A MARCH PILGRIMAGE.OnProvence’ hills the touch of southern spring—No laggard she with footstep faltering—Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.In western lands, o’er turbulent seas afar,Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snowAll scentless drifting to the earth below.Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,With shining altars in glad white arrayed,In those far, frosty lands the church’s voiceBid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her songNotes strong and jubilant swift poured along:The long-hushed “Gloria” wond’ring echoes woke,The angels’ chant the mournful silence broke.Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isleBrought Patrick’s faith to make their new home smile—In rich possession of the “Unknown God”;Blessing the rivers and the prairies broadWith cities populous and cross-crowned spires,And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.So rose, exultant, on the bleak March dayThe joyous notes across Lent’s sombre way:Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,Thanking for Patrick’s faith their Lord divine.Not Provence’ blossoms such glad music wokeThough happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,And church and people, sorrow-laden all.Yet joyful echoes from that western landSpoke ’mid the lapsing waves on Nice’s strand;Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,The heart of one who, through long busy daysOf years unresting, had with patience toiled,With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiledAmid the strong new world’s tumultuous life.With such persuasion his wise words were rifeAs if the grace of Savoy’s bishop-saintWere his to loving guide the weak and faint;As if, like Padua’s dear saint benign,He bore the burden of the Child divine.He saw afar his Irish children kneel,The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,He soughtSt.Honorat’s pine-girdled shore—There treading whereSt.Patrick trod of old,When gathered his young heart the words of goldThat should for heaven’s King a new realm win—A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,Here thoughtful paced he Lerins’ learnèd shade.Ruined the abbey ’mid its olives rests,Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests—Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,And Lerins’ vines and olives still enfoldA cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,And Benedictine lore with labor blends.Here, with all holy memories possessed,With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,The pilgrim knelt—in that peace-shadowed placeMingling his prayers with Ireland’s tearful race.Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,While hearts, his lips had taught,St.Patrick praised,In love, ’neath western clouds and Provence’ sun,The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.O greatSt.Patrick! each day grows more wideThe realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,A King revered on royal altar throne,In patient love abiding with his own.Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,One day with that true beauty may be crowned,That girds thy island’s mournful brows around—The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:Win thou for her great heart’s best heritageThe steadfast bearing of faith’s strongest age.Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guideThe restless wanderers from the Cross’s side,Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed—The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.Pray that her hands be ever raised to blessMeek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;Pray that her soul for evermore be free,Signed with the chrism of true liberty.
OnProvence’ hills the touch of southern spring—No laggard she with footstep faltering—Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.In western lands, o’er turbulent seas afar,Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snowAll scentless drifting to the earth below.Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,With shining altars in glad white arrayed,In those far, frosty lands the church’s voiceBid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her songNotes strong and jubilant swift poured along:The long-hushed “Gloria” wond’ring echoes woke,The angels’ chant the mournful silence broke.Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isleBrought Patrick’s faith to make their new home smile—In rich possession of the “Unknown God”;Blessing the rivers and the prairies broadWith cities populous and cross-crowned spires,And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.So rose, exultant, on the bleak March dayThe joyous notes across Lent’s sombre way:Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,Thanking for Patrick’s faith their Lord divine.Not Provence’ blossoms such glad music wokeThough happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,And church and people, sorrow-laden all.Yet joyful echoes from that western landSpoke ’mid the lapsing waves on Nice’s strand;Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,The heart of one who, through long busy daysOf years unresting, had with patience toiled,With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiledAmid the strong new world’s tumultuous life.With such persuasion his wise words were rifeAs if the grace of Savoy’s bishop-saintWere his to loving guide the weak and faint;As if, like Padua’s dear saint benign,He bore the burden of the Child divine.He saw afar his Irish children kneel,The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,He soughtSt.Honorat’s pine-girdled shore—There treading whereSt.Patrick trod of old,When gathered his young heart the words of goldThat should for heaven’s King a new realm win—A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,Here thoughtful paced he Lerins’ learnèd shade.Ruined the abbey ’mid its olives rests,Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests—Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,And Lerins’ vines and olives still enfoldA cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,And Benedictine lore with labor blends.Here, with all holy memories possessed,With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,The pilgrim knelt—in that peace-shadowed placeMingling his prayers with Ireland’s tearful race.Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,While hearts, his lips had taught,St.Patrick praised,In love, ’neath western clouds and Provence’ sun,The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.O greatSt.Patrick! each day grows more wideThe realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,A King revered on royal altar throne,In patient love abiding with his own.Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,One day with that true beauty may be crowned,That girds thy island’s mournful brows around—The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:Win thou for her great heart’s best heritageThe steadfast bearing of faith’s strongest age.Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guideThe restless wanderers from the Cross’s side,Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed—The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.Pray that her hands be ever raised to blessMeek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;Pray that her soul for evermore be free,Signed with the chrism of true liberty.
OnProvence’ hills the touch of southern spring—No laggard she with footstep faltering—Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.In western lands, o’er turbulent seas afar,Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snowAll scentless drifting to the earth below.Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,With shining altars in glad white arrayed,In those far, frosty lands the church’s voiceBid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her songNotes strong and jubilant swift poured along:The long-hushed “Gloria” wond’ring echoes woke,The angels’ chant the mournful silence broke.Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isleBrought Patrick’s faith to make their new home smile—In rich possession of the “Unknown God”;Blessing the rivers and the prairies broadWith cities populous and cross-crowned spires,And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.So rose, exultant, on the bleak March dayThe joyous notes across Lent’s sombre way:Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,Thanking for Patrick’s faith their Lord divine.Not Provence’ blossoms such glad music wokeThough happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,And church and people, sorrow-laden all.Yet joyful echoes from that western landSpoke ’mid the lapsing waves on Nice’s strand;Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,The heart of one who, through long busy daysOf years unresting, had with patience toiled,With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiledAmid the strong new world’s tumultuous life.With such persuasion his wise words were rifeAs if the grace of Savoy’s bishop-saintWere his to loving guide the weak and faint;As if, like Padua’s dear saint benign,He bore the burden of the Child divine.He saw afar his Irish children kneel,The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,He soughtSt.Honorat’s pine-girdled shore—There treading whereSt.Patrick trod of old,When gathered his young heart the words of goldThat should for heaven’s King a new realm win—A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,Here thoughtful paced he Lerins’ learnèd shade.Ruined the abbey ’mid its olives rests,Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests—Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,And Lerins’ vines and olives still enfoldA cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,And Benedictine lore with labor blends.Here, with all holy memories possessed,With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,The pilgrim knelt—in that peace-shadowed placeMingling his prayers with Ireland’s tearful race.Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,While hearts, his lips had taught,St.Patrick praised,In love, ’neath western clouds and Provence’ sun,The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.O greatSt.Patrick! each day grows more wideThe realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,A King revered on royal altar throne,In patient love abiding with his own.Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,One day with that true beauty may be crowned,That girds thy island’s mournful brows around—The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:Win thou for her great heart’s best heritageThe steadfast bearing of faith’s strongest age.Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guideThe restless wanderers from the Cross’s side,Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed—The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.Pray that her hands be ever raised to blessMeek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;Pray that her soul for evermore be free,Signed with the chrism of true liberty.
OnProvence’ hills the touch of southern spring—No laggard she with footstep faltering—Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.
OnProvence’ hills the touch of southern spring—
No laggard she with footstep faltering—
Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,
Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.
In western lands, o’er turbulent seas afar,Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snowAll scentless drifting to the earth below.
In western lands, o’er turbulent seas afar,
Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,
Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snow
All scentless drifting to the earth below.
Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.
Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,
And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,
Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—
The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.
Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,With shining altars in glad white arrayed,In those far, frosty lands the church’s voiceBid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.
Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,
With shining altars in glad white arrayed,
In those far, frosty lands the church’s voice
Bid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.
Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her songNotes strong and jubilant swift poured along:The long-hushed “Gloria” wond’ring echoes woke,The angels’ chant the mournful silence broke.
Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her song
Notes strong and jubilant swift poured along:
The long-hushed “Gloria” wond’ring echoes woke,
The angels’ chant the mournful silence broke.
Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isleBrought Patrick’s faith to make their new home smile—
Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;
Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,
And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isle
Brought Patrick’s faith to make their new home smile—
In rich possession of the “Unknown God”;Blessing the rivers and the prairies broadWith cities populous and cross-crowned spires,And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.
In rich possession of the “Unknown God”;
Blessing the rivers and the prairies broad
With cities populous and cross-crowned spires,
And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.
So rose, exultant, on the bleak March dayThe joyous notes across Lent’s sombre way:Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,Thanking for Patrick’s faith their Lord divine.
So rose, exultant, on the bleak March day
The joyous notes across Lent’s sombre way:
Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,
Thanking for Patrick’s faith their Lord divine.
Not Provence’ blossoms such glad music wokeThough happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,And church and people, sorrow-laden all.
Not Provence’ blossoms such glad music woke
Though happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;
Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,
And church and people, sorrow-laden all.
Yet joyful echoes from that western landSpoke ’mid the lapsing waves on Nice’s strand;Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,The heart of one who, through long busy days
Yet joyful echoes from that western land
Spoke ’mid the lapsing waves on Nice’s strand;
Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,
The heart of one who, through long busy days
Of years unresting, had with patience toiled,With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiledAmid the strong new world’s tumultuous life.With such persuasion his wise words were rife
Of years unresting, had with patience toiled,
With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiled
Amid the strong new world’s tumultuous life.
With such persuasion his wise words were rife
As if the grace of Savoy’s bishop-saintWere his to loving guide the weak and faint;As if, like Padua’s dear saint benign,He bore the burden of the Child divine.
As if the grace of Savoy’s bishop-saint
Were his to loving guide the weak and faint;
As if, like Padua’s dear saint benign,
He bore the burden of the Child divine.
He saw afar his Irish children kneel,The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,He soughtSt.Honorat’s pine-girdled shore—
He saw afar his Irish children kneel,
The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;
Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,
He soughtSt.Honorat’s pine-girdled shore—
There treading whereSt.Patrick trod of old,When gathered his young heart the words of goldThat should for heaven’s King a new realm win—A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.
There treading whereSt.Patrick trod of old,
When gathered his young heart the words of gold
That should for heaven’s King a new realm win—
A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.
Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,Here thoughtful paced he Lerins’ learnèd shade.Ruined the abbey ’mid its olives rests,Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests—
Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,
Here thoughtful paced he Lerins’ learnèd shade.
Ruined the abbey ’mid its olives rests,
Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests—
Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,And Lerins’ vines and olives still enfoldA cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,And Benedictine lore with labor blends.
Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,
And Lerins’ vines and olives still enfold
A cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,
And Benedictine lore with labor blends.
Here, with all holy memories possessed,With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,The pilgrim knelt—in that peace-shadowed placeMingling his prayers with Ireland’s tearful race.
Here, with all holy memories possessed,
With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,
The pilgrim knelt—in that peace-shadowed place
Mingling his prayers with Ireland’s tearful race.
Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,While hearts, his lips had taught,St.Patrick praised,In love, ’neath western clouds and Provence’ sun,The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.
Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,
While hearts, his lips had taught,St.Patrick praised,
In love, ’neath western clouds and Provence’ sun,
The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.
O greatSt.Patrick! each day grows more wideThe realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,A King revered on royal altar throne,In patient love abiding with his own.
O greatSt.Patrick! each day grows more wide
The realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,
A King revered on royal altar throne,
In patient love abiding with his own.
Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,One day with that true beauty may be crowned,That girds thy island’s mournful brows around—
Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,
Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,
One day with that true beauty may be crowned,
That girds thy island’s mournful brows around—
The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:Win thou for her great heart’s best heritageThe steadfast bearing of faith’s strongest age.
The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,
Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:
Win thou for her great heart’s best heritage
The steadfast bearing of faith’s strongest age.
Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guideThe restless wanderers from the Cross’s side,Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed—The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.
Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guide
The restless wanderers from the Cross’s side,
Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed—
The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.
Pray that her hands be ever raised to blessMeek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;Pray that her soul for evermore be free,Signed with the chrism of true liberty.
Pray that her hands be ever raised to bless
Meek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;
Pray that her soul for evermore be free,
Signed with the chrism of true liberty.