little glen. A wild flower out of
the wildwood, Too wild for even a name; As strange and as simple as
childhood, And wayward, yet sweet all the same.
Willow Branch:
To sorrow's own sweet crown, With simple grace, The weeping-
willow bends her branches down Just like a mother's arm, To
shield from harm, The dead within their resting place.
Lily:
The angel flower of all the flowers: Its sister flowers, In all
the bowers Worship the lily, for it brings, Wherever it blooms, On
shrines or tombs, A dream surpassing earthly sense Of heaven's own
stainless innocence.
Violet Leaves:
It is too late for violets, I only bring their leaves, I looked
in vain for mignonettes To grace the crown grief weaves; For
queenly May, upon her way, Robs half the bowers Of all
their flowers, And leaves but leaves to June. Ah! beauty fades
so soon; And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, For flowerets are
fading fast, one by one. Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland,
Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.
Forget-Me-Not:
"Forget-me-not!" The sad words strangely quiver On lips, like
shadows falling on a river, Flowing away, By night, by
day, Flowing away forever. The mountain whence the river springs
Murmurs to it, "forget me not;" The little stream runs on and sings On to
the sea, and every spot It passes by Breathes forth a sigh,
"Forget me not!" "forget me not!"
A Garland:
I bring this for her mother; ah, who knows The lonely deeps within a
mother's heart? Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows Above,

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around her, when her children part, There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and
lone; It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. Whene'er a child dies from a
mother's arms, A grave is dug within the mother's heart: She watches it
alone; no words of art Can tell the story of her vigils there. This garland
fading even while 'tis fair, It is a mother's memory of a grave, When God
hath taken her whom heaven gave.
Sorrow:
Farewell! I go to crown the dead; Yet ye have crowned yourselves
to-day, For they whose hearts so faithful love The lonely grave -- the
very clay; They crown themselves with richer gems Than flash in royal
diadems.

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Hope

Thine eyes are dim: A mist hath gathered there; Around their rim
Float many clouds of care, And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.
But there is God, Every -- everywhere; Beneath His rod Kneel
thou adown in prayer.
For grief is God's own kiss Upon a soul. Look up! the sun of bliss
Will shine where storm-clouds roll.
Yes, weeper, weep! 'Twill not be evermore; I know the darkest deep
Hath e'en the brightest shore.
So tired! so tired! A cry of half despair; Look! at your side -- And
see Who standeth there!
Your Father! Hush! A heart beats in His breast; Now rise and rush
Into His arms -- and rest.

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Farewells

They are so sad to say: no poem tells The agony of hearts that dwells
In lone and last farewells.
They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill To summer's roses,
and to summer's rill; And yet we breathe them still.
For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away; Hearts! we said to them,
"Stay with us! stay!" And they said, sighing as they said it, "Nay."
The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells The starless story of the
night that dwells In lone and last farewells.
Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: Each wears the thoughts the
other face may wear; Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er."

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Song of the River

A river went singing adown to the sea, A-singing -- low --

singing -- And the dim rippling river said softly to me, "I'm
bringing, a-bringing -- While floating along -- A
beautiful song To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,
To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary. A song
sweet and calm As the peacefulest psalm; And the shore
that was sad Will be grateful and glad, And the weariest wave
from its dreariest dream Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream;
And the tempests shall cease And there shall be peace."
From the fairest of fountains, And farthest of mountains,
From the stillness of snow Came the stream in its flow.
Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, Thro' the vales where the
flowers are fair -- Where the sunlight flashed -- where the shadows lay
Like stories that cloud a face of care, The river ran on -- and on -- and
on -- Day and night, and night and day; Going and going, and
never gone, Longing to flow to the "far away", Staying and staying,
and never still; Going and staying, as if one will Said, "Beautiful
river, go to the sea;" And another will whispered, "Stay with me:"
And the river made answer, soft and low -- "I go and stay" -- "I stay
and go."
But what is the song, I said, at last? To the passing river that
never passed; And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me, I'm a
note in the song for the beautiful sea, -- A song whose grand accents no
earth-din may sever, And the river flows on in the same mystic key That
blends in one chord the `forever and never'."
____ December 15, 1878.

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Dreamland

Over the silent sea of sleep, Far away! far away! Over a
strange and starlit deep Where the beautiful shadows sway; Dim
in the dark, Glideth a bark, Where never the waves of a tempest roll -
- Bearing the very "soul of a soul", Alone, all alone -- Far away --
far away To shores all unknown In the wakings of the day; To the
lovely land of dreams, Where what is meets with what seems Brightly dim,
dimly bright; Where the suns meet stars at night, Where the darkness
meets the light Heart to heart, face to face, In an infinite embrace.
* * * * *
Mornings break, And we wake, And we wonder where we
went In the bark Thro' the dark, But our wonder is misspent;
For no day can cast a light On the dreamings of the night.

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Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-

away,"]

Sometimes, from the far-away, Wing a little thought to me; In the

night or in the day, It will give a rest to me.
I have praise of many here, And the world gives me renown; Let it
go -- give me one tear, 'Twill be a jewel in my crown.
What care I for earthly fame? How I shrink from all its glare! I
would rather that my name Would be shrined in some one's prayer.
Many hearts are all too much, Or too little in their praise; I would
rather feel the touch Of one prayer that thrills all days.

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A Song

Written in an Album.

Pure faced page! waiting so long To welcome my muse and me; Fold
to thy breast, like a mother, the song That floats from my spirit to thee.
And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings, And sweet as the
Summer's birds, And pure and bright and white be the wings That will
waft thee into words.
Yea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea To rest on the far-off beach,
And breathe forth the message I trust to thee, Tear toned on the shores of
speech.
But ere you go, dip your snowy wing In a wave of my spirit's deep --
In a wave that is purest -- then haste and bring A song to the hearts that
weep.
Oh! bring it, and sing it -- its notes are tears; Its octaves, the octaves
of grief; Who knows but its tones in the far-off years May bring to the
lone heart relief?
Yea! bring it, and sing it -- a worded moan That sweeps thro' the
minors of woe, With mystical meanings in every tone, And sounds like
the sea's lone flow.
* * * * *
And the thoughts take the wings of words, and float Out of my spirit
to thee; But the song dies away into only one note, And sounds but in
only one key.
And the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest wave That sobs on the
loneliest shore; And the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave; And
the chord! -- 'tis a sad "nevermore".
And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach, And, sighing,
sinks back to the sea, So my song -- it just touches the rude shores of
speech, And its music melts back into me.
Yea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep, Let others hear only
thy moan -- But I -- I forever shall hear the grand sweep Of thy mighty
and tear-burdened tone.
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Sweep on, mighty song! -- sound down in my heart As a storm

sounding under a sea; Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, Nor a
note of it float out from me.

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Parting

Farewell! that word has broken hearts And blinded eyes with tears;
Farewell! one stays, and one departs; Between them roll the years.
No wonder why who say it think -- Farewell! he may fare ill No
wonder that their spirits sink And all their hopes grow chill.
Good-bye! that word makes faces pale And fills the soul with fears;
Good-bye! two words that wing a wail Which flutters down the years.
No wonder they who say it feel Such pangs for those who go; Good-
bye they wish the parted weal, But ah! they may meet woe.
Adieu! such is the word for us, 'Tis more than word -- 'tis prayer;
They do not part, who do part thus, For God is everywhere.

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St. Stephen

First champion of the Crucified! Who, when the fight began

Between the Church and worldly pride So nobly fought, so nobly died,
The foremost in the van; While rallied to your valiant side The red-robed
martyr-band; To-night with glad and high acclaim We venerate thy saintly
name; Accept, Saint Stephen, to thy praise And glory, these our lowly lays.
The chosen twelve with chrismed hand And burning zeal within, Led
forth their small yet fearless band On Pentecost, and took their stand
Against the world and sin -- While rang aloud the battle-cry: "The hated
Christians all must die! As died the Nazarene before, The God they
believe in and adore." Yet Stephen's heart quailed not with fear At
persecution's cry; But loving, as he did, the cause Of Jesus and His faith
and laws, Prepared himself to die.
He faced his foes with burning zeal, Such zeal as only saints can feel;
He told them how the Lord had stood Within their midst, so great and
good, How he had through Judea trod, How wonders marked his way --
the God, How he had cured the blind, the lame, The deaf, the palsied, and
the maimed, And how, with awful, wondrous might, He raised the dead to
life and light; And how his people knew Him not -- Had eyes and still had
seen Him not, Had ears and still had heard Him not, Had hearts and
comprehended not. Then said he, pointing to the right, Where darkly rose
Golgotha's height: "There have ye slain the Holy One, Your Saviour and
God's only Son."
They gnashed their teeth in raging ire, Those dark and cruel men;
They vowed a vengeance deep and dire Against Saint Stephen then. Yet
he was calm; a radiant light Around his forehead gleamed; He raised his
eyes, a wondrous sight He saw, so grand it was and bright, His soul was
filled with such delight That he an angel seemed. Then spoke the Saint:
"A vision grand Bursts on me from above: The doors of heaven open
stand, And at the Father's own right hand I see the Lord I love."
"Away with him," the rabble cry, With swelling rage and hate, But
Stephen still gazed on the sky, His heart was with his Lord on high, He
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heeded not his fate.

The gathering crowd in fury wild Rush on the 'raptured Saint, And
seize their victim, mute and mild, Who, like his master, though reviled,
Still uttered no complaint.
With angry shouts they rend the air; They drag him to the city gate;
They bind his hands and feet and there, While whispered he for them a
prayer, The martyr meets his fate.
First fearless witness to his belief In Jesus Crucified, The red-robed
martyrs' noble chief, Thus for his Master died. And to the end of time his
name Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim, And with a mother's pride shall
tell How her great proto-martyr fell.

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A Flower's Song

Star! Star, why dost thou shine Each night upon my brow? Why
dost thou make me dream the dreams That I am dreaming now?
Star! Star, thy home is high -- I am of humble birth; Thy feet walk
shining o'er the sky, Mine, only on the earth.
Star! Star, why make me dream? My dreams are all untrue; And
why is sorrow dark for me And heaven bright for you?
Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray, And take it off my face; Within my
lowly home I stay, Thou, in thy lofty place.
Star! Star, and still I dream, Along thy light afar I seem to soar
until I seem To be, like you, a star.

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The Star's Song

Flower! Flower, why repine? God knows each creature's place; He

hides within me when I shine, And your leaves hide His face.
And you are near as I to Him, And you reveal as much Of that
eternal soundless hymn Man's words may never touch.
God sings to man through all my rays That wreathe the brow of night,
And walks with me thro' all my ways -- The everlasting light.
Flower! Flower, why repine? He chose on lowly earth, And not in
heaven where I shine, His Bethlehem and birth.
Flower! Flower, I see Him pass Each hour of night and day, Down
to an altar and a Mass Go thou! and fade away.
Fade away upon His shrine! Thy light is brighter far Than all the
light wherewith I shine In heaven, as a star.

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Death of the Flower

I love my mother, the wildwood, I sleep upon her breast; A day or

two of childhood, And then I sink to rest.
I had once a lovely sister -- She was cradled by my side; But one
Summer day I missed her -- She had gone to deck a bride.
And I had another sister, With cheeks all bright with bloom; And
another morn I missed her -- She had gone to wreathe a tomb.
And they told me they had withered, On the bride's brow and the
grave; Half an hour, and all their fragrance Died away, which heaven
gave.
Two sweet-faced girls came walking Thro' my lonely home one day,
And I overheard them talking Of an altar on their way.
They were culling flowers around me, And I said a little prayer To
go with them -- and they found me -- And upon an altar fair,
Where the Eucharist was lying On its mystical death-bed, I felt
myself a-dying, While the Mass was being said.
But I lived a little longer, And I prayed there all the day, Till the
evening Benediction, When my poor life passed away.

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Singing-Bird

In the valley of my life Sings a "Singing-Bird", And its voice thro'

calm and strife Is sweetly heard.
In the day and thro' the night Sound the notes, And its song thro' dark
and bright Ever floats.
Other warblers cease to sing, And their voices rest, And they fold
their weary wing In their quiet nest.
But my Singing-Bird still sings Without a cease; And each song it
murmurs brings My spirit peace.
"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!" No one knows, When your holy
songs are heard, What repose
Fills my life and soothes my heart; But I fear The day -- thy songs, if
we must part, I'll never hear.
But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!" Should this e'er be, The
dreams of all thy songs I heard Shall sing for me.

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Now

Sometimes a single hour Rings thro' a long life-time, As from a

temple tower There often falls a chime From blessed bells, that seems To
fold in Heaven's dreams Our spirits round a shrine; Hath such an hour
been thine?
Sometimes -- who knoweth why? One minute holds a power That
shadows every hour, Dialed in life's sky. A cloud that is a speck When
seen from far away May be a storm, and wreck The joys of every day.
Sometimes -- it seems not much, 'Tis scarcely felt at all -- Grace
gives a gentle touch To hearts for once and all, Which in the spirit's strife
May all unnoticed be. And yet it rules a life; Hath this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one little word, Whispered sweet and fleet, That scarcely
can be heard, Our ears will sudden meet. And all life's hours along
That whisper may vibrate, And, like a wizard's song, Decide our ev'ry
fate.
Sometimes a sudden look, That falleth from some face, Will steal
into each nook Of life, and leave its trace; To haunt us to the last, And
sway our ev'ry will Thro' all the days to be, For goodness or for ill; Hath
this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one minute folds The hearts of all the years, Just like the
heart that holds The Infinite in tears; There be such thing as this --
Who knoweth why, or how? A life of woe or bliss Hangs on some little
Now.

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M***

When I am dead, and all will soon forget My words, and face, and
ways -- I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet Adown thy after days.
I die first, and you will see my grave; But child! you must not cry;
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave O'er you from yonder
sky.
You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears Tho' sleeping in a
tomb: My rest would not be rest, if in your years There floated clouds of
gloom.
For -- from the first -- your soul was dear to mine, And dearer it
became, Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine Thy name -- my
child! thy name.
You came to me in girlhood pure and fair, And in your soul -- and
face -- I saw a likeness to another there In every trace and grace.
You came to me in girlhood -- and you brought An image back to me;
No matter what -- or whose -- I often sought Another's soul in thee.
Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became -- Gentle though I be --
Gentler than ever when I called thy name, Gentlest to thee?
You came to me in girlhood; as your guide I watched your spirit's
ways; We walked God's holy valleys side by side, And so went on the
days.
And so went on the years -- 'tis five and more; Your soul is fairer
now; A light as of a sunset on a shore Is falling on my brow --
Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead Think this, my child, of me:
I never said -- I never could have said -- Ungentle words to thee.
I treated you as I would treat a flower, I watched you with such care;
And from my lips God heard in many an hour Your name in many a
prayer.
I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, On not a leaf a stain;
Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; I did not watch in vain.
I guide you still -- in my steps you tread still; Towards God these
ways are set; 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead I'll watch and
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guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before, And you awhile should stay;
But I will wait upon the golden shore To meet my child some day.
When I am dead; in some lone after time, If crosses come to thee,
You'll think -- remembering this simple rhyme -- "He holds a crown for
me."
I guide you here -- I go before you there; But here or there -- I know
-- Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear I'll watch where'er
you go,
And wait until you come; when I am dead Think, sometimes, child,
of this: You must not weep -- follow where I led, I wait for you in bliss.

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God in the Night

Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: He walks the world; He puts
His holy hand On every sleeper -- only puts His hand -- Within it
benedictions for each one -- Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets A
watcher waiting for Him, He is glad. (Does God, like man, feel lonely in
the dark?) He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow -- But more than
that, He leaves His very breath Upon the watcher's soul; and more than
this, He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; And more than that, He
ofttimes lifts the veils That hide the visions of the world unseen. The
brightest sanctities of highest souls Have blossomed into beauty in the
dark. How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes That blight the souls of
men are strangely born Beneath the shadows of the holy night.
Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet -- Around Him rustle archangelic
wings; He lingers by the temple where His Christ Is watching in His
Eucharistic sleep; And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest, He lingers
there to soothe their weariness. Where mothers weep above the dying
child, He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears, And consecrates the
cradle of her child, Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. He shudders
past the haunts of sin -- yet leaves E'er there a mercy for the wayward
hearts. Still as a shadow through the night He moves, With hands all full
of blessings, and with heart All full of everlasting love; ah, me! How God
does love this poor and sinful world!
The stars behold Him as He passes on, And arch His path of mercy
with their rays; The stars are grateful -- He gave them their light, And now
they give Him back the light He gave. The shadows tremble in adoring
awe; They feel His presence, and they know His face. The shadows, too,
are grateful -- could they pray, How they would flower all His way with
prayers! The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams -- Were their
leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing A grand Magnificat, as His Mary
sang. The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers Watch their Creator as
He passes on, And mourn they have no hearts to love their God, And sigh
they have no souls to be beloved. Man -- only man -- the image of his God
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-- Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.

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Poets

Poets are strange -- not always understood By many is their gift,

Which is for evil or for mighty good -- To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath; Who reads their verse
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death In blessing or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, Ordained from very birth
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast -- To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing; they know not why Their thoughts rush
into song, And float above the world, beneath the sky, For right or for
the wrong.
They are like angels -- but some angels fell, While some did keep
their place; Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, And God's or
Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, In blessing or in blight,
And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace Of sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes, Unlike all other men;
And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, Like shadows in a
glen.
They all are dreamers; in the day and night Ever across their souls
The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright In mystic rhythm rolls.
They live within themselves -- they may not tell What lieth deepest
there; Within their breast a heaven or a hell, Joy or tormenting care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, No matter what
they seem; The stars and sunlight of their nights and days Move over
them in dream.
They breathe it forth -- their very spirit's breath -- To bless the world
or blight; To bring to men a higher life or death; To give them light or
night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim, And never pass
away, While others' words receive no palm from fame, And live but for a
day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impress Fore'er or for an hour,
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And mark men's souls -- some more and some the less -- With good's or
evil's power.

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A Legend

He walked alone beside the lonely sea, The slanting sunbeams fell
upon his face, His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands Like the
weary wing of a soundless prayer. And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast, As if He loved the earth
more than the heav'ns. His face looked like His Mother's -- only hers Had
not those strange serenities and stirs That paled or flushed His olive
cheeks and brow. He wore the seamless robe His Mother made -- And as
He gathered it about His breast, The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle
voice Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" -- the white sands felt The touch of
tender tears He wept the while. He walked beside the sea; He took His
sandals off To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave -- For He had
walked across the desert sands All day long -- and as He bathed His feet
He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years! And then, poor feet,
the cruel nails will come And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall
lave All weary feet on all their thorny ways." "Three years! three years!"
He murmured still again, "Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will -- My
Father's will -- biddeth Me bide that time." A little fisher-boy came up the
shore And saw Him -- and, nor bold, nor shy, Approached, but when he
saw the weary face, Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired." He
placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow Caressingly and blessingly --
and said: "I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. Sudden, a sea-bird,
driven by a storm That had been sweeping on the farther shore, Came
fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell At His feet and died; and then
the boy said: "Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone; He took the bird and
laid it in His hand, And breathed on it -- when to his amaze The little
fisher-boy beheld the bird Flutter a moment and then fly aloft -- Its little
life returned; and then he gazed With look intensest on the wondrous face
(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) -- and said: "Thou art so sweet I wish Thou
wert my God." He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: "I am thy
Christ." The day they followed Him, With cross upon His shoulders, to
His death, Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock That little boy knelt
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down, and there adored, While others cursed, the thorn-crowned

Crucified.

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Thoughts

By sound of name, and touch of hand, Thro' ears that hear, and eyes
that see, We know each other in this land, How little must that
knowledge be?
How souls are all the time alone, No spirit can another reach; They
hide away in realms unknown, Like waves that never touch a beach.
We never know each other here, No soul can here another see -- To
know, we need a light as clear As that which fills eternity.
For here we walk by human light, But there the light of God is ours,
Each day, on earth, is but a night; Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.
I call you thus -- you call me thus -- Our mortal is the very bar That
parts forever each of us, As skies, on high, part star from star.
A name is nothing but a name For that which, else, would nameless
be; Until our souls, in rapture, claim Full knowledge in eternity.

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Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair,

and bright,"]

The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, And joy aboundeth
everywhere, The glorious stars crown every night, And thro' the dark of
ev'ry care Above us shineth heaven's light.
If from the cradle to the grave We reckon all our days and hours We
sure will find they give and gave Much less of thorns and more of
flowers; And tho' some tears must ever lave
The path we tread, upon them all The light of smiles forever lies, As
o'er the rains, from clouds that fall, The sun shines sweeter in the skies.
Life holdeth more of sweet than gall
For ev'ry one: no matter who -- Or what their lot -- or high or low;
All hearts have clouds -- but heaven's blue Wraps robes of bright around
each woe; And this is truest of the true:
That joy is stronger here than grief, Fills more of life, far more of
years, And makes the reign of sorrow brief; Gives more of smiles for
less of tears. Joy is life's tree -- grief but its leaf.

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C.S.A.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and
tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The Martyr-band
That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?
Ah! fearless on many a day for us They stood in front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er
o'er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us.
How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part
From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and shame for us?
No, no, no, they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave
for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its
warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.
On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain
for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed -- we weep,
We live -- they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.
But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright
names, without stain for us: The glory they won shall not wane for us,
In legend and lay Our heroes in Gray Shall forever live over again for
us.

The Seen and The Unseen

Nature is but the outward vestibule Which God has placed before an
unseen shrine, The Visible is but a fair, bright vale That winds around the
great Invisible; The Finite -- it is nothing but a smile That flashes from the
face of Infinite; A smile with shadows on it -- and 'tis sad Men bask
beneath the smile, but oft forget The loving Face that very smile conceals.
The Changeable is but the broidered robe Enwrapped about the great
Unchangeable; The Audible is but an echo, faint, Low whispered from the
far Inaudible; This earth is but an humble acolyte A-kneeling on the lowest
altar-step Of this creation's temple, at the Mass Of Supernature, just to ring
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the bell At Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the world Prepares its heart
for consecration's hour. Nature is but the ever-rustling veil Which God is
wearing, like the Carmelite Who hides her face behind her virgin veil To
keep it all unseen from mortal eyes, Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers,
And ceaseless sacrifices night and day, Shields souls from sin -- and many
hearts from harm.
God hides in nature as a thought doth hide In humbly-sounding words;
and as the thought Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart That
giveth life and keepeth life alive, So God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul;
For nature is His word so strangely writ In heav'n, in all the letters of the
stars, Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds, And on the seas in syllables
of waves, And in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers, And on the grasses
and the stately trees, And on the rivers and the mournful rocks The word is
clearly written; blest are they Who read the word aright -- and understand.
For God is everywhere -- and He doth find In every atom which His
hand hath made A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal His name, love,
power, to those who kneel In holy faith upon this bright below And lift
their eyes, thro' all this mystery, To catch the vision of the great beyond.
Yea! nature is His shadow, and how bright Must that face be which
such a shadow casts? We walk within it, for "we live and move And have
our being" in His ev'rywhere. Why is God shy? Why doth He hide
Himself? The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore Entemples Him; the
fragrance of the rose Folds Him around as blessed incense folds The altars
of His Christ: yet some will walk Along the temple's wondrous vestibule
And look on and admire -- yet enter not To find within the Presence, and
the Light Which sheds its rays on all that is without. And nature is His
voice; who list may hear His name low-murmured every -- everywhere. In
songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers, In swaying of the trees, and on the
seas The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships That come and go, His
holy, holy name. The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same; And some
have ears and yet they will not hear The soundless voice re-echoed
everywhere; And some have hearts that never are enthrilled By all the
grand Hosannahs nature sings. List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without
pause Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, That hearts with power to

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love may echo back Their Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn.

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Passing Away

Life's Vesper-bells are ringing In the temple of my heart, And yon

sunset, sure, is singing "Nunc dimittis -- Now depart!" Ah! the eve is
golden-clouded, But to-morrow's sun shall shine On this weary body
shrouded; But my soul doth not repine.
"Let me see the sun descending, I will see his light no more, For my
life, this eve, is ending; And to-morrow on the shore That is fair, and
white, and golden, I will meet my God; and ye Will forget not all the
olden, Happy hours ye spent with me.
"I am glad that I am going; What a strange and sweet delight Is thro'
all my being flowing When I know that, sure, to-night I will pass from
earth and meet Him Whom I loved thro' all the years, Who will crown
me when I greet Him, And will kiss away my tears.
"My last sun! haste! hurry westward! In the dark of this to-night My
poor soul that hastens rest-ward `With the Lamb' will find the light;
Death is coming -- and I hear him, Soft and stealthy cometh he; But I do
not believe I fear him, God is now so close to me."
* * * * *
Fell the daylight's fading glimmer On a face so wan and white;
Brighter was his soul, while dimmer Grew the shadows of the night; And
he died -- and God was near him; I knelt by him to forgive; And I
sometimes seem to hear him Whisper -- "Live as I did live."

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The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend

for Children)

The shades of night were brooding O'er the sea, the earth, the sky;
The passing winds were wailing In a low, unearthly sigh; The darkness
gathered deeper, For no starry light was shed, And silence reigned
unbroken, As the silence of the dead.
The wintry clouds were hanging From the starless sky so low, While
'neath them earth lay folded In a winding shroud of snow. 'Twas cold,
'twas dark, 'twas dreary, And the blast that swept along The mountains
hoarsely murmured A fierce, discordant song.
And mortal men were resting From the turmoil of the day, And
broken hearts were dreaming Of the friends long passed away; And
saintly men were keeping Their vigils through the night, While angel
spirits hovered near Around their lonely light.
And wicked men were sinning In the midnight banquet halls,
Forgetful of that sentence traced On proud Belshazzar's walls. On that
night, so dark and dismal, Unillumed by faintest ray, Might be seen the
lonely pilgrim Wending on his darksome way.
Slow his steps, for he was weary, And betimes he paused to rest;
Then he rose, and, pressing onward, Murmured lowly: "I must haste."
In his hand he held a chaplet, And his lips were moved in prayer, For the
darkness and the silence Seemed to whisper God was there.
On the lonely pilgrim journeyed, Nought disturbed him on his way,
And his prayers he softly murmured As the midnight stole away. Hark!
amid the stillness rises On his ears a distant strain Softly sounding --
now it ceases -- Sweetly now it comes again.
In his path he paused to wonder While he listened to the sound: On it
came, so sweet, so pensive, 'Mid the blast that howled around; And the
restless winds seemed soothed By that music, gentle, mild, And they
slept, as when a mother Rocks to rest her cradled child.
Strange and sweet the calm that followed, Stealing through the

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midnight air; Strange and sweet the sounds that floated Like an angel
breathing there. From the sky the clouds were drifting Swiftly one by
one away, And the sinless stars were shedding Here and there a silver
ray.
"Why this change?" the pilgrim whispered -- "Whence that music?
whence its power? Earthly sounds are not so lovely! Angels love the
midnight hour!" Bending o'er his staff, he wondered, Loath to leave that
sacred place: "I must hasten," said he, sadly -- On he pressed with
quickened pace.
Just before him rose a mountain, Dark its outline, steep its side --
Down its slopes that midnight music Seemed so soothingly to glide. "I
will find it," said the pilgrim, "Though this mountain I must scale" --
Scarcely said, when on his vision Shone a distant light, and pale.
Glad he was; and now he hastened -- Brighter, brighter grew the ray
-- Stronger, stronger swelled the music As he struggled on his way. Soon
he gained the mountain summit, Lo! a church bursts on his view: From
the church that light was flowing, And that gentle music, too.
Near he came -- its door stood open -- Still he stood in awe and fear;
"Shall I enter spot so holy? Am I unforbidden here? I will enter --
something bids me -- Saintly men are praying here; Vigils sacred they
are keeping, 'Tis their Matin song I hear."
Softly, noiselessly, he glided Through the portal; on his sight Shone a
vision, bright, strange, thrilling; Down he knelt -- 'twas Christmas night -
- Down, in deepest adoration, Knelt the lonely pilgrim there; Joy
unearthly, rapture holy, Blended with his whispered prayer.
Wrapped his senses were in wonder, On his soul an awe profound,
As the vision burst upon him, 'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound. "Is it
real? is it earthly? Is it all a fleeting dream? Hark! those choral voices
ringing, Lo! those forms like angels seem."
On his view there rose an altar, Glittering 'mid a thousand beams,
Flowing from the burning tapers In bright, sparkling, silver streams.
From unnumbered crystal vases, Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers,
Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance 'Mid the lights in sweetest
showers.

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Rich and gorgeous was the altar, Decked it was in purest white.
Mortal hands had not arrayed it Thus, upon that Christmas night. Amid
its lights and lovely flowers, The little tabernacle stood; Around it all
was rich and golden, It alone was poor and rude.
Hark! Venite Adoremus! Round the golden altar sounds -- See that
band of angels kneeling Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns! And the
pilgrim looked and listened, And he saw the angels there, And their
snow-white wings were folded, As they bent in silent prayer.
Twelve they were; bright rays of glory Round their brows effulgent
shone; But a wreath of nobler beauty Seemed to grace and circle one;
And he, beauteous, rose and opened Wide the tabernacle door: Hark!
Venite Adoremus Rises -- bending, they adore.
Lo! a sound of censers swinging! Clouds of incense weave around
The altar rich a silver mantle, As the angels' hymns resound. List! Venite
Adoremus Swells aloud in stronger strain, And the angels swing the
censers, And they prostrate bend again.
Rising now, with voice of rapture, Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone,
"Gloria in Excelsis Deo" Round the sacramental throne. Oh! 'twas sweet,
'twas sweet and charming As the notes triumphant flowed! Oh! 'twas
sweet, while wreathes of incense Curled, and countless tapers glowed.
Oh! 'twas grand! that hymn of glory Earthly sounds cannot compare;
Oh! 'twas grand! it breath'd of heaven, As the angels sung it there.
Ravished by the strains ecstatic, Raptured by the vision grand, Gazed the
pilgrim on the altar, Gazed upon the angel band.
All was hushed! the floating echoes Of the hymn had died away;
Vanished were the clouds of incense, And the censers ceased to sway. Lo!
their wings are gently waving, And the angels softly rise, Bending
towards the tabernacle, Worship beaming from their eyes.
One last, lowly genuflection! From their brows love burning shone --
Ah! they're going, they've departed, All but one, the brightest one. "Why
remains he?" thought the pilgrim, Ah! he rises beauteously -- "Listen!"
and the angel murmured Sweetly: "Pilgrim, hail to thee!"
"Come unto the golden altar, I'm an angel -- banish fear -- Come,
unite in adoration With me, for our God is here. Come thy Jesus here

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reposes, Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight -- Come! adore the Infant
Saviour With me -- for 'tis Christmas night."
Now approached the pilgrim, trembling, Now beside the angel bent,
And the deepest, blissful gladness, With his fervent worship blent.
"Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly, "Thou hast seen bright angels here, And
hast heard our sacred anthems, Filled with rapture, filled with fear.
"We are twelve -- 'twas we who chanted First the Saviour's lowly
birth, We who brought the joyful tidings Of His coming, to the earth; We
who sung unto the shepherds, Watching on the mountain height, That the
Word was made Incarnate For them on that blessed night.
"And since then we love to linger On that festal night on earth; And
we leave our thrones of glory Here to keep the Saviour's birth. Happy
mortals! happy mortals! To-night the angels would be men; And they
leave their thrones in heaven, For the Crib of Bethlehem."
And the angel led the pilgrim To the tabernacle door; Lo! an Infant
there was sleeping, And the angel said: "Adore! He is sleeping, yet he
watches, See that beam of love divine; Pilgrim! pay your worship holy
To your Infant God and mine."
And the spirit slowly, slowly, Closed the tabernacle door, While the
pilgrim lowly, lowly, Bent in rapture to adore. "Pilgrim," spoke the angel
sweetly, "I must bid thee my adieu; Love! oh! love the Infant Jesus! --"
And he vanished from his view.
* * * * *
All was silent -- silent -- silent -- Faded was the vision bright -- But
the pilgrim long remembered In his heart that Christmas night.

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Reverie ["Those hearts of ours --

how strange! how strange!"]

Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange! How they yearn to
ramble and love to range Down through the vales of the years long gone,
Up through the future that fast rolls on.
To-days are dull -- so they wend their ways Back to their beautiful
yesterdays; The present is blank -- so they wing their flight To future to-
morrows where all seems bright.
Build them a bright and beautiful home, They'll soon grow weary and
want to roam; Find them a spot without sorrow or pain, They may stay a
day, but they're off again.
Those hearts of ours -- how wild! how wild! They're as hard to tame as
an Indian child; They're as restless as waves on the sounding sea, Like the
breeze and the bird are they fickle and free.
Those hearts of ours -- how lone! how lone! Ever, forever, they mourn
and moan; Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer; The revelry o'er,
they're all the more drear.
Those hearts of ours -- how warm! how warm! Like the sun's bright
rays, like the Summer's charm; How they beam and burn! how they gleam
and glow Their flash and flame hide but ashes below.
Those hearts of ours -- how cold! how cold! Like December's snow on
the waste or wold; And though our Decembers melt soon into May, Hearts
know Decembers that pass not away.
Those hearts of ours -- how deep! how deep! You may sound the sea
where the corals sleep, Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled --
Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold.
Where the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been known The wrecks of
the sea lie low and lone; Thus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow,
There are wrecks far down -- there are graves below.
Those hearts of ours -- but, after all, How shallow and narrow, how
tiny and small; Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill, They're as

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easy to empty -- as easy to fill.

One hour of storm and how the streams pour! One hour of sun and the
streams are no more; One little grief -- how the tears gush and glide! One
smile -- flow they ever so fast, they are dried.
Those hearts of ours -- how wise! how wise! They can lift their
thoughts till they touch the skies; They can sink their shafts, like a miner
bold, Where wisdom's mines hide their pearls and gold.
Aloft they soar with undazzled gaze, Where the halls of the Day-King
burn and blaze; Or they fly with a wing that will never fail, O'er the sky's
dark sea where the star-ships sail.
Those hearts of ours -- what fools! what fools! How they laugh at
wisdom, her cant and rules! How they waste their powers, and, when
wasted, grieve For what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve.
Those hearts of ours -- how strong! how strong! Let a thousand
sorrows around them throng, They can bear them all, and a thousand more,
And they're stronger then than they were before.
Those hearts of ours -- how weak! how weak! But a single word of
unkindness speak, Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang, That one
slight word leaves a life-long pang.
Those hearts of ours -- but I've said enough, As I find that my rhyme
grows rude and rough; I'll rest me now, but I'll come again Some other day,
to resume my strain.

---- Their Story Runneth Thus

Two little children played among the flowers, Their mothers were of
kin, tho' far apart; The children's ages were the very same E'en to an hour -
- and Ethel was her name, A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring
eyes That seemed to listen just as if they held The gift of hearing with the
power of sight. Six summers slept upon her low white brow, And dreamed
amid the roses of her cheeks. Her voice was sweetly low; and when she
spoke Her words were music; and her laughter rang So like an altar-bell
that, had you heard Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think Of
kneeling down and worshiping the pure.

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They played among the roses -- it was May -- And "hide and seek",
and "seek and hide", all eve They played together till the sun went down.
Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day: And tired at last she
plucked a crimson rose And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin; And he
went thro' the garden till he found The whitest rose of all the roses there,
And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair. "I give you red -- and you --
you give me white: What is the meaning?" said she, while a smile, As
radiant as the light of angels' wings, Swept bright across her face; the
while her eyes Seemed infinite purities half asleep In sweetest pearls; and
he did make reply: "Sweet Ethel! white dies first; you know, the snow,
(And it is not as white as thy pure face) Melts soon away; but roses red as
mine Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away."
She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, And hand in hand they
walked the winding ways Of that fair garden till they reached her home. A
good-bye and a kiss -- and he was gone.
She leaned her head upon her mother's breast, And ere she fell asleep
she, sighing, called: "Does white die first? my mother! and does red Live
longer?" And her mother wondered much At such strange speech. She
fell asleep With murmurs on her lips of red and white.
Those children loved as only children can -- With nothing in their love
save their whole selves. When in their cradles they had been betroth'd;
They knew it in a manner vague and dim -- Unconscious yet of what
betrothal meant.
The boy -- she called him Merlin -- a love name -- (And he -- he called
her always Ullainee, No matter why); the boy was full of moods. Upon his
soul and face the dark and bright Were strangely intermingled. Hours
would pass Rippling with his bright prattle; and then, hours Would come
and go, and never hear a word Fall from his lips, and never see a smile
Upon his face. He was so like a cloud With ever-changeful hues, as she
was like A golden sunbeam shining on its face.
* * * * *
Ten years passed on. They parted and they met Not often in each
year; yet as they grew In years, a consciousness unto them came Of human
love. But it was sweet and pure. There was no passion in it.

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Reverence, Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence.

One night in mid of May their faces met As pure as all the stars that
gazed on them. They met to part from themselves and the world; Their
hearts just touched to separate and bleed; Their eyes were linked in look,
while saddest tears Fell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each: They
were to meet no more. Their hands were clasped To tear
the clasp in twain; and all the stars Looked proudly down on them, while
shadows knelt, Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe Evoked
from any heart by sacrifice. And in the heart of that last parting hour
Eternity was beating. And he said: "We part to go to Calvary and to God
-- This is our garden of Gethsemane; And here we bow our heads and
breathe His prayer Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: Not
my will, Father! but Thine own be done." Raptures meet agonies in such
heart-hours; Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms Around the
cold, white neck of grief -- and thus The while they parted -- sorrow swept
their hearts Like a great, dark stormy sea -- but sudden A joy, like sunshine
-- did it come from God? --
Flung over every wave that swept o'er them A more than golden glory.
Merlin said: "Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine; The human
satisfies nor you nor me, (No human love shall ever satisfy -- Or ever did -
- the hearts that lean on it); You sigh for something higher as do I, So let
our spirits be espoused in God, And let our wedlock be as soul to soul;
And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring, And God will bless us both."
She sweetly said: "Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts; Let
God's own heart be our own holy home And let us live as only angels live;
And let us love as our own angels love. 'Tis hard to part -- but it is better
so -- God's will is ours, and -- Merlin! let us go."
And then she sobbed as if her heart would break -- Perhaps it did; an
awful minute passed, Long as an age and briefer than a flash Of lightning
in the skies. No word was said -- Only a look which never was forgot.
Between them fell the shadows of the night. Their faces went away into
the dark, And never met again; and yet their souls Were twined together in
the heart of Christ.
And Ethel went from earthland long ago; But Merlin stays still

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hanging on his cross. He would not move a nail that nails him there, He
would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there. He hung himself upon the
blessed cross With Ethel; she has gone to wear the crown That wreathes
the brows of virgins who have kept Their bodies with their souls from
earthly taint.
And years and years, and weary years, passed on Into the past. One
Autumn afternoon, When flowers were in their agony of death, And winds
sang "De Profundis" over them, And skies were sad with shadows, he did
walk Where, in a resting place as calm as sweet, The dead were lying
down; the Autumn sun Was half way down the west; the hour was three --
The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, For Jesus leaned His head on it,
and died. He walked alone amid the virgin's graves Where virgins slept; a
convent stood near by, And from the solitary cells of nuns Unto the cells
of death the way was short. Low, simple stones and white watched o'er
each grave, While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew,
Entwining grave and grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones,
and "Rest in peace" Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name A
cross was graven on the lowly stone. He passed each grave with
reverential awe, As if he passed an altar, where the Host Had left a
memory of its sacrifice. And o'er the buried virgins' virgin dust He walked
as prayerfully as tho' he trod The holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine. He
passed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure
lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into
names Of sacrifice known only to their God; Veiling their faces they had
veiled their names; The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they
passed there, would know no more than he Or any stranger where their
playmates slept; And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts,
Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows,
and their smiles and tears. He wondered at the stories that were hid
Forever down within those simple graves. In a lone corner of that resting-
place Uprose a low white slab that marked a grave Apart from all the
others; long, sad grass Drooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it With
veil of purest green; around the slab The whitest of white roses 'twined
their arms -- Roses cold as the snows and pure as songs Of angels -- and

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the pale leaflets and thorns Hid e'en the very name of her who slept
Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when He reached its side a spell
fell on his heart So suddenly -- he knew not why -- and tears Went up into
his eyes and trickled down Upon the grass; he was so strangely moved As
if he met a long-gone face he loved. I believe he prayed. He lifted then
the leaves That hid the name; but as he did, the thorns Did pierce his hand,
and lo! amazed, he read The very word -- the very, very name He gave the
girl in golden days before --

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ULLAINEE".
He sat beside that lonely grave for long, He took its grasses in his
trembling hand, He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, He read
the name again, and still again, He thought a thousand thoughts, and then
he thought It all might be a dream -- then rubbed his eyes And read the
name again to be more sure; Then wondered and then wept -- then asked
himself: "What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave? I dreamed her
soul had fled. Was she the white dove that I saw in dream Fly o'er the
sleeping sea so long ago?"
The convent bell Rang sweet upon the breeze, and
answered him His question. And he rose and went his way Unto the
convent gate; long shadows marked One hour before the sunset, and the
birds Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. As silent as a star-gleam
came a nun In answer to his summons at the gate; Her face was like the
picture of a saint, Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes Were like a
half-closed tabernacle, where God's presence glowed; her lips were pale
and worn By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke, And bade him
enter, 'twas in such a tone As only voices own which day and night Sing
hymns to God.
She locked the massive gate. He followed her along a
flower-fringed walk That, gently rising, led up to the home Of virgin
hearts. The very flowers that bloomed Within the place, in beds of
sacred shapes, (For they had fashioned them with holy care, Into all holy
forms -- a chalice, a cross, And sacred hearts -- and many saintly names,
That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, Their souls might feast
upon some mystic sign), Were fairer far within the convent walls, And
purer in their fragrance and their bloom Than all their sisters in the outer
world.
He went into a wide and humble room -- The floor was painted, and
upon the walls, In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; Jesus and
Mary and many an olden saint Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister,
spoke: "I'll call the mother," and she bowed and went.
He waited in the wide and humble room, The only room in that
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unworldly place This world could enter; and the pictures looked Upon his
face and down into his soul, And strangely stirred him. On the mantle
stood A crucifix, the figured Christ of which Did seem to suffer; and he
rose to look More nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe When he beheld a
something in its face Like his own face. But more amazed he grew, when,
at the foot Of that strange crucifix he read the name --

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 Father Ryan's Poems

"ULLAINEE".
A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul -- When to the door he
heard a footstep come, And then a voice -- the Mother of the nuns Had
entered -- and in calmest tone began: "Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our
Matin song Had not yet ended when you came; our rule Forbids our
leaving choir; this my excuse." She bent her head -- the rustle of her veil
Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, Her voice's tone as sweet. She
turned to him And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look What
brought him there, and waited his reply. "I am a stranger, Sister, hither
come," He said, "upon an errand still more strange; But thou wilt pardon
me and bid me go If what I crave you cannot rightly grant; I would not
dare intrude, nor claim your time, Save that a friendship, deep as death,
and strong As life, has brought me to this holy place."
He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent Her lustrous eyes upon
the floor, but gave Him no reply, save that her very look Encouraged him
to speak, and he went on:
He told her Ethel's story from the first, He told her of the day amid the
flowers, When they were only six sweet summers old; He told her of the
night when all the flowers, A-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice -- He
told her all; then said: "I saw a stone In yonder graveyard where your
Sisters sleep, And writ on it, all hid by roses white, I saw a name I never
ought forget."
She wore a startled look, but soon repressed The wonder that had
come into her face. "Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said

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ULLAINEE",
She forward bent her face and pierced his own With look intensest;
and he thought he heard The trembling of her veil, as if the brow It
mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts But quickly rose she, and,
in hurried tone, Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule To close the
gates to all till to-morrow's morn. Return to-morrow; then, if so God wills,
I'll see you."
He gave many thanks, passed out From that unworldly
place into the world. Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps --
Swift to the "White-Rose-Grave", his heart: he knelt Upon its grass and
prayed that God might will The mystery's solution; then he took, Where it
was drooping on the slab, a rose, The whiteness of whose leaves was like
the foam Of summer waves upon a summer sea.
Then thro' the night he went And reached his room,
where, weary of his thoughts, Sleep came, and coming found the dew of
tears Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil Around him. Then he
dreamt a strange, weird dream. A rock, dark waves, white roses and a
grave, And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears That shone
like jewels on a diadem, And two great angels with such shining wings --
All these and more were in most curious way Blended in one dream or
many dreams. Then He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept Again
and had another dream. His dream ran thus -- (He told me all of it many
years ago, But I forgot the most. I remember this): A dove, whiter than
whiteness' very self, Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream, Bearing in
its flight a spotless rose. It Flew away across great, long distances, Thro'
forests where the trees were all in dream, And over wastes where silences
held reign, And down pure valleys, till it reached a shore By which
blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; The dove rested there awhile, rose again
And flew across the sea into the sun; And then from near or far (he could
not say) Came sound as faint as echo's own echo -- A low sweet hymn it
seemed -- and now And then he heard, or else he thought he heard, As if it
were the hymn's refrain, the words: "White dies first!" "White dies first."
The sun had passed his noon and westward sloped; He hurried to the
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cloister and was told The Mother waited him. He entered in, Into the
wide and pictured room, and there The Mother sat and gave him welcome
twice. "I prayed last night," she spoke, "to know God's will; I prayed to
Holy Mary and the saints That they might pray for me, and I might know
My conduct in the matter. Now, kind sir, What wouldst thou? Tell thy
errand." He replied: "It was not idle curiosity That brought me hither or
that prompts my lips To ask the story of the `White-Rose-Grave', To seek
the story of the sleeper there Whose name I knew so long and far away.
Who was she, pray? Dost deem it right to tell?" There was a pause
before the answer came, As if there was a comfort in her heart, There was
a tremor in her voice when she Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone
Of whisper more than word:
"She was a child Of lofty gift and grace who fills that
grave, And who has filled it long -- and yet it seems To me but one short
hour ago we laid Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around Our hearts,
our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. We often look for her in places
where Her face was wont to be: among the flowers, In chapel,
underneath those trees. Long years Have passed and mouldered her pure
face, and yet It seems to hover here and haunt us all. I cannot tell you all.
It is enough To see one ray of light for us to judge The glory of the sun; it
is enough To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue For us to know the beauty
of the sky. It is enough to tell a little part Of her most holy life, that you
may know The hidden grace and splendor of the whole."
"Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all! Thou'lt tell me all, kind
Mother."
She went on, Unheeding his abruptness:
"One sweet day -- A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month Of May, at early
morn, ere yet the dew Had passed from off the flowers and grass -- ere yet
Our nuns had come from holy Mass -- there came, With summons quick,
unto our convent gate A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew --
Another dew was moist within her eyes -- Her large, brown, wond'ring
eyes. She asked for me And as I went she rushed into my arms -- Like
weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch That sheltered it from storm. She
sobbed and sobbed Until I thought her very soul would rush From her frail

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body, in a sob, to God. I let her sob her sorrow all away. My words were
waiting for a calm. Her sobs Sank into sighs -- and they too sank and
died In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat In this same room -- and
gently spoke to her, And held her hand in mine -- and soothed her With
words of sympathy, until she seemed As tranquil as myself.
"And then I asked: `What brought thee hither, child?
and what wilt thou?' `Mother!' she said, `wilt let me wear the veil? Wilt let
me serve my God as e'en you serve Him in this cloistered place? I pray
to be -- Unworthy tho' I be -- to be His spouse. Nay, Mother -- say not nay
-- 'twill break a heart Already broken;' and she looked on me With those
brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more, More strongly and more
sadly than her lips That I might grant her sudden, strange request. `Hast
thou a mother?' questioned I. `I had,' She said, `but heaven has her now;
and thou Wilt be my mother -- and the orphan girl Will make her life her
thanks.' `Thy father, child?' `Ere I was cradled he was in
his grave.' `And hast nor sister nor brother?' `No,' she said, `God gave
my mother only me; one year This very day He parted us.' `Poor child,' I
murmured. `Nay, kind Sister,' she replied, `I have much wealth -- they
left me ample means -- I have true friends who love me and protect. I was
a minor until yesterday; But yesterday all guardianship did cease, And I
am mistress of myself and all My worldly means -- and, Sister, they are
thine If thou but take myself -- nay -- don't refuse.' `Nay -- nay -- my
child!' I said; `the only wealth We wish for is the wealth of soul -- of grace.
Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, Or buy a single thread of
Virgin's veil. Not all the coins in coffers of a king Could bribe an entrance
here for any one. God's voice alone can claim a cell -- a veil, For any one
He sends. Who sent you here, My child? Thyself? Or
did some holy one Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? Or,
mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps, A sickly weariness of that bright
world Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.' `Neither,' she quickly,
almost proudly spoke. `Who sent you, then?' `A youthful
Christ,' she said, `Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, Would
have been His belov'd Disciple, sure -- Would have been His own gentle
John; and would Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast, And

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stood on Friday eve beneath His cross To take His Mother from Him when
He died. He sent me here -- he said the word last night In my own garden;
this the word he said -- Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear!
Your heart was born with veil of virgin on; I hear it rustle every time we
meet, In all your words and smiles; and when you weep I hear it rustle
more. Go -- wear your veil -- And outward be what inwardly thou art,
And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: My heart was born with
priestly vestments on, And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood, And
said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep -- And when I lifted up a white
Dream-Host, A silver Dream-Bell rang -- and angels knelt, Or seemed to
kneel, in worship. Ethel say -- Thou wouldst not take the vestments from
my heart Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. My vested and
thy veiled heart part to-night To climb our Calvary and to meet in God;
And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane -- And He is here, who, in that other,
bled; And they are here who came to comfort Him -- His angels and our
own; and His great prayer, Ethel, is ours to-night -- let's say it, then: Father!
Thy will be done! Go find your veil And I my vestments." He did send
me here.'
"She paused -- a few stray tears had dropped upon Her closing words
and softened them to sighs. I listened, inward moved, but outward calm
and cold To the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said: `I see it is a
love-tale after all, With much of folly and some of fact in it; It is a heart
affair, and in such things There's little logic, and there's less of sense. You
brought your heart, dear child, but left your head Outside the gates; nay,
go, and find the head You lost last night -- and then, I am quite sure, You'll
not be anxious to confine your heart Within this cloistered place.'
She seemed to wince Beneath my words one moment -- then replied: `If
e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, Dost thou do well, Sister, to
wound it more? If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, Dost thou do
well to chill them into ice? And were I disappointed in yon world, Should
that debar me from a purer place? You say it is a love-tale -- so it is; The
vase was human -- but the flower divine; And if I break the vase with my
own hands, Will you forbid that I should humbly ask The heart of God to
be my lily's vase? I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth Save his who

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yesternight did send me here To dip it in the very blood of Christ, And
plant it here.' And then she sobbed outright A long, deep
sob. I gently said to her: `Nay, child, I spoke to test thee --
do not weep. If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come And find e'en
here a home. But God is slow In all His works and ways, and slower still
When He would deck a bride to grace His court. Go, now, and in one year
-- if thou dost come Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee; Nay --
urge me not -- it is our holy rule -- A year of trial! I must to choir, and
thou Into the world to watch and wait and pray Until the Bridegroom
comes.' She rose and went Without a word.
"And twelvemonth after came, True to the very day and
hour, and said: `Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? Where is my
cell -- and where my virgin's veil? Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back
again? I came once with my wealth and was refused: And now I come as
poor as Holy Christ Who had no place to rest His weary head -- My
wealth is gone; I offered it to him Who sent me here; he sent me speedy
word "Give all unto the poor in quiet way -- And hide the giving -- ere you
give yourself To God!" `Wilt take me now for my own sake? I bring my
soul -- 'tis little worth I ween, And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless
price.'
"`My child,' I said, `thrice welcome -- enter here; A few short days of
silence and of prayer, And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'
"Her novice days went on; much sickness fell Upon her. Oft she lay
for weary weeks In awful agonies, and no one heard A murmur from her
lips. She oft would smile A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide Her
sufferings from us all. When she was well She was the first to meet the
hour of prayer -- The last to leave it -- and they named her well: The
`Angel of the Cloister'. Once I heard The Father of our souls say when
she passed `Beneath that veil of sacrificial black She wears the white robe
of her innocence.' And we -- we believed it. There are sisters here Of
three-score years of service who would say: `Within our memory never
moved a veil That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.' And we -- we felt it,
and we loved her so, We treated her as angel and as child. I never heard
her speak about the past, I never heard her mention e'en a name Of any in

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the world. She little spake; She seemed to have rapt moments -- then she
grew Absent-minded, and would come and ask me To walk alone and say
her Rosary Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine; And when she
sang for us, in truth it seemed The very heart of song was breaking on her
lips. The dower of her mind as of her heart, Was of the richest, and she
mastered art By instinct more than study. Her weak hands Moved
ceaselessly amid the beautiful. There is a picture hanging in our choir She
painted. I remember well the morn She came to me and told me she had
dreamt A dream; then asked me would I let her paint Her dream. I gave
permission. Weeks and weeks Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day
She kept her cell all busy with her work. At last 'twas finished, and she
brought it forth -- A picture my poor words may not portray. But you must
gaze on it with your own eyes, And drink its magic and its meanings in;
I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.
"In every May for two whole days she kept Her cell. We humored
her in that; but when The days had passed, and she came forth again, Her
face was tender as a lily's leaf, With God's smile on it; and for days and
days Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips Save when in prayer, and
then her every look Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God Strange
converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did.
"I half forgot -- on yonder mantlepiece You see that wondrous crucifix;
one year She spent on it, and begged to put beneath That most mysterious
word -- `Ullainee'.
"At last the cloister's angel disappeared; Her face was missed at choir,
her voice was missed -- Her words were missed where every day we met
In recreation's hour. And those who passed The angel's cell would lightly
tread, and breathe A prayer that death might pass the angel by And let her
longer stay, for she lay ill -- Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. Ah!
many were the orisons that rose From all our hearts that God might spare
her still; At Benediction and at holy Mass Our hands were lifted, and
strong pleadings went To heaven for her; we did love her so -- Perhaps too
much we loved her, and perhaps Our love was far too human. Slow and
slow She faded like a flower. And slow and slow Her pale cheeks
whitened more. And slow and slow Her large, brown, wondering eyes

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sank deep and dim. Hope died on all our faces; but on her's Another and a
different hope did shine, And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose
That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end. Never such silence
o'er the cloister hung -- We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke,
Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound Might jar upon her ear. The
sisters watched In turns beside her couch; to each she gave A gentle word,
a smile, a thankful look. At times her mind did wander; no wild words
Escaped her lips -- she seemed to float away To far-gone days, and live
again in scenes Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep She
ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words About her mother; and sometimes
she sang The fragments of sweet olden songs -- and when She woke again,
she timidly would ask If she had spoken in her sleep, and what She said,
as if, indeed, her heart did fear That sleep might open there some long-
closed gate She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud, A golden
cloud upon a summer's day, Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea,
So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve, The fourteenth day of
August, when the sun Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud Around
him on descending day's bright throne, She sent for me and bade me come
in haste. I went into her cell. There was a light Upon her face, unearthly;
and it shone Like gleam of star upon a dying rose. I sat beside her couch,
and took her hand In mine -- a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd Of flesh
-- so wasted, white and wan it was. Her great, brown, wond'ring eyes had
sunk away Deep in their sockets -- and their light shone dim As tapers
dying on an altar. Soft As a dream of beauty on me fell low, Last words.
`Mother, the tide is ebbing fast; But ere it leaves this shore to cross the
deep And seek another, calmer, I would say A few last words -- and,
Mother, I would ask One favor more, which thou wilt not refuse. Thou
wert a mother to the orphan girl, Thou gav'st her heart a home, her love a
vase, Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine -- And thou didst love me,
Mother, as she loved Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away -- But no, it
is not far -- that other heaven Touches this, Mother; I have felt its touch,
And now I feel its clasp upon my soul. I'm going from this heaven into
that, To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all. It was the sunset of Our
Lady's feast. My soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds To sing the

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second Vespers of the day With all the angels. Mother, ere I go, Thou'lt
listen, Mother sweet, to my last words, Which, like all last words, tell
whate'er was first In life or tenderest in heart. I came Unto my convent
cell and virgin veil, Sent by a spirit that had touched my own As wings of
angels touch -- to fly apart Upon their missions -- till they meet again In
heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing. The "Angel of the Cloister" you
called me -- Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name -- My mission's
over -- and your angel goes To-morrow home. This earthly part which
stays You'll lay away within a simple grave -- But, Mother, on its slab
thou'lt grave this name, "Ullainee!" (she spelt the letters out), Nor ask me
why -- tho' if thou wilt I'll tell; It is my soul name, given long ago By one
who found it in some Eastern book, Or dreamt it in a dream, and gave it
me -- Nor ever told the meaning of the name; And, Mother, should he ever
come and read That name upon my grave, and come to thee And ask the
tidings of "Ullainee", Thou'lt tell him all -- and watch him if he weeps,
Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved -- Show him the picture in
the chapel choir -- And watch him if he weeps; and then There are three
humble scrolls in yonder drawer;' (She pointed to the table in her room);
`Some words of mine and words of his are there. And keep these simple
scrolls until he comes, And put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch --
Watch him if he weeps; and tell him this: I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice,
I kissed my cross a thousand times a day, I hung and bled upon it in my
dreams, I lived on it -- I loved it to the last.' And then A low, soft sigh
crept thro' the virgin's cell; I looked upon her face, and death was there."
There was a pause -- and in the pause one wave Of shining tears swept
thro' the Mother's eyes. "And thus," she said, "our angel passed away. We
buried her, and at her last request We wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee'. And
I -- (for she asked me one day thus, The day she hung her picture in the
choir) -- I planted o'er her grave a white rose tree. The roses crept around
the slab and hid The graven name -- and still we sometimes cull Her sweet,
white roses, and we place them on Our Chapel-Altar."
Then the Mother rose, Without another word, and led him thro' A long,
vast hall, then up a flight of stairs Unto an oaken door, which turned upon
its hinge Noiselessly -- then into a Chapel dim, On gospel side of which

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there was a gate From ceiling down to floor, and back of that A long and
narrow choir, with many stalls, Brown-oaken; all along the walls were
hung Saint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon The faces of the
Sisters in their prayers. Beside a "Mater Dolorosa" hung The picture of the
"Angel of the Choir". He sees it now thro' vista of the years, Which stretch
between him and that long-gone day, It hangs within his memory as fresh
In tint and touch and look as long ago. There was a power in it, as if the
soul Of her who painted it had shrined in it Its very self; there was a spell
in it That fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes, And made him dream of God's
own holy heart. The shadow of the picture, in weak words, Was this, or
something very like to this: ---- A wild, weird wold, Just
like the desolation of a heart, Stretched far away into infinity; Above it
low, gray skies drooped sadly down, As if they fain would weep, and all
was bare As bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stood All mantled with
the glory of a light That flashed from out the heavens, and a cross With
such a pale Christ hanging in its arms Did crown the mount; and either
side the cross There were two crosses lying on the rocks -- One of the
whitest roses -- ULLAINEE Was woven into it with buds of Red; And one
of reddest roses -- Merlin's name Was woven into it with buds of white.
Below the cross and crosses and the mount The earth-place lay so dark
and bleak and drear; Above, a golden glory seemed to hang Like God's
own benediction o'er the names. I saw the picture once; it moved me so I
ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth; But words as weak as mine can never
paint That Crucifixion's picture. Merlin said to me: "Some
day -- some far-off day -- when I am dead, You have the simple rhymings
of two hearts, And if you think it best, the world may know A love-tale
crowned by purest SACRIFICE."

Night After the Picnic

And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the bells of all the hours;
"Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!" Looked and listened all the flowers; They were
wakened from their slumbers, By the footsteps of the fair; And they
smiled in their awaking On the faces gathered there.

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"Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!" Looked the overhanging trees, For

beneath their bending branches Floated tresses in the breeze. And they
wondered who had wandered With such voices and so gay; And their
leaflets seemed to whisper To each other: "Who are they?"
They were just like little children, Not a sorrow's shade was there;
And "Merry! Merry! Merry!" Rang their laughter thro' the air. There was
not a brow grief-darkened, Was there there a heart in pain? But "Happy!
Happy! Happy!" Came the happy bells' refrain.
When the stately trees were bending O'er a simple, quiet home, That
looked humble as an altar, Nestling 'neath a lofty dome; Thither went
they gaily! gaily! Where their coming was a joy, Just to pass away
together One long day without alloy.
"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!" Melted morning's mist away, Till the sun,
in all its splendor, Lit the borders of the bay. "Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!"
Glanced the waters that were gray, While the wavelets whispered
"Welcome!" To us all that happy day.
And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the bell in every heart, And it
chimed, "All day let no one Think that ye shall ever part. Go and sip
from every moment Sweets to perfume many years; Keep your feast,
and be too happy To have thought of any tears."
There was song with one's soul in it, And the happy hearts grew still
While they leaned upon the music Like fair lilies o'er the rill; Till the
notes had softly floated Into silent seas away O'er the wavelets, where
they listened While they rocked upon the bay.
And ---- "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!" When the song's sweet life
was o'er, Drooped the eyes that will remember All its echoes evermore.
And "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!" Beat the hearts of some, I ween, That can see
the unseen mystery Which a song may strive to screen.
Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!" Rang the laughter everywhere, From the
lips that seemed too lightsome For the sigh of any care. And the dance
went "Merry! Merry!" Whilst the feet that tripped along, Bore the hearts
that were as happy As a wild bird's happy song.
And sweet words with smiles upon them, Joy-winged, flitted to and
fro, Flushing every face they met with With the glory of their glow. Not

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a brow with cloud upon it -- Not an eye that seemed to know What a tear
is; not a bosom That had ever nursed a woe.
And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!" Like the ripples of a stream,
Did the bright hours chase each other, Till it all seemed like a dream; Till
it seemed as if no ~Never~ Ever in this world had been, To o'ercloud the
~brief Forever~, Shining o'er the happy scene.
Dimly! dimly fell the shadows Of the tranquil eventide; But the
sound of dance and laughter Would not die, and had not died; And still
"Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the voiceless vesper bells O'er the hearts
that were too happy To remember earth's farewells.
Came the night hours -- faster! faster! Rose the laughter and the
dance, And the eyes that should look weary Shone the brighter in their
glance: And they stole from every minute What no other day could lend
-- They were happy! happy! happy! But the feast must have an end.
"Children, come!" the words were cruel -- 'Twas the death sigh of the
feast; And they came, still merry! merry! At the bidding of the priest,
Who had heard the joy-bells ringing Round him all the summer day.
"Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!" Did he hear an angel say?
"Happy! happy! still more happy! Yea, the happiest are they. I was
moving 'mid the children By the borders of the bay, And I bring to God
no record Of a single sin this day.
"Happy! Happy! Happy!" When your life seems lone and long, You
will hear that feast's bells ringing Far and faintly thro' my song.

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Lines ["The death of men is not the

death"]

The death of men is not the death Of rights that urged them to the fray;
For men may yield On battle-field A noble life with stainless shield,
And swords may rust Above their dust, But still, and still The
touch and thrill Of freedom's vivifying breath Will nerve a heart and
rouse a will In some hour, in the days to be, To win back triumphs
from defeat; And those who blame us then will greet Right's glorious
eternity.
For right lives in a thousand things; Its cradle is its martyr's grave,
Wherein it rests awhile until The life that heroisms gave Will rise
again, at God's own will, And right the wrong, Which long and
long Did reign above the true and just; And thro' the songs the poet sings,
Right's vivifying spirit rings; Each simple rhyme Keeps step and
time With those who marched away and fell, And all his lines Are
humble shrines Where love of right will love to dwell.

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Death of the Prince Imperial

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" A breaking heart in a broken breath, A

hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death! Can words catch the chords of the
winds that wail, When love's last lily lies dead in the vale! Let her
alone, Under the rod With the infinite moan Of
her soul for God. Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain, But
you never may shrine, In verse or line, The pang of the heart that
breaks in twain.
Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Wind-driven waves with no hearts
that ache, Why do your passionate pulses throb? No lips that speak -- have
ye souls that sob? We carry the cross -- ye wear the crest, We have our
God -- and ye, your shore, Whither ye rush in the storm to rest; We have
the havens of holy prayer -- And we have a hope -- have ye despair? For
storm-rocked waves ye break evermore, Adown the shores and along the
years, In the whitest foam of the saddest tears, And we, as ye, O waves,
gray waves! Drift over a sea more deep and wide, For we have sorrow and
we have death; And ye have only the tempest's breath; But we have God
when heart-oppressed, As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.
O waves! sad waves! how you flowed between The crownless Prince
and the exiled Queen!
Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Her hopes are withered, her heart is
crushed, For the love of her love is cold and dead, The joy of her joy hath
forever fled; A starless and pitiless night hath rushed On the light of her
life -- and far away In Afric wild lies her poor dead child, Lies the heart of
her heart -- let her alone Under the rod With her infinite
moan, O my God! He was beautiful, pure, and brave, The
brightest grace Of a royal race; Only his throne is but a grave;
Is there fate in fame? Is there doom in names? Ah! what did the
cruel Zulu spears Care for the prince or his mother's tears? What did the
Zulu's ruthless lance Care for the hope of the future France?
Crieth the Empress, "O my son!" He was her own and her only one,
She had nothing to give him but her love. 'Twas kingdom enough on earth
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-- above She gave him an infinite faith in God; Let her cry her cry Over
her own and only one, All the glory is gone -- is gone, Into her broken-
hearted sigh.
Moaneth a mother, "O my child!" And who can sound that depth of
woe? Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now She bows her sorrow-
wreathed brow -- (So fame and all its grandeurs go) Let her
alone Beneath the rod With her infinite moan,
"O my God!"

In Memoriam (Father Keeler)

Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala. Inscribed to his
sister.

"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life, And woe to us if
he goes! Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair, Like a holy hymn,
and the stillest prayer; Let him linger to help us in the strife On earth,
with our sins and woes."
'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so, The Angel of Death said:
"No! oh! no!" He was passing away -- and none might save The virgin
priest from a spotless grave.
"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray, He taught us to love
You so -- So, so much -- his life is so sweet and fair -- A still, still song
-- and a holy prayer; He is our Father; oh! let him stay -- He gone, to
whom shall we go?"
'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so, But the Angel of Death
murmured low: "No, no;" And the voice of his angel from far away,
Sang to Christ in heav'n: "He must not stay."
"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne, And pray with your
children there -- Our hearts need his heart -- 'tis sweet and fair, Like
the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer, Goeth he now -- we are lone
-- so lone, And who is there left to care?"
'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so -- But the Angel of Death
sang: "Children, no!" And a voice like Christ's from the far away,
Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay."

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From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan: "O God let my
brother stay -- I need him the most -- oh! me! how lone, If he passes
from earth away -- O beautiful Christ, for my poor sake Let him live for
me, else my heart will break."
But the Angel of Death wept: "Poor child! no," And Christ sang:
"Child, I will soothe thy woe."
"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard, Let her look on his face
once more! Ah! that prayer was a wail -- without a word -- She will look
on him nevermore!"
The long gray distances unmoved swept 'Tween the dying eyes and the
eyes that wept.
He was dying fast, and the hours went by, Ah! desolate hours
were they! His mind had hidden away somewhere Back of a fretted and
wearied brow, Ere he passed from life away. And one who loved
him (at dead of night), Crept up to an altar, where the light That guards
Christ's Eucharistic sleep, Shone strangely down on his vow: "Spare him!
O God! -- O God! for me, Take me, beautiful Christ, instead; Let me
taste of death and come to Thee, I will sleep for him with the dead."
The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No! You must suffer and live, but
he must go." And a voice like Christ's sang far away: "He will come to me,
but you must stay."
We leaned on hope that was all in vain, 'Till the terrible word at last
Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain, And his beautiful life had
passed.
Oh! take him away from where he died; Put him not with the
common dead (For he was so pure and fair); And the city was stirred,
and thousands cried Whose tears were a very prayer.
No, no, no, take him home again, For his bishop's heart beats there;
Cast him not with the common dead, Let him go home and rest his
head, Ah! his weary and grief-worn head, On the heart of his father -
- he is mild For he loved him as his own child.
And they brought him home to the home he blest, With his life so
sweet and fair, He blessed it more in his deathly rest -- His face was a
chiseled prayer, White as the snow, pure as the foam Of a weary wave

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on the sea, He drifted back -- and they placed him where He would love
at last to be.
His Father in God thought over the years Of the beautiful happy past;
Ah! me! we were happy then; but now, The sorrow has come, and
saddest tears Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow.
Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all?
No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; When the evening shadows fall, Let him
rest alone -- unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy
hosts on their humble throne Will watch him all thro' the night.
The doors were closed -- he was still and fair, What sound moved up
the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces
wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch
o'er you to-night, Your life was beautiful, fair, and young, Not a cloud
upon its light. To-morrow -- to-morrow you will rest With the virgin
priests whom Christ has blest."
Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears
O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud (Ah! the happy,
happy years!) They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass
Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The
altars cried, and the people wept, The fairest flower in the church's vale
(Ah! me! how soon we pass!) In the vase of his coffin slept.
We bore him out to his resting place, Children, priests, and all; There
was sorrow on almost ev'ry face -- And ah! what tears did fall! Tears
from hearts, for a heart asleep, Tears from sorrow's deepest deep.
"Dust to dust," he was lowered down; Children! kneel and pray --
"Give the white rose priest a flower and crown, For the white rose
passed away."
And we wept our tears and left him there. And brought his memory
home -- Ah! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair, A heavenly hymn -- a
sweet, still prayer, Pure as the snow, white as the foam,
That seeks a lone, far shore. Dead Priest! bless from amid the blest,
The hearts that will guard thy place of rest, Forever, forever, forever
more.

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Mobile Mystic Societies

The olden golden stories of the world, That stirred the past, And
now are dim as dreams, The lays and legends which the bards unfurled
In lines that last, All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams. Fragments and
fancies writ on many a page By deathless pen, And names, and deeds
that all along each age, Thrill hearts of men. And pictures erstwhile
framed in sun or shade Of many climes, And life's great poems that
can never fade Nor lose their chimes; And acts and facts that must
forever ring Like temple bells, That sound or seem to sound where
angels sing Vesper farewells; And scenes where smiles are strangely
touching tears, 'Tis ever thus, Strange Mystics! in the meeting of the
years Ye bring to us All these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh,
Strange power ye hold! When New Year kneels low in the star-aisled sky
And asks the Old To bless us all with love, and life, and light, And
when they fold Each other in their arms, ye stir the sight, We look,
and lo! The past is passing, and the present seems To wish to go. Ye
pass between them on your mystic way Thro' scene and scene, The
Old Year marches through your ranks, away To what has been, The
while the pageant moves, it scarcely seems Apart of earth; The Old
Year dies -- and heaven crowns with gleams The New Year's birth.
And you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace To enter here; A
prayer -- ascending from an orphan face, Or just one tear May meet
you in the years that are to be A blessing rare. Ye pass beneath the
arch of charity, Who passeth there Is blest in heaven, and is blest on
earth, And God will care, Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's
birth, For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.

Rest

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed --

And I desire, what I have long desired -- Rest -- only rest.
'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain, In barren ways; 'Tis
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hard to sow -- and never garner grain, In harvest days.

The burden of my days is hard to bear, But God knows best; And I
have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer For rest -- sweet rest.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap The Autumn yield; 'Tis
hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed; And so I
sigh a weak and human sigh, For rest -- for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years, And cares infest My
path, and through the flowing of hot tears, I pine -- for rest.
'Twas always so; when but a child I laid On mother's breast My
wearied little head; e'en then I prayed As now -- for rest.
And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; For down the West
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest.

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Follow Me

The Master's voice was sweet: "I gave My life for thee; Bear thou
this cross thro' pain and loss, Arise and follow Me." I clasped it in my
hand -- O Thou! who diedst for me, The day is bright, my step is light,
'Tis sweet to follow Thee!
Through the long Summer days I followed lovingly; 'Twas bliss to
hear His voice so near, His glorious face to see. Down where the lilies
pale Fringed the bright river's brim, In pastures green His steps were
seen -- 'Twas sweet to follow Him!
Oh, sweet to follow Him! Lord, let me here abide. The flowers were
fair; I lingered there; I laid His cross aside -- I saw His face no more
By the bright river's brim; Before me lay the desert way -- 'Twas hard to
follow Him!
Yes! hard to follow Him Into that dreary land! I was alone; His cross
had grown Too heavy for my hand. I heard His voice afar Sound thro'
the night air chill; My weary feet refused to meet His coming o'er the
hill.
The Master's voice was sad: "I gave My life for thee; I bore the cross
thro' pain and loss, Thou hast not followed Me." So fair the lilies' banks,
So bleak the desert way: The night was dark, I could not mark Where
His blessed footsteps lay.
Fairer the lilied banks Softer the grassy lea; "The endless bliss of
those who best Have learned to follow Me! Canst thou not follow Me?
Hath patient love a power no more To move thy faithless heart? Wilt
thou not follow Me? These weary feet of Mine Have stained, and red the
pathway dread In search of thee and thine."
O Lord! O Love divine! Once more I follow Thee! Let me abide so
near Thy side That I Thy face may see. I clasp Thy pierced hand, O
Thou who diedst for me! I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss, So let me
cling to Thee.

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The Poet's Child

Lines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams.

Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song! The poet's blood flows
through thy fresh pure veins; Dost ever hear faint echoes float along Thy
days and dreams of thy dead father's strains? Dost ever hear,
In mournful times, With inner ear, The strange sweet cadences
of thy father's rhymes?
Child of a child of art, which Heaven doth give To few, to very few
as unto him! His songs are wandering o'er the world, but live In his
child's heart, in some place lone and dim; And nights and days
With vestal's eyes And soundless sighs Thou keepest watch
above thy father's lays.
Child of a dreamer of dreams all unfulfilled -- (And thou art, child, a
living dream of him) -- Dost ever feel thy spirit all enthrilled With his
lost dreams when summer days wane dim? When suns go down,
Thou, song of the dead singer, Dost sigh at eve and grieve O'er
the brow that paled before it won the crown?
Child of the patriot! Oh, how he loved his land! And how he
moaned o'er Erin's ev'ry wrong! Child of the singer! he swept with purest
hand The octaves of all agonies, until his song Sobbed o'er the
sea; And now through thee It cometh to me, Like a
shadow song from some Gethsemane.
Child of the wanderer! and his heart the shrine Where three loves
blended into only one -- His God's, thy mother's, and his country's; and 'tis
thine To be the living ray of such a glorious sun. His genius
gleams, My child, within thee, And dim thy dreams As
stars on the midnight sea.
Child of thy father, I have read his songs -- Thou art the sweetest
song he ever sung -- Peaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongs
Swept o'er his heart he stormed. And he was young; He died too
soon -- So men will say -- Before he reached Fame's
noon; His songs are letters in a book -- thou art their ray.
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Mother's Way

Oft within our little cottage, As the shadows gently fall, While the
sunlight touches softly One sweet face upon the wall, Do we gather
close together, And in hushed and tender tone Ask each other's full
forgiveness For the wrong that each has done. Should you wonder why
this custom At the ending of the day, Eye and voice would quickly
answer: "It was once our mother's way."
If our home be bright and cheery, If it holds a welcome true,
Opening wide its door of greeting To the many -- not the few; If we
share our father's bounty With the needy day by day, 'Tis because our
hearts remember This was ever mother's way.
Sometimes when our hands grow weary, Or our tasks seem very long;
When our burdens look too heavy, And we deem the right all wrong;
Then we gain a new, fresh courage, And we rise to proudly say: "Let us
do our duty bravely -- This was our dear mother's way."
Then we keep her memory precious, While we never cease to pray
That at last, when lengthening shadows Mark the evening of our day,
They may find us waiting calmly To go home our mother's way.

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Feast of the Presentation of Mary

in the Temple

The priests stood waiting in the holy place, Impatient of delay

(Isaiah had been read), When sudden up the aisle there came a face
Like a lost sun's ray; And the child was led By Joachim and Anna.
Rays of grace Shone all about the child; Simeon looked on, and bowed
his aged head -- Looked on the child, and smiled.
Low were the words of Joachim. He spake In a tremulous
way, As if he were afraid, Or as if his heart were just about to
break, And knew not what to say; And low he bowed his
head -- While Anna wept the while -- he, sobbing, said: "Priests of the
holy temple, will you take Into your care our child?" And Simeon,
listening, prayed, and strangely smiled.
A silence for a moment fell on all; They gazed in mute surprise,
Not knowing what to say, Till Simeon spake: "Child, hast thou heaven's
call?" And the child's wondrous eyes (Each look a lost sun's
ray) Turned toward the far mysterious wall. (Did the veil of the temple
sway?) They looked from the curtain to the little child -- Simeon seemed
to pray, and strangely smiled.
"Yes; heaven sent me here. Priests, let me in!" (And the voice
was sweet and low.) "Was it a dream by night? A voice did call me
from this world of sin -- A spirit-voice I know, An angel
pure and bright. `Leave father, mother,' said the voice, `and win'; (I
see my angel now) `The crown of a virgin's vow.' I am three
summers old -- a little child." And Simeon seemed to pray the while he
smiled.
"Yes, holy priests, our father's God is great, And all His mercies
sweet! His angel bade me come -- Come thro' the temple's
beautiful gate; He led my heart and feet To this, my holy
home. He said to me: `Three years your God will wait Your heart
to greet and meet.' I am three summers old -- I see my

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angel now -- Brighter his wings than gold -- He knoweth of

my vow." The priests, in awe, came closer to the child -- She wore an
angel's look -- and Simeon smiled.
As if she were the very holy ark, Simeon placed his hand
On the fair, pure head. The sun had set, and it was growing dark;
The robed priests did stand Around the child. He said: "Unto me,
priests, and all ye Levites, hark! This child is God's own gift --
Let us our voices lift In holy praise." They gazed upon the child In
wonderment -- and Simeon prayed and smiled.
And Joachim and Anna went their way -- The little child, she
shed The tenderest human tears. The priests and Levites lingered
still to pray; And Simeon said: "We teach the latter years
The night is passing 'fore the coming day (Isaiah had been read) Of
our redemption" -- and some way the child Won all their hearts. Simeon
prayed and smiled.
That night the temple's child knelt down to pray In the shadows
of the aisle -- She prayed for you and me. Why did the temple's
mystic curtain sway? Why did the shadows smile? The
child of Love's decree Had come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleam
The aged Simeon did see in dream The mystery of the child, And in his
sleep he murmured prayer -- and smiled.
And twelve years after, up the very aisle Where Simeon had
smiled Upon her fair, pure face, She came again, with a mother's
smile, And in her arms a Child, The very God of grace. And
Simeon took the Infant from her breast, And, in glad tones and
strong, He sang his glorious song Of faith, and hope, and
everlasting rest.

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St. Bridget

Sweet heaven's smile Gleamed o'er the isle, That gems the dreamy
sea. One far gone day, And flash'd its ray, More than a thousand years
away, Pure Bridget, over thee.
White as the snow, That falls below To earth on Christmas night,
Thy pure face shone On every one; For Christ's sweet grace thy heart had
won To make thy birth-land bright.
A cloud hangs o'er Thy Erin's shore -- Ah! God, 'twas always so. Ah!
virgin fair Thy heaven pray'r Will help thy people in their care, And save
them from their woe.
Thou art in light -- They are in light; Thou hast a crown -- they a
chain. The very sod, Made theirs by God, Is still by tyrants' footsteps trod;
They pray -- but all in vain.
Thou! near Christ's throne, Dost hear the moan Of all their hearts
that grieve; Ah! virgin sweet, Kneel at His feet, Where angels' hymns thy
prayer shall greet, And pray for them this eve.

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New Year

Each year cometh with all his days, Some are shadowed and some
are bright; He beckons us on until he stays Kneeling with us 'neath
Christmas night.
Kneeling under the stars that gem The holy sky, o'er the humble
place, When the world's sweet Child of Bethlehem Rested on Mary, full
of grace.
Not only the Bethlehem in the East, But altar Bethlehem everywhere,
When the ~Gloria~ of the first great feast Rings forth its gladness on the
air.
Each year seemeth loath to go, And leave the joys of Christmas day;
In lands of sun and in lands of snow, The year still longs awhile to stay.
A little while, 'tis hard to part From this Christ blessed here below,
Old year! and in thy aged heart I hear thee sing so sweet and low.
A song like this, but sweeter far, And yet as if with a human tone,
Under the blessed Christmas star, And thou descendest from thy throne.
"A few more days and I am gone, The hours move swift and sure
along; Yet still I fain would linger on In hearing of the Christmas song.
"I bow to Him who rules all years; Thrice blessed is His high behest;
Nor will He blame me if, with tears, I pass to my eternal rest.
"Ah, me! to altars every day I brought the sun and the holy Mass;
The people came by my light to pray, While countless priests did onward
pass.
"The words of the Holy Thursday night To one another from east to
west; And the holy Host on the altar white Would take its little half-
hour's rest.
"And every minute of every hour The Mass bell rang with its sound
so sweet, While from shrine to shrine, with tireless power, And heaven's
love, walked the nailed feet.
"I brought the hours for ~Angelus~ bells, And from a thousand
temple towers They wound their sweet and blessed spell Around the
hearts of all the hours.
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"Every day has a day of grace For those who fain would make them
so; I saw o'er the world in every place The wings of guardian angels
glow.
"Men! could you hear the song I sing -- But no, alas! it cannot be so!
My heir that comes would only bring Blessings to bless you here
below."
* * * * *
Seven days passed; the gray, old year Calls to his throne the coming
heir; Falls from his eyes the last, sad tear, And lo! there is gladness
everywhere.
Singing, I hear the whole world sing, Afar, anear, aloud, alow: "What
to us will the New Year bring!" Ah! would that each of us might know!
Is it not truth? as old as true? List ye, singers, the while ye sing!
Each year bringeth to each of you What each of you will have him bring.
The year that cometh is a king, With better gifts than the old year
gave; If you place on his fingers the holy ring Of prayer, the king
becomes your slave.

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Zeila (A Story from a Star)

From the mystic sidereal spaces, In the noon of a night 'mid of May,
Came a spirit that murmured to me -- Or was it the dream of a dream? No!
no! from the purest of places, Where liveth the highest of races, In an
unfallen sphere far away (And it wore Immortality's gleam) Came a Being.
Hath seen on the sea The sheen of some silver star shimmer 'Thwart
shadows that fall dim and dimmer O'er a wave half in dream on the deep?
It shone on me thus in my sleep.
Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing, In the night, of our eyes
from the light? Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest? Or doth it not toil all
the more? When the earth-wearied frame is reposing, Is the vision then
veiled the less bright? When the earth from our sight hath been taken, The
fetters of senses off shaken, The soul, doth it not then awaken To the light
on Infinity's shore? And is not its vision then best, And truest, and farthest,
and clearest? In night, is not heaven the nearest? Ah, me! let the day have
his schemers, Let them work on their ways as they will, And their
workings, I trow, have their worth. But the unsleeping spirits of dreamers,
In hours when the world-voice is still, Are building, with faith without
falter, Bright steps up to heaven's high altar, Where lead all the aisles of
the earth.
Was I sleeping? I know not -- or waking? The body was resting, I
ween; Meseems it was o'ermuch tired With the toils of the day that had
gone; When sudden there came the bright breaking Of light thro' a
shadowy screen; And with the brightness there blended The voice of the
Being descended From a star ever pure of all sin, In music too sweet to be
lyred By the lips of the sinful and mortal. And, oh! how the pure
brightness shone! As shines thro' the summer morn's portal Rays golden
and white as the snow, As white as the flakes -- ah, no! whiter; Only
angelic wings may be brighter When they flash o'er the brow of some woe
That walketh this shadowed below.
The soul loseth never its seeing, In the goings of night and of day It
graspeth the Infinite Far. No wonder there may come some Being, As if it
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had wandered astray At times down the wonder-filled way -- As to me in

the midnight of May -- From its home in some glory-crowned star, Where
evil hath never left traces; Where dwelleth the highest of races, Save the
angels that circle the throne, In a grace far beyond all our graces, Whose
Christ is the same as our own.
Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming With the gladness of life and
of love. No! no! I am not at all dreaming -- The Below's hands enclasp the
Above. 'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming -- Creation is many, tho'
one, And we are the last of its creatures. This earth bears the sign of our
sin (From the highest the evil came in); Yet ours are the same human
features That veiled long agone the Divine. How comes it, O holy Creator!
That we, not the first, but the latter Of varied and numberless beings
Springing forth in Thy loving decreeings, That we are, of all, the most
Thine?
Yea! we are the least and the lowly, The half of our history gone, We
look up the Infinite slope In faith, and we walk on in hope; But think ye
from here to the "Holy Of Holies" beyond yon still sky, O'er the stars that
forever move on, I' the heavens beyond the bright Third, In glory's
ineffable light; Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word Reign circled by
angels all bright -- Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder There is
naught but the silence of death? There's naught of love's wish or life's
wonder, And naught but an infinite night? No! no! the great Father is
fonder Of breathing His life-giving breath Into beings of numberless races.
And from here on and up to His throne The Trinity's beautiful faces, In
countlessly various traces, Are seen in more stars than our own. This earth
telleth not half the story Of the infinite heart of our God -- The heavens
proclaim of His glory The least little part, and His power Broke not its
sceptre when earth Was beckoned by Him into birth. Is He resting, I
wonder, to-night? Can He rest when His love sways His will? Will He rest
ere His glory shall fill All spaces below and above With beings to know
and to love?
Creation -- when was it begun? Who knows its first day? Nay, none.
And then, what ken among men Can tell when the last work is done? Is He
resting, I wonder, to-night? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To

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Darknesses rays of His light? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To

Nothings the rapture of living And waiting awhile for His sight? If His
will rules His glorious power, And if love sways His beautiful will, Is He
not, e'en in this very hour, Going on with love's wonder-work still?
* * * * *
Let me pray just awhile, for betimes My spirit is clouded; and then
Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes, Till prayer lendeth light to my
pen. And then shall I better unfold The story to me that was told, Of the
unfallen star far away, In the noon of the night 'mid of May, By the
beautiful Being who came, With the pure and the beautiful name. "Call me
Zeila," the bright spirit said, And passed from my vision afar. With rapture
I bowed down my head, And dreamed of that unfallen star.

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Better than Gold

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousand
fold, Is a healthy body and a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that
always please A heart that can feel for another's woe, With sympathies
large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an
humble sphere, Doubly blessed with content and health, Untried by the
lusts and cares of wealth, Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and
ennoble a poor man's cot; For mind and morals in nature's plan Are the
genuine tests of a gentleman.
Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when the labors
close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, And the balm that drops on
his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, Where
luxury pillows its aching head, The toiler simple opiate deems A shorter
route to the land of dreams.
Better than gold is a thinking mind, That in the realm of books can
find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good
of yore. The sage's lore and the poet's lay, The glories of empires passed
away; The world's great dream will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better
than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful home Where all the fireside characters
come, The shrine of love, the heaven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister,
or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by
heaven's decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And centre
there, are better than gold.

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Sea Dreamings

To-day a bird on wings as white as foam That crests the blue-gray

wave, With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home Seaward.
The God who gave To the birds the virgin-wings of snow Somehow telleth
them the ways they go.
Unto the Evening went the white-winged bird -- Gray clouds hung
round the West -- And far away the tempest's tramp was heard. The
bird flew for a rest Away from the grove, out to the sea -- Is it only a bird's
mystery?
Nay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of white That cleft thy
waveward way -- Past the evening and swift into the night, Out of the
calm, bright day -- And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea, More than one
human heart's history.
Only men's hearts -- tho' God shows each its way That leadeth
hence to home -- Unlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray,
Seeking in the far foam Of this strange world's tempest-trampled main A
resting place -- but they seek in vain.
Only the bird can rest upon the deep, And sleep upon the wave,
And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. And sweet
the God who gave The birds a rest place on the restless sea -- But this, my
heart, is not His way with thee.
Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll, And every fleck of
foam Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul That never
shall reach home. Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace, My
heart, is thy only resting place.

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Sea Rest

Far from "where the roses rest", Round the altar and the aisle, Which
I loved, of all, the best -- I have come to rest awhile By the ever-restless
sea -- Will its waves give rest to me?
But it is so hard to part With my roses. Do they know (Who knows
but each has a heart?) How it grieves my heart to go? Roses! will the
restless sea Bring, as ye, a rest for me?
Ye were sweet and still and calm, Roses red and roses white; And ye
sang a soundless psalm For me in the day and night. Roses! will the
restless sea Sing as sweet as ye for me?
Just a hundred feet away, Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide; And the
wavelets, blue and gray, Moan, and white sails windward glide O'er the
ever restless sea From me, far and peacefully.
And as many feet away, Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees; And
they wail, the while they sway In the sad November breeze, Echoes in
the sighing sea To me, near and mournfully.
And beside me sleep the dead, In the consecrated ground; Blessed
crosses o'er each head. O'er them all the Requiem sound, Chanted by the
moaning sea, Echoed by each moss-veiled tree.
Roses! will you miss my face? Do you know that I have gone From
your fair and restful place, Far away where moveth on Night and day the
restless sea? But I saw eternity
In your faces. Roses sweet! Ye were but the virgin veils, Hiding
Him whose holy feet Walked the waves, whose very wails Bring to me
from Galilee Rest across the restless sea.
And who knows? mayhap some wave, From His footstep long ago,
With the blessing which He gave After ages ebb and flow, Cometh in
from yonder sea, With a blessing sweet for me.
Just last night I watched the deep, And it shone as shines a shrine,
(Vigils such I often keep) And the stars did sweetly shine O'er the altar
of the sea; So they shone in Galilee.
Roses! round the shrine and aisle! Which of all I loved the best, I
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have gone to rest awhile Where the wavelets never rest -- Ye are dearer
far to me Than the ever restless sea.
I will come to you in dreams, In the day and in the night, When the
sun's or starlight's gleams Robe you in your red or white; Roses! will
you dream of me By the ever restless sea?
____ Biloxi, Miss.

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Sea Reverie

Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest? And tell me why you
never go to sleep? Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed -- (And the
waves are the tears you weep) -- And thou didst never sin -- what ails the
sinless deep?
To-night I hear you crying on the beach, Like a weary child on its
mother's breast -- A cry with an infinite and lonesome reach Of
unutterably deep unrest; And thou didst never sin -- why art thou so
distressed?
But, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm, Where crieth the lone
and the wearied child; And soft the arms that shield her own from harm;
And her look is unutterably mild -- But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild,
so wild!
What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright -- How safe they
lean on heaven's sinless breast! O Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so
white, To give thy utter weariness a rest? (And to-night the winds are
a-coming from the West).
* * * * *
Where the shadows moan o'er the day's life done, And the darkness
is waiting for the light, Ah, me! how the shadows ever seek and shun
The sacred, radiant faces of the bright -- (And the stars are the vestal
virgins of the night);
Or am I dreaming? Do I see and hear Without me what I feel
within? Is there an inner eye and an inner ear Thro' which the sounds
and silences float in In reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din?
I know not. After all, what do I know? Save only this -- and that is
mystery -- Like the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flow In unison, and
the tides of the sea Ever reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me.
Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gray, Fringed by the fingers of
the breeze with white? Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray,
With the sea's ritual, every day and night? And the suns and stars your
only altar light?
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Great Sea! the very rhythm of my song (And the winds are a-coming
from the West), Like thy waves, moveth uncertainly along; And my
thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest, Flow and ebb, ebb and
flow with thy own unrest.
____ Biloxi, Miss.

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The Immaculate Conception

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil And surpliced the city in white; I
wonder who wove the pure flakelets? Ask the Virgin, or God, or the
night.
It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol, And earth wore the surplice at
morn, As pure as the vale's stainless lily For Mary, the sinlessly born;
For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness; And the sun, thro' the clouds
of the East, With the brightest and fairest of flashes, Fringed the surplice
of white for the Feast.
And round the horizon hung cloudlets, Pure stoles to be worn by the
Feast; While the earth and the heavens were waiting For the beautiful
Mass of the priest.
I opened my window, half dreaming; My soul went away from my
eyes, And my heart began saying "Hail Marys" Somewhere up in the
beautiful skies,
Where the shadows of sin never rested; And the angels were waiting
to hear The prayer that ascends with "Our Father", And keeps hearts and
the heavens so near.
And all the day long -- can you blame me? "Hail Mary", "Our
Father", I said; And I think that the Christ and His Mother Were glad of
the way that I prayed.
And I think that the great, bright Archangel Was listening all the day
long For the echo of every "Hail Mary" That soared thro' the skies like a
song,
From the hearts of the true and the faithful, In accents of joy or of
woe, Who kissed in their faith and their fervor The Festival's surplice of
snow.
I listened, and each passing minute, I heard in the lands far away
"Hail Mary", "Our Father", and near me I heard all who knelt down to
pray.
Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel, And the same as the Christ
of our love -- "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father" -- Winging just
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the same sweet flight above.

Passed the morning, the noon: came the even -- The temple of
Christ was aflame With the halo of lights on three altars, And one wore
His own Mother's name.
Her statue stood there, and around it Shone the symbolic stars. Was
their gleam, And the flowerets that fragranced her altar, Were they only
the dream of a dream?
Or were they sweet signs to my vision Of a truth far beyond mortal
ken, That the Mother had rights in the temple Of Him she had given to
men?
Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder, For the Christian to honor
her so? Ought her statue pass out of His temple? Ask the Feast in its
surplice of snow.
Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices, I know what their white lips
would say; And I know that the lights on her altar Would pray with me if
they could pray.
Methinks that the flowers that were fading -- Sweet virgins that die
with the Feast, Like martyrs, upon her fair altar -- If they could, they
would pray with the priest;
And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary", Till they drooped on
the altar in death, And be glad in their dying for giving To Mary their
last sweetest breath.
Passed the day as a poem that passes Through the poet's heart's
sweetest of strings; Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses -- Did I
hear a faint sound as of wings
Rustling over the aisles and the altars? Did they go to her altar and
pray? Or was my heart only a-dreaming At the close of the Festival day?
Quiet throngs came into the temple, As still as the flowers at her feet,
And wherever they knelt, they were gazing Where the statue looked
smiling and sweet.
"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blended In a pure and a perfect
accord, And passed by the beautiful Mother To fall at the feet of our
Lord.
Low toned from the hearts of a thousand "Our Fathers", "Hail

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Marys" swept on To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder Did they wrong

the great name of her Son.
Her Son and our Saviour -- I wonder How He heard our "Hail
Marys" that night? Were the words to Him sweet as the music They once
were, and did we pray right?
Or was it all wrong? Will he punish Our lips if we make them the
home Of the words of the great, high Archangel That won Him to
sinners to come.
Ah, me! does He blame my own mother, Who taught me, a child, at
her knee, To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"? If 'tis wrong, my
Christ! punish but me.
Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless; Let me suffer for her if You
blame. Her pure mother's heart knew no better When she taught me to
love the pure name.
O Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother Must I hide her name down in my
heart? But, ah! even there you will see it -- With Thy Mother's name
how can I part?
On Thy name all divine have I rested In the days when my heart-
trials came; Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human, And I need Mary's
pure human name.
Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? I heard -- or I sure seemed to
hear -- "Who blames you for loving My Mother Is wronging my heart --
do not fear.
"I am human, e'en here in My heavens, What I was I am still all the
same; And I still love My beautiful Mother -- And thou, priest of Mine,
do the same."
I was happy -- because I am human -- And Christ in the silences
heard "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father", Murmured faithfully
word after word.
* * * * *
Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~ Down the aisles -- did the starred
statue stir? Or was my heart only a-dreaming When it turned from her
statue and her?
The door of a white tabernacle Felt the touch of the hand of the

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priest -- Did he waken the Host from its slumbers To come forth and
crown the high Feast?
To come forth so strangely and silent, And just for a sweet little
while, And then to go back to its prison. Thro' the stars -- did the sweet
statue smile?
I knew not; but Mary, the Mother, I think, almost envied the priest --
He was taking her place at the altar -- Did she dream of the days in the
East?
When her hands, and hers only, held Him, Her Child, in His waking
and rest, Who had strayed in a love that seemed wayward This eve to
shrine in the West.
Did she dream of the straw of the manger When she gazed on the
altar's pure white? Did she fear for her Son any danger In the little Host,
helpless, that night?
No! no! she is trustful as He is -- What a terrible trust in our race!
The Divine has still faith in the human -- What a story of infinite grace!
~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altar That came from the heart of
a saint, Swept triumph-toned all through the temple -- Did my ears hear
the sound of a plaint?
'Neath the glorious roll of the singing To the temple had sorrow crept
in? Or was it the moan of a sinner? O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win
In the little half-hour's Benediction The heart of a sinner again? And,
merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfort The sorrow that brings Thee its pain.
Came a hush, and the Host was uplifted, And It made just the sign of
the cross O'er the low-bended brows of the people. O Host of the Holy!
Thy loss
To the altar, and temple, and people Would make this world darkest
of night; And our hearts would grope blindly on through it, For our love
would have lost all its light.
~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph! Our souls soared to God on
each tone; And the Host went again to Its prison, For our Christ fears to
leave us alone.
Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailor! Thy hand holds the
beautiful key That locks in His prison love's Captive, And keeps Him in

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fetters for me.

* * * * *
'Twas over -- I gazed on the statue -- "Our Father", "Hail Mary" still
came; And to-night faith and love cannot help it, I must still pray the
same -- still the same.
____ Written at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December
8, 1880.

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Fifty Years at the Altar

"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of
some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore;
next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, known of
God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, to test and
tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary
of his ordination."

To-day -- fifty years at the altar -- Thou art, as of old, at thy post!
Tell us, O chasubled soldier! Art weary of watching the Host? Fifty
years -- Christ's sacred sentry, To-day thy feet faithful are found When
the cross on the altar is blessing Thy heart in its sentinel-round.
The beautiful story of Thabor Fifty years agone thrilled thy young
heart, When wearing white vestments of glory, And up the "high
mountain apart". In the fresh, glowing grace of thy priesthood, Thou
didst climb to the summit alone, While the Feast of Christ's
Transfiguration Was a sweet outward sign of thy own.
Old priest! on the slope of the summit Did float down and fall on
thine ear The strong words of weak-hearted Peter. "O Lord, it is good to
be here!" Thy heart was stronger than Peter's, And sweeter the tone of
thy prayer; 'Twas Calvary thy young feet were climbing, And old -- thou
art still standing there.
For you, as for him, on bright Thabor, Forever to stay were not hard;
But when Calvary girdles the altar, And garments the Eucharist's guard
With sacrifice and with its shadows -- To keep there forever a feast Is the
glory and grace of the human -- The altar, the cross, and the priest.
The crucifix's wardens and watchers, Like Him, must be heart
sacrificed -- The Christ on the crucifix lifeless For guard needs a brave
human Christ. To guard Him three hours -- what a glory! With sacrifice
splendors aflame! Three hours -- and He died on His Calvary -- How
long hast thou lived for His name?
"Half a century," cries out thy crucifix, Binding together thy beads;
His look, like thy life, lingers in it, A light for men's souls in their needs.
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Old priest! is thy life not a rosary? Five decades and more have been
said, In thy heart the warm splendors of Thabor Beneath the white snows
of thy head!
Fifty years lifting the chalice -- Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened
land! Thy clasp may be weak, but the chrism, Old priest! that anointed
thy hand Is as fresh and as strong in its virtue As in the five decades
agone Thy young hands were touched with its unction, And thy
vestments of white were put on.
Fifty years! Every day passes A part of one great, endless feast,
That moves round its orbit of Masses, And hath nor a West nor an East;
But everywhere hath its pure altars, At each of its altars a priest To lift
up a Host with a chalice Till the story of grace shall have ceased.
Fifty years in the feast's orbit, Nearly two thousand of days; Fifty
years priest in the priesthood, Fifty years lit with its rays -- Lit them but
to reflect them When the adorers' throngs pass Out of thy life and its
glory Shining each day from thy Mass.
Half of a century's service! Wearing thy cassock of black O'er thy
camps, and thy battles, and triumphs! Old soldier of Jesus! look back To
the day when thou kissed thy first altar In love with youth's fervor athrill.
From the day when we meet and we greet thee, So true to the old altar
still.
Fifty long years! what if trials Did oftentimes darken thy way --
They marked, like the shadows on dials, Thy soul's brightest hour every
day. The sun in the height of his splendor, By the mystical law of his
light, O'er his glories flings vestments of shadows, And, sinking, leaves
stars to the night.
Old priest! with the heart of a poet Thou hast written sweet stanzas
for men; Thy life, many versed, is a poem That puzzles the art of the pen;
The crucifix wrote it and writes it -- A scripture too deep for my ken; A
record of deeds more than sayings -- Only God reads it rightly; and then
My stanzas are just like the shadows That follow the sun and his
sheen, To tell to the eye that will read them Where the purest of sunshine
has been. Thy life moves in mystical eclipse, All hidden from men and
their sight; We look, but we see but its surface, But God sees the depth

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of its light.
Twenty-five years! highest honors Were thine -- high deserved in the
world: Dawned a day with a grace in its flashing O'er thy heart from a
standard unfurled, Whose folds bore the mystical motto: "To the greater
glory of God!" And somehow there opened before thee A way thou hadst
never yet trod.
Twenty-five years -- still a private In files where the humblest and
last Stands higher in rank than the highest Of those who are passing or
passed; Twenty-five years in the vanguard, Whose name is a spell of
their strength, The light of the folds of whose standard Lengthens along
all the length
Of the march of the Crucified Jesus. Loyola was wiser than most In
claiming for him and his soldiers The name of the Chief of the host; His
name, and his motto, and colors That never shall know a defeat, Whose
banner, when others are folded, Shall never float over retreat.
To-day when the wind wafts the wavelets To the gray altar steps of
yon shore, Each wearing an alb foam-embroidered, And kneeling, like
priests, to adore The God of the land -- I will mingle My prayers, aged
priest! with the sea, While God, for thy fifty years' priesthood, Will hear
thy prayers whispered for me.

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Song of the Deathless Voice

'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en -- Hour of fairy and of wraith, When in

many a dim-lit green, 'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen, As the olden
legend saith, All the future may be seen, And when -- an older story hath --
Whate'er in life hath ever been Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath, Cometh back
upon our path. I was dreaming in my room, 'Mid the shadows, still as they;
Night, in veil of woven gloom, Wept and trailed her tresses gray O'er her
fair, dead sister -- Day. To me from some far-away Crept a voice -- or
seemed to creep -- As a wave-child of the deep, Frightened by the wild
storm's roar Creeps low-sighing to the shore Very low and very lone Came
the voice with song of moan, This, weak-sung in weaker word, Is the song
that night I heard:
How long! Alas, how long! How long shall the Celt chant the
sad song of hope, That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of
our past? How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slope Of
Thabors that promise our Transfiguration at last? How long, O
Lord! How long!
How long, O Fate! How long! How long shall our sunburst
reflect but the sunset of Right, When gloaming still lights the dim
immemorial years? How long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are
wearied of night, Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling
with tears? How long, O Lord! How long!
How long, O Right! How long! How long shall our banner,
the brightest that ever did flame In battle with wrong, droop furled like a
flag o'er a grave? How long shall we be but a nation with only a name,
Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave?
How long, O Lord! How long!
How long! Alas, how long! How long shall our isle be a
Golgotha, out in the sea, With a cross in the dark? Oh, when shall our
Good Friday close? How long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring
only to thee The wailings, O Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes?
How long, O Lord! How long!
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How long! Alas, how long! How long shall the cry of the
wronged, O Freedom! for thee Ascend all in vain from the valleys of
sorrow below? How long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be,
When the Celt will forgive, or else tread on the heart of his foe?
How long, O Lord! How long!
Whence came the voice? Around me gray silence fall; And without
in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky; And who is the singer?
Or hear I a singer at all? Or, hush! Is't my heart athrill with some
deathless old cry?
Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its forefathers' wrongs -- They
are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released; Blood keeps in
its throbs the echoes of all the old songs And sings them the best when it
flows thro' the heart of a priest.
Am I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung? In the cells
of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow? And old as our race is, is it
not still forever as young, As the youngest of Celts in whose breast
Erin's love is aglow?
The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all, For long
as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath; And sure as the race
lives, no matter what fates may befall, There's a Voice with a Song that
forever is haunting its path.
Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line, Lay hid, ages
gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt, With a sword in its grasp, if
stronger, not truer than mine, And I feel, with my pen, what the old
hero's sworded hand felt --
The heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong, The thrill
of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe; And the sheen of that
sword is hid in the sheath of the song As sure as I feel thro' my veins the
pure Celtic blood flow.
The ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years, And
still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain; The chalice of time
o'erflows with the streams of our tears, Yet just as the shamrocks, to
bloom, need the clouds and their rain,
The Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of our isle Need the

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rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes, To keep them in
bloom, while for ages we wait for the smile Of Freedom, that some day -
- ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies.
Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest; They
are living in us whose glorious race will not die -- Their brave buried
hearts are still beating on in each breast Of the child of each Celt in each
clime 'neath the infinite sky.
Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past, Many
voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by; But the voice of
our race shall live sounding down to the last, And our blood is the bard
of the song that never shall die.

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To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.

Just when the gentle hand of spring Came fringing the trees with bud
and leaf, And when the blades the warm suns bring Were given glad
promise of golden sheaf; Just when the birds began to sing Joy hymns
after their winter's grief, I wandered weary to a place; Tired of toil, I
sought for rest, Where Nature wore her mildest grace -- I went where I
was more than guest. Strange, tall trees rose as if they fain Would wear
as crowns the clouds of skies; The sad winds swept with low refrain
Through branches breathing softest sighs; And o'er the field and down the
lane Sweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise, Bloomed up into this world
of pain, Where all that's fairest soonest dies; And 'neath the trees a little
stream Went winding slowly round and round, Just like a poet's mystic
dream, With here a silence, there a sound. The lowly ground, beneath the
sheen Of March day suns, now dim, now bright, Now emeralds of
golden green In flashing or in fading light; And here and there
throughout the scene The timid wild flowers met the sight, While over
all the sun and shade Swept like a strangely woven veil, Folding the
flowers that else might fade, Guarding young rosebuds from the gale.
And blossoms of most varied hue Bedecked the forest everywhere,
While valleys wore the robes of blue, Bright woven by the violets fair;
And there was gladness all around; It was a place so fair to see, And yet
so simple -- there I found How sweet a quiet home may be. Four
children -- and thro' all the day They flung their laughter o'er the place;
Bright as the flowers in happy May, The children shed a sweet pure
grace Around this quiet home, and they To father and to mother brought
The smiles of purest love unsought; It was a happy, happy spot, Too dear
to be fore'er forgot. Farewell, sweet place! I came as guest; From toil,
in thee I found relief, I found in thee a home and rest -- But, ah! the days
are far too brief. Farewell! I go, but with me come Sweet memories
that long will last; I'll think of thee as of a home That stands forever in
my past.

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To Virginia (on Her Birthday)

Your past is past and never to return, The long bright yesterday of life's
first years, Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn. Some held for you a
chalice for your tears, And other days strewed flowers upon your way.
They all are gone beyond your reach, And thus they are beyond my speech.
I know them not, so that your first gone times To me unknown, lie far
beyond my rhymes. But I can bless your soul and aims to-day, And I can
ask your future to be sweet, And I can pray that you may never meet With
any cross, you are too weak to bear. Virginia, Virgin name, and may you
wear Its virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er. I breathe this blessing,
and I pray this prayer.

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Epilogue

Go, words of mine! and if you live Only for one brief, little day; If
peace, or joy, or calm you give To any soul; or if you bring A something
higher to some heart, I may come back again and sing Songs free from
all the arts of Art.
-- Abram J. Ryan.

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Posthumous Poems

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In Remembrance

In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry "O God! give more of
rest and less of night," My words may rest you; and mayhap a light Shall
flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky; Then think of me as one who
passes by. A few brief hours -- a golden August day, We met, we spake -- I
pass fore'er away. Let ev'ry word of mine be golden ray To brighten thy
eclipses; and then wilt pray That he who passes thee shall meet thee yet In
the "Beyond" where souls may ne'er forget.

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A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:']

"O Songs!" I said: "Stop sounding in my soul Just for a little while and
let me sleep, Resting my head on the breast Of Silence;" but the rhythmic
roll Of a thousand songs swept on and on, And a far Voice said: "When
thou art dead Thy restless heart shall rest."
And the songs will never let me sleep. I plead with them; but o'er the
deep They still will roll On, and on, and on, Their music never gone.
Ah! world-tired soul! Just for a little while, Just like a poor, tired child
Beneath its Mother's smile -- Only to fall asleep! Silence! be mother to me!
But -- No! No! No! The waves will ebb and flow. I wonder is it best To
never, never rest Down on the shores of this strange Below?

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Only a Dream

Only a Dream! It floated thro' The sky of a lonely sleep As

floats a gleam Athwart the Blue Of a golden clouded Deep.
Only a Dream! I calmly slept. Meseems I called a name; I woke;
and, waking, I think I wept And called -- and called the same.
Only a Dream! Graves have no ears; They give not back the dead;
They will not listen to the saddest tears That ever may be shed.
Only a Dream! Graves keep their own; They have no hearts to
hear; But the loved will come From their Heaven-Home To smile on
the sleeper's tear.

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The Poet

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives; Ah me! God makes him so --
The sea hath its ebb and flow, He sings his songs -- but yet he only gives
In the waves of the words of his art Only the ~foam~ of his heart.
Its sea rolls on forever, evermore, Beautiful, vast, and deep; Only his
~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shore Of Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep.
The foam that crests the wave is pure and white; The ~foam~ is not
the ~wave~; The wave is not the sea -- ~it rolls~ forever on; The
winding shores will crave A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep; ~Some
come~; some always ~sleep~.

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The Child of the Poet

The sunshine of thy Father's fame Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes,
And flashes sometimes when his name Like a lost star seeks its skies.
In the horizons of thy heart His memory shines for aye, A light that
never shall depart Nor lose a single ray.
Thou passest thro' the crowds unknown, So gentle, so sweet, and so
shy; Thy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low;
Then alone Art the star in thy Father's sky.
'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name -- Thou couldst not ask
for more; Thou art the jewel of thy Father's fame, He waiteth on the
bright and golden shore; He prayeth in the great Eternity Beside God's
throne for thee.

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The Poet Priest

~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~, I believe they call him

great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire; They, silent, come
and wait, And wonder when he opens wide the gate Of some strange,
inner temple, where the fire Is lit on many altars of many dreams -- They
wait to catch the gleams -- And then they say, In praiseful words: "'Tis
beautiful and grand." And so his way Is strewn with many flowers, sweet
and fair; And people say: "How happy he must be to win and wear
Praise ev'ry day!" And all the while he stands far out the crowd,
Strangely ~alone~. Is it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud -- No
matter which, his spirit maketh moan; And all the while a lonely, lonesome
sense Creeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense Hath not the fragrance
of his altar; and He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer Than lift his
head aloft amid the Grand: If all the world would kneel down at his feet
And give acclaim -- He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No! The breath of
fame is sweet -- but far more sweet Is the breath of Him who lives
within my heart; God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep
Along the words of merely human art; It cometh from some far-off hidden
Deep, Far-off and from so far away -- It filleth night and day." ~Not~ as of
one who ever, ever cares For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of
me, And in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee In Prayers -- and thou
shalt meet with me.

Wilt Pray for Me?

Wilt pray for me? They tell me I have Fame; I plead with thee,
Sometimes just fold my name In beautiful "Hail Marys"! And you
give me more Than all the world besides. It praises Poets for the
well-sung lay; But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray. It brings to brows of
Poets crowns of Pride; Some win such crowns and wear; Give me,
instead, a simple little Prayer.

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---
The living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary
lamp, which sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great
Presence hath departed.
-- Abram J. Ryan

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