ST.TERESA.“To suffer or to die.”Theair came laden with the balmy scentOf citron grove and orange; far beyondThe cloister wall, like towering battlement,Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donnedFrom ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant huesFloated like banners on palatial clouds.Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spiresBlended their even-chime with seraph lyres;O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,And stole with joy upon the list’ning air.Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawnsA light celestial—peace and hope and love.The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil.The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyesWhose gaze has revelled in the courts above,Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guiseOn image of the Crucified withinHer fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred tranceNow rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sinIn ghastly horror rises; now her glanceOn bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once moreUpon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul,Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;And burning words her holy passion tell,Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell:“O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!My Jesus dies, and I—I cannot die, but through this exile moanA stranger, midst of multitudes alone,And vainly seek to flyWhere harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;My solace here, to suffer or to die!“O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,By fast and penance this vile body drivenTo thy sweet yoke to yield;And agonies of death have seized this frame,Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,Thou, thou alone my shield.A bower of roses!—looms so steep and highThe path I strain, to suffer or to die!“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,Nor fear the dark, dark night.Love strains my sorrows to my heart with graspStronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear claspOf soul beloved. The heightWill soon appear; the glory I descry:Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!“Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit shareEach separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,Nor drop of comfort blend.Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread,Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head—Pain, torture to the end;And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye,Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heardMore huge and terrible than human wordMay utter, mortal heart conceive, the throngOf woes that haste from Calvary to greetThy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrongShall make of thee their jest; as purest wheatThou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers.A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hoursThrough centuries to come, and learn of theeThe path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery.The seraph waits with flaming lance to dartThe fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,And up, far up the Mount of God will leadThee face to face, as patriarch of old,With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,And its resplendent mysteries unfoldTo future doctors of the sacred lore.Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pourUnsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!”M. S. P.
“To suffer or to die.”
Theair came laden with the balmy scentOf citron grove and orange; far beyondThe cloister wall, like towering battlement,Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donnedFrom ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant huesFloated like banners on palatial clouds.Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spiresBlended their even-chime with seraph lyres;O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,And stole with joy upon the list’ning air.Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawnsA light celestial—peace and hope and love.The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil.The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyesWhose gaze has revelled in the courts above,Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guiseOn image of the Crucified withinHer fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred tranceNow rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sinIn ghastly horror rises; now her glanceOn bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once moreUpon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul,Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;And burning words her holy passion tell,Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell:“O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!My Jesus dies, and I—I cannot die, but through this exile moanA stranger, midst of multitudes alone,And vainly seek to flyWhere harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;My solace here, to suffer or to die!“O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,By fast and penance this vile body drivenTo thy sweet yoke to yield;And agonies of death have seized this frame,Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,Thou, thou alone my shield.A bower of roses!—looms so steep and highThe path I strain, to suffer or to die!“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,Nor fear the dark, dark night.Love strains my sorrows to my heart with graspStronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear claspOf soul beloved. The heightWill soon appear; the glory I descry:Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!“Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit shareEach separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,Nor drop of comfort blend.Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread,Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head—Pain, torture to the end;And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye,Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heardMore huge and terrible than human wordMay utter, mortal heart conceive, the throngOf woes that haste from Calvary to greetThy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrongShall make of thee their jest; as purest wheatThou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers.A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hoursThrough centuries to come, and learn of theeThe path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery.The seraph waits with flaming lance to dartThe fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,And up, far up the Mount of God will leadThee face to face, as patriarch of old,With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,And its resplendent mysteries unfoldTo future doctors of the sacred lore.Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pourUnsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!”
Theair came laden with the balmy scentOf citron grove and orange; far beyondThe cloister wall, like towering battlement,Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donnedFrom ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant huesFloated like banners on palatial clouds.Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spiresBlended their even-chime with seraph lyres;O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,And stole with joy upon the list’ning air.Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawnsA light celestial—peace and hope and love.The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil.The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyesWhose gaze has revelled in the courts above,Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guiseOn image of the Crucified withinHer fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred tranceNow rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sinIn ghastly horror rises; now her glanceOn bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once moreUpon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul,Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;And burning words her holy passion tell,Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell:“O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!My Jesus dies, and I—I cannot die, but through this exile moanA stranger, midst of multitudes alone,And vainly seek to flyWhere harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;My solace here, to suffer or to die!“O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,By fast and penance this vile body drivenTo thy sweet yoke to yield;And agonies of death have seized this frame,Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,Thou, thou alone my shield.A bower of roses!—looms so steep and highThe path I strain, to suffer or to die!“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,Nor fear the dark, dark night.Love strains my sorrows to my heart with graspStronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear claspOf soul beloved. The heightWill soon appear; the glory I descry:Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!“Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit shareEach separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,Nor drop of comfort blend.Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread,Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head—Pain, torture to the end;And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye,Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heardMore huge and terrible than human wordMay utter, mortal heart conceive, the throngOf woes that haste from Calvary to greetThy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrongShall make of thee their jest; as purest wheatThou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers.A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hoursThrough centuries to come, and learn of theeThe path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery.The seraph waits with flaming lance to dartThe fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,And up, far up the Mount of God will leadThee face to face, as patriarch of old,With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,And its resplendent mysteries unfoldTo future doctors of the sacred lore.Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pourUnsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!”
Theair came laden with the balmy scentOf citron grove and orange; far beyondThe cloister wall, like towering battlement,Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donnedFrom ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant huesFloated like banners on palatial clouds.Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spiresBlended their even-chime with seraph lyres;O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,And stole with joy upon the list’ning air.
Theair came laden with the balmy scent
Of citron grove and orange; far beyond
The cloister wall, like towering battlement,
Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donned
From ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant hues
Floated like banners on palatial clouds.
Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;
Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.
Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spires
Blended their even-chime with seraph lyres;
O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,
And stole with joy upon the list’ning air.
Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawnsA light celestial—peace and hope and love.The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil.The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyesWhose gaze has revelled in the courts above,Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guiseOn image of the Crucified withinHer fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred tranceNow rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sinIn ghastly horror rises; now her glanceOn bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once moreUpon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul,Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;And burning words her holy passion tell,Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell:
Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade,
Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,
Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns,
Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,
Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawns
A light celestial—peace and hope and love.
The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,
Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil.
The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyes
Whose gaze has revelled in the courts above,
Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guise
On image of the Crucified within
Her fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred trance
Now rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sin
In ghastly horror rises; now her glance
On bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once more
Upon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,
The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul,
Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;
And burning words her holy passion tell,
Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell:
“O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!My Jesus dies, and I—I cannot die, but through this exile moanA stranger, midst of multitudes alone,And vainly seek to flyWhere harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;My solace here, to suffer or to die!
“O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!
Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!
My Jesus dies, and I—
I cannot die, but through this exile moan
A stranger, midst of multitudes alone,
And vainly seek to fly
Where harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;
My solace here, to suffer or to die!
“O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,By fast and penance this vile body drivenTo thy sweet yoke to yield;And agonies of death have seized this frame,Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,Thou, thou alone my shield.A bower of roses!—looms so steep and highThe path I strain, to suffer or to die!
“O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,
By fast and penance this vile body driven
To thy sweet yoke to yield;
And agonies of death have seized this frame,
Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,
Thou, thou alone my shield.
A bower of roses!—looms so steep and high
The path I strain, to suffer or to die!
“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,Nor fear the dark, dark night.Love strains my sorrows to my heart with graspStronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear claspOf soul beloved. The heightWill soon appear; the glory I descry:Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!
“Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!
A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,
Nor fear the dark, dark night.
Love strains my sorrows to my heart with grasp
Stronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear clasp
Of soul beloved. The height
Will soon appear; the glory I descry:
Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!
“Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit shareEach separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,Nor drop of comfort blend.Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread,Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head—Pain, torture to the end;And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye,Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”
“Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit share
Each separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,
Nor drop of comfort blend.
Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread,
Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head—
Pain, torture to the end;
And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye,
Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”
Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heardMore huge and terrible than human wordMay utter, mortal heart conceive, the throngOf woes that haste from Calvary to greetThy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrongShall make of thee their jest; as purest wheatThou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers.A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hoursThrough centuries to come, and learn of theeThe path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery.The seraph waits with flaming lance to dartThe fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,And up, far up the Mount of God will leadThee face to face, as patriarch of old,With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,And its resplendent mysteries unfoldTo future doctors of the sacred lore.Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pourUnsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!”
Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heard
More huge and terrible than human word
May utter, mortal heart conceive, the throng
Of woes that haste from Calvary to greet
Thy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrong
Shall make of thee their jest; as purest wheat
Thou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;
Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;
Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,
Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers.
A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,
But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hours
Through centuries to come, and learn of thee
The path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery.
The seraph waits with flaming lance to dart
The fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,
And up, far up the Mount of God will lead
Thee face to face, as patriarch of old,
With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,
And its resplendent mysteries unfold
To future doctors of the sacred lore.
Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!
While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,
Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pour
Unsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!”
M. S. P.