Father Ryan's Poems: Electronic Edition.

]> Father Ryan's Poems: Electronic Edition. Ryan, Abram Joseph, 1839-1886. Funding from the University of North Carolina Library supported the electronic publication of this title. Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc. Images scanned by Brian Dietz Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., Brian Dietz, and Sarah Ficke First edition, 2006 ca. 365K University Library, UNC-Chapel Hill University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2006.

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Father Ryan's Poems. 263 p., ill. Mobile Jno. L. Rapier & Co., Publishers 1879 Call number PS2745 .A2 1879 (Rare Book Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

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[Frontispiece Image][Signed Abram J. Ryan]

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FATHER RYAN'S POEMS. “All Rests with those who Read. A work or thought Is what each makes it to himself, and may Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea, With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, Sweeping miles broad o'er the far southern woods, With mighty glimpses of the central light,— Or may be nothing—bodiless, spiritless.” —FESTUS. MOBILE: JNO. L. RAPIER & CO., PUBLISHERS. 1879. COPYRIGHT BY ABRAM J. RYAN, 1879. THESE SIMPLE RHYMES ARE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOVE AT THE FEET OF HIS MOTHER BY HER CHILD, THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

THESE VERSES (which some friends call by the higher title of Poems—to which appellation the Author objects),—were written at random,—off and on,—here,—there,—anywhere,—just when the mood came, with little of study and less of art,—and always in a hurry.

Hence they are incomplete in finish, as the Author is;—tho' he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more of the humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries, than of the steeps that lead up to Parnassus and the Home of the Muses. And souls were always more to him than songs. But still somehow,—and he could not tell why,—he sometimes tried to sing. Here are his simple songs. He never dreamed of taking even lowest place in the rank of authors. But friends persisted; and finally a young lawyer friend, who has entire charge of his business in the book, forced him to front the world and its critics. There are verses connected with the war published in this volume not for harm-sake, nor for hate-sake, but simply because the Author wrote them. He would write again in the same tone and key under the same circumstances. No more need be said, except that these verses mirror the mind of

THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. SONG OF THE MYSTIC, . . . . . 9 LIFE, . . . . .11 MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD, . . . . .13 LAST OF MAY, . . . . . 15 THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE, . . . . . 18 AT LAST, . . . . .20 IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE, . . . . . 22 A MEMORY, . . . . .23 THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH, . . . . . 24 A MEMORY, . . . . .27 RHYME, . . . . .33 NOCTURNE, . . . . .37 REVERIE, . . . . .40 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, . . . . . 43 A LAUGH AND A MOAN, . . . . . 45 LINES, . . . . .47 MEMORIES, . . . . .49 “OUT OF THE DEPTHS,” . . . . . 50 FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART, . . . . . 52 A LAND WITHOUT RUINS, . . . . . 54 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, . . . . . 55 A THOUGHT, . . . . .56 GONE, . . . . .57 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION, . . . . . 58 SURSUM CORDA, . . . . . 61 PRESENTIMENT, . . . . . 63 A CHILD'S WISH, . . . . . 64 I OFTEN WONDER WHY 'TIS SO, . . . . . 65 WAKE ME A SONG, . . . . .66 IN MEMORIAM, . . . . . 67 REVERIE, . . . . .68 TEARS, . . . . .71 LINES, . . . . .72 THE LAND WE LOVE, . . . . . 73 A BLESSING, . . . . .74 ERIN'S FLAG, . . . . . 76 JULY NINTH, 1872, . . . . . 79 A DEATH, . . . . .81 IN MEMORIAM—DAVID J. RYAN, C. S. A., . . . . . 83 WHAT? . . . . .87 A THOUGHT-FLOWER, . . . . . 89 THE MASTER'S VOICE, . . . . . 90 DEATH, . . . . .92 THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS, . . . . . 93 A REVERIE, . . . . .95 OLD TREES, . . . . .97 A THOUGHT, . . . . .98 IN ROME, . . . . .101 AFTER SICKNESS, . . . . . 103 AFTER SEEING PIUS IX, . . . . . 105 SENTINEL SONGS, . . . . . 106 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM, . . . . . 115 LAKE COMO, . . . . .128 “PEACE! BE STILL,” . . . . . 133 GOOD FRIDAY, . . . . . 134 SUNLESS DAYS, . . . . . 135 A REVERIE, . . . . .136 MY BEADS, . . . . .137 AT NIGHT, . . . . .138 NOCTURNE, . . . . .140 ST. MARY'S, . . . . .143 DE PROFUNDIS, . . . . . 145 WHEN? . . . . .148 THE CONQUERED BANNER, . . . . . 150 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT, . . . . . 152 “FAR AWAY,” . . . . . 172 LISTEN, . . . . .174 WRECKED, . . . . .175 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS, . . . . . 176 A THOUGHT, . . . . .181 DREAMING, . . . . .182 “YESTERDAYS,” . . . . . 183 “TO-DAYS,” . . . . . 184 “TO-MORROWS,” . . . . . 185 INEVITABLE, . . . . .187 HOPE, . . . . .189 FAREWELLS, . . . . . 190 SONG OF THE RIVER, . . . . . 191 DREAM LAND, . . . . . 193 LINES, . . . . .194 A SONG, . . . . . 195 PARTING, . . . . .197 ST. STEPHEN, . . . . .198 A FLOWER'S SONG, . . . . . 201 THE STAR'S SONG, . . . . . 202 DEATH OF THE FLOWER, . . . . . 203 NOW, . . . . .204 SINGING BIRD, . . . . . 206 GOD IN THE NIGHT, . . . . . 207 M * * * . . . . .209 REUNITED, . . . . . 211 C. S. A., . . . . .213 THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN, . . . . . 215 PASSING AWAY, . . . . . 217 POETS, . . . . .219 A LEGEND, . . . . .221 WHAT AILS THE WORLD? . . . . . 223 THOUGHTS, . . . . .225 LINES, . . . . .226 THE PILGRIM, . . . . . 227 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS, . . . . . 235 LINES, . . . . .259 DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL, . . . . . 260 EPILOGUE, . . . . .263 SONG OF THE MYSTIC. I WALK down the Valley of Silence,— Down the dim, voiceless valley alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me save God's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown! Long ago—was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago I was weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human—and sin. I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: “In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star on life's wave; Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave.” And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view. And I toiled on heart-tired of the Human; And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; Till I knelt long ago at an altar And heard a voice call me:—since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: “Be mine.” And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo—“My heart shall be thine.” Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep—and I dream—and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace they may bring. But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley,— Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces,— Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: They pass through the Valley, like Virgins Too pure for the touch of a word! Do you ask me the place of the Valley? Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care! It lieth afar between mountains And God and his angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one,—the bright mountain of Prayer! 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 flow. In the name of the Father, and the Son, And Holy Spirit—Three in One. Spotless as a lily's leaf, Whiter than the Christmas snow; Not a sign of sin or grief, And the babe laughed sweet and low. A smile flitted over the baby's face: Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing Just passing then, and leaving a trace Of its presence, as it soared to sing? A hymn when words and waters win To Grace and life—a child of sin. Not an outward sign or token, That a child was saved from woe, But the bonds of sin were broken; And the babe laughed sweet and low. A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes,— And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast, Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, Out of the future, or the past?— Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, And gall must mingle with the sweet. Yea, upon the baby's laughter Trickled tears: 'tis ever so— Mothers dread the dark hereafter; But the babe laughed sweet and low. And the years like waves broke on the shore Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life; But her lone heart drifted away before Her little boy knew an hour of strife;— Drifted away on a Summer's eve, Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve. Her humble grave was gently made, Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow; The wild birds sang where her heart was laid; And her boy laughed sweet and low, He drifted away from his mother's grave Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide. 'Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. Out from the shore and over the deep,— He sailed away and learned to weep. Furrowed grew the face once fair, Under storms of human woe;— Silvered grew the dark brown hair, And he wailed so sad and low. The years swept on as erst they swept, Bright wavelets once—dark billows now. Wherever he sailed—he ever wept, A cloud hung over the darkened brow— Over the deep and into the dark, But no one knew where sank his bark. Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, The world still laughed, 'tis ever so,— God only knows the baby's doom, That laughed so sweet and low. MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. GATHER the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of our People's trust And fell in a cause, though lost still just And died for me and you. Gather them one and all! From the Private to the Chief, Come they from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall The tears of a Nation's grief. Gather the corpses strewn O'er many a battle plain; From many a grave that lies so lone, Without a name and without a stone, Gather the Southern slain. We care not whence they came, Dear in their lifeless clay! Whether unknown, or known to fame, Their cause and country still the same— They died—and wore the Gray. Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart; Living they struggled side by side— Why should the hand of Death divide A single heart from heart. Gather their scattered clay, Wherever it may rest; Just as they marched to the bloody fray; Just as they fell on the battle day; Bury them breast to breast. The foeman need not dread This gathering of the brave; Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, We muster once more our deathless dead; Out of each lonely grave. The foeman need not frown, They all are powerless now— We gather them here and we lay them down, And tears and prayers are the only crown We bring to wreathe each brow. And the dead thus meet the dead, While the living o'er them weep; And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together bled, Together still shall sleep. LAST OF MAY. TO THE CHILDREN OF MARY OF THE CATHEDRAL OF MOBILE. IN the mystical Dim of the Temple,— In the dream-haunted Dim of the Day,— The Sunlight spoke soft to the Shadows, And said: “With my gold and your gray, Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin,— And ere her fair Feast pass away Let us weave there a mantle of glory To deck the Last Evening of May.” The tapers were lit on the altar With garlands of lilies between; And the steps leading up to the statue Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen; The sungleams came down from the Heavens Like angels, to hallow the scene, And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows That crept to the shrine of the Queen. The singers,—their hearts in their voices, Had chanted the anthems of old; And the last trembling wave of the Vespers On the far-shores of silence had rolled. And there,—at the Queen-Virgin's altar The Sun wove the mantle of gold While the hands of the Twilight were weaving A fringe for the flash of each fold. And wavelessly, in the deep silence, Three banners hung peaceful and low,— They bore the bright Blue of the Heavens They wore the pure White of the snow,— And beneath them fair children were kneeling, Whose faces, with graces aglow, Seemed sinless,—in land that is sinful And woeless,—in life full of woe. Their heads wore the veil of the lily,— Their brows wore the wreath of the rose, And their hearts, like their flutterless banners, Were stilled in a holy repose. Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, Whose glad gaze would never disclose That from eyes that are most like the Heavens The dark rain of tears soonest flows. The Banners were borne to the railing Beneath them—a group from each band,— And they bent their bright folds for the Blessing That fell from the Priest's lifted hand. And he signed the three, fair, silken standards, With a Sign never foe could withstand,— What stirred them? The breeze of the Evening? Or a breath from the far-Angel-land? Then came, two by two, to the altar, The young and the pure and the fair,— Their faces the mirror of Heaven,— Their hands folded meekly in prayer, They came for a simple blue ribbon For love of Christ's mother to wear,— And I believe, with the children of Mary The Angels of Mary were there. Ah! Faith! simple Faith of the children! You still shame the Faith of the old! Ah! love! simple love of the Little! You still warm the love of the cold! And the Beautiful God who is wandering Far out in the world's dreary wold, Finds a Home in the Hearts of the children And a Rest with the Lambs of the Fold. Swept a voice;—was it wafted from Heaven? Heard you ever the Sea when its sings, Where it sleeps on the shore in the Night-time? Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings, From the hearts of a thousand bright summers? Heard you ever the bird, when she springs To the clouds, till she seems to be only A song of a shadow on wings? Came a voice,—and an “Ave Maria” Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled And in the embrace of its music The souls of a thousand lay stilled. A voice with the tones of an angel, Never flower such a sweetness distilled; It faded away,—but the temple With its perfume of worship was filled. Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar The white veils swept on two by two;— And the holiest halo of heaven Flashed out from the ribbons of Blue;— And they laid down the wreaths of the roses Whose hearts were as pure as their hue,— Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, Whose loves to the Mother are true! And thus in the Dim of the Temple In the dream-haunted Dim of the Day,— The Angels and Children of Mary Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away, Where the Sungleams knelt down with the Shadows And wove with their gold and their gray A mantle of grace and of glory For the Last, lovely Evening of May. THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. FORTH from its scabbard pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight High o'er the brave in the cause of Right Its stainless sheen like a beacon light Led us to Victory. Out of its scabbard where full long It slumbered peacefully,— Roused from its rest by the battle's song Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong Guarding the right, avenging the wrong Gleamed the sword of Lee. Forth from its scabbard high in air Beneath Virginia's sky— And they who saw it gleaming there And knew who bore it knelt to swear, That where that sword led, they would dare To follow and to die. Out of its scabbard!—never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a Cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee. Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed, That sword might victor be;— And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee. Forth from its scabbard! all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee;— 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain; Defeated yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. AT LAST. INTO a temple vast and dim, Solemn and vast and dim, Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn Was floating far away— With eyes that tabernacled tears— Her heart the home of tears— And cheeks wan with the woes of years, A woman went one day. And, one by one, adown the aisles— Adown the long, lone aisles— Their faces bright with holy smiles That follow after Prayer— The worshipers in silence passed— In silence slowly passed away; The woman knelt until the last Had left her lonely there. A holy hush came o'er the place— O'er the holy place— The shadows kissed her woe-worn face, Her forehead touched the floor; The wreck that drifted thro' the years— Sin-driven thro' the years— Was floating o'er the tide of tears, To mercy's golden shore. Her lips were sealed, they could not pray— They sighed, but could not pray— All words of Prayer had died away From them long years ago; But ah! from out her eyes there rose— Sad from her eyes there rose— The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes To Heaven—winged with woe. With weary tears, her weary eyes— Her joyless, weary eyes— Wailed forth a Rosary—and her sighs And sobs strung all the Beads; The while before her spirit's gaze— Her contrite spirit's gaze— Moved all the mysteries of her days And histories of her deeds. Still as a shadow, while she wept— So desolately wept— Up thro' the long, lone aisle she crept Unto an altar fair; Mother!”—her pale lips said no more— Could say no more— The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore— For Mary's shrine was there. IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE, SUPERIOR GENERAL OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE MISSION AND OF THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. A SHADOW slept folded in vestments The dream of a smile on its face, Dim—soft as the gleam after sunset, That hangs like a halo of grace, Where the daylight hath died in the valley, And the twilight hath taken its place, A Shadow! but still on the mortal, There rested the tremulous trace Of the joy of a spirit immortal, Passed up to its God in His grace. A Shadow! hast seen in the summer A cloud wear the smile of the sun? On the shadow of death there is flashing The glory of noble deeds done; On the face of the dead there is glowing The light of a holy race run; And the smile of the face is reflecting The gleam of the crown he has won. Still, Shadow! sleep on in the vestments Unstained by the Priest who has gone. And thro' all the nations, the children Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss; But the glory that crowns him in heaven Illumines the gloom of their cross. They send to the Shadow the tribute Of tears, from the fountains of love, And they send from their altars sweet prayers To the throne of their Father above. Yea! sorrow weeps over the Shadow, But Faith looks aloft to the skies; And Hope, like a rainbow, is flashing O'er the tears that rain down from their eyes. They murmur on earth “De profundis,” The low chant is mingled with sighs; “Laudate” rings out through the heavens, The dead Priest hath won his faith's prize. His children in sorrow will honor His grave;—every tear is a gem, And their prayers 'round his brow in the heavens Will brighten his fair diadem,— I kneel at his grave and remember In love, I am still one of them. A MEMORY. ONE bright memory shines like a star In the sky of my spirit forever; And over my pathway it flashes afar A radiance that perishes never. One bright memory—only one; And I walk by the light of its gleaming; It brightens my days—and when days are done It shines in the night o'er my dreaming. One bright memory—whose golden rays Illumine the gloom of my sorrows, And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze In the shadows of all my to-morrows. One bright memory—when I am sad I lift up my eyes to its shining, And the clouds pass away; and my spirit grows glad And my heart hushes all its repining. One bright memory—others have passed Back into the shadows forever; But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, Sheds a light that will pass away never. Shine on, shine always, Thou star of my days! And when Death's starless Night gathers o'er me, Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze, And light the dark valley before me. THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. MY BROW is bent beneath a heavy rod! My face is wan and white with many woes, But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, And for my children pray, and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, And pray, oh! Father, Let Thy will be done! My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast; My hopes are buried with my children's dust; My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast— In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, And sorrow leads me, Father, back to thee. Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone, I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, And whisper, Father, let thy will be done! Pity me, Father of the Desolate! Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, And keep me, guard me, with thy loving care. Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, That hearts of earth, wherever 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 morrow's sun? Oh! Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, And sadder heart, I pray, Thy will be done. My homes are joyless, and a million mourn Where many met in joys forever flown; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn; Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. And, ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries, Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee. Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead— Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one! Above their dust I bow my crownless head, And murmur—Father, still Thy will be done. Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair; But foemen came, and, with a ruthless hand, Spread ruin, wreck and desolation there. Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod, And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, To catch one smile of pity from my God. Around me blight, where all before was bloom, And so much lost, alas! and nothing won! Save this—that I can lean on wreck and tomb, And weep, and weeping, pray, Thy will be done. And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet; The words are bitter, but they hold a balm— A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, And lulls my 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? My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; Alas! their hearts have only place for tears! Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed And ev'ry sin of those four bloody years, And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, And from their hearts take every thought of hate; And while they climb their Calvary with their Cross, Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight. And for my dead, my Father, may I pray? Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more! I keep eternal watch above their clay; Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore! Forgive my foes—they know not what they do— Forgive them all the tears they made me shed; Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead. Oh! may my woes be each a carrier-dove, With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears, Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck and grave— A desert waste, where all was erst so fair— And for my children and my foes I crave Pity and Pardon—Father, hear my prayer! A MEMORY. ADOWN the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place, at Eventide. Bright wavelets wove the scarf of Blue That well became the valley fair,— And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders everywhere. And where the stream, in wayward whirls Went winding in and winding out, Lay shells that wore the look of pearls Without their pride, all strewn about And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals made. And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts,—but not the palm of fame. The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore; While bluer than the bluest sky, The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore. And on the height, and down the side, Of either hill that hid the place, Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race. While here and there the trees between,— Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, And frowning wrathful, might be seen The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. And round the rocks crept flowered vines And clomb the trees that towered high,— The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a Truth, to touch the sky. And to that vale from first of May Until the last of August went;— Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent. 'Twas there, one long-gone August day I wandered down the valley fair,— The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there. The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day Which flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away. And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen, That flashed and faded like the hopes That haunt us, of what might have been. And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems. Low in the west gleam after gleam, Glowed faint and fainter,—till the last Made the dying Day a living Dream To last as long as life shall last. And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing, And e'en the lips of the summer-breeze, That sang all day, had ceased to sing, And all was silent,—save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet,— And sang,—while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet. And now and then it surely seemed The little stream was laughing low,— As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed Such dreams as only children know. So still,—that not the faintest breath Did stir the shadows in the air;— It would have seemed the home of Death Had I not felt Life sleeping there. And slow and soft,—and soft and slow From darkling earth and darkened sky, Wide wings of Gloom waved to and fro And spectral shadows flitted by. And then methought upon the sward I saw,—or was it starlight's ray? Or Angels come to watch and guard The valley,—till the dawn of day? Is every lower life the ward Of spirits more divinely wrought? 'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's,—and hard To think 'tis but a Poet's thought. But God's or Poet's thought,—I ween My senses did not fail me when I saw veiled angels watch that scene And guard its sleep,—as they guard men. Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed As sorrow sings a heart to sleep,— As a Mother sings one child to rest And for the dead one still will weep. I walked adown the singing stream, The lilies slept on either side;— My heart,—it could not help but dream At Eve, and after Eventide, Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach With more than earthly fancies fraught,— That not the strongest wings of speech Could ever touch their lowest thought. Dreams of the Bright—the Fair,—the Far, Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue,— That swept around,—as sweeps a star The boundless orbit of the True. Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint— Where human Passion played no part,— As pure as thoughts that thrill a Saint Or haunt an Archangelic heart. Ah! dreams that did not rise from Sense And rose too high to stoop to it,— And flamed aloft like frankincense In censers round the Infinite. Yea! dreams that vied with Angel's flight And soaring,—bore my heart away,— Beyond the far Star-bounds of Night Unto the Everlasting Day. How long I strolled beside the stream I do not know, nor may I say; But when the Poet ceased to dream The Priest went on his knees to pray. I felt,—as sure a seraph feels, When in some golden hour of grace God smiles,—and suddenly reveals A new, strange Glory in His Face. Ah! star-lit valley! Lilies white! The Poet dreamed,—ye slumbered deep! But when the Priest knelt down that Night And prayed,—why woke ye from your sleep? The stream sang down the valley fair— I saw the wakened lilies nod,— I knew they heard me whisper there “How beautiful! art thou, my God!” RHYME. ONE idle day A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore, In a breezeless bay,— We listless lay Our boat a “dream of rest” on the still sea— And—we were four. The wind had died That all day long sang songs unto the deep; It was eventide— And far and wide Sweet silence crept thro' the rifts of sound With spells of sleep. Our gray sail cast The only cloud that flecked the foamless sea, And weary at last Beside the mast One fell to slumber, with a dreamy face And—we were three. No ebb! no flow! No sound! no stir,—in the wide-wondrous calm In the sunset's glow The shore shelved low And snow-white,—from far ridges screened with shade Of drooping palm. Our hearts were hushed;— All light seemed melting into boundless blue; But the west was flushed Where sunset blushed, Thro' clouds of roses, when another slept And,—we were two. How still the air! Not e'en a sea-bird o'er us waveward flew Peace rested there! Light! everywhere! Nay! Light! some shadows fell on that fair scene, And,—we are two; Some shadows! Where! No matter where! all shadows are not seen For clouds of care, To skies all fair Will sudden rise as tears to shining eyes And dim their sheen. We spake no word Tho' each I ween did hear the other's soul. Not a wavelet stirred And yet we heard, The loneliest music of the weariest waves That ever roll. Yea! Peace! you swayed Your sceptre jeweled with the evening light, And then you said “Here falls no shade,— Here floats no sound, and all the seas and skies Sleep calm and bright.” Nay, Peace! Not so! The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's spell, And fear to flow, But to and fro,— Beyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas Will sink and swell. No word e'en yet Were our eyes speaking while they watched the sky And in the sunset, Infinite regret, Swept sighing from the skies into our souls I wonder why! A half hour passed— 'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus, Words came at last, Fluttering and fast As shadows veiling sunsets in the souls Of each of us. The noiseless night Sped flitting like a ghost where waves of blue Lost all their light As lips once bright Whence smiles have fled; we or the wavelets sighed And we were two. The day had gone— And on the dim high altar of the Dark Stars one by one Far, faintly shone; The moonlight trembled like a mother's smile Upon our bark. We softly spoke, The waves seemed listening on the lonely sea The winds awoke Our whispers broke The spell of silence; and two eyes unclosed And we were three. “The breeze blows fair,” He said;—“the waking waves set towards the shore;” The long brown hair Of the other there Who slumbered near the mast with dreamy face Stirred:—we were four. That starry night— A mile or so of shadows from the shore Two faces bright With laughter light Shone on two souls like stars that shine on shrines And we were four. Over the reach Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew We reached the beach Nor song—nor speech Shall ever tell our Sacramental thought, When,—we were two. NOCTURNE. I SIT, to-night, by the firelight, And I look at the glowing flame, And I see in the bright red flashes A Heart,—a Face and a Name. How often have I seen pictures Framed in the flrelight's blaze,— Of hearts, of names and of faces, And scenes of remembered days! How often have I found poems, In the crimson of the coals, And the swaying flames of the firelight Unrolled such golden scrolls. And my eyes, they were proud to read them, In letters of living flame,— But to-night, in the fire, I see only One Heart,—one Face and one Name. But where are the olden pictures? And where are the olden dreams? Has a change come over my vision? Or over the fire's bright gleams? Not over my vision, surely— My eyes,—they are still the same, That used to find in the firelight So many a face and name. Not over the firelight either, No change in the coals or blaze That flicker and flash as ruddy To-night, as in other days. But there must be a change—I feel it,— To-night; not an old picture came; The fire's bright flames only painted One heart,—one face and one name. Three pictures? No! only one picture;— The Face belongs to the Name,— And the Name names the Heart, that is throbbing Just back of the beautiful flame. Who said it? I wonder,—“all faces Must fade in the light of but one,— The soul like the earth, may have many Horizons,—but only one sun.” Who dream 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 vision of one? Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, “One Eternal alone reigns above.” Is it true?—and all else are but idols? So the heart can have only one Love. Only one,—all the rest are but idols, That fall from their shrines soon or late, When the Love that is Lord of the temple, Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate. To be faithless oft means to be faithful, To be false often means to be true,— The vale that loves clouds that are golden, Forgets them for skies that are blue. To forget often means to remember What we had forgotton too long,— The fragrance is not the bright flower, The echo is not the sweet song. Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight Gaze—I ever so long—all the same I only can see in its glowing A Heart, a Face and a Name. Farewell! all ye hearts, names and faces! Only ashes now under the blaze,— Ye never again will smile on me,— For I'm touching the end of my days. And the beautiful fading firelight Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, Three pictures,—yet only one picture A Heart, a Face and a Name. REVERIE. ONLY a few more years! Weary years! Only a few more tears! Bitter tears! And then—and then—like other men,— I cease to wander,—cease to weep,— Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep,— And out of the Day,—and into the Night,— Into the Dark, and out of the Bright,— I go,—and Death shall veil my face,— The feet of the years shall fast efface My very name, and every trace I leave on Earth;—for the stern years tread,— Tread out the names of the Gone and Dead! And then,—ah! then; like other men,— I close my eyes,—and go to sleep,— Only a few, one hour, shall weep, Ah! me!—the Grave is dark and deep. Alas! Alas!— How soon we pass! And ah! we go— So far away?— When go we must,— From the Light of Life, and the heat of strife,— To the Peace of Death, and the cold, still Dust,— We go—we go—we may not stay, We travel the lone, dark, dreary way;— Out of the Day and into the Night,— Into the Darkness,—out of the Bright.— And then! ah, then! like other men, We close our eyes—and go to sleep— We hush our hearts—and go to sleep,— Only a few, one hour, shall weep, Ah, me! the Grave is lone and deep! I saw a flower, at morn, so fair,— I passed at Eve,—it was not there,— I saw a sunbeam, golden, bright, I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud,— And I saw Night Digging the Grave of Day,— And Day took off her golden crown, And flung it sorrowfully down,— Ah! Day! the Sun's fair Bride! At twilight moaned and died.— And so, alas!—like Day we pass,— At Morn we smile! At Eve we weep— At Morn we wake— In Night we sleep, We close our eyes and go to sleep— Ah me! the Grave is still and deep! But God is sweet, My Mother told me so;— When I knelt at her feet,— Long—so long ago;— She clasped my hands in hers,— Ah me! that memory stirs My soul's profoundest Deep— No wonder that I weep,— She clasped my hands,—and smiled, Ah! then I was a child,— I knew not harm, My Mother's arm Was flung around me;—and I felt— That when I knelt To listen to my Mother's prayer,— God was with mother there. Yea! “God is sweet,” She told me so;— She never told me wrong, And through my years of woe Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, And sweet as Angel's song,— Have floated—like a dream. And, ah! to-night I seem A very child in my old, old place, Beneath my Mother's blessed face; And through each sweet remembered word, This sweetest undertone is heard:— My child!—my child!—our God is sweet, In Life—in Death—kneel at his feet,— Sweet in gladness—sweet in gloom, Sweeter still beside the Tomb.— Why should I wail?—Why ought I weep? The Grave,—it is not dark and deep;— Why should I sigh?—Why ought I moan? The Grave,—it is not still and lone; Our God is sweet,—our Grave is sweet, We lie there sleeping at his feet, Where the wicked shall from troubling cease, And weary hearts shall rest in peace! THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. HOW swift they go! Life's many years, With their winds of woe And their storms of tears, And their darkest of Nights whose shadowy slopes Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens Ioom The clouds of the tempest—the shadows of the gloom. And ah! we pray With a grief so drear, That the years may stay When their graves are near; Tho' the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright, With love and with beauty, with life and with light, The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, To the hearts that survive them, are evermore dear. For the heart so true, To each Old Year cleaves; Tho' the hand of the New Flowery garlands weave. But the flowers of the future tho' fragrant and fair With the Past's withered leaflets may never compare, For dear is each dead leaf—and dearer each thorn— In the wreaths which the brows of our Past years have worn, Yea! men will cling With a love to the last; And wildly fling Their arms round their Past! As the vine that clings to the oak that falls, As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls; For the dust of the Past some hearts higher prize, Than the stars that flash out from the Future's bright skies. And why not so! The old, old Years, They knew and they know All our hopes and fears; We walked by their side, and we told them each grief, And they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed In the hearts of the dead years are Buried and sealed. Let the New Year sing At the Old Year's grave, Will the New Year bring What the Old Year gave? Ah! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows, And his brow is wreathed with many a rose;— But how many thorns do the roses conceal Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal! Let the New Year smile When the Old Year dies, In how short a while Shall the smiles be sighs? Yea! Stranger-Year thou hast many a charm, And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, But, dearer than thou—in his shroud of snows— Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes. Yea, bright New Year! O'er all the earth With song and cheer They will hail thy birth; They will trust thy words in a single hour, They will love thy face, they will laud thy power, For the New has charms which the Old has not, And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot. A LAUGH—AND A MOAN. THE brook, that down the Valley So musically drips, Flowed never half so brightly As the light laugh from her lips. Her face was like the Lily, Her heart was like the Rose, Her eyes were like a Heaven, Where the sunlight always glows. She trod the earth so lightly Her feet touched not a thorn; Her words wore all the brightness Of a young life's happy Morn. Along her laughter rippled The melody of Joy,— She drank from every chalice And tasted no alloy. Her life was all a Laughter Her days were all a smile, Her heart was pure and happy She knew nor gloom nor guile. She rested on the bosom Of her mother, like a flower That blooms far in a Valley Where no storm-clouds ever lower. And—“Merry! merry! merry!” Rang the bells of every hour, And—“Happy! happy! happy!” In her valley laughed the Flower. There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn,— And the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the Morn. Years passed—'t was long—long after And I saw a Face at Prayer; There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care. For the Sunshine all had faded From the Valley and the Flower, And the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely Evening hour. And the lips that smiled with laughter In the Valley of the Morn,— In the Valley of the Evening They were pale and sorrow-worn. And I read the old—old lesson In her face and in her tears While she sighed amid the shadows Of the Sunset of her years,— All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that flow Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe. LINES—1875. GO down where the wavelets are kissing the shore And ask of them why do they sigh? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh evermore, Ask them what ails them? they will not reply, But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. Go! stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, When the night stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. They're moaning forever wherever they sweep; Ask them what ails them? they never reply; They moan and so sadly, but will not tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you—neither shall I? Go list to the breeze at the waning of day When it passes and murmurs “Good-bye.” The dear little breeze—how it wishes to stay Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play, How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way. Ask it what ails it? it will not reply, Its voice is a sad one—it never told why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The breeze will not answer you, neither shall I. Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, When the shout of the storm rends the sky, They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air, And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, And they groan like the ghosts in the “land of despair.” Ask them what ails them? they never reply, Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The blasts will not answer you, neither shall I. Go, stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, Or list where the rivers rush by; The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, Are moaning forever wherever they glide; Ask them what ails them? they will not reply. On—sad voiced, they flow, but they never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Earth's streams will not answer you—neither shall I. Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, And the voices that sound in the sky, Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. Ask them what ails them? they will not reply. They sigh—sigh forever, but never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Their lips will not answer you—neither will I. MEMORIES. THEY come, as the Breeze comes over the Foam Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep,— The fairest of Memories from far-away Home The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep. They come as the stars come out in the sky That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep,— And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh And I welcome them all while I wearily weep. They come as a song comes out of the Past A loved mother murmured in days that are dead— Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last When the Gloom of the heart wraps its Gray o'er the head. They come like the Ghosts from the grass shrouded graves And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way;— And they murmur around us as murmur the waves That sigh on the shore at the dying of day.— They come,—sad as tears to the eyes that are bright,— They come,—sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale,— They come,—dim as dreams in the depths of the night,— They come,—fair as flowers to the Summerless vale,— There is not a heart that is not haunted so,— Though far we may stray from the scenes of the Past,— Its memories will follow wherever we go— And the days that were first sway the days that are Last. “OUT OF THE DEPTHS.” LOST! Lost! Lost! The cry went up from a Sea,— The waves were wild with an awful wrath Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; The clouds hung low Lost! Lost! Lost! Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed. Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry floated over the waves— Far over the pitiless waves; It smote on the Dark and it rended the clouds, The billows below them were weaving white shrouds Out of the foam of the surge And the wind-voices chanted a dirge— Lost! Lost! Lost! Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. Lost! Lost! Lost! Not the sign of a hope was nigh— In the sea, in the air or the sky; And the lifted faces were wan and white, There was nothing without them but Storm and Night, And nothing within but fear; But far to a FATHER'S EAR Lost! Lost! Lost! Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. Lost! Lost! Lost! Out of the depths of the sea— Out of the Night and the Sea! And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed— And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed,— Saved! Saved! Saved! And a calm and a joyous cry Floated up through the starry sky In the dark—in the storm “Our Father” is nigh. FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART. TWO lights on a lowly Altar; Two snowy cloths for a Feast;— Two vases of dying roses,— The Morning comes from the East,— With a gleam for the folds of the Vestments And a grace for the face of the Priest. The sound of a low, sweet whisper Floats over a little Bread,— And trembles around a chalice,— And the Priest bows down his head! O'er a Sign of White on the Altar,— In the cup—o'er a sign of Red. As red as the Red of roses As white as the White of snows!— But the red is the red of a surface Beneath which a God's blood flows; And the white is the white of a sunlight Within which a God's Flesh glows. Ah! Words of the olden Thursday! Ye come from the Far-away!— Ye bring us the Friday's victim In his own love's olden way?— In the hand of the Priest at the altar His Heart finds a Home each day. The sight of a Host uplifted! The silver-sound of a bell!— The gleam of a golden chalice— Be glad.—sad heart! 't is 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 annointed, With the waves of a wondrous grace; A silence falls on the Altar— An awe, on each bended face— For the Heart that bled on Calvary Still beats in the Holy-Place. The priest comes down to the railing Where brows are bowed in prayer,— In the tender clasp of his fingers A Host lies pure and fair,— And the hearts of Christ and the Christian Meet there,—and only there! Oh! Love! that is deep and deathless! Oh! Faith that is strong and grand! Oh! Hope that will shine forever, O'er the wastes of a weary land!— Christ's Heart finds an earthly Heaven In the palm of the Priest's pure hand. A LAND WITHOUT RUINS.

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

YES, give me the land where the ruins are spread, And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead; Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast Has flashed to the future the fame of the past; Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays That tell of the memories of long vanished days; Yes, give me a land that hath story and song, Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong; Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb— There is grandeur in graves—there is glory in gloom; For out of the gloom future brightness is born As after the night comes the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, And each single wreck in the war-path of might, Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right. IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. YOUNG as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest that wore it— Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), Triumphant waved our flag one day, He fell in the front before it. Firm as the firmest where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won—but the field was red, And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed On his country's hallowed altar. On the trampled breast of the battle plain Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, On his pale pure face not a mark of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again), The fairest form amid all the slain, Like a child asleep—he nestled. In the solemn shades of the wood that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there—and the big tears crept Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. (His mother—God pity her—smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him). A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother— His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; There is not a name, there is not a stone— And only the voice of the winds maketh moan O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn, But, his memory lives in the other. A THOUGHT. THE Summer-Rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory, may be sweet,— 'T is 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 perfume Until the Cross became its Vase. “GONE.” S. M. A. GONE! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into far away, Gone! and we can only dream of you Each as you fade like a star away, Fade as a star in the sky from us, Vainly we look for your light again; Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us? “Come” and our hearts will be bright again. Come! and gaze on our face once more, Bring us the smiles of the olden days;— Come! and shine in your place once more, And, change the dark into golden days— Gone! Gone! Gone! Joy is fled for us, Gone into the night of the nevermore, And darkness rests where you shed for us A light we will miss for ever more. Faces! ye come in the night to us, Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep, Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us, Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into the far away; Gone! and we only can dream of you Till we sink like you and the stars away. FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. “A NIGHT-PRAYER.” DARK! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the Day is dead, Thy Feast has fled; My eyes are wet, with tears unshed I bow my head; Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway, I bend my knee, And, like a homesick child, I pray, Mary! to Thee. Dark! Dark! Dark! And, all the Day,—since white-robed Priest In farthest East, In dawn's first ray,—began the Feast,— I—I the least,— Thy least, and last and lowest child I called on Thee! Virgin! did'st hear? my words were wild; Did'st think of me? Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no!—the Angels bright With wings as white As a dream of snow—in Love and Light Flashed on thy sight; They shone, like stars around Thee! Queen!— I knelt afar— A Shadow only dims the scene Where shines a star! Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long,—beyond the sky Sweet,—pure,—and high The Angels' song swept sounding by Triumphantly;— And when such music filled thy ear Rose round thy throne,— How could I hope that thou would'st hear My far, faint moan? Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long,—where altars stand Or poor or grand A countless throng—from every land With lifted hand, Winged hymns to Thee from sorrow's vale In glad acclaim,— How could'st thou hear my lone lips wail Thy sweet, pure Name? Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no,—Thou did'st not hear Nor bend thy ear,— To prayer of woe—as mine so drear; For hearts more dear Hid me from hearing and from sight This bright Feast-day;— Wilt hear me, Mother if in its Night I kneel and pray? Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set,—the Day is dead Thy feast hath fled; My eyes are wet with the tears I shed— I bow my head;— Angels and Altars hailed Thee Queen All day;—ah! be To-night what thou hast ever been A Mother to me! Dark! Dark! Dark! Thy Queenly Crown,—in angel's sight Is fair and bright; Ah! lay it down; for oh! to-night Its jewelled light Shines not as the tender love-light shines O Mary! mild, In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines For poor, lost child! Dark! Dark! Dark! Sceptre in hand,—Thou dost hold sway Fore'er and aye. In angel-land,—but fair Queen! pray! Lay it away,— Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above Where angels are; But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love Thy child afar! Dark! Dark! Dark! Mary! I call! Wilt hear the Prayer My poor lips dare! Yea! be to all,—a Queen most fair, Crown, sceptre bear! But look on me with a Mother's eyes From Heaven's bliss;— And waft to me from the starry skies A mother's kiss! Dark! Dark! Dark! The Sun's is set—the Day is dead; Her feast has fled;— Can she forget the sweet blood shed, The last words said That evening—“Woman! behold thy Son”! Oh! priceless Right! Of all His children, the last, least one Is heard to-night. SURSUM CORDA. WEARY hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, Ye are wand'ring in the shadows—ye are sighing for a rest: There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below, And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary Hearts! God is Rest. Lonely Hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief; Ye are pining for repose—ye are longing for relief: What the world hath never given—Kneel, and ask of God above, And your grief shall turn to gladness—if you lean upon His love. Lonely Hearts! God is Love. Restless Hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the flowers of life all withered, leave but thorns along your way: Ye are waiting—ye are wailing till your toilings all shall cease, And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad—sad prayer for peace. Restless Heart! 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. “PRESENTIMENT.” “MY SISTER.” COMETH a Voice from a Far-land! Beautiful, sad and low, Shineth a Light from the star-land! Down on the Night of my love, And a white Hand, with a garland Biddeth my spirit to go. Away and afar from the Night-land Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, To the splendors and skies of the Light-land Where reigneth Eternity's Day, To the cloudless and shadowless Bright-land Whose sun never passeth away. And I knew the voice;—not a sweeter On earth or in heaven can be; And never did shadow pass fleeter Than it,—and its strange melody; And I know I must hasten to meet her, “Yea! Sister! Thou callest to me”! And I saw the Light;—'t was not seeming, It flashed from the crown that she wore, And the brow, that, with jewels, was gleaming. My lips had kissed often of yore; And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming. Had smiled on me sweetly before. And I saw the Hand with the Garland, Ethel's Hand—holy and fair; Who went long ago to the Far-land To weave me the wreath I shall wear;— And, to-night, I look up to the Star-land And pray that I soon may be there. A CHILD'S WISH. BEFORE AN ALTAR. I WISH I was the little key, That locks Love's Captive in, And lets him out to go and free A sinful heart from sin.— I wish I were the little bell, That tinkles for the Host,— When GOD comes down each day to dwell With hearts He loves the most.— I wish I were the chalice fair, That holds the Blood of Love, When every flash lights holy prayer Upon its way above.— I wish I were the little flower So near the Host's sweet Face— Or like the light that half an hour Burns on the shrine of grace.— I wish I was 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. I OFTEN WONDER WHY 'TIS SO. SOME find work where some find rest And so the weary world goes on;— I sometimes wonder which is best? The answer comes when life is gone. Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, And so the dreary night-hours go; Some hearts beat where some hearts break— I often wonder why 't is so. Some wills faint where some wills fight,— Some love the tent,—and some, the field:— I often wonder who are right,— The ones who strive,—or those, who yield? Some hands fold where other hands Are lifted bravely in the strife;— And so thro' ages and thro' lands Move on the two extremes of life. Some feet halt where some feet tread, In tireless march, a thorny way;— Some struggle on where some have fled;— Some seek,—when others shun the fray. Some swords rust where others clash,— Some fall back where some move on,— Some flags furl where others flash Until the battle has been won. Some sleep on while others keep The vigils of the true and brave:— They will not rest till roses creep Around their name above a grave. WAKE ME A SONG. OUT of the Silences wake me a song, Beautiful, sad, and soft and low; Let the loveliest music sound along, And wing each note with a wail of woe. Dim and drear As hope's last tear, Out of the Silences wake me a hymn, Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. Out of the Stillnesses 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 snow-flake, low as a moan. Out of the darkness, flash me a song, Brightly dark and darkly bright;— Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along The mystical shadows of the night. Sing it sweet, Where nothing is drear, or dark or dim, And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn. “IN MEMORIAM.” GO! Heart of mine! the way is long,— The night is dark,—the place is far; Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song Beside two graves where Mary's star Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest With Mary's medals on their breast. Go! Heart! those children loved you so, Their little lips prayed oft for you! But ah! those necks are lying low Round which you twined the badge of Blue. Go to their graves,—this Virgin's feast With poet's song and prayer of Priest. Go! like a pilgrim to a shrine For that is holy ground where sleep Children of Mary and of thine. Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep;— Last summer how their faces smiled When each was blessed as Mary's child. My heart 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. 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 while. And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory, When winter is wailing beneath; And we tell not the world the sad story Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath. Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter, And bright as the brook to the sea; But ah! the dark hours that come after Of moaning for you and for me. Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting As birds, fly the moments of glee! And we smile;—and mayhaps grief is sleeting Its ice upon you and on me. And the clouds of the tempest are shifting O'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright; And the snows of woe's winter are drifting Our souls; and each day hides a night. For ah! when our souls are enjoying The mirth which our faces reveal, There is something—a something—alloying The sweetness of joy that we feel. Life's loveliest sky hides the thunder, Whose bolt in a moment may fall, And our path may be flowery; but under The flowers there are thorns for us all. Ah! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamings, That flash down the valley of Night, Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming, And leave us, like eagles in flight; And fly far away unreturning, And leave us in terror and tears, While vain is the spirit's wild yearning That they may come back in the years. Come back! did I say it? but never Do eagles come back to the cage: They have gone—they have gone—and forever! Does youth come back ever to age? No! a joy that has left us in sorrow Smiles never again on our way; But we meet in the farthest To-morrow The face of the grief of To-day. The brightness whose tremulous glimmer Has faded—we cannot recall; And the Light that grows dimmer and dimmer— When gone—'tis forever and all. Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom, Youth's roses perfume not the fingers Of age groping nigh to the tomb. For “the memory of joy is a sadness”— The dim twilight after the day;— And the grave where we bury a gladness Sends a grief, like a ghost, on our way. No day shall return that has faded, The dead come not back from the tomb; The vale of each life must be shaded, That we may see best from the gloom. The height of the home 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.” TEARS THE tears that trickled down our eyes, They do not touch the earth to-day; But soar like angels to the skies,— And like the angels, may not die; For ah! our immortality Flows thro' each tear,—sounds in each sigh. What waves of tears surge o'er the deep Of sorrow, in our restless souls! And they are strong, not weak, who weep, Those drops from out the sea that rolls Within their hearts forevermore; Without a depth—without a shore. But ah! the tears that are not wept, The tears that never outward fall; The tears that grief for years has kept Within us—they are best of all: The tears our eyes shall never know, Are dearer than the tears that flow. Each night upon earth's flowers below, The dew comes down from darkest skies, And every night our tears of woe Go up like dews to Paradise, To keep in bloom, and make more fair, The flowers of crowns we yet shall wear. For ah! the surest way to God Is up the lonely streams of tears, That flow, when bending 'neath His rod, And fill the tide of earthly years. On laughter's billows hearts are tossed, On waves of tears no heart is lost. Flow on, ye tears! and bear me home; Flow not! ye tears of deeper woe; Flow on, ye tears! that are but foam Of deeper waves that will not flow. A little while—I reach the shore Where tears flow not forevermore! LINES. TWO LOVES. TWO Loves came up a long, wide aisle And knelt at a low, white gate; One—tender and true, with the shyest smile, One—strong, true and elate. Two lips spoke in a firm, true way And two lips answered soft and low, In one true hand such a little hand lay Fluttering, frail as a fla