They were just like little children,Not a sorrow's shade was there;And "Merry! Merry! Merry!"Rang their laughter thro' the air.There was not a brow grief-darkened,Was there there a heart in pain?But "Happy! Happy! Happy!"Came the happy bells' refrain.
When the stately trees were bendingO'er a simple, quiet home,That looked humble as an altar,Nestling 'neath a lofty dome;Thither went they gaily! gaily!Where their coming was a joy,Just to pass away togetherOne long day without alloy.
"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!"Melted morning's mist away,Till the sun, in all its splendor,Lit the borders of the bay."Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!"Glanced the waters that were gray,While the wavelets whispered "Welcome!"To us all that happy day.
And "Happy! Happy! Happy!"Rang the bell in every heart,And it chimed, "All day let no oneThink that ye shall ever part.Go and sip from every momentSweets to perfume many years;Keep your feast, and be too happyTo have thought of any tears."
There was song with one's soul in it,And the happy hearts grew stillWhile they leaned upon the musicLike fair lilies o'er the rill;Till the notes had softly floatedInto silent seas awayO'er the wavelets, where they listenedWhile they rocked upon the bay.
And —— "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!"When the song's sweet life was o'er,Drooped the eyes that will rememberAll its echoes evermore.And "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!"Beat the hearts of some, I ween,That can see the unseen mysteryWhich a song may strive to screen.
Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!"Rang the laughter everywhere,From the lips that seemed too lightsomeFor the sigh of any care.And the dance went "Merry! Merry!"Whilst the feet that tripped along,Bore the hearts that were as happyAs a wild bird's happy song.
And sweet words with smiles upon them,Joy-winged, flitted to and fro,Flushing every face they met withWith the glory of their glow.Not a brow with cloud upon it —Not an eye that seemed to knowWhat a tear is; not a bosomThat had ever nursed a woe.
And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!"Like the ripples of a stream,Did the bright hours chase each other,Till it all seemed like a dream;Till it seemed as if no ~Never~Ever in this world had been,To o'ercloud the ~brief Forever~,Shining o'er the happy scene.
Dimly! dimly fell the shadowsOf the tranquil eventide;But the sound of dance and laughterWould not die, and had not died;And still "Happy! Happy! Happy!"Rang the voiceless vesper bellsO'er the hearts that were too happyTo remember earth's farewells.
Came the night hours — faster! faster!Rose the laughter and the dance,And the eyes that should look wearyShone the brighter in their glance:And they stole from every minuteWhat no other day could lend —They were happy! happy! happy!But the feast must have an end.
"Children, come!" the words were cruel —'Twas the death sigh of the feast;And they came, still merry! merry!At the bidding of the priest,Who had heard the joy-bells ringingRound him all the summer day."Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!"Did he hear an angel say?
"Happy! happy! still more happy!Yea, the happiest are they.I was moving 'mid the childrenBy the borders of the bay,And I bring to God no recordOf a single sin this day.
"Happy! Happy! Happy!"When your life seems lone and long,You will hear that feast's bells ringingFar and faintly thro' my song.
Lines ["The death of men is not the death"]
The death of men is not the deathOf rights that urged them to the fray;For men may yieldOn battle-fieldA noble life with stainless shield,And swords may rustAbove their dust,But still, and stillThe touch and thrillOf freedom's vivifying breathWill nerve a heart and rouse a willIn some hour, in the days to be,To win back triumphs from defeat;And those who blame us then will greetRight's glorious eternity.
For right lives in a thousand things;Its cradle is its martyr's grave,Wherein it rests awhile untilThe life that heroisms gaveWill rise again, at God's own will,And right the wrong,Which long and longDid reign above the true and just;And thro' the songs the poet sings,Right's vivifying spirit rings;Each simple rhymeKeeps step and timeWith those who marched away and fell,And all his linesAre humble shrinesWhere love of right will love to dwell.
Death of the Prince Imperial
Waileth a woman, "O my God!"A breaking heart in a broken breath,A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death!Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail,When love's last lily lies dead in the vale!Let her alone,Under the rodWith the infinite moanOf her soul for God.Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain,But you never may shrine,In verse or line,The pang of the heart that breaks in twain.
Waileth a woman, "O my God!"Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache,Why do your passionate pulses throb?No lips that speak — have ye souls that sob?We carry the cross — ye wear the crest,We have our God — and ye, your shore,Whither ye rush in the storm to rest;We have the havens of holy prayer —And we have a hope — have ye despair?For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore,Adown the shores and along the years,In the whitest foam of the saddest tears,And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves!Drift over a sea more deep and wide,For we have sorrow and we have death;And ye have only the tempest's breath;But we have God when heart-oppressed,As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.
O waves! sad waves! how you flowed betweenThe crownless Prince and the exiled Queen!
Waileth a woman, "O my God!"Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed,For the love of her love is cold and dead,The joy of her joy hath forever fled;A starless and pitiless night hath rushedOn the light of her life — and far awayIn Afric wild lies her poor dead child,Lies the heart of her heart — let her aloneUnder the rodWith her infinite moan,O my God!He was beautiful, pure, and brave,The brightest graceOf a royal race;Only his throne is but a grave;Is there fate in fame?Is there doom in names?Ah! what did the cruel Zulu spearsCare for the prince or his mother's tears?What did the Zulu's ruthless lanceCare for the hope of the future France?
Crieth the Empress, "O my son!"He was her own and her only one,She had nothing to give him but her love.'Twas kingdom enough on earth — aboveShe gave him an infinite faith in God;Let her cry her cryOver her own and only one,All the glory is gone — is gone,Into her broken-hearted sigh.
Moaneth a mother, "O my child!"And who can sound that depth of woe?Homeless, throneless, crownless — nowShe bows her sorrow-wreathed brow —(So fame and all its grandeurs go)Let her aloneBeneath the rodWith her infinite moan,"O my God!"
In Memoriam (Father Keeler)
Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala.Inscribed to his sister.
"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life,And woe to us if he goes!Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair,Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer;Let him linger to help us in the strifeOn earth, with our sins and woes."
'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so,The Angel of Death said: "No! oh! no!"He was passing away — and none might saveThe virgin priest from a spotless grave.
"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray,He taught us to love You so —So, so much — his life is so sweet and fair —A still, still song — and a holy prayer;He is our Father; oh! let him stay —He gone, to whom shall we go?"
'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so,But the Angel of Death murmured low: "No, no;"And the voice of his angel from far away,Sang to Christ in heav'n: "He must not stay."
"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne,And pray with your children there —Our hearts need his heart — 'tis sweet and fair,Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer,Goeth he now — we are lone — so lone,And who is there left to care?"
'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so —But the Angel of Death sang: "Children, no!"And a voice like Christ's from the far away,Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay."
From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan:"O God let my brother stay —I need him the most — oh! me! how lone,If he passes from earth away —O beautiful Christ, for my poor sakeLet him live for me, else my heart will break."
But the Angel of Death wept: "Poor child! no,"And Christ sang: "Child, I will soothe thy woe."
"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard,Let her look on his face once more!Ah! that prayer was a wail — without a word —She will look on him nevermore!"
The long gray distances unmoved swept'Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept.
He was dying fast, and the hours went by,Ah! desolate hours were they!His mind had hidden away somewhereBack of a fretted and wearied brow,Ere he passed from life away.And one who loved him (at dead of night),Crept up to an altar, where the lightThat guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep,Shone strangely down on his vow:"Spare him! O God! — O God! for me,Take me, beautiful Christ, instead;Let me taste of death and come to Thee,I will sleep for him with the dead."
The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No!You must suffer and live, but he must go."And a voice like Christ's sang far away:"He will come to me, but you must stay."
We leaned on hope that was all in vain,'Till the terrible word at lastTold our stricken hearts he was out of pain,And his beautiful life had passed.
Oh! take him away from where he died;Put him not with the common dead(For he was so pure and fair);And the city was stirred, and thousands criedWhose tears were a very prayer.
No, no, no, take him home again,For his bishop's heart beats there;Cast him not with the common dead,Let him go home and rest his head,Ah! his weary and grief-worn head,On the heart of his father — he is mildFor he loved him as his own child.
And they brought him home to the home he blest,With his life so sweet and fair,He blessed it more in his deathly rest —His face was a chiseled prayer,White as the snow, pure as the foamOf a weary wave on the sea,He drifted back — and they placed him whereHe would love at last to be.
His Father in God thought over the yearsOf the beautiful happy past;Ah! me! we were happy then; but now,The sorrow has come, and saddest tearsKiss the dead priest's virgin brow.
Who will watch o'er the dead young priest,People and priests and all?No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast;When the evening shadows fall,Let him rest alone — unwatched, alone,Just beneath the altar's light,The holy hosts on their humble throneWill watch him all thro' the night.
The doors were closed — he was still and fair,What sound moved up the aisles?The dead priests come with soundless prayer,Their faces wearing smiles.And this was the soundless hymn they sung:"We watch o'er you to-night,Your life was beautiful, fair, and young,Not a cloud upon its light.To-morrow — to-morrow you will restWith the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."
Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowdBowed down their heads in tearsO'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud(Ah! the happy, happy years!)They are dead and gone, and the Requiem MassWent slowly, mournfully on,The Pontiff's singing was all a wail,The altars cried, and the people wept,The fairest flower in the church's vale(Ah! me! how soon we pass!)In the vase of his coffin slept.
We bore him out to his resting place,Children, priests, and all;There was sorrow on almost ev'ry face —And ah! what tears did fall!Tears from hearts, for a heart asleep,Tears from sorrow's deepest deep.
"Dust to dust," he was lowered down;Children! kneel and pray —"Give the white rose priest a flower and crown,For the white rose passed away."
And we wept our tears and left him there.And brought his memory home —Ah! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair,A heavenly hymn — a sweet, still prayer,Pure as the snow, white as the foam,
That seeks a lone, far shore.Dead Priest! bless from amid the blest,The hearts that will guard thy place of rest,Forever, forever, forever more.
Mobile Mystic Societies
The olden golden stories of the world,That stirred the past,And now are dim as dreams,The lays and legends which the bards unfurledIn lines that last,All — rhymed with glooms and gleams.Fragments and fancies writ on many a pageBy deathless pen,And names, and deeds that all along each age,Thrill hearts of men.And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shadeOf many climes,And life's great poems that can never fadeNor lose their chimes;And acts and facts that must forever ringLike temple bells,That sound or seem to sound where angels singVesper farewells;And scenes where smiles are strangely touching tears,'Tis ever thus,Strange Mystics! in the meeting of the yearsYe bring to usAll these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh,Strange power ye hold!When New Year kneels low in the star-aisled skyAnd asks the OldTo bless us all with love, and life, and light,And when they foldEach other in their arms, ye stir the sight,We look, and lo!The past is passing, and the present seemsTo wish to go.Ye pass between them on your mystic wayThro' scene and scene,The Old Year marches through your ranks, awayTo what has been,The while the pageant moves, it scarcely seemsApart of earth;The Old Year dies — and heaven crowns with gleamsThe New Year's birth.And you — you crown yourselves with heaven's graceTo enter here;A prayer — ascending from an orphan face,Or just one tearMay meet you in the years that are to beA blessing rare.Ye pass beneath the arch of charity,Who passeth thereIs blest in heaven, and is blest on earth,And God will care,Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth,For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.
Rest
My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,My soul oppressed —And I desire, what I have long desired —Rest — only rest.
'Tis hard to toil — when toil is almost vain,In barren ways;'Tis hard to sow — and never garner grain,In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,But God knows best;And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayerFor rest — sweet rest.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reapThe Autumn yield;'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weepO'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry,So heart oppressed;And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,For rest — for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years,And cares infestMy path, and through the flowing of hot tears,I pine — for rest.
'Twas always so; when but a child I laidOn mother's breastMy wearied little head; e'en then I prayedAs now — for rest.
And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er;For down the WestLife's sun is setting, and I see the shoreWhere I shall rest.
Follow Me
The Master's voice was sweet:"I gave My life for thee;Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss,Arise and follow Me."I clasped it in my hand —O Thou! who diedst for me,The day is bright, my step is light,'Tis sweet to follow Thee!
Through the long Summer daysI followed lovingly;'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near,His glorious face to see.Down where the lilies paleFringed the bright river's brim,In pastures green His steps were seen —'Twas sweet to follow Him!
Oh, sweet to follow Him!Lord, let me here abide.The flowers were fair; I lingered there;I laid His cross aside —I saw His face no moreBy the bright river's brim;Before me lay the desert way —'Twas hard to follow Him!
Yes! hard to follow HimInto that dreary land!I was alone; His cross had grownToo heavy for my hand.I heard His voice afarSound thro' the night air chill;My weary feet refused to meetHis coming o'er the hill.
The Master's voice was sad:"I gave My life for thee;I bore the cross thro' pain and loss,Thou hast not followed Me."So fair the lilies' banks,So bleak the desert way:The night was dark, I could not markWhere His blessed footsteps lay.
Fairer the lilied banksSofter the grassy lea;"The endless bliss of those who bestHave learned to follow Me!Canst thou not follow Me?Hath patient love a power no moreTo move thy faithless heart?Wilt thou not follow Me?These weary feet of MineHave stained, and red the pathway dreadIn search of thee and thine."
O Lord! O Love divine!Once more I follow Thee!Let me abide so near Thy sideThat I Thy face may see.I clasp Thy pierced hand,O Thou who diedst for me!I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss,So let me cling to Thee.
The Poet's Child
Lines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams.
Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song!The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins;Dost ever hear faint echoes float alongThy days and dreams of thy dead father's strains?Dost ever hear,In mournful times,With inner ear,The strange sweet cadences of thy father's rhymes?
Child of a child of art, which Heaven doth giveTo few, to very few as unto him!His songs are wandering o'er the world, but liveIn his child's heart, in some place lone and dim;And nights and daysWith vestal's eyesAnd soundless sighsThou keepest watch above thy father's lays.
Child of a dreamer of dreams all unfulfilled —(And thou art, child, a living dream of him) —Dost ever feel thy spirit all enthrilledWith his lost dreams when summer days wane dim?When suns go down,Thou, song of the dead singer,Dost sigh at eve and grieveO'er the brow that paled before it won the crown?
Child of the patriot! Oh, how he loved his land!And how he moaned o'er Erin's ev'ry wrong!Child of the singer! he swept with purest handThe octaves of all agonies, until his songSobbed o'er the sea;And now through theeIt cometh to me,Like a shadow song from some Gethsemane.
Child of the wanderer! and his heart the shrineWhere three loves blended into only one —His God's, thy mother's, and his country's; and 'tis thineTo be the living ray of such a glorious sun.His genius gleams,My child, within thee,And dim thy dreamsAs stars on the midnight sea.
Child of thy father, I have read his songs —Thou art the sweetest song he ever sung —Peaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongsSwept o'er his heart he stormed. And he was young;He died too soon —So men will say —Before he reached Fame's noon;His songs are letters in a book — thou art their ray.
Mother's Way
Oft within our little cottage,As the shadows gently fall,While the sunlight touches softlyOne sweet face upon the wall,Do we gather close together,And in hushed and tender toneAsk each other's full forgivenessFor the wrong that each has done.Should you wonder why this customAt the ending of the day,Eye and voice would quickly answer:"It was once our mother's way."
If our home be bright and cheery,If it holds a welcome true,Opening wide its door of greetingTo the many — not the few;If we share our father's bountyWith the needy day by day,'Tis because our hearts rememberThis was ever mother's way.
Sometimes when our hands grow weary,Or our tasks seem very long;When our burdens look too heavy,And we deem the right all wrong;Then we gain a new, fresh courage,And we rise to proudly say:"Let us do our duty bravely —This was our dear mother's way."
Then we keep her memory precious,While we never cease to prayThat at last, when lengthening shadowsMark the evening of our day,They may find us waiting calmlyTo go home our mother's way.
Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple
The priests stood waiting in the holy place,Impatient of delay(Isaiah had been read),When sudden up the aisle there came a faceLike a lost sun's ray;And the child was ledBy Joachim and Anna. Rays of graceShone all about the child;Simeon looked on, and bowed his aged head —Looked on the child, and smiled.
Low were the words of Joachim. He spakeIn a tremulous way,As if he were afraid,Or as if his heart were just about to break,And knew not what to say;And low he bowed his head —While Anna wept the while — he, sobbing, said:"Priests of the holy temple, will you takeInto your care our child?"And Simeon, listening, prayed, and strangely smiled.
A silence for a moment fell on all;They gazed in mute surprise,Not knowing what to say,Till Simeon spake: "Child, hast thou heaven's call?"And the child's wondrous eyes(Each look a lost sun's ray)Turned toward the far mysterious wall.(Did the veil of the temple sway?)They looked from the curtain to the little child —Simeon seemed to pray, and strangely smiled.
"Yes; heaven sent me here. Priests, let me in!"(And the voice was sweet and low.)"Was it a dream by night?A voice did call me from this world of sin —A spirit-voice I know,An angel pure and bright.`Leave father, mother,' said the voice, `and win';(I see my angel now)`The crown of a virgin's vow.'I am three summers old — a little child."And Simeon seemed to pray the while he smiled.
"Yes, holy priests, our father's God is great,And all His mercies sweet!His angel bade me come —Come thro' the temple's beautiful gate;He led my heart and feetTo this, my holy home.He said to me: `Three years your God will waitYour heart to greet and meet.'I am three summers old —I see my angel now —Brighter his wings than gold —He knoweth of my vow."The priests, in awe, came closer to the child —She wore an angel's look — and Simeon smiled.
As if she were the very holy ark,Simeon placed his handOn the fair, pure head.The sun had set, and it was growing dark;The robed priests did standAround the child. He said:"Unto me, priests, and all ye Levites, hark!This child is God's own gift —Let us our voices liftIn holy praise." They gazed upon the childIn wonderment — and Simeon prayed and smiled.
And Joachim and Anna went their way —The little child, she shedThe tenderest human tears.The priests and Levites lingered still to pray;And Simeon said:"We teach the latter yearsThe night is passing 'fore the coming day(Isaiah had been read)Of our redemption" — and some way the childWon all their hearts. Simeon prayed and smiled.
That night the temple's child knelt down to prayIn the shadows of the aisle —She prayed for you and me.Why did the temple's mystic curtain sway?Why did the shadows smile?The child of Love's decreeHad come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleamThe aged Simeon did see in dreamThe mystery of the child,And in his sleep he murmured prayer — and smiled.
And twelve years after, up the very aisleWhere Simeon had smiledUpon her fair, pure face,She came again, with a mother's smile,And in her arms a Child,The very God of grace.And Simeon took the Infant from her breast,And, in glad tones and strong,He sang his glorious songOf faith, and hope, and everlasting rest.
St. Bridget
Sweet heaven's smileGleamed o'er the isle,That gems the dreamy sea.One far gone day,And flash'd its ray,More than a thousand years away,Pure Bridget, over thee.
White as the snow,That falls belowTo earth on Christmas night,Thy pure face shoneOn every one;For Christ's sweet grace thy heart had wonTo make thy birth-land bright.
A cloud hangs o'erThy Erin's shore —Ah! God, 'twas always so.Ah! virgin fairThy heaven pray'rWill help thy people in their care,And save them from their woe.
Thou art in light —They are in light;Thou hast a crown — they a chain.The very sod,Made theirs by God,Is still by tyrants' footsteps trod;They pray — but all in vain.
Thou! near Christ's throne,Dost hear the moanOf all their hearts that grieve;Ah! virgin sweet,Kneel at His feet,Where angels' hymns thy prayer shall greet,And pray for them this eve.
New Year
Each year cometh with all his days,Some are shadowed and some are bright;He beckons us on until he staysKneeling with us 'neath Christmas night.
Kneeling under the stars that gemThe holy sky, o'er the humble place,When the world's sweet Child of BethlehemRested on Mary, full of grace.
Not only the Bethlehem in the East,But altar Bethlehem everywhere,When the ~Gloria~ of the first great feastRings forth its gladness on the air.
Each year seemeth loath to go,And leave the joys of Christmas day;In lands of sun and in lands of snow,The year still longs awhile to stay.
A little while, 'tis hard to partFrom this Christ blessed here below,Old year! and in thy aged heartI hear thee sing so sweet and low.
A song like this, but sweeter far,And yet as if with a human tone,Under the blessed Christmas star,And thou descendest from thy throne.
"A few more days and I am gone,The hours move swift and sure along;Yet still I fain would linger onIn hearing of the Christmas song.
"I bow to Him who rules all years;Thrice blessed is His high behest;Nor will He blame me if, with tears,I pass to my eternal rest.
"Ah, me! to altars every dayI brought the sun and the holy Mass;The people came by my light to pray,While countless priests did onward pass.
"The words of the Holy Thursday nightTo one another from east to west;And the holy Host on the altar whiteWould take its little half-hour's rest.
"And every minute of every hourThe Mass bell rang with its sound so sweet,While from shrine to shrine, with tireless power,And heaven's love, walked the nailed feet.
"I brought the hours for ~Angelus~ bells,And from a thousand temple towersThey wound their sweet and blessed spellAround the hearts of all the hours.
"Every day has a day of graceFor those who fain would make them so;I saw o'er the world in every placeThe wings of guardian angels glow.
"Men! could you hear the song I sing —But no, alas! it cannot be so!My heir that comes would only bringBlessings to bless you here below."
* * * * *
Seven days passed; the gray, old yearCalls to his throne the coming heir;Falls from his eyes the last, sad tear,And lo! there is gladness everywhere.
Singing, I hear the whole world sing,Afar, anear, aloud, alow:"What to us will the New Year bring!"Ah! would that each of us might know!
Is it not truth? as old as true?List ye, singers, the while ye sing!Each year bringeth to each of youWhat each of you will have him bring.
The year that cometh is a king,With better gifts than the old year gave;If you place on his fingers the holy ringOf prayer, the king becomes your slave.
Zeila (A Story from a Star)
From the mystic sidereal spaces,In the noon of a night 'mid of May,Came a spirit that murmured to me —Or was it the dream of a dream?No! no! from the purest of places,Where liveth the highest of races,In an unfallen sphere far away(And it wore Immortality's gleam)Came a Being. Hath seen on the seaThe sheen of some silver star shimmer'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmerO'er a wave half in dream on the deep?It shone on me thus in my sleep.
Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing,In the night, of our eyes from the light?Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest?Or doth it not toil all the more?When the earth-wearied frame is reposing,Is the vision then veiled the less bright?When the earth from our sight hath been taken,The fetters of senses off shaken,The soul, doth it not then awakenTo the light on Infinity's shore?And is not its vision then best,And truest, and farthest, and clearest?In night, is not heaven the nearest?Ah, me! let the day have his schemers,Let them work on their ways as they will,And their workings, I trow, have their worth.But the unsleeping spirits of dreamers,In hours when the world-voice is still,Are building, with faith without falter,Bright steps up to heaven's high altar,Where lead all the aisles of the earth.
Was I sleeping? I know not — or waking?The body was resting, I ween;Meseems it was o'ermuch tiredWith the toils of the day that had gone;When sudden there came the bright breakingOf light thro' a shadowy screen;And with the brightness there blendedThe voice of the Being descendedFrom a star ever pure of all sin,In music too sweet to be lyredBy the lips of the sinful and mortal.And, oh! how the pure brightness shone!As shines thro' the summer morn's portalRays golden and white as the snow,As white as the flakes — ah, no! whiter;Only angelic wings may be brighterWhen they flash o'er the brow of some woeThat walketh this shadowed below.
The soul loseth never its seeing,In the goings of night and of dayIt graspeth the Infinite Far.No wonder there may come some Being,As if it had wandered astrayAt times down the wonder-filled way —As to me in the midnight of May —From its home in some glory-crowned star,Where evil hath never left traces;Where dwelleth the highest of races,Save the angels that circle the throne,In a grace far beyond all our graces,Whose Christ is the same as our own.
Yea! I ween the star spaces are teemingWith the gladness of life and of love.No! no! I am not at all dreaming —The Below's hands enclasp the Above.'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming —Creation is many, tho' one,And we are the last of its creatures.This earth bears the sign of our sin(From the highest the evil came in);Yet ours are the same human featuresThat veiled long agone the Divine.How comes it, O holy Creator!That we, not the first, but the latterOf varied and numberless beingsSpringing forth in Thy loving decreeings,That we are, of all, the most Thine?
Yea! we are the least and the lowly,The half of our history gone,We look up the Infinite slopeIn faith, and we walk on in hope;But think ye from here to the "HolyOf Holies" beyond yon still sky,O'er the stars that forever move on,I' the heavens beyond the bright Third,In glory's ineffable light;Where the Father, and Spirit, and WordReign circled by angels all bright —Ah! think you 'tween Here and that YonderThere is naught but the silence of death?There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder,And naught but an infinite night?No! no! the great Father is fonderOf breathing His life-giving breathInto beings of numberless races.And from here on and up to His throneThe Trinity's beautiful faces,In countlessly various traces,Are seen in more stars than our own.This earth telleth not half the storyOf the infinite heart of our God —The heavens proclaim of His gloryThe least little part, and His powerBroke not its sceptre when earthWas beckoned by Him into birth.Is He resting, I wonder, to-night?Can He rest when His love sways His will?Will He rest ere His glory shall fillAll spaces below and aboveWith beings to know and to love?
Creation — when was it begun?Who knows its first day? Nay, none.And then, what ken among menCan tell when the last work is done?Is He resting, I wonder, to-night?Doth He ever grow weary of givingTo Darknesses rays of His light?Doth He ever grow weary of givingTo Nothings the rapture of livingAnd waiting awhile for His sight?If His will rules His glorious power,And if love sways His beautiful will,Is He not, e'en in this very hour,Going on with love's wonder-work still?
* * * * *
Let me pray just awhile, for betimesMy spirit is clouded; and thenStrange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes,Till prayer lendeth light to my pen.And then shall I better unfoldThe story to me that was told,Of the unfallen star far away,In the noon of the night 'mid of May,By the beautiful Being who came,With the pure and the beautiful name."Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said,And passed from my vision afar.With rapture I bowed down my head,And dreamed of that unfallen star.
Better than Gold
Better than grandeur, better than gold,Than rank and titles a thousand fold,Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,And simple pleasures that always pleaseA heart that can feel for another's woe,With sympathies large enough to enfoldAll men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a conscience clear,Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere,Doubly blessed with content and health,Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth,Lowly living and lofty thoughtAdorn and ennoble a poor man's cot;For mind and morals in nature's planAre the genuine tests of a gentleman.
Better than gold is the sweet reposeOf the sons of toil when the labors close;Better than gold is the poor man's sleep,And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed,Where luxury pillows its aching head,The toiler simple opiate deemsA shorter route to the land of dreams.
Better than gold is a thinking mind,That in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore.The sage's lore and the poet's lay,The glories of empires passed away;The world's great dream will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful homeWhere all the fireside characters come,The shrine of love, the heaven of life,Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,The blessings that never were bought or sold,And centre there, are better than gold.
Sea Dreamings
To-day a bird on wings as white as foamThat crests the blue-gray wave,With the vesper light upon its breast, flew homeSeaward. The God who gaveTo the birds the virgin-wings of snowSomehow telleth them the ways they go.
Unto the Evening went the white-winged bird —Gray clouds hung round the West —And far away the tempest's tramp was heard.The bird flew for a restAway from the grove, out to the sea —Is it only a bird's mystery?
Nay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of whiteThat cleft thy waveward way —Past the evening and swift into the night,Out of the calm, bright day —And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea,More than one human heart's history.
Only men's hearts — tho' God shows each its wayThat leadeth hence to home —Unlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray,Seeking in the far foamOf this strange world's tempest-trampled mainA resting place — but they seek in vain.
Only the bird can rest upon the deep,And sleep upon the wave,And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep.And sweet the God who gaveThe birds a rest place on the restless sea —But this, my heart, is not His way with thee.
Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll,And every fleck of foamWhitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soulThat never shall reach home.Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace,My heart, is thy only resting place.
Sea Rest
Far from "where the roses rest",Round the altar and the aisle,Which I loved, of all, the best —I have come to rest awhileBy the ever-restless sea —Will its waves give rest to me?
But it is so hard to partWith my roses. Do they know(Who knows but each has a heart?)How it grieves my heart to go?Roses! will the restless seaBring, as ye, a rest for me?
Ye were sweet and still and calm,Roses red and roses white;And ye sang a soundless psalmFor me in the day and night.Roses! will the restless seaSing as sweet as ye for me?
Just a hundred feet away,Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide;And the wavelets, blue and gray,Moan, and white sails windward glideO'er the ever restless seaFrom me, far and peacefully.
And as many feet away,Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees;And they wail, the while they swayIn the sad November breeze,Echoes in the sighing seaTo me, near and mournfully.
And beside me sleep the dead,In the consecrated ground;Blessed crosses o'er each head.O'er them all the Requiem sound,Chanted by the moaning sea,Echoed by each moss-veiled tree.
Roses! will you miss my face?Do you know that I have goneFrom your fair and restful place,Far away where moveth onNight and day the restless sea?But I saw eternity
In your faces. Roses sweet!Ye were but the virgin veils,Hiding Him whose holy feetWalked the waves, whose very wailsBring to me from GalileeRest across the restless sea.
And who knows? mayhap some wave,From His footstep long ago,With the blessing which He gaveAfter ages ebb and flow,Cometh in from yonder sea,With a blessing sweet for me.
Just last night I watched the deep,And it shone as shines a shrine,(Vigils such I often keep)And the stars did sweetly shineO'er the altar of the sea;So they shone in Galilee.
Roses! round the shrine and aisle!Which of all I loved the best,I have gone to rest awhileWhere the wavelets never rest —Ye are dearer far to meThan the ever restless sea.
I will come to you in dreams,In the day and in the night,When the sun's or starlight's gleamsRobe you in your red or white;Roses! will you dream of meBy the ever restless sea?
____ Biloxi, Miss.
Sea Reverie
Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest?And tell me why you never go to sleep?Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed —(And the waves are the tears you weep) —And thou didst never sin — what ails the sinless deep?
To-night I hear you crying on the beach,Like a weary child on its mother's breast —A cry with an infinite and lonesome reachOf unutterably deep unrest;And thou didst never sin — why art thou so distressed?
But, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm,Where crieth the lone and the wearied child;And soft the arms that shield her own from harm;And her look is unutterably mild —But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild, so wild!
What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright —How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast!O Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so white,To give thy utter weariness a rest?(And to-night the winds are a-coming from the West).
* * * * *
Where the shadows moan o'er the day's life done,And the darkness is waiting for the light,Ah, me! how the shadows ever seek and shunThe sacred, radiant faces of the bright —(And the stars are the vestal virgins of the night);
Or am I dreaming? Do I see and hearWithout me what I feel within?Is there an inner eye and an inner earThro' which the sounds and silences float inIn reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din?
I know not. After all, what do I know?Save only this — and that is mystery —Like the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flowIn unison, and the tides of the seaEver reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me.
Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gray,Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white?Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray,With the sea's ritual, every day and night?And the suns and stars your only altar light?
Great Sea! the very rhythm of my song(And the winds are a-coming from the West),Like thy waves, moveth uncertainly along;And my thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest,Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest.
____ Biloxi, Miss.
The Immaculate Conception
Fell the snow on the festival's vigilAnd surpliced the city in white;I wonder who wove the pure flakelets?Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.
It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol,And earth wore the surplice at morn,As pure as the vale's stainless lilyFor Mary, the sinlessly born;
For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness;And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East,With the brightest and fairest of flashes,Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast.
And round the horizon hung cloudlets,Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast;While the earth and the heavens were waitingFor the beautiful Mass of the priest.
I opened my window, half dreaming;My soul went away from my eyes,And my heart began saying "Hail Marys"Somewhere up in the beautiful skies,
Where the shadows of sin never rested;And the angels were waiting to hearThe prayer that ascends with "Our Father",And keeps hearts and the heavens so near.
And all the day long — can you blame me?"Hail Mary", "Our Father", I said;And I think that the Christ and His MotherWere glad of the way that I prayed.
And I think that the great, bright ArchangelWas listening all the day longFor the echo of every "Hail Mary"That soared thro' the skies like a song,
From the hearts of the true and the faithful,In accents of joy or of woe,Who kissed in their faith and their fervorThe Festival's surplice of snow.
I listened, and each passing minute,I heard in the lands far away"Hail Mary", "Our Father", and near meI heard all who knelt down to pray.
Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel,And the same as the Christ of our love —"Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father" —Winging just the same sweet flight above.
Passed the morning, the noon: came the even —The temple of Christ was aflameWith the halo of lights on three altars,And one wore His own Mother's name.
Her statue stood there, and around itShone the symbolic stars. Was their gleam,And the flowerets that fragranced her altar,Were they only the dream of a dream?
Or were they sweet signs to my visionOf a truth far beyond mortal ken,That the Mother had rights in the templeOf Him she had given to men?
Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder,For the Christian to honor her so?Ought her statue pass out of His temple?Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow.
Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices,I know what their white lips would say;And I know that the lights on her altarWould pray with me if they could pray.
Methinks that the flowers that were fading —Sweet virgins that die with the Feast,Like martyrs, upon her fair altar —If they could, they would pray with the priest;
And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary",Till they drooped on the altar in death,And be glad in their dying for givingTo Mary their last sweetest breath.
Passed the day as a poem that passesThrough the poet's heart's sweetest of strings;Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses —Did I hear a faint sound as of wings
Rustling over the aisles and the altars?Did they go to her altar and pray?Or was my heart only a-dreamingAt the close of the Festival day?
Quiet throngs came into the temple,As still as the flowers at her feet,And wherever they knelt, they were gazingWhere the statue looked smiling and sweet.
"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blendedIn a pure and a perfect accord,And passed by the beautiful MotherTo fall at the feet of our Lord.
Low toned from the hearts of a thousand"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" swept onTo the star-wreathed statue. I wonderDid they wrong the great name of her Son.
Her Son and our Saviour — I wonderHow He heard our "Hail Marys" that night?Were the words to Him sweet as the musicThey once were, and did we pray right?
Or was it all wrong? Will he punishOur lips if we make them the homeOf the words of the great, high ArchangelThat won Him to sinners to come.
Ah, me! does He blame my own mother,Who taught me, a child, at her knee,To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"?If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me.
Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless;Let me suffer for her if You blame.Her pure mother's heart knew no betterWhen she taught me to love the pure name.
O Christ! of Thy beautiful MotherMust I hide her name down in my heart?But, ah! even there you will see it —With Thy Mother's name how can I part?
On Thy name all divine have I restedIn the days when my heart-trials came;Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human,And I need Mary's pure human name.
Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming?I heard — or I sure seemed to hear —"Who blames you for loving My MotherIs wronging my heart — do not fear.
"I am human, e'en here in My heavens,What I was I am still all the same;And I still love My beautiful Mother —And thou, priest of Mine, do the same."
I was happy — because I am human —And Christ in the silences heard"Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father",Murmured faithfully word after word.
* * * * *
Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~Down the aisles — did the starred statue stir?Or was my heart only a-dreamingWhen it turned from her statue and her?
The door of a white tabernacleFelt the touch of the hand of the priest —Did he waken the Host from its slumbersTo come forth and crown the high Feast?
To come forth so strangely and silent,And just for a sweet little while,And then to go back to its prison.Thro' the stars — did the sweet statue smile?
I knew not; but Mary, the Mother,I think, almost envied the priest —He was taking her place at the altar —Did she dream of the days in the East?
When her hands, and hers only, held Him,Her Child, in His waking and rest,Who had strayed in a love that seemed waywardThis eve to shrine in the West.
Did she dream of the straw of the mangerWhen she gazed on the altar's pure white?Did she fear for her Son any dangerIn the little Host, helpless, that night?
No! no! she is trustful as He is —What a terrible trust in our race!The Divine has still faith in the human —What a story of infinite grace!
~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altarThat came from the heart of a saint,Swept triumph-toned all through the temple —Did my ears hear the sound of a plaint?
'Neath the glorious roll of the singingTo the temple had sorrow crept in?Or was it the moan of a sinner?O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win
In the little half-hour's BenedictionThe heart of a sinner again?And, merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfortThe sorrow that brings Thee its pain.
Came a hush, and the Host was uplifted,And It made just the sign of the crossO'er the low-bended brows of the people.O Host of the Holy! Thy loss
To the altar, and temple, and peopleWould make this world darkest of night;And our hearts would grope blindly on through it,For our love would have lost all its light.
~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph!Our souls soared to God on each tone;And the Host went again to Its prison,For our Christ fears to leave us alone.
Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailor!Thy hand holds the beautiful keyThat locks in His prison love's Captive,And keeps Him in fetters for me.
* * * * *
'Twas over — I gazed on the statue —"Our Father", "Hail Mary" still came;And to-night faith and love cannot help it,I must still pray the same — still the same.
____ Written at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December 8, 1880.
Fifty Years at the Altar
"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore; next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination."
To-day — fifty years at the altar —Thou art, as of old, at thy post!Tell us, O chasubled soldier!Art weary of watching the Host?Fifty years — Christ's sacred sentry,To-day thy feet faithful are foundWhen the cross on the altar is blessingThy heart in its sentinel-round.
The beautiful story of ThaborFifty years agone thrilled thy young heart,When wearing white vestments of glory,And up the "high mountain apart".In the fresh, glowing grace of thy priesthood,Thou didst climb to the summit alone,While the Feast of Christ's TransfigurationWas a sweet outward sign of thy own.
Old priest! on the slope of the summitDid float down and fall on thine earThe strong words of weak-hearted Peter."O Lord, it is good to be here!"Thy heart was stronger than Peter's,And sweeter the tone of thy prayer;'Twas Calvary thy young feet were climbing,And old — thou art still standing there.
For you, as for him, on bright Thabor,Forever to stay were not hard;But when Calvary girdles the altar,And garments the Eucharist's guardWith sacrifice and with its shadows —To keep there forever a feastIs the glory and grace of the human —The altar, the cross, and the priest.
The crucifix's wardens and watchers,Like Him, must be heart sacrificed —The Christ on the crucifix lifelessFor guard needs a brave human Christ.To guard Him three hours — what a glory!With sacrifice splendors aflame!Three hours — and He died on His Calvary —How long hast thou lived for His name?
"Half a century," cries out thy crucifix,Binding together thy beads;His look, like thy life, lingers in it,A light for men's souls in their needs.Old priest! is thy life not a rosary?Five decades and more have been said,In thy heart the warm splendors of ThaborBeneath the white snows of thy head!
Fifty years lifting the chalice —Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened land!Thy clasp may be weak, but the chrism,Old priest! that anointed thy handIs as fresh and as strong in its virtueAs in the five decades agoneThy young hands were touched with its unction,And thy vestments of white were put on.
Fifty years! Every day passesA part of one great, endless feast,That moves round its orbit of Masses,And hath nor a West nor an East;But everywhere hath its pure altars,At each of its altars a priestTo lift up a Host with a chaliceTill the story of grace shall have ceased.
Fifty years in the feast's orbit,Nearly two thousand of days;Fifty years priest in the priesthood,Fifty years lit with its rays —Lit them but to reflect themWhen the adorers' throngs passOut of thy life and its gloryShining each day from thy Mass.
Half of a century's service!Wearing thy cassock of blackO'er thy camps, and thy battles, and triumphs!Old soldier of Jesus! look backTo the day when thou kissed thy first altarIn love with youth's fervor athrill.From the day when we meet and we greet thee,So true to the old altar still.
Fifty long years! what if trialsDid oftentimes darken thy way —They marked, like the shadows on dials,Thy soul's brightest hour every day.The sun in the height of his splendor,By the mystical law of his light,O'er his glories flings vestments of shadows,And, sinking, leaves stars to the night.
Old priest! with the heart of a poetThou hast written sweet stanzas for men;Thy life, many versed, is a poemThat puzzles the art of the pen;The crucifix wrote it and writes it —A scripture too deep for my ken;A record of deeds more than sayings —Only God reads it rightly; and then
My stanzas are just like the shadowsThat follow the sun and his sheen,To tell to the eye that will read themWhere the purest of sunshine has been.Thy life moves in mystical eclipse,All hidden from men and their sight;We look, but we see but its surface,But God sees the depth of its light.
Twenty-five years! highest honorsWere thine — high deserved in the world:Dawned a day with a grace in its flashingO'er thy heart from a standard unfurled,Whose folds bore the mystical motto:"To the greater glory of God!"And somehow there opened before theeA way thou hadst never yet trod.
Twenty-five years — still a privateIn files where the humblest and lastStands higher in rank than the highestOf those who are passing or passed;Twenty-five years in the vanguard,Whose name is a spell of their strength,The light of the folds of whose standardLengthens along all the length
Of the march of the Crucified Jesus.Loyola was wiser than mostIn claiming for him and his soldiersThe name of the Chief of the host;His name, and his motto, and colorsThat never shall know a defeat,Whose banner, when others are folded,Shall never float over retreat.
To-day when the wind wafts the waveletsTo the gray altar steps of yon shore,Each wearing an alb foam-embroidered,And kneeling, like priests, to adoreThe God of the land — I will mingleMy prayers, aged priest! with the sea,While God, for thy fifty years' priesthood,Will hear thy prayers whispered for me.
Song of the Deathless Voice
'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en —Hour of fairy and of wraith,When in many a dim-lit green,'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen,As the olden legend saith,All the future may be seen,And when — an older story hath —Whate'er in life hath ever beenLoveful, hopeful, or of wrath,Cometh back upon our path.I was dreaming in my room,'Mid the shadows, still as they;Night, in veil of woven gloom,Wept and trailed her tresses grayO'er her fair, dead sister — Day.To me from some far-awayCrept a voice — or seemed to creep —As a wave-child of the deep,Frightened by the wild storm's roarCreeps low-sighing to the shoreVery low and very loneCame the voice with song of moan,This, weak-sung in weaker word,Is the song that night I heard:
How long! Alas, how long!How long shall the Celt chant the sad song of hope,That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of our past?How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slopeOf Thabors that promise our Transfiguration at last?How long, O Lord! How long!
How long, O Fate! How long!How long shall our sunburst reflect but the sunset of Right,When gloaming still lights the dim immemorial years?How long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are wearied of night,Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling with tears?How long, O Lord! How long!
How long, O Right! How long!How long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did flameIn battle with wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a grave?How long shall we be but a nation with only a name,Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave?How long, O Lord! How long!
How long! Alas, how long!How long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out in the sea,With a cross in the dark? Oh, when shall our Good Friday close?How long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring only to theeThe wailings, O Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes?How long, O Lord! How long!
How long! Alas, how long!How long shall the cry of the wronged, O Freedom! for theeAscend all in vain from the valleys of sorrow below?How long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be,When the Celt will forgive, or else tread on the heart of his foe?How long, O Lord! How long!
Whence came the voice? Around me gray silence fall;And without in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky;And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer at all?Or, hush! Is't my heart athrill with some deathless old cry?
Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its forefathers' wrongs —They are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released;Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all the old songsAnd sings them the best when it flows thro' the heart of a priest.
Am I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung?In the cells of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow?And old as our race is, is it not still forever as young,As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow?
The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all,For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath;And sure as the race lives, no matter what fates may befall,There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path.