In the solemn shades of the wood that sweptThe field where his comrades found him,They buried him there — and the big tears creptInto 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 moanO'er the grave where never a flower is strewnBut — his memory lives in the other.
"Out of the Depths"
Lost! Lost! Lost!The cry went up from a sea —The waves were wild with an awful wrath,Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path;The clouds hung low:Lost! Lost! Lost!Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!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 shroudsOut 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 nightAnd 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 cryFloated up through the starry sky,In the dark — in the storm — "Our Father" is nigh.
A Thought
The summer rose the sun has flushedWith crimson glory may be sweet;'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushedBeneath the wind's and tempest's feet.
The rose that waves upon its tree,In life sheds perfume all around;More sweet the perfume floats to meOf roses trampled on the ground.
The waving rose with every breathScents carelessly the summer air;The wounded rose bleeds forth in deathA 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 bloomOut of a heart all full of grace,Gave never forth its full perfumeUntil the cross became its vase.
March of the Deathless Dead
Gather the sacred dustOf the warriors tried and true,Who bore the flag of a Nation's trustAnd 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 fallThe tears of a Nation's grief.
Gather the corpses strewnO'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 divideA 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 dreadThis 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 crownWe 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.
Reunited
[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.]
Purer than thy own white snow,Nobler than thy mountains' height;Deeper than the ocean's flow,Stronger than thy own proud might;O Northland! to thy sister land,Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand.
Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed:Its mist of green o'er battle plainFor nigh two decades Spring had breathed;And yet the crimson life-blood stainFrom passive swards had never paled,Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed.
Between the Northland, bride of snow,And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride,Swept, deepening ever in its flow,The stormy wake, in war's dark tide:No hand might clasp across the tearsAnd blood and anguish of four deathless years.
When Summer, like a rose in bloom,Had blossomed from the bud of Spring,Oh! who could deem the dews of doomUpon the blushing lips could cling?And who could believe its fragrant lightWould e'er be freighted with the breath of blight?
Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell,That e'en from out its brightness spread,And prostrate, powerless, she fell,Rachel-like, amid her dead.Her bravest, fairest, purest, best,The waiting grave would welcome as its guest.
The Northland, strong in love, and great,Forgot the stormy days of strife;Forgot that souls with dreams of hateOr unforgiveness e'er were rife.Forgotten was each thought and hushed;Save — she was generous and her foe was crushed.
No hand might clasp, from land to land;Yea! there was one to bridge the tide!For at the touch of Mercy's handThe North and South stood side by side:The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun,In Charity's espousals are made one.
"Thou givest back my sons again,"The Southland to the Northland cries;"For all my dead, on battle plain,Thou biddest my dying now uprise:I still my sobs, I cease my tears,And thou hast recompensed my anguished years.
"Blessings on thine every wave,Blessings on thine every shore,Blessings that from sorrow save,Blessings giving more and more,For all thou gavest thy sister land,O Northland, in thy generous deed and grand."
A Memory
Adown the valley dripped a stream,White lilies drooped on either side;Our hearts, in spite of us, will dreamIn such a place at eventide.
Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blueThat well became the valley fair,And grassy fringe of greenest hueHung round its borders everywhere.
And where the stream, in wayward whirls,Went winding in and winding out,Lay shells, that wore the look of pearlsWithout their pride, all strewn about.
And here and there along the strand,Where some ambitious wave had strayed,Rose little monuments of sandAs frail as those by mortals made.
And many a flower was blooming thereIn beauty, yet without a name,Like humble hearts that often bearThe gifts, but not the palm of fame.
The rainbow's tints could never vieWith all the colors that they wore;While bluer than the bluest skyThe stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore.
And on the height, and down the sideOf either hill that hid the place,Rose elms in all the stately prideOf youthful strength and ancient race.
While here and there the trees between —Bearing the scars of battle-shocks,And frowning wrathful — might be seenThe 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 twinesAround a truth — to touch the sky.
And to that vale, from first of MayUntil the last of August went,Beauty, the exile, came each dayIn 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 awayThat fell upon my spirit there.
The summer sunset glorifiedThe clouded face of dying day,Which flung a smile upon the tideAnd lilies, ere he passed away.
And o'er the valley's grassy slopesThere fell an evanescent sheen,That flashed and faded, like the hopesThat haunt us of what might have been.
And rock and tree flung back the lightOf all the sunset's golden gems,As if it were beneath their rightTo wear such borrowed diadems.
Low in the west gleam after gleamGlowed faint and fainter, till the lastMade the dying day a living dream,To last as long as life shall last.
And in the arches of the treesThe wild birds slept with folded wing;And e'en the lips of the summer breezeThat sang all day, had ceased to sing.
And all was silent, save the rillThat rippled round the lilies' feet,And sang, while stillness grew more stillTo listen to the murmur sweet.
And now and then it surely seemedThe little stream was laughing low,As if its sleepy wavelets dreamedSuch dreams as only children know.
So still that not the faintest breathDid 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 skyWide wings of gloom waved to and fro,And spectral shadows flitted by.
And then, methought, upon the swardI saw — or was it starlight's ray?Or angels come to watch and guardThe valley till the dawn of day?
Is every lower life the wardOf spirits more divinely wrought?'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hardTo think 'tis but a poet's thought.
But God's or poet's thought, I ween,My senses did not fail me whenI saw veiled angels watch that sceneAnd 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 dreamAt eve, and after eventide.
Ah! dreams of such a lofty reachWith more than earthly fancies fraught,That not the strongest wings of speechCould 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 starThe boundless orbit of the True.
Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint,Where human passion played no part,As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint,Or hunt an archangelic heart.
Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense,And rose too high to stoop to it,And framed aloft like frankincenseIn censers round the infinite.
Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight!And, soaring, bore my heart awayBeyond the far star-bounds of night,Unto the everlasting day.
How long I strolled beside the streamI do not know, nor may I say;But when the poet ceased to dreamThe priest went on his knees to pray.
I felt as sure a seraph feelsWhen in some golden hour of graceGod smiles, and suddenly revealsA new, strange glory in His face.
Ah! starlit valley! Lilies white!The poet dreamed — ye slumbered deep!But when the priest knelt down that nightAnd 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!"
At Last
Into a temple vast and dim,Solemn and vast and dim,Just when the last sweet Vesper HymnWas 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 smilesThat follow after prayer,The worshipers in silence passed,In silence slowly passed away;The woman knelt until the lastHad 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 awayFrom them long years ago;But ah! from out her eyes there rose —Sad from her eyes there rose —The prayer of tears, which swiftest goesTo Heaven — winged with woe.
With weary tears, her weary eyes,Her joyless, weary eyes,Wailed forth a rosary; and her sighsAnd 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 creptUnto 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.
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 blastHas flashed to the future the fame of the past;Yes, give me the land that hath legends and laysThat 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 overgrownMay yet form the footstool of liberty's throne,And each single wreck in the war path of mightShall yet be a rock in the temple of right.
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 sighAnd I welcome them all while I wearily weep.
They come as a song comes out of the pastA 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 wavesThat 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.
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 lieI kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son,I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky,And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done!
My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast!My hopes are buried with my children's dust!My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast!In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust?Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft,When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free;But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft,And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee.
Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's pathI kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone,I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath,And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done!Pity me, Father of the desolate!Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear;Look down in mercy on my wretched fate,And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care.
Pity me, Father, for His holy sake,Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief,That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break,Might go to His and find a sure relief.Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse?Or is it night with no to-morrow's sun?O Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips,And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done.
My homes are joyless, and a million mournWhere 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 sighsCommingle, 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 headAnd murmur: Father, still Thy will be done.Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved landWith all bright charms, and beautiful and fair;But foeman came, and with a ruthless hand,Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.
Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn,And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod,And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn,To catch one smile of pity from my God.Around me blight, where all before was bloom,And so much lost, alas! and nothing wonSave this — that I can lean on wreck and tombAnd weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be done.
And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet;The words are bitter, but they hold a balm —A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat,And lulls my sorrow into holy calm.It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings,When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me!When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wingsGleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?
My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need;Alas! their hearts have only place for tears!Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed,And every sin of those four bloody years;And give them strength to bear their boundless loss,And from their hearts take every thought of hate;And while they climb their Calvary with their cross,Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight.
And for my dead, my Father, may I pray?Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more!I keep eternal watch above their clay;Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore;Forgive my foes — they know not what they do —Forgive them all the tears they made me shed;Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew,And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead.
Oh! may my woes be each a carrier dove,With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears,Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love,And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears.Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave —A desert waste, where all was erst so fair —And for my children and my foes I cravePity and pardon. Father, hear my prayer!
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 swayI bend my knee,And, like a homesick child, I pray,Mary, to thee.
Dark! Dark! Dark!And, all the day — since white-robed priestIn farthest East,In dawn's first ray — began the Feast,I — I the least —Thy least, and last, and lowest child,I called on thee!Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild;Didst think of me?
Dark! Dark! Dark!Alas! and no! The angels bright,With wings as whiteAs 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 sceneWhere shines a star!
Dark! Dark! Dark!And all day long, beyond the sky,Sweet, pure, and high,The angel's song swept sounding byTriumphantly;And when such music filled thy ear,Rose round thy throne,How could I hope that thou wouldst hearMy 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 valeIn glad acclaim;How couldst thou hear my lone lips wailThy sweet, pure name?
Dark! Dark! Dark!Alas! and no! Thou didst not hearNor bend thy ear,To prayer of woe as mine so drear;For hearts more dearHid me from hearing and from sightThis bright Feast-day;Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its nightI 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! beTo-night what thou hast ever been —A mother to me!
Dark! Dark! Dark!Thy queenly crown in angels' sightIs fair and bright;Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-nightIts jeweled lightShines not as the tender love-light shines,O Mary! mild,In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pinesFor poor, lost child!
Dark! Dark! Dark!Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold swayFore'er and ayeIn angel-land; but, fair Queen! prayLay it away.Let thy sceptre wave in the realms aboveWhere angels are;But, Mother! fold in thine arms of loveThy child afar!
Dark! Dark! Dark!Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayerMy poor lips dare?Yea! be to all a Queen most fair,Crown, sceptre, bear!But look on me with a mother's eyesFrom heaven's bliss;And waft to me from the starry skiesA mother's kiss!
Dark! Dark! Dark!The sun is set; the day is dead;Her Feast has fled;Can she forget the sweet blood shed,The last words saidThat 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 waiting, till your toilings all shall cease,And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for peace.Restless hearts! God is Peace.
Breaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and lone,And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan!In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy,And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy.Broken hearts! God is Joy.
Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years,Ye are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet with tears;In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam,Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur, "Where is home?"Homeless hearts! God is Home.
A Child's Wish
Before an Altar
I wish I were the little keyThat locks Love's Captive in,And lets Him out to go and freeA sinful heart from sin.
I wish I were the little bellThat tinkles for the Host,When God comes down each day to dwellWith hearts He loves the most.
I wish I were the chalice fair,That holds the Blood of Love,When every flash lights holy prayerUpon its way above.
I wish I were the little flowerSo near the Host's sweet face,Or like the light that half an hourBurns on the shrine of grace.
I wish I were the altar where,As on His mother's breast,Christ nestles, like a child, fore'erIn Eucharistic rest.
But, oh! my God, I wish the mostThat my poor heart may beA home all holy for each HostThat comes in love to me.
Presentiment
"My Sister"
Cometh a voice from a far-land!Beautiful, sad, and low;Shineth a light from the star-land!Down on the night of my woe;And a white hand, with a garland,Biddeth my spirit to go.
Away and afar from the night-land,Where sorrow o'ershadows my way,To the splendors and skies of the light-land,Where reigneth eternity's day;To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land,Whose sun never passeth away.
And I knew the voice; not a sweeterOn earth or in Heaven can be;And never did shadow pass fleeterThan it and its strange melody;And I know I must hasten to meet her,"Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!"
And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming,It flashed from the crown that she wore,And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming,My lips had kissed often of yore!And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming,Had smiled on me sweetly before.
And I saw the hand with the garland,Ethel's hand — holy and fair;Who went long ago to the far-landTo 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.
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 statueFlashed bright with the roses' red sheen;The sun-gleams came down from the heavensLike angels, to hallow the scene,And they seemed to kneel down with the shadowsThat 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 VespersOn the far shores of silence had rolled.And there — at the Queen-Virgin's altar —The sun wove the mantle of goldWhile the hands of the twilight were weavingA 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 snowAnd 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 discloseThat from eyes that are most like the heavensThe 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 blessingThat 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 wanderingFar out in the world's dreary wold,Finds a home in the hearts of the childrenAnd a rest with the lambs of the fold.
Swept a voice: was it wafted from Heaven?Heard you ever the sea when it singsWhere it sleeps on the shore in the night time?Heard you ever the hymns the breeze bringsFrom the hearts of a thousand bright summers?Heard you ever the bird, when she springsTo the clouds, till she seems to be onlyA 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 musicThe 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 templeWith its perfume of worship was filled.
Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altarThe white veils swept on, two by two;And the holiest halo of heavenFlashed out from the ribbons of blue;And they laid down the wreaths of the rosesWhose 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 MaryMet ere their Queen's Feast passed away,Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadowsAnd wove with their gold and their grayA mantle of grace and of gloryFor the last lovely evening of May.
"Gone"
Gone! and there's not a gleam of you,Faces that float into far away;Gone! and we can only dream of youEach 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 usA light we will miss ~forevermore~.
Faces! ye come in the night to us;Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep;Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us;Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep.Gone! and there's not a gleam of you,Faces that float into the far away;Gone! and we only can dream of youTill we sink like you and the stars away.
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 vestmentsAnd a grace for the face of the priest.
The sound of a low, sweet whisperFloats over a little bread,And trembles around a chalice,And the priest bows down his head!O'er a sign of white on the altar —In the cup — o'er a sign of red.
As red as the red of roses,As white as the white of snows!But the red is a red of a surfaceBeneath which a God's blood flows;And the white is the white of a sunlightWithin which a God's flesh glows.
Ah! words of the olden Thursday!Ye come from the far-away!Ye bring us the Friday's victimIn His own love's olden way;In the hand of the priest at the altarHis Heart finds a home each day.
The sight of a Host uplifted!The silver-sound of a bell!The gleam of a golden chalice.Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well;He made, and He keeps love's promise,With thee all days to dwell.
From his hand to his lips that tremble,From his lips to his heart a-thrill,Goes the little Host on its love-path,Still doing the Father's will;And over the rim of the chaliceThe blood flows forth to fill
The heart of the man anointedWith the waves of a wondrous grace;A silence falls on the altar —An awe on each bended face —For the Heart that bled on CalvaryStill beats in the holy place.
The priest comes down to the railingWhere brows are bowed in prayer;In the tender clasp of his fingersA Host lies pure and fair,And the hearts of Christ and the ChristianMeet 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 heavenIn the palm of the priest's pure hand.
In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne
Superior General of the Congregation of the Mission and of the Sisters of Charity.
A shadow slept folded in vestments,The dream of a smile on its face,Dim, soft as the gleam after sunsetThat hangs like a halo of graceWhere the daylight hath died in the valley,And the twilight hath taken its place.A shadow! but still on the mortalThere rested the tremulous traceOf the joy of a spirit immortal,Passed up to its God in His grace.
A shadow! hast seen in the summerA cloud wear the smile of the sun?On the shadow of death there is flashingThe glory of noble deeds done;On the face of the dead there is glowingThe light of a holy race run;And the smile of the face is reflectingThe gleam of the crown he has won.Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestmentsUnstained by the priest who has gone.
And thro' all the nations the childrenOf Vincent de Paul wail his loss;But the glory that crowns him in heavenIllumines the gloom of their cross.They send to the shadow the tributeOf tears, from the fountains of love,And they send from their altars sweet prayersTo 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 flashingO'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 honorHis grave; every tear is a gem,And their prayers round his brow in the heavensWill brighten his fair diadem.I kneel at his grave and remember,In love, I am ~still~ one of them.
Tears
The tears that trickled down our eyes,They do not touch the earth to-day;But soar like angels to the skies,And, like the angels, may not die;For ah! our immortalityFlows thro' each tear — sounds in each sigh.
What waves of tears surge o'er the deepOf sorrow in our restless souls!And they are strong, not weak, who weepThose drops from out the sea that rollsWithin 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 keptWithin 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 woeGo 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 GodIs 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 foamOf deeper waves that will not flow.A little while — I reach the shoreWhere 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 layFluttering, frail as a flake of snow.
One stately head bent humbly there,Stilled were the throbbings of human love;One head drooped down like a lily fair,Two prayers went, wing to wing, above.
God blest them both in the holy place,A long, brief moment the rite was done;On the human love fell the heavenly grace,Making two hearts forever one.
Between two lengthening rows of smiles,One sweetly shy, one proud, elate,Two loves passed down the long, wide aisles,Will they ever forget the low, white gate?
The Land We Love
Land of the gentle and brave!Our love is as wide as thy woe;It deepens beside every graveWhere the heart of a hero lies low.
Land of the sunniest skies!Our love glows the more for thy gloom;Our hearts, by the saddest of ties,Cling closest to thee in thy doom.
Land where the desolate weepIn a sorrow no voice may console!Our tears are but streams, making deepThe ocean of love in our soul.
Land where the victor's flag waves,Where only the dead are free!Each link of the chain that enslavesBut binds us to them and to thee.
Land where the Sign of the CrossIts shadow hath everywhere shed!We measure our love by thy loss,Thy loss by the graves of our dead!
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 starShines 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 lowRound 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 sleepChildren of Mary and of thine;Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep;Last summer how their faces smiledWhen each was blessed as Mary's child.
* * * * *
My heart is gone! I cannot sing!Beside those children's grave, song dies;Hush! Poet! — Priest! Prayer hath a wingTo pass the stars and reach the skies;Sweet children! from the land of lightLook down and bless my heart to-night.
Reverie ["We laugh when our souls are the saddest,"]
We laugh when our souls are the saddest,We shroud all our griefs in a smile;Our voices may warble their gladdest,And our souls mourn in anguish the while.
And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory,When winter is wailing beneath;And we tell not the world the sad storyOf the thorn hidden back of the wreath.
Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter,And bright as the brook to the seaBut ah! the dark hours that come afterOf moaning for you and for me.
Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleetingAs birds, fly the moments of glee!And we smile, and mayhap grief is sleetingIts ice upon you and on me.
And the clouds of the tempest are shiftingO'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright;And the snows of woe's winter are driftingOur souls; and each day hides a night.
For ah! when our souls are enjoyingThe mirth which our faces reveal,There is something — a something — alloyingThe sweetness of joy that we feel.
Life's loveliest sky hides the thunderWhose bolt in a moment may fall;And our path may be flowery, but underThe flowers there are thorns for us all.
Ah! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamingsThat 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 yearningThat they may come back in the years.
Come back! did I say it? but neverDo 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 sorrowSmiles never again on our way,But we meet in the farthest to-morrowThe face of the grief of to-day.
The brightness whose tremulous glimmerHas 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 fingersOf 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 gladnessSends a grief like a ghost, on our way.
No day shall return that has faded,The dead come not back from the tomb;The vale of each life must be shaded,That we may see best from the gloom.
The height of the homes of our glory,All radiant with splendors of light;That we may read clearly life's story —"The dark is the dawn of the bright."
I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So
Some find work where some find rest,And so the weary world goes on:I sometimes wonder which is best;The answer comes when life is gone.
Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake,And so the dreary night-hours go;Some hearts beat where some hearts break;I often wonder why 'tis so.
Some wills faint where some wills fight,Some love the tent, and some the field;I often wonder who are right —The ones who strive, or those who yield?
Some hands fold where other handsAre lifted bravely in the strife;And so thro' ages and thro' landsMove 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 flashUntil the battle has been won.
Some sleep on while others keepThe vigils of the true and brave:They will not rest till roses creepAround their name above a grave.
A Blessing
Be you near, or be you far,Let my blessing, like a star,Shine upon you everywhere!And in each lone evening hour,When the twilight folds the flower,I will fold thy name in prayer.
In the dark and in the day,To my heart you know the way,Sorrow's pale hand keeps the key;In your sorrow or your sinYou may always enter in;I will keep a place for thee.
If God's blessing pass awayFrom your spirit; if you strayFrom his presence, do not wait.Come to my heart, for I keepFor the hearts that wail and weep,Ever opened wide — a gate.
In your joys to others go,When your feet walk ways of woeOnly then come back to me;I will give you tear for tear,And our tears shall more endearThee to me and me to thee.
For I make my heart the homeOf all hearts in grief that comeSeeking refuge and a rest.Do not fear me, for you know,Be your footsteps e'er so low,I know yours, of all, the best.
Once you came; and you brought sin;Did not my hand lead you in —Into God's heart, thro' my own?Did not my voice speak a wordYou, for years, had never heard —Mystic word in Mercy's tone?
And a grace fell on your brow,And I heard your murmured vow,When I whispered: "Go in peace.""Go in peace, and sin no more,"Did you not touch Mercy's shore,Did not sin's wild tempest cease?
Go! then: thou art good and pure!If thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure,Back to me thy footsteps trace!In my heart for year and year,Be thou far away or near,I shall keep for thee a place.
Yes! I bless you — near or far —And my blessing, like a star,Shall shine on you everywhere;And in many a holy hour,As the sunshine folds the flower,I will fold thy heart in prayer.
July 9th, 1872
Between two pillared clouds of goldThe beautiful gates of evening swung —And far and wide from flashing foldThe half-furled banners of light, that hungO'er green of wood and gray of woldAnd over the blue where the river rolled,The fading gleams of their glory flung.
The sky wore not a frown all dayTo mar the smile of the morning tide;The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay —You never would think they had ever sighed;The stream went on its sunlit wayIn ripples of laughter; happy theyAs the hearts that met at Riverside.
No cloudlet in the sky serene!Not a silver speck in the golden hue!But where the woods waved low and green,And seldom would let the sunlight through,Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen,The faces of children might be seen,And the flash of ribbons of blue.
It was a children's simple feast,Yet many were there whose faces toldHow far they are from childhood's EastWho have reached the evening of the old!And father — mother — sister — priest —They seemed all day like the very leastOf the little children of the fold.
The old forgot they were not young,The young forgot they would e'er be old,And all day long the trees among,Where'er their footsteps stayed or strolled,Came wittiest word from tireless tongue,And the merriest peals of laughter rungWhere the woods drooped low and the river rolled.
No cloud upon the faces there,Not a sorrow came from its hiding placeTo cast the shadow of a careOn the fair, sweet brows in that fairest placeFor in the sky and in the air,And in their spirits, and everywhere,Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace.
The day was long, but ah! too brief!Swift to the West bright-winged she fled;Too soon on ev'ry look and leafThe last rays flushed which her plumage shedFrom an evening cloud — was it a sign of grief?And the bright day passed — is there much reliefThat its dream dies not when its gleam is dead?
Great sky, thou art a prophet still!And by thy shadows and by thy raysWe read the future if we will,And all the fates of our future ways;To-morrows meet us in vale and hill,And under the trees, and by the rill,Thou givest the sign of our coming days.
That evening cloud was a sign, I ween —For the sister of that summer dayShall come next year to the selfsame scene;The winds will sing the selfsame lay;The selfsame woods will wave as green,And Riverside, thy skies sereneShall robe thee again in a golden sheen;Yet though thy shadows may weave a screenWhere the children's faces may be seen,Thou ne'er shall be as thou hast been,For a face they loved has passed away.
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 drearAs hope's last tear;Out of the silences wake me a hymn,Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim.
Out of the stillness in your heart —A thousand songs are sleeping there —Wake me a song, thou child of art!The song of a hope in a last despair:Dark and low,A chant of woe;Out of the stillness, tone by tone,Cold as a snowflake, low as a moan.
Out of the darkness flash me a song,Brightly dark and darkly bright;Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps alongThe 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 (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)
Thou art sleeping, brother, sleepingIn thy lonely battle grave;Shadows o'er the past are creeping,Death, the reaper, still is reaping,Years have swept, and years are sweepingMany a memory from my keeping,But I'm waiting still, and weepingFor my beautiful and brave.
When the battle songs were chanted,And war's stirring tocsin pealed,By those songs thy heart was haunted,And thy spirit, proud, undaunted,Clamored wildly — wildly panted:"Mother! let my wish be granted;I will ne'er be mocked and tauntedThat I fear to meet our vauntedFoemen on the bloody field.
"They are thronging, mother! thronging,To a thousand fields of fame;Let me go — 'tis wrong, and wrongingGod and thee to crush this longing;On the muster-roll of glory,In my country's future story,On the field of battle goryI must consecrate my name.
"Mother! gird my sword around me,Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-bye.'"In her arms she wildly wound thee,To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee,With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee,And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee,If you fall, I'll know they found theeWhere the bravest love to die."
At the altar of their nation,Stood that mother and her son,He, the victim of oblation,Panting for his immolation;She, in priestess' holy station,Weeping words of consecration,While God smiled his approbation,Blessed the boy's self-abnegation,Cheered the mother's desolation,When the sacrifice was done.
Forth, like many a noble other,Went he, whispering soft and low:"Good-bye — pray for me, my mother;Sister! kiss me — farewell, brother;"And he strove his grief to smother.Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless,And his parting gaze was tearlessThough his heart was lone and cheerless,Thus from all he loved to go.
Lo! yon flag of freedom flashingIn the sunny Southern sky:On, to death and glory dashing,On, where swords are clanging, clashing,On, where balls are crushing, crashing,On, 'mid perils dread, appalling,On, they're falling, falling, falling.On, they're growing fewer, fewer,On, their hearts beat all the truer,On, on, on, no fear, no falter,On, though round the battle-altarThere were wounded victims moaning,There were dying soldiers groaning;On, right on, death's danger braving,Warring where their flag was waving,While Baptismal blood was lavingAll that field of death and slaughter;On, still on; that bloody lavaMade them braver and made them braver,On, with never a halt or waver,On in battle — bleeding — bounding,While the glorious shout swept sounding,"We will win the day or die!"
And they won it; routed — riven —Reeled the foemen's proud array:They had struggled hard, and striven,Blood in torrents they had given,But their ranks, dispersed and driven,Fled, in sullenness, away.
Many a heart was lonely lyingThat would never throb again;Some were dead, and some were dying;Those were silent, these were sighing;Thus to die alone, unattended,Unbewept and unbefriended,On that bloody battle-plain.
When the twilight sadly, slowlyWrapped its mantle o'er them all,Thousands, thousands lying lowly,Hushed in silence deep and holy,There was one, his blood was flowingAnd his last of life was going,
And his pulse faint, fainter beatingTold his hours were few and fleeting;And his brow grew white and whiter,While his eyes grew strangely brighter;There he lay — like infant dreaming,With his sword beside him gleaming,For the hand in life that grasped it,True in death still fondly clasped it;There his comrades found him lying'Mid the heaps of dead and dying,And the sternest bent down weepingO'er the lonely sleeper sleeping:'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him,And they told us how they found himWhere the bravest love to fall.
Where the woods, like banners bending,Drooped in starlight and in gloom,There, when that sad night was ending,And the faint, far dawn was blendingWith the stars now fast descending;There they mute and mournful bore him,With the stars and shadows o'er him,And they laid him down — so tender —And the next day's sun, in splendor,Flashed above my brother's tomb.
What? (To Ethel)
At the golden gates of the visionsI knelt me adown one day;But sudden my prayer was a silence,For I heard from the "Far away"The murmur of many voicesAnd a silvery censer's sway.
I bowed in awe, and I listened —The deeps of my soul were stirred,But deepest of all was the meaningOf the far-off music I heard,And yet it was stiller than silence,Its notes were the "Dream of a Word".
A word that is whispered in heaven,But cannot be heard below;It lives on the lips of the angelsWhere'er their pure wings glow;Yet only the "Dream of its Echo"Ever reaches this valley of woe.
But I know the word and its meaning;I reached to its height that day,When prayer sank into a silenceAnd my heart was so far away;But I may not murmur the music,Nor the word may my lips yet say.
But some day far in the future,And up from the dust of the dead,And out of my lips when speechlessThe mystical word shall be said,'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit,When the soul of the bard has fled.
The Master's Voice
The waves were weary, and they went to sleep;The winds were hushed;The starlight flushedThe furrowed face of all the mighty deep.
The billows yester eve so dark and wild,Wore strangely nowA calm upon their brow,Like that which rests upon a cradled child.
The sky was bright, and every single star,With gleaming face,Was in its place,And looked upon the sea — so fair and far.
And all was still — still as a temple dim,When low and faint,As murmurs plaint,Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn.
A bark slept on the sea, and in the barkSlept Mary's Son —The only OneWhose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.
His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fairHe dreamed of meOn that still sea —The stars He made were gleaming through His hair.
And lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep;The sky grew dark:The little barkFelt all the waves awaking from their sleep.
The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat;The bark was tossed:Shall all be lost?But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet.
The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath,The winds howled on,All hope seemed gone,And darker waves surged round the bark's lone path.
The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep;He whispered: "Peace!Winds — wild waves, cease!Be still!" The tempest fled — the ocean fell asleep.
And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed,When life's lone barkDrifts through the darkAnd 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost,
He now, as then, with words of power and peace,Murmurs: "Stormy deep,Be still — still — and sleep!"And lo! a great calm comes — the tempest's perils cease.
A "Thought-Flower"
Silently — shadowly — some lives go,And the sound of their voices is all unheard;Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flowOf beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred.Deep lives theseAs the pearl-strewn seas.
Softly and noiselessly some feet treadLone ways on earth, without leaving a mark;They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead,As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark.Sweet lives thoseIn their strange repose.
Calmly and lowly some hearts beat,And none may know that they beat at all;They muffle their music whenever they meetA few in a hut or a crowd in a hall.Great hearts those —God only knows!