CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Cornell Newman 
 Class - 1939 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2745.A2 1896 
 
 Poems: 
 
 rellaious, miscellaneo 
 
 1924 022 253 698 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022253698 
 
Father Ryan's Poems 
 
^i5>^,i,^^ 
 
POEMS: 
 
 Patriotic, Religious 
 miscellaneous. 
 
 Abraivi J. Ryan, 
 
 (Katheb Ryan.) 
 
 STXTEKNTU EDITION. 
 
 With an Intboductort Essay by Rev. John Tai,bot Smith 
 AND AN Appreciation by John Moran. 
 
 WITH NEW PORTRAIT AND ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
 • All Rests with those who Read. A work or thought 
 Is what each makes it to himself, aud may 
 Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea, 
 ■^Vith shoals of life rushing ; or like the air. 
 Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, 
 Sweeping miles broad o'er the far southwestern wood* 
 With mighty glimpses of the cential light — 
 Or may be nothing — bodiless, spiritless," 
 
 — Festus. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 P. J. KENEDY, 
 
 5 Barclay Street, 
 
 1896. 
 
OOPTBIGHT, IfflO, ^KABKAM J. BTMS 
 
rnEss 
 
 SIMPLE RHYMES 
 
 ARE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOTB 
 
 AT THE FEET OF HIS MOTHER B Y 
 
 HER CHILD, THE 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 These Verses (wLicli some friends call by the higher title 
 of Poems — to which appellation the author objects,) were 
 written at random — off and on, here, there, anywhere — just 
 when the mood came, with little of study and less of art, and 
 always in a hurry. 
 
 Hence they are incomplete in finish, as the author is ; the' 
 he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more of the 
 humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries thati 
 of the steeps that lead up to Parnassus and the Home of the 
 Muses. And souls were always more to him than songs. But 
 still, somehow — and he could not tell why — he sometimes tried 
 to sing. Here are his simple songs. He never dreamed of taking 
 even lowest place in the rank of authors. But friends persisted; 
 and, finally, a young lawyer fiiend, who has entire charge of his 
 business in the book, forced him to front the world and its 
 critics. There are verses connected with the war published in 
 tliis volume, not for harm-sake, nor for hate-sake, but simply 
 because the author wrote them. He would write again in the 
 same tone and key, under the same circumstances. No more 
 iieed be said, except that these verses mirror the mind of 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
Publishers' Preface to the Second Edition. 
 
 For years the name of Father Ryan has been a household 
 word. It is known wherever the English language is spoken, 
 and ererywhere it is reverenced as the appellation of a true 
 child of soug. It is especially dear to the people of the South, 
 among whom he who bears it has lived and worked and touched 
 his tuneful harp. 
 
 These, his poems, have moved multitudes. They have thrilled 
 the soldier on the eve of battle, and quickened the martial 
 impulses of a chivalric race ; they have soothed the soul-wounda 
 of the suffering; and they have raised the hearts of men in 
 adoration and benediction to the great Father of all. 
 
 When the announcement was first made that they were to 
 be gathered together into a volume, the news was heard as glad 
 tidings by the friends of the poet-priest, and the book had 
 hardly appeared when the edition was exhausted. The ablest 
 critics were generous in their praise of it, and predicted that it 
 would be for its author a monument more enduring than brass. 
 
 This edition has been revised, amended, and enriched by the 
 addition of several poems not printed in the first collection. 
 Thus improved, it is ofEered to the public by 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS. 
 
 c«x) 
 
Publishers' Preface to the Twelfth Edition. 
 
 Thb publication of the poems of Father Ryan has reached 
 the twelfth edition. To the Memoir, which found place in 
 the eleventh edition, are now added many beautiful songs, 
 some of which have not heretofore been published; and also 
 many new illustrations. 
 
 So popular have the writings of the poet-priest become, 
 that many songs and ballads have been printed as emanations 
 of his pen for which he was not responsible. 
 
 This edition is printed from new electrotype plates, and is 
 greatly improved in style over all former editions. It in- 
 cludes all the poems written by Father Ryan which, if living, 
 he would offer to the public. 
 
 His death in 1886 stilled the sweetest voice that ever waa 
 raised in behalf of the faith and clime he loved so well. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS. 
 
 VH) 
 
FATHER RYAN'S POEMS 
 
 Thirteenth Edition). 
 
 BY JOHK TALBOT SMITH. 
 
 The successive editions of this volume are a popular tribute 
 to the poetic genius of Father Ryan, and indicate clearly the 
 hold his poetry has taken upon the affections of the Catholic 
 body, and at least the Southern portion of the community, with 
 whose ante-bellum sentiments he had deep sympathy always. 
 From Catholics and Southerners his poems have received praise 
 unstinted, and criticism without discrimination. The literary 
 cliques which rule the English-speaking book world have not 
 noticed them. These cliques rarely understand Catholic poetry, 
 and never examine literary work which does not come before 
 them through the ordinary channels of influence or patronage. 
 Hence their favorable judgment may mean as little as their con- 
 demnation or indifference. It is surely a favorable sign when 
 the people take up a poet's cause against neglectful or incom- 
 petent critics. They did this service to Longfellow when the 
 literary cliques were bent on forcing Bryant and Emerson into 
 public favor. Time has given judgment against tne critics 
 In Longfellow's case. The readers and admirers of Ryan's 
 poetry are unconsciously supporting the cause of the poet priest 
 by their steady demand for new editions of his poems. Popu- 
 larity does not, of course, stamp any work with the character- 
 istics of truth and beauty ; it lends no splendor to verse, no 
 force to reasoning, no grace to fancy. The worst books, both 
 in form and substance, are often most popular ; and very com- 
 
xii Father RyarCs Poems. 
 
 monplace writers enjoy great renown in their day. Popularity 
 in Father llyan's case is, however, an index to the strength of 
 popular feeling in his regard. It has survived his death many 
 3'ears, aod lived without the nursing of interested friends and 
 publishers, in spite of the heavy indifference of the Catholic 
 majority to their own writers. It warrants a fair inquiry from 
 the competent critic iato the merits of a volume which has con- 
 tinued to iaterest people under circumstances so fatal to interest. 
 
 The admirers of Father Ryan would naturally like to hear 
 from the critics. They value the standard of criticism set up 
 by the passing literary crowd— a standard which has condescend- 
 ingly admitted Tennyson, Longfellow, and a few other celebri- 
 ties into its own little temples, and is willing to illustrate its 
 canons by quotations from " In Memoriam" and " Evangeline." 
 They are tired, too, of the language of adulation and compli- 
 ment. It does not advance a poet's reputation to declare repeat- 
 edly that his name will echo down the ages, influence the nations 
 to come, and dazzle posterity with the brilliance of its syllables. 
 These glories may one day cluster about his work deservedly. 
 The prophecy of them, not mentioning its uselessness and bad 
 taste, adds nothing to a man's worth or to the pleasure of his 
 admirers. True criticism, impartial, intelligent, dispassionate, 
 is more relished, even if it takes a mortal out of the clouds and 
 puts him on a pedestal three feet high. Such criticism the ad- 
 mirers of Father Ryan would like to see the poet-priest receive, 
 to take the place of complimentary verbiage. They may have 
 long to wait. The critics are not rid of their drowsiness and 
 insiacerity toward Catholic writers, and wake up only when a 
 gun like the " Apologia" of Newman goes oflE at their ears. 
 
 Father Abram Ryan would certainly fare ill at their hands, 
 not being one of the lucky poets whose name will resound in 
 human society a thousand years hence. He himself called his 
 poems " verses," and was satisfied to think they might be " true 
 in tone," though " written at random— off and on, here there 
 anywhere— just when the mood came, with little of study and 
 
jFuther Ri/aii's Poems. xiii 
 
 less of art, and always in a hurry." This confession makes the 
 work of a friendly critic less difficult. Poetry written in this 
 fashion will necessarily make no claim to superlatives in descrip- 
 tion and criticism. Father Ryan never made poetry his voca- 
 tion, as did Tennyson and Longfellow. He remained from first 
 to last the priest of the mission, with aspirations for souls far 
 beyond his energies. His poems are the simplest of songs, and 
 their chief quality is that they touch the heart. An atmosphere 
 of melancholy and longing, of weariness and suffering veils their 
 meaning from the gaze of the practical mind. Religious feel- 
 ing is dominant. The reader seems to be moving about in 
 cathedral glooms, by dimly-lighted altars, with sad processions 
 of ghostly penitents and mourners fading into the darkness to 
 the sad music of lamenting choirs. But the light which falls 
 upon the gloom is the light of heaven, and amid tears and sighs 
 over farewells and crushed happinesses hope sings a vigorous 
 though subdued strain. The religious and melancholy tone of 
 these poems is one reason of their general popularity. 
 
 Father Ryan had the essential gifts of the true poet. The 
 indications are that, had he exercised his powers to their utmost, 
 another American poet would have shared the laurels of Poe. 
 The poetic spirit, the poetic mind, and the vivid expression that 
 is born of these were his to a high degree. He had the uncon- 
 trollable, divine Impulse to sing the emotions of his soul ; his 
 mental grasp took in the existences of time and eternity, the 
 wondrous relationships of man with the Creator and with his 
 own kind ; and his voice uttered the soul's thought musically, 
 often with unusual grace and power. His poems as a whole 
 show rather what he was capable of than any particular excel- 
 lence. Some of his sentences were admirable in their vivid 
 power. 
 
 " I saw Night 
 
 Digging the grave of Day ; 
 And Day took off her golden crown. 
 And flung it sorrowfully down." 
 
'xiv Father Ryan's Poems. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " The brook that down the valley 
 So musically drips. 
 Flowed never half so brightly 
 As the light laugh from her lips." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Wherever the brave have died. 
 They should not rest apart ; 
 Living, they struggle side by side, 
 Why should the hand of death divide 
 A single heart from heart ?" 
 
 ' Its mist of green o'er battle plain 
 . . . Spring had breathed." 
 
 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 surest way to God 
 Is up the lonely stream of tears." 
 
 ' 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. " 
 
 " Better a day of strife than a century of sleep." 
 
leather Jiyan.s Poems. 
 
 " Life is a burden— bear it ; 
 Life is a duty— dare it ; 
 Lite is a thorn crown — wear it." 
 
 XV 
 
 " All the light liatli left the skies, 
 And the living, awe-struck crowds 
 See above them only clouds. 
 And around them only shrouds." 
 
 These quotations are taken at random from his poems, and 
 can be multiplied at pleasure. They prove his genius. Ele- 
 gance and correctness of expression always followed his most 
 forceful thought. Such poems as the " Song of the Mystic," 
 " De Profundis," " The March of the Deathless Dead," " Sen- 
 tinel Sougs," " Tears," and " The Prince Imperial" indicate 
 the possession of that half-prophetic spirit which to the true 
 poet is never denied. The Catholic and the priest should pos- 
 sess it In tenfold strength. Faith and doctrine in such a one 
 should combine to give his sibylline utterances a horizon ex- 
 tending far around the future. In addition to those mentioned 
 above, his most perfect poems are the lines " In Memory of my 
 Brother,".a hymn to " The Sacred Heart," the lyrics " Rest" 
 and " The Rosary of my Tears, " a narrative poem, " Their Story 
 Runneth Thus," and a "Nocturne." In these twelve poems 
 his poetic powers are at their best. Graceful and even brilliant 
 expression, melodious verse, deep and true emotion, touching 
 sentiment, powerful imagery, condensed utterance, and beneath 
 all the smouldering fire whose heavingsand flashings tell of fierce 
 restraint upon the poet's soul lest extravagance mar perfect art 
 —all these forces help to mould the best work of Father Ryan. 
 
 It is to be regretted that he did not always subject his muso 
 to the rigid discipline whose wholesome guidance produced re- 
 sults so pleasing. This discipline of self-knowledge, study, and 
 art confines the waters, rushing from poetic springs, to one safe- 
 channel, from the source to the sea ; and thereby gives us a 
 graceful river where a hundred straggling streams, tcattcring 
 
xvi Father Uijan's Poems. 
 
 over the land, might have ended their inglorious lives in a 
 marsh. Father Ryan had greater poetic genius than Lowell ; 
 but the art of tlie latter was masterly, his talents were culti- 
 vated to the utmost, and liis achievement is so great that com- 
 parison is impossible. 
 
 Father Kyan must stand by himself as a singer for compari- 
 son ; any attempt to gi^c him a pedestal witli otlier poets would 
 lie fruitless. This he understood himself. 
 " I sing with a voice too 1 >w 
 To be heard beyond to-day, 
 In Tninor keys of my people's woes, 
 
 But my songs pass aivay. 
 To-morrow hears them not — 
 
 To morrow belongs to fame ; 
 My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, 
 And forgotten shall be my name." 
 There can be no doubt that he will live long in the affection 
 
 of the people, smcc 
 
 " Betimes 
 
 The grandest songs depart, 
 "While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes 
 
 Will echo from heart to heart." 
 It was his one great power to speak from the heart, and to 
 wake such melodiis as catch the common ear and stir " the 
 fount of tears." No eye can withliold its tribute when the sad 
 chant of the " De Proftindis" rises. Every page of his cue 
 book has a verse or a stanza to touch the heart. Greater popu- 
 larity will be yet granted to Ills poems, and it is pleasant to feel 
 that he deserves more oven than will fall to his share. As long 
 as his poeins arc read they will exert a noble influence in behalf 
 of tlie soul-life so neglected, so steadily denied In our day. 
 They breathe the perfume of religion. Whatever else may be 
 said of Abram Ryan, in his poems he was truly the priest, the 
 teacher, the inspircr of lofty love for truth and duty. 
 
 To dislingiiiBh between his artistic succces and his popu- 
 
father liyan's Poems. xvii 
 
 krity must not be forgotten. The elements of his popu- 
 larity are not difficult to name. Religious feeling is the flist. 
 Devotion to Christ nnd Mary, His mollier, the priest's awe, 
 ■wonder, and love for the mass and the sacraments, the enthu- 
 siasm of the mystic for the mysterious of religion, are the most 
 fruitful sources of his inspirations. His choice of subjects is 
 mostly personal, peculiar to the priest, the missionary, the 
 patriot, the pilgrim weary of the world, broken in health and 
 spirit, eager for the perfect life. He sings in the minor key, 
 quickest to reach the hearts of men, surest to touch the mind 
 and the heart of the multitude, easiest to sound, the key in 
 which simple nations compose even the music of their dances. 
 His expression is simple and vigorous, and he has no fear of 
 repetition. He speaks from his own heart to the hearts of 
 others. Behind these elements is the true poetic genius upon 
 which his worth and his popularity rest together. 
 
 Hence, it happens that the most critical can turn from the 
 brilliant stanzas of Tennyson to the simple poems of Ryan with- 
 out depression, and for the sake of the clear voice, pure melody, 
 and strong thought can forget the hasty composition. There is 
 no impatience over his deficiencies, only regret. When the 
 poets of culture trip in their rhythm hymning the pagan gods 
 and all things save the Christian, we condemn them without 
 mercy. Their only merit is fidelity to the rules of poetic com- 
 position, and treason means death. Father Ryan does not train 
 with these persons. They cannot compare with him, and their 
 fame beside his is pitiful. It is not such as they who will one 
 day gently overshadow his place in the hearts of men. That 
 place will be his until another of the same faith and equal 
 genius, trained in the art and discipline of the schools, and ac- 
 quainted with his own powers, shall strike the lyre with firm 
 and practised hand, sending forth a strain whose simplicity, 
 truth, and sweetness shall win the heart, while its consummate 
 art shall answer the dcmand.'i of criticism. 
 
 Kkw York, January, 1891. , 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQS, 
 SONd OF THR MVSTIO, . . . . . - SS 
 
 KKVKItIK, ----...38 
 
 1jI>(ES— 1875, • . . . . . .43 
 
 A MKMOBY, .......45 
 
 BHYUK, - . . . . . . -47 
 
 koctcbnr, --.....e2 
 
 Thh Olu Ye.\u and the Nbw, . . . . - 67 
 
 Ebix's Flag, --.... go 
 
 The Swouc of Bobert Lke, . . . - .S3 
 
 Life, .......c5 
 
 A Lauoh— AMD A Moan, - - . . .63 
 
 In Memorv of Mv Bbotheb, .... 71 
 
 " Out of the Depths," - . - . . - 73 
 
 A Thought, --.-.. 75 
 
 Mabch of the DKATHr.Fss Dead, - . . - 76 
 
 Beunited, ---..- -78 
 
 A Me^oby, - ..... 81 
 
 At L.\st, __.....88 
 
 A Land Without Buins, . . . . - 90 
 
 Memobies, --...- .91 
 
 The Peayeb of the South, - . • - - »J 
 
 Peast of the Assumption, - - - . . 97 
 
 Subsum Cobda, - - . - . . -lOf 
 
 A CHILD'S Wish, ...... lot 
 
 PBESEN'XIUENT, - • . • . . - IOC 
 
XX Contents. 
 
 Last of SIay, ....-- loa 
 
 "(iONE/* ■-*---- 113 
 
 Feast of the Sacked Heaiit, ... - lit 
 
 Is Mfjiouv of yeby Rev. J. B. Etiesse, - - - 117 
 
 Tfabs, - - . . . 319 
 
 Lines (Two Lotss), - - - - - 121 
 
 The Land we Lovb, . . - . - J22 
 
 Is Meuobiak, - . . . . . .123 
 
 Kf.vebif, - - . - . . -12k 
 
 I Often Wondek Why 'tis So, - . . . .128 
 
 A Blessing, - - - - . 130 
 
 July 9th, 1872, - . - - - 133 
 
 Wake Me a Song, - _ . _ . 138 
 
 In Memoiuam— DAVID J. RVAN, C. 8. A., . - . - 137 
 
 WHATf (To Ethel), - - _ _ 142 
 
 The Masteb's Voice, - . . . _ m 
 
 A " THOUGHT-FLOWEB," - - ... 147 
 
 A Death, - _ - _ _ 149 
 
 The Kosaey of My Teaks, - - - . _ isj 
 
 Death, - - 154 
 
 What Ails the Wobld, - - - . - 150 
 
 A Thouoht, ---.__ 159 
 
 INEOME, - - - - . - 103 
 
 Apteb- Sickness, . . . _ _ _ IG6 
 
 Old Teees, - - - _ " _ . - 169 
 
 Afteb Seeino Pics ix, _ . . _ _ -170 
 
 Sfjittkel Songs, - _ . _ _ - 171 
 
 Fbagments feom an etio Poem, . . _ _ iss 
 
 Lake Coaio. - 
 
 - - - - 201 
 
 "Peace I Be Still." 
 
 - 208 
 Good Fbiday, 
 
 - - - - 210 
 My Beads, 
 
 - 211 
 At Night, - 
 
 - J13 
 Nootubne, 
 
 - 217 
 SuNLBss Days, 
 
 - - - 229 
 
A KETEBIE, 
 
 Conkiitn. x^i 
 
 irvn: 
 - 2S1 
 
 ST. Maby's, .'--•-• ^^ 
 De Pkofundis, - - . - - 
 
 AVhes! (Dkath), .-..-- M 
 
 the conqcebfj) bannek, - - - - - sis 
 
 a christmas chant, - - - - - 21! 
 
 ■• FAK AWAY," - - - - - * ~ -''■ 
 
 LISTEN. .-----' '■"'' 
 
 Wbeckku. - - - * " ■" 
 
 diieamino, -----* '■^ 
 
 - . 2R' 
 
 A THorOHT, . - - - - 
 
 _ - 27< 
 
 " TKSTEBDAVS, * • . • - 
 
 "TO-DAYS," - - - " " " ■ 
 
 . 27' 
 
 •■TO-MOBKOWS," - • - - 
 
 INETITABI,E, - - - " * " " '''' 
 
 SOBBOW AN1> THE FLOWEKa, ----- 2| 
 
 HOl-E, - *" 
 
 Fabewells, ------ 
 
 nu 
 SONQ OF THE UIVEB, ----- ■" 
 
 - 2"J 
 
 DBEAUIiANU, . . . - 
 
 . - - - - 28 
 
 LINES, - - - ■ 
 
 A SONa, - - - - - 
 
 _ . - - 29 
 
 P.lBTtNa, - - 
 
 - - - 2'J 
 
 St. Stephen, - - - - 
 
 A Floweb's Sdnb, - - - " * " ■* 
 
 SK 
 The Stab's Suno, _ - - - - 
 
 - - IK 
 
 DEATH OF THE FLOWEB, - - " 
 
 SlNOING-BlEl>, ------ 
 
 Sow, ----- 
 
 M . . ». "' 
 
 God in THE KIOUT, ------ 
 
 _ - - - 81 
 
 tOETK, _ - - - - 
 
 . . - - S! 
 
 A LKQEND, . - - - - 
 
 TnoUGHis, - - - - " 
 
 - a 
 
xxii Contents. 
 
 PAOE. 
 
 339 
 
 C. S. A., . - 
 
 THE Seen axd the Iixseen', ^^ 
 
 Passing Awat, - -^^ 
 
 The Pilgbim (a Christmas Leohnd yon Children), 389 
 
 A Revebie, - _ - 341 
 
 Theib Stoey Konneth Thus, 331 
 
 Night After the Picnic, - 385 
 LINES, -- -__--38f 
 
 Death of the Pbince Impebial, , - 3!K 
 
 In Memoriam (Fatukb Keeler), _ - - 39^ 
 
 Mobile Mvstio Societies, - - _ - 401 
 
 Best, - . • - - 40i 
 
 Follow Mf, - - 40( 
 
 the Poet'8 Child, - - - 40! 
 
 Motheb's way, - 4li 
 
 Feast op the Peesentation of mauy in the temple, 41< 
 
 St. Beidoet, - - 41! 
 
 Sew Te.\e, - _ - - 42( 
 
 Zeila (a Stoby prom a Star), - . _ 42, 
 
 Bettek than Gold, . _ . _ - 43( 
 
 Se.1 Dbeamings, - _ _ _ . 431 
 
 Sea Rest, - - - . - 43j 
 
 Sea Kevebie, _ _ _ _ 43; 
 
 The Immaculate Conception, - - - . - 441 
 
 ilFiY Tears at the Altab, _____ 45) 
 
 Bono of thb Deathless Voice, - . . - 457 
 
 To Mb. AMD Mes. a. M. T., . . - . . 455 
 
 To ViKGiNiA ON Her Birthday, - _ _ _ _ /^ 
 
 EpiLoauB, ------___ 454 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 POBTIUIT OP THE AUTHOE, - - - Frontispiece 
 
 Convent in Which FiTHEB Ryan Died, - - - - SI 
 
 Boom Whebb Father Byan Died, ----- S" 
 
 Ebis's Flao, - - 6: 
 
 The Pbiest Comes Down to the Railino, - - - in 
 
 MY Beads, - - - 2i: 
 
 St. Maey's Chueoh, Mobile, Ala., - - - - 221 
 
 the Conquebed Bannee, - - - - - 23i 
 
 The Eivee Kan On— and On— and On, - - - 28! 
 
 One Night in Mid of May theib faces Met, - - - 35- 
 
 SAVE WHEN O PBAYBB, - . - _ . 37' 
 
 (ixlll) 
 
Memoir of Father Ryan. 
 
 BX" J-OHIT IvIOH..A.3sr. 
 
 It Is regretted that the materials at hand at this writing are 
 not sufficient to warrant as extended a notice as the publishers 
 of the present enlarged volume of Father Eyan's poems would 
 wish, and as the many friends and admirers of the dead priest 
 and poet desire. So distinguished a character and so brilliant 
 a man cannot be passed over lightly, or dealt with sparingly, 
 if the demand of his friends and the public generally would 
 be satisfied even in a moderate degree ; for Father Ryan's fame 
 is the inheritance of a great and enlightened nation, and hi? 
 writings have passed into history to emblazon its pages and 
 enrich the literature of the present and succeeding ages, since 
 it is confidently believed that, with the lapse of time, his fame 
 and his merits will grow brighter and more enduring. With 
 this appreciation of his merits, and a realising sense of what 
 is due to his memory, and with an equal consciousness of his 
 own want of ability to do justice to the subject, the writer 
 bespeaks the indulgent criticism of those who may read the 
 following remarks — admittedly far short of what are due to the 
 illustrious dead. 
 
 The exact date and place of Father Ryan's birth are not yet 
 definitely settled. Some assert that he was born at Norfolk, 
 Va.; others claim Hagerstown, Md., as the place of his birth; 
 whilst there is some ground to believe that in Limerick, Ireland, 
 he first saw the light. The same uncertainty exists as to timn. 
 Some claim to know that he was bom in 1834, whilst others &s, 
 
 (XXV) 
 
xxvi Memori', 
 
 with equal certainty, the year 1836 as the time. In the midst 
 of these conflicting statements, the writer prefers to leave tha 
 questions at issue for future determination, when it is hoped 
 final and conclusive proof will be obtained to place them out- 
 side the realms of dispute. Meanwliile, he will present what 
 may be regarded as of primary importance in forming a correct 
 estimate of the oharaoter of the deceased, and the value of hig 
 life work, which, after all, are the chief ends sought to be 
 accomplished. 
 
 From the most reliable information that can be obtained, 
 it is learned that Fatiier Ryan went to St. Louis with his 
 parents when a lad of some seven or eight years. There h& 
 received his early training under the Brothers of the Christian 
 Schools. Even at that early date young Kyan showed signs 
 of mental activity which gave promise of one day producing 
 substantial and lasting results. He evinced rare aptitude for 
 knowledge, and made rapid progress in its attainment, nis 
 thoughtful mien and modest look soon won for him the respect 
 and friendship of his teachers, and the esteem and affection of 
 his companions. It was noticed that he had an instinctive 
 reverence for sacred things and places, and a rich and ardent 
 nature which bespoke deep spirituality. Discerning eyes soon 
 recognized in the mild youth the germs of a future vocation to 
 the priesthood. It was, therefore, prudently resolved to throw 
 around him every possible safeguard in order to protect and 
 cherish so rare and precious a gift. The youth himself cor- 
 responded to this design, and bent all his energies towards 
 acquiring the necessary education to fit him for entering upon 
 the still higher and more extended studies required for the 
 exalted vocation to which he aspired. In due time he had 
 made the necessary preparatory studies, and was deemed fitted 
 to enter the ecclesiastical seminary at Niagara, N. Y., wliither 
 he went, having bid an affectionate farewell to his relatives 
 and numerous friends, who fervently invoked heaven's blessing 
 upon the pious youth who. they hoped, yould return one day 
 
Memoir. xx\ii 
 
 to their midst to offer up the "Clean Oblation" which is offered 
 np "from the rising of the sun until tlie going down thereof." 
 
 The heart of the youth, as he started for his future home, 
 was all aglow with the fervor that animated him in the pur- 
 suit of his high and holy purpose. He entered the seminary, 
 leaving no regrets or attachments behind him. One thing only 
 did he appear to regret — separation from home and the loved 
 ones to whom he had bid so affectionate an adieu. Home and 
 parents are ever dear to the pure of heart; for around them 
 cluster memories too precious and associations too endearing 
 for utterance. Father — mother — home, "trinity of joys," 
 whose completion and perfection are to be found only in the 
 Trinity in hearcn — these must ever remain bright recollections 
 in the lives «\f all who cherish ennobling sentiments which do 
 reverence to God and honor to humanity. But if such be the 
 effect of these sentiments upon the hearts of men in general, 
 they have a still deeper and more tender effect upon those who, 
 in response to the call of the Master, "Follow thou Me," have 
 abandoned all things for His sweet sake, that they may find 
 a home hereafter in heaven, after having spent themselves in 
 dispensing His riches and benefits to men. 
 
 Like nearly all great men. Father Eyan owed much to tha 
 early training and example of his truly Christian mother. 
 Hence the deep affection he ever manifested towards her. After 
 the lapse of long years, we find his heart still fresh and loving, 
 pouring out upon the grave of his mother all the wealth of his 
 rich mind and the affection of his chaste heart. He tells us 
 that he had placed his poems upon her grave as a garland of 
 affection. Oh 1 what a beautiful offering on the part of a gifted 
 son to a devoted mother 1 Nature's richest and best gifts 
 consecrated to nature's purest and holiest sentiments ! May we 
 not suppose that the endearing affection which he cherished for 
 his mother was the source of the inspiration which drew forth 
 the "splendid brightness of his songs?" This filial reverence 
 and tender affection, could nothing more be said in his favor. 
 
xxviii Memoir. 
 
 would speak volumes in his praise. But how much more can 
 be said, and said truly, were there pen and lips eloquent enough 
 to proclaim his praises I Mine are unworthy of the task ; yet 
 mine be the duty of recalling some, at least, of the virtues and 
 qualities that marked him during life; for virtues and estimable 
 qualities he had, and they were many and conspicuous. Heaven 
 doth know, earth doth witness, angels have recorded, that he is 
 worthy of praise. Therefore, in no cold and measured terms 
 shall the writer speak of the dear and venerated dead, Abram J. 
 Ryan, priest and poet — once magic name, still revered and 
 possessed of talismanic power. If we cannot crown thee, 
 O child of genius, with a wreath of justice, let us, at least, 
 endeavor to crown thee with a garland of love, composed of 
 thy own glorious deeds and achievements. 
 
 Having passed through the usual course of studies in "an 
 ecclesiastical seminary with distinction. Father Kyan was duly 
 ordained priest, and soon afterwards entered upon the active 
 duties of missionary life. But little was heard of him until the 
 breaking out of the late civil war, when he entered the Con- 
 federate army as a chaplain, and served in that capacity up to 
 the close of the civil war. He was then stationed at Nashville, 
 afterwards f^t Clarksville, Tenn,, and still later at Augusta, Ga., 
 where he founded the Banner of the South, which exercised 
 great influence over the people of that section, and continued 
 about five years, when Father Ryan was obliged to suspend its 
 publication. He then removed to Mobile, Ala., where he was 
 appointed pastor of St. Mary's Church in 1870, and continued 
 in that position until 1883, when he obtained leave of absence 
 from Bishop Quinlan to make an extended lecture tour of the 
 country to further a praiseworthy and charitable undertaking 
 of great interest to the South. Bishop Quinlan having died 
 soon afterwards. Father Ryan's leave was extended by his 
 successor. Bishop Manucy. It was whilst engaged in this 
 mission that Father Ryan received his death summons. 
 
 During all these changes and journeyings, the busy brain 
 
Memoir. xxix 
 
 of Father Kyan was incessantly employed, expending itself in 
 composing those immortal poems which have won their way to 
 all hearts and elicited widespread and unmeasured praise from 
 critics of the highest repute. Like all true poets, Father Ryan 
 touched the tenderest chords of the human heart, and made 
 them respond to his own lofty feelings and sublime inspirations. 
 
 Of his priestly character but little need be said. His 
 superiors and those whom he served know best how well and 
 faithfully he discharged the some times severe and always 
 onerous and responsible duties of his sacred calling. The merit 
 of his life-work is now the measure of his reward. As he had 
 in view only God's honor and glory, and the good of his fellow- 
 men, and directed his labors and employed his talents to 
 promote these ends, may we not hope that a merciful Judge 
 has given liim a recompense in excess of his deserts, since, in 
 the bountifuluess of His liberality. He is wont to bestow a 
 reward exceeding our merits? 
 
 But it is not claimed that Father Ryan was without fault. 
 This would be attributing to him angelic natnre or equivalent 
 perfection, against which, were he living, he would be the first 
 to protest. He needs no such fulsome or exaggerated praise. 
 He was a man, though not cast in the common mould, and as 
 such let us view him. Doubtless he had his faults, and 
 perhaps not a few; for "the best of men are only the least 
 sinful." But as far as is known, he had no serious defects or 
 blemishes that would mar the beauty or disturb the harmonious 
 grandeur of his character in its entirety. Had his heart been 
 cold and selfish, or his thoughts defiled with the sordid cares 
 of earth, he never could have sung so sweetly or soared so 
 sublimely into those serene and heavenly regions whither his 
 chaste fancy led him. He delighted to roam in those far-off 
 regions beyond the skies, whose spheres are ruled and whose 
 realms are governed by those mysterious laws which have their 
 fountain source in God, and whose operations are controlled by 
 the exercise of His infinite power and love. His defects, then. 
 
XXX 
 
 Memoir. 
 
 did not seriously impair the integrity of his virtues, which 
 were many and solid. Chief amongst his virtues may be named 
 his zeal for the honor and glory of God, and devotion to the 
 Mother of God — the latter the necessary outgrowth of the 
 former. The deep and earnest piety of Father Eyan towards 
 his "Queen and Patroness," as he loved to call her, bespeaks 
 much in his praise ; for, like all truly great men of the Catholic 
 Church, he saw that it was not only eminently proper, but also 
 a sublime act of Christian duty, to pay filial reverence and 
 honor [to the Mother of God. Hence Father Eyan crowned 
 Mary with many gems of rare beauty. Amongst them may 
 be named his beautiful poem, "Last o! May," dedicated to 
 the Children of Mary, of the Cathedral of Mobile, Ala. 
 Fiw Catholics will read these lines without experiencing 
 feelings of deep and tender devotion towards their Queen and 
 Mother. 
 
 Father |Ey an' s was an open, manly character, in which 
 there was no dissimulation. His generous nature and warm 
 heart were ever moved by kind impulses and influenced by 
 charitable feelings, as became his priestly calling. We may 
 readily believe him when he tells us that he never wrote a line 
 for hate's sake. He shrank instinctively from all that was 
 mean and sordid. Generosity was a marked trait of his 
 character, an ennobling principle of his nature, the motive 
 power of his actions, and the main-spring of his life. Friend- 
 ship was likewise congenial to his taste, if not a necessity of his 
 nature; and with him it meant more than a name. It was 
 a sacred union formed between kindred spirits — a chaiin of 
 affection whose binding link was fidelity.' Never was he false 
 io its claims, nor known to have violated its obligations. 
 Hence he was highly esteemed during life by numerous persons 
 of all classes and denominations; for his sympathies were as 
 broad as humanity, and as far-reaching as its wants and its 
 miseries. Yet he was a man of deep conviction and a strict 
 adherent to principle, or what he conceived to be principle ; for 
 
Memoir. xxxi 
 
 we find him long after the war still clinging to its memories, 
 and slow to accept its results, which he believed were fraught 
 with disaster to the people of his section. A Southerner of th« 
 most pronounced kind, he was unwilling to make any concession 
 to his victorious opponents of the North which could be with- 
 held from them. Perhaps, upon reflection, it may not appear 
 wholly strange or inexplicable that he should have so acted. 
 There was, at least, some foundation for his fears with regard 
 to the ill-fate of those of his section. Though peace had been 
 proclaimed, the rainbow of hope did not encircle the heavens 
 or cast its peaceful shadow over the South. Dark clouds 
 loomed up over that fair and sunny land, portentous of evil ; 
 for they were surcharged with the lightning of passion. The 
 chariot wheel of the conqueror had laid waste and desolate the 
 land. No one knew precisely what would follow; for passion's 
 dark spirit was abroad and ruling in high places. To make 
 matters worse and intensify the sufferings of the people still 
 more, they were debarred from participating in the political 
 affairs of their own States. Non-residents, and aliens in sym- 
 pathy and common interest, were appointed to rule over them, 
 if not to oppress them. Is it to be wondered at if some refused 
 to bow and kiss the hands that were uplifted against them ? 
 Among such was Father Ryan. All honor to the man and 
 those who stood by him I Instead of attempting to cast 
 obloquy upon their memory, we should do them honor for 
 having maintained in its integrity the dignity of the manhood 
 with which heaven had blessed them, when earth had deprived 
 them of all else that was dear and sacred to brave and honor- 
 able men. But how differently Father Eyan acted when the 
 oppressed people of the South were restored to their rights, 
 and when the great heart of the North went out in sympathy 
 towards them in their dire afSiction during the awful visitation 
 of the yellow fever, when death reaped a rich harvest in 
 Memphis and elsewhere, and a sorrow-stricken land was once 
 more buried in ruin and desolation. It was then, indeed, that 
 
xxxii Memoir. 
 
 Father Ryan and all good men beheld the grand spaotacle of 
 the whole North coming to tlie rescue of the afflicted South 
 with intense and sublime admiration. He then saw for certain 
 the rainbow of peace span the heavens ; and though his section 
 was wailing under the hand of affliction, he yet took down his 
 harp, which for years had hung on the weeping willows of his 
 much-loved South, and, with renewed vigor and strength of 
 heart, again touched its chords and drew forth in rich tones 
 and glorious melodies his grand poem "Reunited." Theujt 
 was that the star of peace shone out in the heavens, resplendent 
 with the brightness and purity of love, and dispelled the dark 
 and foul spirit of hate which had poisoned the air and polluted 
 the soil of free Columbia. Then, too, the angel of affliction 
 and the angel of charity joined hands together and pronounced 
 the benediction over a restored Union and a reunited people. 
 
 Before proceeding to speak of Father Ryan's poems, a few 
 observations upon poets and poetry in general may not be 
 deemed inappropriate. To speak of poets and their merits is 
 by no means an easy matter, even where one is in every respect 
 fitted to pronounce critical judgment. It requires rare quali- 
 fications for such a task ; a wide range of information ; exten- 
 sive knowledge of the various authors ; a keen sense of justice ; 
 a fine sense of appreciation of the merits and demerits of each, 
 and a rare power of discrimination. These are qualifications 
 seldom combined in a single person. Hence so few competent 
 critics are to be found. The writer does not claim to possess all 
 or any one of these powers in as eminent a degree as would fit 
 him for the work of passing judicious criticism upon the rarioua 
 authors and their works — or, indeed, any single one of them. 
 What he will venture to say, therefore, is by way of preface to 
 the remarks which he is called upon to offer upon the merits of 
 the particular poet whose productions he is specially called 
 upon to consider. 
 
 Of poets it may be said, that they are not like other men, 
 though invested with similar qualities and characteristics. 
 
a 
 a 
 
 i 
 
Memoir. 
 
 XXXIU 
 
 They differ in this : That they are not cold and calculating in 
 their speech ; they do not analyze and weigh their words with 
 the same precision ; nor are they always master of their feelings. 
 Possessed of the subtle power of genius, which no mortal can 
 describe, though all may experience its potent influence, they 
 cannot be confined within the narrow limits assigned to others 
 less gifted, nor subjected to fixed methods or unvarying pro- 
 cesses of mental action. No ; poets must roam in broader fields, 
 amidst brighter prospects and more elevated surroundings. 
 They must be left to themselves, to go where they choose, and 
 evolve their thoughts according to their own ways and fancies ; 
 for ways and fancies they have which are peculiar to themselves 
 and must be indulged. Genius is ever wont to be odd, in the 
 sense that it does not and cannot be made to move in common 
 ruts and channels. This is especially true of poetic genius, 
 whose very life may be said to depend upon the purity of its 
 Inspirations and the breadth and character of its surroundings. 
 Much has been said, and deservedly, in favor of the great 
 poets of antiquity. Unmeasured praise has been bestowed upon 
 the epic grandeur of Homer and the classical purity of Virgil. 
 They have ever been considered as foremost amongst the best 
 models of poetic excellence. Yet there was wanting to them 
 the true sources of poetic inspiration, whence flow the loftiest. 
 conceptions and sublimest emanations of genius. Homer never 
 rose above the summit of Olympus, nor Virgil above the level 
 of pagan subjects and surroundings. Therefore they eannot 
 be properly regarded as the highest and best models, certainly 
 not the safest, for Christians, who can feast their eyes and fill 
 their minds and hearts with more perfect models and more 
 sublime subjects. The sight of Sinai, where Jehovah, the God 
 of Israel, is veiled in the awful splendor of His majesty, whilst 
 His voice is heard in the loud war and fierce thunderinga 
 amongst the clouds, as the lightnings crown its summit, is fal 
 more grand and imposing, more sublime and inspiring, than 
 »re those subjects presented to us by pagan authors, howevw 
 
xxxiv Memoir. 
 
 refined and elegant may be the language employed to convey 
 their thoughts and depict their scenes. Wherefore, the Biblical 
 narratives furnish the highest and best models and the richest 
 sources of poetic inspiration; and "all great poets have had 
 recourse to those ever-living fountains to learn the secret of 
 elevating our hearts, ennobling our afEections, and finding sub- 
 jects worthy of their genius." 
 
 The writer would not care to assert that Father Ryan's 
 poems possess the majestic grandeur and elaborate finish of the 
 great masters, whose productions have withstood the severe 
 criticism of ages, and still stand as the highest models of poetic 
 excellence. His style is not that of Milton, who soared aloft 
 into the eternal mansions and opened their portals to our 
 astonished and admiring gaze, picturing to us "God in His 
 first frown and man in his first prevarication." Nor is it that 
 of Shakespeare, whose deep and subtle mind fathomed " the 
 dark abysses of the human heart," and laid bare and naked the 
 varied doings of mankind ! Nor is it, least of all, that of Dante, 
 who, with even greater boldness than Milton, plunged into the 
 impenetrable depths of the infernal regions, whose appalling 
 misery and never-ending woe he has described in words of 
 fearful and awe-inspiring grandeur. Neither is his style like 
 unto that of any one of the several leading American poets, 
 so far as their works are known to the writer, though some 
 have said that his style resembles that of the highly-gifted and 
 lamented Poe. 
 
 The writer will not undertake to say what place Father Eyan 
 will occupy in the Temple of Fame, though he believes that 
 an enlightened public sentiment will accord to him a high 
 position. The chief merits of his poems would seem to be the 
 simple sublimity of his verses ; the rare and chaste beauty of his 
 conceptions; the richness and grandeur of his thoughts, ana 
 their easy, natural flow; the refined elegance and captivating 
 force of the terms he employs as the medium through which 
 he communicates those thoughts, and the weird fancy which 
 
Memoir. xxxv 
 
 throws around them charms peculiarly their own. These, and 
 perhaps other merits, will win for their author enduring fame. 
 
 For the future of Father Ryan's poems we need have no 
 fears. They will pass down through the ages bearing the stamp 
 of genius, impressed with the majesty of truth, replete with 
 the power and grandeur of love; these are the purest sources 
 of poetic inspiration; for both are attributes of the Divinity. 
 Strip poetry of these, and nothing remains but its mutilated 
 relics and soulless body ; it becomes robbed of its highest glory 
 and its most enduring qualities. 
 
 Though the South may claim Father Ryan as her son of 
 genius, whose heart beat in sympathy with her hopes and her 
 aspirations, and of whose productions she may well feel proud ; 
 yet no section owns him, since he belongs to our common 
 country, and in a certain sense to mankind; for the fame of 
 genius is not controlled by sections or circumscribed within 
 limits; it extends beyond the confines of earth — ^yea, unt? 
 eternity itself 1 It is proper to regard him in this light as the 
 heritage of the nation; for in the nation's keeping his fame 
 will be secure and appropriately perpetuated. All sections will 
 unite in doing honor to his memory, which is associated with 
 grand intellectual triumphs, won by the union of the highest 
 gifts of the Creator — the union of religion and poetic genius; 
 the former the source and inspiration of the latter. 
 
 Father Ryan also wrote several works of prose, chief 
 amongst which is that entitled "A Crown for Our Queen." 
 Like his poem, "Last of May," this book was intended as a 
 loving tribute to Mary, the Mother of God, whom he wished to 
 honor as the highest type and grandest embodiment of woman- 
 hood. If Father Ryan failed to make this work worthy of the 
 exalted subject — an opinion by no means expressed — it was not 
 from any lack of good-will and earnest purpose on his part. 
 With him tender affection for the Queen of Heaven was a pure 
 and holy sentiment, a sublime and ennobling act of piety. He 
 saw in her lofty and immaculate beauty the true ideal of 
 
xxxvi Memoir, 
 
 woman; and this explains the deep reverence and delioats 
 sentiment of respect and sympathy which he exhibited towardai 
 all women. Poetical sentiment and .religious feeling he thus 
 happily blended, as they should ever be, in directing and 
 influencing man's action in his relations and intercourse with 
 woman. 
 
 Three essentially poetical sentiments exist in man, says a 
 distinguished writer: The love of God, the love of woman, 
 and the love of country — the religious, the human, and the 
 political sentiment. For this reason, continues the same writer, 
 wherever the knowledge of God is darkened, wherever the face 
 of woman is veiled, wherever the people are captive or enslaved, 
 there poetry is like a flame which, for want of fuel, exhausts 
 itself and dies out. On the contrary, wherever God reigns upon 
 His throne in all the majesty of His glory, wherever woman 
 rules by the irresistible power of her enchantments, wherever 
 the people are free, there poetry has modest roses for the 
 woman, glorious palms for the people, and splendid wings 
 with which to mount up to the loftiest regions of heaven. 
 
 Father Byan also won distinction as an orator, a lecturer, 
 and an essayist, having contributed to several of the leading 
 journals and magazines of the country. His oratory was not 
 of the cold and unimpassioned kind which falls upon the ears, 
 but fails to make an impression on the heart. He did not 
 lose sight of the fact that the chief end and aim of oratory 
 are to arouse men to a sense of their duty, deter them from the 
 commission of evil, and inspire them with high and holy pur- 
 poses, and noble, generous resolves, the accomplishment of 
 which demands that the living, breathing spirit or soul should 
 be infused into the words. Though the unction of divine 
 charity can alone give eiHcacy to man's words, yet man must 
 not appear to be devoid of those qualities and attributes which 
 contribute towards making a lasting impression upon the minds 
 and hearts of those Whose interests are presumed to be dear 
 t» him. This was the spirit that animated Father Ryan, and 
 
Memoir. 
 
 XXXVJl 
 
 »1I liis efforts were directed towards the accomplishment of the 
 objects stated. It is not claimed that all his discourses were 
 up to the highest standard o£ literary excellence, or above 
 the test of exact criticism. Some of his efforts did not bear 
 evidence of deep tho\ight or careful and exhaustive preparation, 
 but all exhibited warmth of soul and earnestness of purpose. 
 It may be well to remark in connection with this, that Father 
 Ryan's health tor many years was such that it would not permit 
 of his engaging in laborious mental work. And yet he labored 
 much and spoke often ; for his zeal and mental activity were 
 greatly in excess of his strength. Had his physical powers 
 corresponded to his rare mental endowments, the value of his 
 productions — great as it now is — would have been enhanced. 
 The marvel is that be was able to sustain those powers of mind 
 which marked him up to the time of his death. 
 
 Though he had been ailing for years, as has been stated, yet 
 his wonderful energy of mind made it appear to many that 
 there was no immediate danger of his life. When the end 
 came it was a surprise to all, even himself. To him let us hope 
 that it was not unprovided for. We have the gratifying assur- 
 ance that it was not so ; for we are told that he had retired into 
 a Franciscan monastery in Louisville, Ky., to make a retreat, 
 intending, at its close, to finish a "Life of Christ," on which he 
 was engaged, or purposed to undertake. Little did he think, 
 apparently at least, that the Angel of Death pursued him and 
 would soon deliver the final message to him. He did not fear 
 the end. Why should he ? Death has no terrors for the truly 
 Christian soul. It is not the end, but the beginning of life; 
 not the destroyer, but the restorer of our rights — that which 
 put* us in possession of our eternal home in heaven. There- 
 fore he was not gloomy nor despondent at the sight of the 
 grave. He saw beyond it the glorious sunshine of God's pres- 
 ence and the cheering prospect of His love. The final moment 
 at last came and found him prepared. On the 33d of April, 
 1886, the soul of Abrara J. Byan, priest and poet, beloved of 
 
xxxviii Memoir. 
 
 all who knew him, passed quietly away, let us hope, from earth 
 to heaven, there to sing the glorious songs whose melodies are 
 KJ^^uned to the harps of angels, and whose mysterious harmonies 
 ransh with delight the pure souls of the just. As the getting 
 sun on a calm eve sinks beneath the horizon, gilding the 
 heavens with its mild yet gorgeous splendor, so did the grand 
 soul of Father Kyan pass into eternity, leaving behind the 
 bright light of his genius and virtues — the one to illumine the 
 firmament of literature, and the other to serve as a shining 
 example to men. 
 
 Here the, writer would end this imperfect tribute to a truly 
 great character, did he not wish to remind the reader that ha 
 must not regard it as an entire portrait of the illustrious dead, 
 though he has tried to present him clothed with some, at least, 
 of the attributes and qualities which marked him during life. 
 The failure, if such it be, must be ascribed to his own want of 
 skill and ability rather than to any lack of merit in the subject. 
 If he has not invested him with the panoply of his greatness, 
 he has endeavored to strew some flowers over his grave ; and 
 these are love's purest and best offering, which, were he living, 
 would be most acceptable to the heart of the poet ; for love it 
 was that inspired its tenderest promptings and holiest feelings, 
 and consecrated them to its ennobling influence. 
 
 Another thought, and the writer will bring his remarks to 
 a close. This thought will be borrowed from the dead priest's 
 poem, "Reunited," to suggest a sentiment in response to his 
 prayer for a union of all sections — a sentiment which cannot 
 fail to meet a ready and generous acceptance on the part of all 
 true lovers of liberty. The thought is embodied in the fol- 
 lowing words, which take the form of an appeal : 
 
 Let all hearts join in the wish that the valor displayed and 
 the sacrifices endured on both sides during the late civil war 
 may henceforth unite all sections of our common country more 
 closely in the bonds of fraternal afiection, and cement more 
 £rmly the foundations of our political superstructure, now so 
 
Me. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 vast and imposing, thus serving as a guaranty for the stability, 
 permanence, and enduring greatness of the republic 1 Thus 
 will we respond to the prayer of the dead priest, whose poem, 
 the "Lost Cause," and song of "The Conquered Banner," will 
 mingle harmoniously with the soft, earnest words and sweet, 
 placid tones of his peaceful "Reunited." So the songs of the 
 dead poet will be music to the living until time shall be no 
 more. 
 
 W-ISHINSTON, D. C. 
 
BONO OF THE MYSTIC. 
 
 I WALK down the Valley of Silence — 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley— alone! 
 
 And I hear not the fall af a footstep 
 Around me, save God's and my own; 
 
 And the hiash 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; 
 
 Ix)ng ago was I weary of places 
 Where I met but the human — and sin. 
 
 I waited 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 gi-ave." 
 
 (35) 
 
o6 fooiig of the Mystic. 
 
 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 dew-drops 
 
 That fall on the roses in May; 
 And my prayer, like a jjerfume from Censers, 
 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
Sotujf of the MyHtk. 37 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 
 I dream all the songs that I sing; 
 And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
 
 Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 
 A message of Peace they may bring. 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the Silence 
 That never shall float into speech; 
 
 *And I have had dreams in the Valley 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
 And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley— 
 Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! 
 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: 
 
 They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
 Too pure for the touch of a word! 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 
 
 It lieth afar between mountains, 
 And God and His angels are there: 
 
 And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
 And one the bright mountain of Prayer 
 
REVERIE. 
 
 Okly 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! 
 
Revo-ic. 39 
 
 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. 
 1 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 oflf her golden crown. 
 
 And flung it sorrowfully down. 
 
40 Reverie. 
 
 Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride I 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 mother there. 
 
Reverie. 41 
 
 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 I 
 
LINES— 1875. 
 
 Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore. 
 
 And ask of them why do they sigh? 
 
 Tlie 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 L 
 
Lines— 1875. 43 
 
 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; 
 
44 Xme8—1875. 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. 
 
 On — sad voiced — ^they flow, but they never tell why. 
 
 "Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 
 Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I 
 
 Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea. 
 And the voices that sound in the skyj 
 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 L 
 
4 MEMORY. 
 
 OxE bright memory shines like a star 
 
 In the sky of my spirit forever; 
 And over my pathway it flashes afai- 
 
 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 gazo 
 
 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. 
 
 (49) 
 
6 A Memory. 
 
 One bright memory; others have passed 
 
 Back into the shadows forever; 
 But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, 
 
 Sheds a light that will pass away never. 
 
 Shine on, shine always, thou star of my days! 
 
 And when Death's starless night gathers o'er me, 
 Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze. 
 
 And light the dark valley before me. 
 
RHYME. 
 
 One idle duj — 
 
 A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore- 
 In a breezeless bay, 
 "We listless lay — 
 
 Onr 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. 
 
48 Rhyrtu. 
 
 No ebb! no flow/ 
 Ko sound! no stir in the -wide-wondrous calm; 
 
 In the sunset's glow 
 
 The shore shelved low 
 And enowTwhite, 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 wayeward flew; 
 
 Peace rested there! 
 
 Light everywhere! 
 Nay! Light! some shadows fell on that fair scene. 
 
 And — ^we are two. 
 
 Some shadows/ Where? 
 No matter \^here! 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. 
 
Rhyme, 49 
 
 We spake no word, 
 Tho' each I -vveen 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." 
 
 K"ay! Peace, not so! 
 The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's spell 
 
 And fear to flow. 
 
 But to and fro — 
 Beyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas 
 
 Will sink and swell. 
 
 No word e'en yet: 
 Were our eyes speaking while they watched the sky? 
 
 And in the sunset 
 
 Infinite regret 
 Swept sighing from the skies into our souls: 
 
 I wonder why? 
 
50 RUjmc. 
 
 A half hour passed — 
 'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus. 
 
 Words came at last, 
 
 Fluttering and fast 
 As shadows Tciliug 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. 
 
Rhyme. 5X 
 
 "The treezo blows fair," 
 He said; "the waking waves set towards the sliore." 
 
 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 
 iShall ever tell our Sacramental thought 
 
 When — we were two. 
 
NOCTURNE. 
 
 I SIT to-night by the firelight, 
 And I loolc 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 flre, I see only 
 
 One Heart, one Face, and one Kame. 
 
 (52) 
 
Nocturne. 6 
 
 But where are the olden pictures? 
 
 And Avhere 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 
 Tliat flicker and flash, as ruddy 
 
 To-night as in other days. 
 
 But there must he a change — I feel it. 
 
 To-night not an old picture camoj 
 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. 
 
54 Nocturne. 
 
 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 coals' 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 yision of one? 
 
Nocturne. bb 
 
 Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, 
 " One Eternal alone reigns above." 
 Is it true? and all else are but idols. 
 So the heart can have only one Love? 
 
 Only one, all the rest are but idols. 
 That fall from their shrines soon or late. 
 
 When the Love that is Lord of the temple. 
 Comes ■with sceptre and crown to the gate. 
 
 To be faithless oft means to be faithful, 
 
 To be false often means to be true; 
 The vale that loves clouds that are golden 
 
 Forgets them for skies that are blue. 
 
 To forget often means to remember 
 
 What we had forgotten too long; 
 The fragrance is not the bright flower, 
 
 The echo is not the sweet song. 
 
 Am I di-eaming? No, there is the firelight* 
 
 Gaze I ever so long, all the same 
 I only can see in its glov/ing 
 
 A Hearti a Face, and a Name. 
 
Nocturne. 
 
 Farewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces! 
 
 Only ashes now under the blaze. 
 Ye never again will smile on me, 
 
 For I'm touching the end of my days. 
 
 And the beautiful fading firelight 
 Paints, now, with a pencil of flame. 
 
 Three pictures— yet only one picture — 
 A Heart, a Face, and a Name. 
 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 How Bwift 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 hrows 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. 
 
 (67) 
 
58 The ■ Old Year and the JS&c. 
 
 But tlie flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair, 
 With the past's withered leaflets may never compare; 
 For dear is tach 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 
 Thau the stars that flash out from the future's >iright 
 skies. 
 
 And why not so? 
 
 1 he 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 oflf our tears while they whispered 
 
 relief; 
 And the stories of hearts tliat may not be revealed 
 In the hearts of tho dead years are buried and sealed. 
 
The Old Ytar and the New. 50 
 
 Let the New Yt-ar h'mg 
 
 At the Old Year's grave: 
 Will the New Year brhig 
 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 tlie Old Year dies; 
 In how short a while 
 Shall the smiles be sighs ? 
 Yea! Stranger- Year, thou hast many a charm, 
 And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm. 
 But, dearer than thou — in his shroud of snows- 
 Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes. 
 
 Yea! bright New Year, 
 
 O'er all the earth, 
 With song and cheer. 
 They will hail thy birth; 
 They will trust thy words in a single hour, 
 They will love thy face, they will laud thy power; 
 For the Neio has charms which the Old has not, 
 And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot. 
 
HBm'8 FLAG. 
 
 tJXBOLL 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. 
 
 (60) 
 
'Tis the sunburst resplendent — far flashing on high ! 
 Erin's dark night is waning, her day dawn is nigh! 
 
Erin' 9 Flog. 6 J 
 
 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 nighl 
 
 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 t«ar 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 well 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 coflinless bed, 
 That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; 
 
62 Erin's Flag. 
 
 That we'll cliug to the cause which we glory to wed, 
 •'Til the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
 Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — 
 That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red! 
 
 Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home, 
 Full long has its lot been to wander and roam, 
 It has followed the fate of its (^ons o'er the world, 
 But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor fnrledj 
 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 
 ihall 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 bi-oad dome, 
 Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam. 
 They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam. 
 They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home!" 
 
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 
 
 FoETH 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 Eight, 
 Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light. 
 
 Led us to Victory. 
 
 Out of its scabbard, where, full long. 
 
 It slumbered peacefull}-. 
 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 liCe. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard, high in air 
 
 Beneath Virginia's sky — 
 And (hey 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. 
 
 (68) 
 
64 The Sword of Bobert Lee. 
 
 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 bladft 
 Of noble Kobert Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
 Bright flashed the sword of Lee ; 
 
 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again. 
 
 It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain. 
 
 Defeated, yet without a stain, 
 Proudly and peacefully. 
 
LIFE. 
 
 A BABY played with the surplice sleeve 
 Of a gentle priest; while in accents low, 
 
 The sponsors murmured the grand " I believe," 
 And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow 
 
 In the name of the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit — Three in One. 
 
 Spotless as a lily's leaf, 
 
 Whiter than the Christmas snow; 
 Not a sign of sin or grief, 
 
 And the babe laughed sweet and low. 
 
 A smile flitted over the baby's face: 
 Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing 
 
 Just passing then, and leaving a trace 
 Of its presence as it soared to sing? 
 
 A hymn when words and waters win 
 
 To Grace and life a child of sin. 
 
 Not an outward sign or token. 
 That a child was saved from woe. 
 
 But the bonds of sin were broken. 
 And the babe laughed sweet and low. 
 
 (05) 
 
66 Life. 
 
 A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, 
 And out of the cloud griefs rain fell faet; 
 
 Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, 
 Out of the future, or the past? 
 
 Ahl 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 mothers grave, 
 Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide, 
 
 'Til he heard the moan of the mighty wave. 
 That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. 
 
Lijc. 67 
 
 Out from the shore and over the deep, 
 He sailed away and learned to weep. 
 
 Furrowed grew the face once fair, 
 
 Under storms of human woe; 
 Silvered grew the dark brown hair, 
 
 And he wailed so sad and low. 
 
 The years swept on as erst they swept, 
 Bright wavelets once, dark billows now. 
 
 Wherever he sailed he ever wept, 
 A cloud hung over the darkened brow — 
 
 Over the deep and into the dark. 
 
 But no one knew where sank his hark. 
 
 Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, 
 The world still laughed, 'tis ever so — 
 
 God only knows the baby's doom. 
 That laughed so sweet and low. 
 
A LAUGH— AND A MOAN. 
 
 The brook, that down the Valley 
 
 So musically drips. 
 Flowed never half so brightly 
 
 As the light laugh from her lipSt 
 
 Her face was like the lily. 
 Her heart was like the rose, 
 
 Her eyes were like a heayen, 
 Where the sunlight always glow* 
 
 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. 
 
 188J 
 
A Laugh — And a Moan. 69 
 
 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!" 
 
 Bang 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 
 
 Pilled 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. 
 
70 A Lau'jh — Aiid a Moca. 
 
 For the sunsliiue all had faded 
 From the valley and the flower, 
 
 And the once fair face Wiis 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 shQ sighed amid the shadows 
 Of the sunset of her years. 
 
 All the rippling streams of laughter 
 From onr hearts and lips that flow. 
 
 Shall be frozen, cold years after. 
 Into icicles of woe. 
 
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 
 
 Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, 
 
 True as the truest that wore it, 
 Brave as the bravest he marched away, 
 (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), 
 Triumphant waved our flag one day — 
 
 He fell in the front before it. 
 
 Firm as the firmest, where duty led, 
 
 He hurried without a falter; 
 Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
 And the day was won — but the field was red — 
 And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 
 
 On his country's hallowed altar. 
 
 On the trampled breast of the battle plain 
 Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 
 
 On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain, 
 
 (His mother dreams they will meet again). 
 
 The fairest form amid all the slain, 
 Like a child asleep he nestled. 
 (") 
 
72 In Ilcmory of My Brother. 
 
 In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 
 The field where his comrades found him, 
 
 They buried him there — and the big tears crept 
 
 Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. 
 
 (His mother — God pity her — smiled and slept, 
 Dreaming her arms were around him). 
 
 A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, 
 
 A grave in the heart of his mother — 
 His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; 
 There is not a name, there is not a stone. 
 And only the voice of the winds maketh moan 
 O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn 
 But — his memory lives in the other. 
 
"OUT OF THE DEPTHS.'' 
 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 The cry went up from a sea — 
 The waves were wild with an awful wrath. 
 Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; 
 
 The clouds hung low: 
 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed. 
 
 Lost! Lost! Lost I 
 The cry floated over the waves — 
 Far over the pitiless waves; 
 It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; 
 The WUows 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. 
 
74 "Oui of the Depths." 
 
 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 hut 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 dai'k — 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 winds' and tempests' feet. 
 
 The rose that waves upon its tree, 
 In life sheds perfume all around; 
 
 More sweet the perfume floats to me 
 Of roses trampled on the ground. 
 
 The waving rose with every breath 
 Scents carelessly the summer air; 
 
 The wounded rose bleeds forth in death 
 A sweetness far more rich and rare. 
 
 It is a truth beyond our ken — 
 And yet a truth that all may read — 
 
 It is with roses as with men. 
 The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. 
 
 The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom 
 Out of a heart all full of grace, 
 
 Gave never forth its full jierfumc 
 Until the cross became its vase. 
 
 (76) 
 
MARCH OF TEE DEATHLESS DEAD. 
 
 Gatheb the sacred dust 
 
 Of the warriors tried und 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 Soiithern slain. ' 
 
 We care not whence they came. 
 
 Dear in their lifeless clay! 
 Whether unknown, or known to fame. 
 Their cause and coiint'ry still the samej " 
 
 They died — ^and wore the Gray, 
 
 (76) 
 
March of tlie Deathless Dead. 77 
 
 "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? 
 
 Giither 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 togetuer bleu. 
 
 Together still shall sleep. 
 
REUNITED. 
 
 [written aftek the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.] 
 
 Purer than thy own Avhite snow, 
 
 Nobler than thy mountains' heiglit; 
 Deeper than the ocean's flow, 
 
 Stronger than thy own pyoud might; 
 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 braye 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. 
 
Beu/tit-etl. 'i 
 
 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, 
 Baehel-like, amid her dead. 
 
 Her bravest, fairest, purest, best. 
 
 The waiting grave would welcome as its guea 
 
 The Noi thland, 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. 
 
 "^o 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 oi^e. 
 
30 Reunited. 
 
 "Thou givest back my sons again," 
 
 The Southland to the Northland cries; 
 "For all my dead, on battle plain. 
 Thou biddest my dying now uprise: 
 I still my sobs, I cease my tears. 
 And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. 
 
 "Blessings on thine every wave. 
 Blessings on thine every shore. 
 Blessings that from sorrow save. 
 
 Blessings giving more and more. 
 For all thou gavest thy sister land, 
 Northland, in thy generous deed and grand." 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 Adown the valley dripped a stream. 
 White lilies drooped on either side; 
 
 Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream 
 In such a place at eventide. 
 
 Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue 
 That well became the valley fair, 
 
 And grassy fringe of greenest hue 
 Hung round its borders everywhere. 
 
 And where the stream, in wayward whirls. 
 Went winding in and winding out. 
 
 Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls 
 Without their pride, all strewn about. 
 
 And here and there along the strand. 
 Where some ambitious wave had strayed, 
 
 Kose little monuments of sand 
 As frail as those by mortals made. 
 
 (81) 
 
82 .-1 ilcuiorij. 
 
 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 tlie 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 trutli — to touch the sky. 
 
A Memory. H'i 
 
 And to that vale, from first of May 
 
 TJiitil the last of August went, 
 Beauty, the exile, came each day 
 
 In all her charms, to cast her tent. 
 
 'Twas there, one long-gone August day, 
 
 I wandered down the valley fair: 
 The spell has never passed away 
 
 That fell upon my spirit there. 
 
 The summer sunset glorified 
 
 The clouded face of dying day, 
 Which flung a smile upon the tide 
 
 And lilies, ere he passed away. 
 
 And o'er the valley's grassy slopes 
 
 There fell an evanescent sheen. 
 That flashed and faded, like the hopes 
 
 That haunt us of what might have been. 
 
 And rock and tree flung back the light 
 
 Of all the sunsets golden gems. 
 As if it were beneath their right 
 
 To wear such borrowed diadems. 
 
84 A Memory. 
 
 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. 
 
A Memory. 85 
 
 And slow and soft, and soft and slow, 
 From darkling earth arid darkened sky. 
 
 Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro. 
 And spectral shadows flitted by. 
 
 And then; methbitght, upon the swiard • 
 
 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 test. 
 
 And for the dead one still will weep. 
 
86 A Memory. 
 
 I walked adown the singing stream, 
 The lilies slept on either side; 
 
 My heart — it could not help but dream 
 At eve, and after eventide. 
 
 Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach 
 With more than earthly fancies fraught. 
 
 That not the strongest wings of speech 
 Could ever touch their lowest thought 
 
 Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far— 
 Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue — 
 
 That swept around, as sweeps a star 
 The boundless orbit of the True. 
 
 Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, 
 Where human passion played no part. 
 
 As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, 
 Or hunt an archangelic heart 
 
 Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense. 
 And rose too high to stoop to it, 
 
 And framed aloft like frankincense 
 In censers round the infinite. 
 
A Memory. 87 
 
 Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flightl 
 
 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! star-lit valley! Lilies white! 
 
 The poet dreamed — ye slumbered deep! 
 But when tha priest knelt down tliat night 
 
 And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep? 
 
 m * * * * * 
 
 The stream sang down the valley fair, 
 
 I saw the wakened; lilies nod, 
 I knew they heai'd me whisper there: 
 "How beautiful art Thou, my GodI" 
 
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 teafs— 
 And cheeks waii with the wofes of years, 
 
 A woman went one day. 
 
 And, one by one, adown the aisles, 
 Ad own the long, lone aisles. 
 Their faces bright with holy smiles 
 
 Thai 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 wt)e- worn' face. 
 
 Her forehead touched the floor; 
 The wreck that drifted thro' the years— r 
 Sin-driven thro' the years— ' :; ;. 
 
 Was floating o'er the tide of tearsj ' • '.,' 
 
 To Mercy's golden shore. 
 
 (88) 
 
At Liost. 89 
 
 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 sighg 
 
 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 shores 
 
 For Mary's shrine was there. 
 
A LAND WITHOUT RUINS. 
 
 "A land without ruins is a land without memories— a land with- 
 out memories Is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel 
 crowQ 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 ont 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 ovei'grown 
 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. 
 
 (90) 
 
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. 
 
 (Ml 
 
92 Memories. 
 
 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. 
 
TEE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! 
 
 My face is wan and white with many woes I 
 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, 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. 
 
 P8) 
 
i The Prater of the ISonth. 
 
 Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path 
 
 I kneel, and Availing o'er my glories gone, 
 I still each thought of hate, each throb of wratli, 
 
 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 gi'ief. 
 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 t«-morrow's sun ? 
 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 aim coriv 
 
 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. 
 
The Prayer of the South. 95 
 
 Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead — 
 
 Oh! how I loved each known and nameless onel 
 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; 
 Knt 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, alasl 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 sorrows 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? 
 
96 The Prayer of the South. 
 
 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 Avings, 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 prayerl 
 
FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION: 
 
 A NIGHT PBAYEB. 
 
 Daek! Dark! Dark I 
 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? 
 
 (97) 
 
98 Feast of tJie Assumption. 
 
 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 
 
 I knelt afar — 
 A shadow only dims the scene 
 
 Where shines a starl 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 And all day long, beyond the sky, 
 
 Sweet, pure, and high, 
 The angels' 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. 
 
Fcaet of the Assumption. D9 
 
 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 hend 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 how my head ; 
 Angels and altars hailed thee Queen 
 
 All day; ah ! be 
 To-night what thou hast ever been — 
 
 A mother to me I 
 
100 Feast of the Assumption. 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 Thy queenly crown in angels' sight 
 
 Is fair and bright; 
 Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night 
 
 Its jeweled light 
 Shines not as the tender loTe-light shines, 
 
 Mary! mild. 
 In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pineu 
 
 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 aboTe 
 
 Where angels are; 
 But, Mother! fold in thine arms of lovts 
 
 Thy child afar! 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 Mary! I call! Wilt hear the prayer 
 
 My poor lips dare? 
 JTea! be to all a Queen most fair, 
 
 Crown, sceptre, bear! 
 
Feast of tlie Assumption. 101 
 
 But look on me with a mother's eyes 
 
 From heaven's bliss ; 
 And waft to me from the starry skies 
 
 A mother's kiss! 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 The sun is set, the day is dead; 
 
 Her Feast has fled! 
 Can she forget the sweet blood shed, 
 
 The last words said 
 That evening — "Woman! behold thy Son!" 
 
 Oh! priceless right. 
 Of all His children! The last, least one, 
 
 Is heard to-night. 
 
SURSUM CORDA. 
 
 Weakt 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 Kest. 
 
 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. 
 
 Kestless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling nigfit 
 
 and day. 
 And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns 
 
 along your way: 
 
Sumuin Coirld. 103 
 
 Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toiliugs all 
 
 shall cease. 
 And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for 
 
 peace. 
 
 Restless hearts! God is Peace. 
 
 Breaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and 
 
 lone, 
 And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins 
 
 moan! 
 In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest 
 
 alloy, 
 And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of 
 
 your joy. 
 
 Broken hearts ! God is Joy. 
 
 Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, 
 
 dreary years. 
 Ye are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet 
 
 with tears; 
 In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, 
 Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur, "Where 
 
 is home?" 
 
 Homeless hearts! God is Home. 
 
A CHILD'S WISH. 
 
 BEFORE AN ALTAB. 
 
 I WISH I were the little key 
 That locks Love's Captive in. 
 
 And lets Him out to go and frea 
 A sinful heart from sin. 
 
 I wish I were the little bell 
 
 That tinkles for the Host, 
 \Vlien 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. 
 
 (104) 
 
A Child's WUh. 105 
 
 I wish I were the little flower 
 
 So near the Host's sweet face, 
 Or like the light that half an hour 
 
 Burns on the shrine of grace. 
 
 I wish I were the altar where. 
 
 As on His mother's breast, 
 Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er 
 
 In Eucharistic rest. 
 
 But, oh! my God, I wish the most 
 
 That my poor heart may be 
 A home all holy for each Host 
 
 That comes in love to me. 
 
"PRESENTIMENT." 
 
 "MY SISTER. 
 
 Cometh a roice from a far-land I 
 
 Beantiful, sad, and low, 
 Shineth a light from the star-land I 
 
 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 1 thou callest to me!" 
 
 (lOK) 
 
"Frescntimcnt:' 107 
 
 And I saw the liglit; '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 1 soon may be there. 
 
LAST OF MAT. 
 
 TO THE CHILDREN OP MAEY OP THE CATHEDRAL OP MOBILE. 
 
 Is 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 sungleams came down from the heavens 
 
 Like angels, to hallow the scene. 
 And they seemed to kneel down with the shadowa 
 
 That crept to the shrine of the Queen. 
 
 U08> 
 
Last of May. 109 
 
 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. 
 
110 Last of Mu'j. 
 
 The banners were borne to the railing, 
 
 Beneath them, a group from each band; 
 And they bent their bright folds for the blessing 
 
 That fell from the priest's lifted hand. 
 And he signed the three fair, silken standards. 
 
 With a sign never foe could withstand. 
 What stirred them? The breeze of the evening? 
 
 Or a breath from the far angel-land ? 
 
 Then came, two by two, to the altar. 
 
 The young, and the pure, and the fair, 
 Tlieir 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, 
 
 Yoii still warm the love of the cold! 
 And the beautiful God who is wandering 
 
 Par 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. 
 
Zast of May. Ill 
 
 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 
 Trom 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 rose$ 
 
 Whose hearts were as pure as their hue; 
 Ah ! they fo the Christ are the truest, 
 
 Whose loves to the Mother are truel 
 
12 Last of May. 
 
 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 sungleams knelt down with the snadows, 
 
 And wove with their gold and their gray 
 A mantle of grace and of glory 
 
 For the last, lovely evening of May. 
 
"GONE." 
 
 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 fm-evermore. 
 
 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. 
 
 (113) 
 
FEAST OF THE SAC BED HEART. 
 
 Two lights on a lowly altai-; 
 
 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 vestmenti 
 
 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 lieadi 
 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. 
 
 (114) 
 
Fead of the Sacred Heart. 115 
 
 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. 
 
il6 Feast of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 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! 
 Oil ! hope that will shine forever. 
 
 O'er th% wastes of a weary land! 
 Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven 
 
 In the palm of the priest's pure hand. 
 
IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE, 
 
 SUPERIOR GENERAL OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE MISSION AND 
 OF THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 A SHADOW slept folded in vestments, 
 
 The dream of a smile on its face, 
 -Dim, soft as the gleam after sunset 
 
 That hangs like a halo of grace 
 Where the daylight hath died in the valley. 
 
 And the twilight hath taken its place — 
 A shadow! but still on the mortal 
 
 There rested the tremulous trace 
 Of the joy of a spirit immortal. 
 
 Passed up to its God in His grace. 
 
 A shadow! hast seen in the summer 
 
 A cloud wear the smile of the sun? 
 On the shadow of death there is flashing 
 
 The glory of noble deeds done; 
 On the face of the dead there is glowing 
 
 The light of a holy race run; 
 And the smile of the face is reflecting 
 
 The gleam of the crown he has won. 
 Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestments 
 
 Unstained by the priest who has gone. 
 
 (117) 
 
118 In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne. 
 
 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 profnndis," 
 
 The low chant is mingled with sighs ; 
 "Landate" 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 siill one of them. 
 
TEARS. 
 
 The tears that trickled down our eyes. 
 They do not touch the earth to-day; 
 But soar like angels to the skies, 
 And, like the angels, may not die; 
 For ah ! our immortality 
 Flows thro' each tear — sounds in each sigh. 
 
 What waves of tears surge o'er the deep 
 
 Of sorrow in our restless souls! 
 And they are strong, not weak, who weep 
 Those drops from out the sea that rolls 
 Within their hearts forevermore; 
 Without a depth — without a shore. 
 
 But ah! the tears that are not wept. 
 The tears that never outward fall; 
 The tears that grief for years has kept 
 Within us — they are hest of all: 
 
 The tears our eyes shall never know, 
 Are dearer than the tears that flow. 
 
 (119) 
 
120 Tears. 
 
 Each night upon earth's flowers below. 
 
 The dew comes down from darkest skies. 
 And every night oar 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 foreverniore! 
 
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? 
 
 (121) 
 
THE LAND WE LOVE. 
 
 Land of the gentle and brave! 
 
 Our love is aa 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 the 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 deadl 
 aiit 
 
Z2V 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 
 Bound 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. 
 
 ***** 4: 
 
 My heart hath 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, 
 aas) 
 
REVERIE. 
 
 "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 whilfc. 
 
 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 yon and on me. 
 
 (IM) 
 
Reverie. 125 
 
 And the cloiads 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 t«arSj 
 While vain is the spirit's wild yearning 
 
 That they may come back in the years* 
 
1 26 Meverie. 
 
 Come back! did I say it? but never 
 
 Do eagles come back to the cage: 
 They have gone — ^they have gone — and forever! 
 
 Does youth come back ever to age? 
 
 No! a joy that has left us in sorrow 
 
 Smiles never again on our way; 
 But we meet in the farthest to-morrow 
 
 The face of the grief of to-day. 
 
 The brightness whose tremulous glimmer 
 
 Has faded we cannot recall; 
 And the light that grows dimmer and dimmer— 
 
 When gone — ^'"tis forever and all. 
 
 Not a ray of it anywhere lingers. 
 Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom; 
 
 Youth's roses perfume not the fingers 
 Of age groping nigh to the tomb. 
 
 For "the memory of joy is a sadness" — 
 
 The dim twilight after the day; 
 And the grave where we bury a gladness 
 
 Sends a grief, like a ghost, on our way. 
 
127 
 
 No day shall return that has faded, 
 The dead come not back from tlie 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." 
 
/ OFTEN WONDER WHY 'TIS SO. 
 
 Some find work where some find rest. 
 And 80 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 heat 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. 
 
/ Qfim Wonder Why 'lis So. 129 
 
 Some feet halt where some feet tread, 
 
 In tireless mai'ch, 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 grava. 
 
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. 
 
 (130) 
 
A BkuHing. 131 
 
 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 t^ars 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 f 
 
132 A Blessing. 
 
 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 yon everywhere; 
 And in many a holy hour. 
 As the sunshine folds the flower, 
 
 I will fold thy heart in prayer. 
 
JULY 9tjt, 187S. 
 
 Between two pillared clouds of gold 
 The beautiful gates of evening swung — 
 
 And far and wide from flashing fold 
 
 The half-furled banners of light, that hung, 
 
 O'er green of wood and gray of wold 
 
 And over the blue where the river rolled. 
 The fading gleams of their glory flung. 
 
 The sky wore not a frown all day 
 To mar the smile of the morning-tide. 
 
 The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay — 
 You never would think they had ever sighed; 
 
 The stream went on its sunlit way 
 
 In ripples of laughter; happy they 
 As the hearts that met at Eiverside. 
 
 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. 
 a33) 
 
134 Jutif 9th, 1S7Z. 
 
 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 oldl 
 
 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 he 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, 
 
 Ifo 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, hut ah! too brief! 
 
 Swift to the West bright-winged she fled; 
 Too soon on ev'ry look and leaf 
 
Jdy Olh, 1S72. 135 
 
 The last rays flushed which her plumage shed 
 Prom 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 skyl thou art a prophet still! 
 
 And by thy shadows and by thy rays 
 We read the future if we will. 
 
 And all the fates of our future ways; 
 To-morrows meet us in vale and hill. 
 And under the trees, and by the rill. 
 
 Thou givest the sign of our coming days. 
 
 That evening cloud was a sign, I ween — 
 
 For the sister of that Summer day 
 Shall come next year to the self-same scene; 
 
 The winds will sing the self-same lay. 
 The self-same woods will wave as green. 
 And Eiverside, 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. 
 
WAKH 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; 
 lict 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. 
 am 
 
/JV MEMORIAM. 
 
 BAVID J. RYAN, C. S. A. 
 
 Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping 
 
 In thy lonely battle graye; 
 Shadows o'er the past are creeping. 
 Death, the reaper, still is reaping. 
 Years hare 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 wast 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. 
 
 (137) 
 
138 In Memoriam. 
 
 "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 rae. 
 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. 
 
In Memoriam. 13'J 
 
 Forth, like many a noble other, 
 
 Went he, wliispering soft and low: 
 "Good-bye — pray for me, my mother; 
 
 Sister! kiss me — farewell, brother;" 
 
 And he strove his grief to smother. 
 
 Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, 
 
 And his parting gaze was tearless 
 
 Though his heart was lone and cheerless. 
 Thus from all he loved to go. 
 
 Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing 
 In the sunny Southern sky: 
 On, to death and glory dashing. 
 On, where swords are clanging, clashing. 
 On, where balls are crushing, crashing. 
 On, 'mid perils dread, appalling. 
 On, they're falling, falling, falling. 
 On, they're growing fewer, fewer. 
 On, their hearts beat all the truer. 
 
 On, on, on, no fear, no falter. 
 
 On, though round the battle-altar 
 There were wounded victims moaning. 
 There were dying soldiers groaning; 
 On, right on, death's danger braving. 
 Warring where their flag was waving. 
 While Baptismal blood was laving 
 
 All that field of death and slaughter; 
 
140 In Memoriam. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Eeeled 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 suUenness, 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, 
 
In Memoriam. 141 
 
 And his pulse faint, fainter beating' 
 Told his hours were few and fleeting; 
 And his brow grew white and whiter, 
 While his eyes grew strangely brighter; 
 There he lay — like infant dreaming, 
 With his sword beside him gleaming. 
 For the hand in life that grasped it. 
 True in death still fondly clasped it; 
 There his comrades found him lying 
 'Mid the heaps of dead and dying. 
 And the sternest bent down weeping 
 O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping: 
 'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, 
 And they told us how they found him 
 Where the bravest love to fall. 
 
 Where the woods, like banners bending, 
 Drooped in starlight and in gloom, 
 There, when that sad night was ending, 
 And the faint, far dawn was blending 
 With the stars now fast descending; 
 There they mute and mournful bore him. 
 With the stars and shadows o'er him. 
 And they laid him down — so tender — 
 And the next day's sun, in splendor. 
 Flashed above my brother's tomb. 
 
WHATf 
 
 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 yoicea 
 
 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. 
 
 (142) 
 
Whatf 143 
 
 But I know the word and its meaning; 
 
 I reached to its height that day, 
 When prayer sank into a silence 
 
 And my heart was so far away ; 
 But I may not murmur the music, 
 
 Nor the word may my lips yet say. 
 
 But some day far in the future. 
 And up from the dust of the dead. 
 
 And out of my lips when speechless, 
 The mystical word shall be said, 
 
 'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, 
 When the soul of the bard has fled. 
 
THE MASTERS VOICE. 
 
 The wares were weary, and they went to sleep ; 
 
 The winds were hushed ; 
 
 The starlight flushed 
 The farrowed 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. 
 
The Master's Voice. 145 
 
 A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark 
 
 Slept Mary's Son — 
 
 The only One 
 AVhose face is light! where all, all else, is dark. 
 
 His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fail 
 
 He dreamed of me 
 
 On that still sea — 
 The stai-s 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. 
 
1-tC The MtiMtr's Voice. 
 
 The sleeper woke! He gazed upon tlie deep; 
 
 He whispered: "Peace! 
 
 Winds — ^wild waves, cease! 
 Be still!" The tempest fled— the ocean fell asleep. 
 
 And, ah I when human hearts hy storms are tossed. 
 
 When life's lone bark 
 
 Drifts through the dark. 
 And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost. 
 
 He now, as then, with words of power and peace. 
 
 Murmurs: "Stormy deep. 
 
 Be still — still — ^and sleep!" 
 And, lo! a great calm comes — the tempest's perils cease. 
 
A "THOUGHT-FLOWER." 
 
 Silently — shadowly — ^some lives go, 
 
 And the sound of their yoices 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! 
 
148 A "TIioitght-Floicer." 
 
 Soundlessly — shadowly — such move on. 
 
 Dim as the dream of a child asleep; 
 And no one knoweth 'till they are gone 
 
 How lofty their souls — their hearts how deep; 
 Bright souls these — ■ 
 God only sees. 
 
 Lonely and hiddenly in the world — 
 
 Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay — 
 The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled 
 Until they fly from the world away. 
 And find their rest 
 On "Our Father's" breast. 
 Where earth's unknown shall be known the best. 
 And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest. 
 
A DEATH, 
 
 Crushbd with a burden of woe, 
 
 Wrecked in the tempest of sin : 
 Death came, and two lips murmured loir, 
 "Ah! once I was white as tjie 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. 
 
150 A Death. 
 
 Oh! would that my mother were here; 
 Is God like a mother? Has lie 
 Any love for a sinner like me?" 
 
 Her face wore the wildneas 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.'" 
 
A Death. 151 
 
 And a silence came down for awhile, 
 xVnd 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 ther*. 
 
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 srtnny 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 oui. years; 
 
 Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
 
 Of our souls, and the fall of our tears, 
 (lea) 
 
The Rosary of My l^mrs. 153 
 
 For the young are oft-times old, 
 Though their brows be bright and fair; 
 
 While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold — 
 O'er tliem the spring — but winter is there. 
 
 And the old are oft-times 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 teari. 
 
 Better a day of strife 
 
 Than a century of sleep; 
 Give me instead of a long stream of life 
 
 The tempests and tears of the deep. 
 
 A thousand joys may foam 
 
 On the billows of all the years; 
 
 But never the foam brings the lone back home- 
 It reaches the haven through tears. 
 
DEATH. 
 
 Out of the shadows of sadness. 
 Into the sunshine of gladness. 
 
 Into the light of the hlest; 
 Out of a land very dreary, 
 Out of the 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. 
 a64) 
 
Death. 155 
 
 Oat of a laud in whose boverB 
 Periah and fade all the flowers; 
 
 Out of the land of decay. 
 Into the Eden where fairest 
 Of flowerlets, 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 lomful. 
 
 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." 
 
WRAT AILS THE WORLDf 
 
 "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 tilings 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 
 
 Prom a sunset — ^like a moan 
 Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes. 
 
 "What ails the world?" he sang and aske^ ■— 
 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, 
 (isai 
 
What Ails the World. 157 
 
 "What ails tlie world?" An echo came — 
 "Ails the world?" The minstrel bands, 
 With famous or forgotten hands. 
 Lift Tip 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 'raptui-es 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 gi-eatest minstrel sJng3. 
 
158 What Ails the WbrM. 
 
 And so each song is incomplete, 
 
 And not a rhyme can ever round 
 Into the chords of perfect sound 
 The tones of thought that e'er surround 
 
 The ways walked by the poet's feet. 
 
 "What ails the •world?" he sings and sighs; 
 No answer cometh to his cry. 
 He asks the earth and asks the sky— 
 The echoes of his song pass by 
 Unanswered — and the poet dies. 
 
A THOUGHT. 
 
 Teere never -was a valley without a faded flower, 
 
 There never was a heaven withoxit 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 gleanis of glory the Summer sky that 
 fleck. 
 Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure- 
 mantled grave. 
 
 (Mt) 
 
160 A Thought. 
 
 There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear. 
 
 Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide; 
 Hope's hrightest robes are broidered with the sablo 
 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. 
 
A Thought. 161 
 
 The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the 
 grave; 
 The mother's song scarce hides the Deprofundis o£ 
 tlie 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 hurdened by the mysteries of 
 our ways. 
 Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly 
 bright. 
 
 And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a 
 guide. 
 And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the mean- 
 ing 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." 
 
162 A Thought. 
 
 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; 
 
 Tliough the burden crush you down; 
 Close your lips, and hide your pain, 
 First the cross, and then, the crown. 
 
Zy ROME. 
 
 At last, the dream of youth 
 Stands fair and bright before m^ 
 
 The sunshine of the home of truth 
 Falls tremulously o'er me. 
 
 And tower, and spire, and lofty doma 
 In brightest skies are gleaming; 
 
 Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, 
 Or am I only dreaming? 
 
 No, 'tis no dream; my yery 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. 
 
164 In Rome. 
 
 There senates sat, whose sceptre sought 
 
 An empire ^vithout limit; 
 There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought 
 
 That death would never dim it. 
 
 There rulers reigned; yon heap of stonei 
 Was once their gorgeous palace; 
 
 Beside them now, on altar-thrones, 
 The priests lift up the chalice. 
 
 There legions marched with hucklers hright. 
 
 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 Eome 
 
 The proud crown of immortal. 
 
In Rome, 1(55 
 
 There soldiers stood with armor on. 
 
 In steel-clad ranks and serried, 
 The while their red swords flashed upon 
 
 The slaves whose rights they buried. 
 
 Here Pagan pride, with sceptre, stood. 
 
 And fame would not forsake it. 
 Until a simple cross of wood 
 
 Came from the East to break it. 
 
 That Borne 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 Kome, 
 And leads the world to Heaven. 
 
 Decsubek 6, 1872. 
 
AFTER SICKNESS. 
 
 I NBAKLT 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: 
 
 (166) 
 
Ajfttr Slrkncsa. 167 
 
 "Come, death! but I am fearless, 
 
 I shrink not from your frown; 
 The eyes yon close are tearless; 
 
 Haste! strike this frail form down. 
 Come! there is no dissembling 
 
 In this last, solemn hour, 
 But 3'ou'll find my heart untrembllng 
 
 Before your awful power. 
 My lips grow pale and paler, 
 
 My eyes are strangely dim, 
 I wail not as a waller, 
 
 I sing a yictor'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, ajul 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. 
 
168 Afliii- SifJcness. 
 
 "Tliou 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 I am the victor! 
 
 Strong death! where is thy sting?"* 
 
 Milan, January, 1873. 
 
OLD TREES. 
 
 Old trees! old trees! in your mystic gloom 
 
 There's many a warrior laid, 
 And many a nameless and lonely tomb 
 
 Is sheltered beneath your shade. 
 Old trees! old trees! without pomp or prayer 
 
 We buried the brave and the true, 
 We fired a volley and left them there 
 
 To rest, old trees, with you. 
 
 Old trees, old trees, keep watch and ward 
 
 Over each grass-grown bed ; 
 'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard 
 
 Over our Southern dead; 
 Old trees, old trees, we shall pass away 
 
 Like the leaves you yearly shed. 
 But ye! lone sentinels, still must stay. 
 
 Old trees, to guard "our dead." 
 
AFTER SEEING PIUS IX. 
 
 I SAW his face to-day; he looks a chief 
 
 Who fears nor 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." 
 
 9m 
 
SENTINEL SONOS. 
 
 Whex 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; 
 
 Best arms! and guard their dust. 
 
 List! Songs! your watoh is long. 
 
 The soldiers' guard was brief; 
 Whilst right is right, ahd wrong is wrong. 
 
 Ye may not seek relief, 
 an) 
 
172 Sentind Songs. 
 
 Go! ■wearing the gray of grief! 
 
 Go! watch o'er tlie dead in gray! 
 Go! guard the private and guard the chie4 
 
 And sentinel their clayl 
 
 And the songs, in stately rhyme 
 And with softly-sonnding 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 hrave? 
 
 What tho' no monument epitaphed 
 Be liuilt above each grave? 
 
 When marble wears away 
 
 And monuments are dust, 
 The songs that guard our soldiers' clay 
 
 Will still fulfill their trust 
 
Sentinel Songs. 173 
 
 With lifted head and steady tread, 
 
 Like stars that guard the skies, 
 Cro watch each bed where rest the dead. 
 
 Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. 
 
 When falls the cause of Eight, 
 
 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 Eight will yet prevail. 
 
 Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! 
 
 Boom o'er the world and say: 
 Brave men may die — Eight has no death I 
 
 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! 
 
174 Sentinel Songg. 
 
 And the songs, with brave, sad face. 
 Go proudly down their way. 
 Wailing the loss of a conquered race 
 And waiting an Easter-day. 
 
 Away! away! like the birds. 
 They soar in their flight sublime; 
 
 And the waving wings of the poet's words 
 Flash down to the end of time. 
 
 When the flag of justice fails. 
 Ere its folds have yet been furled. 
 
 The poet waves its folds in waila 
 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 yon hear the feet of Fame 
 
 Coming to where ye moan. 
 
Sentinel Sonjs. 175 
 
 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. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Wlien the warrior's sword is lowered 
 
 Ere its stainless sheen gi-ows 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 ago. 
 
 Shriek shrilly o'er each day, 
 
 As fntnreward ye fly. 
 That the men were right who wore the gray. 
 
 And Eight can never die. 
 
176 Sentinel Songs. 
 
 And the songs, with waving wing, 
 
 Fly far, float far away 
 From the ages' crests'; 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, 
 
 AVill track you on your way. 
 And win the hearts of the future ytate 
 
 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 wateh above such dust, 
 
Sentinel Songa. 177 
 
 rhey 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 song through one of to-morrow's gates 
 
 Shall shine, but never set 
 
178 Sentind Sontf». 
 
 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 chorda 
 
 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. 
 
Setithid Songs. 179 
 
 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. 
 
180 Sentinel Songs. 
 
 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. 
 
 Nayl fame! success is best! 
 
 All lost! and nothing won: 
 North, keep the clouds that flush the "Wetst, 
 
 We have the sinking sun; 
 
Sentinel Songs. 181 
 
 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 Eight'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 
 Ho name hath risen, or ever shall risc^ 
 
 Like the name of Bobert Leo. 
 
182 Sentinel Songs. 
 
 Ah me! my -wordB 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 apari^ 
 
 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 gray is gray. 
 
 Wrong never accords with Eight. 
 
 Go! Glory, and forever guard 
 
 Our chieftain's hallowed dust; 
 And Honor! keep eternal ward! 
 
 And Fame! be this thy trust! 
 
Smtind Songs. 183 
 
 Go! with your bright emblazoned scroll 
 
 And tell the years to be, 
 The first of names that flash your roll 
 
 Is ours — great Eobert Lee. 
 
 Lee wore the gray! since then 
 
 'Tis Eight's and Honor's hue! 
 He honored it, that man of men. 
 
 And wrapped it round the true. 
 
 Dead! but his spirit breathes! 
 
 Dead ! but his heart is ours! 
 Dead! but his sunny and sad land UTeathea 
 
 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 Eight. 
 
 But Lee has a thousand graves 
 
 In a thousand hearts I ween ; 
 And tear-drops fall from our eyes in waves 
 
 That will keep his memory green. 
 
184 Sentinel Songs. 
 
 AhV Muse, you dare not claim 
 
 A nobler man than he, 
 Nor nobler man hath lesa of blame, 
 Nor blameless man hath purer name. 
 Nor purer name hath grander fame^ 
 
 Nor fame — another Lee. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 His face was sad; some shadow must have hung 
 Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, 
 Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, 
 Like cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there — 
 A shadow; and his face was always sad. 
 
 His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray 
 Within them met and blended with the blue, 
 And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream; 
 They looked beyond you into far-away, 
 And often drooped; his face was always sad. 
 
 His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim. 
 
 As if the edges of a cloud of tears 
 
 Had gathered there, and only left a mist 
 
 That made them moist and kept them ever moist. 
 
 He never wept; his face was always sad. 
 
 a85) 
 
186 FrayiiienU from cm Epic Foem. 
 
 I mean, not many saw liim 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 thj.t 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. 
 
Jb'rajments from an E^Ao Poem. 187 
 
 He had liis moods of silence and of speed;. 
 I asked him once the reason, and lie said: 
 "AYhen I speak much, my words are only words, 
 When I speak least, my words are more than words. 
 When I speak not, I then reveal myself! " 
 It was his way of saying things — he spoke 
 In quaintest riddles; and his face was sad. 
 
 And, when he wished, he wove around his words 
 A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled 
 The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold 
 Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard 
 Could soften hardest soul; that he so still 
 Could rouse the stillest mind; his face was sad. 
 
 He spoke of death as if it were a toy 
 
 For thought to play ivitli; and of life he spoke 
 
 As of a toy not worth the play of thought; 
 
 And of this world he spake as captives speak 
 
 Of prisons where they pine; he spake of men 
 
 As one who found pure gold in each of them. 
 
 He spake 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. 
 
188 Fragments from an Epic Poe,m. 
 
 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 haye 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 whoso 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 pasa 
 
 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. 
 
Fragments from an Epic Poem. 189 
 
 He was nor 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. 
 
 ******* 
 
 SPIKIT SOlfG. 
 
 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 ! 
 
190 Fmf/ment-f from an Epic Poem. 
 
 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, wave, 
 
 Wavelet never wore, 
 Stainless wave; and now you lave 
 
 The far and stormless shore — 
 Ever — ever — evermore ! 
 
 Who bade thee go, bluest wave, 
 
 Beyond the tempest's roar? 
 Who bade thee flow, fairest wave, 
 
 Unto the golden shore. 
 Ever — ever — evermore ? 
 
 Who waved a hand, purest wave? 
 
 A hand that blessings bore, 
 And wafted thee, whitest wave, 
 
 TJnto the fairest shore, 
 Ever — ever — evermore ? 
 
 Who winged thy way, O holy wave, 
 
 In days and days of yore? 
 And wept the words: "0 winsome wave. 
 
 This earth is not thy shore!" 
 Ever — ever — evermore ? 
 
Fragmcnti fnun an Epia I'ocui. 191 
 
 Who gave theo strength, snowy -wave — 
 
 The strength a great soul wore — 
 And said: "Float np to God! my wave. 
 
 His heart shall be thy shore!" 
 Ever — ever — evermore ? 
 
 Who said to tliee, poor, weak wave: 
 
 " Thy wail shall soon he o'er, 
 Float on to God, and leave me, wave, 
 
 Uiwn this rugged shore!" 
 Ever — ever — evermore ? 
 
 And tliou 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 amidthe storm, bright wave. 
 
 Like rock upon the shore; 
 Ever — ever — evermore ! 
 
 Sing at the feet of God, white wave. 
 
 Song sweet as one of yore! 
 I would not bring thee back, heart wave, 
 
 To break upon this shore, 
 Ever — ever — evermore ! 
 
192 Fragments from an Epio Focm. 
 
 "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 is 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 saye by the ghosts of gloom 
 
 Which seem to linger in the holy place — 
 
 The shadows of the sinners who passed there. 
 
 And wept, and spiritrshriven 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. 
 
Ffagments from an Epic Poem. 193 
 
 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 
 
 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: 
 
194 Fragment)! from an Epio Poem. 
 
 "There are transitions in the lives of all. 
 There are transcendent moments when we stand 
 In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, 
 And weak with very strength of liuman love 
 AVe 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, 
 AVhich 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: 'N"o.' 
 
 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 mel 
 
Fniffincnts from an EjjIo Poem. 19i 
 
 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 bi-ow 
 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 
 
196 Fragmetvls from an Epio Poem. 
 
 As if the spirit of the land pursued; 
 
 Then up again — and farther — and they flung 
 
 White, foamy arms around each other's neck; 
 
 Then back again with sudden rush and shout. 
 
 As if the sea, their mother, called them home; 
 
 Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, 
 
 But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed 
 
 Away, and further up the beach, and fell 
 
 Por 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 entertwining arms. 
 Each almost touching each, as if they feared 
 
Fraffments from mi Epio Poem. 197 
 
 To stand alone and look upon the sea. 
 
 The night was in the trees — tlie 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. 
 
198 rm^menk J'roM an Epic I'oeni. 
 
 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 tlie darkness — and it tore 
 Tlie bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, 
 Tlien quivered far away, and bent and broke 
 In flashing fragments; 
 
 And there came a peal 
 That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, 
 But did not stir a sand-gi-ain 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 tlic tranquil and the terrible — 
 That hour beside the sea. 
 
Fragnrndu from an J^jjia Pocm. 109 
 
 Tliere was a rock 
 Par 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 suflBcient 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 his feet. 
 Around its sides damp sea-weed 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 tlie 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 
 Wliirled 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'rj' drop were liot with wrath; 
 
200 Fragments from an Epio Poem. 
 
 And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, 
 
 Tlie lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, 
 
 And all the horror shrank in horror hack 
 
 Before the maddest peals that ever leaped 
 
 Out from the thunder's throat. 
 
 "Within the dark 
 We silent sab. No rain fell on the rock, 
 Xor in on land, nor shore; only on sea 
 The upper and the lower waters met 
 In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts 
 Ear 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 sinkings of the waves. 
 Between the stormy sea and stilly shore. 
 Between the rushings of the maddened rains. 
 Between the dark beneath and dark above. 
 
 We sat within the dread heart of the night. 
 One, pale with terror; one, as calm and still 
 And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock. 
 ******* 
 
LAKE COMO. 
 
 Winter on the mountains, 
 
 Summer on the shore, 
 The rohes of cnn-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, 
 (aoi) 
 
202 Lake Como. 
 
 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 mined castle. 
 
 Moss-mantled, loomed in view. 
 And cast its solemn shadow 
 
 Across the water's blue. 
 
Lake Como, 203 
 
 And chapel, cot, and villa, 
 Met here and there our gaze. 
 
 And many a crumblhig 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. 
 
204 Lake Como. 
 
 Tlirough strange and lonely places 
 "We glided thus for hours; 
 
 We saw no other faces 
 But the faces of the flowers. 
 
 The shores were sad and lonely 
 As hearts without a love. 
 
 While darker and more dreary 
 The mountains rose above. 
 
 But sudden round a headland 
 The lake would sweep again, 
 
 And voices from a village 
 Would meet us with their strain. 
 
 Thus all the day we glided, 
 Until the Vesper hell 
 
 Gave to the day, at sunset, 
 Its sweet and soft farewell. 
 
 Then back again Ave glided 
 Upon our homeward way. 
 
 When twilight wrapped the waters 
 And the mountains with its gray. 
 
Lake Como. 205 
 
 Bnt 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. 
 
•200 Lnhe Oomo. 
 
 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. 
 
 TJpon 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 Toice 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." 
 
Lake Como. 207 
 
 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. 
 
 Febsuxst 1, 1ST8. 
 
''PEACE I BE STILL* 
 
 Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; 
 
 Tor, oh I His eyes are this world's only light, 
 And when they close wild wares 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 wares 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 lie hide His power? 
 
 (208) 
 
"Peace! Be StiU." 20& 
 
 Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm 
 
 That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath; 
 Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm 
 
 The ship of faith upon its homeward path. 
 
 The Master sleeps — ^His pilot guards the bark; 
 
 He soon will wake, and at His mighty will 
 The light will shine where all before was dark — * 
 
 The wild waves still remember: "Peace! be still." 
 
 Rome, 1873. 
 
GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 O Heaet of Three-in-the eyening, 
 You nestled the thorn-crowned head 
 
 He leaned on you in His sorrow, 
 And rested on you when dead. 
 
 Ah! Holy Threc-in-the evening 
 He gave you His richest dower; 
 
 He met you afar on Calvary, 
 And made you "His own last hour." 
 
 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 Avith thine to-day; 
 Thou tellest the olden story, 
 I kneel — and I weep and pray. 
 Boulogne, sur meb. 
 
 (210) 
 
For many and many a time in grief 
 My weary fingers wandered 'round 
 Thy circled chain, and always fonnd 
 
 In Bome sl^h jiisii'? u^rtjSi L'stiRS., 
 
MV 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. 
 
 Tor many and many a time, in grief, 
 My weary fingers wandered round 
 Thy circled chain, and always found 
 
 In some Hail Mary sweet relief. 
 
 (211) 
 
212 My Beads. 
 
 How many a story you might tell 
 Of inner life, to all unknown; 
 I trusted you and you alone. 
 
 But ah! ye keep my secrets well. 
 
 Ye are the only chain I wear — 
 A sign that I am but the slave. 
 In life, in death, beyond the grave. 
 
 Of Jesus and His Mother fair. 
 
AT NIGHT. 
 
 Dkeaet! 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 domy; 
 
 While earth's turning, 
 
 There you're burning. 
 Beacons of a better home. 
 
 (218) 
 
214 At Nigld. 
 
 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? 
 
At Nisid. 215 
 
 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 j-ou'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 sighl 
 
216 ^i Night. 
 
 Men are dreaming, 
 Stars are gleaming 
 
 In the far-oif heaven's blue; 
 Bosom aching, 
 Musing, waking, 
 
 Midnight winds, I sigh with you I 
 
NOCTURNE. 
 
 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. 
 
 (!17) 
 
218 Nocturne. 
 
 The hours of day are like the wavea 
 That fret against the shores of sin: 
 They touch the human everywhere, 
 Tlie 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 fi'om 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 coma 
 Of home to hearts afar from home; 
 And thro' the darkness after day 
 Many a winged angel flics. 
 
Nocturne, 219 
 
 And somehow, tho' the eyes see less. 
 Our spirits seem to see the more; 
 When we look thro' night's shadow-bars 
 The soul sees more than shining stars. 
 Yea — sees the very loveliness 
 That rests upon the "Grolden Shore." 
 
 Strange reveries steal o'er us then, 
 Like keyless chords of instruments. 
 With music's soul without tlie notes; 
 And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats 
 A melody not made by men, 
 Xor ever heard by outer sense. 
 
 And -'what lias 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 bevoud our ken. 
 
SUNLESS DATS. 
 
 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 haye 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 rery 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. 
 
 (220) 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 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 — amoves 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. 
 
 (221) 
 
ST. MARY'S. 
 
 Back to where tlie rosea rest 
 Round a shrine of lioly name, 
 (Yes — ^they knew me Avhen 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 iinite, 
 From the morning unto niglit; 
 And somehow a clearer light 
 
 Shines along the quiet hours. 
 
St. Mary's. 223 
 
 God comes closer to me here — 
 Back of ev'ry rose leaf there 
 He is hiding — and the air 
 Tlirills -with calls to holy prayer; 
 
 Eartli gi'ows far, and heaven near. 
 
 Every single flower is fraught 
 With the very sweetest dreams, 
 Under cloitds 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. 
 
224 St. Mary's. 
 
 List! e'en now a wild bird sings. 
 And the roses seem to hear 
 Every note that thrills my ear, 
 Eising to the heavens clear. 
 
 And my soul soars on its wings 
 
 Up into the silent sides 
 Where the sunbeams veil the star, • 
 Up — ^beyond the clouds afar. 
 Where no discords ever mar, 
 
 Where rests peace that never dies. 
 
 So I live within the calm. 
 And the birds and roses know 
 That the days that come and go 
 Are as peaceful as the flow 
 
 Of a prayer beneath a psalm. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! 
 Woe are we! woe are we! 
 And the nights are ages long! 
 From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lipa 
 my God! woe are we! 
 Trembleth the mourners' 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 — 
 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. 
 
 1225) 
 
226 De Pro/undia. 
 
 Ah! the terrible farewells ! 
 
 "Woe are they! woe arc they! 
 When last words sink into moans, 
 Wliile life's trembling vesper bells— 
 my God! woe are we! 
 Eing 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— 
 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! 
 
De Profundi^. 227 
 
 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, 
 my God! woe are we! 
 With their dead child on their breast. 
 
 And the altars ask the sky — 
 my Christ! woe are we! 
 
 "Give the dead, Father, rest! 
 
 Spare thy people! mercy! spare!" 
 Answer will not come to prayer — 
 Horror movetli everywhere. 
 
 And the temples miss the priest— 
 my God! woe ai"e we! 
 And the cradle mourns the child. 
 Husband at your bridal feast — 
 Woe are you! woe are you! 
 Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; 
 They will never smile again — 
 Every tie is cut in twain, 
 All the strength of love is vain. 
 
228 Be Profundis. 
 
 Weep? but tears are weak as foam — 
 Woe are ye! woe are we! 
 They bnt 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— 
 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. 
 
WHEm 
 
 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, 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; 
 
 (229) 
 
230 Whenf 
 
 I know I Avill rejoice 
 
 To leaye the liaunts 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 tlien? 
 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 Tliy home, 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; 
 
Wlicn.' 231 
 
 My soul shall throb with joy 
 To leave the haunts of men 
 
 And sleep beneath the sod. 
 Ah I there is no alloy 
 
 In Thy joys, my God. 
 
 Haste, death! be fleet; 
 I know it will be SM'eet 
 
 To rest beneath the sod, 
 To kneel and kiss Thy feet 
 
 In heaven, my God. 
 
THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis wearyj 
 Eound its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
 For there's not a man to ware 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. 
 
 (232) 
 
The Conquered Banner. 233 
 
 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 gravel 
 
 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 hore 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: 
 
234 The Conquered Banner. 
 
 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 I 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 
 
 They ask me to sing them a, Cliristmas song 
 That with musical mirth shall ring; 
 
 HoAv know I that the world's great throng 
 Will care for the words I sing. 
 
 Let the young and tlie gay chant the Christmas lay. 
 
 Their voices and hearts are glad ; 
 But 1 — 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 iirst Spring; 
 
 Bnt the Spring hath fled, and the golden charm 
 Hath gone from tlie 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. 
 
 (23» 
 
236 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe. 
 Since my days are so nearly past, 
 
 That the song you'll hear on this Cliristmas 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? 
 
A Christmas Cliant. 237 
 
 Do they want a song that is only a song, 
 
 With no mystical meanings rife? 
 Or a music that solemnly moves along — 
 
 The undertone of a life! 
 
 Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, 
 
 Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules — 
 A melody moves through my aged heart 
 
 Not learned from the books or schools: 
 
 A music I learned in the days long gone — 
 
 I cannot tell where or how — 
 But no matter where, it still sounds on 
 
 Back of this wrinkled brow. 
 
 And down in my heart I hear it still. 
 
 Like the echoes of far-off bells; 
 Like the dreamy sound of a Summer rill 
 
 Flowing through feiry 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; 
 
238 A Chndmas Chant. 
 
 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 yenal, rain, 
 
 AYith high and low; 
 That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; 
 
 Can it be so? 
 
 That lofty principle liath long been dead 
 
 And in a sliroud; 
 That virtue walks ashamed, with dov,-nca3t 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 dread wrath. 
 
A Christmas Chant. 2o9 
 
 And must I sing for slarea of Bordid 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 hard 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 sti-ings of his lyre are broke 
 
 This holiest night of the year, 
 Who knows how its melody may wake 
 
 A Christmas smile or a tear? 
 
240 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 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 he heard. 
 One thought to all he told; 
 But under it all, to be alone — 
 And under it all, to all unknown — 
 As safe as under a coflfin-lid. 
 Deep meanings shall be hid. 
 Find them out who can! 
 The thoughts concealed and unrevealed 
 In the song of the lonely man. 
 
 ^ T* 'P T* T* ^ 
 
 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 I 
 How every spark 
 On the canvass dark 
 Draws figures and forms so quaint! 
 And how the picture change! 
 One moment how they smile I 
 
A Christmas Ohant. 241 
 
 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 grey; 
 And jnst as I wonder who are they. 
 
 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 Kaphael'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 hero 
 
 This holy Christmas eve 
 No artist's pencil could create — 
 No painter's art conceive; 
 
242 A C'hridmaa Chant. 
 
 All! those cheerful faces. 
 Wearing youthful gracesl 
 I gaze on them until I seem 
 Half awake and half in dream. 
 There are hrows -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 diel 
 All those faces soon shall fade, 
 Fade into the dreary dark 
 Like their pictures hanging her», 
 
 Lo! those tearful faces, 
 
 Bearing age's traces I 
 
 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 
 
 Eound each sorrow-haunted breast. 
 
A Christmas Chant, 243 
 
 Ah! that face of mother's. 
 Sister's, too, and brother's — 
 And so many others. 
 Dear is every name — 
 And Ethel! Thou art there. 
 With thy child-face sweet and fair, 
 And thy heart so bright 
 In its shroud so white; 
 Just as I saw yon 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. 
 
244 A Christmas Chant 
 
 And thus, with my pictures only, 
 Aud 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 I 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 samel 
 
 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. 
 
A Christmas Chaid. 245 
 
 And there they are again ; 
 
 The suns, the skies, the very days 
 
 Of childhood, just beyond that blaze I 
 
 But, ah', such visions almost craze 
 
 The old man's puzzled brain! 
 I thought the past was past I 
 
 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. 
 
 past! could I go back to thee, 
 And live forever there! 
 But, no! there's frost upon my hair; 
 My feet have trod a path of care; 
 
 And worn and wearied here I sit, 
 
 I am too tired to go to it. 
 
 And thus with visions only. 
 And the fancies they unweave. 
 
 Alone, and yet not lonely, 
 I keep my Christmas eve. 
 
246 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 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 I 
 But still the winds 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. 
 
.1 ChrLiiiias Chant. 247 
 
 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, 
 
 Hound me sitting 
 In my old arm chair — 
 
 Eising, 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 b 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. 
 
2-18 A Christmas Chatit. 
 
 To take old stings from out our heart — 
 
 Old stings that made them bleed and smart — 
 
 Only to sharpen them the more, 
 
 And press them back to the heart's own core. 
 
 Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! 
 Pears 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. 
 
A Christmas Chard, 249 
 
 And thus with the shadows only. 
 And the dreaminga 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 I 
 Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, delll 
 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? 
 
250 A Ohridmas Chant. 
 
 Or is it a spirif s wail? 
 Solemnly, mournfully. 
 Sad — and how lornfullyl 
 
 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 hell'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 toUeth slower! 
 
A Christmas Chant. 251 
 
 I list, and I hear its sound no more. 
 
 And now, methinks, I know that bell. 
 Know it well — ^know its knell — 
 
 For I often heard it sound before. 
 
 It is a bell — yet not a bell 
 
 Whose sound may reach the earl 
 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 grey 
 
 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 lifelesd there! 
 
252 A Christmas Chaint. 
 
 And over the dead stands the high priest Night, 
 
 Eobed in his shadowy stole; 
 And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, 
 
 To respond to his prayer of dole. 
 
 And list I 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." 
 
A Christmas Chard, 253 
 
 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 fat« 
 
 Of sinners and of just. 
 When their souls are going up to God, 
 
 Their bodies down to dust. 
 Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tearg. 
 
 From mortal eyes that fall. 
 And your notes evoke the darkest fears 
 
 That human hearts appall! 
 You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad. 
 And ever your music is sad, so sad. 
 We seem to hear murmured in every tone. 
 For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. 
 Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve 
 Over our dead on this Christmas eve. 
 De profundis! De profundis! 
 And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, 
 And the spirits immortal from far away. 
 To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay. 
 
 You think of the dead on Christmas eve. 
 
 Wherever the dead are sleeping, 
 And we from a land where we may not grieve, 
 
 Look tenderly down on your weeping. 
 
254 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 You think us far, we are rery near, 
 
 From you and the earth though parted; 
 We sing to-night to console and cheer 
 
 The hearts of the hroken-hearted. 
 The earth watches over the lifeless clay 
 
 Of each of its countless sleepers, 
 And the sleepless spirits that passed awaj 
 
 Watch over all earth's weepers. 
 We shall meet again in a hrighter 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 chimt^ 
 
 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: 
 Requiescatl Bequiescat! 
 
A Christmas Chant. 255 
 
 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, 
 
 "WTio 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. 
 
256 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 Their faces towards the future. 
 They longed to hail the light 
 
 That in the after centuries 
 
 Would rise on Christmas night. 
 
 But still the Saviour tarried. 
 Within His father's home* 
 
 And the nations wept and wondered why 
 The promised had not come. 
 
 At last earth's hope was granted. 
 And God was a child of earth; 
 
 And a thousand angels chanted 
 The lowly midnight birth. 
 
 Ah I 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 d.id sing; 
 
 Until the music of lore and praise. 
 O'er whole wide world will ring. 
 
 Gloria in excelsisi 
 Sound the thrilling song; 
 
A ChristmcLs Chant. 257 
 
 In excelsis Deo! 
 
 EoU the hymn along. 
 Gloria in excelsisl 
 
 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 hirth. 
 
 Thus joyful and victoriously. 
 
 Glad and ever so gloriously. 
 
 High as the heavens, wide as the earth, 
 
 Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth. 
 
258 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 Lo! the day is waking 
 
 In the east afar; 
 Dawn is faintly breaking, 
 
 Sunk is 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 giftl" 
 
 Little heads so curly. 
 Knowing Christmas lawi. 
 
 Peep out very early 
 For old "Santa Claus." 
 
A Chriaimaa Chant. 259 
 
 Little eyes are langbing 
 
 O'er their Christmas toys, 
 Older ones are quaflSng 
 
 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 t» souls give greeting 
 
 Warm on Christmas day. 
 
 Gifts are kept a-going 
 
 Fast from hand to hand; 
 Blessings are a-flowing 
 
 Over every land. 
 
260 A Christmas Chant. 
 
 One vast wave of gladness 
 Sweeps its world-wide way. 
 
 Drowning every sadness 
 On this Christmaa 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. 
 
 Men-y, merry Christmas, 
 Fill each heart with joyI_ 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas. 
 To each girl .and boy., 
 
A Christmas Ohaivt. 261 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Better gifts than gold; 
 Merry, merry Christmas 
 
 To the young and old. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 May the coming year 
 Bring as merry a Christmas 
 
 And as bright a cheer. 
 
"FAR away:' 
 
 Fas 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 hut 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 
 
 (968) 
 
"Far Away." 263 
 
 "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 meets 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 yonr spirits — nay. 
 Farewell may waft a face away. 
 But still with you my heart will stay. 
 
 "Far Away!" I sing its song. 
 
 But while the music moves along, 
 
 From out each word an echo clear 
 
 Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, 
 "Far Away" means "Far More Near." 
 
LISTEN. 
 
 We borrow, 
 In our sorrow. 
 Prom the sun of some to-morrov 
 Half the light that gilds to-day; 
 And the splendor 
 Plashes tender 
 O'er hope's footsteps to defend her 
 Prom 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. 
 
 (2M) 
 
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: 
 Aud 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. 
 
 (265) 
 
266 Wrecked. 
 
 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 
 Kot a star will loom! 
 God help the souls that will meet their doom 
 Before the dawn of lio;ht! 
 
 The breeze is singing a joy song 
 
 Over the sea to-day; 
 The storm is dead and the waves are red 
 
 With the flush of the morning's ray; 
 And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep 
 The eyes that watch for the ships shall weep 
 
 For the hearts they bore away. 
 
DREAMING. 
 
 The moan of a wintry soul 
 
 Melted into a summer song, 
 And the words, like the wavelet's roll. 
 
 Moved murmuringly along. 
 
 And the song flowed far and away. 
 
 Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill- 
 Each wave of it lit hy 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. 
 
 (867) 
 
268 Dreaming. 
 
 For the birds of tlie skies have a nest. 
 
 And the winds haye a home where they sleep, 
 
 And songs, like our seals, need a rest, 
 
 Where they murniur the while we may weep. 
 
 But songs — ^like the birds o'er the foam, 
 Where the storm-wind is beating their breast; 
 
 Fly shoreward — ^and oft find a home 
 In the shelter of words where they rest. 
 
A THOUGHT. 
 
 Hearts that are great beat never loud, 
 They muffle their music, when they come; 
 
 They hurry away from the thronging crowd 
 With bended brows and lips half-dumb. 
 
 And the world looks on and mutters — "Proud." 
 But when great hearts have passed away 
 
 Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud. 
 And in love they kneel around their clay. 
 
 Hearts that are great are always lone, 
 They never will manifest their best; 
 
 Their greatest greatness is unknown — 
 Earth knows a little — God, the rest. 
 
 (269) 
 
"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. 
 
 (270) 
 
"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 fiakes 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. 
 
 (271) 
 
"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. 
 
"To-IIoirows." 273 
 
 As seers see a star 
 
 Beyond the brow of nighty 
 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 1 
 
 Is it not more than art? 
 When all life's winding waytl 
 
 Meet ia the poet's heart. 
 
 The present meets the pasl^ 
 
 The future, too, is there; 
 The first enclasps the last. 
 
 And never folds fore'er. 
 
274 "To-Morrows." 
 
 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 heade 
 
 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. 
 
"To-Morrow8." 275 
 
 And yours? What will it be? 
 
 Hush! song, and let me pray I 
 God sees it all — I see 
 
 A long, lone, winding way; 
 
 And more! no matter what! 
 
 Crosses and crowns you wear: 
 My song may be forgot. 
 
 But Thou shalt not, in prayer. 
 
INEVITABLE. 
 
 What has been will be, 
 'Tis the Tinder-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 musb 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. 
 
 (S78J 
 
Inevitable. 277 
 
 For fate is master here, 
 
 He laughs at human wiles; 
 He sceptres eyery 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; 
 
 * * * * 
 
278 Inevitable. 
 
 Cometh a voice! Kneel down! 
 
 'Tis God's — there is no fate— 
 iHe giveth the cross and crown. 
 
 He opens the jeweled gate. 
 
 He watcheth with such eyes 
 As only mothers own— 
 "Sweet Father in the skies 1 
 Ye call us to a throne." 
 
 There is no fate — God's lore 
 Is law heneath each law. 
 
 And law all laws above 
 Fore'er, without a flaw. 
 
SORROW 4ND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 i. MEMOBUL WREATH TO C. F. 
 
 SORROW : 
 A GABliAXD 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 thai sleeps below. 
 
 (179) 
 
280 Sorrow and the Flowers. 
 
 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 gai-land for another graye; 
 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. 
 
 VFHITE kose: 
 
 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. 
 
 iaukel: 
 
 I found it on a mountain slope. 
 The sunlight on its face; 
 
Sorrow a)id the Flowers. 28] 
 
 It caught from clouds a smile of hope 
 That brightened all the place. 
 
 They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, 
 And crown the chieftain's head; 
 
 But the laurel's leaves love best to grace 
 The gai'land of the dead. 
 
 WILD flowee: 
 
 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 beanch: 
 
 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. 
 
282 Soirow and Hie Flowers. 
 
 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, 
 Eobs 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, 
 Por flowerets are fading &st, one by one. 
 Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, 
 Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far land. 
 
Sorrow and the Flowers. 283 
 
 foeqbt-me-not: 
 
 "Forget-me-notl" The sad words strangely quiyer 
 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 I" "forget me not!" 
 
 A oablakd: 
 
 I bring this for her mother; ah, who knows 
 The lonely deeps within a mother's heart? 
 
 Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows 
 Above, around her, when her children part. 
 
 There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone; 
 
 It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. 
 
 Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms, 
 A grave is dug within the mother's heart: 
 She watches it alone; no words of art 
 
284 Sorrow and the Flowers. 
 
 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. 
 
 SOEKOW: 
 
 Farewell! I go to crown the dead; 
 
 Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, 
 For they, whose hearts so faithful, love 
 
 The lonely grave — the very clay; 
 They crown themselves with richer gems 
 Than flash in royal diadems. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 Thiite 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 hliss 
 
 Will shine where storm-clouds roll. 
 
 Yes, weeper, weep! 
 
 'Twill not be evermore; 
 I know the darkest deep 
 
 Hath e'en the brightest shore. 
 
 (285) 
 
286 Hope. 
 
 So tired! so tired! 
 
 A cry of half despair; 
 Look! at your side — 
 
 And see Who standeth there I 
 
 Your Father! Hush! 
 
 A heart beats in His breast; 
 Now rise and rush 
 
 Into His arms — and rest 
 
FAREWELLS! 
 
 They are so sad to say : no poem tella 
 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, "Ifay." 
 
 The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells 
 The starless story of the night that dwells 
 In lone and last farewells. 
 
 Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: 
 
 Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear; 
 
 Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er 
 
SONG OF THE RIVER. 
 
 A EiVEK 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. 
 
 (288) 
 
The river ran on — and on — and on — 
 Day and night, and night and day, 
 
 Going and going, and never gone. 
 Longing to flow on the " far away." 
 
Song of the River. 288 
 
 Down the slopes wLere 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; 
 Groing 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 ine:" 
 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 heautiful sea, 
 A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever. 
 And the river flows on in the same mystic key 
 Tliat blends in one chord the * forever and never.'" 
 Decembbs 15, 1878. 
 
DREAMLAND. 
 
 OvEfi 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 hark, 
 Where never the waves of a tempest roll- 
 Bearing the very "soul of the 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. 
 m * * * * If % 
 
 (290) 
 
Dreamland. 291 
 
 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 ths dreamings of the night. 
 
LINES. 
 
 Sometimes, from the far-away. 
 
 Wing a little thonglit to me; 
 In the night or in the day. 
 
 It will giye 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. 
 
 1292) 
 
A SONO. 
 
 ■WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 PtTHB faced page I waiting so long 
 
 To Tvelcome 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 whits 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 the wave that is purest — then haste and bring 
 
 A song to the hearts that weep. 
 
 (M3) 
 
294 A Song. 
 
 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. 
 
A ScMiff. 295 
 
 Yea! song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep. 
 
 Let others hear only thy moan — 
 But I — I forever shall hear the grand sweep 
 
 Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone. 
 
 Sweep on! mighty song — sound down in my heart 
 
 As a storm sounding under a sea; 
 Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, 
 
 Nor a note of it float out from mo. 
 
PARTING. 
 
 Faeewell! 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. 
 
 (296) 
 
SAINT 8TEPHEK 
 
 PiKST 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 Tan; 
 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 Nazarine before. 
 The God they believe in and adore." 
 
 (397) 
 
298 Saint Stephen. 
 
 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 rigW, 
 Where darkly rose Golgotha's hight: 
 "There have ye slain the Holy One, 
 Tour Saviour and God's only Son." 
 
 They gnashed th6ir teeth in raging ire. 
 Those dark and cruel men, 
 
 They vowed a vengeance deep and dire 
 Against Saint Stephen then. 
 
Saint Steplien. 299 
 
 Yet he was calm; a radiant light 
 
 Around his forehead gleamed; 
 He raised his eyes, a wondrous sight 
 He saw, so grand it was and bright, 
 His soul was filled with such delight 
 
 That he an angel seemed. 
 Then spoke the Saint: "A vision grand 
 
 Bursts on me from above: 
 The doors of heaven open stand. 
 And at the Father's own right hand 
 
 I see the Lord I love." 
 
 "Away with him," the rabble cry. 
 
 With swelling rage and hate. 
 But Stephen still gazed on the sky, 
 His heart was with his Lord on high, 
 
 He heeded not his fate. 
 
 The gathering crowd in fury wild 
 
 Eush 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 prayeiv 
 
 The Martyr meets his fate. 
 
300 Saint Stephen. 
 
 First fearless witness to his belief 
 
 In Jesus Crucified, 
 The red-robed Martyrs' noble chief. 
 
 Thus for his Master died. 
 And to the end of time his name 
 Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim. 
 And with a mother's pride shall tell 
 How her great proto-Martyr felL 
 
A FLOWER'S SON^a. 
 
 StaeI Star I why dost thou shine 
 
 Each night upon my brow ? 
 Why dost thou make me dream the dreama 
 
 That I am dreaming now? 
 
 Star I 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 youf 
 
 Star! Star! oh! hide thy ray, 
 
 And take it off my face; 
 Within my lowly home I stay. 
 
 Thou, in thy lofty place. 
 
 Star! Star! and still I dream. 
 
 Along thy light afar 
 I seem to soar until I seem 
 
 To be, like you, a star. 
 
THE STAR'S SONG. 
 
 Flower! Flower! why repine? 
 
 God knows each creature's place; 
 He hides within me when I shine, 
 
 And your leaves hide His face. 
 
 And yon are near as I to Him, 
 
 And you reyeal 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 waya- 
 The everlasting light. 
 
 Flower! Flower! why repine? 
 
 He chose on lowly earth. 
 And not in heaven where I shine. 
 
 His Bethlehem and birth. 
 
 (802) 
 
The Star's Song. 803 
 
 Flower 1 Flower 1 I see Him pass 
 
 Each hour of night and day, 
 Down to an altar and a Mass 
 
 Go thoul and fade away. 
 
 Fade away upon His shrine! 
 
 Thy light is brighter far 
 Than all the light wherewith I shino 
 
 In heaven, as a star. 
 
DEATH OF THE FLOWER. 
 
 I LOVE my mother, the wildwood, 
 
 I sleep upon her breast; 
 A day or two of childhood. 
 
 And then I sink to rest. 
 
 I had once a lorely 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. 
 
 (SM) 
 
Death of the Flower. 305 
 
 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-hed, 
 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. 
 
8IN0ING-BIRD. 
 
 In the valley of my life 
 
 Sings a "Singing-Bird," 
 
 And its voice thro' calm and strife 
 la 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. 
 
 (806) 
 
Singing-Bird. 307 
 
 « Singing-Bird 1" "Singing-Bird I" 
 
 No one knows, 
 When your holy songs are heard, 
 
 "What repose 
 
 rills my life and soothes my heart; 
 
 But I fear 
 The day — thy songs, if we must part, 
 
 I'll never hear. 
 
 But "Singing-Bird I" ah! " Singing-Bird l" 
 
 Should this e'er be, 
 The dreams of all thy songs I heard 
 
 Shall sing for ma. 
 
Kom 
 
 Sometimes a single hour 
 
 Eings 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 ey'ry 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. 
 
 13081 
 
Now. 309 
 
 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? 
 
310 Now. 
 
 Sometimes one minute folds 
 
 The hearts of all the years. 
 Just like the heart that holds 
 
 The Infinite in tears; 
 There be such thing as this — 
 
 Who knoweth why, or how ? 
 A life of woe or bliss 
 
 Hangs on some little now. 
 
M 
 
 Whek I am dead, and all will soon forget 
 
 My words, and face, and ways — 
 I, somehow, think I'll walk heside 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 waa dear to mine, 
 
 And dearer it became. 
 Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine 
 
 Thy name — ^my child! thy name. 
 
 (311) 
 
312 M * * * 
 
 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. 
 
 Bidst 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 yowr 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— 
 
M * * * 313 
 
 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 gixide you still — in my steps still you tread; 
 
 Towards God these ways are set; 
 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead 
 
 I'll watch and guide you yet. 
 
 'Tis better far that I should go before. 
 
 And you awhile should stay; 
 But I will wait upon the golden shore 
 
 To meet my child some day. 
 
314 M * * * 
 
 "When I am dead; in some lone after time. 
 
 If crosses come to thee, 
 You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme- 
 
 "He holds a crown for me." 
 
 I guide you here — I go before you there; 
 
 But here or there — I know — • 
 Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear, 
 
 I'll watch where'er you go. 
 
 And wait until you come; when I am dead 
 
 Think, sometimes, child, of this: 
 You must not weep — follow where I led, 
 
 I wait for you in bliss. 
 
GOD IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: 
 He walks the Avorld; 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 I the very darkest crimes 
 That blight the souls of men are strangely born 
 Beneath che shadows of the holy night 
 
 (315) 
 
316 God in the 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 I 
 
 The stars behold Him as He passes on, 
 And arch His path of mei-cy 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 I 
 
God in the Night. 317 
 
 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 tlieir Creator as He passes on. 
 
 And mourn they have no hearts to love their God, 
 
 And sigh they have no souls to he beloved. 
 
 Man — only man — the image of his God — 
 
 Let's God pass by when He walks forth at niglit. 
 
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 ciirse 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. 
 (318; 
 
Pods. 319 
 
 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 spirits' 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 
 
 la 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. 
 
320 Poets. 
 
 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 hreathe it forth — ^their very spirits' breath — 
 
 To bless the world or blight; 
 To bring to men a higher life or death; 
 
 To give them light or night. 
 
 The words of some command the world's acclaim, 
 
 And never pass away. 
 While others' words receive no palm from fame. 
 
 And live but for a day. 
 
 But, live or die, their words leave their impress 
 
 Fore'er or for an hour, 
 And mark men's souls— some more and some the lessi 
 
 With good's or evil's power. 
 
A LEGEND. 
 
 He walked alone beside the lonely sea, 
 
 The slanting sunbeams fell upon His face. 
 
 His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands 
 
 Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. 
 
 And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair! 
 
 Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast, 
 
 As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns. 
 
 His face looked like His Mother's — only her's 
 
 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 toucli of tender tears He wept the while. 
 
 He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals ofiF 
 
 To bathe. His weary feet in the pure cool wave — 
 
 For He had walked across the desert sands 
 
 All d-ay long — and as He bathed His feet 
 
 He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three yearsH 
 
 (321) 
 
322 A Legend. 
 
 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." 
 
A Legend. 323 
 
 He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: 
 «I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him, 
 With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, 
 Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock 
 That little boy knelt down, and there adored. 
 While others cursed, the thoru-crowned Crucified. 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 By sound of name, and touch of hand. 
 Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, 
 
 "We know each other in this land. 
 How little must that knowledge he? 
 
 How souls are all the time alone. 
 
 No spirit can another reach; 
 They hide away in realms unknown. 
 
 Like wares 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 hy human light, 
 But there the light of God is ours ; 
 
 Each day, on earth, is hut a night; 
 Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours. 
 
 (824) 
 
Thoughts. 325 
 
 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 eternitj. 
 
LINES. 
 
 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 
 
 (336) 
 
Lines. 327 
 
 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 lenL 
 
0. 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 
 
 Erom our land and heart, 
 And a wrong to them, and shame for us? 
 
 (323) 
 
C. 8. A. 329 
 
 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, 
 
 Bed, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; 
 
 They bleed — we weep, 
 
 We live — they sleep, 
 'AH 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. 
 
 NATUEte is but the outward vestibule 
 
 Which God has placed before an unseen shnne; 
 
 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 gi-eat 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 Supemature, just to ring the bell 
 
 At Sanctus! Sanctua! Sauctus! while the world 
 
 Prepares its heart for consecration's hour. 
 
 (830) 
 
Tlie Seen and the Unseen. 33 J 
 
 ^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 fiowers, 
 
 And on the grasses and the stately trees. 
 
 And on the rivers and the mournful rocks 
 
 Th;j 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 
 
332 The Seen and the Uruscen. 
 
 In holy faith iipon this bright below 
 And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, 
 To catch the yision 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'ry where. 
 AVhy is God shy? "Why doth He hide Himself? 
 The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore 
 En temples 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 song 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; 
 
The Seen and the Unseen. .333 
 
 And some have hearts that never are enthrilled 
 By all the grand Hosannahs nature sings. 
 List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pause 
 Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, 
 That hearts with power to love may echo back 
 Their Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn. 
 
PASSING AWAY. 
 
 Life's Vesper-bells are ringing 
 In the temple of my heart, 
 
 And yon sunset, sure, is singing 
 "Nunc dimittis — ^Now depart!" 
 
 Ah! the eve is golden-clouded. 
 But to-morrow's sun shall shine 
 
 On this weary body shrouded; 
 But my soul doth not repine. 
 
 "Let me see the sun descending, 
 
 I will see his light no more. 
 For my life, this eve, is ending; 
 
 And to-morrow on the shore 
 That is fair, and white, and golden, 
 
 I will meet my God; and ye 
 Will forget not all the olden, 
 
 Happy hours ye spent with me. 
 
 (931) 
 
Passing Away. 335 
 
 "I am glad that I am going; 
 
 What a strange and sweet delight 
 Is thro' all my being flowing 
 
 When I know that, sure, to-night 
 I will pass from earth and meet Him 
 
 Whom I loved thro' all the years, 
 Who will crown me when I greet Him, 
 
 And will kiss away my tears. 
 
 "My last sun! haste! hurry westward! 
 In the dark of this to-night 
 My poor soul that hastens rest-ward 
 
 'With the Lamb' will find the light; 
 Death is coming — and I hear him, 
 
 Soft and stealthy cometh he; 
 But I do not believe I fear him, 
 God is now so close to me." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Fell the daylight's fading glimmer 
 
 On a face so wan and white; 
 Brighter was his soul, while dimmer 
 
 Grew the shadows of the night; 
 And he died — and God was near him; 
 
 I knelt by him to forgive; 
 And I sometimes seem to hear him 
 
 Whisper — "Live as I did live." 
 
THE PILGRIM. 
 
 A. CBBISTMAS LEftCKD FOK CHILDREN. 
 
 The shades of night were hrooding 
 
 O'er the sea, the earth, the sky; 
 The passing winds were wailing 
 
 In a low, nnearthly 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. 
 
 (33«) 
 
The Pilgrim. 337 
 
 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 hoyered 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, 
 
 TJnillumed 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. 
 
338 The Pilgrim. 
 
 On the lonely pilgrim journeyed, 
 
 Nought disturbed him on his way. 
 And his prayers he softly murmured 
 
 As the midnight stole away. 
 Hart! 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 
 
 AVhile 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 
 
 Bocks to rest her cradled child. 
 
 Strange and sweet the calm that followed. 
 
 Stealing through the midnight air; 
 Strange and sweet the sounds that floated 
 
 Like an angel breathing there. 
 From the sky the clouds were drifting 
 
 Swiftly one by one away. 
 And the sinless stars were shedding 
 
 Here and there a silver ray. 
 
The Pilgrim. 339 
 
 "Why this change?" the pilgrim Avhispered — 
 "AVhence 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. 
 
340 The Pilgrim. 
 
 Near he came — ^its door stood open — 
 
 Still lie 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." 
 
The Pilgrim. 341 
 
 Ou 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 
 
 Eose and bloomed the fairest flowers. 
 Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance, 
 
 'Mid the lights in sweetest showers. 
 
 Eich 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! 
 
 Eound the golden altar sounds — 
 See that band of angels kneeling 
 
 Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns I 
 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. 
 
342 The Pilgrim. 
 
 Twelve they were; bright rays of glory 
 
 Bound 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 
 
 Eises — ^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. 
 
The Pilgrim, 343 
 
 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. 
 Kavished by the strains ecstatic, 
 
 Raptured by the vision grand. 
 Gazed the pilgrim on the altar. 
 
 Gazed upon the angel baud. 
 
 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 theii' 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 ! " 
 
344 The Pilgrim. 
 
 "Come unto the golden altar, 
 
 I'm an angel — ^banish fear — ■ 
 Come, unite in adoration 
 
 With me, for our God is here. 
 Come thy Jesus here reposes, 
 
 Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight — 
 Come! adore the Infant Saviour 
 
 With me — for 'tis Christmas night." 
 
 Now approached the pilgrim, trembling, 
 
 Now beside the angel bent. 
 And the deepest, blissful gladness, 
 
 With his fervent worship blent. 
 "Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly, 
 
 "Thou hast seen bright angels here. 
 And hast heard our sacred anthems. 
 
 Filled with rapture, filled with fear. 
 
 "We are twelve — 'twas we who chanted 
 
 First the Saviour's lowly birth. 
 We who brought the joyful tidings 
 
 Of His coming, to the earth ; 
 We who sung unto the shepherds, 
 
 Watching on the mountain hight, 
 That the Word was made Incarnate 
 
 For them on that blessed night. 
 
The Pilgrim. 345 
 
 " And since tlien 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 mina." 
 
 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. 
 
346 The Pilgrim. 
 
 All was silent — silent — silent — 
 Paded was the vision bright — ■ 
 
 But the pilgrim long remembered 
 In his heart that Christnuis night. 
 
A REVERIK 
 
 Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange I 
 How they yearn to ramble and love to range 
 Down through the Tales 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 wares on the sounding sea. 
 Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free. 
 
 (3«) 
 
348 A Bevei-ie. 
 
 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 Avaste 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. 
 
A Reverie. 349 
 
 Those hearts of oUrs — ^but, after all, 
 How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small; 
 Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill. 
 They're as easy to empty — as easy to fill. 
 
 One hour of storm and how the streams ponr! 
 One hour of sun and the streams are no more; 
 One little grief — how the tears gush and glide 1 
 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 hold, 
 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. 
 
350 A Reverie. 
 
 Those hearts of ours— how strong! how strong! 
 Let a thousand sorrows around them throng, 
 They can hear 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, hut FU come again 
 Some other day, to resume my strain. 
 
Bev, Apbam J. Ryan. Takeit i-bom bis Latest Photogbaph. 
 
■THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 Two little children played among the flowers, 
 
 Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; 
 
 The children's ages were the very same 
 
 E'en to an hour — and Ethel was her name, 
 
 A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes 
 
 That seemed to listen just as if they held 
 
 The gift of hearing with the power of sight. 
 
 Six Summers slept upon her low white brow. 
 
 And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks. 
 
 Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke 
 
 Her words were music; and her laughter rang 
 
 So like an altar-bell that, had you heard 
 
 Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think 
 
 Of kneeling down and worshiping the pure. 
 
 They played among the roses — ^it was May — 
 And "hide and seek," and "seek and hide," all eve 
 They played together till the sun went down. 
 Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day : 
 And tired et last she plucked a crimson rose 
 And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin; 
 
 1351) 
 
352 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 And he went thro' the garden till he found 
 
 The whitest rose of all the roses there, 
 
 And placed it in her long, hrown, 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 angel's 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 waya 
 Of that fair garden till they reached her home. 
 A good-bye and a kiss — and he wag 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. 
 
-Their Story Runneth Thus. 353 
 
 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 
 Kippling with his bright prattle; and then, houra 
 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 fa<!e. 
 
 Ten years passed on. They parted and they met 
 Not often in each year; yet as they grew 
 In years, a consciousness unto them came 
 Of human love. 
 
 But it was sweet and pure. 
 There was no passion in it. Reverence, 
 Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence. 
 
554 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 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 kneli^ 
 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? 
 
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. 
 
-Thew Story Runneth Thus. 355 
 
 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 he 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 hear^t 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. 
 
356 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 Their faces went away into the dark, 
 And never met again; and yet their souls 
 Were twined together in the heart of Christ 
 
 And Ethel went from earthland long ago; 
 But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross. 
 He would not move a nail that nails him there, 
 He would not pluck a thorn that crownS him there. 
 He hung himself upon the hlessed 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 virgins' 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. 
 
Their Story Runneth Thus. 357 
 
 Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, 
 
 While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew. 
 
 Entwining gi-ave 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 saci-ifice. 
 
 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 -lacrifice 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. 
 
158 Their Story Runneth Thua. 
 
 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— 
 Eoses cold as the snows and pure as songs 
 Of angels — ^and the pale leaflets and thorns 
 Hid e'en the very name of her who slept 
 Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when 
 He reached its side a spell fell on his heart 
 So suddenly — ^he knew not why — and tears 
 Went up into his eyes and trickled down 
 Upon the grass; he was as 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 — 
 
 "Ullaineb." 
 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 
 
-Their Story Runneth Thus. 359* 
 
 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 hud fled. 
 AVas she the white dove that I saw in dream 
 Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?" 
 
 The convent bell 
 Eang 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 
 ViTere 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 
 
360 Theb- Story Bunneth Thm. 
 
 Of yirgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomed 
 Within the place, in heds of sacred shapes, 
 (For they had fashioned them -with holy care, 
 Into all holj' forms — a chalice, a cross. 
 And sacred hearts — and many saintly names. 
 That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers 
 Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign). 
 Were fairer far within the convent walls, 
 And purer in their fragrance and their bloom 
 Than all their sisters in the outer world. 
 
 He went into a wide and humble room — 
 The floor was painted, and upon the walls. 
 In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; 
 Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint 
 Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke: 
 "I'll call the Mother," and she bowed and went. 
 
 He waited in the wide and humble room, 
 
 The only room in that unworldly place 
 
 This world could enter; and the pictures looked 
 
 Upon his face and down into his soul. 
 
 And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood 
 
 A crucifix, the figured Christ of which 
 
 Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look 
 
 More nearly on it; but he shrank in awe 
 
 When he beheld a something in its face 
 
 Like his own face. 
 
Their Stori/ Runneth Thus. 361 
 
 But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot 
 Of that strange crucifix he read the name — 
 
 "Ullain-eb." 
 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 lite 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 weut on: 
 
362 Tlioir Story Runneih Thw. 
 
 He told her Ethers 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 ligt'ning, heard the words or sacrifice — 
 He told her all; then said: "I saw a stone 
 In yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep, 
 And writ on it, all hid by roses white, 
 I saw a name I never ought forget." 
 
 She wore a startled look, but soon repressed 
 The wonder that had come into her face. 
 "Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said 
 "Ullainee," 
 She forward bent her face and pierced his own 
 With look intensest; and he thought he heard 
 The trembling of her veil, as if the brow 
 It mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts. 
 But quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone, 
 Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule 
 To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn, 
 lleturn 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— 
 
-Their Story Runneth Thus. 363. 
 
 Swift to the "Wliite-Rose-Grave," his heart: he knelt 
 
 Upon ite grass and prayed that God might -will 
 
 The inystery'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 shonelike jewels on a diadem. 
 And two gi'eat 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 T 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. 
 
364 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 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 iigain 
 And flew across the sea into the sun; 
 And then from near or far (he could not say) 
 Came sound as faint as echo's own echo — 
 A low sweet hymn it seemed — and now 
 And then he heard, or else he thought he heard. 
 As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words: 
 " White dies first ! " " White dies first." 
 
 The sun had passed his noon and Westward sloped; 
 He hurried to the cloister and was told 
 The Mother waited him. He entered in. 
 Into the wide and pictured room, and there 
 The Mother sat and gave him welcome twice. 
 
 "I prayed last night," she spolcfe, "to know God's will; 
 I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints 
 That they might pray for me, and 1 might know 
 My conduct in the matter. Ko\^, 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-Eose-Grave,' 
 To seek the story of the sleeper there 
 
-Their Story Rmineth Thus. 361 
 
 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 lier 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." 
 
366 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 "Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all! 
 Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother." 
 
 She went on. 
 Unheeding his abruptness: 
 
 "One sweet day — 
 A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month 
 Of May, at early morn, ere yet the dew 
 Had passed from off the flowers and grass — ere yet 
 Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came, 
 With summons quick, unto our convent gate 
 A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew — 
 Another dew was moist within her eyes — 
 Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me, 
 And as I went she rushed into my arms — 
 Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch 
 That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed 
 Until I thought her very soul would rush 
 From her frail body, in a sob, to God. 
 I let her sob her sorrow all away. 
 My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs 
 Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died 
 In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat 
 In this same room — and gently spoke to her. 
 And held her hand in mine — and soothed her 
 With words of sympathy, until she seemed 
 As tranquil as myself. 
 
-Their Story Runneth Thm. 367 
 
 "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 
 
308 Theii- Story Runneth Tints. 
 
 My ■worldly means — and, Sister, they are thiiie 
 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 it is.' 
 'Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke. 
 'Who sent you, then?' 
 
 'A youthful Christ,' she said, 
 ' Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, 
 Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure — 
 Would have been His own gentle John; and would 
 Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast. 
 And stood on Friday eve beneath His cross 
 To take His Mother from Him when He died. 
 He sent me here — ^he said the word last night 
 
■Thcii- Story Itunneth Tints. 363 
 
 In my own garden ; tliis 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 w^eep 
 
 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.' 
 
370 Their Story RunncUi Thm. 
 
 "She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upof 
 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 lore-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 lore-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? 
 
Their Story Runneth Thios, ,371 
 
 I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth 
 Save his who yesternight did send me here 
 To dip it in the very hlood of Christ, 
 And plant it here.' 
 
 And then she sobhed 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 
 "WTien 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? 
 
■Thch- 8Loi-j Runneth Thus. 
 
 I came ouce 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 nie 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.' 
 
Their Stori/ Runneth Thus. 372 
 
 And we — we believed it. There are Sisters here 
 Of three-score years of service who would say: 
 'Within our memory never moved a veil 
 That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.' 
 And we — we felt it, and we loved her so. 
 We treated her as angel and as child. 
 I never heard her speak about the past, 
 I never heard her mention e'en a name 
 Of any in the world. She little spake ; 
 She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew 
 Absent-minded, and would come and ask me 
 To walk alone and say her Eosary 
 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 
 Shie kept her cell all busy with her work. 
 
374 — Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 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 — 'UUainee.' 
 
 "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 breatlie 
 A prayer that death might pass the angel by 
 
Save when in prayer, and then her every look was rapt 
 As if her soul did hold with God strange converse. 
 
■Their Story JRunneili Thus. 375 
 
 And let her longer stay, for she lay ill — 
 
 Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. 
 
 Ahl many were the orisons that rose 
 
 From all our hearts that God might spare her still ; 
 
 At Benediction and at holy Mass 
 
 Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went 
 
 To heaven for her ; we did love her so — 
 
 Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps 
 
 Our love was far too human. Slow and slow 
 
 She faded like a flower. And slow and slow 
 
 Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow 
 
 Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim. 
 
 Hope died in 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 worda 
 
 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 
 
376 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 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: 
 
Their Story Eunneth Thus. 377 
 
 '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 shine — 
 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 heav'n 
 Touches this. Mother; I have felt its touch. 
 And now I feel its clasp upon my soul. 
 I'm going from this heaven into that, 
 To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all. 
 It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast. 
 My soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds 
 To sing the second vespers of the day 
 With all the angels. Mother, ere I go, 
 Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words, 
 Which, like all last words, tell whate'er was Cist 
 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 
 
378 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 In heaTen, 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: 
 
-Their Story Runneth ThiM. 379 
 
 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 cuH 
 Her sweet, white roses, and we place them on 
 Our Chapel-Altar." 
 
 Then the Mother rose. 
 Without another ivord, and led him thro' 
 A long, vast hall, then up a ilight of stairs 
 Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge 
 Noiselessly — then into a Chapel dim. 
 On gospel side of which there was a gate 
 From ceiling down to floor, and back of that 
 A long and narrow choii', with many stalls. 
 
580 Their Story Runneth Thus. 
 
 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 
 
-Their Story Bunndh Thus. 381 
 
 There were two crosses lying on the rocks — 
 One of whitest roses — Ullainee 
 Was woven into it with buds of Eed; 
 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 saceifice." 
 
KIGHT AFTER THE PICNIC. 
 
 And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
 
 Eang the bells of all the hours; 
 "Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!" 
 
 Looked and listened all the flowers; 
 They were wakened from their slumbers, 
 
 By the footsteps of the fair; 
 And they smiled in their awaking 
 
 On the faces gathered there. 
 
 "Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!" 
 
 Looked the overhanging trees, 
 For beneath their bending branches 
 
 Floated tresses in the breeze. 
 And they wondered who had wandered 
 
 With such voices and so gay ; 
 And their leaflets seemed to whisper 
 
 To each other: "Who are they?" 
 
 C382J 
 
Night After the Picnic. 383 
 
 They were just like little children, 
 
 Not a sorrow's shade was there; 
 And "Merry! Merry! Merry!" 
 
 Eang 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 gayly! gayly! 
 
 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. 
 
384 Night After the Picnic. 
 
 And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
 
 Eang a bell in erery 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 lily's 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. 
 
Night After the Picnic. 383 
 
 Then«Gayly! Gayly! Gayly!" 
 
 Eang the laughter everywhere, 
 From the lips that seemed too lightsome 
 
 For the sigh of any care. 
 And the dance went "Merry! Merry!" 
 
 Whilst the feet that tripped along, 
 Bore the hearts that were as happy 
 
 As a wild bird's happy song. 
 
 And sweet words with smiles upon them, 
 
 Joy-winged, flitted to and fro, 
 Flushing every face they met with 
 
 With the glory of their glow. 
 Not a brow with cloud upon it — 
 
 Not an eye that seemed to know 
 What a tear is; not a bosom 
 
 That had ever nursed a woe. 
 
 And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!" 
 
 Like the ripples of a stream. 
 Did the bright hours chase each other. 
 
 Till it all seemed like a dream; 
 Till it seemed as if no Never 
 
 Ever in this world had been. 
 To o'ercloud the brief Forever, 
 
 Shining o'er the happy scene. 
 
386 Night After the Picnic. 
 
 Dimly! dimly fell the shadows 
 
 Of the tranquil eventide; 
 But the sound of dance and laughter 
 
 Woiild not die, and had not died; 
 And still "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
 
 Eang the voiceless vesper bells 
 O'er the hearts that were too happy 
 
 To remember earth's farewells. 
 
 Came the night hours — ^faster! faster! 
 
 Eose 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 
 Eound him all the summer day. 
 "Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
 Did he hear an angel say ? 
 
Night After the Picnio, 387 
 
 "Happy! happy! still more happy I 
 
 Yea, the happiest are they. 
 I was moving 'mid the children 
 
 By the borders of the bay, 
 And I bring to God no record 
 
 Of a single sin this day. 
 
 "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
 
 When your life seems lone and long, 
 You will hear that feast's bells ringing 
 Far and faintly thro' my song. 
 
LINES. 
 
 The death of men is not the death 
 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 
 
 Eight'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, 
 
 (883) 
 
Lines. 389 
 
 And right the wrong, 
 
 Which long and long 
 Did reign above the true and just; 
 And thro' the songs the poet sings, 
 Eight's vivifying spirit rings; 
 
 Each simple rhyme 
 
 Keeps step and time 
 "With those who marched away and fell. 
 
 And all his lines 
 
 Are hiimble shrines 
 Where love of right will love to dwell. 
 
DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 
 
 Waileth a woman, "0 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 laet lily lies dead in the vale! 
 
 Let h*r 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, "0 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? 
 
 (390) 
 
Death of the Prince Imperial. 391 
 
 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, 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. 
 
 waves ! sad waves ! how you flowed between 
 The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen! 
 
 Waileth a woman, " 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 an Afric wild lies her poor dead child. 
 
392 Death of tlie Prince Imperial. 
 
 Lies the heart of her heart — let her alone 
 
 Under the rod 
 
 With her infinite moan, 
 
 my God! 
 He was beautifal, pnre, 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, " my son!" 
 He was her own and her only one, 
 She had nothing to give him but her love, 
 'Twas kingdom enough on earth — above 
 She gave him an infinite faith in God; 
 
 Let her cry her cry 
 Over her own and only one. 
 All the glory is gone — is gone. 
 
 Into her broken-hearted sigh. 
 
Death of the Prince Imperial. 393 
 
 Moaneth a mother, "0 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, 
 «0 my God!" 
 
IK MEMORIAM. 
 
 FAXnER KEELEE DIED FEBBUAET 38, 1880, IS MOBILE, AlA. 
 IKSCKIBEU TO BIS SISTEB. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "0 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?" 
 
In Memoriam. 395 
 
 '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." 
 
 "0 Mary! kneel at the great white throne, 
 And pray with your children there — 
 Our hearts need his heart — 'tis sweet and fair. 
 Like the sound-of hymns and the breath of prayer, 
 Goeth he now — we are lone — so lone^ 
 And who is there left to care?" 
 
 'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so — 
 But the Angel of Death sang: "Children, no!" 
 And a voice like Christ's from the far away. 
 Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay." 
 
 From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan: 
 
 "0 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." 
 
396 In Memoriam. 
 
 <'0 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 ajid 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!— 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! Nol 
 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." 
 
In Memoriam. 397 
 
 We Isaned on hope that Avas all in rain, 
 
 'Till the terrible word at last 
 Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain. 
 
 And his beautiful life had passed. 
 
 Oh! take him away from where he died; 
 Put him not with the common dead 
 
 (For he was so pure and fair); 
 And the city was stirred, and thousands cried 
 
 Whose tears were a very prayer. 
 
 "No, no, no, take him home again, 
 For his bishop's heart beats there; 
 Cast him not with the common dead,. 
 Let him go home and rest his head, 
 Ah! his weary and grief-worn head. 
 
 On the heart of his father — he is mild 
 
 For he loved him as his own child. 
 
 And they brought him home to the home he blest^ 
 
 With his life so sweet and fair, 
 He blessed it more in his deathly rest — 
 
 His face was a chiseled prayer. 
 White as the snow, pure as the foam 
 
 Of a weary wave on the sea, 
 He drifted back — and they placed him where 
 
 He Avould love at last to be. 
 
393 In 3Iemoriam. 
 
 His Father in God thought oyer the years 
 Of the beautiful happy past; 
 
 Ah! me I we were happy then ; hut 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." 
 
In Memoriam. 399 
 
 Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd 
 
 Bowed down their heads in tears 
 O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shrond. 
 
 (Ah! the happy, happy years!) 
 They are dead and gone, and the Eequiem Mass 
 
 Went slowly, mournfully on, 
 The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, 
 
 The altars cried, and the people wept, 
 Tlie 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 t«ars 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. 
 
400 In Memoriam. 
 
 That seeks a lone, far shore. 
 Dead Priest! hless from amid the blest. 
 The hearts that will guard thy place of rest. 
 
 Forever, forever, forever more. 
 
MOBILE MYSTIC SOCIETIES. 
 
 The olden golden stories of the world. 
 
 That stirred the past, 
 And now are dim as dreams. 
 The lays and legends which the bards unfurled 
 
 In lines that last, 
 All — rhymed with glooms and gleams. 
 Fragments and fancies writ on many a page 
 
 By deathless pen. 
 And names, and deeds that all along each age. 
 
 Thrill hearts of men. 
 And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade 
 
 Of many climes, 
 And life's great poems that can never fade 
 
 Nor lose their chimes; 
 And acts and facts that must forever ring 
 
 Like temple bells, 
 That sound or seem to sound where angels sing 
 
 Vesper farewells; 
 
 (Ml) 
 
402 Ilobile Mystio Societies. 
 
 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 lore, and life, and light, 
 
 And when they fold 
 Each other in their arms, j'^e 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 
 
3Iohilc }[\jdlc, Sooidks. -103 
 
 May meet you in the years that are to be 
 
 A blessing rare. 
 Ye pass beneath the arch of charity, 
 
 Who passeth tliere 
 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. 
 
 Mt feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, 
 
 My soul oppressed — 
 And I desire, what I have long desired — 
 
 Eest — only rest. 
 
 'Tis hard to toil — when toil is almost A^ain, 
 
 In barren ways; 
 'Tis hard to sow — and never garner grain, 
 
 In harvest days. 
 
 The burden of my days is hard to bear. 
 
 But God knows best; 
 And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayer 
 
 For rest — sweet rest. 
 
 'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap 
 
 The Autumn yield ; 
 'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep 
 
 O'er fruitless field. 
 
 (404) 
 
Best. 
 
 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 hut 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 shor* 
 
 Where I shall rest. 
 
FOLLOW ME. 
 
 Thk 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 — 
 
 Thou ! who diedst for me, 
 The day is bright, my step is light, 
 
 'Tis sweet to follow Thee! 
 
 Through the long Summer days 
 
 1 followed lovingly; 
 
 Twas bliss to hear His voice bo 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 I 
 
 (406) 
 
Follow lie. 407 
 
 Oh, sivect io follow Him ! 
 
 Lord, let me here abide. 
 The flowers were fair; I lingered there; 
 
 I l;iid 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, 
 
 Thoa hast not followed Me," 
 So fair the lilies' banks, 
 
 So bleiik the desert way: 
 The night- was dark, I could not mark 
 Where His blessed footsteps lay. 
 
408 Follow Me. 
 
 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." 
 
 Lord! Love divine! 
 Once more I follow Thee! 
 
 Let me abide so near Thy sid« 
 That I Thy face may see. 
 
 1 clasp Thy pierced hand, 
 
 Thoa who diedst for me! 
 I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss. 
 So let me cling to Thee. 
 
THE POETS CHILD. 
 
 LIKES iLDDBESSED TO THE DAUGHTER Of BICHABD DALTOX 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song!' 
 
 The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure yeins; 
 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 soundles sighs 
 Thou keepest watch above thy father's lays. 
 
 (409) 
 
410 Tlie Poet's Child. 
 
 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. 
 
 Cliild 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 tjiine 
 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. 
 
The Pod's Child. 411 
 
 Child of thy father I I have read his songs — 
 Thou art the sweetest song he ever sung — 
 Peaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongg 
 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. 
 
MOTHERS 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 
 
 Eor the wrong that each has done. 
 Should you wonder why this custom 
 
 At the ending of the day, 
 Eye and Toice 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 
 
 Tliis was ever mother's way. 
 
 (412) 
 
Mother's Way. 413 
 
 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, 
 
 Wliile we never cease to pray 
 That at last, when lengthening shadows 
 
 Mark the evening of our day, 
 They may find us waiting calmly 
 
 To go home our mother's way. 
 
FEAST OF THE PRESENTATION OF MARY 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 The priests stood -waiting in the holy place. 
 Impatient of delay 
 (Isaiah had been read). 
 When sudden up the aisle there came a face 
 Like a lost sun's ray; 
 And the child was led 
 By Joachim and Anna. Eays 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. 
 
 (414) 
 
Feast of the PresentiUion of Mary in the Temple. 415 
 
 A silence for a moment fell on all; 
 Tliey 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; 
 
416 Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple. 
 
 He led my heart and feet 
 To this, my holy home. 
 He said to me: 'Three years your God will wait 
 Your heart to greet and meet.' 
 
 I am three summers old — 
 I see my angel now — 
 
 Brighter his wings than gold — 
 He knoweth of my tow." 
 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 rohed priests did stand 
 Around the child. He said: 
 "Unto me, priests, and all ye Levites, harkl 
 
 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; 
 
Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple. 417 
 
 And Simeon said: 
 "We teach the latter years 
 The night is passing 'fore the coming day 
 
 (Isaiah had been read) 
 Of our redemption" — ^and some way the child 
 Won all their hearts. Simeon prayed and smiled. 
 
 That night the temple's child knelt down to pray 
 In the shadows of the aisle — ■ 
 
 She prayed for you and me. 
 Why did the temple's mystic curtain sway? 
 Why did the shadows smile? 
 
 The child of Love's decree 
 Had come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleam 
 The aged Simeon did see in dream 
 The mystery of the child, 
 And in his sleep he murmured prayer — and smiled. 
 
 And twelve years after, up the very aisle 
 
 Where Simeon had smiled 
 Upon her fair, pure face. 
 She came again, with a mother's smile. 
 
 And in her arms a Child, 
 The very God of grace. 
 And Simeon took the Infant from her breast. 
 
 And, in glad tones and strong. 
 
 He sang his glorious song 
 Of faith, and hope, and everlasting rest. 
 
ST, BRIDGET. 
 
 Sweet heaven's smile 
 Gleamed o'er the isle, 
 
 That gems the dreamy sea. 
 One far gone day, 
 And fash'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. 
 
 C«8) 
 
St. Bridget. 419 
 
 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 Tery sod, 
 Made theirs by God, 
 Is still by tyrants' footsteps trod; 
 
 They pray — but all in vain. 
 
 Thou! near Christ's throne. 
 Dost hear the moan 
 
 Of all their hearts that grieve; 
 Ah! virgin sweet. 
 Kneel at His feet, 
 Where angels' hymns thy prayer shall greet. 
 
 And pray for them this eve. 
 
NEW YEAR. 
 
 Each year cometh with all his days, 
 Some are shadowed and some are bright; 
 
 He beckons us on until he stays 
 Kneeling with us 'neath Christmas night 
 
 Kneeling under the stars that gem 
 
 The holy sky, o'er the humble place, 
 When the world's sweet Child of Bethlehem 
 Rested on Mary, full of grace. 
 
 Not only the Bethlehem in the East, 
 But altar Bethlehem everywhere, 
 
 When the Gloria of the first great feast 
 Eings 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. 
 
 («0) 
 
New Year. 421 
 
 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", 
 Kor 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. 
 
422 New Year. 
 
 "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 eyery minute of every hour 
 
 The Mass bell rang with its sound so sweet, 
 While from shrine to shrine, with tireless power. 
 And heaven's love,, walked the nailed feet. 
 
 "I brought the hours for Angelus bells. 
 And from a thousand temple towers 
 They wound their sweet and blessed spell 
 Around the hearts of all the hours. 
 
 "Every day has a day oi grace 
 
 For those who fain would make them so; 
 I saw o'er the world in every place 
 The wings of guardian angels glow. 
 
 "Menl 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." 
 
New Year. 423 
 
 Seven days passed; tlie gray, old year 
 Calls to his throne the coming heir; 
 
 Palls from his eyes the last, sad tear, 
 And lol there is gladness everywhere. 
 
 Singing, I hear the whole world sing. 
 
 Afar, anear, aloud, alow: 
 'What to us will the New Year bring!" 
 Ah I Avon Id that each of us might know! 
 
 Is it not truth? as old as true? 
 
 List ye, singers, tlie while ye sing! 
 Each year bringeth to each of you 
 
 What each of you will have him bring. 
 
 The year that cometli is a king. 
 With better gifts than the old year gave; 
 
 If you place on his fingers the holy ring 
 Of prayer, the king becomes your slave. 
 
ZEILA. 
 
 A 8T0BT FBOM A STAB. 
 
 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? 
 Nol 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? 
 
Zdla. 425 
 
 Wlien 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, 
 
 Tlie 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 
 
426 Zeila. 
 
 From a star ever pure of all sin, 
 In a 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 
 Eays golden and white as the snow, 
 As white as the flakes — ah, no! whiter; 
 Only angelic wings may be brighter 
 AVhen they flash o'er the brow of some woe 
 That walketh this shadowed below. 
 
 The soul loseth never its seeing, 
 
 In the goings of night and of day 
 
 It graspeth the Infinite Far. 
 
 No wonder there may come some Being, 
 
 As if it had wandered astray 
 
 At times down the wonder-filled way — ■ 
 
 As to me in the midnight of May — 
 
 From its home in some glory-crowned star. 
 
 Where evil hath never left traces; 
 
 Where dwelleth the highest of races, 
 
 Save the angels that circle the throne, 
 
 In a grace far beyond all our graces, 
 
 AVhose Christ is the same as our own. 
 
 Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming 
 With the gladness of life and of love. 
 
Zeila. 427 
 
 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 conies it, 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 
 Eeign circled by angels all briglit — 
 
45& Zcila. 
 
 All! 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 Ijist work is done? 
 
7yda. 42fl 
 
 Is lie resting, I wonder, to-night? 
 Doth He ever grow weary of giving 
 To Darknesses rays of His light? 
 Doth He ever grow weary of giving 
 To Nothings the rapture of living 
 And waiting awhile for His sight ? 
 If His will rules His glorious power, 
 And if love sways His beautiful will, 
 Is He not, e'en in this very hour, 
 Going on with love's wonder-work still? 
 
 Let me pray just awliile, for betimes 
 My spirit is clouded; and then 
 Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes. 
 Till prayer lendeth light to my pen. 
 And then shall I better unfold 
 The story to me that was told. 
 Of the unfallen star far away, 
 In the noon of the night 'mid of May, 
 By the beautiful Being who came. 
 With the pure and the beautiful name. 
 "Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said, 
 And passed from my vision afar. 
 With rapture I bowed down my head. 
 And dreamed of that unfallen star. 
 
BETTER THAN GOLD. 
 
 Better than grandeur, bette.,- 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 sphoie. 
 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 
 
 W30) 
 
Better Than Gold. 4,'jx 
 
 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 gi'eat and good of yore. 
 The sage's lore and the poet's lay, 
 The glories of empires passed away; 
 The world's great dream will thus unfold 
 And yield a pleasure better than gold. 
 
 Better than gold is a peaceful home 
 Where all the fireside characters come. 
 The shrine of love, the heaven of life, 
 Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. 
 However humble the home may be, 
 Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree. 
 The blessings that never were bought or sold. 
 And centre there, are better than gold. 
 
SEA DREAMINGS. 
 
 To-day a bird on wings as white as foam 
 
 That crests the hlue-gray wave, 
 With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home 
 
 Seaward. The God who gave 
 To the birds the virgin-wings of enow 
 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 winga of white 
 
 Tliat cleft thy waveward way — 
 Past the evening and swift into tlie niglit, 
 
 Out of the calm, bright day — 
 And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea, 
 More than one human heart's history. 
 
 (432) 
 
Seu Dremmngs. 433 
 
 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 fai- foam 
 Of this strange world's tempest-trampled main 
 A resting place — ^but they seek in vain. 
 
 Only the bird can rest upon the deep. 
 
 And sleep upon the wave, 
 And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. 
 
 And sweet the God who gave 
 The birds a rest place on the restless sea — 
 But this, my heart, is not His way with thee. 
 
 Over the world, ah ! passion's tempests roll. 
 
 And every fleck of foam 
 Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul 
 
 That never shall reach home. 
 Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace. 
 My heart, is thy only resting place. 
 
SEA REST. 
 
 Fae from "where the roses rest," 
 Bound 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? 
 Eoses! will the restless sea 
 Bring, as ye, a rest for me? 
 
 Ye were sweet and still and calm, 
 Eoses red and roses white; 
 
 And ye sang a soundless psalm 
 For me in the day and night. 
 
 Eoses! will the restless sea 
 
 Sing as sweet as ye for me? 
 
Sea Itest. 435 
 
 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 Kequiem sound. 
 Chanted by the moaning sea, 
 Echoed by each moss-veiled tree. 
 
 Eoses! 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 
 
4;3(> Sea Beat. 
 
 In joar faces. Roses sweet! 
 
 Ye were but the virgin veils, 
 Hiding Him whose holy feet 
 
 Walked the waves, whose very wails 
 Bring to me from Galilee 
 Rest across the restless sea. 
 
 And who knows? mayhap some wave, 
 From His footstep long ago, 
 
 With the blessing which He gave 
 After ages ebb and flow, 
 
 Cometh in from yonder sea, 
 
 With a blessing sweet for me. 
 
 Just last night I watched the deep. 
 And it shone as shines a shrine, 
 
 (Vigils such I often keep) 
 And the stars did sweetly shine 
 
 O'er the altar of the sea; 
 
 So they shone in Galilee. 
 
 Roses! round the shrine and aisle! 
 
 Which of all I loved the best, 
 I have gone to rest awhile 
 
 Where the wavelets never rest — ■ 
 Ye are dearer far to me 
 Than the ever restless sea. 
 
Sea Rest. 437 
 
 I will come to you in dreams. 
 
 In the day and in the night, 
 When the sun's or starlight's gleann 
 
 Eobe you in your red or white; 
 Roses! will you dream of me 
 By the ever restless sen? 
 
 BiLosi, Miss, 
 
SEA REVERIE. 
 
 Stsaxge 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 heach, 
 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 seal 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, Seal thy cry is wild, so wild! 
 
 (438) 
 
Sea Reverie. 439 
 
 What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright — 
 How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast! 
 
 Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er bo 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. 
 
440 Sea Reverie. 
 
 Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gi'ay, 
 Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white? 
 
 Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray. 
 With the sea's ritual, every day and night? 
 And the suns and stars your only altar light? 
 
 Great Sea! the very rythm 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 
 
 cres^ 
 Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest. 
 
 BiLoxi, Miss. 
 
THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. 
 
 Fell the snow on the festival's vigil 
 And surpliced the city in white; 
 
 I wonder who wove the pure flakelets ? 
 Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night. 
 
 It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol, 
 And earth wore the surplice at morn, 
 
 As pure as the vale's stainless lily 
 For Mary, the sinlessly born; 
 
 For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness; 
 
 And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East, 
 "With the brightest and fairest of flashes. 
 
 Fringed the surplice of white for the- Feast. 
 
 And round the horizon hung oloudletfej 
 Pure stoles to be worn by the- Feast; 
 
 While the earth and the heavens were waiting 
 For the beautiful Mass of the priest, 
 (ill) 
 
442 The Iminaoulate Concrption. 
 
 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 mo? 
 
 "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' tlie 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 fentn: 
 
 The Festival's surplice of enow. 
 
The Immaculate Conception. 44? 
 
 I listened, and each passing minute, 
 
 I heard in the lands far away 
 "Hail Mary," "Our Father," and near me 
 
 I heard all who knelt down to pray. 
 
 Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel. 
 
 And the same as the Christ of our love — 
 'Our Father," "Hail Mary," "Our Father"— 
 Winging just the same sweet flight ahove. 
 
 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 heyond mortal ken. 
 
 That the Mother had rights in the temple 
 Of Him sh6 had given to men ? 
 
444 Tlie Iinmaculate Conception. 
 
 Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wondler. 
 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 flakelfets 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 yirgins that die with the Feast, 
 
 Like martyrs, upon her fair altar^ — 
 If they could, they would pray with the priest; 
 
 And would murmui* "Our Father," "Hail Mary," 
 Till they drooped on the altar in death. 
 
 And he glad in their dying for giving 
 To Mary their last sweetest hreath. 
 
 Passed tho^day as a poem thai passes 
 Through the poet's- heart's sweetest of strings; 
 
 Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses — • 
 Did 1 hear a faint sound as of mngB^ 
 
The Immaeulule Conception. 44.J 
 
 Eustling over the aisles and the altars? 
 
 Did they go to her altar and pray? 
 Or was my heart only a-dreaming 
 
 At the close of the Festival day? 
 
 Quiet throngs came into the temple, 
 
 As still as the flowers at her feet, 
 And wherever they knelt, they were gazing 
 
 Where the statue looked smiling and sweet. 
 
 "Our Fathers," "Hail Marys" were blended 
 In a pure and a perfect accord. 
 And passed by the beautiful Mother 
 To fall at the feet of our Lord. 
 
 Low toned from the hearts of a thousand 
 "Our Fathers," "Hail Marys" swept on 
 
 To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder 
 Did they wrong the great name of her Son. 
 
 Her Son and our Saviour — I wonder 
 
 How He heard our "Hail Marys" that night? 
 
 Were the words to Him sweet as the music 
 They once were, and did we pray right? 
 
41G The Ininiacnlate Conception. 
 
 Or was it all wrong? Will lie punish 
 Our lips if we make tliem the home 
 
 Of tlie 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. 
 
 Ijet my mother, 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. 
 
 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 Tliee I am human, 
 And I need Mary's pure human name. 
 
The Imniai-idatc CbnccjjtioH, 417 
 
 Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? 
 I heard — or I B'.ire 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 S.ilutaris 
 
 Down the aisles — did the starred statue stir? 
 Or was my heart only a-dreaming 
 
 When it turned from her statue and her? 
 
 The door of a white tabernacle 
 
 Felt the touch of the hand of the priest — 
 Did he waken the Host from its slumbers 
 
 To come forth and crown the high Feast? 
 
448 The Immaoulafr Vcmccption. 
 
 To come forth so strangely and silejit. 
 And just for a sweet little wliile, 
 
 And then to go hack to its prison. 
 Thro' the stars — did the sweet statue smile? 
 
 I knew not; hut 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 her's only, held Him, 
 Her Child, in His waking and rest. 
 
 Who had strayed in a lore that seemed wayward 
 This eve to this 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! 
 
The Immaoukite Conception, 419 
 
 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"? 
 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 crosi 
 
 O'er the low-bended brows of the people. 
 Host of the Holyl 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 lore would have lost all its light. 
 
'1-jO The Iiiimucukitc Conc-ytion. 
 
 Laudate, what tbrilling of triumph! 
 
 Our souls soared to God on eacli tone; 
 And the Host went again to Its prison, 
 
 For our Christ fears to leave us alone. 
 
 Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailorl 
 Thy hand holds the beautiful key 
 
 That locks in His prison love's Captive, 
 And keeps Him in fetters for me. 
 
 'Twas over — I gazed on the statne — 
 "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, Baltimobe, os ihb Nioht of 
 Decembkb 8, 1880. 
 
FIFTY YEARS AT THE ALTAR. 
 
 ** To Eev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Eyan ; flrat, In mnmory of 
 Bome happy hours passed in Lis company at Loyola College, liaitiiiiore ; 
 next, in appreciation of a char.icter of strange boautlfulness, known o£ 
 Qod, but liidden from men ; and layt, but by no means least, to tost an<l 
 tnmpt his humility in the (to him] proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary 
 of his ordination." 
 
 To-day — fifty years at the altar — 
 
 Tlion art, as of old, at thy post! 
 Tell us, chasubled soldier! 
 
 Art ■ffeary of watching the Ilcst? 
 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." 
 Ill the fresh, glowing grace of thy priestliood, 
 
 Thou didst climb to the summit alone. 
 While the Feast of Christ's Transfiguration 
 
 Was a sweet outward sign of thy own. 
 
 (431) 
 
452 Fifty Years c.t the Altai: 
 
 Old priest! on the slope of the summit 
 
 Did float down and fall on thine ear 
 The strong words of weak-hearted Peter: 
 
 "0 Lord, it is good to he 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? 
 
Fifty Yea)-8 at the Altar. 453 
 
 "Half a century," cries out thy crucifix. 
 
 Binding together tliy beads; 
 His look, like thy life, lingers in it, 
 
 A light for men's souls in their needs. 
 Old priest! is thy life not a rosary? 
 
 Five decades and more have been said, 
 In thy heart the warm splendors of Thabor 
 
 Beneath the white snows of thy head I 
 
 Fifty years lifting the chalice — 
 
 Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened landl 
 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 it 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. 
 
454 Fifty Years at the Alhir. 
 
 Fifty yeais in the feast's orbit, 
 
 Nearly tvo thousands of days- 
 Fifty years priest in tlie priesthood, 
 
 Fifty years lit with its rays — 
 Lit with 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 1 
 
 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 
 
Flftif W-an at, thts AHar. '1&3 
 
 Old priest! witli the lieart of a poet 
 
 Thou hafit written sweet stiinzas fcr men; 
 Tliy 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 tlien 
 
 My stanzas are just like the shadows 
 
 That follow the sun and his sheen, 
 To tell to the eye that will read them 
 
 Where the purest of sunshine has been. 
 Thy life moves in mystical eclipse, 
 
 All hidden from men and their sight; 
 We look, but we see but its surface. 
 
 But God sees the depth of its light. 
 
 Twenty-five years! highest honors 
 
 Were thine — ^high deserved in the world: 
 Dawned a day with a grace in its flashing 
 
 O'er thy heart from a standard unfurled, 
 Whose folds bore the mystical motto: 
 
 "To the greater glory of God!" 
 And somfihow there opened before the« 
 
 A way thou hadst never yet trod. 
 
456 ^fiy Years at the Attar. 
 
 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 the 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-embroiderod, 
 
 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. 
 
THE SONG OF THE DEA THLE8S 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 
 Lovef ul, hopeful, or of wrath, 
 Cometh bact npon 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 : 
 
438 Tlie Sony of the Deathless Voice. 
 
 How long ! Ala*, how long ! 
 How long shall the Celt chant the sad song ol hope. 
 That a sunrise may break on the long starless niglit, 
 of our jMst ? 
 How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate 
 slojje 
 Of Tabjrs that promise our Transfiguration at last ? 
 How long, Lord ! How long ! 
 
 How long, Pate ! How long ! 
 How long shiill our sunVjurst reflect but the sunset of 
 llight, 
 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 moaniugs in tones all a-tremblijig 
 with tears ? 
 
 How long, Lord ! How long ! 
 
 How long, Eight ! How long ! 
 Hov/ long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did 
 iiame 
 In battid v;ith wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a 
 grave ? 
 How long shall we be but a nation with onlj' a name, 
 Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains 
 that enslave P 
 
 How long, Lord ! How long ! 
 
 How long ! Alas, how long ! 
 How long shall our isle bo a Golgotha, out in the sea. 
 
Tlie Song of the Deathless Voice. i5'J 
 
 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 theo 
 The waitings, Erin ! that float down the waves of 
 thy woes ? 
 
 How long, Lord ! How long ! 
 
 How long ! Alas, how long ! 
 How long shall the cry of the wronged, Freedom 1 
 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, 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. 
 
460 7%e Song of the Deathless Voict. 
 
 Am I not ia 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 tlie 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. 
 
 Ayo, 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 
 Bworded 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 ; 
 
The Song of the Deathless Voice. 46 1 
 
 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 stndned o'er thousands 
 of years. 
 And still are not severed, how miglity soevGr the 
 strain ; 
 The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our 
 tears. 
 Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds 
 and their rain. 
 
 The Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of 
 our isle 
 Need the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief- 
 clouded eyes. 
 
 To keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the 
 smile 
 
 Of Freedom, that some day— ah ! some day ! shall light 
 Erin's skies. 
 
 Our dead arc not dead wlio have gone, long ago, to 
 their rest ; 
 Thcv are living in us whose glorious race will not 
 die — 
 Their brave buried liearts are still beating on in each 
 breast 
 Of the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the 
 infinite sky. 
 
462 The Song of the Deathless Voice. 
 
 Many days yet to come may be dark as the' days that 
 are past. 
 Many voices may hush wliile the great years sweep 
 patiently by ; 
 But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to 
 the last. 
 And our blood is the bard of the song that never 
 shall die. 
 
TO ME. AND MRS. A. M. T. 
 
 Just when the gentle hand of spring 
 
 Came fringing tlie trees with bud and leaf. 
 And when the blades the warm suns bring 
 
 Were given glad promise of golden sbeaf ; 
 Just when the birds began to sing 
 
 Joy hj-mus after their winter's grief, 
 I wandered weary to a place ; 
 
 Tired of toil, I sought for rest. 
 Where Xature wore hor 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 sooRest dies ; 
 And 'neath the trees a little stream 
 
 Went winding slowly round and round. 
 Just like a poet's mj'stic dream. 
 
 With here a silence, there a soand. 
 The lowly ground, beneatii tlie sheen 
 
 Of March day suns, now ditu, now bright, 
 Now emeralds of golden green 
 
 In flashing or in lading light ; 
 And liere and there througliout the scene 
 
 The timid wild flowers met the sight. 
 
461 To Iff. and Mrs. A. II. T. 
 
 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, 
 AVhile 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 Maj', 
 
 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 happj'^, happy spot. 
 Too dear to be fore'er forgot. 
 
 Farewell, sweet place ! I came as guest ; 
 From toil, in thee I found relief, 
 
 I found in thee a home and rest — 
 But, ah ! the days are far too brief. 
 
 Farewell ! I go, but with me come 
 Sweet memories that long will last ; 
 
 I'll think of thee as of a home 
 That stands forever in my past. 
 
TO VIRGINIA. 
 On Her Bikthday. 
 
 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, foreV.r and fore'er. 
 I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer. 
 
Go, words of mine ! and if you live 
 Only for one brief, little day ; 
 
 If jieaco, 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. 
 — Air am J. Ryan.