Sometimes a sudden look,That falleth from some face,Will steal into each nookOf life, and leave its trace;To haunt us to the last,And sway our ev'ry willThro' all the days to be,For goodness or for ill;Hath this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one minute foldsThe hearts of all the years,Just like the heart that holdsThe Infinite in tears;There be such thing as this —Who knoweth why, or how?A life of woe or blissHangs on some little Now.
When I am dead, and all will soon forgetMy words, and face, and ways —I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yetAdown thy after days.
I die first, and you will see my grave;But child! you must not cry;For my dead hand will brightest blessings waveO'er you from yonder sky.
You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tearsTho' sleeping in a tomb:My rest would not be rest, if in your yearsThere floated clouds of gloom.
For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine,And dearer it became,Until my soul, in every prayer, would twineThy name — my child! thy name.
You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,And in your soul — and face —I saw a likeness to another thereIn every trace and grace.
You came to me in girlhood — and you broughtAn image back to me;No matter what — or whose — I often soughtAnother's soul in thee.
Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became —Gentle though I be —Gentler than ever when I called thy name,Gentlest to thee?
You came to me in girlhood; as your guideI watched your spirit's ways;We walked God's holy valleys side by side,And so went on the days.
And so went on the years — 'tis five and more;Your soul is fairer now;A light as of a sunset on a shoreIs falling on my brow —
Is falling, soon to fade; when I am deadThink this, my child, of me:I never said — I never could have said —Ungentle words to thee.
I treated you as I would treat a flower,I watched you with such care;And from my lips God heard in many an hourYour name in many a prayer.
I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew,On not a leaf a stain;Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true;I did not watch in vain.
I guide you still — in my steps you tread still;Towards God these ways are set;'Twill soon be over: child! when I am deadI'll watch and guide you yet.
'Tis better far that I should go before,And you awhile should stay;But I will wait upon the golden shoreTo meet my child some day.
When I am dead; in some lone after time,If crosses come to thee,You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme —"He holds a crown for me."
I guide you here — I go before you there;But here or there — I know —Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wearI'll watch where'er you go,
And wait until you come; when I am deadThink, sometimes, child, of this:You must not weep — follow where I led,I wait for you in bliss.
God in the Night
Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God:He walks the world; He puts His holy handOn every sleeper — only puts His hand —Within it benedictions for each one —Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meetsA watcher waiting for Him, He is glad.(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?)He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow —But more than that, He leaves His very breathUpon the watcher's soul; and more than this,He stays for holy hours where watchers pray;And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veilsThat hide the visions of the world unseen.The brightest sanctities of highest soulsHave blossomed into beauty in the dark.How extremes meet! the very darkest crimesThat blight the souls of men are strangely bornBeneath the shadows of the holy night.
Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet —Around Him rustle archangelic wings;He lingers by the temple where His ChristIs watching in His Eucharistic sleep;And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest,He lingers there to soothe their weariness.Where mothers weep above the dying child,He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears,And consecrates the cradle of her child,Which is to her her spirit's awful cross.He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leavesE'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts.Still as a shadow through the night He moves,With hands all full of blessings, and with heartAll full of everlasting love; ah, me!How God does love this poor and sinful world!
The stars behold Him as He passes on,And arch His path of mercy with their rays;The stars are grateful — He gave them their light,And now they give Him back the light He gave.The shadows tremble in adoring awe;They feel His presence, and they know His face.The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray,How they would flower all His way with prayers!The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams —Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would singA grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang.The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowersWatch their Creator as He passes on,And mourn they have no hearts to love their God,And sigh they have no souls to be beloved.Man — only man — the image of his God —Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.
Poets
Poets are strange — not always understoodBy many is their gift,Which is for evil or for mighty good —To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;Who reads their verseWill rise to higher life, or taste of deathIn blessing or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,Ordained from very birthTo keep for hearts an everlasting feast —To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing; they know not whyTheir thoughts rush into song,And float above the world, beneath the sky,For right or for the wrong.
They are like angels — but some angels fell,While some did keep their place;Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,And God's or Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,In blessing or in blight,And leaves upon your soul a grace or traceOf sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes,Unlike all other men;And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,Like shadows in a glen.
They all are dreamers; in the day and nightEver across their soulsThe wondrous mystery of the dark or brightIn mystic rhythm rolls.
They live within themselves — they may not tellWhat lieth deepest there;Within their breast a heaven or a hell,Joy or tormenting care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,No matter what they seem;The stars and sunlight of their nights and daysMove over them in dream.
They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath —To bless the world or blight;To bring to men a higher life or death;To give them light or night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim,And never pass away,While others' words receive no palm from fame,And live but for a day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impressFore'er or for an hour,And mark men's souls — some more and some the less —With good's or evil's power.
A Legend
He walked alone beside the lonely sea,The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,His shadow fluttered on the pure white sandsLike the weary wing of a soundless prayer.And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast,As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.His face looked like His Mother's — only hersHad not those strange serenities and stirsThat paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.He wore the seamless robe His Mother made —And as He gathered it about His breast,The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voiceMurmur, "Oh! My Mother" — the white sands feltThe touch of tender tears He wept the while.He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals offTo bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave —For He had walked across the desert sandsAll day long — and as He bathed His feetHe murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years!And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will comeAnd make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall laveAll weary feet on all their thorny ways.""Three years! three years!" He murmured still again,"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will —My Father's will — biddeth Me bide that time."A little fisher-boy came up the shoreAnd saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy,Approached, but when he saw the weary face,Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired."He placed His hand upon the boy's brown browCaressingly and blessingly — and said:"I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not.Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a stormThat had been sweeping on the farther shore,Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fellAt His feet and died; and then the boy said:"Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone;He took the bird and laid it in His hand,And breathed on it — when to his amazeThe little fisher-boy beheld the birdFlutter a moment and then fly aloft —Its little life returned; and then he gazedWith look intensest on the wondrous face(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said:"Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God."He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:"I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him,With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rockThat little boy knelt down, and there adored,While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.
Thoughts
By sound of name, and touch of hand,Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see,We know each other in this land,How little must that knowledge be?
How souls are all the time alone,No spirit can another reach;They hide away in realms unknown,Like waves that never touch a beach.
We never know each other here,No soul can here another see —To know, we need a light as clearAs that which fills eternity.
For here we walk by human light,But there the light of God is ours,Each day, on earth, is but a night;Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.
I call you thus — you call me thus —Our mortal is the very barThat parts forever each of us,As skies, on high, part star from star.
A name is nothing but a nameFor that which, else, would nameless be;Until our souls, in rapture, claimFull knowledge in eternity.
Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"]
The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,And joy aboundeth everywhere,The glorious stars crown every night,And thro' the dark of ev'ry careAbove us shineth heaven's light.
If from the cradle to the graveWe reckon all our days and hoursWe sure will find they give and gaveMuch less of thorns and more of flowers;And tho' some tears must ever lave
The path we tread, upon them allThe light of smiles forever lies,As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall,The sun shines sweeter in the skies.Life holdeth more of sweet than gall
For ev'ry one: no matter who —Or what their lot — or high or low;All hearts have clouds — but heaven's blueWraps robes of bright around each woe;And this is truest of the true:
That joy is stronger here than grief,Fills more of life, far more of years,And makes the reign of sorrow brief;Gives more of smiles for less of tears.Joy is life's tree — grief but its leaf.
Do we weep for the heroes who died for us,Who living were true and tried for us,And dying sleep side by side for us;The Martyr-bandThat hallowed our landWith the blood they shed in a tide for us?
Ah! fearless on many a day for usThey stood in front of the fray for us,And held the foeman at bay for us;And tears should fallFore'er o'er allWho fell while wearing the gray for us.
How many a glorious name for us,How many a story of fame for usThey left: Would it not be a blame for usIf their memories partFrom our land and heart,And a wrong to them, and shame for us?
No, no, no, they were brave for us,And bright were the lives they gave for us;The land they struggled to save for usWill not forgetIts warriors yetWho sleep in so many a grave for us.
On many and many a plain for usTheir blood poured down all in vain for us,Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;They bleed — we weep,We live — they sleep,"All lost," the only refrain for us.
But their memories e'er shall remain for us,And their names, bright names, without stain for us:The glory they won shall not wane for us,In legend and layOur heroes in GrayShall forever live over again for us.
The Seen and The Unseen
Nature is but the outward vestibuleWhich God has placed before an unseen shrine,The Visible is but a fair, bright valeThat winds around the great Invisible;The Finite — it is nothing but a smileThat flashes from the face of Infinite;A smile with shadows on it — and 'tis sadMen bask beneath the smile, but oft forgetThe loving Face that very smile conceals.The Changeable is but the broidered robeEnwrapped about the great Unchangeable;The Audible is but an echo, faint,Low whispered from the far Inaudible;This earth is but an humble acolyteA-kneeling on the lowest altar-stepOf this creation's temple, at the MassOf Supernature, just to ring the bellAt Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the worldPrepares its heart for consecration's hour.Nature is but the ever-rustling veilWhich God is wearing, like the CarmeliteWho hides her face behind her virgin veilTo keep it all unseen from mortal eyes,Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers,And ceaseless sacrifices night and day,Shields souls from sin — and many hearts from harm.
God hides in nature as a thought doth hideIn humbly-sounding words; and as the thoughtBeats through the lowly word like pulse of heartThat giveth life and keepeth life alive,So God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul;For nature is His word so strangely writIn heav'n, in all the letters of the stars,Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds,And on the seas in syllables of waves,And in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers,And on the grasses and the stately trees,And on the rivers and the mournful rocksThe word is clearly written; blest are theyWho read the word aright — and understand.
For God is everywhere — and He doth findIn every atom which His hand hath madeA shrine to hide His presence, and revealHis name, love, power, to those who kneelIn holy faith upon this bright belowAnd lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery,To catch the vision of the great beyond.
Yea! nature is His shadow, and how brightMust that face be which such a shadow casts?We walk within it, for "we live and moveAnd have our being" in His ev'rywhere.Why is God shy? Why doth He hide Himself?The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shoreEntemples Him; the fragrance of the roseFolds Him around as blessed incense foldsThe altars of His Christ: yet some will walkAlong the temple's wondrous vestibuleAnd look on and admire — yet enter notTo find within the Presence, and the LightWhich sheds its rays on all that is without.And nature is His voice; who list may hearHis name low-murmured every — everywhere.In songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers,In swaying of the trees, and on the seasThe blue lips of the wavelets tell the shipsThat come and go, His holy, holy name.The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same;And some have ears and yet they will not hearThe soundless voice re-echoed everywhere;And some have hearts that never are enthrilledBy all the grand Hosannahs nature sings.List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pauseSounds sweetly out of all creation's heart,That hearts with power to love may echo backTheir Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn.
Passing Away
Life's Vesper-bells are ringingIn the temple of my heart,And yon sunset, sure, is singing"Nunc dimittis — Now depart!"Ah! the eve is golden-clouded,But to-morrow's sun shall shineOn this weary body shrouded;But my soul doth not repine.
"Let me see the sun descending,I will see his light no more,For my life, this eve, is ending;And to-morrow on the shoreThat is fair, and white, and golden,I will meet my God; and yeWill forget not all the olden,Happy hours ye spent with me.
"I am glad that I am going;What a strange and sweet delightIs thro' all my being flowingWhen I know that, sure, to-nightI will pass from earth and meet HimWhom I loved thro' all the years,Who will crown me when I greet Him,And will kiss away my tears.
"My last sun! haste! hurry westward!In the dark of this to-nightMy poor soul that hastens rest-ward`With the Lamb' will find the light;Death is coming — and I hear him,Soft and stealthy cometh he;But I do not believe I fear him,God is now so close to me."
* * * * *
Fell the daylight's fading glimmerOn a face so wan and white;Brighter was his soul, while dimmerGrew the shadows of the night;And he died — and God was near him;I knelt by him to forgive;And I sometimes seem to hear himWhisper — "Live as I did live."
The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children)
The shades of night were broodingO'er the sea, the earth, the sky;The passing winds were wailingIn a low, unearthly sigh;The darkness gathered deeper,For no starry light was shed,And silence reigned unbroken,As the silence of the dead.
The wintry clouds were hangingFrom the starless sky so low,While 'neath them earth lay foldedIn a winding shroud of snow.'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary,And the blast that swept alongThe mountains hoarsely murmuredA fierce, discordant song.
And mortal men were restingFrom the turmoil of the day,And broken hearts were dreamingOf the friends long passed away;And saintly men were keepingTheir vigils through the night,While angel spirits hovered nearAround their lonely light.
And wicked men were sinningIn the midnight banquet halls,Forgetful of that sentence tracedOn proud Belshazzar's walls.On that night, so dark and dismal,Unillumed by faintest ray,Might be seen the lonely pilgrimWending on his darksome way.
Slow his steps, for he was weary,And betimes he paused to rest;Then he rose, and, pressing onward,Murmured lowly: "I must haste."In his hand he held a chaplet,And his lips were moved in prayer,For the darkness and the silenceSeemed to whisper God was there.
On the lonely pilgrim journeyed,Nought disturbed him on his way,And his prayers he softly murmuredAs the midnight stole away.Hark! amid the stillness risesOn his ears a distant strainSoftly sounding — now it ceases —Sweetly now it comes again.
In his path he paused to wonderWhile he listened to the sound:On it came, so sweet, so pensive,'Mid the blast that howled around;And the restless winds seemed soothedBy that music, gentle, mild,And they slept, as when a motherRocks to rest her cradled child.
Strange and sweet the calm that followed,Stealing through the midnight air;Strange and sweet the sounds that floatedLike an angel breathing there.From the sky the clouds were driftingSwiftly one by one away,And the sinless stars were sheddingHere and there a silver ray.
"Why this change?" the pilgrim whispered —"Whence that music? whence its power?Earthly sounds are not so lovely!Angels love the midnight hour!"Bending o'er his staff, he wondered,Loath to leave that sacred place:"I must hasten," said he, sadly —On he pressed with quickened pace.
Just before him rose a mountain,Dark its outline, steep its side —Down its slopes that midnight musicSeemed so soothingly to glide."I will find it," said the pilgrim,"Though this mountain I must scale" —Scarcely said, when on his visionShone a distant light, and pale.
Glad he was; and now he hastened —Brighter, brighter grew the ray —Stronger, stronger swelled the musicAs he struggled on his way.Soon he gained the mountain summit,Lo! a church bursts on his view:From the church that light was flowing,And that gentle music, too.
Near he came — its door stood open —Still he stood in awe and fear;"Shall I enter spot so holy?Am I unforbidden here?I will enter — something bids me —Saintly men are praying here;Vigils sacred they are keeping,'Tis their Matin song I hear."
Softly, noiselessly, he glidedThrough the portal; on his sightShone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling;Down he knelt — 'twas Christmas night —Down, in deepest adoration,Knelt the lonely pilgrim there;Joy unearthly, rapture holy,Blended with his whispered prayer.
Wrapped his senses were in wonder,On his soul an awe profound,As the vision burst upon him,'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound."Is it real? is it earthly?Is it all a fleeting dream?Hark! those choral voices ringing,Lo! those forms like angels seem."
On his view there rose an altar,Glittering 'mid a thousand beams,Flowing from the burning tapersIn bright, sparkling, silver streams.From unnumbered crystal vases,Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers,Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance'Mid the lights in sweetest showers.
Rich and gorgeous was the altar,Decked it was in purest white.Mortal hands had not arrayed itThus, upon that Christmas night.Amid its lights and lovely flowers,The little tabernacle stood;Around it all was rich and golden,It alone was poor and rude.
Hark! Venite Adoremus!Round the golden altar sounds —See that band of angels kneelingProstrate, with their sparkling crowns!And the pilgrim looked and listened,And he saw the angels there,And their snow-white wings were folded,As they bent in silent prayer.
Twelve they were; bright rays of gloryRound their brows effulgent shone;But a wreath of nobler beautySeemed to grace and circle one;And he, beauteous, rose and openedWide the tabernacle door:Hark! Venite AdoremusRises — bending, they adore.
Lo! a sound of censers swinging!Clouds of incense weave aroundThe altar rich a silver mantle,As the angels' hymns resound.List! Venite AdoremusSwells aloud in stronger strain,And the angels swing the censers,And they prostrate bend again.
Rising now, with voice of rapture,Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone,"Gloria in Excelsis Deo"Round the sacramental throne.Oh! 'twas sweet, 'twas sweet and charmingAs the notes triumphant flowed!Oh! 'twas sweet, while wreathes of incenseCurled, and countless tapers glowed.
Oh! 'twas grand! that hymn of gloryEarthly sounds cannot compare;Oh! 'twas grand! it breath'd of heaven,As the angels sung it there.Ravished by the strains ecstatic,Raptured by the vision grand,Gazed the pilgrim on the altar,Gazed upon the angel band.
All was hushed! the floating echoesOf the hymn had died away;Vanished were the clouds of incense,And the censers ceased to sway.Lo! their wings are gently waving,And the angels softly rise,Bending towards the tabernacle,Worship beaming from their eyes.
One last, lowly genuflection!From their brows love burning shone —Ah! they're going, they've departed,All but one, the brightest one."Why remains he?" thought the pilgrim,Ah! he rises beauteously —"Listen!" and the angel murmuredSweetly: "Pilgrim, hail to thee!"
"Come unto the golden altar,I'm an angel — banish fear —Come, unite in adorationWith me, for our God is here.Come thy Jesus here reposes,Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight —Come! adore the Infant SaviourWith me — for 'tis Christmas night."
Now approached the pilgrim, trembling,Now beside the angel bent,And the deepest, blissful gladness,With his fervent worship blent."Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly,"Thou hast seen bright angels here,And hast heard our sacred anthems,Filled with rapture, filled with fear.
"We are twelve — 'twas we who chantedFirst the Saviour's lowly birth,We who brought the joyful tidingsOf His coming, to the earth;We who sung unto the shepherds,Watching on the mountain height,That the Word was made IncarnateFor them on that blessed night.
"And since then we love to lingerOn that festal night on earth;And we leave our thrones of gloryHere to keep the Saviour's birth.Happy mortals! happy mortals!To-night the angels would be men;And they leave their thrones in heaven,For the Crib of Bethlehem."
And the angel led the pilgrimTo the tabernacle door;Lo! an Infant there was sleeping,And the angel said: "Adore!He is sleeping, yet he watches,See that beam of love divine;Pilgrim! pay your worship holyTo your Infant God and mine."
And the spirit slowly, slowly,Closed the tabernacle door,While the pilgrim lowly, lowly,Bent in rapture to adore."Pilgrim," spoke the angel sweetly,"I must bid thee my adieu;Love! oh! love the Infant Jesus! —"And he vanished from his view.
* * * * *
All was silent — silent — silent —Faded was the vision bright —But the pilgrim long rememberedIn his heart that Christmas night.
A Reverie ["Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange!"]
Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange!How they yearn to ramble and love to rangeDown through the vales of the years long gone,Up through the future that fast rolls on.
To-days are dull — so they wend their waysBack to their beautiful yesterdays;The present is blank — so they wing their flightTo future to-morrows where all seems bright.
Build them a bright and beautiful home,They'll soon grow weary and want to roam;Find them a spot without sorrow or pain,They may stay a day, but they're off again.
Those hearts of ours — how wild! how wild!They're as hard to tame as an Indian child;They're as restless as waves on the sounding sea,Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free.
Those hearts of ours — how lone! how lone!Ever, forever, they mourn and moan;Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer;The revelry o'er, they're all the more drear.
Those hearts of ours — how warm! how warm!Like the sun's bright rays, like the Summer's charm;How they beam and burn! how they gleam and glowTheir flash and flame hide but ashes below.
Those hearts of ours — how cold! how cold!Like December's snow on the waste or wold;And though our Decembers melt soon into May,Hearts know Decembers that pass not away.
Those hearts of ours — how deep! how deep!You may sound the sea where the corals sleep,Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled —Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold.
Where the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been knownThe wrecks of the sea lie low and lone;Thus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow,There are wrecks far down — there are graves below.
Those hearts of ours — but, after all,How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small;Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill,They're as easy to empty — as easy to fill.
One hour of storm and how the streams pour!One hour of sun and the streams are no more;One little grief — how the tears gush and glide!One smile — flow they ever so fast, they are dried.
Those hearts of ours — how wise! how wise!They can lift their thoughts till they touch the skies;They can sink their shafts, like a miner bold,Where wisdom's mines hide their pearls and gold.
Aloft they soar with undazzled gaze,Where the halls of the Day-King burn and blaze;Or they fly with a wing that will never fail,O'er the sky's dark sea where the star-ships sail.
Those hearts of ours — what fools! what fools!How they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules!How they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieveFor what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve.
Those hearts of ours — how strong! how strong!Let a thousand sorrows around them throng,They can bear them all, and a thousand more,And they're stronger then than they were before.
Those hearts of ours — how weak! how weak!But a single word of unkindness speak,Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang,That one slight word leaves a life-long pang.
Those hearts of ours — but I've said enough,As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough;I'll rest me now, but I'll come againSome other day, to resume my strain.
—— Their Story Runneth Thus
Two little children played among the flowers,Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart;The children's ages were the very sameE'en to an hour — and Ethel was her name,A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyesThat seemed to listen just as if they heldThe gift of hearing with the power of sight.Six summers slept upon her low white brow,And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks.Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spokeHer words were music; and her laughter rangSo like an altar-bell that, had you heardIts silvery sound a-ringing, you would thinkOf kneeling down and worshiping the pure.
They played among the roses — it was May —And "hide and seek", and "seek and hide", all eveThey played together till the sun went down.Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day:And tired at last she plucked a crimson roseAnd gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin;And he went thro' the garden till he foundThe whitest rose of all the roses there,And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair."I give you red — and you — you give me white:What is the meaning?" said she, while a smile,As radiant as the light of angels' wings,Swept bright across her face; the while her eyesSeemed infinite purities half asleepIn sweetest pearls; and he did make reply:"Sweet Ethel! white dies first; you know, the snow,(And it is not as white as thy pure face)Melts soon away; but roses red as mineWill bloom when all the snow hath passed away."
She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again,And hand in hand they walked the winding waysOf that fair garden till they reached her home.A good-bye and a kiss — and he was gone.
She leaned her head upon her mother's breast,And ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called:"Does white die first? my mother! and does redLive longer?" And her mother wondered muchAt such strange speech. She fell asleepWith murmurs on her lips of red and white.
Those children loved as only children can —With nothing in their love save their whole selves.When in their cradles they had been betroth'd;They knew it in a manner vague and dim —Unconscious yet of what betrothal meant.
The boy — she called him Merlin — a love name —(And he — he called her always Ullainee,No matter why); the boy was full of moods.Upon his soul and face the dark and brightWere strangely intermingled. Hours would passRippling with his bright prattle; and then, hoursWould come and go, and never hear a wordFall from his lips, and never see a smileUpon his face. He was so like a cloudWith ever-changeful hues, as she was likeA golden sunbeam shining on its face.
* * * * *
Ten years passed on. They parted and they metNot often in each year; yet as they grewIn years, a consciousness unto them cameOf human love.But it was sweet and pure.There was no passion in it. Reverence,Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence.
One night in mid of May their faces metAs pure as all the stars that gazed on them.They met to part from themselves and the world;Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed;Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tearsFell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each:They were to meet no more.Their hands were claspedTo tear the clasp in twain; and all the starsLooked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt,Or seemed to kneel, around them with the aweEvoked from any heart by sacrifice.And in the heart of that last parting hourEternity was beating. And he said:"We part to go to Calvary and to God —This is our garden of Gethsemane;And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayerWhose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard:Not my will, Father! but Thine own be done."Raptures meet agonies in such heart-hours;Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm armsAround the cold, white neck of grief — and thusThe while they parted — sorrow swept their heartsLike a great, dark stormy sea — but suddenA joy, like sunshine — did it come from God? —
Flung over every wave that swept o'er themA more than golden glory.Merlin said:"Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine;The human satisfies nor you nor me,(No human love shall ever satisfy —Or ever did — the hearts that lean on it);You sigh for something higher as do I,So let our spirits be espoused in God,And let our wedlock be as soul to soul;And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring,And God will bless us both."She sweetly said:"Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts;Let God's own heart be our own holy homeAnd let us live as only angels live;And let us love as our own angels love.'Tis hard to part — but it is better so —God's will is ours, and — Merlin! let us go."
And then she sobbed as if her heart would break —Perhaps it did; an awful minute passed,Long as an age and briefer than a flashOf lightning in the skies. No word was said —Only a look which never was forgot.Between them fell the shadows of the night.Their faces went away into the dark,And never met again; and yet their soulsWere twined together in the heart of Christ.
And Ethel went from earthland long ago;But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross.He would not move a nail that nails him there,He would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there.He hung himself upon the blessed crossWith Ethel; she has gone to wear the crownThat wreathes the brows of virgins who have keptTheir bodies with their souls from earthly taint.
And years and years, and weary years, passed onInto the past. One Autumn afternoon,When flowers were in their agony of death,And winds sang "De Profundis" over them,And skies were sad with shadows, he did walkWhere, in a resting place as calm as sweet,The dead were lying down; the Autumn sunWas half way down the west; the hour was three —The holiest hour of all the twenty-four,For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died.He walked alone amid the virgin's gravesWhere virgins slept; a convent stood near by,And from the solitary cells of nunsUnto the cells of death the way was short.Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave,While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew,Entwining grave and grave. He read the namesEngraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace"Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each nameA cross was graven on the lowly stone.He passed each grave with reverential awe,As if he passed an altar, where the HostHad left a memory of its sacrifice.And o'er the buried virgins' virgin dustHe walked as prayerfully as tho' he trodThe holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine.He passed from grave to grave, and read the namesOf those whose own pure lips had changed the namesBy which this world had known them into namesOf sacrifice known only to their God;Veiling their faces they had veiled their names;The very ones who played with them as girls,Had they passed there, would know no more than heOr any stranger where their playmates slept;And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts,Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams,Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears.He wondered at the stories that were hidForever down within those simple graves.In a lone corner of that resting-placeUprose a low white slab that marked a graveApart from all the others; long, sad grassDrooped o'er the little mound, and mantled itWith veil of purest green; around the slabThe whitest of white roses 'twined their arms —Roses cold as the snows and pure as songsOf angels — and the pale leaflets and thornsHid e'en the very name of her who sleptBeneath. He walked on to the grave, but whenHe reached its side a spell fell on his heartSo suddenly — he knew not why — and tearsWent up into his eyes and trickled downUpon the grass; he was so strangely movedAs if he met a long-gone face he loved.I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leavesThat hid the name; but as he did, the thornsDid pierce his hand, and lo! amazed, he readThe very word — the very, very nameHe gave the girl in golden days before —
He sat beside that lonely grave for long,He took its grasses in his trembling hand,He toyed with them and wet them with his tears,He read the name again, and still again,He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thoughtIt all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyesAnd read the name again to be more sure;Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself:"What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave?I dreamed her soul had fled.Was she the white dove that I saw in dreamFly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?"
The convent bellRang sweet upon the breeze, and answered himHis question. And he rose and went his wayUnto the convent gate; long shadows markedOne hour before the sunset, and the birdsWere singing Vespers in the convent trees.As silent as a star-gleam came a nunIn answer to his summons at the gate;Her face was like the picture of a saint,Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyesWere like a half-closed tabernacle, whereGod's presence glowed; her lips were pale and wornBy ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke,And bade him enter, 'twas in such a toneAs only voices own which day and nightSing hymns to God.
She locked the massive gate.He followed her along a flower-fringed walkThat, gently rising, led up to the homeOf virgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomedWithin the place, in beds of sacred shapes,(For they had fashioned them with holy care,Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross,And sacred hearts — and many saintly names,That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers,Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign),Were fairer far within the convent walls,And purer in their fragrance and their bloomThan all their sisters in the outer world.
He went into a wide and humble room —The floor was painted, and upon the walls,In humble frames, most holy paintings hung;Jesus and Mary and many an olden saintWere there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke:"I'll call the mother," and she bowed and went.
He waited in the wide and humble room,The only room in that unworldly placeThis world could enter; and the pictures lookedUpon his face and down into his soul,And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stoodA crucifix, the figured Christ of whichDid seem to suffer; and he rose to lookMore nearly on to it; but he shrank in aweWhen he beheld a something in its faceLike his own face.But more amazed he grew, when, at the footOf that strange crucifix he read the name —
A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul —When to the door he heard a footstep come,And then a voice — the Mother of the nunsHad entered — and in calmest tone began:"Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin songHad not yet ended when you came; our ruleForbids our leaving choir; this my excuse."She bent her head — the rustle of her veilWas like the trembling of an angel's wing,Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to himAnd seemed to ask him with her still, calm lookWhat brought him there, and waited his reply."I am a stranger, Sister, hither come,"He said, "upon an errand still more strange;But thou wilt pardon me and bid me goIf what I crave you cannot rightly grant;I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time,Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strongAs life, has brought me to this holy place."
He paused. She looked at him an instant, bentHer lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gaveHim no reply, save that her very lookEncouraged him to speak, and he went on:
He told her Ethel's story from the first,He told her of the day amid the flowers,When they were only six sweet summers old;He told her of the night when all the flowers,A-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice —He told her all; then said: "I saw a stoneIn yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep,And writ on it, all hid by roses white,I saw a name I never ought forget."
She wore a startled look, but soon repressedThe wonder that had come into her face."Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said
She forward bent her face and pierced his ownWith look intensest; and he thought he heardThe trembling of her veil, as if the browIt mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughtsBut quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone,Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our ruleTo close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn.Return to-morrow; then, if so God wills,I'll see you."
He gave many thanks, passed outFrom that unworldly place into the world.Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps —Swift to the "White-Rose-Grave", his heart: he kneltUpon its grass and prayed that God might willThe mystery's solution; then he took,Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose,The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foamOf summer waves upon a summer sea.
Then thro' the night he wentAnd reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts,Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tearsUndried within his eyes, and flung her veilAround him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream.A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave,And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tearsThat shone like jewels on a diadem,And two great angels with such shining wings —All these and more were in most curious wayBlended in one dream or many dreams. ThenHe woke wearier in his mind. Then sleptAgain and had another dream.His dream ran thus —(He told me all of it many years ago,But I forgot the most. I remember this):A dove, whiter than whiteness' very self,Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream,Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. ItFlew away across great, long distances,Thro' forests where the trees were all in dream,And over wastes where silences held reign,And down pure valleys, till it reached a shoreBy which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun;The dove rested there awhile, rose againAnd flew across the sea into the sun;And then from near or far (he could not say)Came sound as faint as echo's own echo —A low sweet hymn it seemed — and nowAnd then he heard, or else he thought he heard,As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words:"White dies first!" "White dies first."
The sun had passed his noon and westward sloped;He hurried to the cloister and was toldThe Mother waited him. He entered in,Into the wide and pictured room, and thereThe Mother sat and gave him welcome twice."I prayed last night," she spoke, "to know God's will;I prayed to Holy Mary and the saintsThat they might pray for me, and I might knowMy conduct in the matter. Now, kind sir,What wouldst thou? Tell thy errand." He replied:"It was not idle curiosityThat brought me hither or that prompts my lipsTo ask the story of the `White-Rose-Grave',To seek the story of the sleeper thereWhose name I knew so long and far away.Who was she, pray? Dost deem it right to tell?"There was a pause before the answer came,As if there was a comfort in her heart,There was a tremor in her voice when sheUnclosed two palest lips, and spoke in toneOf whisper more than word:
"She was a childOf lofty gift and grace who fills that grave,And who has filled it long — and yet it seemsTo me but one short hour ago we laidHer body there. Her mem'ry clings aroundOur hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet.We often look for her in places whereHer face was wont to be: among the flowers,In chapel, underneath those trees. Long yearsHave passed and mouldered her pure face, and yetIt seems to hover here and haunt us all.I cannot tell you all. It is enoughTo see one ray of light for us to judgeThe glory of the sun; it is enoughTo catch one glimpse of heaven's blueFor us to know the beauty of the sky.It is enough to tell a little partOf her most holy life, that you may knowThe hidden grace and splendor of the whole."
"Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all!Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother."
She went on,Unheeding his abruptness:"One sweet day —A feast of Holy Virgin, in the monthOf May, at early morn, ere yet the dewHad passed from off the flowers and grass — ere yetOur nuns had come from holy Mass — there came,With summons quick, unto our convent gateA fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew —Another dew was moist within her eyes —Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for meAnd as I went she rushed into my arms —Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branchThat sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbedUntil I thought her very soul would rushFrom her frail body, in a sob, to God.I let her sob her sorrow all away.My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobsSank into sighs — and they too sank and diedIn faintest breath. I bore her to a seatIn this same room — and gently spoke to her,And held her hand in mine — and soothed herWith words of sympathy, until she seemedAs tranquil as myself.
"And then I asked:`What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?'`Mother!' she said, `wilt let me wear the veil?Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serveHim in this cloistered place? I pray to be —Unworthy tho' I be — to be His spouse.Nay, Mother — say not nay — 'twill break a heartAlready broken;' and she looked on meWith those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more,More strongly and more sadly than her lipsThat I might grant her sudden, strange request.`Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. `I had,'She said, `but heaven has her now; and thouWilt be my mother — and the orphan girlWill make her life her thanks.'`Thy father, child?'`Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.'`And hast nor sister nor brother?' `No,' she said,`God gave my mother only me; one yearThis very day He parted us.' `Poor child,'I murmured. `Nay, kind Sister,' she replied,`I have much wealth — they left me ample means —I have true friends who love me and protect.I was a minor until yesterday;But yesterday all guardianship did cease,And I am mistress of myself and allMy worldly means — and, Sister, they are thineIf thou but take myself — nay — don't refuse.'`Nay — nay — my child!' I said; `the only wealthWe wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace.Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate,Or buy a single thread of Virgin's veil.Not all the coins in coffers of a kingCould bribe an entrance here for any one.God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil,For any one He sends.Who sent you here,My child? Thyself? Or did some holy oneDirect thy steps? Or else some sudden grief?Or, mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps,A sickly weariness of that bright worldHath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.'`Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke.`Who sent you, then?'`A youthful Christ,' she said,`Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ,Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure —Would have been His own gentle John; and wouldHave leaned on Thursday night upon His breast,And stood on Friday eve beneath His crossTo take His Mother from Him when He died.He sent me here — he said the word last nightIn my own garden; this the word he said —Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear!Your heart was born with veil of virgin on;I hear it rustle every time we meet,In all your words and smiles; and when you weepI hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil —And outward be what inwardly thou art,And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list:My heart was born with priestly vestments on,And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood,And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep —And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host,A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt,Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel say —Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heartNor more than I would tear the veil from thine.My vested and thy veiled heart part to-nightTo climb our Calvary and to meet in God;And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane —And He is here, who, in that other, bled;And they are here who came to comfort Him —His angels and our own; and His great prayer,Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then:Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veilAnd I my vestments." He did send me here.'
"She paused — a few stray tears had dropped uponHer closing words and softened them to sighs.I listened, inward moved, but outward calm and coldTo the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said:`I see it is a love-tale after all,With much of folly and some of fact in it;It is a heart affair, and in such thingsThere's little logic, and there's less of sense.You brought your heart, dear child, but left your headOutside the gates; nay, go, and find the headYou lost last night — and then, I am quite sure,You'll not be anxious to confine your heartWithin this cloistered place.'She seemed to winceBeneath my words one moment — then replied:`If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here,Dost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more?If merely warmth of feelings urged me here,Dost thou do well to chill them into ice?And were I disappointed in yon world,Should that debar me from a purer place?You say it is a love-tale — so it is;The vase was human — but the flower divine;And if I break the vase with my own hands,Will you forbid that I should humbly askThe heart of God to be my lily's vase?I'd trust my lily to no heart on earthSave his who yesternight did send me hereTo dip it in the very blood of Christ,And plant it here.'And then she sobbed outrightA long, deep sob.I gently said to her:`Nay, child, I spoke to test thee — do not weep.If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt comeAnd find e'en here a home. But God is slowIn all His works and ways, and slower stillWhen He would deck a bride to grace His court.Go, now, and in one year — if thou dost comeThy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee;Nay — urge me not — it is our holy rule —A year of trial! I must to choir, and thouInto the world to watch and wait and prayUntil the Bridegroom comes.'She rose and wentWithout a word.
"And twelvemonth after came,True to the very day and hour, and said:`Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago?Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil?Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again?I came once with my wealth and was refused:And now I come as poor as Holy ChristWho had no place to rest His weary head —My wealth is gone; I offered it to himWho sent me here; he sent me speedy word"Give all unto the poor in quiet way —And hide the giving — ere you give yourselfTo God!" `Wilt take me now for my own sake?I bring my soul — 'tis little worth I ween,And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.'
"`My child,' I said, `thrice welcome — enter here;A few short days of silence and of prayer,And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'
"Her novice days went on; much sickness fellUpon her. Oft she lay for weary weeksIn awful agonies, and no one heardA murmur from her lips. She oft would smileA sunny, playful smile, that she might hideHer sufferings from us all. When she was wellShe was the first to meet the hour of prayer —The last to leave it — and they named her well:The `Angel of the Cloister'. Once I heardThe Father of our souls say when she passed`Beneath that veil of sacrificial blackShe wears the white robe of her innocence.'And we — we believed it. There are sisters hereOf three-score years of service who would say:`Within our memory never moved a veilThat hid so saintly and so pure a heart.'And we — we felt it, and we loved her so,We treated her as angel and as child.I never heard her speak about the past,I never heard her mention e'en a nameOf any in the world. She little spake;She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grewAbsent-minded, and would come and ask meTo walk alone and say her RosaryBeneath the trees. She had a voice divine;And when she sang for us, in truth it seemedThe very heart of song was breaking on her lips.The dower of her mind as of her heart,Was of the richest, and she mastered artBy instinct more than study. Her weak handsMoved ceaselessly amid the beautiful.There is a picture hanging in our choirShe painted. I remember well the mornShe came to me and told me she had dreamtA dream; then asked me would I let her paintHer dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeksWent by, and ev'ry spare hour of the dayShe kept her cell all busy with her work.At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth —A picture my poor words may not portray.But you must gaze on it with your own eyes,And drink its magic and its meanings in;I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.
"In every May for two whole days she keptHer cell. We humored her in that; but whenThe days had passed, and she came forth again,Her face was tender as a lily's leaf,With God's smile on it; and for days and daysThereafter, she would scarcely ope her lipsSave when in prayer, and then her every lookWas rapt, as if her soul did hold with GodStrange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did.
"I half forgot — on yonder mantlepieceYou see that wondrous crucifix; one yearShe spent on it, and begged to put beneathThat most mysterious word — `Ullainee'.
"At last the cloister's angel disappeared;Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed —Her words were missed where every day we metIn recreation's hour. And those who passedThe angel's cell would lightly tread, and breatheA prayer that death might pass the angel byAnd let her longer stay, for she lay ill —Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away.Ah! many were the orisons that roseFrom all our hearts that God might spare her still;At Benediction and at holy MassOur hands were lifted, and strong pleadings wentTo heaven for her; we did love her so —Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhapsOur love was far too human. Slow and slowShe faded like a flower. And slow and slowHer pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slowHer large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim.Hope died on all our faces; but on her'sAnother and a different hope did shine,And from her wasted lips sweet prayers aroseThat made her watchers weep. Fast came the end.Never such silence o'er the cloister hung —We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke,Our voices fell to whispers, lest a soundMight jar upon her ear. The sisters watchedIn turns beside her couch; to each she gaveA gentle word, a smile, a thankful look.At times her mind did wander; no wild wordsEscaped her lips — she seemed to float awayTo far-gone days, and live again in scenesWhose hours were bright and happy. In her sleepShe ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy wordsAbout her mother; and sometimes she sangThe fragments of sweet olden songs — and whenShe woke again, she timidly would askIf she had spoken in her sleep, and whatShe said, as if, indeed, her heart did fearThat sleep might open there some long-closed gateShe would keep locked. And softly as a cloud,A golden cloud upon a summer's day,Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea,So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve,The fourteenth day of August, when the sunWas wrapping, like a king, a purple cloudAround him on descending day's bright throne,She sent for me and bade me come in haste.I went into her cell. There was a lightUpon her face, unearthly; and it shoneLike gleam of star upon a dying rose.I sat beside her couch, and took her handIn mine — a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'dOf flesh — so wasted, white and wan it was.Her great, brown, wond'ring eyes had sunk awayDeep in their sockets — and their light shone dimAs tapers dying on an altar. SoftAs a dream of beauty on me fell low,Last words.`Mother, the tide is ebbing fast;But ere it leaves this shore to cross the deepAnd seek another, calmer, I would sayA few last words — and, Mother, I would askOne favor more, which thou wilt not refuse.Thou wert a mother to the orphan girl,Thou gav'st her heart a home, her love a vase,Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine —And thou didst love me, Mother, as she lovedWhom I shall meet to-morrow, far away —But no, it is not far — that other heavenTouches this, Mother; I have felt its touch,And now I feel its clasp upon my soul.I'm going from this heaven into that,To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all.It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast.My soul passed upwards thro' the golden cloudsTo sing the second Vespers of the dayWith all the angels. Mother, ere I go,Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words,Which, like all last words, tell whate'er was firstIn life or tenderest in heart. I cameUnto my convent cell and virgin veil,Sent by a spirit that had touched my ownAs wings of angels touch — to fly apartUpon their missions — till they meet againIn heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing.The "Angel of the Cloister" you called me —Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name —My mission's over — and your angel goesTo-morrow home. This earthly part which staysYou'll lay away within a simple grave —But, Mother, on its slab thou'lt grave this name,"Ullainee!" (she spelt the letters out),Nor ask me why — tho' if thou wilt I'll tell;It is my soul name, given long agoBy one who found it in some Eastern book,Or dreamt it in a dream, and gave it me —Nor ever told the meaning of the name;And, Mother, should he ever come and readThat name upon my grave, and come to theeAnd ask the tidings of "Ullainee",Thou'lt tell him all — and watch him if he weeps,Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved —Show him the picture in the chapel choir —And watch him if he weeps; and thenThere are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer;'(She pointed to the table in her room);`Some words of mine and words of his are there.And keep these simple scrolls until he comes,And put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch —Watch him if he weeps; and tell him this:I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice,I kissed my cross a thousand times a day,I hung and bled upon it in my dreams,I lived on it — I loved it to the last.' And thenA low, soft sigh crept thro' the virgin's cell;I looked upon her face, and death was there."There was a pause — and in the pause one waveOf shining tears swept thro' the Mother's eyes."And thus," she said, "our angel passed away.We buried her, and at her last requestWe wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee'.And I — (for she asked me one day thus,The day she hung her picture in the choir) —I planted o'er her grave a white rose tree.The roses crept around the slab and hidThe graven name — and still we sometimes cullHer sweet, white roses, and we place them onOur Chapel-Altar."Then the Mother rose,Without another word, and led him thro'A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairsUnto an oaken door, which turned upon its hingeNoiselessly — then into a Chapel dim,On gospel side of which there was a gateFrom ceiling down to floor, and back of thatA long and narrow choir, with many stalls,Brown-oaken; all along the walls were hungSaint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked uponThe faces of the Sisters in their prayers.Beside a "Mater Dolorosa" hungThe picture of the "Angel of the Choir".He sees it now thro' vista of the years,Which stretch between him and that long-gone day,It hangs within his memory as freshIn tint and touch and look as long ago.There was a power in it, as if the soulOf her who painted it had shrined in itIts very self; there was a spell in itThat fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes,And made him dream of God's own holy heart.The shadow of the picture, in weak words,Was this, or something very like to this:—— A wild, weird wold,Just like the desolation of a heart,Stretched far away into infinity;Above it low, gray skies drooped sadly down,As if they fain would weep, and all was bareAs bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stoodAll mantled with the glory of a lightThat flashed from out the heavens, and a crossWith such a pale Christ hanging in its armsDid crown the mount; and either side the crossThere were two crosses lying on the rocks —One of the whitest roses — ULLAINEEWas woven into it with buds of Red;And one of reddest roses — Merlin's nameWas woven into it with buds of white.Below the cross and crosses and the mountThe earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear;Above, a golden glory seemed to hangLike God's own benediction o'er the names.I saw the picture once; it moved me soI ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth;But words as weak as mine can never paintThat Crucifixion's picture.Merlin said to me:"Some day — some far-off day — when I am dead,You have the simple rhymings of two hearts,And if you think it best, the world may knowA love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE."
Night After the Picnic
And "Happy! Happy! Happy!"Rang the bells of all the hours;"Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!"Looked and listened all the flowers;They were wakened from their slumbers,By the footsteps of the fair;And they smiled in their awakingOn the faces gathered there.
"Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!"Looked the overhanging trees,For beneath their bending branchesFloated tresses in the breeze.And they wondered who had wanderedWith such voices and so gay;And their leaflets seemed to whisperTo each other: "Who are they?"