. 
 

 
FATHER RYAN S 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 "All Bests with those who Head. A work or thought 
 Is what each makes it to himself, and may 
 Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea, 
 With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, 
 Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, 
 Sweeping miles broad o er the far southern woods, 
 With mighty glimpses of the central light, 
 
 Or may he nothing bodiless, spiritless." 
 
 FESTUS. 
 
 MOBILE: 
 JNO. L. RAPIER & CO., PUBLISHERS. 
 
 1879. 
 

 COPYRIGHT 
 
 BY ABRAM J. RYAN 
 1879. 
 
 
THESE 
 
 SIMPLE RHYMES 
 
 ARE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOVE 
 
 AT THE FEET OF His MOTHER BY 
 
 HER CHILD, THE 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 893558 
 
THESE VERSES (which some friends call by the higher 
 title of Poems to which appellation the Author objects), 
 were written at random, off and on, here, there, any 
 where, just when the mood came, with little of study and 
 less of art, and always in a hurry. 
 
 Hence they are incomplete in finish, as the Author is ; 
 tho he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more of 
 the humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries, 
 than of the steeps that lead up to Parnassus and the Home 
 of the Muses. And souls were always more to him than 
 songs. But still somehow, and he could not tell why, he 
 sometimes tried to sing. Here are his simple songs. He 
 never dreamed of taking even lowest place in the rank of 
 authors. But friends persisted ; and finally a young lawyer 
 friend, who has entire charge of his business in the book, 
 forced him to front the world and its critics. There are 
 
 verses connected with the war published in this volume not 
 
 
 for harm-sake, nor for hate-sake, but simply because the 
 
 Author wrote them. He would write again in the same tone 
 and key under the same circumstances. No more need be 
 said, except that these verses mirror the mind of 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SONG OF THE MVSTIC, .._ 9 
 
 LIFE, 11 
 
 MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD, - 13 
 
 LAST OF MAY, -- 15 
 
 THE SNVORD OF ROBERT LEE, * 18 
 
 AT LAST, ---_... 20 
 
 IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE, -22 
 
 A MEMORY, 23 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH, 21 
 
 A MEMORY, -- 27 
 
 RHYME, -...33 
 
 NOCTURNE, [ 37 
 
 REVERIE, .............40 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, 43 
 
 A LAUGH AND A MOAN, ..........45 
 
 LINES, ............. 47 
 
 MEMORIES, 49 
 
 "OUT OF THE DEPTHS," ......... 50 
 
 FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART, ......... 52 
 
 A LAND WITHOUT RUINS, 54 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, ....... ..55 
 
 A THOUGHT, ......56; 
 
 GONE, ...57. 
 
 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION, ......... 58 
 
 SUBSUM CORDA, ................ 61 
 
 PRESENTIMENT, - - - - - --.63 
 
 A CHILD S WISH, - 64 
 
 I OFTEN WONDER WHY TIS so, -- 65 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ! WAKE ME A SONG, - - 66 
 
 IN MEMOKIAM, - 67 
 
 ! REVERIE, - 
 
 TEARS, 71 
 
 LINES, 72 
 
 THE LAND WE LOVE, 73 
 
 ! A BLESSING, 74 
 
 ERIN S FLAG, 76 
 
 JULY NINTH, 1872, 79 
 
 A DEATH, 81 
 
 IN MEMORI AM DAVID J. RYAN, 0. S. A., 83 
 
 WHAT? - - - v 87 
 
 A THOUGHT-FLOWER, 89 
 
 THK MASTER S VOICE, 90 
 
 DEATH, 92 
 
 THE ROSARY or MY TEARS, - 93 
 
 A REVERIE, 95 
 
 OLD TREES, 97 
 
 A THOUGHT, - . - 98 
 
 IN ROME, - - 101 
 
 AFTER SICKNESS, - 103 
 
 AFTER SEEING Pius IX, 105 
 
 SENTINEL SONGS, 106 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM AN Eric POEM, 115 
 
 LAKE COMO, 128 
 
 TEACE ! BE STILL," 133 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY, 134 
 
 SUNLESS DAYS, 135 
 
 A REVERIE, - 136 
 
 MY BEADS, , 137 
 
 AT NIGHT, -- 138 
 
 NOCTURNE, - - 140 
 
 ST. MARY S, - 143 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS, 145 
 
 WHEN? - ..*.... 148 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER, - - 150 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT, - 152 
 
 "FAR A\VAY," __----._____ 172 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LISTEN, -------_--__ 174 
 WRECKED, --.---_-_.._ 175 
 
 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS, ---...-.. 17(5 
 A THOUGHT, ---.-......_ i 81 
 DREAMING, ----.---..... 182 
 
 "YESTERDAYS," --------.. . 1 83 
 
 "TO-DAYS," ------------ 184 
 
 "TO-MORROWS," ------------ 185 
 
 INEVITABLE, - .--..-..... 187 
 HOPE, -----.---.... 189 
 
 FAREWELLS, --------..._ 190 
 
 SONG OF THE RIVER, -----___. ._ 191 
 
 DREAM LAND, ----------_ 193 
 
 LINES, ------.-._____ 191, 
 
 A SONG, ------.-.-... 195 
 
 PARTING, -----.-._--.. 197. 
 ST. STEPHEN, - _ _ _ . .____. 193 
 
 A FLOWER S SONG, - - -------_. 201 
 
 THE STAR S SONG, - --------. 202 
 
 DEATH OF THE FLOWER, --..*..... 203 
 
 Now, ........ ..... 204 
 
 SINGING BIRD, ._-_._.. ... . 206 
 
 GOD IN THE NIGHT, -.----.-... 207 
 
 M * * * - --.._....-... 209 
 
 REUNITED, - .._ _ 211 
 
 C. S. A., - - - - - - 213 
 
 THE SEEN AND THE UNSEJBN, 215 
 
 PASSING AWAY, 217 
 
 POETS, 219 
 
 A LEGEND, 221 
 
 WHAT AILS THE WORLD ? 223 
 
 THOUGHTS, 225 
 
 LINES, ... 226 
 
 THE PILGRIM, ._ 227 
 
 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS, .....--- 235 
 LINES, -- ---------- 259 
 
 [DEATH OF THE EBINCE IMPERIAL, ------- 26O 
 
 EPILOGUE, ---_-----.... 263 
 
SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 
 
 WALK down the Valley of Silence, 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley alone I 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 
 Around me save God s and my own; 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown I 
 
 Long ago was I weary of voices 
 
 Whose music my heart could not win; 
 
 Long ago I was weary of noises 
 That fretted my soul with their din; 
 
 Long ago was I weary of places 
 
 Where I met but the human and sin, 
 
 I walked in the world with the worldly;. 
 
 I crayed what the world never gave;. 
 And I said: "In the world each Ideal, 
 
 That shines like a star on life s wave; 
 Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 
 
 And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 
 
 And still did I pine for the Perfect, 
 
 And still found the False with the True; 
 
 I sought mid the Human for Heaven, 
 But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 
 
 And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
 Veiled even that glimpse from my view* 
 
to SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 
 
 And I toiled on heart-tired of the Human; 
 
 And I moaned mid the mazes of men; 
 Till I knelt long ago at an altar 
 
 And heard a voice call me: since then 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence 
 
 That lies far beyond mortal ken. 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 
 
 Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said: "Be mine." 
 And there arose from the depths of my spirit 
 
 An echo "My heart shall be thine." 
 
 Do you ask how I live in the Valley? 
 
 I weep and I dream and I pray. 
 But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 
 
 That fall on the roses in May; 
 ind my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, 
 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing; 
 
 And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
 Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 A message of Peace they may bring. 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the Silence 
 That never shall float into speech; 
 
 And I have had dreams in the Valley 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
LIFE. ii 
 
 And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley, 
 
 Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: 
 They pass through the Valley, like Virgins 
 
 Too pure for the touch of a word! 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the Valley? 
 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care! 
 It lieth afar between mountains 
 
 And God and his angels are there: 
 And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
 
 And one, the bright mountain of Prayer! 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 BABY played with the surplice sleeve 
 
 Of a gentle priest; while in accents low 
 The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe." 
 
 And the priest bade the mystic waters flow, 
 In the name of the Father, and the Son, 
 And Holy Spirit Three in One. 
 
 Spotless as a lily s leaf, 
 
 Whiter than the Christmas snow; 
 Not a sign of sin or grief, 
 
 And the babe laughed sweet and low. 
 
x LIFE. 
 
 A smile flitted over the baby s face: 
 Or was it the gleam of its angel s wing 
 
 Just passing then, and leaving a trace 
 Of its presence, as it soared to sing? 
 
 A hymn when words and waters win 
 
 To Grace and life a child of sin. 
 
 Not an outward sign or token, 
 That a child was saved from woe, 
 
 But the bonds of sin were broken; 
 And the babe laughed sweet and 
 
 A cloud rose up to the mother s eyes, 
 And out of the cloud grief s rain fell fast, 
 
 Came the baby s smiles, and the mother s sighs, 
 Out of the future, or the past? 
 
 Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, 
 And gall must mingle with the sweet. 
 
 Yea, upon the baby s laughter 
 
 Trickled tears: tis ever so 
 Mothers dread the dark hereafter; 
 
 But the babe laughed sweet and low. 
 
 And the years like waves broke on the shore 
 Of the mother s heart, and her baby s life; 
 
 53ut her lone heart drifted away before 
 Her little boy knew an hour of strife; 
 
 Drifted away on a Summer s eve, 
 
 Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve. 
 
 Her humble grave was gently made, 
 Where roses bloomed in Summer s glow; 
 
 The wild birds sang where her heart was laid; 
 And her boy laughed sweet and low, 
 
LIFE. 13 
 
 He drifted away from his mother s grave 
 Like a fragile flower on a great stream s tide. 
 
 Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, 
 That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. 
 
 Out from the shore and over the deep, 
 He sailed away and learned to weep. 
 
 Furrowed grew the face once fair, 
 Under storms of human woe; 
 
 Silvered grew the dark brown hair, 
 And he wailed so sad and low. 
 
 The years swept on as erst they swept, 
 
 Bright wavelets once dark billows now. 
 Wherever he sailed he ever wept, 
 
 A cloud hung over the darkened brow 
 Over the deep and into the dark, 
 
 But no one knew where sank his bark. 
 
 Wild roses watched his mother s tomb, 
 The world still laughed, tis ever so, 
 
 God only knows the baby s doom, 
 That laughed so sweet and low. 
 
 MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. 
 
 ATHER the sacred dust 
 
 Of the warriors tried and true, 
 Who bore the flag of our People s trust 
 And fell in a cause, though lost still just 
 And died for me and you. 
 
14 MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS 
 
 Gather them one and all! 
 
 From the Private to the Chief, 
 Come they from hovel or princely hall, 
 They fell for us, and for them should fall 
 
 The tears of a Nation s grief. 
 
 Gather the corpses strewn 
 
 O er many a battle plain; 
 From many a grave that lies so lone, 
 Without a name and without a stone, 
 
 Gather the Southern slain. 
 
 We care not whence they came, 
 
 Dear in their lifeless clay! 
 Whether unknown, or known to fame, 
 Their cause and country still the same 
 
 They died and wore the Gray. 
 
 Wherever the brave have died, 
 
 They should not rest apart; 
 Living they struggled side by side- 
 Why should the hand of Death divide 
 
 A single heart from heart. 
 
 Gather their scattered clay, 
 
 Wherever it may rest; 
 Just as they marched to the bloody fray; 
 Just as they fell on the battle day; 
 
 Bury them breast to breast. 
 
 The foeman need not dread 
 
 This gathering of the brave; 
 Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, 
 We muster once more our deathless dead; 
 
 Out of each lonely grave. 
 
LAST OF MAY. v 
 
 The foeman need not frown, 
 
 They all are powerless now 
 We gather them here and we lay them down, 
 And tears and prayers are the only crown 
 
 We bring to wreathe each brow. 
 
 And the dead thus meet the dead, 
 
 While the living o er them weep; 
 And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, 
 And the hearts that once together bled, 
 
 Together still shall sleep. 
 
 LAST OF MAY, 
 
 TO THE CHILDREN OF MARY OF THE CATHEDRAL OF MOBILE. 
 
 N the mystical Dim of the Temple, 
 
 In the dream-haunted Dim of the Day, 
 & The Sunlight spoke soft to the Shadows, 
 
 And said: "With my gold and your gray, 
 Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin,-* 
 
 And ere her fair Feast pass away 
 Let us weave there a mantle of glory 
 To deck the Last Evening of May. 
 
 The tapers were lit on the altar 
 
 With garlands of lilies between; 
 And the steps leading up to the statue 
 
 Flashed bright with the roses red sheen; 
 The sungleams came down from the Heavens 
 
 Like angels, to hallow the scene, 
 And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows 
 
 That crept to the shrine of the Queen. 
 
LAST OF MA Y. 
 
 The singers, their hearts in their voices, 
 
 Had chanted the anthems of old; 
 And the last trembling wave of the Vespers 
 
 On the far-shores of silence had rolled. 
 And there, at the Queen-Virgin s altar 
 
 The Sun wove the mantle of gold 
 While the hands of the Twilight were weaving 
 
 A fringe for the flash of each fold. 
 
 And wavelessly-, in the deep silence, 
 
 Three banners hung peaceful and low, 
 They bore the bright Blue of the Heavens 
 
 They wore the pure White of the snow, 
 And beneath them fair children were kneeling, 
 
 Whose faces, with graces aglow, 
 Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful 
 
 And woeless, in life full of woe. 
 
 Their heads wore the veil of the lily, 
 
 Their brows wore the wreath of the rose, 
 And their hearts, like their flutterless banners, 
 
 Were stilled in a holy repose. 
 Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, 
 
 Whose glad gaze would never disclose 
 That from eyes that are most like the Heavens 
 
 The dark rain of tears soonest flows. 
 
 The Banners were borne to the railing 
 
 Beneath them a group from each band> 
 And they bent their bright folds for the Blessing 
 
 That fell from the Priest s lifted hand. 
 And he signed the three, fair, silken standards, 
 
 With a Sign never foe could withstand, 
 What stirred them? The breeze of the Evening? 
 
 Or a breath from the far- Angel-land? 
 
LAST OF MA Y. 17 
 
 Then came, two by two, to the altar, 
 
 The young and the pure and the fair,- 
 Their faces the mirror of Heaven, 
 
 Their hands folded meekly in prayer, 
 They came for a simple blue ribbon 
 
 For love of Christ s mother to wear, 
 And I believe, with the children of Mary 
 
 The Angels of Mary were there. 
 
 Ah ! Faith ! simple Faith of the children ! 
 
 You still shame the Faith of the old ! 
 Ah ! love ! simple love of the Little ! 
 
 You still warm the love of the cold ! 
 And the Beautiful God who is wandering 
 
 Far out in the world s dreary wold, 
 Finds a Home in the Hearts of the children 
 
 And a Rest with the Lambs of the Fold. 
 
 Swept a voice ; was it wafted from Heaven ? 
 
 Heard you ever the Sea when its sings, 
 Where it sleeps on the shore in the Night-time ? 
 
 Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings, 
 From the hearts of a thousand bright summers ? 
 
 Heard you ever the bird, when she springs 
 To the clouds, till she seems to be only 
 
 A song of a shadow on wings ? 
 
 Came a voice, and an "Ave Maria" 
 
 Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled 
 And -in the embrace of its music 
 
 The souls of a thousand lay stilled. 
 A voice with the tones of an angel, 
 
 Never flower such a sweetness distilled ; 
 It faded away, but the temple 
 
 With its perfume of worship was rilled. 
 
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 
 
 Then back to the Queen- Virgin s altar 
 
 The white veils swept on two by two; 
 And the holiest halo of heaven 
 
 Flashed out from the ribbons of Blue; 
 And they laid down the wreaths of the roses 
 
 Whose hearts were as pure as their hue, 
 Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, 
 
 Whose loves to the Mother are true! 
 
 And thus in the Dim of the Temple 
 
 In the dream-haunted Dim of the Day, 
 The Angels and Children of Mary 
 
 Met ere their Queen s Feast passed away, 
 Where the Sungleams knelt down with the Shadows 
 
 And wove with their gold and their gray 
 A mantle of grace and of glory 
 
 For the Last, lovely Evening of May. 
 
 THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 
 
 ORTH from its scabbard pure and bright, 
 
 Flashed the sword of Lee! 
 Far in the front of the deadly fight 
 High o er the brave in the cause of Right 
 Its stainless sheen like a beacon light 
 , Led us to Victory. 
 
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 19 
 
 Out of its scabbard where full long 
 
 It slumbered peacefully, 
 Roused from its rest by the battle s song 
 Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong 
 Guarding the right, avenging the wrong 
 
 Gleamed the sword of Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard high in air 
 
 Beneath Virginia s sky 
 And they who saw it gleaming there 
 And knew who bore it knelt to swear, 
 That where that sword led, they would dare 
 
 To follow and to die. 
 
 Out of its scabbard! never hand 
 Waved sword from stain as free, 
 Nor purer sword led braver band, 
 Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
 Nor brighter land had a Cause so grand, 
 Nor cause a chief like Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed, 
 
 That sword might victor be; 
 And when our triumph was delayed, 
 And many a heart grew sore afraid, 
 We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
 
 Of noble Robert Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard! all in vaifi 
 Bright flashed the sword of Lee;-** 
 
 Tis shrouded now in its sheath agair% 
 
 It sleeps the sleep of our noble slajn; 
 
 Defeated yet without a stain, 
 Proudly and peacefully. 
 
AT LAST. 
 
 NTO a temple vast and dim, 
 Solemn and vast and dim, 
 Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn 
 
 Was floating far away 
 With eyes that tabernacled tears 
 
 Her heart the home of tears 
 And cheeks wan with the woes of years, 
 A woman went one day. 
 
 And, one by one, adown the aisles 
 
 Adown the long, lone aisles 
 Their faces bright with holy smiles 
 
 That follow after Prayer 
 The worshipers in silence passed 
 
 In silence slowly passed away; 
 The woman knelt until the last 
 Had left her lonely there. 
 
 A holy hush came o er the place 
 
 O er the holy place 
 The shadows kissed her woe-worn face, 
 
 Her forehead touched the floor; 
 The wreck that drifted thro the years 
 
 Sin-driven thro the years 
 Was floating o er the tide of tears, 
 To mercy s golden shore. 
 
AT LAST. 21 
 
 Her lips were sealed, they could not pray 
 
 They sighed, but could not pray 
 All words of Prayer had died away 
 
 From them long years ago; 
 But ah! from out her eyes there rose 
 
 Sad from her eyes there rose 
 The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes 
 To Heaven winged with woe. 
 
 With weary tears, her weary eyes 
 
 Her joyless, weary eyes 
 Wailed forth a Rosary and her sighs 
 
 And sobs strung all the Beads; 
 The while before her spirit s gaze 
 
 Her contrite spirit s gaze 
 Mov/sd all the mysteries of her days 
 And histories of her deeds. 
 
 Still as a shadow, while she wept 
 
 So desolately wept 
 Up thro the long, lone aisle she crept 
 
 Unto an altar fair; 
 
 Mother!" her pale lips said no more 
 Could say no more 
 
 The wreck, at last, reached Mercy s shoro 
 For Mary s shrine was there. 
 
IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE, 
 
 SUPERIOR GENERAL OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE MISSIO] 
 AND OF THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 SHADOW slept folded in vestments 
 
 The dream of a smile on its face, 
 Dim soft as the gleam after sunset, 
 
 That hangs like a halo of grace, 
 Where the daylight hath died in the valley, 
 
 And the twilight hath taken its place, 
 A Shadow! but still on the mortal, 
 
 There rested the tremulous trace 
 Of the joy of a spirit immortal, 
 
 Passed up to its God in His grace. . 
 
 A Shadow! hast seen in the summer 
 
 A cloud wear the smile of the sun? 
 On the shadow of death there is flashing 
 
 The glory of noble deeds done; 
 On the face of the dead there is glowing 
 
 The light of a holy race run; 
 And the smile of the face is reflecting 
 
 The gleam of the crown he has won. 
 Still, Shadow! sleep on in the vestments 
 
 Unstained by the Priest who has gone. 
 
 And thro all the nations, the children 
 Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss; 
 
 But the glory that crowns him in heaven 
 Illumines the gloom of their cross. 
 
A MEMORY. 23 
 
 They send to the Shadow the tribute 
 Of tears, from the fountains of love, 
 
 And they send from their altars sweet prayers 
 To the throne of their Father above. 
 
 Yea! sorrow weeps over the Shadow, 
 
 But Faith looks aloft to the skies; 
 And Hope, like a rainbow, is flashing 
 
 O er the tears that rain down from their eyes. 
 They murmur on earth " De profundis," 
 
 The low chant is mingled with sighs; 
 Laudate" rings out through the heavens, 
 
 The dead Priest hath won his faith s prize. 
 
 His children in sorrow will honor 
 
 His grave; every tear is a gem, 
 And their prayers round his brow in the heavens 
 
 Will brighten his fair diadem, 
 I kneel at his grave and remember 
 
 In love, I am still one of them. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 NE bright memory shines like a star 
 
 In the sky of my spirit forever; 
 And over my pathway it flashes afar 
 A radiance that perishes never,. 
 
 One bright memory only one; 
 
 And I walk by the light of its gleaming; 
 It brightens my days and when days are done 
 
 It shines in the night o er my dreaming. 
 
1 4 THE PRA YER OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 One bright memory whose golden rays 
 
 Illumine the gloom of my sorrows, 
 And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze 
 
 In the shadows of all my to-morrows. 
 
 i 
 One bright memory whe \ i am sad 
 
 I lift up my eyes to its shining, 
 
 And the clouds pass away; and my spirit grows glad 
 And my heart hushes all its repining. 
 
 One bright memory others have passed 
 
 Back into the shadows forever; 
 "But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, 
 
 Sheds a light that will pass away never. 
 
 Shine on, shine always, Thou star of my days ! 
 
 And when Death s starless Night gathers o er me, 
 Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze, 
 And light the dark valley before me. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE S Gtff H. 
 
 Y BROW is bent beneath a heavy rod! 
 
 My face is wan and white with many wdeS, 
 But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, 
 And for my children pray, and for my foes. 
 Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie 
 
 I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, 
 I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, 
 
 And pray, oh! Father, Let Thy will be done! 
 
THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 25 
 
 My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast; 
 
 My hopes are buried with my children s dust; 
 My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast 
 
 In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? 
 Ah! I forgot The., her, long and oft, 
 
 When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; 
 But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, 
 
 And sorrow leads me, Father, back to thee. 
 
 Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman s path 
 
 I kneel, and wailing o er my glories gone, 
 I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, 
 
 And whisper, Father, let thy will be done! 
 Pity me, Father of the Desolate! 
 
 Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; 
 Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, 
 
 And keep me, guard me, with thy loving care. 
 
 Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, 
 
 Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, 
 That hearts of earth, wherever they shall break, 
 
 Might go to His and find a sure relief. 
 Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse? 
 
 Or is it night with no morrow s sun? 
 Oh! Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, 
 
 And sadder heart, I pray, Thy will be done. 
 
 My homes are joyless, and a million mourn 
 
 Where many met in joys forever flown; 
 Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn; 
 
 Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. 
 And, ah! the widow s Avails, the orphan s cries, 
 
 Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; 
 And groans of men and sounds of women s sighs 
 
 Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee. 
 
2 6 . THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead 
 
 Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one I 
 Above their dust I bow my crownless head, 
 
 And murmur Father, still Thy will be done. 
 Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land 
 
 With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair; 
 But foemen came, and, with a ruthless hand, 
 
 Spread ruin, wreck and desolation there. 
 
 Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, 
 
 And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod, 
 And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, 
 
 To catch one smile of pity from my God. 
 Around me blight, where all before was bloom, 
 
 And so much lost, alas! and nothing won! 
 Save this that I can lean on wreck and tomb, 
 
 And weep, and weeping, pray, Thy will be done. 
 
 And oh! tis hard to say, but said, tis sweet; 
 
 The words are bitter, but they hold a balm-^ 
 A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, 
 
 And lulls my sorrows into holy calm. 
 It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings, 
 
 When heard in Heaven, peace and hope to rne! 
 When Jesus prayed it, did not angels wings 
 
 Gleam mid the darkness of Gethsemane? 
 
 My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; 
 
 Alas! their hearts have only place for tears! 
 Forgive them, Father, ev ry wrongful deed 
 
 And ev ry sin of those four bloody years, 
 And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, 
 
 And from their hearts take every thought of hate; 
 And while they climb their Calvary with their Cross, 
 
 Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight 
 
A MEMORY. 27 
 
 And for my dead, my Father, may I pray? 
 
 Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me morel 
 I keep eternal watch above their clay; 
 
 Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore! 
 Forgive my foes they know not what they do 
 
 Forgive them all the tears they made me shed; 
 Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, 
 
 And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead, 
 
 Oh! may my woes be each a carrier-dove, 
 
 With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears, 
 Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, 
 
 And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. 
 Father, I kneel, mid ruin, wreck and grave 
 
 A desert waste, where all was erst so fair - 
 And for my children and my foes I crave 
 
 Pity and Pardon Father, hear my prayer! 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 DOWN the valley dripped a stream, 
 White lilies drooped on either side; 
 Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream 
 In such a place, at Eventide. 
 
 Bright wavelets wove the scarf of Blue 
 That well became the valley fair, 
 
 And grassy fringe of greenest hue 
 Hung round its borders everywhere. 
 
2 8 A MEMORY. 
 
 And where the stream, in wayward whirls 
 Went winding in and winding out, 
 
 Lay shells that wore the look of pearls 
 Without their pride, all strewn about 
 
 And here and there along the strand, 
 
 Where some ambitious wave had strayed, 
 
 Rose little monuments of sand 
 As frail as those by mortals made. 
 
 And many a flower was blooming there 
 
 In beauty, yet without a name, 
 Like humble hearts that often bear 
 
 The gifts, but not the palm of fame. 
 
 The rainbow s tints could never vie 
 With all the colors that they wore ; 
 
 While bluer than the bluest sky, 
 
 The stream flowed on tween shore and shore. 
 
 And on the height, and down the side, 
 Of either hill that hid the place, 
 
 Rose elms in all the stately pride 
 
 Of youthful strength and ancient race. 
 
 While here and there the trees between, 
 Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, 
 
 And frowning wrathful, might be seen 
 The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. 
 
 And round the rocks crept flowered vines 
 And clomb the trees that towered high,- 
 
 The type of a lofty thought that twines 
 Around a Truth, to touch the sky. 
 
A MEMORY. 29 
 
 And to that vale from first of May 
 
 Until the last of August went ; 
 Beauty, the exile, came each day 
 
 In all her charms, to cast her tent. 
 
 Twas there, one long-gone August day 
 
 I wandered down the valley fair, 
 The spell has never passed away 
 
 That fell upon my spirit there. 
 
 The summer sunset glorified 
 
 The clouded face of dying day 
 Which flung a smile upon the tide 
 
 And lilies, ere he passed away. 
 
 And o er the valley s grassy slopes 
 
 There fell an evanescent sheen, 
 That flashed and faded like the hopes 
 
 That haunt us, of what might have been. 
 
 And rock and tree flung back the light 
 
 Of all the sunset s golden gems, 
 As if it were beneath their right 
 
 To wear such borrowed diadems. 
 
 Low in the west gleam after gleam, 
 Glowed faint and fainter, till the last 
 
 Made the dying Day a living Dream 
 To last as long as life shall last. 
 
 And in the arches of the trees . 
 
 The wild birds slept with folded wing, 
 And e en the lips of the summer-breeze, 
 
 That sang all day, had ceased to sing, 
 
30 A MEMORY. 
 
 And all was silent, save the rill 
 
 That rippled round the lilies feet, 
 
 And sang, while stillness grew more still 
 To listen to the murmur sweet. 
 
 And now and then it surely seemed 
 The little stream was laughing low,- 
 
 As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed 
 Such dreams as only children know. 
 
 So still, that not the faintest breath 
 Did stir the shadows in the air ; 
 
 It would have seemed the home of Death 
 Had I not felt Life sleeping there. 
 
 And slow and soft, and soft and slow 
 From darkling earth and darkened sky, 
 
 Wide wings of Gloom waved to and fro 
 And spectral shadows flitted by. 
 
 And then methought upon the sward 
 I saw, or was it starlight s ray ? 
 
 Or Angels come to watch and guard 
 The valley, till the dawn of day ? 
 
 Is every lower life the ward 
 
 Of spirits more divinely wrought? 
 
 Tis sweet to believe tis God s, and hare 1 
 To think tis but a Poet s thought. 
 
 But God s or Poet s thought, I ween 
 My senses did not fail me when 
 
 I saw veiled angels watch that scene 
 
 And guard its sleep, as they guard men. 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed 
 As sorrow sings a heart to sleep, 
 
 As a Mother sings one child to rest 
 And for the dead one still will weep^ 
 
 I walked adown, the singing stream, 
 The lilies slept on either side ; 
 
 My heart, it could not help but dream 
 At Eve, and after Eventide, 
 
 Ah ! dreams of such a lofty reach 
 
 With more than earthly fancies fraught, 
 
 That not the strongest wings of speech 
 Could ever touch their lowest thought. 
 
 Dreams of the Bright the Fair, the Far, 
 
 Heart-fancies flashing Heaven s hue, 
 That swept around, as sweeps a star 
 t The boundless orbit of the True. 
 
 Yea ! dreams all free from earthly taint 
 Where human Passion played no part, 
 
 As pure as thoughts that thrill a Saint 
 Or haunt an Archangelic heart. 
 
 Ah ! dreams that did not rise from Sense 
 And rose too high to stoop to it, 
 
 And flamed aloft like frankincense 
 In censers round the Infinite. 
 
 Yea ! dreams that vied with Angel s flight 
 And soaring, bore my heart away, 
 
 Beyond the far Star-bounds of Night 
 Unto the Everlasting Day. 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 How long I strolled beside the stream 
 
 I do not know, nor may I say ; 
 But when the Poet ceased to dream 
 
 The Priest went on his knees to pray. 
 
 I felt, as sure a seraph feels, 
 
 When in some golden hour of grace 
 
 God smiles, and suddenly reveals 
 A new, strange Glory in His Face. 
 
 Ah ! star-lit valley ! Lilies white ! 
 
 The Poet dreamed, ye slumbered deep! 
 But when the Priest knelt down that Night 
 
 And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep? 
 
 The stream sang down the valley fair 
 I saw the wakened lilies nod, 
 
 I knew they heard me whisper there 
 " How beautiful ! art thou, my God ! " 
 
RHYME. 
 
 NE idle day 
 
 A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore, 
 In a breezeless bay, 
 We listless lay 
 J Our boat a " dream of rest " on the still sea 
 And we were four. 
 
 The wind had died 
 That all day long sang songs unto the deep ; 
 
 It was eventide 
 
 And far and wide 
 Sweet silence crept thro the rifts of sound 
 
 With spells of sleep. 
 
 Our gray sail cast 
 The only cloud that flecked the foamless sea, 
 
 And weary at last 
 
 Beside the mast 
 One fell to slumber, with a dreamy face 
 
 And we were three. 
 
 No ebb ! no flow! 
 No sound ! no stir, in the wide-wondrous calm 
 
 In the sunset s glow 
 
 The shore shelved low 
 And sno v-white, from far ridges screened with shade; 
 
 Of drooping palm. 
 
34 RHYME. 
 
 Our hearts were hushed ; 
 All light seemed melting into boundless blue ; 
 
 But the west was flushed 
 
 Where sunset blushed, 
 Thro clouds of roses, when another slept 
 
 And, we were two. 
 
 How still the air ! 
 Not e en a sea-bird o er us waveward flew 
 
 Peace rested there ! 
 
 Light ! everywhere ! 
 Nay! Light ! some shadows fell on that fair scene,. 
 
 And, we are two ; 
 
 Some shadows ! Where ! 
 No matter where ! all shadows are not seen 
 
 For clouds of care, 
 
 To skies all fair 
 Will sudden rise as tears to shining eyes 
 
 And dim their sheen. 
 
 We spake no word 
 Tho each I ween did hear the other s soul. 
 
 Mot a wavelet stirred 
 
 And yet we heard, 
 The loneliest music of the weariest waves 
 
 That ever roll. 
 
 Yea ! Peace ! you swayed 
 Your sceptre jeweled with the evening light, 
 
 And then you said 
 "Here falls no shade, 
 Here floats no sound, and all the seas and skies 
 
 Sleep calm and bright" 
 
RHYME. 35 
 
 .. Nay, Peace ! Not so ! 
 The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre s spell, 
 
 And fear to flow, 
 
 But to and fro, 
 Beyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas 
 
 Will sink and swell. 
 
 No word e en yet 
 Were our eyes speaking while they watched the sky 
 
 And in the sunset, 
 
 Infinite regret, 
 Swept sighing from the skies into our souls 
 
 I wonder why! 
 
 A half hour passed 
 Twas more than half an age ; tis ever thus, 
 
 Words came at last, 
 
 Fluttering and fast 
 As shadows veiling sunsets in the souls 
 
 Of each of us. 
 
 The noiseless night 
 Sped flitting like a ghost where waves of blue 
 
 Lost all their light 
 
 As lips once bright 
 Whence smiles have fled ; we or the wavelets sighed 
 
 And we were two. 
 
 The day had gone 
 And on the dim high altar of the Dark 
 
 Stars one by one 
 
 Far, faintly shone ; 
 The moonlight trembled like a mother s smile 
 
 Upon our bark. 
 
3 6 RHYME. 
 
 We softly spoke, 
 The waves seemed listening on the lonely sea 
 
 The winds awoke 
 
 Our whispers broke 
 The spell of silence ; and two eyes unclosed 
 
 And we were three. 
 
 "The breeze blows fair," 
 He said ; " the waking waves set towards the shore ; * 
 
 The long brown hair 
 
 Of the other there 
 Who slumbered near the mast with dreamy face 
 
 Stirred : we were four. 
 
 .That starry night 
 ,A mile or so of shadows from the shore 
 
 Two faces bright 
 
 With laughter light 
 Shone on two souls like stars that shine on shrines 
 
 And we were four. 
 
 Over the reach 
 Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew 
 
 We reached the beach 
 
 Nor song nor speech 
 Shall ever tell our Sacramental thought, 
 
 When, we were two. 
 
NOCTURNE. 
 
 SIT, to-night, by the firelight, 
 And I look at the glowing flame, 
 And I see in the bright red flashes 
 ,* A Heart, a Face and a Name. 
 
 How often have I seen pictures 
 Framed in the firelight s blaze, 
 
 Of hearts, of names and of faces, 
 And scenes of remembered days ! 
 
 How often have I found poems, 
 
 In the crimson of the coals, 
 And the swaying flames of the firelight 
 
 Unrolled such golden scrolls. 
 
 And my eyes, they were proud to read them. 
 
 In letters of living flame, 
 But to-night, in the fire, I see only 
 
 One Heart, one Face and one Name. 
 
 But where are the olden pictures? 
 
 And where are the olden dreams? 
 Has a change come over my vision ? 
 
 Or over the fire s bright gleams ? 
 
 Not over my vision, surely 
 
 My eyes, they are still the same, 
 
 That used to find in the firelight 
 So many a face and name. 
 
 Not over the firelight either, 
 No change in the coals or blaze 
 
 That flicker and flash as ruddy 
 To-night, as in other days. 
 
3 S NOCTURNE. 
 
 But there must be a change I feel it, 
 To-night ; not an old picture came ; 
 
 The fire s bright flames only painted 
 One heart, one face and one name. 
 
 Three pictures ? No ! only one picture ; 
 The Face belongs to the Name, 
 
 And the Name names the Heart, that is throbbing 
 Just back of the beautiful flame. 
 
 Who said it? I wonder, "all faces 
 Must fade in the light of but one, 
 
 The soul like the earth, may have many 
 Horizons, but only one sun. * 
 
 Who dreamt it ? Did I ? If I dreamt it, 
 
 Tis true, every name passes by 
 Save one ; the sun wears many cloudlets 
 
 Of gold, but has only one sky. 
 
 And out of the flames have they faded 
 The hearts and the faces of yore ? 
 
 Have they sunk neath the gray of the ashes 
 To rise to my vision no more ? 
 
 Yes, surely, or else I would see them 
 To-night, just as bright as of old,^ 
 
 In the white of the coals silver flashes, 
 In the red of the restless flames 
 
 Do you say I am fickle and faithless ? 
 
 Else why are the old pictures gone ? 
 And why should the visions of many 
 
 Melt into the vision of one ? 
 
NOCTURNE. 39 
 
 Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, 
 
 "One Eternal alone reigns above." 
 Is it true ? and all else are but idols ? 
 
 So the heart can have only one Love. 
 
 Only one, all the rest are but idols,- - 
 That fall from their shrines soon or late, 
 
 When the Love that is Lord of the temple., 
 Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate. 
 
 To be faithless oft means to be faithful, 
 To be false often means to be true, 
 
 The vale that loves clouds that are golden, 
 Forgets them for skies that are blue. 
 
 To forget often means to remember 
 
 What we had forgotton too long, 
 The fragrance is not the bright flower, 
 
 The echo is not the sweet song. 
 
 Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight 
 
 Gaze I ever so long all the same 
 I only can see in its glowing 
 
 A Heart, a Face and a Name. 
 
 Farewell ! all ye hearts, names and faces ! 
 
 Only ashes now under the blaze, 
 Ye never again will smile on me, 
 
 For I m touching the end of my days. 
 
 And the beautiful fading firelight 
 
 Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, 
 Three pictures, yet only one picture 
 
 A Heart, a Face and a Name. 
 
REVERIE. 
 
 : NLY a few more years ! 
 Weary years ! 
 
 Only a few more tears ! 
 Bitter tears ! 
 
 And then and then like other men, 
 I cease to wander, cease to weep, 
 Dim shadows o er my way shall creep, 
 
 And out of the Day, and into the Night, 
 
 Into the Dark, and out of the Bright, 
 I go, and Death shall veil my face, 
 The feet of the years shall fast efface 
 My very name, and every trace 
 
 I leave on Earth ; for the stern years tread, 
 
 Tread out the names of the Gone and Dead ! 
 
 And then, ah ! then ; like other men, 
 I close my eyes, and go to sleep, 
 Only a few, one hour, shall weep, 
 Ah ! me ! the Grave is dark and deep. 
 
 Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 How soon we pass ! 
 And ah ! we go 
 
 So far away ? 
 When go we must, 
 
 From the Light of Life, and the heat of strife, 
 To the Peace of Death, and the cold, still Dust,- 
 
 We go we go we may not stay, 
 
 We travel the lone, dark, dreary way;: 
 Out of the Day and into the Night, 
 Into the Darkness, out of the Bright, 
 
REVERIE. 41 
 
 And then ! ah, then ! like other men, 
 We close our eyes and go to sleep 
 We hush our hearts and go to sleep, 
 Only a few, one hour, shall weep, 
 Ah, me ! the Grave is lone and deep ! 
 
 I saw a flower, at morn, so fair, 
 I passed at Eve, it was not there, 
 
 I saw a sunbeam, golden, bright, 
 
 I saw a cloud the sunbeam s shroud, 
 And I saw Night 
 
 Digging the Grave of Day, 
 And Day took off her golden crown, 
 And flung it sorrowfully down, 
 
 Ah ! Day ! the Sun s fair Bride ! 
 ^At twilight moaned and died. 
 And so, alas ! like Day we pass, 
 
 At Morn we smile ! 
 At Eve we weep 
 
 At Morn we wake 
 In Night we sleep, 
 
 We close our eyes and go to sleep - 
 
 Ah me ! the Grave is still and deep 1 
 
 But God is sweet, 
 
 My Mother told me so ; > 
 When I knelt at her feet, 
 " Long so long ago ; 
 She clasped my hands in hers, 
 Ah me ! that memory stirs 
 
 My soul s profoundest Deep 
 
 No wonder that I weep, 
 She clasped my hands, and smiled, 
 Ah ! then I was a child,. 
 
REVERIE. 
 
 I knew not harm, 
 
 My Mother s arm 
 
 Was flung around me ; and I felt 
 That when I knelt 
 
 To listen to my Mother s prayer, 
 
 God was with mother there. 
 Yea ! " God is sweet, 1 
 
 She told me so ; 
 
 She never told me wrong, 
 And through my years of woe 
 Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, 
 
 And sweet as Angel s song, 
 Have floated like a dream. 
 
 And, ah ! to-night I seem 
 
 A very child in my old, old place, 
 Beneath my Mother s blessed face ; 
 
 And through each sweet remembered word, 
 
 This sweetest undertone is heard : 
 
 My child ! my child ! our God is sweet, 
 In Life in Death kneel at his feet, 
 
 Sweet in gladness sweet in gloom, . 
 
 Sweeter still beside the Tomb. 
 
 Why should I wail ? Why ought I weep? 
 The Grave, it is not dark and deep ; 
 Why should I sigh? Why ought I moan? 
 The Grave, it is not still and lone ; 
 
 Our God is sweet, our Grave is sweet, 
 
 We lie there sleeping at his feet, 
 
 Where the wicked shall from troubling cease, 
 And weary hearts shall rest in peace 1 
 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 swift they go ! 
 Life s many years, 
 With their winds of woe 
 
 And their storms of tears, 
 
 And their darkest of Nights whose shadowy slopes 
 Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, 
 jAnd their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom 
 The clouds of the tempest the shadows of the gloom. 
 
 And ah ! we pray 
 With a grief so drear, 
 
 That the years may stay 
 
 , When their graves are near ; 
 
 Tho the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright 
 .With love and with beauty, with life and with light, 
 The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, 
 To the hearts that survive them, are evermore deat 
 
 For the heart so true, 
 
 To each Old Year cleaves ; 
 Tho the hand of the New 
 Flowery garlands weave. 
 
 ;But the flowers of the future tho fragrant and fair 
 jWith the Past s withered leaflets may never compare, 
 iFor dear is each dead leaf and dearer each thorn 
 Hn the wreaths which the brows of our Past years have 
 
44 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 Yea ! men will cling 
 
 With a love to the last ; 
 ; And wildly fling 
 
 Their arms round their Past ! 
 As the vine that clings to the oak that falls, 
 As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls ; 
 jFor the dust of the Past some hearts higher prize, 
 Than the stars that flash out from the Future s bright skies< 
 
 And why not so ! 
 
 The old, old Years, 
 They knew and they know 
 All our hopes and fears ; 
 
 We walked by their side, and we told them each grief, 
 iAnd they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief 
 And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed 
 In the hearts of the dead years are Buried and sealed. 
 
 Let the New Year sing 
 
 At the Old Year s grave, 
 Will the New Year bring 
 
 What the Old Year gave ? 
 Ah ! the Stranger- Year trips over the snows, 
 And his brow is wreathed with many a rose ; 
 But how many thorns do the roses conceal 
 Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal ! 
 
 Let the New Year smile 
 
 When the Old Year dies, 
 In how short a while 
 
 Shall the smiles be sighs ? 
 Yea ! Stranger- Year thou hast many a charm, 
 And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, 
 But, dearer than thou in his shroud of snows 
 Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes. 
 
A LAUGH AND A MOAN. 
 
 Yea, bright New Year ! 
 
 O er all the earth 
 With song and cheer 
 
 They will hail thy birth ; 
 They will trust thy words in a single hour, 
 They will love thy face, they will laud thy power, 
 For the New has charms which the Old has not, 
 And the Stranger s face makes the Friend s forgot. 
 
 45 
 
 A LAUGH AND A MOAN. 
 
 HE brook, that down the Valley 
 
 So musically drips, 
 Flowed never half so brightly 
 
 As the light laugh from her lips. 
 
 Her face was like the Lily, 
 Her heart was like the Rose, 
 
 Her eyes were like a Heaven, 
 Where the sunlight always glows. 
 
 She trod the earth so lightly 
 Her feet touched not a thorn ; 
 
 Her words wore all the brightness 
 Of a young life s happy Morn. 
 
A LA UGH AND A 
 
 Along her laughter rippled 
 
 The melody of Joy, 
 She drank from every chalice 
 
 And tasted no alloy." 
 
 Her life was all a Laughter 
 Her days were all a smile, 
 
 Her heart was pure and happy 
 She knew nor gloom nor guile. 
 
 She rested on the bosom 
 
 Of her mother, like a flower 
 That blooms far in a Valley 
 
 Where no storm-clouds ever lower. 
 ,, f 
 
 And " Merry ! merry ! merry ! " 
 Rang the bells of every hour, 
 
 And" Happy ! happy ! happy ! " 
 In her valley laughed the Flower. ^ 
 
 There was not a sign of shadow, 
 There was not a tear nor thorn, 
 
 And the sweet voice of her laughter 
 Filled with melody the Morn. 
 
 Years passed t was long long after 
 And I saw a Face at Prayer ; 
 
 .There was not a sign of laughter, 
 There was every sign of care. 
 
 For the Sunshine all had faded 
 From the Valley and the Flower,, 
 
 And the once fair face was shaded 
 In life s lonely Evening hour. 
 
LINES 1875. 4Z 
 
 And the lips that smiled with laughter 
 
 In the Valley of the Morn, 
 In the Valley of the Evening 
 
 They were pale and sorrow-worn^ 
 
 And I read the old old lesson* 
 
 In her face and in her tears 
 While she sighed amid the shadows 
 
 Of the Sunset of her years, 
 
 All the rippling streams of laughter 
 From our hearts and lips that flow 
 
 Shall be frozen, cold years after, 
 Into icicles of woe. 
 
 LINES- 1875. 
 
 O down where the wavelets are kissing the shore 
 And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
 The poets have asked them a thousand times o er 
 But they re kissing the shore as they kissed it before, 
 And they re sighing to-day and they ll sigh evermore, 
 Ask them what ails them ? they will not reply, 
 But they ll sigh on forever and never tell why ! 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 |The waves will not answer you ; neither shall I. 
 
4$ LINES 1875. 
 
 Go! stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep; 
 When the night stars are gleaming on high, 
 And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, 
 On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep* 
 They re moaning forever wherever they sweep ; 
 Ask them what, ails them ? they never reply ; 
 They moan and so sadly, but will not tell why ! 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 The waves will not answer you neither shall I ? 
 
 Go list to the breeze at the waning of day 
 
 When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye." 
 
 The dear little breeze how it wishes to stay 
 
 Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play, 
 
 How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way. 
 
 Ask it what ails it ? it will not reply, 
 
 Its voice is a sad one it never told why. 
 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 
 The breeze will not answer you, neither shall I. 
 
 Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, 
 When the shout of the storm rends the sky, 
 They rush o er the earth and they ride thro the air, 
 And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, 
 And they groan like the ghosts in the " land of despair." 
 ,Ask them what ails them ? they never reply, 
 iTheir voices are mournful, they will not tell why. 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 iThe blasts will not answer you, neither shall I. 
 
 Go, stand on the rivulet s lily-fringed side, 
 
 Or list where the rivers rush by ; 
 
 iThe streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, 
 
 And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, 
 
 Are moaning forever wherever they glide ; 
 
MEMORIES. 49 
 
 them what ails them ? they will not reply. 
 ;On sad voiced, they flow, but they never tell why. 
 tWhy does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 JEarth s streams will not answer you neither shall I. 
 
 jCo list to the voices of air, earth and sea, 
 jAnd the voices that sound in the sky, 
 fTheir songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
 [There s a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key 
 |And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. 
 jAsk them what ails them ? they will not reply. 
 They sigh sigh forever, but never tell why. 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 ir lips will not answer you neither will I. 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 HEY come, as the Breeze comes over the Foam 
 Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep, 
 
 The fairest of Memories from far-away Home 
 The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark 
 
 tThey come as the stars come out in the sky 
 
 That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep, 
 
 And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh 
 And I welcome them all while I wearily weep. 
 
50 OUT OF THE DEPTHS, 
 
 They come as a song comes out of the Past 
 
 A loved mother murmured in days that are dead 
 
 IWhose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last 
 
 When the Gloom of the heart wraps its Gray o er the head, 
 
 ffliey come like the Ghosts from the grass shrouded graves 
 And they follow our footsteps on life s winding way ; 
 
 And they murmur around us as murmur the waves 
 That sigh on the shore at the dying of day. 
 
 They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright, 
 They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale, 
 
 They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night, 
 They come, fair as flowers to the Summerless vale, 
 
 *There is not a heart that is not haunted so, 
 
 Though far we may stray from the scenes of the Past, 
 
 Its memories will follow wherever we go 
 
 And the days that were first sway the days that are Last. 
 
 "OUT OF THE DEPTHS." 
 
 OST ! Lost I Lost ! 
 The cry went up from a Sea, 
 f The waves were wild with an awful wrath 
 Not a light shone down on the lone ship s path ; 
 The clouds hung low 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed. 
 
OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 51 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 The cry floated over the waves 
 Far over the pitiless waves ; 
 It smote on the Dark and it rended the clouds, 
 The billows below them were weaving white shrouds 
 Out of the foam of the surge 
 And the wind-voices chanted a dirge^ 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 Not the sign of a hope was nigh 
 In the sea, in the air or the sky ; 
 And the lifted faces were wan and white, 
 There was nothing without them but Storm and Night, 
 And nothing within but fear ; 
 But far to a FATHER S EAR 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost I 
 Out of the depths of the sea 
 Out of the Night and the Sea ! 
 
 And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed* 
 And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed,* 
 
 Saved! Saved! Saved! 
 And a calm and a joyous cry 
 Floated up through the starry sky 
 In the dark in the storm " Our Father " is nigh. 
 
FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 WO lights on a lowly Altar ; 
 
 Two snowy cloths for a Feast ; 
 Two vases of dying roses, 
 
 The Morning conies from the East, 
 With a gleam for the folds of the Vestments 
 
 And a grace for the face of the Priest. 
 
 The sound of a low, sweet whisper 
 
 Floats over a little Bread, 
 And trembles around a chalice, 
 
 And the Priest bows down his head ! 
 O er a Sign of White on the Altar, 
 
 In the cup o er a sign of Red. 
 
 As red as the Red of roses 
 
 As white as the White of snows ! 
 But the red is the red of a surface - 
 
 Beneath which a God s blood flows ; 
 And the white is the white of a sunlight 
 Within which a God s Flesh glows. 
 
 Ah ! Words of the olden Thursday ! 
 
 Ye come from the Far-away ! 
 Ye bring us the Friday s victim 
 
 In his own love s olden way ? 
 In the hand of the Priest at the altar 
 
 His Heart finds a Home each day. 
 
FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART. 53 
 
 The sight of a Host uplifted I 
 
 The silver-sound of a bell I 
 The gleam of a golden chalice- 
 Be glad. sad heart ! t is well ; 
 He made, and he keeps love s promise 
 With thee, all days to dwell. 
 
 From his hand to his lips that tremble, 
 From his lips to his heart a-thrill, 
 
 Goes the little Host on its love-path 
 Still doing the Father s Will ; 
 
 And over the rim of the chalice 
 The Blood flows forth, to fill, 
 
 The heart of the man annointed, 
 
 With the waves of a wondrous grace j 
 
 A silence falls on the Altar 
 An awe, on each bended face 
 
 For the Heart that bled on Calvary 
 Still beats in the Holy-Place. 
 
 The priest comes down to the railing 
 Where brows are bowed in prayer, 
 
 In the tender clasp of his flngers 
 A Host lies pure and fair, 
 
 A.nd the hearts of Christ and the Christian 
 Meet there, and only there ! 
 
 Oh ! Love ! that is deep and deathless ! 
 
 Oh ! Faith that is strong and grand ! 
 Oh ! Hope that will shine forever, 
 
 O er the wastes of a weary land ! 
 Christ s Heart finds an earthly Heaven 
 
 In the palm of the Priest s pure hand. 
 
A LAND WITHOUT RUINS. 
 
 "A land without ruins is a land without memories a land without 
 jinemories Is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown 
 may be fair to see ; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow 
 of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes 
 lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of, 
 the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade crowns of thorns en- 
 |dure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity the 
 triumphs of might are transient they pass and are forgotten the suffer 
 ings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations. * 
 
 ES, give me the land where the ruins are spread, 
 And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead ; 
 Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust 
 And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. 
 Yes, give me the land where the battle s red blast 
 Has flashed to the future the fame of the past ; 
 Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays 
 That tell of the memories of long vanished days ; 
 Yes, give me a land that hath story and song, 
 Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong ; 
 Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot 
 And names in the graves that shall not be forgot ; 
 Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb 
 There is grandeur in graves there is glory in gloom ; 
 For out of the gloom future brightness is born 
 As after the night comes the sunrise of morn ; 
 And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown 
 May yet form the footstool of liberty s throne, 
 And each single wreck in the war-path of might, 
 Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right. 
 
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 
 
 OUNG as the youngest who donned the Gray, 
 
 True as the truest that wore it 
 Brave as the bravest he marched away, 
 (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), 
 Triumphant waved our flag one day," 
 He fell in the front before it. 
 
 Firm as the firmest where duty led, 
 
 He hurried without a falter ; 
 
 Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
 
 And the day was won but the field was red, 
 
 And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 
 
 On his country s hallowed altar. 
 
 On the trampled breast of the battle plain 
 Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 
 On his pale pure face not a mark of pain, 
 (His mother dreams they will meet again), 
 The fairest form amid all the slain, 
 Like a child asleep he nestled. 
 
 In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 
 The field where his comrades found him, 
 They buried him there and the big tears crept 
 Into strong men s eyes that had seldom wept 
 (His mother God pity her smiled and slept, 
 Dreaming her arms were around him). 
 
56 A THOUGHT. 
 
 A grave in the woods with the grass o ergrown, 
 A grave in the heart of his mother 
 His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; 
 There is not a name, there is not a stone 
 And only the voice of the winds maketh moan 
 O er the grave where never a flower is strewn, 
 But, his memory lives in the other. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 HE Summer-Rose the sun has flushed 
 With crimson glory, may be sweet, 
 
 T is sweeter when its leaves are crushed 
 Beneath the winds and tempests feet. 
 
 The Rose, that waves upon its tree, 
 In life, sheds perfume all around ; 
 
 More sweet the perfume floats to me 
 Of roses trampled on the ground. 
 
 The waving Rose, with every breath 
 Scents, carelessly the summer air, 
 
 The wounded Rose bleeds forth in death 
 A sweetness far more rich and rare. 
 
GONE. 57 
 
 It is a truth beyond our ken 
 
 And yet a truth that all may read, 
 
 It is with roses as with men 
 
 The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. 
 
 The Flower which Bethlehem saw bloom 
 
 Out of a Heart all full of grace 
 Gave never forth its full perfume 
 
 Until the Cross became its Vase. 
 
 "GONE." 
 
 S. M. A. 
 
 ;-*ONE ! and there s not a gleam of you, 
 
 Faces that float into far away, 
 
 Gone ! and we can only dream of you 
 
 Each as you fade like a star away, 
 Fade as a star in the sky from us, 
 Vainly we look for your light again ; 
 Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us ? 
 
 " Come " and our hearts will be bright agairU 
 
 Come ! and gaze on our face once more, 
 Bring us the smiles of the olden days ; 
 Come ! and shine in your place once more, 
 And, change the dark into golden days- 
 Gone ! Gone ! Gone ! Joy is fled for us, 
 Gone into the night of the nevermore, 
 And darkness rests where you shed for us 
 A light we will miss for ever more. 
 
58 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 
 
 Faces ! ye come in the night to us, 
 Shadows ! ye float in the sky of sleep, 
 "Shadows ! ye bring nothing bright to us, 
 [Faces ! ye are but the sigh of sleep. 
 
 Gone ! and there s not a gleam of you, 
 Faces that float into the far away ; 
 Gone ! and we only can dream of you 
 Till we sink like you and the stars away. 
 
 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 
 
 "A NIGHT-PRAYER." 
 
 ARK! Dark! Dark! 
 
 The sun is set ; the Day is dead, 
 
 Thy Feast has fled ; 
 My eyes are wet, with tears unshed 
 
 I bow my head ; 
 Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway, 
 
 I bend my knee, 
 And, like a homesick child, I pray, 
 
 Mary ! to Thee. 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 And, all the Day, since white-robed Priest 
 
 In farthest East, 
 In dawn s first ray, began the Feast, 
 
 _ I I the least, 
 Thy least, and last and lowest child 
 
 I called on Thee ! 
 Virgin ! did st hear ? my words were wild ; 
 
 Did st think of me ? 
 
FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 59 
 
 Dark ! Dark ! Dark ! 
 Alas ! and no ! the Angels bright 
 
 With wings as white 
 As a dream of snow in Love and Light 
 
 Flashed on thy sight ; 
 They shone, like stars around Thee ! Queen ! 
 
 I knelt afar 
 A Shadow only dims the scene 
 
 Where shines a star ! 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 And all day long, beyond the sky 
 
 Sweet, pure, and high 
 The Angels song swept sounding by 
 
 Triumphantly ; 
 And when such music filled thy ear 
 
 Rose round thy throne, 
 How could I hope that thou would st hear 
 
 My far, faint moan ? 
 
 Dark ! Dark ! Dark ! 
 And all day long, where altars stand 
 
 .;. Or poor or grand 
 A countless throng from every land 
 
 . With lifted hand, 
 Winged hymns to Thee from sorrow s vale 
 
 In glad acclaim, 
 
 How could st thou hear my lone lips wail 
 Thy sweet, pure Name ? 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 Alas ! and no, Thou did st not hear 
 
 Nor bend thy ear, 
 To prayer of woe as mine so drear ; 
 
 For hearts more dear 
 
60 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 
 
 Hid me from hearing and from sight 
 This bright Feast-day ; 
 
 Wilt hear me, Mother if in its Night 
 I kneel and pray ? 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 The sun is set, the Day is dead 
 
 Thy feast hath fled ; 
 My eyes are wet with the tears I shed 
 
 I bow my head ; 
 Angels and Altars hailed Thee Queen 
 
 All day ; ah ! be 
 To-night what thou hast ever been 
 
 A Mother to me ! 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 Thy Queenly Crown, in angel s sight 
 
 Is fair and bright ; 
 Ah ! lay it down ; for oh ! to-night 
 
 Its jewelled light 
 Shines not as the tender love-light shines 
 
 O Mary ! mild, 
 In the mother s eyes, whose pure heart pines 
 
 For poor, lost child 1 
 
 Dark ! Dark ! Dark ! 
 Sceptre in hand, Thou dost hold sway 
 
 Fore er and aye. 
 In angel-land, but fair Queen ! pray ! 
 
 Lay it away, 
 Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above 
 
 Where angels are ; 
 But, Mother ! fold in thine arms of love 
 
 Thy child afar! 
 
SUXSUM CORDA. 61 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 Mary ! I call ! Wilt hear the Prayer 
 
 My poor lips dare ! 
 Yea ! be to all, a Queen most fair, 
 
 Crown, sceptre bear ! 
 But look on me with a Mother s eyes 
 
 From Heaven s bliss ; 
 And waft to me from the starry skies 
 
 A mother s kiss ! 
 
 Dark! Dark! Dark! 
 The Sun s is set the Day is dead ; 
 
 Her feast has fled ; 
 Can she forget the sweet blood shed, 
 
 The last words said 
 That evening " Woman ! behold thy Son " 1 
 
 Oh ! priceless Right ! 
 Of all His children, the last, least one 
 
 Is heard to-night. 
 
 SURSUM CORDA. 
 
 EARY hearts ! weary hearts ! by the cares of life 
 
 oppressed, 
 Ye are wand ring in the shadows ye are sighing fotf 
 
 a rest : 
 There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleafe 
 
 below, 
 
 And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. 
 Weary Hearts ! God is Rest. 
 
62 SUltSUM CORDA. 
 
 GLonely Hearts ! lonely hearts ! this is but a land of grief ; 
 
 Ye are pining for repose ye are longing for relief : 
 
 What the world hath never given Kneel, and ask of God 
 
 above, 
 jAnd your grief shall turn to gladness if you lean upon 
 
 His love. 
 
 Lonely Hearts ! God is Love. 
 
 Restless Hearts ! restless hearts ! ye are toiling night and day, 
 And the flowers of life all withered, leave but thorns along 
 
 your way : 
 Ye are waiting ye are wailing till your toilings all shall 
 
 ce*ase, 
 
 And your ev ry restless beating is a sad sad prayer for peace. 
 Restless Heart ! God is Peace. 
 
 (Breaking Hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone, 
 And low voices from the Past o er your present ruins moan ! 
 (In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy 
 And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy. 
 Broken Hearts ! God is Joy. 
 
 Homeless Hearts ! homeless hearts ! through the dreary, 
 
 dreary years, 
 Ye are lonely, lonely wand rers, and your way is wet with 
 
 tears ; 
 
 In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, 
 Ye look away from earth-land and ye murmur "where is 
 
 home?". 
 
 Homeless Hearts ! God is Home. 
 
"PRESENTIMENT." 
 
 COMETH a Voice from a Far-land ! 
 
 Beautiful, sad and low, 
 Shineth a Light from the star-land ! 
 Down on the Night of my love, 
 And a white Hand, with a garland 
 Biddeth my spirit to go. 
 
 Away and afar from the Night-land 
 
 Where sorrow o ershadows my way, 
 
 To the splendors and skies of the Light-land 
 Where reigneth Eternity s Day, 
 
 To the cloudless and shadowless Bright-land 
 Whose sun never passeth away. 
 
 And / knew the voice ; not a sweeter 
 
 On earth or in heaven can be ; 
 And never did shadow pass fleeter 
 
 Than it, and its strange melody ; 
 And I know I must hasten to meet her, 
 " Yea ! Sister! Thou callest to me " ! 
 
 And / saw the Light ; t was not seeming, 
 It flashed from the crown that she wore, 
 
 And the brow, that, with jewels, was gleaming. 
 My lips had kissed often of yore ; 
 
 And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, 
 Had smiled on me sweetly before. 
 
64 A CHILD S WISH. 
 
 And I saw the Hand with the Garland, 
 Ethel s Hand holy and fair ; 
 
 Who went long ago to the Far-land 
 
 To weave me the wreath I shall wear ; 
 
 And, to-night, I look up to the Star-land 
 And pray that I soon may be there. 
 
 A CHILD S WISH. 
 
 BEFORE AN ALTAR. 
 
 WISH I was the little key, 
 
 That locks Love s Captive in, 
 Ard lets him out to go and free 
 A sinful heart from sin. 
 
 I wish I were the little bell, 
 
 That tinkles for the Host, 
 When GOD comes down each day to dwell 
 
 With hearts He loves the most. 
 
 I wish I were the chalice fair, 
 That holds the Blood of Love, 
 
 When every flash lights holy prayer 
 Upon its way above. 
 
 I wish I were the little flower 
 So near the Host s sweet Face 
 
 Or like the light that half an hour 
 Burns on the shrine of grace. 
 
/ OFTEN WONDER WHY TIS SO. 65 
 
 I wish I was the Altar, where 
 
 As on His mother s breast, 
 Christ nestles, like a child, fore er 
 
 In Eucharistic rest. 
 
 But, Oh ! my GOD I wish the most 
 
 That my poor heart may be, 
 A home all holy for each Host 
 
 That comes in love to me, 
 
 I OFTEN WONDER WHY TIS SO. 
 
 OME find work where some find rest 
 And so the weary world goes on ; 
 
 I sometimes wonder which is best ? 
 The answer comes when life is gone. 
 
 Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, 
 And so the dreary night-hours go ; 
 
 Some hearts beat where some hearts break 
 I often wonder why t is so. 
 
 Some wills faint where some wills fight, 
 Some love the tent, and some, the field ? 
 
 I often wonder who are right, 
 
 The ones who strive, or those, who yield? 
 
 Some hands fold where other hands 
 Are lifted bravely in the strife ; 
 
 And so thro ages and thro lands 
 Move on the two extremes of life. 
 
66 WAKE ME A SONG. 
 
 Some feet halt where some feet tread, 
 In tireless march, a thorny way ; 
 
 Some struggle on where some have fled ; 
 Some seek, when others shun the fray. 
 
 Some swords rust where others clash, 
 Some fall back where some move on, * 
 
 Some flags furl where others flash 
 Until the battle has been won. 
 
 Some sleep on while others keep 
 The vigils of the true and brave : 
 
 They will not rest till roses creep 
 Around their name above a grave. 
 
 WAKE ME A SONG. 
 
 UT of the Silences wake me a song, 
 
 Beautiful, sad, and soft and low ; 
 Let the loveliest music sound along, 
 And wing each note with a wail of woe. 
 Dim and drear 
 As hope s last tear, 
 Out of the Silences wake me a hymn, 
 Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 67 
 
 Out of the Stillnesses in your heart 
 
 A thousand songs are sleeping there, 
 Wake me a song, thou child of art ! 
 The song of a hope in a last despair, 
 Dark and low, 
 A chant of woe, 
 
 Out of the stillness, tone by tone, 
 Cold as a snow-flake, low as a moan. 
 
 Out of the darkness, flash me a song, 
 
 Brightly dark and darkly bright ; 
 Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along 
 
 The mystical shadows of the night. 
 
 Sing it sweet, 
 
 Where nothing is drear, or dark or dim, 
 And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn. 
 
 "IN MEMORIAM/ 1 
 
 O ! Heart of mine ! the way is long, 
 The night is dark, the place is far ; 
 
 Go ! kneel and pray, or chant a song 
 Beside two graves where Mary s star 
 
 Shines o er two children s hearts at rest 
 With Mary s medals on their breast. 
 
68 REVERIE. 
 
 Go ! Heart ! those children loved you so, 
 Their little lips prayed oft for you ! 
 
 But ah ! those necks are lying low 
 
 Round which you twined the badge of Blue. 
 
 Go to their graves, this Virgin s feast 
 With poet s song and prayer of Priest. 
 
 Go ! like a pilgrim to a shrine 
 
 For that is holy ground where sleep 
 
 Children of Mary and of thine. 
 
 Go ! kneel, and pray and sing and weep ;- 
 
 Last summer how their faces smiled 
 
 When each was blessed as Mary s child. 
 
 ***** 
 My heart hath gone ! I cannot sing ! 
 
 Beside those children s grave, song dies ; 
 Hush ! Poet ! Priest ! Prayer hath a wing 
 
 To pass the stars and reach the skies ; 
 Sweet children ! from the land of light 
 
 Look down and bless my Heart to-night 
 
 REVERIE. 
 
 E laugh when our souls are the saddest, 
 
 We shroud all our griefs in a smile ; 
 Our voices may warble their gladdest, 
 And our souls mourn in anguish the while. 
 
REVERIE. 69 
 
 And our eyes wear a summer s bright glory, 
 
 When winter is wailing beneath ; " 
 And we tell not the world the sad story 
 
 Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath. 
 
 Ah ! fast flow the moments of laughter, 
 
 And bright as the brook to the sea ; 
 But ah ! the dark hours that come after 
 
 Of moaning for you and for me. 
 
 Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting 
 
 As birds, fly the moments of glee ! 
 And we smile ; and mayhaps grief is sleeting 
 
 Its ice upon you and on me. 
 
 And the clouds of the tempest are shifting 
 O er the heart, tho the face may be bright ; 
 
 And the snows of woe s winter are drifting 
 Our souls ; and each day hides a night. 
 
 For ah ! when our souls are enjoying 
 
 The mirth which our faces reveal, 
 There is something a something - alloying 
 
 The sweetness of joy that we feel. 
 
 Life s loveliest sky hides the thunder, 
 
 Whose bolt in a moment may fall, 
 And our path may be flowery; but under 
 
 The flowers there are thorns for us all 
 
 Ah ! tis hard when our beautiful dreamings, 
 
 That flash down the valley of Night, 
 Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming^ 
 
 And leave us, like eagles in flight ; 
 
70 REVERIE. 
 
 And fly far awav unreturning, 
 
 And leave us in terror and tears, 
 While vain is the spirit s wild yearning 
 
 That they may come back in the years. 
 
 Come back ! did I say it ? but never 
 Do eagles come back to the cage : 
 
 They have gone they have gone and forever ! 
 Does youth come back ever to age ? 
 
 No ! a joy that has left us in sorrow 
 
 Smiles never again on our way; 
 But we meet in the farthest To-morrow 
 
 The face of the grief of To-day. 
 
 The brightness whose tremulous glimmer 
 
 Has faded we cannot recall ; 
 And the Light that grows dimmer and dimmer 
 
 When gone tis forever and all. 
 
 Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, 
 
 Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom, 
 
 Youth s roses perfume not the fingers 
 Of age groping nigh to the tomb. 
 
 For "the memory of joy is a sadness" 
 The dim twilight after the day; 
 
 And the grave where we bury a gladness 
 Sends a grief, like, a ghost, on our way. 
 
 No day shall return that has faded, 
 
 The dead come not back from the tomb ; 
 
 The vale of each life must be shaded, 
 That we may see best from the gloom. 
 
 The height of the home of our glory 
 
 All radiant with splendors of light- 
 That we may read clearly life s story 
 " The Dark is the Dawn of the Bright." 
 
TEARS 
 
 HE tears that trickled down our eyes, 
 pf 55 * They do not .touch the earth to-day; 
 * But soar like angels to the skies, 
 And like the angels, may not die ; 
 For ah ! our immortality 
 Flows thro* each tear, sounds in each sigh. 
 
 What waves of tears surge o er the deep 
 
 Of sorrow, in our restless souls ! 
 And they are strong, not weak, who weep, 
 Those drops from out the sea that rolls 
 Within their hearts forevermore ; 
 Without a depth without a shore. 
 
 But ah ! the tears that are not wept, 
 The tears that never outward fall ; 
 The tears that grief for years has kept 
 Within us they are best of all : 
 
 The tears our eyes shall never know, 
 Are dearer than the tears that flow. 
 
 Each night upon earth s flowers below, 
 
 The dew comes down from darkest skies, 
 And every night our tears of woe 
 Go up like dews to Paradise, 
 
 To keep in bloom, and make more fair, 
 The flowers of crowns we yet shall wear. 
 
72 LINES. 
 
 For ah ! the surest way to God 
 
 Is up the lonely streams of tears, 
 That flow, when bending neath His rod, 
 And fill the tide of earthly years. 
 
 On laughter s billows hearts are tossed, 
 On waves of tears no heart is lost. 
 
 Flow on, ye tears ! and bear me home ; 
 
 Flow not ! ye tears of deeper woe ; 
 Flow on, ye tears ! that are but foam 
 Of deeper waves that will not flow. 
 A little while I reach the shore 
 Where tears flow not forevermore 1 
 
 LINES. 
 
 TWO LOVES. 
 
 WO Loves came up a long, wide aisle 
 
 And knelt at a low, white gate ; 
 <? One tender and true, with the shyest smile, 
 One strong, true and elate. 
 
 Two lips spoke in a firm, true way 
 And two lips answered soft and low, 
 
 In one true hand such a little hand lay 
 Fluttering, frail as a flake of snow. 
 
THE LAND WE LOVE. 73 
 
 One stately head bent humbly there, 
 
 Stilled were the throbbings of human love 
 
 One head drooped down like a lily fair, 
 Two prayers went, wing to wing, above. 
 
 God blest them both in the holy place, 
 
 A long brief moment ; the rite was done; 
 
 On the human love fell the heavenly grace, 
 Making two hearts forever one. 
 
 Between two lengthening rows of smiles, 
 
 One sweetly shy, one proud, elate, 
 Two Loves passed down the long, wide aisles, 
 
 Will they ever forget the low, white gate ? 
 
 THE LAND WE LOVE. 
 
 AND of the gentle and brave ! 
 
 Our love is as wide as thy woe \ 
 r It deepens beside every grave 
 
 Where the heart of a hero lies low. 
 
 Land of the sunniest skies ! 
 
 Our love glows the more for thy gloom ; 
 Our hearts by the saddest of ties, 
 
 Cling closest to thee in thy doom. 
 
74 A BLESSING. 
 
 Land where the desolate weep 
 
 In a sorrow no voice may console, 
 
 Our tears are but streams making deep 
 The ocean of love in our soul. 
 
 Land where the victor s flag waves, 
 Where only the dead are the free ; 
 
 Each link of the chain that enslaves, 
 But binds us to them and to thee. 
 
 Land where the Sign of the Cross 
 Its shadow hath everywhere shed, 
 
 We measure our love by thy loss, 
 Thy loss by the graves of our dead 
 
 A BLESSING. 
 
 E you near, or be you far ! 
 Let my Blessing, like a Star, 
 Shine upon you everywhere ! 
 And in each lone Evening-hour 
 When the twilight folds the flower, 
 I will fold thy name in Prayer, 
 
 In the Dark and in the Day 
 To my heart you know the way, 
 
 Sorrow s pale hand keeps the key;- 
 In your sorrow or your sin 
 You may always enter in, 
 
 I will keep a place for thee. 
 
A BLESSING. 75 
 
 If God s blessing pass away 
 From your spirit ; if you stray 
 
 From his presence, do not wait. 
 Come to my heart, for I keep, 
 For the hearts that wail and weep, 
 
 Ever opened wide, a Gate. 
 
 In your joys, to others go, 
 When your feet walk ways of woe 
 
 Only then come back to me ; 
 I will give you tear for tear 
 And our tears shall more endear 
 
 Thee to me and me to thee. 
 
 For I make my heart the Home 
 Of all hearts in grief that come 
 
 Seeking refuge and a Rest. 
 Do not fear me, for you know, 
 Be your footsteps e er so low 
 
 I know yours, of all, the best. 
 
 Once you came ; and you brought sin j 
 Did not my hand lead you in 
 
 Into God s Heart, thro my own ? 
 Did not my voice speak a word 
 You, for years, had never heard, 
 
 Mystic word in Mercy s tone ? 
 
 And a grace fell on your brow 
 And I heard your murmured vow, 
 When I whispered : "Go in peace," 
 "Go in peace, and sin no more" 
 Did you not touch mercy s shore ? 
 Did not sin s wild tempest cease ? 
 
76 ERIN S FLAG. 
 
 Go then ! thou art good and pure, 
 If thou e er shouldst fall be sure 
 
 Back to me thy footsteps trace I 
 In my heart for year and year 
 Be thou far away or near 
 
 I shall keep for thee a place. 
 
 Yes ! I bless you near or far 
 And .my blessing, like a star 
 
 Shall shine on you everywhere, 
 And in many a holy hour, 
 As the sunshine folds the flower, 
 
 I will fold thy Heart in Prayer. 
 
 ERIN S FLAG. 
 
 p"NROLL Erin s flag ! fling its folds to the breeze ! 
 Let it float o er the land, let it flash o er the seas ; 
 Lift it out of the dust let it wave as of yore, 
 When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and 
 
 swore 
 
 That never ! no ! never, while God gave them life, 
 And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, 
 That never ! no ! never, that Banner should yield 
 As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; 
 While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, 
 And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. 
 
FLAG. 77 
 
 Lift it up ! wave it high ! tis .as bright as of old ! 
 Not a stain on its Green, not a blot on its gold, 
 Tho the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years 
 Have drenched Erin s Sunburst with blood and with tears ! 
 Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, 
 And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. 
 Look aloft ! look aloft ! lo ! the clouds drifting by, 
 There s a gleam through the gloom, there s a light in the sky. 
 Tis the Sunburst resplendent far, flashing on high ! 
 Erin s dark night is waning ; her day dawn is nigh ! 
 
 Lift it up ! lift it up ! the old Banner of Green ! 
 
 The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen ; 
 
 What ! though the Tyrant has trampled it down, 
 
 Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown ? 
 
 What ! though for ages it droops in the dust, 
 
 Shall it droop thus forever? no ! no ! God is just ! 
 
 Take it up ! take it up ! from the tyrant s foul tread, 
 
 Let him tear the Green Flag we will snatch its last shred; 
 
 And beneath it we ll bleed as our forefathers bled, 
 
 And we ll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead. 
 
 And we ll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed 
 And we ll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread-^ 
 And we ll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, 
 Died down in the ditches wild-howling for bread. 
 And we ll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled ; 
 And we ll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, 
 That we ll battle the Briton through danger and dread ; 
 That we ll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 
 Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
 Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said 
 That we ll lift up the Green, and we ll tear down the Red. 
 
78 ERIN S FLAG. 
 
 Lift up the Green Flag ! oh ! it wants to go nome ; 
 Full long has its lot been to wander and roam ; 
 >It has followed the fate of its sons o er the world, 
 But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled ; 
 Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, 
 It has flitted and fled but it never shall rest, 
 Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o er the main, 
 And speeds to the shores of its old home again, 
 Where its fetterless folds, o er each mountain and plain, 
 Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. 
 
 Take it up ! take it up ! bear it back from afar 
 That Banner must blaze mid the lightnings of war ; 
 Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, 
 And swear that you ll bear it triumphant or die, 
 And shout to the clans scattered far o er the earth, 
 To join in the march to the land of their birth ; 
 And wherever the Exiles, neath heaven s broad dome, 
 Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, 
 They ll bound on the sea, and away o er the foam, 
 They ll sail to the music of " Home, sweet Home " ! 
 
JULY 9 TH ? 1872. 
 BETWEEN two pillared clouds of Gold 
 
 f 
 
 The Beautiful Gates of Evening swung, 
 And far and wide, from flashing fold 
 
 The half-furled Banners of Light, that hung, 
 O er green of wood and gray of wold 
 And over the Blue where the river rolled 
 The fading gleams of their Glory, flung. 
 
 The sky wore not a frown all day 
 
 To mar the smile of the Morning-tide, 
 
 The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay 
 
 You never would think they had ever sighed ; 
 
 The stream went on its sunlit way 
 
 In ripples of laughter ; happy they 
 As the hearts that met at Riverside. 
 
 No cloudlet in the sky serene ! 
 
 Not a silver speck in the golden hue ! 
 But where the woods waved low and green, 
 
 And seldom would let the sunlight through, 
 Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen 
 The faces of children might be seen 
 
 And the flash of ribbons of blue. 
 
80 JULY gt/i, 1872. 
 
 It was a children s simple feast, 
 
 Yet many were there whose faces told 
 
 How far they are from Childhood s East 
 Who have reached the Evening of the Old ! 
 
 And Father, Mother, Sister, Priest, 
 
 They seemed all day like the very least 
 Of the little children of the fold. 
 
 The old forgot they were not young 
 
 The young forgot they would e er be old, 
 
 And all day long the trees among 
 
 Where er their footsteps stayed or strolled 
 
 Came wittiest word from tireless tongue 
 
 And the merriest peals of laughter rung 
 
 Where the woods drooped low and the river rolled. 
 
 No cloud upon the faces there, 
 
 Not a sorrow came from its hiding place 
 
 To cast the shadow of a care 
 
 On the fair sweet brows in that fairest place ; 
 
 For in the sky and in the air 
 
 And in their spirits and everywhere 
 
 Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace. 
 
 The Day was long, but ah ! too brief ! 
 
 Swift to the West bright-winged she fled, 
 Too soon on ev ry look and leaf 
 
 The last rays flushed which her plumage shed 
 From an Evening cloud, was it a sign of grief? 
 And the bright Day passed, is there much relief 
 
 That its Dream dies not when its gleam is dead ? 
 
 Great sky ! thou art a Prophet still ! 
 
 And by thy shadows and by thy rays 
 We read the future if we will 
 
A DEATH. 8 1 
 
 And all the fates of our future ways, 
 To-morrows meet us in vale and hill, 
 And under the trees and by the rill 
 
 Thou givest the sign of our coming days. 
 
 That Evening-cloud was a Sign I ween, 
 
 For the sister of that Summer-Day 
 Shall come next year to the self-same scene 
 
 The winds will sing the self-same lay 
 The self-same woods will wave as green, 
 And Riverside ! thy skies serene 
 Shall robe thee again in a golden sheen 
 Yet though thy shadows may weave a screen 
 Where the children s faces may be seen 
 Thou ne er shall be as thou hast been 
 
 For a Face they loved has passed away. 
 
 A DEATH. 
 
 CRUSHED with a burden of woe, 
 Wrecked in the tempest of sin. 
 Death came, and two lips murmured low, 
 "Ah ! once I was white as the snow, 
 In the happy and pure long-ago ; 
 But they say God is sweet is it so ? 
 Will he let a poor wayward one in " ? 
 
82 A DEATH. 
 
 " In where the innocent are, 
 
 Ah ! Justice stands guard at the gate 
 Does it mock at a poor sinner s fate 
 Alas ! I have fallen so far ! 
 
 Oh God ! Oh my God ! Tis too late \ 
 I have fallen as falls a lost star, 
 The sky does not miss the gone gleam ; 
 But my heart, like the lost star, can dream 
 Of the sky it has fall ii from. Nay ! 
 I have wandered too far far away, 
 Oh ! would that my mother were here ; 
 Is God like a mother ? Has he 
 Any love for a sinner like me " ? 
 
 Her face wore the wildness of woe 
 
 Her words, the wild tones of despair ; 
 Ah ! how can a heart sink so low, 
 
 How a face that was once bright and so fair, 
 Can be furrowed and darkened with care? 
 Wild rushed the hot tears from her eyes, 
 From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, 
 Her poor heart was broken ; but then 
 Her God was far gentler than men. 
 
 A voice whispered low at her side, 
 
 "Child ! God is more gentle than men, 
 He watches by Passion s dark tide, 
 
 He sees a wreck drifting and then 
 He beckons with hand and with voice, 
 
 And He sees the poor wreck floating in 
 To the haven on Mercy s bright shore, 
 And he whispers the whisper of yore : 
 The angels of Heaven rejoice 
 
 O er the sinner repenting of sin. " 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 83 
 
 And a silence eame down for awhile, 
 
 And her lips they were moving in prayer, 
 
 And her face it wore just such a smile, 
 As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear, 
 
 Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, 
 
 Ere the soul of the girl knew the wile, 
 That had led her to Passion s despair. 
 
 Death s shadows crept over her face, 
 And softened the hard marks of care ; 
 
 Repentance had won a last grace, 
 
 And the Angel of Mercy stood there. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 DAVID J. RYAN, C. S. A. 
 
 HOU art sleeping, Brother, sleeping 
 
 In thy lonely battle grave ; 
 Shadows o er the past are creeping, 
 Death, the reaper, still is reaping, 
 Years have swept, and years are sweeping 
 Many a memory from my keeping, 
 But I m waiting still, and weeping 
 For my Beautiful and Brave. 
 
84 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 When the battle songs were chaunted, 
 And war s stirring tocsin pealed, 
 By those songs thy heart was haunted, 
 And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, 
 Clamored wildly wildly panted ; 
 " Mother ! let my wish be granted ; 
 I will ne er be mocked and taunted 
 That I feared to meet our vaunted 
 Foemen on the bloody field." 
 
 w They are thronging, mother ! thronging, 
 To a thousand fields of fame ; 
 
 Let me go tis wrong and wronging 
 
 God and thee to crush this longing ; 
 
 On the muster-roll of glory, 
 
 In my country s future story, 
 
 On the field of battle gory 
 
 I must consecrate my name. 
 
 " Mother ! gird my sword around me, 
 
 Kiss thy soldier-boy good-bye. " 
 In her arms she wildly wound thee 
 To thy birth-land s cause she bound thee 
 With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee 
 And she sobbed : " When foes surround thee, 
 If you fall, I ll know they found thee, 
 Where the bravest love to die." 
 
 At the altar of their nation, 
 
 Stood that mother and her son ; 
 He, the victim of oblation ; 
 Panting for his immolation ; 
 She, in priestess holy station, 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 85 
 
 Weeping words of consecration, 
 While God smiled his approbation, 
 Blessed the boy s self-abnegation, 
 Cheered the mother s desolation, 
 AVhen the sacrifice was done. 
 
 Forth, like many a noble other, 
 
 Went he, whispering soft and low 
 "Good-byepray for me, my mother ; 
 
 Sister! kiss me farewell, brother"; 
 
 And he strove his grief to smother. 
 
 Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, 
 
 And his parting gaze was tearless, 
 
 Though his heart was lone and cheerless, 
 Thus from all he loved to go. 
 
 Lo ! yon flag of freedom flashing 
 In the sunny Southern sky : 
 On to death and glory dashing, 
 On where swords are clanging, clashing. 
 On where balls are crushing, crashing, 
 On mid perils dread, appalling, 
 On they re falling, falling, falling, 
 On they re growing fewer, fewer, 
 On their hearts beat all the truer, 
 
 On on on, no fear, no falter, 
 
 On though round the battle-altar, 
 There were wounded victims moaning, 
 There were dying soldiers groaning ; 
 On, right on, death s danger braving, 
 Warring where their flag was waving, 
 While Baptismal-blood was laving 
 
 All that field of death and slaughter ; 
 On still on ; that bloody laver 
 
86 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Made them braver and made them braver, - 
 On with never a halt or waver, 
 On in battle bleeding bounding 
 While the glorious shout swept sounding 
 "We will win the day or die." 
 
 And they won it ; routed, riven 
 
 Reeled the foemen s proud array : 
 They had struggled hard, and striven, 
 Blood in torrents they had given, 
 But their ranks dispersed and driven 
 Fled, in sullenness, away. 
 
 Many a heart was lonely lying 
 
 That would never throb again, 
 Some were dead, and some were dying 
 Those were silent, these were sighing 
 Thus to die alone, unattended, 
 .Unbewept and unbefriended 
 
 On that bloody battle-plain. 
 
 When the twilight sadly, slowly 
 
 Wrapped its mantle o er them all, 
 Thousands, thousands lying lowly 
 Hushed in silence deep and holy, 
 There was one, his blood was flowing 
 And his last of life was going, 
 And his pulse faint, fainter beating 
 Told his hours were few and fleeting, 
 And his brow grew white and whiter 
 While his eyes grew strangely brighter, 
 There he lay like infant dreaming 
 With his sword beside him gleaming, 
 For the hand, in life, that grasped it 
 
WHAT? 87 
 
 True, in death, still fondly clasped it ; 
 There his comrades found him lying 
 Mid the heaps of dead and dying, 
 And the sternest bent down weeping 
 O er the lonely sleeper sleeping : 
 Twas the midnight ; stars shone round him, 
 And they told us how they found him 
 Where the bravest love to fall. 
 
 Where the woods, like banners bending, 
 
 Drooped in starlight and in gloom, 
 There, when that sad night was ending 
 And the faint," far dawn was blending 
 With the stars now fast descending, 
 There, they mute and mournful bore him 
 With the stars and shadows o er him, 
 And they laid him down so tender 
 And the next day s sun, in splendor 
 Flashed above my brother s tomb. 
 
 WHAT? 
 
 TO ETHEL. 
 
 fT the golden gates of the Visions 
 
 I knelt me adown, one day, 
 But sudden my prayer was a silence, 
 
 For I heard from the " Far away," 
 The murmur of many voices 
 
 And a silvery censer s sway. 
 
88 WHA T? 
 
 I bowed in awe, and I listened 
 The deeps of my soul were stirred, 
 
 But deepest of all was the meaning 
 Of the far off music I heard, 
 
 And yet it was stiller than silence, 
 Its notes were the " Dream of a Word." 
 
 A word that is whispered in Heaven 
 But cannot be heard below, 
 
 It lives on the lips of the angels 
 Where er their pure wings glow, 
 
 Yet only the " Dream of its Echo" 
 Ever reaches this valley of woe. 
 
 But I know the Word and its meaning, 
 I reached to jjs height that day, 
 When prayer sank into a silence 
 
 And my heart was so far away, 
 But I may not murmur the music, 
 
 Nor the Word may my lips yet say. 
 
 But some day far in the future, 
 And up from the dust of the dead, 
 
 And out of my lips when speechless 
 The mystical word shall be said, 
 
 Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, 
 When the soul of the Bard has fled. 
 
A "THOUGHT-FLOWER." 
 
 SILENTLY, shadowly, some lives go, 
 
 And the sound of their voices is all unheard, 
 Or if heard at all, tis as faint as the flow 
 
 Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. 
 Deep lives these, 
 As the pearl-strewn seas. 
 
 Softly and noiselessly some feet tread 
 
 Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark, 
 They move mid the living, they pass to the dead 
 As still as the gleam of a star thro the dark. 
 Sweet lives those 
 In their strange repose. 
 
 Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, 
 
 And none may know that they beat at all ; 
 They muffle their music whenever they meet 
 A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall. 
 Great hearts those 
 God only knows ! 
 
 Soundlessly, shadowly, such move on, 
 
 Dim as the dream of a child asleep ; 
 
 And no one knov/eth till they are gone 
 
 How lofty thiir souls, their hearts how deep ; 
 Bright souls these 
 God only sees. 
 
THE MASTER S VOICE. 
 
 Lonely and hiddenly in the world, 
 
 Tho in the world tis their lot to stay, 
 The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled 
 Until they fly from the world away 
 And find their rest 
 On "Our Father s" breast, 
 Where earth s unknown shall be known the best, 
 And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest. 
 
 THE MASTER S VOICE. 
 
 HE waves were weary, and they went to sleep ; 
 The winds were hushed, 
 The starlight flushed 
 The furrowed face of all the mighty deep, 
 
 The billows yester eve so dark and wild, 
 
 Wore strangely now 
 
 A calm upon their brow, 
 Like that which rests upon a cradled child. 
 
 The sky was bright, and every single star, 
 
 With gleaming face, 
 
 Was in its place, 
 And looked upon the sea so fair and far. 
 
 And all was still still as a temple dim 
 
 When low and faint 
 
 As murmurs plaint 
 Dies the last note of the vesper hymn. 
 
THE MASTERS VOICE. 91 
 
 A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark 
 
 Slept Mary s Son 
 
 The only One 
 Whose Face is light ! where all, all else, is dark. 
 
 His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair ; 
 
 He dreamed of me 
 
 On that still sea 
 The stars He made were gleaming through His hair. 
 
 And, lo ! a moan moved o er the mighty deep, 
 
 The sky grew dark ! 
 
 The little bark 
 Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep. 
 
 The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat ; 
 
 The bark was tossed : 
 
 Shall all be lost ? 
 But Mary s Son slept on, serene and sweet. 
 
 The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath, 
 
 The winds howled on, 
 
 All hope seemed gone, 
 And darker waves surged round the bark s lone patn r 
 
 The sleeper \v oke ! He gazed upon the deep- 
 He whispered : " Peace ! 
 Winds wild waves, cease ! 
 
 Be still" ! The tempest fled the ocean fell asleep. 
 
 And, ah ! when human hearts by storms are tossed \ 
 
 When life s lone bark 
 
 .Drifts through the dark, 
 And mid the wildest waves where all seems lost, 
 
92 DEATH. 
 
 He now, as then, with words of power and peace, 
 Murmurs : " Stormy deep, 
 Be still still and sleep " ! 
 
 And, lo ! a great calm comes the tempest s perils cease. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 ll UT of the shadows of sadness, 
 
 to the sunshine of gladness, 
 Into the light of the blest; 
 Out of a land very dreary, 
 Out of the world very weary, 
 Into the Rapture of Rest. 
 
 Out of To-day s sin and sorrow, 
 Into a blissful To-morrow, 
 
 Into a day without gloom ; 
 Out of a land filled with sighing, 
 Land of the dead and the dying, 
 
 Into a land without tomb. 
 
 Out of a life of commotion 
 Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, 
 
 Dark with the wrecks drifting o er, 
 Into a land calm and quiet, 
 Never a storm cometh night it, 
 
 Never a wreck on its shore. 
 
THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. 93 
 
 Out of a land in whose bowers 
 Perish and fade all the flowers, 
 
 Out of the land of decay 
 Into the Eden where fairest 
 Of flowerlets and sweetest and rarest 
 
 Never shall wither away. 
 
 Out of the world of the wailing 
 Thronged with the anguished and ailing, 
 
 Out of the world of the sad, 
 Into the world that rejoices, 
 World of bright visions and voices, 
 
 Into the world of the glad. 
 
 Out of a life ever mournful, 
 Out of a land very lornful 
 
 Where in bleak exile we roam ; 
 Into a joy-land above us 
 Where there s a Father to love us, 
 
 Into our Home, " Sweet Home." 
 
 THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. 
 
 OME reckon their age by years, 
 
 Some measure their life by art ; 
 But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, 
 And their lives by the moans of their heart. 
 
94 THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. 
 
 The dials of earth may show 
 
 The length, not the depth of years, 
 
 Few or many they come, few or many they go, 
 But Time is best measured by tears. 
 
 Ah ! not by the silver gray 
 
 That creeps thro the sunny hair, 
 And not by the scenes that we pass on our way 
 
 And not by the furrows, the fingers of care 
 
 On forehead and face have made. 
 
 Not so do we count our years ; 
 Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
 
 Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. 
 
 For the young are oft-times old, 
 
 Though their brows be bright and fair ; 
 
 While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold 
 O er them the Spring but Winter is there. 
 
 And the old are oft-times young, 
 When their hair is thin and white ; 
 
 And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, 
 And they laugh, for their cross was light. 
 
 But, bead by bead, I tell 
 
 The Rosary of my years ; 
 From a cross to a cross they lead ; tis well, 
 
 And they re blest with a blessing of tears. 
 
 Better a day of strife, 
 
 Than a century of sleep ; 
 Give me instead of a long stream of life 
 
 The tempests and tears of the deep. 
 
 A thousand joys may foam 
 
 On the billows of all the years ; 
 But never the foam brings the lone back home, 
 
 It reaches the haven through tears. 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 HOSE hearts of ours how strange ! how strange f 
 How they yearn to ramble and love to range 
 
 Down through the vales of the years long gone, 
 
 Up through the future that fast rolls on. 
 
 To-days are dull so they wend their ways 
 Back to their beautiful yesterdays ; 
 The present is blank so they wing their flight 
 To 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 glowt 
 Their flash and flame hide but ashes below. 
 
96 A REVERIE, 
 
 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 known 
 The 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. 
 
OLD TREES. 97 
 
 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 grieve 
 For 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 again 
 Some other day to resume my strain. 
 
 OLD TREES. 
 
 I LD trees ! old trees ! in your mystic gloom 
 There s many a warrior laid, 
 many a nameless and lonely tomb 
 Is sheltered beneath your shade. 
 Old trees ! old trees ! without pomp or prayer 
 
 We buried the brave and the true 
 We fired a volley and left them there 
 To rest, old trees, with you. 
 
98 A THOUGHT. 
 
 Old trees, old trees, keep watch and ward 
 
 Over each grass grown bed, 
 Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard 
 
 Over our Southern Dead ; 
 Old trees, old trees, we shall pass away 
 
 Like the leaves you yearly shed, 
 But ye ! lone sentinels, still must stay, 
 
 Old trees ! to guard " Our Dead." 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 HERE never was a Valley without a faded flower, 
 There never was a Heaven without some little 
 
 cloud, 
 The face of day may flash with light in any morning 
 
 hour, 
 
 But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven 
 shroud. 
 
 
 There never was a River without its mists of gray, 
 
 There never was a Forest without its fallen leaf ; 
 And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our 
 
 way, 
 
 When lo ! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the 
 face of Grief. 
 
 There never was a sea-shore without its drifting wreck, 
 
 There never was an ocean without its moaning wave, 
 
 \nd the golden gleams of glory, the summer sky that 
 
 fleck, 
 
 Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure- 
 mantled grave. 
 
A THOUGHT. 99 
 
 There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear, 
 
 Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide, 
 Hope s brightest robes are broidered with the sable 
 
 fringe of fear 
 
 And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either 
 side. 
 
 The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly 
 
 plain. 
 And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the 
 
 mountain s head 
 And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of 
 
 some pain. 
 
 And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish d 
 tear is shed. 
 
 For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, 
 And those lips cannot be human which have never 
 
 heaved a sigh ; 
 For without the dreary winter there has never been a 
 
 year, 
 
 And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest 
 summer sky. 
 
 The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the 
 
 grave ; 
 The mother s song scarce hides the De Profundis of 
 
 the Priest 
 
 You may cull the fairest roses any May day ever gave, 
 But they wither while you wear them ere the ending 
 of your Feast. 
 
 So this dreary life is passing and we move amid its 
 
 maze, 
 
 And we grope along together, half in darkness, half 
 in light ; 
 
TOO A THOUGHT. 
 
 And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of 
 
 our ways, 
 
 Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly 
 bright. 
 
 And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a 
 
 guide, 
 
 And our hearts of all life s mysteries seek the mean 
 ing and the key ; 
 And a Cross gleams o er our pathway, on it hangs the 
 
 Crucified, 
 
 And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, 
 "Follow me." 
 
 Life is a Burden, bear it ; 
 
 Life is a Duty, dare it ; 
 
 Life is a thorn-crown, wear it, 
 
 Though it break your heart in twain ; 
 
 Though the Burden crush you down. 
 Close your lips, and hide your pain, 
 First the Cross - and then the Crown. 
 
1 
 
 IN ROME. 
 
 T last ; the dream of youth 
 
 Stands fair and bright before me ; 
 The sunshine of the Home of Truth 
 Falls tremulously o er me. 
 
 And Tower and Spire and lofty Dome 
 
 In brightest skies are gleaming ; 
 Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome ? 
 
 Or am I only dreaming ? 
 
 No, tis no dream ; my very eyes 
 
 Gaze on the Hill-tops seven ; 
 Where crosses rise and kiss the skies 
 
 And grandly point to Heaven. 
 
 Grey ruins loom on ev ry side, 
 
 Each stone an Age s story ; 
 They seem the very ghosts of Pride 
 
 That watch the grave of glory. 
 
 There senates sat, whose sceptre sought 
 
 An empire without limit ; 
 There Grandeur dreamed its dream and thought 
 
 That Death would never dim it. 
 
 There rulers reigned ; yon heap of stones 
 
 Was once their gorgeous palace ; 
 Beside them now, on altar-thrones, 
 
 The priests lift up the chalice. 
 
I0 a IN ROMS. 
 
 There legions marched with bucklers bright, 
 And lances lifted o er them ; 
 
 While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, 
 Unfurled their wings before them. 
 
 There poets sang, whose deathless name 
 Is linked to deathless verses ; 
 
 There heroes hushed with shouts of fame 
 Their trampled victims curses. 
 
 There marched the warriors back to Home, 
 Beneath yon crumbling portal ; 
 And placed upon the brow of Rome 
 The proud crown of Immortal. 
 
 There soldiers stood with armor on 
 In steel-clad ranks and serried ; 
 
 The while their red swords flashed upon 
 The slaves whose rights they buried. 
 
 Here Pagan Pride, with sceptre, stood, 
 And Fame would not forsake it, 
 
 Until a simple Cross of Wood 
 Came from the East to break it. 
 
 That Rome is dead, here is the grave, 
 
 Dead glory rises never, 
 And countless Crosses o er it wave 
 
 And will wave on forever. 
 
 Beyond the Tiber gleams a Dome 
 Above the Hill-tops seven ; 
 
 It arches o er the world from Rome 
 And leads the world to Heaven. 
 
 Dec. 6th, 1872. 
 
AFTER SICKNESS. 
 
 NEARLY died ; I almost touched the Door 
 That swings between Forever and No-more ; 
 I think I heard the awful hinges grate, 
 Hour after hour, while I did weary wait 
 Death s coming ; but alas ! twas all in vain. 
 The Door half-opened and then closed again. 
 
 What were my thoughts ? I had but one regret, 
 That I was doomed to live and linger yet 
 In this dark valley where the stream of tears 
 Flows, and in flowing, deepens thro the years. 
 My lips spake not, my eyes were dull and dim, 
 But thro my heart there moved a soundless hymn,- 
 A triumph-song of many chords and keys 
 Transcending language, as the summer breeze 
 Which, through the forest, mystically, floats, 
 Transcends the reach of mortal music s notes. 
 A song of victory, a chant of bliss 
 Wedded to words, it might have been like this ; 
 
 "Come ! Death ! but I am fearless, 
 
 I shrink not from your frown, 
 The eyes you close are tearless, 
 
 Haste ! strike this frail form down, 
 Come ! there is no dissembling 
 
 In this last, solemn hour, 
 But you ll find my heart untrembling 
 
 Before your awful power. 
 My lips grow pale and paler, 
 
104 AFTER SICKNESS. 
 
 My eyes are strangely dim, 
 I wail not as a wailer, 
 
 I sing a victor s hymn. 
 My limbs grow cold and colder, 
 
 My room is all in gloom, 
 Bold Death Ibut I am bolder 
 
 Come, lead me to my tomb. 
 Tis cold and damp and dreary, 
 
 Tis still and lone and deep, 
 Haste, Death ! my eyes are weary, 
 
 I want to fall asleep. 
 Strike quick ! Why dost thou tarry ? 
 
 Of time, why such a loss ? 
 Dost fear the sign I carry ? 
 
 Tis but a simple Cross. 
 Thou will not strike ? then hear me 
 
 Come ! strike in any hour, 
 My heart shall never fear thee 
 
 Nor flinch before thy power. 
 I ll meet thee Time s dread lictor 
 
 And my wasted lips shall sing : 
 Dread Death ! I am the Victor 
 
 Strong Death ! where is thy sting? " 
 
 MILAN, Jan., 1873. 
 
AFTER SEEING PIUS IX. 
 
 SAW his face to-day ; he looks a chief 
 Who fears nor human rage, nor human guile ;- 
 Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, 
 
 But in that grief the starlight of a smile. 
 Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell 
 They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell ; 
 A low voice strangely sweet whose very tone 
 Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone. 
 I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet 
 " No, No ;" he said and then in accents sweet 
 His blessing fell upon my bended head, 
 He bade me rise ; a few more words he said, 
 Then took me by the hand the while he smiled 
 And, going, whispered ; " Pray for me, my child." 
 
SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 HEN falls the soldier brave 
 gpP^ Dead at the feet of wrong, 
 jS3> The poet sings and guards his grave 
 With sentinels of song. 
 
 Songs ! march ! he gives command, 
 
 Keep faithful watch and true ; 
 The living and dead of the Conquered Land 
 
 Have now no guards, save you. 
 
 Gray Ballads ! mark ye well ! 
 
 Thrice holy is your trust ! 
 Go ! halt ! by the fields where warriors fell, 
 Rest arms ! and guard their dust. 
 
 List ! Songs ! your watch is long ! 
 
 The soldiers guard was brief, 
 Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong 
 
 Ye may not seek relief. 
 
 Go ! wearing the gray of grief ! 
 
 Go ! watch o er the Dead in Gray ! 
 Go guard the private and guard the chief, 
 
 And sentinel their clay ! 
 
 And the songs in stately rhyme, 
 And with softly sounding tread, 
 
 Go forth, to watch for a time a time, 
 Where sleep the Deathless Dead. 
 
SENTINEL SONGS. 107 
 
 And the songs like funeral dirge, 
 
 In music soft and low, 
 Sing round the graves whilst hot tears surge 
 
 From hearts that are homes of woe. 
 
 What ! tho no sculptured shaft 
 
 Immortalize each brave ? 
 What tho no monument epitaphed 
 
 Be built above each grave? 
 
 When marble wears away 
 
 And monuments are dust, 
 The songs that guard our soldiers clay 
 
 Will still fulfil their trust. 
 
 With lifted head, and steady tread, 
 
 Like stars that guard the skies, 
 Go watch each bed, where rest the dead, 
 
 Brave songs ! with sleepless eyes. 
 
 When falls the cause of Right, 
 
 The poet grasps his pen 
 And in gleaming letters of living light 
 
 Transmits the Truth to men. 
 
 Go, Songs ! he says, who sings, 
 . Go ! tell the world this tale, 
 Bear it afar on your tireless wings, 
 The Right will yet prevail. 
 
 Songs ! sound ! like the thunder s breath ! 
 
 Boom o er the world and say, 
 Brave men may die, Right has no death, 
 
 Truth never shall pass away! 
 
io8 SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 Go ! sing ! thro a nation s sighs- 
 Go ! sob ! thro a people s tears ! 
 
 Sweep the horizons of all the skies, 
 And throb through a thousand years ! 
 
 And the songs, with brave, sad face, 
 
 Go proudly down their way 
 Wailing the loss of a conquered race, 
 
 And waiting an Easter-day. 
 
 Away, away ! like the birds, 
 
 They soar in their flight sublime ; 
 
 And the waving wings of the poet s words 
 Flash down to the end of time. 
 
 When the Flag of Justice fails, 
 Ere its folds have yet been furled, 
 
 The poet waves its .folds in wails 
 That flutter o er the world. 
 
 Songs, march ! and in rank by rank 
 
 The low, wild verses go, 
 To watch the graves, where the grass is dank, 
 
 And the martyrs sleep below. 
 
 Songs, halt ! where there is no name, 
 Songs, stay ! where tbere is no stone, 
 
 And wait till you hear the feet of Fame 
 Coming to where ye moan. 
 
 And the songs with lips that mourn 
 And with hearts that break in twain, 
 
 At the beck of the bard a hope forlorn 
 Watch the plain where sleep the slain. 
 
SENTINEL SONGS. 109 
 
 When the warrior s sword is lowered, 
 
 Ere its stainless sheen grows dim 
 The bard flings forth its dying gleam 
 
 On the wings of a deathless hymn. 
 
 Songs, fly far o er the world 
 
 And adown to the end of time : 
 Let the Sword still flash, tho its flag be furled, 
 
 Thro the sheen of the poet s rhyme. 
 
 Songs, fly as the eagles fly, 
 
 The bard unbars the cage, 
 Go soar away and afar and high 
 
 Wave your wings o er every age! 
 
 Shriek shrilly o er each day, 
 
 As future-ward ye fly, 
 That the men were right who wore the gray 
 
 And Right can never die. 
 
 And the songs, with waving wing, 
 
 Fly far float far away 
 From the ages crests, o er the world they fling 
 
 The shade of the stainless gray. 
 
 Might ! sing your triumph-songs ! 
 
 Each song but sounds a shame 
 Go ! down the world, in loud-voiced throngs 
 
 To win, irom the future, fame. 
 
 Our ballads, born of tears, 
 
 Will track you on your way, 
 And win the hearts of the future years 
 
 For the men who wore the gray. 
 
no SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 And so say what you will, 
 
 In the heart of God s own laws 
 I have a faith, and my heart believes still 
 
 In the triumph of our cause. 
 
 / 
 Such hope may all be vain 
 
 And futile be such trust ; 
 But the weary eyes that weep the slain, 
 
 And watch above such dust 
 
 They cannot help but lift 
 Their visions to the skies, 
 
 They watch the clouds but wait the rift 
 Through which their hope shall rise. 
 
 The victor wields the sword, 
 
 Its blade may broken be, 
 By a thought that sleeps in a deathless word 
 
 To wake in the Years to be. 
 
 We wait a grand-voiced bard, 
 Who when he sings will send 
 
 Immortal songs "Imperial Guard" 
 The Lost cause to defend. 
 
 He has not come, he will, 
 But when he chants his song 
 
 W T ill stir the world to its depths, and thrill 
 The earth with its tale of wrong. 
 
 The fallen cause still waits, 
 
 Its bard has not come yet, 
 His song through one of to-morrow s gates 
 
 Shall shine but never set. 
 
SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 But when he comes he ll sweep 
 
 A harp with tears all-stringed, 
 And the very notes he strikes will weep, 
 
 As they come, from his hand, woe-winged. 
 
 Ah ! grand shall be his strain, 
 And his songs shall fill all climes, 
 
 And the Rebels shall rise and march again 
 Down the lines of his glorious rhymes. 
 
 And through his verse shall gleam 
 The swords that flashed in vain, 
 
 And the men who wore the gray shall seem 
 To be marshalling again. 
 
 <" 
 But hush ! between his words 
 
 Peer faces sad and pale, 
 And you hear the sound of broken chords 
 Beat through the poet s wail. 
 
 Through his verse the orphans cry 
 
 The terrible undertone ! 
 And the father s curse and the mother s sigh, 
 
 And the desolate young wife s moan. 
 
 But harps are in every land 
 
 That await a voice that sings, 
 And a maser-hand but the humblest hand 
 
 May gently touch its strings. 
 
 I sing with a voice too low 
 
 To be heard beyond to-day, 
 In minor keys of my people s woe 
 
 But my songs pass away. 
 
ii2 SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 To-morrow hears them not 
 
 To-morrow belongs to fame 
 My songs like the birds will be forgot, 
 
 And forgotten shall be my name. 
 
 And yet who knows ! betimes 
 
 The grandest songs depart, 
 While the gentle, humble and low-toned rhymes 
 
 Will echo from heart to heart. 
 
 But oh ! if in song or speech, 
 
 In major or minor key, 
 My voice could over the ages reach 
 
 I would whisper the name of Lee. 
 
 In the night of our defeat 
 
 Star after star had gone, 
 But the way was bright to our soldiers feet 
 
 Where the star of Lee led on. 
 
 But sudden : there came a cloud, 
 
 Out rung a nation s knell 
 Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud, 
 
 All fell when the great Lee fell. 
 
 From his men with scarce a word, 
 
 Silence ! when great hearts part I 
 But we know he sheathed his stainless sword 
 In the wound of a broken heart. 
 
 He fled from Fame ; but Fame 
 
 Sought him in his retreat, 
 Demanding for the world one name 
 
 Made deathless by defeat. 
 
SENTINEL SONGS. 113 
 
 Nay ! Fame ! success is best ! 
 
 All lost ! and nothing won 
 North ! keep the clouds that flush the West I 
 
 We have the sinking sun. 
 
 All lost ! but by the graves 
 
 Where martyred heroes rest 
 He wins the most, who honor saves, 
 
 Success is not the test. 
 
 All lost ? a nation weeps ; 
 
 By all the tears that fall, 
 He loses naught who conscience keeps, 
 
 Lee s honor saves us all. 
 
 AH lost ! but e en defeat 
 
 Hath triumphs of her own, 
 Wrong s psean hath no note so sweet 
 
 As trampled Right s proud moan. 
 
 The world shall yet decide, 
 
 In truth s clear, far off light, 
 That the soldiers who wore the gray and died 
 
 With Lee were in the right 
 
 And men, by time made wise, 
 
 Shall in the future see 
 No name hath risen, or ever shall rise, 
 
 Like the name of Robert Lee. 
 
 Ah me ! my words are weak, 
 
 This task surpasses me ; 
 Dead soldiers ! rise from your graves and speak 
 
 And tell how you loved Lee. 
 
ii 4 SENTINEL SONGS. 
 
 The banner you bore is furled, 
 . And the gray is faded, too ! 
 But in all the colors that deck the world 
 Your gray blends not with blue. 
 
 The colors are far apart, 
 
 Graves sever them in twain ; 
 The Northern heart and the Southern heart 
 
 May beat in peace again. 
 
 But still till Time s last day, 
 Whatever lips may plight, 
 
 The Blue is Blue, but Gray is Gray, 
 Wrong never accords with Right. 
 
 Go ! Glory ! and forever guard 
 Our chieftain s hallowed dust ; 
 
 And Honor ! keep eternal ward ; 
 And Fame ! be this thy trust. 
 
 Go ! with your bright emblazoned scroll 
 
 And tell the years to be 
 The first of names that flash your roll 
 
 Is ours great Robert Lee. 
 
 Lee wore the gray ! since then 
 Tis Right s and Honor s hue ! 
 
 He honored it, that man of men, 
 And wrapped it round the True. 
 
 Dead ! but his spirit breathes, 
 Dead ! but his heart is ours ! 
 
 Dead ! but his sunny and sad land wreathes 
 His crown with tears for flowers. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 115 
 
 A Statue for his Tomb ! 
 
 Mould it of marble white ! 
 For Wrong, a spectre of Death and Doom ; 
 
 An angel of Hope for Right. 
 
 But Lee has a thousand graves 
 
 In a thousand hearts I ween ; 
 And tear drops fall from our eyes in waves 
 
 That will keep his memory green. 
 
 Ah ! Muse ! you dare not claim 
 
 A nobler man than he, 
 Nor nobler man hath less of blame, 
 Nor blameless man hath purer name, 
 Nor purer name hath grander fame, , 
 
 Nor Fame, another Lee. 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 face was sad ; some shadow must have hung 
 w Above his soul ; its folds, now, falling dark, 
 Now, almost bright ; but dark or not so dark, 
 Like cloud upon a mount, twas always there 
 A shadow ; and his face was always sad. 
 
 His eyes were changeful, for the gloom of gray 
 
 Within them met and blended with the blue, 
 
 And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream ; 
 
 They looked beyond you into far-away, 
 
 And often drooped ; his face was always sad. 
 
n6 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 His eyes were deep ; I often saw them dim, 
 As if the edges of a cloud of tears 
 Had gathered there, and only left a mist 
 That made them moist and kept them ever moist. 
 He never wept ; his face was always sad. 
 
 I mean, not many saw him ever weep, 
 And yet he seemed as one who often wept, 
 Or always, tears that were too proud to flow 
 In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze, 
 Froze down into himself ; his face was sad. 
 
 And yet sometimes he smiled, a sudden smile, 
 As if some far-gone joy came back again, 
 t Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face 
 A moment, like a light through rifts in clouds 
 Which falls upon an unforgotten grave ; 
 He rarely laughed ; his face was ever sad. 
 
 And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, 
 
 And strange as stories of an unknown land, 
 
 And full of meanings as the sea of moans. 
 
 At times he was so still that silence seemed 
 
 To sentinel his lips ; and not a word 
 
 Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad. 
 
 But then at times his speech flowed like a stream 
 A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells 
 Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o er its waves 
 Hung mysteries of gloom, and in its flow 
 It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, 
 And deepened as it flowed ; his face was sad. 
 
 He had his moods of silence and of speech. 
 I asked him once the reason and he said : 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 117 
 
 " When I speak much my words are only words, 
 When I speak least my words are more than words, 
 When I speak not I then reveal myself " ! 
 It was his way of saying things, he spoke 
 In quaintest riddles ; and his face was sad. 
 
 And when he wished, he wove around his words 
 A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled 
 The dullest ear. Twas strange that he so cold 
 Could warm the coldest heart ; that he so hard 
 Could soften hardest soul, that he so still 
 Could rouse the stillest mind ; his face was sad. 
 
 He spoke of death as if it were a toy 
 For thought to play with ; and of life he spoke 
 As of a toy not worth the play of thought ; 
 And of this world he spake as captives speak 
 Of prisons where they pine ; he spake of men 
 As one who found pure gold in each of them. 
 He spake of women just as if he dreamed 
 About his mother ; and he spoke of God 
 As if he walked with Him and knew His Heart- 
 But he was weary, and his face was sad. 
 
 He had a weary way in all he did, 
 
 As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross ; 
 
 And yet the weary went to him for rest. 
 
 His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, 
 
 And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. 
 
 He seemed to have two selves, his outer self 
 
 Was free to any passer by, and kind to all, 
 
 And gentle as a child s ; that outer self 
 
 Kept open all its gates that whoso wished 
 
 Might enter them and find therein a place : 
 
 And many entered ; but his face was sad. 
 
a 1 8 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 The inner self he guarded from approach, 
 
 He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine ; 
 
 He guarded it with Silence and Reserve, 
 
 Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass 
 
 Beyond the portals ; and his face was sad. 
 
 But whoso entered there, and few were they, 
 
 So very few so very very few, 
 
 They never did forget ; they said : " How strange " ! 
 
 They murmured still, " How strange ! how strangely 
 
 strange " ! 
 
 They went their ways but wore a lifted look, 
 And higher meanings came to common words, 
 And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones, 
 And near or far they never did forget 
 The "Shadow and the Shrine " ;^-his face was sad. 
 
 He was nor young nor old, yet he was both; 
 
 Nor both by turns, but always both at once ; 
 
 For youth and age commingled in his ways, 
 
 His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. 
 
 At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, 
 
 The child played thro his words ; his face was sad. 
 
 I one day asked his age ; he smiled and said : 
 The rose that sleeps upon yon valley s breast, 
 Just born to-day, is not as young as I ; 
 The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms,- 
 An acorn cradled ages long ago, 
 Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." 
 It was his way, he always answered thus, 
 But when he did, his face was very sad. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 119 
 
 SPIRIT-SONG. 
 
 Thou wert once the purest wave 
 
 Where the tempests roar ; 
 Thou art now a golden wave 
 
 On the golden shore 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Thou wert, once, the bluest wave 
 
 Shadows e er hung o er ; 
 Thou art now the brightest wave 
 
 On the brightest shore 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Thou wert once the gentlest wave 
 
 Ocean ever bore ; 
 Thou art now the fairest wave 
 
 On the fairest shore, 
 Ever ever Evermore. 
 
 Whiter foam than thine oh ! wave ! 
 
 Wavelet never wore ; 
 Stainless wave ; and now you lave 
 
 The far and stormless shore, 
 Ever ever Evermore. 
 
 Who bade thee go ? oh ! bluest wave 
 
 Beyond the tempest s roar ? 
 Who bade thee flow? oh ! fairest wave ! 
 
 Unto the golden shore ? 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Who waved a hand ? oh ! purest wave ! 
 
 A hand that blessings bore ; 
 And wafted thee, oh ! whitest wave ! 
 
 Unto the fairest shore ? 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
120 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 Who winged thy way ? oh ! holy wave 1 
 
 In days and days of yore ? 
 And wept the words ? " Oh ! winsome wave ! 
 
 This earth is not thy shore ? " 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Who gave thee strength ? oh ! snowy wave f 
 The strength a great soul wore 
 
 And said : " Float up to God ! my wave ! 
 His heart shall be thy shore " i 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Who said to thee ? oh ! poor, weak wave ! 
 
 " Thy wail shall soon be o er, 
 Float on to God, and leave me, wave, 
 ^Upon this rugged shore w ! 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 And thou hast reached His feet," glad wave f 
 Dos t dream of days of yore ? 
 
 Dos t yearn that we shall meet, pure ware, 
 Upon the golden shore ? 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Thou sleepest in the calm ; calm wave ! 
 
 Beyond the wild storm s roar ! 
 I watch amid the storm ; bright wave, 
 Like Rock upon the shore ; 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
 Sing at the feet of God, white wave ! 
 
 Song sweet as one of yore ; 
 I would not bring thee back, Heart-wave, 
 
 To break upon this shore, 
 Ever ever Evermore ! 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 121 
 
 ****** 
 " No no, " he gently spoke, "you know me not; 
 My mind is like a Temple, dim, vast, lone, 
 Just like a Temple, when the Priest is gone, 
 And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults 
 Are buried deep in Silence ; when the lights 
 That flashed on altars died away in Dark, 
 And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath 
 And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. 
 My mind is like a Temple, solemn, still, 
 Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom 
 Which seem to linger in the Holy-place ( 
 The shadows of the sinners, who passed there, 
 And wept and Spirit-shriven left upon 
 The marble floor memorials of their tears." 
 
 And while he spake, his words sank low and low,- 
 Until they hid themselves in some still depth 
 He would not open, and his face was sad. 
 
 When he spoke thus, his very gentleness 
 Passed slowly from him, and his look so mild 
 Grew marble cold ; a pallor as of death 
 Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, 
 Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. 
 His words, as tender as a rose s smile, 
 Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting 
 Himself the most ; his brow, at such times, bent 
 Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain 
 As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. 
 Who knows, perhaps, it did ! 
 
 But he would pass 
 
 His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, 
 And then the olden gentleness, like light 
 
.**c FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 Which seems transfigured by the touch of Dark, 
 Would tremole on his face, and he would look 
 More gentle then than ever, and his tone 
 Would sweeten, like the winds, when storms have passed. 
 
 I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved 
 And darkened ; ah ! his face was like a tomb 
 That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, 
 But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, 
 And all the smiles arose as from the dead, 
 And wore the glory of an Easter-morn ;- 
 And passed beneath the sceptre of a Hope 
 Which came from some far-region of his heart, 
 Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. 
 I marveled much, he answered to my look 
 With all his own, and wafted me these words: 
 
 " There are transitions in the lives of all. 
 There are transcendant moments when we stand 
 In Thabor s glory with the Chosen Three, 
 And weak with very strength of human love 
 We fain would build our Tabernacles there ; 
 And Peter-like, for very human joy, 
 We cry aloud "tis good that we are here : 
 Swift are these moments, like the smile of God 
 Which glorifies a Shadow, and is gone. 
 
 And then we stand upon another mount, 
 
 Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there 
 
 For awful hours, to make us there his own 
 
 In Crucifixion s tortures, tis his way. 
 
 We wish to cling to Thabor ; He says : " No." 
 
 And what he says is best because most true. 
 
 We fain would fly from Calvary; He says : "No." 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 123 
 
 And it is true because it is the best. 
 
 And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same. 
 
 They lie apart, distinct and separate, 
 
 And yet strange mystery ! they are the same. 
 
 For Calvary is a Thabor in the Dark, 
 
 And Thabor is a Calvary in the Light. 
 
 It is the Mystery of Holy Christ ! 
 
 It is the mystery of you and me ! 
 
 Earth s shadows move, as moves far-Heaven s sun, 
 
 And like the shadows of a Dial, we 
 
 Tell, darkly, in the Vale the very hours 
 
 The sun tells, brightly, in the sinless skies. 
 
 Dost understand ?" I did not understand, 
 
 Or only half ; his face was very sad. 
 
 "Dost thou not understand me? Then your life 
 
 Is shallow as a brook that brawls along 
 
 Between two narrow shores ; you never wept, 
 
 You never wore great clouds upon your brow 
 
 As mountains wear them ; and you never wore 
 
 Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset-skies- 
 
 Oft wear them, and your lips, they never sighed 
 
 Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul ; 
 
 You never reached your arms a-broad, a-high 
 
 To grasp far-worlds or to enclasp the sky. 
 
 Life, only life can understand a life ; 
 
 Depth, only depth can understand the deep. 
 
 The dewdrop glist ning on the lily s face 
 
 Can never learn the story of the sea. 
 
 One day we strolled together to the sea. 
 Gray-Evening and the Night had almost met, 
 We walked between them, silent, to the shore. 
 
i2 4 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 The feet of weird-faced waves ran up the beach 
 
 Like children in mad play, then back again, 
 
 As if the Spirit of the land pursued, 
 
 Then up again, and farther and they flung 
 
 White, foamy arms around each other s neck, 
 
 Then back again with sudden rush and shout, 
 
 As if the sea, their mother, called them home ; 
 
 Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, 
 
 But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed 
 
 Away, and further up the beach and fell 
 
 For utter weariness ; and loudly sobbed 
 
 For strength to rise and flow back to the Deep. 
 
 But all in vain, for other waves swept on 
 
 And trampled them ; the sea cried out in grief, 
 
 The gray beach laughed, and clasped them to the sands, 
 
 It was the Flood-tide and the Even-tide 
 
 Between the Evening and the Night we walked, 
 
 We walked between the billows and the beach, 
 
 We walked between the Future and the Past, 
 
 Down to the sea, we, twain, had strolled, to part. 
 
 The shore was low, with just the faintest rise 
 
 Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells, 
 
 Until about a stone s far throw they met, 
 
 A fringe of faded grass, with here and there 
 
 A pale-green shrub ; and farther into land 
 
 Another stone s throw farther, there were trees, 
 
 Tall, dark, wild trees, with intertwining arms, 
 
 Each almost touching each, as if they feared 
 
 To stand alone and look upon the sea. 
 
 The Night was in the trees the Evening, on the shore. 
 
 We walked between the Evening and the Night, 
 
 Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM, 125 
 
 There lies between man s Silence and his Speech 
 A shadowy valley where thro those, who pass 
 Are never silent tho they may not speak, 
 And yet they more than breathe ; it is the Vale 
 Of wordless sighs, half-uttered and half-heard, 
 It is the vale of the Unutterable. 
 We walked between our Silence and our Speech, 
 And sighed between the sunset and the stars, 
 One hour beside the sea. 
 
 There was a cloud 
 
 Far o er the reach of waters hanging low 
 Tween sea and sky, the banner of the storm. 
 Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays, 
 That fled far down the West, had rested there 
 And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. 
 Its inner fold s were dark, its central, more. 
 It did not flutter, there it hung as calm 
 As banner in a temple o er a shrine. 
 Its shadow only fell upon the sea, 
 Above the shore the heavens bended blue. 
 We walked between the Cloudless and the Cloud, 
 That hour, beside the sea. 
 
 But, quick as thought, 
 
 There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light, 
 Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, 
 Its scabbard in the darkness, and it tore 
 The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, 
 Then quivered far away, and bent and broke 
 In flashing fragments ; 
 
 And there came a peal 
 
 That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, 
 But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach ; 
 
:i26 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung, 
 Clouds darker gathered and they proudly waved 
 Like flags before a battle. 
 
 We, twain, walked, 
 
 We walked between the lightning s parted gleams, 
 We walked between the thunders of the skies, 
 We walked between the wavings of the clouds, 
 We walked between the tremblings of the sea, 
 We walked between the stillnesses and roars 
 Of frightened billows ; and we walked between 
 The coming tempest and the dying calm, 
 Between the Tranquil and the Terrible, 
 That hour, beside the sea. 
 
 There was a Rock, 
 
 Far up the winding beach, that jutted in 
 The sea, and broke the heart of every wave 
 That struck its breast ; not steep enough nor high 
 To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough 
 To be a crag ; a simple, low, lone Rock ; 
 Yet not so low as that its brow was laved 
 By highest tide, yet not sufficient high 
 To rise beyond the reach of silver-spray 
 That rained up from the waves, their tears that fell 
 Upon its face, when they died at his feet. 
 Around its sides damp sea-weed hung in long, 
 Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. 
 A tuft or two of grass did green the Rock, 
 A patch or so of moss ; the rest was bare. 
 
 Adown the shore we walked tween Eve and Night ; 
 But when we reached the Rock, the Eve and Night 
 Had met ; light died ; we sat down in the Dark 
 Upon the Rock. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 127; 
 
 Meantime a thousand clouds 
 Careered and clashed in air, a thousand waves 
 Whirled wildly cgi in wrath, a thousand winds 
 Howled hoarsely on the main ; and down the skies- 
 Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, 
 As if its ev ry drop were hot with wrath ; 
 And like a thousand serpents intercoiled 
 The lightnings glared and hissed and hissed and glared, 
 And all the horror shrank in horror back 
 Before the maddest peals that ever leaped 
 Out from the thunder s throat. 
 
 Within the dark 
 
 We silent sat. No rain fell on the Rock, 
 Nor in on land, nor shore ; only on sea 
 The upper and the lower waters met 
 In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts 
 Far-parted, parted-long, which meet to break,. 
 Which rush into each other s arms and break 
 In terror and in tempests wild of tears. 
 No rain fell on the rock ; but flakes of foam 
 Swept cold against our faces, -where we sat 
 Between the hush and howling of the winds, 
 Between the swells and sinkings of the waves, 
 Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, 
 Between the rushings of the maddened rains, 
 Between the Dark beneath and Dark above, 
 
 We sat within the dread Heart of the Night 
 One, pale with terror ; One, as calm and still 
 And stern and moveless as the lone, low Rock. 
 * * * * * ft. 
 
LAKE COMO. 
 
 INTER on the mountains 
 
 Summer on the shore 
 
 The robes of sun-gleams woven, 
 
 The lake s blue wavelets roar. 
 
 Cold, white, against the Heavens, 
 Flashed winter s crown of snow, 
 
 And the blossoms of the spring-tide 
 Waved brightly far below. 
 
 The mountain s head was dreary, 
 The cold and cloud were there, 
 
 But the mountain s feet were sandaled, 
 With flowers of beauty rare. 
 
 And winding thro the mountains, 
 The lake s calm wavelets rolled ; 
 
 And a cloudless sun was gilding, 
 Their ripples with its gold. 
 
 Adown the lake we glided, 
 
 Thro all the sunlit day ; 
 The cold snows gleamed above us, 
 
 But fair flowers fringed our way. 
 
 The snows crept down the mountain, 
 The flowers crept up the slope, 
 
 Till they seemed to meet and mingle, 
 Like a human, fear and hope. 
 
LAKE COMO. 129 
 
 But the same rich golden sunlight, 
 
 Fell on the flowers and snow; 
 Like the smile of God that flashes, 
 
 On hearts in joy or woe. 
 
 And on the lake s low margin, 
 
 The trees wore stoles of green ; 
 While here and there, amid them, 
 
 A convent cross was seen. 
 
 Anon a ruined castle, 
 
 Moss-mantled, loomed in view, 
 And cast its solemn shadow, 
 
 Across the water s blue. 
 
 And chapel, cot and villa, 
 
 Met here and there our gaze ; 
 And many a crumbling tower, 
 
 That told of other days. 
 
 And scattered o er the waters, 
 
 The fishing boats lay still ; 
 And sound of song, so softly, 
 
 Came echoed from the hill 
 
 At times the mountains shadow, 
 
 Fell dark across the scene ; 
 And veiled with veil of purple, 
 
 The wavelets silver sheen. 
 
 But for a moment only, 
 
 The lake would wind, and lo ! 
 The waves would near the glory, 
 
 Of the sunlight s brightest glow. 
 
1 3 o LAKE CO MO. 
 
 At times, there fell a silence, 
 
 Unbroken by a tone ; 
 As if no sound of voices, 
 
 Had ever there been known. 
 
 Through strange and lonely places, 
 We glided thus for hours ; 
 
 We saw no other faces 
 
 But the faces of the flowers. 
 
 The shores were sad and lonely, 
 As hearts without a love ; 
 
 While darker and more dreary, 
 The mountains rose above. 
 
 But sudden round a headland, 
 The lake would sweep again ; 
 
 And voices from a village, 
 
 Would meet us with their strain. 
 
 Thus all the day we glided, 
 Until the Vesper bell, 
 
 Gave to the day, at sunset, 
 Its sweet and soft farewell. 
 
 Then back again we glided, 
 Upon our homeward way; 
 
 When twilight wrapped the waters 
 And the mountains with its gray. 
 
 But, brief the reign of twilight, 
 The night came quickly on ; 
 
 The dark brow o er the mountains, 
 Star wreathed brightly shone. 
 
LAKE COMO. 131 
 
 And down thro all the shadows, 
 
 The star-gleams softly crept, 
 And kissed with lips all-shining, 
 
 The wavelets ere they slept. 
 
 The lake lay in a slumber, 
 
 The shadows for its screen ; 
 While silence waved her sceptre, 
 
 Above the sleeping scene. 
 
 The spirit of the darkness, 
 
 Moved ghost-like everywhere ; 
 Wherever starlight glimmered, 
 
 Its shadow, sure, fell there. 
 
 The lone place grew more lonely, 
 
 And all along our way, 
 The mysteries of the night-time, 
 
 Held undisputed sway. 
 
 Thro silence and thro darkness 
 
 We glided down the tide 
 That wound around the mountains 
 
 That rose on either side. 
 
 No eyes would close in slumber 
 
 Within our little bark 
 What charmed us so in daylight 
 
 So awed us in the dark. 
 
 Upon the deck we lingered 
 
 A whisper scarce was heard ; 
 When hearts are stirred profoundest 
 
 Lips are without a word. 
 
1 32 LAKE CO MO. 
 
 "Let s say the Chaplet," softly 
 A voice beside me spake. 
 
 "Christ walked once in the darkness 
 Across an Eastern lake." 
 
 "And to-night we know the secret 
 
 That will charm him to our side ; 
 If we call upon His Mothei 
 He will meet us on the tide, : 
 
 So we said the Beads together 
 Up and down the little bark, 
 
 And I believe that Jesus met us 
 With His Mother in the dark. 
 
 And our prayers were scarcely ended 
 When on mountain top afar, 
 
 We beheld the morning meeting 
 With the night s last fading star. 
 
 And I left the lake but never 
 Shall the years to come efface 
 
 From my heart the dream and vision 
 Of that strange and lonely place. 
 
 Feb. ist, 1873. 
 
"PEACE! BE STILL." 
 
 OMETIMES the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark, 
 
 For oh ! His eyes are this world s only light ; 
 And when they close wild waves rush on His Bark 
 And toss it through the dread hours of the Night. 
 
 So He slept once upon an Eastern lake, 
 
 In Peter s bark, while wild waves raved at will ; 
 
 A cry smote on him, and when he did wake 
 He softly whispered, and the sea grew still. 
 
 It is a mystery, but He seems to sleep 
 
 As erst he slept in Peter s wave-rocked bark ; 
 
 A storm is sweeping all across the deep, 
 While Pius prays, like Peter, in the Dark. 
 
 The sky is darkened, and the shore is far, 
 
 The tempest s strength grows fiercer every hour ; 
 
 Upon the howling deep there shines no star- 
 Why sleeps he still ? Why does he hide his power ? 
 
 Fear not a holy hand is on the helm 
 
 That guides the bark thro all the tempest s wrath ; 
 Quail not, the wildest waves can never whelm 
 
 The ship of Faith upon its homeward path. 
 
 The Master sleeps, His Pilot guards the Bark, 
 He soon will wake ; and at his mighty will 
 
 The Light will shine where all before was dark, 
 
 The wild waves still remember : " Peace ! be still." 
 Rome, 1873. 
 
GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 [H ! Heart ! of Three-in-the Evening! 
 
 You nestled the thorn-crowned Head/ 
 leaned on you in His sorrow, 
 And rested on you when dead. 
 
 Ah ! Holy Three-in-the Evening ! 
 
 He gave you His richest dower 
 He met you afar on Calvary, 
 And made you " His own last Hour." 
 
 Oh ! Brow of Three-in-the Evening, 
 Thou wearest a crimson crown ; 
 
 Thou art Priest of the Hours forever, 
 And thy voice as thou goest down 
 
 The cycles of Time, still murmurs 
 
 The story of love, each day ; 
 " I held, in death, the Eternal 
 In the long and the far-away. 
 
 Oh ! Heart of Three-in-the Evening ! 
 
 Mine beats with thine to-day ; 
 Thou tellest the olden story, 
 
 I kneel and I weep and pray. 
 
 Boulogne, sur mer. 
 
SUNLESS DAYS. 
 
 HEY come to ev ry life, sad, sunless days, 
 
 With not a light all o er their clouded skies 
 And thro the Dark we grope along our ways, 
 
 With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs. 
 I 
 
 What is the Dark ? Why cometh it ? and whence ? 
 
 Why does it banish all the Bright away ? 
 How does it weave a spell o er soul and sense ? 
 
 Why falls the Shadow where er gleams the Ray? 
 
 Has t felt it ? I have felt it, and I know, 
 . How oft and suddenly the shadows roll 
 From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, 
 To wrap their darkness round the human soul. 
 
 Those days are darker than the very night ; 
 
 For nights have stars, and sleep and happy dreams, 
 But these days bring unto the spirit-sight 
 
 The mysteries of gloom, until it seems 
 
 The light is gone forever, and the Dark 
 Hangs like a pall of death above the soul 
 
 Which rocks amid the gloom like storm- swept bark 
 And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll. 
 
 Winter on the Atlantic. 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 ID I dream of a song? or sing in a dream ? 
 
 Why ask when the night only knoweth ? 
 
 night, and the Angel of Sleep ! 
 But ever since then, a music deep, 
 Like a stream thro a shadow-land floweth 
 Under each thought of my spirit that groweth 
 Into the blossom and bloom of speech, 
 Under each fancy that cometh and goeth 
 Wayward, as waves when Evening-breeze bloweth 
 Out of the sunset and into the beach. 
 And is it a wonder I wept to-day? 
 For I mused and thought, but I cannot say 
 If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. 
 In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night ; 
 And now even now neath the words I write, 
 The flush of the dream, or the flow of the song 
 I cannot tell which moves strangely along. 
 But why write more? I am puzzled sore : 
 Did I dream of a song ? or sing in a dream ? 
 Ah ! hush ! heart ! hush ! tis of no avail, 
 The words of earth are a darksome veil, 
 The poet weaves it with artful grace ; 
 Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, 
 Lets it rustle along his rhymes, 
 But gathers it close, covering the face 
 Of ev ry thought that must not part 
 From out the keeping of his heart. 
 
MY BEADS. 
 
 r WEET, Blessed Beads! I would not part 
 With one of you, for richest gem 
 That gleams in kingly diadem ; 
 Ye know the history of my heart. 
 
 For I have told you every grief 
 
 In all the days of twenty years, 
 And I have moistened you with tears, 
 
 And in your decades found relief. 
 
 Ah ! time has fled, and friends have failed, 
 And joys have died ; but in my needs, 
 Ye were my friends ! my Blessed Beads ! 
 
 And ye consoled me when I wailed. 
 
 For many and many a time in grief, 
 My weary fingers wandered round 
 Thy circled- hain, and always found 
 
 In some Hail-Mary sweet relief. 
 
 How many a story you might tell 
 Of inner-life to all unknown, 
 I trusted you and you alone,- 
 
 But ah ! ye keep my secrets well. 
 
 Ye are the only chain I wear, 
 
 A sign that I am but the slave, 
 In life, in death, beyond the grave, 
 
 Of Jesus and His Mother fair. 
 
AT NIGHT. 
 
 f 
 
 jf REARY! weary! 
 Weary J dreary ! 
 
 Sighs my soul this lonely night. 
 
 Farewell gladness ! 
 
 Welcome sadness ! 
 Vanished are my visions bright ! 
 
 Stars are shining ! 
 
 Winds are pining ! 
 In the sky and o er the sea ; 
 
 Shine forever 
 
 Stars ; but never 
 Can the starlight gladden me. 
 
 Stars ! you nightly 
 
 Sparkle brightly, 
 Scattered o er your azure dome , 
 
 While earth s turning, 
 
 There you re burning 
 Beacons of a better home. 
 
 Stars ! you brighten 
 
 And you lighten 
 Many a heart-grief here below 5 
 
 But your gleaming, 
 
 And your beaming, 
 Cannot chase away my woe. 
 
AT NIGHT. 139 
 
 Stars ! you re shining 
 
 I am pining 
 I am dark, but you are bright ; 
 
 Hanging o er me 
 
 And before me 
 Is a night you cannot light. 
 
 Night of sorrow, 
 
 Whose to-morrow 
 I may never, never see, 
 
 Till upon me 
 
 And around me 
 Dawns a bright eternity. 
 
 Winds ! you re sighing, 
 
 And you re crying, 
 Like a mourner o er a tomb : 
 
 Whither go ye ? 
 
 Whither blow ye?. 
 Wailing through the midnight gloom, 
 
 Chanting lowly, 
 
 Softly, lowly, 
 Like the voice of one in woe : 
 
 Winds so lonely, 
 
 Why thus moan ye ? 
 Say, what makes you sorrow so? 
 
 Are you grieving 
 
 For your leaving 
 Scenes where all is fair and gay ? 
 
 For the flowers 
 
 In their bowers 
 You have met with on your way? 
 
140 NOCTURNE. 
 
 For fond faces, 
 
 For dear places, 
 That you ve seen as on you swept. 
 
 Are you sighing? 
 
 Are you crying ? 
 O er the memories they have left ? 
 
 Earth is sleeping 
 While you re sweeping 
 
 Through night solemn silence by ! 
 On forever, 
 Pausing never 
 
 How I love to hear you sigh ! 
 
 Men are dreaming, 
 Stars are gleaming, 
 
 In the far-off heaven s blue ; 
 Bosom aching, 
 Musing, waking, ^ 
 
 Midnight winds ! I sigh with you ! 
 
 NOCTURNE. 
 
 ETIMES, I seem to see in dreams 
 What when awake I may not see ; 
 
 Can Night be God s more than the Day? 
 Do stars, not suns* best light His way ? 
 Who knoweth ? Blended lights and shades 
 Arch aisles down which He walks to me. 
 
NOCTURNE 141 
 
 I hear Him coming in the Night 
 Afar, and yet I know not how, 
 
 His steps make music low and sweet 
 Sometimes the Nails are in His feet ; 
 Does Darkness give God better light 
 Than Day to find a weary brow ? 
 
 Does Darkness give man brighter rays 
 To find the God, in Sunshine lost ? 
 Must shadows wrap the Trysting-place 
 Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace ? 
 Who knoweth it? God hath his ways 
 For every soul here sorrow-tossed. 
 
 The Hours of Day are like the waves 
 That fret against the shores of sin, 
 They touch the Human everywhere, 
 The Bright-Divine fades in their glare ; 
 
 And God s sweet voice the spirit craves 
 Is heard too faintly in the din. 
 
 When all the senses are awake, 
 The Mortal presses overmuch 
 Upon the great Immortal part 
 And God seems further from the Heart. 
 Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, 
 Lose star by star at sunlight s touch ? 
 
 But when the sun kneels in the west, 
 And grandly sinks as great Hearts sink ; 
 And in his sinking, flings adown 
 Bright blessings from his fading crown, 
 The stars begin their Song of Rest, 
 
 And shadows make the thoughtless think. 
 
142 NOCTURNE. 
 
 The Human seems to fade away 
 
 And down the starred and shadowed skies 
 The Heavenly comes as memories come 
 Of Home ; to hearts afar from Home ; 
 And thro the Darkness after Day 
 Many a winged angel flies. 
 
 And, somehow, tho the eyes see less, 
 Our spirits seem to see the more 
 
 When we look thro Night s shadow-bars 
 The soul sees more than shining stars, 
 Yea sees the very loveliness 
 
 That rests upon the " Golden Shore." 
 
 Strange Reveries steal o er us then 
 Like keyless chords of instruments, 
 With music s soul without the notes ; 
 And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats 
 A melody not made by men 
 Nor ever heard by outer sense. 
 
 And " what has been," and " what will be," 
 And " what is not, but might have been," - 
 The dim " to be "the " mournful gone," 
 The little things life rested on 
 In " Long-ago s," give tone, not key 
 To reveries beyond our ken. 
 
ST. MARY S. 
 
 ACK to where the roses rest 
 Round a shrine of holy name 
 f^ (Yes they knew me when I came) 
 More of peace and less of fame 
 Suit my restless heart the best. 
 
 Back to where long quiets brood, 
 Where the calm is never stirred 
 By the harshness of a word 
 But instead the singing bird 
 
 Sweetens all my solitude. 
 
 With the birds and with the flowers 
 Songs and silences unite, 
 From the morning unto night, 
 And somehow a clearer light 
 
 Shines along the quiet hours. 
 
 God comes closer to me here, 
 Back of ev ry rose leaf there 
 He is hiding, and the air 
 Thrills with calls to holy prayer ; 
 
 Earth grows far, and heaven near. 
 
 Every single flower is fraught 
 With the very sweetest dreams, 
 Under clouds or under gleams 
 Changeful ever, yet meseems 
 
 On each leaf I read God s thought 
 
ST. MAXY S. 
 
 Still, at times, as place of death, - 
 Not a sound to vex the ear, 
 Yet withal it is not drear, 
 Better for the heart to hear 
 
 Far from men God s gentle breath. 
 
 Where men clash, God always clings,- 
 When the human passes by, 
 Like a cloud from summer sky 
 God so gently draweth nigh, 
 
 And the brightest blessings brings. 
 
 List ! e en now a wild bird sings 
 And the roses seem to hear, 
 Every note that thrills my ear 
 Rising to the heavens clear 
 
 And my soul soars on its wings. 
 
 Up into the silent skies 
 Where the sunbeams veil the star, 
 Up beyond the clouds afar, 
 Where no discords ever mar, 
 
 Where rests peace that never dies. 
 
 So I live within the calm, 
 And the birds and roses know 
 That the days that come and go 
 Are as peaceful as the flow 
 
 Or a prayer beneath a psalm. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 H ! Days so dark with Death s eclipse ! 
 
 Woe are we ! woe are we ! 
 And the Nights are Ages long, 
 From breaking hearts, thro pallid lips 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we ! 
 Trembleth the mourners song, 
 A blight is falling on the fair 
 And Hope is dying in despair, 
 And Terror walketh everywhere. 
 
 All the hours are full of tears, 
 Oh. my God ! woe are we ! 
 Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes 
 Every heart is strung with fears, 
 
 Woe are we ! woe are we ! 
 All the light hath left the skies, 
 And the living awe-struck crowds 
 See above them only clouds 
 And around them only shrouds. 
 
 Ah ! the terrible Farewells ! 
 
 Woe are they ! woe are they ! 
 When last words sink into moans, 
 While life s trembling vesper bells 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we 1 
 Ring the awful undertones ! 
 Not a sun in any day ! 
 In the night-time not a ray, 
 And the dying pass away ! 
 
146 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Dark ! so dark ! above below, 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we ! 
 Cowereth every human life. 
 Wild the wailing; to and fro 
 
 Woe are all ! woe are we ! 
 Death is victor in the strife: 
 In the hut and in the hall 
 He is writing on the wall 
 Dooms for many fears for all. 
 
 Thro the cities burns a breath, 
 Woe are they ! woe are we ! 
 Hot with dread and deadly wrath ; 
 Life and Love lock arms in death, 
 
 Woe are they ! woe are all ! 
 Victims strew the Spectre s path ; 
 Shy-eyed children softly creep 
 Where their mothers wail and weep- 
 In the grave their fathers sleep. 
 
 Mothers waft their prayers on high, 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we ! 
 With their dead child on their breast. 
 And the Altars ask the sky, 
 
 Oh, my Christ ! woe are we ! 
 "Give the dead, oh, Father ! rest! 
 Spare thy people ! mercy ! spare !" 
 Answer will not come to prayer 
 Horror moveth everywhere. 
 
 And the Temples miss the Priest 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we ! 
 And the cradle mourns the child. 
 
 Husband ! at your bridal feast 
 Woe are you ! woe are you ! 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 147 
 
 Think how those poor dead eyes smiled ; 
 They will never smile again 
 Every tie is cut in twain, 
 All the strength of love is vain. 
 
 Weep ? but tears are weak as foam- 
 Woe are ye ! woe are we ! 
 They but break upon the shore 
 Winding between Here and Home 
 
 Woe are ye ! woe are we ! 
 Wailing never nevermore ! 
 Ah, the dead ! they are so lone, 
 Just a grave, and just a stone, 
 And the memory of a moan. 
 
 Pray ? yes, pray, for God is sweet 
 
 Oh, my God ! woe are we ! 
 Tears will trickle into prayers 
 When we kneel down at His feet 
 
 Woe are we ! woe are we ! 
 With our crosses and our cares. 
 He will calm the totured breast, 
 He will give the troubled rest 
 And the dead He watcheth best. 
 
WHEN? 
 
 OME day in Spring 
 
 When earth is fair and glad 
 And sweet birds sing 
 
 And fewest hearts are sad 
 Shall I die then ? 
 Ah ! me ! no matter when, 
 I know it will be sweet 
 
 To leave the homes of men 
 And rest beneath the sod, 
 To kneel and kiss Thy feet 
 In Thy Home ! Oh ! my God. 
 
 Some Summer morn 
 
 Of splendors and of songs, 
 When roses hide the thorn 
 
 And smile, the spirit s wrongs 
 Shall I die then ? 
 Ah ! me ! no matter when, 
 I know I will rejoice 
 
 To leave the haunts of men 
 And lie beneath the sod, 
 To hear Thy tender voice 
 
 In Thy Home ! Oh ! my God. 
 
WHEN? 149 
 
 Some Autumn eve 
 
 When chill- clouds drape the sky/ 
 When bright things grieve 
 Because all fair things die, 
 Shall I die then? 
 Ah ! me ! no matter when, 
 I know I shall be glad 
 
 Away from the homes of men, 
 Adown beneath the sod, 
 My heart will not be sad 
 
 In Thy Home ! Oh ! my God. 
 
 Some Wintry day 
 
 When all skies wear a gloom, 
 And beauteous May 
 
 Sleeps in December s tomb, 
 Shall I die then ? 
 Ah ! me ! no matter when, 
 My soul shall throb with joy 
 
 To leave the haunts of men 
 And sleep beneath the sod, 
 Ah ! there is no alloy 
 
 In Thy joys ! Oh ! my God. 
 
 Haste, Death ! be fleet, 
 I know it will be sweet 
 
 To rest beneath the sod, 
 To kneel and kiss Thy feet 
 
 In heaven, Oh ! my God. 
 
THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 URL that Banner, for tis weary ; 
 y^Round its staff tis drooping dreary ; 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best : 
 For there s not a man to wave it, 
 And there not a sword to save it, 
 And there s not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it ; 
 Furl it, hide it let it rest. 
 
 Take that Banner down, tis tattered ; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered, 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh ! tis hard for us to fold it ; 
 Hard to think there s none to hold it ; 
 Hard that those, who once unrolled it, 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 Furl that Banner furl it sadly ; \ 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousands wildly, madly, 
 
 Swore it should forever wave ; 
 Swore that foeman s sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O er their freedom, or their grave ! 
 
THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 
 Cold and. dead are lying low ; 
 And that Banner it is trailing ! 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
 Weep for those who fell before it ! 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it I 
 But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
 Now who furl and fold it so. 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, tis gory, 
 Yet tis wreathed around with glory, 
 And twill live in song and story, 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust : 
 For its fame on brightest pages, 
 Penned by poets and by sages, 
 Shall go sounding down the ages 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner, softly, slowly, 
 Treat it gently it is holy 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not unfold it never, 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, 
 
 For its people s hopes are dead ! 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 IIEY ask me to sing them a Christmas sonr, 
 
 That with musical mirth shall ring ; 
 How know I that the world s great throng 
 Will care for the words I sing? 
 
 Let the young and the gay chaunt the Christmas lay, 
 
 Their voices and hearts are glad ; 
 But I I am old, and my locks are gray, 
 
 And they tell me my voice is sad. 
 
 Ah ! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm 
 With hopes, bright as Life s first spring ; 
 
 But the Spring hath fled, and the golden charm 
 Hath gone from the songs I sing. 
 
 I have lost the spell that my verse could weave 
 O er the souls of the old and young ; 
 
 And never again how it makes me grieve 
 Shall I sing as once I sung. 
 
 Why ask a song ? ah ! perchance you believe, 
 
 Since my days are so nearly past, 
 That the song you ll hear on this Christmas Eve, 
 
 Is the old man s best and last. 
 
 Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme ? 
 
 Art s sweet but meaningless notes, 
 Or the music of Thought ? that, like the chime 
 
 Of a grand Cathedral , floats. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHA UNT. J53 
 
 Out of each word, and along each line, 
 
 Into the spirit s ear, 
 Lifting it up, and making it pine, 
 
 For a Something far from Here : 
 
 Bearing the wings of the soul aloft 
 
 From earth and its shadows dim ; 
 Soothing the breast with a sound as soft 
 
 As a dream, or a Seraph s hymn ; 
 
 Evoking the solemn est hopes and fears 
 
 From our Being s higher part, 
 Dimming the eyes with radiant tears 
 
 That flow from a spell-bound heart. 
 
 Do they want a song that is only a song, 
 
 With no mystical meanings rife ? 
 Or a music that solemnly moves along 
 
 The undertone of a life ? 
 
 Well, then, I ll sing; though. I know no art, 
 Nor the Poet s rhymes nor rules 
 
 A melody moves through my aged heart 
 
 Not learned from the books or schools : 
 
 A music I learned in the days long gone 
 
 I cannot tell where or how 
 But no matter where, it still sounds on 
 
 Back of this wrinkled brow ; 
 
 And down in my heart I hear it still, 
 
 Like the echoes of far-off bells ; 
 Like the dreamy sound of a Summer rill 
 
 Flowing through fairy dells. 
 
154 A CHRISTMAS CHA UNT. 
 
 But what shall I sing for the world s gay throng, 
 And what the words of the old man s song ? 
 
 The world, they tell me, is so giddy grown, 
 
 That Thought is rare : 
 And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone 
 
 Hold empire there ; 
 
 That fools have prestige, place, and power, and fame, 
 
 Can it be true ? 
 That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, 
 
 And wise are few ? 
 
 They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, 
 
 With high and low ; 
 That Truth and Honor are the slaves of Gain ; 
 
 Can it be so ? 
 
 That lofty Principle hath long been dead 
 
 - And in a shroud : 
 
 That Virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, 
 Amid the crowd. 
 
 They tell me, too, that few they are who own 
 
 God s Law and Love ; 
 That thousands, living for this earth alone, 
 
 Look not above ; 
 
 That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, 
 
 Men tread the path, 
 Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse 
 
 Of His dread wrath. 
 
 And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, 
 
 Or to the Few 
 -Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain 
 
 Who still are true ? 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 155 
 
 t No not for the False shall I strike the strings 
 
 Of the lyre that was mute so long ; 
 If I sing at all the gray bard sings 
 
 For the Few and the True his song. 
 
 And ah ! there is many a changeful mood 
 
 That over my spirit steals ; 
 Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, 
 
 Whatever he dreams or feels ; 
 
 Whatever the fancies this Christmas Eve 
 
 Are haunting the lonely man ; 
 Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, 
 
 He ll sing them as best he can, 
 
 Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke 
 
 This holiest night of the year, 
 Who knows how its melody may wake 
 
 A Christmas smile or a tear. 
 
 So on with the mystic song. 
 
 With its meaning manifold 
 
 Two tones in every word, 
 
 Two thoughts in every tone ; 
 In the measured words that move along 
 
 One meaning shall be heard, 
 
 One thought to all be told 
 
 But under it all, to me alone 
 And under it all, to all unknown 
 As safe as under a coffin-lid, 
 Deep meanings shall be hid 
 
 Find them out who can ! 
 The thoughts concealed and unrevealed 
 
 In the song of the lonely man. 
 
156 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT 
 
 I m sitting alone in my silent room 
 
 This long December night, 
 Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom 
 With many a picture bright. 
 Ah ! how the fire can paint ! 
 Its magic skill how strange ! 
 How every spark 
 On the canvas dark 
 Draws figures and forms so quaint I 
 And how the pictures change ! 
 One moment how they smile 
 And in less than a little while. 
 In the twinkling of an eye, 
 Like the gleam of a Summer sky, 
 The beaming smiles all die. 
 
 From gay to grave from grave to gay, 
 The faces change in the shadows grey, 
 And just as I wonder who are they, 
 
 Over them all 
 
 Like a funeral pall, 
 The folds of the shadows droop and fall, 
 
 And the charm is gone 
 
 And every one 
 Of the pictures fade away. 
 
 Ah ! the fire within my grate 
 
 Hath more than Raphael s power, 
 Is more than Raphael s peer 
 It paints for me in a little hour 
 
 More than he in a year ; 
 And the pictures hanging round me here 
 This holy Christmas eve 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 157 
 
 No Artist s pencil could create 
 No Painter s art conceive. 
 Ah ! those cheerful faces 
 Wearing youthful graces ; 
 I gaze on them until I seem 
 Half awake and half in dream. 
 
 There are brows without a mark, 
 Features bright without a shade ; 
 There are eyes without a tear ; 
 There are lips unused to sigh. 
 Ah ! never mind you soon shall die ! 
 All those faces soon shall fade, 
 Fade into the dreary dark, 
 Like their pictures hanging here. 
 
 Lo ! those tearful faces, 
 
 Bearing Age s traces ! 
 
 I gaze on them, and they on me, 
 
 Until I feel a sorrow steal 
 Through my heart so drearily ; 
 
 There are faces furrowed deep ; 
 There are eyes that used to weep; 
 
 There are brows beneath a cloud ; 
 There are hearts that want to sleep. 
 Never mind ! the shadows creep 
 
 From the Death-land ; and a shroud, 
 Tenderly as mother s arm, 
 Soon shall shield the old from harm ; 
 
 Soon shall wrap its robe of Rest 
 
 Round each sorrow-haunted breast. 
 
 Ah ! that face of Mother s, 
 Sisters s, too, and Brother s 
 
158 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 And so many others, 
 Dear is every name 
 And Ethel ! Thou art there 
 With thy child-face sweet and t air, 
 And thy heart so bright 
 In its shroud so white ; 
 Just as I saw you last 
 In the golden, happy past, 
 And you seem to wear 
 Upon your hair, 
 Your waving, golden hair, 
 
 The smile of the setting sun 
 Ah ! me ! how years will run- 
 But all the years cannot efface 
 Your purest name, your sweetest grace 
 From the heart that still is true 
 Of all the world to you; 
 The other faces shine 
 But none so fair as thine, 
 And, wherever they are to-night, I know 
 They look the very same 
 
 As in their pictures hanging here 
 This night, to Memory dear, 
 And painted by the flames, 
 With tombstones in the background, 
 And shadows for their frames. 
 
 And thus, with my pictures only, 
 And the fancies they unweave 
 
 Alone, and yet not lonely, 
 I keep my Christmas Eve. 
 
 I m sitting alone in my pictured room-^ 
 But, no ! they have vanished all 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHA UNT. 
 
 I m watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, 
 
 I m watching the ashes fall. 
 And far away back of the cheerful blaze 
 The beautiful visions of by-gone days 
 Are rising before my raptured gaze. 
 
 Ah ! Christmas fire, so bright and warm, 
 Hast thou a wizard s magic charm 
 To bring those far-off scenes so near 
 And make my past days meet me here ? 
 Tell me tell me how is it ? 
 The past is past, and here I sit, 
 And there, lo ! there before me rise, 
 Beyond yon glowing flame, 
 The summer suns of childhood s skies, 
 
 Yes yes the very same ! 
 I saw them rise long, long ago ; 
 I played beneath their golden glow ; 
 And I remember yet, 
 I often cried with strange regret 
 When in the West I saw them set. 
 And there they are again ; 
 The suns, the skies, the very days 
 Of childhood, just beyond that blaze ! 
 But, ah ! such visions almost craze 
 The old man s puzzled brain ! 
 I thought the Past was past ! 
 But, no, it cannot be ; 
 Tis here to-night with me ! 
 
 How is it, then ? the Past of Men 
 
 Is part of one Eternity 
 The days of yore we so deplore, 
 They are not dead they are not fled,. 
 
j6o A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 They live and live for evermore. 
 And thus my Past comes back to me 
 With all its visions fair. 
 
 O, Past ! could I go back to thee, 
 And live forever there ! 
 But, no, there s frost upon my hair ; 
 My feet have trod a path of Care ; 
 
 And worn and wearied here I sit, 
 
 I am too tired to go to it. 
 
 And thus with visions only, 
 And the fancies they unweave, 
 
 Alone, and yet not lonely, 
 I keep my Christmas Eve. 
 
 I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room ; 
 
 But, no ! the fire is dying, 
 
 And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, 
 Are sad, and I hear them sighing. 
 The wind hath a voice to pine 
 
 Plaintive, and pensive, and low, 
 Hath it a heart, like mine or thine ? 
 
 Knoweth it weal or woe ? 
 How it wails, in a ghost-like strain, 
 Just against that window-pane ! 
 As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, 
 And wanted to rest with me to-night : 
 Cease, night-winds, cease ; 
 Why should you be sad ? 
 This is a night, of joy and peace, 
 
 And Heaven and Earth are glad ! 
 J3iit still the wind s voice grieves ! 
 Perchance o er the fallen leaves, 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 161 
 
 Which, in their Summer bloom, 
 Danced to the music of bird and breeze, 
 But, torn from the arms of their parent trees. 
 
 Lie now in their wintry tomb, * 
 
 Mute types of man s own doom. 
 
 And thus with the night winds only, 
 And the fancies they unweave, 
 
 Alone, and yet not lonely, 
 I keep my Christmas Eve. 
 
 How long have I been dreaming here ? 
 
 Or have I dreamed, at all ? 
 My fire is dead my pictures fled 
 There s nothing left but shadows drear. 
 Shadows on the wall : 
 Shifting, flitting, 
 Round me sitting 
 In my old arm chair 
 Rising sinking 
 Round me, thinking, 
 Till, in the maze of many a dream, 
 I m not myself ; and I almost seem 
 Like one of the shadows there. 
 Well, let the shadows stay! 
 I wonder who are they ? 
 I cannot say; but I almost believe 
 They know to-night is Christmas Eve, 
 And to-morrow Christmas Day. 
 
 Ah ! there s nothing like a Christmas Eve ! 
 
 To change Life s bitter gall to sweet, 
 And change the sweet to gall again ; 
 
 To take the thorns from out our feet 
 
162 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT* 
 
 The thorns and all their dreary pain, 
 Only to put them back again 
 
 To take old stings from out our heart, 
 Old stings that made them bleed and smart, 
 Only to sharpen them the more, 
 And press them back to the heart s own core. 
 
 Ah ! no eve is like the Christmas Eve ! 
 Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, 
 Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, 
 Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, 
 Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, 
 
 Bright and dark, and dark and bright. 
 All these mingle, all these meet, 
 
 In this great and solemn night. 
 
 Ah ! there s nothing like a Christmas Eve ! 
 To melt with kindly glowing heat, 
 From off our souls the snow and sleet, 
 The dreary drift of wintry years, 
 
 Only to make the cold winds blow, 
 Only to make a colder snow ; 
 And make it drift, and drift, and drift, 
 In flakes so icy-cold and swift ; 
 Until the heart that lies below 
 Is cold and colder than the snow. 
 
 And thus with the shadows only, 
 And the dreamings they unweave, 
 
 Alone, and yet not lonely, 
 I keep my Christmas Eve. 
 
 Tis passing fast ! 
 My fireless, lampless room 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 163 
 
 Is a mass of moveless gloom ; 
 And without a darkness vast, 
 Solemn starless still ! 
 Heaven and Earth doth fill. 
 But list ! there soundeth a bell, 
 With a mystical ding, dong, dell ! 
 Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? 
 Solemn and slow, 
 Now loud now low ; 
 Pealing the notes of human woe 
 Over the graves lying under the snow ! 
 Ah ! that pitiless ding, dong, dell ! 
 Trembling along the gale, 
 Under the stars and over the snow. 
 Why is it ? whence is it sounding so ? 
 Is it the toll of a burial bell ? 
 Or is it a spirit s wail ? 
 Solemnly, mournfully 
 Sad and how lornfully ! 
 
 Ding, dong, dell ! 
 Whence is it ? who can tell ? 
 And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, 
 Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still ! 
 How the sounds tremble ! how they thrill 
 Every tone 
 So like a moan ; 
 
 As if the strange bell s stranger clang 
 Throbbed with a terrible human pang. 
 Ding, dong, dell ! 
 Dismally drearily 
 Ever so wearily. 
 
 Far off and faint as a Requiem plaint 
 Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell ; 
 
164 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 Piercingly thrillingly, 
 Icily chillingly, 
 Near and more near. 
 Drear, and more drear, 
 Soundeth the wild, wierd, ding, dong, dell I 
 Now sinking lower, 
 It tolleth slower ! 
 I list, and I hear its sound no more, 
 
 And now, methinks, I know that bell, 
 Know it well know its knell 
 For I often heard it sound before. 
 It is a bell yet not a bell 
 Whose sound may reach the ear ! 
 It tolls a knell yet not a knell 
 Which earthly sense may hear, 
 In every soul a bell of dole 
 
 Hangs ready tc be tolled ; 
 And from that bell a funeral knell 
 
 Is often, outward rolled ; 
 And Memory is the Sexton grey 
 
 Who tolls the dreary knell 
 And nights like this he loves to sway 
 
 And swing his mystic bell. 
 Twas that I heard and nothing more. 
 
 This lonely Christmas Eve ; 
 
 Then, for the dead I ll meet no more. 
 
 At Christmas let me grieve. 
 
 Night, be a Priest ! put your star-Stole on 
 
 And murmur a holy prayer 
 Over each grave, and for every one 
 
 Lying down lifeless there ! 
 And over the dead stands the high priest Night, 
 
 Robed in his shadowy Stole ; 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT, 165 
 
 And beside him I kneel, as his Acolyte, 
 To respond to his prayer of dole. 
 And list ! he begins 
 That psalm for sins, 
 The first of the mournful seven, 
 Plaintive and soft 
 It rises aloft, 
 
 Begging the mercy of Heaven 
 To pity and forgive, 
 For the sake of those who live. 
 The dead who have died unshriven. 
 
 Miserere ! Miserere ! 
 Still your heart and hush your breath ( 
 The voices of Despair and Death 
 
 Are shuddering through the psalm! 
 
 Miserere ! Miserere 
 Lift your hearts ! the terror dies ! 
 Up in yonder sinless skies 
 
 The psalms sound sweet and calm ! 
 
 Miserere ! Miserere ! 
 Very low, in tender tones, 
 The music pleads, the music moans, 
 " I forgive, and have forgiven, 
 The dead, whose hearts were shriven." 
 
 De profundis ! De profundis ! 
 Psalm of the dead and disconsolate ! 
 Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, 
 And pealed above ten thousand biers ; 
 And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate 
 
 Of sinners and of just, 
 When their souls are going up to God, 
 
 Their bodies down to dust. 
 
166 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 Dread hymn ! you wring the saddest tears 
 
 From mortal eyes that fall, 
 And your notes evoke the darkest fears 
 
 That human hearts appall ! 
 
 You sound o er the good, you sound o er the bad. 
 And ever your music is sad, so sad, 
 We seem to hear murmured, in every tone, 
 For the saintly, a blessing ; for sinners, a curse. 
 Psalm, sad Psalm ! you must pray and grieve 
 Over our Dead on this Christmas Eve. 
 
 De profundis ! De profundis ! 
 
 And the Night chaunts the Psalm o er the mortal "lay, 
 And the spirits immortal from far away, 
 To the music of Hope sing this sweet-toned lay : 
 
 You think of the Dead on Christmas eve, 
 
 Wherever the Dead are sleeping ; 
 And we, from a Land where we may not grieve, 
 
 Look tenderly down on your weeping. 
 You think us far ; we are very near, 
 
 From you and the Earth though parted. 
 We sing to-night to console and cheer 
 
 The hearts of the broken-hearted. 
 The earth watches over the lifeless clay 
 
 Of each of its countless sleepers ; 
 And the sleepless Spirits that passed away 
 
 Watch over all Earth s weepers. 
 We shall meet again in a brighter land, 
 
 Where farewell is never spoken ; 
 We shall clasp each other hand in hand, 
 
 And the clasp shall not be broken, 
 We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, 
 
 Where we ll never know a sadness ; 
 And our lives shall be filled, like a. Christmas chime, 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 With rapture and with gladness. 
 The snows shall pass from our graves away, 
 
 And you from the Earth, remember ; 
 And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, 
 
 Shall follow Earth s December. 
 When you think of us, think not of the tomb 
 
 Where you laid us down in sorrow ; 
 But look aloft, and beyond Earth s gloom, 
 
 And wait for the great To-morrow. 
 
 And the Pontiff, Night, with his star-Stole on, 
 Whispereth soft and low : 
 Requiescat ! Requiescat ! 
 Peace ! Peace ! to every one 
 For whom we grieve this Christmas Eve, 
 In their graves beneath the snow. 
 
 The stars in the far off Heaven 
 
 Have long since struck eleven ! 
 
 And hark ! from Temple and from Tower, 
 
 Soundeth Time s grandest midnight hour, 
 
 Blessed by the Saviour s birth. 
 
 And Night putteth off the sable Stole, 
 
 Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, 
 
 For one with many a starry gem, 
 
 To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, 
 
 Who comes to men, the King of them, 
 
 Yet conies without robe or diadem, 
 
 And all turn towards the holy East, 
 
 To hear the song of the Christmas Feast. 
 
 Four thousand years Earth waited, 
 Four thousand years men prayed, 
 
 Four thousand years the Nations sighed 
 That their King so long delayed. 
 
i68 A CHRISTMAS CHA UNT. 
 
 The Prophets told His coming, 
 The saintly for Him sighed ; 
 
 And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem 
 Shone o er them when they died. 
 
 Their faces towards the Future 
 They longed to hail the Light 
 
 That in the after centuries, 
 
 Would rise on Christmas night. 
 
 But still the Saviour tarried, 
 
 Within His Father s home; 
 
 And the Nations wept and wondered why 
 The Promised had not come. 
 
 At last Earth s hope was granted, 
 And God was a Child of Earth ; 
 
 And a thousand Angels chaunted 
 The lowly midnight birth. 
 
 Ah ! Bethlehem was grander 
 That hour than Paradise; 
 
 And the light of Earth that night eclipsed 
 The splendors of the skies. 
 
 Then let us sing the Anthem 
 The Angels once did sing ; 
 
 Until the music of love and praise, 
 O er whole wide world will ring. 
 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 
 Sound the thrilling song ! 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 Roll the Hymn along. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 169 
 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 
 Let the Heavens ring; 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 Welcome, new-born King. 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 
 Over the sea and land ; 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 Chaunt the Anthem grand. 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 * Let us all rejoice ; 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 Lift each heart and voice. 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 . Swell the Hymn on high ; 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 Sound it to the sky. 
 Gloria in excelsis ! 
 
 Sing it, sinful Earth ! 
 In excelsis Deo ! 
 
 For the Saviour s birth. - 
 
 Thus joyful and victoriously, 
 
 Glad and ever so gloriously ; 
 
 High as the Heavens wide as the Earth, 
 
 Swelleth the Hymn of the Saviour s birth. 
 
 Lo ! the Day is waking 
 
 In the East afar ; 
 Dawn is faintly breaking 
 
 Sunk in every star. 
 
 Christmas Eve has vanished 
 
 With its shadows grey ; 
 All its griefs are banished 
 
 By bright Christmas Day. 
 
170 A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. 
 
 Joyful chimes are ringing 
 O er the land and seas, 
 
 And there comes glad singing, 
 Borne on every breeze. 
 
 Little ones so merry 
 Bed-clothes coyly lift, 
 
 And, in such a hurry, 
 
 Prattle, " Christmas gift ! " 
 
 Little heads so curly, 
 Knowing Christmas laws. 
 
 Peep out very early 
 
 For old "Santa Glaus." 
 
 Little eyes are laughing 
 O er their Christmas toys, 
 
 Older ones are quaffing 
 Cups of Christmas joys. 
 
 Hearts are joyous, cheerful, 
 Faces all are gay ; 
 
 None are sad and tearful 
 On bright Christmas Day. 
 
 Hearts are light and bounding, 
 All from care are free ; 
 
 Homes are all resounding, 
 With the sounds of glee. 
 
 Feet with feet are meeting, 
 Bent on pleasure s way ; 
 
 .Souls to souls give greeting 
 Warm on Christmas Day. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CHAUNT. j 7I 
 
 Gifts are kept a-going 
 
 Fast from hand to hand ; 
 Blessings are a-flowing 
 
 Over every land. 
 
 One vast wave of gladness 
 
 Sweeps its world-wide way, 
 Drowning every sadness 
 
 On this Christmas Day. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Haste around the Earth ; 
 Merry, merry Christmas 
 
 Scatter smiles and mirth. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Be to one and all ; 
 Merry, merry Christmas 
 
 Enter hut and hall. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Be to rich and poor ! 
 Merry, merry Christinas 
 
 Stop at every door. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Fill each heart with joy ; 
 Merry, merry Christmas 
 
 To each girl and boy. 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 Better gifts than gold ; 
 Merry, merry Christmas 
 
 To the young and old. 
 
 Merry, rnerry Christmas ! 
 
 May the coming year 
 Bring as merry a Christmas 
 
 And as bright a cheer. 
 
"FAR AWAY." 
 
 AR AWAY ! what does it mean ? 
 m A change of heart with a change of place ? 
 When footsteps pass from scene to scene, 
 Fades soul from soul with face from face ? 
 Are hearts the slaves or lords of space ? 
 
 " Far Away ! " what does it mean ? 
 
 Does distance sever There from Here ? 
 Can leagues of land part hearts ? I ween 
 They cannot ; for the trickling tear 
 Says " Far Away," means, " Far More Near." 
 
 " Far away!" the mournful miles 
 
 Are but the mystery of space 
 That blends our sighs, but parts our smiles, 
 For love will find a meeting place 
 When face is farthest off from face. 
 
 " Far away !" we meet in dreams, 
 
 As round the Altar of the Night 
 Far parted stars send down their gleams 
 To meet in one embrace of light, 
 And make the brow of darkness bright. 
 
 " Far away ! " we meet in tears, 
 
 That tell the path of weary feet 
 And all the Good-byes of the years 
 
 But make the wanderer s welcome sweet. 
 The rains of parted clouds thus meet. - 
 
"FAR AWAY: 173 
 
 " Far away ! " we meet in prayer, 
 
 You know the temple and the shrine ; 
 Before it bows the brow of care, 
 Upon it tapers dimly shine ; 
 Tis Mercy s Home, and yours and mine. 
 
 " Far away !" it falls between 
 What is to-day, and what has been ; 
 But ah ! what is meets What is not, 
 In every hour and every spot, 
 Where lips breathe on " I have forgot." 
 
 " Far away ! " there is no Far ! 
 Nor days nor distance e er can bar 
 My spirit from your spirits ; nay, 
 Farewell may waft a face away, 
 But still with you my heart will stay. 
 
 " Far away ! " I sing its song, 
 
 But while the music moves along, 
 
 From out each word an echo clear 
 
 Falls trembling on my spirit s ear, 
 " Far away " means Far more near. 
 
LISTEN. 
 
 E borrow, 
 In our sorrow 
 From the sun of some to-morrow 
 Half the light that gilds to-day ;- 
 
 And the splendor, 
 Flashes tender, 
 
 O er Hope s footsteps, to defend her 
 From the fears that haunt the way. 
 
 We never, 
 Here can sever 
 Any Now from the Forever 
 Interclasping Near and Far ! 
 For each minute 
 Holds within it 
 All the hours of the Infinite. 
 As one sky holds every star. 
 
WRECKED. 
 
 HE winds are singing a death-knell 
 
 Out on the main to-night ; 
 The sky droops low, and many a bark, 
 That sailed from harbors bright, 
 Like many an one before 
 Shall enter port no more : 
 
 And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore, 
 Before to-morrow s light. 
 
 The clouds are hanging a death-pall 
 
 Over the sea to-night, 
 The stars are veiled and the hearts that sailed 
 
 Away from harbors bright, 
 Shall sob their last for their quiet home 
 And sobbing, sink neath the whirling foam 
 
 Before the morning s light. 
 
 The waves are weaving a death-shroud 
 
 Out on the main to-night ; 
 Alas ! the last prayer whispered there 
 By lips with terror white 
 Over the ridge of gloom 
 Not a star will loom ! 
 
 God help the souls that will meet their doom 
 Before the dawn of light. 
 
176 SORRO W AND THE FLO WERS. 
 
 The breeze is singing a Joy song 
 
 Over the sea to-day ; 
 The storm is dead, and the waves are red 
 
 With the flush of the morning s ray ; 
 And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep, 
 The eyes that watch for the ships, shall weep 
 
 For the hearts they bore away. 
 
 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 A MEMORIAL WREATH TO C. F. 
 SORROW : 
 
 GARLAND for a grave ! Fair flowers that bloom, 
 
 And only bloom to fade as fast away, 
 We twine your leaflets round our Claudia s tomb, 
 And with your dying beauty crown her clay. 
 
 Ye are the tender types of life s decay ; 
 
 Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath, 
 From out the hand of June, or heart of May, 
 
 Fair flowers ! tell less of life and more of death. 
 
 My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, 
 All o er the weary world, for weary years ; 
 
 I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves 
 
 The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears. 
 
SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 177 
 
 And yet, the while I garland graves as now, 
 
 >. I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe, 
 Whilst Joy is crowning many a living brow, 
 
 I crown the poor frail dust that sleeps below. 
 
 She was a Flower fresh, fair and pure and frail ; 
 
 A Lily in life s morning : God is sweet ; 
 He reached His hand, there rose a mother s wail ; 
 
 Her Lily drooped : tis blooming at His feet. 
 
 Where are the flowers to crown the faded Flower ? 
 
 I want a garland for another grave ; 
 And who will bring them from the dell and bower ? 
 
 To crown what God hath taken, with what Heav 
 en gave. 
 
 As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will ; 
 
 Ye come with fairest flowers : give them to me, 
 To crown our Claudia. Love leads Memory still, 
 
 To prove at graves Love s immortality. 
 
 WHITE ROSE : 
 Her grave is not a grave ; it is a Shrine, 
 
 - Where innocence reposes, 
 Bright over which God s stars must love to shine, 
 
 And where, when Winter closes, 
 Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, 
 Just like this hand of mine, 
 
 The whitest of white roses. 
 
 LAUREL : 
 I found it on a mountain slope, 
 
 The sunlight on its face ; 
 It caught from clouds a smile of hope 
 
 That brightened all the place. 
 
178 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 They wreathe with it the warrior s brow, 
 And crown the chieftain s head ; 
 
 But the Laurel s leaves love best to grace 
 The garland of the dead. 
 
 WILD FLOWER I 
 
 I would not live in a garden, 
 
 But far from the haunts of men ; 
 
 Nature herself was my warden ; 
 I lived in a lone little glen. 
 
 A Wild Flower out,of the wildwood. 
 
 
 
 Too wild for even a name ; 
 As strange and as simple as childhood. 
 And wayward, yet sweet all the same. 
 
 
 WILLOW BRANCH : 
 
 To Sorrow s own sweet crown, 
 
 With simple grace, 
 
 The Weeping-Willow bends her branches down 
 Just like a mother s arm, 
 To shield from harm, 
 
 The dead within their resting place. 
 
 i 
 
 LILY : 
 
 The Angel Flower of all the flowers ; 
 
 Its sister flowers, 
 
 In all the bowers, 
 Worship the Lily, for it brings, 
 
 Wherever it blooms, 
 
 On shrines or tombs, 
 A dream surpassing earthly sense 
 Of Heaven s own stainless innocence. 
 
SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 179 
 
 VIOLET LEAVES : 
 
 It is too late for Violets, 
 
 I only bring their leaves ; 
 I looked in vain for Mignonettes 
 
 To grace the crown grief weaves ; 
 For queenly May, upon her way, 
 Robs half the bowers 
 Of all their flowers, 
 And leaves but leaves to June, 
 Ah ! beauty fades so soon ; 
 And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, 
 For flowrets are fading fast, one by one. 
 
 Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, 
 Leaves for a Little Flower, gone to the Far Land. 
 
 \ 
 FORGET-ME-NOT: 
 
 " Forget me not." The sad words strangely quiver, 
 On lips like shadows falling on a river, 
 Flowing away, 
 By night, by day, 
 Flowing away forever. 
 The mountain whence the river springs, 
 
 Murmurs. to it, "Forget me not;" 
 The little stream runs on and sings 
 On to the sea, and every spot 
 It passes by 
 Breathes forth a sigh, 
 " Forget me not," " Forget me not." 
 
 A GARLAND *. 
 
 I bring this for her mother ; ah ! who knows 
 The lonely deeps within a mother s heart ? 
 Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows 
 Above, around her, when her children part, 
 
i8o SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone ; 
 It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. 
 
 Whene er a child dies from a mother s arms, 
 
 A grave is dug within the mother s heart : 
 
 She watches it alone ; no words of art 
 
 Can tell the story of her vigils there. 
 
 This garland fading even while tis fair, 
 
 It is a mother s memory of a grave, 
 
 When God hath taken her whom Heaven gave. 
 
 SORROW : 
 
 Farewell ! I go to crown the dead ; 
 Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, 
 For they, whose hearts so faithful, love 
 The lonely grave the very clay ; 
 They crown themselves with richer gems 
 Than flash in royal diadems. 
 
A THOUGHT. 
 
 EARTS that are great beat never loud, 
 
 They muffle their music, when they come ; 
 They hurry away from the thronging crowd 
 With bended brows and lips half dumb. 
 
 And the world looks on and mutters" Proud." 
 But when great hearts have passed away 
 
 Men Bother in awe and kiss their shroud, 
 
 And in love they kneel around their clay. 
 
 Hearts that are great are always lone, 
 They never will manifest their best ; 
 
 Their greatest greatness is unknown, 
 Eailh knows a little- God, the rest. 
 
"DREAMING." 
 
 HE moan of a Wintry soul 
 
 r*^ Melted into a Summer-song, 
 And the words, like the wavelet s roll 
 Moved murmuringly along. 
 
 And the Song flowed far and away 
 
 Like the Voice of a half-sleeping rill 
 
 Each wave of it lit by a ray, 
 
 But the sound was so soft and so still, 
 
 And the tone was so gentle and low, 
 None heard the song till it had passed ; 
 
 Till the echo, that followed its now 
 Came dreamingly back from the Past. 
 
 Twas too late ! a song never returns 
 That passes our pathway, unheard ; 
 
 As dust lying dreaming in Urns 
 Is the Song lying dead in a word. 
 
 For the birds of the skies have a nest 
 
 And the winds have a home where they sleep- 
 
 And songs, like our. souls, need a rest, 
 
 Where they murmur the while we may weep. 
 
 # -.v # * %v x x x 
 
 But songs like the birds o er the foam, 
 
 Where the storm-wind is beating their breast 
 
 Fly shoreward and oft find a home 
 In the shelter of words where they rest. 
 
"YESTERDAYS." 
 
 ONE ! and they return no more, 
 
 But they leave a light in the heart, 
 The murmur of waves that kiss a shore 
 Will never, I know, depart. 
 
 Gone ! yet with us still they stay, 
 
 And their memories throb thro li fe, 
 
 The music that hushes or stirs to-day, 
 Is toned by their calm or strife. 
 
 Gone ! and yet they never go ! 
 
 We kneel at the shrine of Time, 
 Tis a mystery no man may know, 
 
 Nor tell in a Poet s rhyme. 
 
"TO-DAYS!" 
 
 |RIEF while they last, 
 
 Long when they are gone ; 
 They catch from the past, 
 A light to still live on. 
 
 Brief ! yet I ween, 
 
 A day may be an age, 
 The Poet s pen may screen 
 
 Heart-stories on one page. 
 
 Brief ! but in them, 
 
 From eve back to morn, 
 
 Some find the gem, 
 Many find the thorn. 
 
 Brief ! minutes pass ! 
 
 Soft as flakes of snow, 
 Shadows o er the grass 
 
 Could not swifter go. 
 
 Brief ! but along 
 
 All the after-years 
 To-day will be a song 
 
 Of smiles or of tears. 
 
" TO-MORROWS ! " 
 
 OD knows all things, but we 
 In darkness walk our ways. 
 We wonder what will be, 
 
 We ask the Nights and Days. 
 
 Their lips are sealed ; at times 
 The Bards, like Prophets see,. 
 
 And rays rush o er their rhymes 
 From suns of " days to be." 
 
 They see To-morrow s Heart, 
 They read To-morrow s face, 
 
 They grasp, is it by art ? 
 The far To-morrow s trace. 
 
 They see what is unseen, 
 And hear what is unheard 
 
 And To-morrow s shade or sheen 
 Rests on the Poet s word. 
 
 As Seers see a star 
 
 Beyond the brow of Night : 
 So Poets scan the Far, 
 
 Prophetic when they write. 
 
 They read a human face, 
 As Readers read their Page, 
 
 The while their thought will trace 
 A life from youth to Age. 
 
i86 "TO-MORROWS." 
 
 They have a mournful Gift, 
 Their verses, oft, are tears ; 
 
 And sleepless eyes they lift 
 To look adown the years. 
 
 To-morrows are To-days ! 
 
 Is it not more than art ? 
 When all life s winding \vays 
 
 Meet in the Poet s Heart. 
 
 The Present meets the Past, 
 The Future, too, is there ; 
 
 The First enclasps the Last, 
 And Never folds Fore er. 
 
 It is not all a dream ; 
 
 A Poet s thought is Truth ; 
 The things that are and seem 
 
 From Age far back to Youth 
 
 He holds the tangled threads ; 
 
 His hands unravel them ; 
 He knows the Hearts and Heads 
 
 For Thorns, or Diadem. 
 
 Ask him, and he will see, 
 What your To-morrows are ; 
 
 He ll sing " What is to be " 
 Beneath each sun and star. 
 
 To-morrows ! Dread Unknown ! 
 
 What fates may they not bring? 
 What is the chord, the tone? 
 
 The key in which they sing ? 
 
"TO-MORRO WSr 187 
 
 I see a thousand throngs, 
 
 To-morrows for them wait ; 
 I hear a thousand songs 
 
 Intoning each one s fate. 
 
 And yours ? What will it be ? 
 
 Hush song ! and let me pray ! 
 God sees it all, I see 
 
 A long, lone, winding way ; 
 
 And more ! no matter what ! 
 
 Crosses and crowns you wear : 
 My song may be forgot, 
 
 But Thou shalt not, in Prayer. 
 
 "INEVITABLE." 
 
 HAT has been will be, 
 
 Tis the under-law of life, 
 Tis the song of sky and sea, 
 To the Key of calm and strife.- 
 
 For guard we as we may, 
 
 What is to be will be, 
 The dark must fold each day 
 
 The shore must gird each sea. 
 
 All things are ruled by law, 
 
 Tis only in man s will 
 You meet a feeble flaw, 
 
 But fate is weaving still 
 
1 83 "INEVITABLE:* 
 
 The web and woof of life 
 
 With hands that have no hearts 
 
 Thro calmness and thro strife 
 Despite all human arts. 
 
 For fate is master here 
 
 He laughs at human wiles, 
 
 He sceptres every tear, 
 And fetters any smile. 
 
 What is to be will be 
 We cannot help ourselves, 
 
 The waves ask not the sea 
 Where lies the shore that shelves. 
 
 The law is coldest steel 
 We live beneath its sway 
 
 It cares not what we feel, 
 And so pass night and day. 
 
 And sometimes we may think 
 This cannot, will not be- 
 Some waves must rise, some sink 
 Out on the midnight sea. 
 
 And we are weak as waves 
 That sink upon the shore, 
 
 We go down into Graves 
 Fate chaunts the Nevermore ; 
 
 Cometh a Voice ! Kneel down ! 
 
 Tis God s, there is no Fate 
 He giveth the Cross and Crown, 
 
 He opens the jeweled gate 
 
. HOPE! 189 
 
 He watcheth with such eyes 
 
 As only mothers own, 
 
 44 Sweet Father in the skies ! 
 
 Ye call us to a Throne." 
 
 There is no Fate, God s love 
 Is law beneath each law, 
 
 And law all laws above 
 
 Fore er, without a flaw. 
 
 HOPE ! 
 
 HINE eyes are dim : 
 
 A mist hath gathered there : 
 Around their rim, 
 
 Float many clouds of care, 
 
 And there is sorrow every everywhere. 
 
 But there is God, 
 
 Every everywhere ; 
 Beneath His rod, 
 
 Kneel thou, adown in prayer. 
 
 For Grief is God s own kiss, 
 
 Upon a soul. 
 Look up ! the sun of bliss 
 
 Will shine where storm-clouds roll. 
 
1 9Q " FAREWELLS? 
 
 Yes, weeper ! weep ! 
 
 Twill not be evermore ; 
 I know the darkest deep 
 
 Hath e en the brightest shore. 
 
 So tired ! so tired ! 
 
 A cry of half despair ; 
 Look ! .at your side 
 
 And see who standeth there ! 
 
 Your Father ! Hush, 
 
 A Heart beats in His breast 
 
 Now rise and rush 
 
 Into His Arms and rest. 
 
 " FAREWELLS ! " 
 
 | HEY are so sad to say : no poem tells 
 
 agony of hearts that dwells 
 In lone and last Farewells. 
 
 They are like deaths : they bring a wintry chill 
 To summer s roses, and to summer s rill ; 
 And yet we breathe them still. 
 
 For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away ; 
 Hearts ! we said to them, " Stay with us ! stay ! 
 And they said, sighing as they said it, " Nay." 
 
SONG OF THE RIVER. 1911 
 
 The sunniest days are shortest ; darkness tells 
 The starless story of the Night that dwells 
 In lone and last Farewells. 
 
 Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere : 
 
 Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear ; 
 
 Their hearts may break, breathing, " Farewell fore er." 
 
 SONG OF THE RIVER. 
 
 RIVER went singing, adown to the sea, 
 
 A-singing low singing 
 And the dim rippling river said softly to me 
 " I m bringing, a-bringing 
 While floating along 
 A beautiful song 
 To the shores that are white where the waves are so 
 
 weary, 
 
 To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are 
 dreary. 
 
 A song sweet and calm 
 As the peacefulest psalm ; 
 And the shore that was sad 
 Will be grateful and glad, 
 And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream 
 Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream : 
 And the tempests shall cease 
 And there shall be Peace." 
 
192 SONG OF THE RIVER. 
 
 From the fairest of fountains 
 And farthest of mountains, 
 From the stillness of snow 
 Came the stream in its flow. 
 
 Down the slopes where the rockc are gray, 
 
 Thro the vales where the flowers are fair 
 Where the sunlight flashed where the shadows lay 
 Like stories that cloud a face of care, 
 The river ran on, and on, and on 
 Day and night, and night and day 
 Going and going ; and never gone, 
 
 Longing to flow to the " Far away " 
 Staying and staying, and never still 
 Going and staying as if one will, 
 Said " Beautiful River go to the sea," 
 And another will whispered, " Stay with me :" 
 And the river made answer, soft and low 
 " I go and stay" " I stay and go." 
 
 But what is the song, I said, at last 
 To the passing river that never passed ; 
 And a white, white wave whispered, " List to me, 
 I m a note in the song for the beautiful sea, 
 A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever 
 And the river flows on in the same mystic key 
 That blends in one chord the Forever and Never, " 
 DECEMBER i5th, 1878. 
 
DREAMLAND. 
 
 IVER the silent sea of sleep, 
 
 Far away ! far away ! 
 Over a strange and starlit deep, 
 
 Where the beautiful shadows sway,- 
 Dim, in the dark 
 Glideth a bark 
 
 Where never the waves of a tempest roll- 
 Bearing the very "soul of the soul" 
 
 Alone, all alone 
 Far away far away, 
 
 To shores all-unknown 
 In the wakings of the day ; 
 To the lovely land of dreams, 
 Where what is meets with what seems 
 Brightly-dim ; dimly-bright 
 Where the suns meet stars at night, 
 Where the darkness meets the light 
 Heart to heart, face to face 
 In an infinite embrace. 
 
 Mornings break, 
 And we wake, 
 
 And we wonder where we went 
 In the bark 
 Thro the dark. 
 But our wonder is mis-spent 
 For no Day can cast a light 
 On the dreamings of the Night. 
 
LINES. 
 
 pOMETIMES from the Far-away, 
 Wing a little thought to me ; 
 In the night, or in the day 
 It will give a rest to me, 
 
 I have praise of m my here, 
 
 And the world gives me renown ; 
 
 Let it go give me one tear 
 
 Twill be a jewel in my crown. 
 
 What care I for earthly fame ? 
 
 How I shrink from all its glare ! 
 I would rather that my name 
 
 Would be shrined in some one s prayer. 
 
 Many hearts are. all too much ; 
 Or too little in their praise ; 
 
 I would rather feel the touch 
 
 Of one prayer that thrills all days. 
 
A SONG, 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 f 
 
 g URE faced Page ! waiting so long 
 
 To welcome my Muse and me ; 
 KJ Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song 
 ^, That floats from my spirit to thee/ 
 
 And Song ! sound soft as the streamlet sings 
 
 And sweet as the Summer s birds, 
 And pure and bright and white be the wings 
 
 That will waft thee into words. 
 
 Yea ! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea 
 
 To rest on the far off beach, 
 And breathe forth the message I trust to thee, 
 
 Tear-toned on the shores of speech. 
 
 But ere you go, dip your snowy wing 
 
 In a wave of my spirit s deep, 
 In the wave that is purest, then haste and bring 
 
 A song to the hearts that weep. 
 
 Oh ! bring it, and sing it, its notes are tears; 
 
 Its octaves, the octaves of grief ; 
 Who knows but its tones in the far off years 
 
 May bring to the lone heart relief, 
 
 Yea ! bring it, and sing it, a worded moan 
 That sweeps thro the minors of woe, - 
 
 With mystical meanings in every tone, 
 And sounds like the sea s lone flow. 
 
196 A SONG. 
 
 And the thoughts take the wings of words and float 
 
 Out of my spirit to thee, 
 But the song dies away into only one note 
 
 And sounds but in only one key. 
 
 And the Note ! tis the wail of the weariest wave 
 
 That sobs on the lonliest shore, 
 And the Key ! never mind ! it comes out of a grave ! 
 
 And the Chord ! tis a sad " Nevermore." 
 
 And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach 
 
 And sighing, sinks back to the sea, 
 So my song it just touches the rude shores of speech, 
 
 And its music melts back into me. 
 
 Yea ! song ! shrink back to my spirit s lone deep, 
 
 Let others hear only thy moan, 
 But I I forever shall hear the grand sweep 
 
 Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone. 
 
 Sweep on ! mighty song sound down in my heart 
 
 As a storm sounding under a sea; 
 Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, 
 
 Nor a note of it float Out from me. 
 
PARTING. 
 
 AREWELL ! that word has broken hearts 
 
 And blinded eyes. with tears, 
 Farewell ! one stays and one departs^ 
 Between them roll the years. 
 
 No wonder why who say it think 
 
 Farewell ! he may fare ill ; 
 No wonder that their spirits sink 
 
 And all their hopes grow chill. 
 
 Good-bye ! that word makes faces pale 
 
 And fills the soul with fears ; 
 Good-bye ! two words that wing a wail 
 
 Which flutters down the years. 
 
 No wonder they who say it, feel 
 
 Such pangs for those who go 
 
 Good-bye ! they wish the parted weal, 
 But ah ! they may meet woe. 
 
 Adieu ! such is the word for us, 
 
 Tis more than word tis prayer, 
 
 They do not part, who do part thus, 
 For God is everywhere. 
 
ST. STEPHEN. 
 
 1RST champion of the Crucified ! 
 plp^r Who when the fight began 
 
 Between the Church and worldly pride 
 So nobly fought o nobly died 
 
 The foremost in the van ; 
 While rallied to your valiant side 
 The red-robed martyr-band ; 
 To-night with glad and high acclaim 
 We venerate thy saintly name ; 
 Accept St. Stephen to thy praise 
 And glory these our lowly lays. 
 
 The chosen twelve with chrismed hand 
 
 ( And burning zeal within 
 Led forth their small yet fearless band 
 On Pentecost and took their stand 
 
 Against the world and sin 
 While rang aloud the battle-cry 
 " The hated Christians all must die, 
 As died the Nazarine before, 
 The God they believe in and adore." 
 
 Yet Stephen s heart quailed not with fear 
 
 At persecution s cry, 
 But loving as he did, the cause 
 Of Jesus and His faith and laws 
 
 Prepared himself to die 
 He faced his foes with burning zeal, 
 
ST. STEPHEN. 199 
 
 Such zeal as only Saints can feel, 
 He told them how the Lord had stood 
 Within their midst, so great and good, 
 How He had through Judea trod, 
 How wonders marked His way the God 
 How He had cured the blind the lame, 
 The deaf, the palsied and the maimed, 
 And how with awful, wondrous might 
 He raised the dead to life and light, 
 And how His people knew Him not, 
 Had eyes and still had seen Him not, 
 Had ears and still had heard Him not, 
 Had hearts and comprehended not. 
 
 Then said he pointing to the right 
 Where darkly rose Golgotha s hight 
 " There have ye slain the holy One 
 Your Saviour and God s only Son." 
 
 They gnashed their teeth in raging ire, 
 
 Those dark and cruel men, 
 They vowed a vengeance deep and dire 
 
 Against Saint Stephen then. 
 Yet he was calm ; a radiant light 
 
 Around his forehead gleamed, 
 He raised his eyes a wondrous sight 
 He saw so grand it was and bright, 
 His soul was filled with such delight 
 
 That he an angel seemed. 
 Then spoke the Saint " A vision grand 
 
 Bursts on me from above, 
 The doors of heaven open stand, 
 And at the Father s own right hand 
 
 I see the Lord I love" 
 
200 ST. STEPHEN. 
 
 " Away with him " the rabble cry, 
 
 With swelling rage and hate, 
 But Stephen still gazed on the sky, 
 His heart was with his Lord on high, 
 
 He heeded not his fate. 
 The gathering crowd in fury wild 
 
 Rush on the raptured Saint, 
 And seize their victim mute and mild, 
 Who like his Master though reviled 
 
 Still uttered no complaint. 
 
 With angry shouts they rend the air ; 
 
 They drag him to the city gate ; 
 They bind his hands and feet, and there, 
 While whispered he for them a prayer, 
 
 The Marty meets his fate. 
 
 First fearless witness to his belief 
 
 In Jesus Crucified, 
 The red-robed Martyrs noble chief, 
 
 Thus for his Master died. 
 And to the end of time his name 
 Our Holy Church shall e er proclaim, 
 And with a mother s pride shall tell 
 How her great proto-Mailyrs fell. 
 
A FLOWER S SONG. 
 
 sTTAR ! Star ! why dost thou shine 
 
 Each night upon my brow ? 
 dost thou make me dream the dreams 
 That I am dreaming now ? 
 
 Star ! Star ! thy home is high 
 
 I am of humble birth ; 
 Thy feet walk shining o er the sky, 
 
 Mine, only on the earth. 
 
 Star ! Star ! why make me dream ? 
 
 My dreams are all untrue : 
 And why is Sorrow s Dark for me 
 
 And Heaven s Bright for you ? 
 
 Star ! Star ! oh ! hide thy ray ! 
 
 And take it off my face ; 
 Within my lowly home I stay, 
 
 Thou, in thy lofty place. 
 
 Star ! Star ! and still I dream, 
 
 Along thy light afar ! 
 I seem to soar until I seem 
 
 To be, like you, a star. 
 
THE STAR S SONG. 
 
 LOWER ! Flower ! why repine ! 
 "jR^F^ God knows each creature s place; 
 He hides within me when I shine, 
 And your leaves hide his face, 
 
 And you are near as I to Him, 
 
 And you reveal as much 
 Of that Eternal soundless hymn 
 
 Man s words may never touch. 
 
 God sings to man through all my rays 
 That wreathe the brow of night, 
 
 And walks with me thro all my ways 
 The Everlasting Light. 
 
 Flower ! Flower ! why repine ? 
 
 He chose on lowly earth 
 And not in Heaven where I shine 
 
 His Bethlehem and birth. 
 
 Flower ! Flower ! I see Him pass 
 Each hour of night and day, 
 
 Down to an Altar and a Mass 
 Go thou, and fade away 
 
 Fade away upon His shrine ! 
 
 Thy light is brighter far 
 Than all the light wherewith I shine 
 
 In Heaven, as a star. 
 
DEATH OF THE FLOWER, 
 
 LOVE my mother the Wildwood, 
 
 I sleep upon her breast, 
 A day or two of childhood, 
 And then I sink to rest. 
 
 T had once a lovely sister 
 
 She was cradled by my side. 
 
 But one summer-day I missed her, 
 She had gone to deck a bride. 
 
 And I had another sister, 
 
 With cheeks all bright with bloom ; 
 And another morn I missed her, 
 
 She had gone to wreathe a tomb. 
 
 And they told me they had withered, 
 
 On the bride s brow and the grave ;-~ 
 
 Half-an-hour, and all their fragrance 
 Died away, which Heaven gave. 
 
 Two sweet-faced girls came walking 
 Thro my lonely home one day, 
 
 And I overheard them talking 
 Of an Altar on their way. 
 
 They were culling flowers around me 
 
 And I said a little prayer 
 To go with them ; and they found me, 
 
 And upon an Altar fair 
 
2o 4 NO W. 
 
 Where the Eucharist was lying 
 On its mystical death-bed, 
 
 I felt myself a-dying, 
 
 While the Mass was being said. 
 
 But I lived a little longer, 
 
 And I prayed there all the day, 
 Till the Evening-Benediction, 
 
 When my poor life passed away. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 & 
 
 ^OMETIMES a single hour 
 
 Rings thro a long life-time, 
 As from a temple-tower 
 
 There often falls a chime 
 From blessed bells, that seems 
 To fold in Heaven s dreams 
 Our spirits round a shrine ; 
 Hath such an hour been thine ? 
 
 Sometimes, who knoweth why ? 
 
 One minute holds a power 
 
 That shadows eve ry hour 
 Dialed in life s sky. 
 
 A cloud that is a speck 
 When seen from far away 
 
 May be a storm, and wreck 
 The joys of every day. 
 
NO W. 205 
 
 Sometimes, it seems not much, 
 
 Tis scarcely felt at all, 
 Grace gives a gentle touch 
 
 To hearts for once and all, 
 Which in the spirit s strife 
 
 May all unnoticed be. 
 And yet it rules a life : 
 
 Hath this e er come to thee ? 
 
 Sometimes one little word 
 
 Whispered sweet and fleet, 
 That scarcely can be heard 
 
 Our ears will sudden meet. 
 And all life s hours along 
 
 That whisper may vibrate, 
 And like a wizard s song 
 
 Decide our ev ry fate. 
 
 Sometimes a sudden look, 
 
 That falleth from some face, 
 Will steal into each nook 
 
 Of life, and leave its trace ; 
 To haunt us to the last, 
 
 And sway our ev ry will 
 Thro all the days to be 
 
 For goodness or for ill ; 
 Hath this e er come to thee ? 
 
 Sometimes one minute folds 
 
 The hearts of all the years, 
 Just like the heart that holds 
 
 The Infinite in tears ; 
 There be such things as this : 
 
 Who knoweth why or how ? 
 A life of woe or bliss 
 
 Hangs on some little Now. 
 
SINGING-BIRD. 
 
 N the valley of my life 
 
 Sings a " Singing-Bird," 
 And its voice thro calm and strife 
 Is sweetly heard. 
 
 In the day and thro the night 
 
 Sound the notes, 
 And its song thro Dark and Bright 
 
 Ever floats. 
 
 Other warblers cease to sing 
 
 And their voices rest, 
 And they fold their weary wing 
 
 In their quiet nest 
 
 But my Singing-Bird still sings 
 
 Without a cease ; 
 And each song, it murmurs, brings 
 
 My spirit peace. 
 
 " Singing-Bird ! " oh ! " Singing-Bird !" 
 
 No one knows, 
 
 When your holy songs are heard, 
 What repose 
 
 Fills my life and soothes my heart; 
 
 But I fear 
 The day thy songs, if we must part, 
 
 I ll never hear. 
 
 But " Singing-Bird ! " ah ! " Singing-Bird ! " 
 
 Should this e er be, 
 The dreams of all thy songs I heard 
 
 Shall sing for me. 
 
GOD IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 EEP in the dark I hear the feet of God, 
 He walks the world ; He puts His holy hand- 
 On ev ry sleeper, only puts his hand 
 ^AVithin it benedictions for each one ; 
 
 Then passes on, but ah ! whene er He meets 
 A watcher waitiag 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 breath 
 Upon the watcher s soul, and more than this, 
 He stays for holy hours where watchers pray, 
 And more than that He oftimes lifts the veils 
 That hide the Visions of the world unseen. 
 The brightest sanctities of highest souls 
 Have blossomed into beauty in the dark. 
 How extremes meet ! the very darkest crimes, 
 That blight the souls of men, are strangely born 
 Beneath 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 Christ 
 Is 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 mothers bitter tears, 
 And consecrates the cradle of her child, 
 
208 GOD IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Which is to her her spirit s awful cross. 
 
 He shudders past the haunts of sin, yet leaves 
 
 E 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 heart 
 
 All 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 sing 
 
 A grand Magnificat as His Mary sang. 
 
 The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers 
 
 Watch 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. 
 
M 
 
 HEN I am dead, and all will soon forget 
 
 My words, and face, and ways ; 
 > I, somehow, think I ll walk beside thee yet 
 Adown thy after days. 
 
 I die first, and you will see my grave, 
 
 But child ! you must not cry ; 
 For my dead hand will brighest blessings wave 
 
 O er you from yonder sky. 
 
 You must not weep, I believe I d hear your tears 
 
 Tho sleeping in a tomb, 
 My rest would not be rest, if in your years 
 
 There 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 twine 
 
 Thy 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 there 
 
 In every trace and grace. 
 
 You came to me in girlhood and ; on brought, 
 
 An image back to me ; 
 No matter what, or whose, I often sought 
 
 Another s soul in thee. 
 
210 M * * * 
 
 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 guide, 
 I 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 shore 
 
 Is falling on my brow, 
 
 Is falling, soon to fade, when I am Dead 
 Think 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 hour 
 Your 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 still you tread ; 
 Towards God these ways are set ; 
 
 T will soon be over child ! when I am dead 
 I ll watch and guide you yet. 
 
REUNITED. 
 
 Tis better far that I should go before, 
 
 And you awhile should stay ; 
 But I will wait upon the golden shore 
 
 To 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 wear 
 
 I ll watch where er you go, 
 
 And wait until you come ; when I am dead 
 Think, sometimes, child ! of this ; 
 
 You must not weep follow where I led, 
 I wait for you in bliss. 
 
 REUNITED. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER THE YELLOW FEVER EPIDEMIC OF 1878. 
 
 URER than thy own white snow ; 
 
 Nobler than thy mountains height ; 
 t) Deeper than the ocean s flow ; 
 
 Stronger than thy own proud might ; 
 Oh ! Northland, to thy sister land, 
 Was late, thy mercy s generous deed and grand. 
 
REUNITED. 
 
 Nigh twice ten years, the sword was sheathed : 
 
 Its mist of green, o er battle plain, 
 For nigh two decades Spring had breathed : 
 
 And yet the crimson life-blood stain, 
 From passive swards, had never paled ; 
 Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed. 
 
 Between the Northland Bride of snow, 
 And Southland brightest sun s fair bride, 
 
 Swept, deepening ever, in its flow, 
 The stormy wake, in war s dark tide : 
 
 No hand might clasp, across the tears 
 
 And blood and anguish of four deathless years. 
 
 When Summer, like a rose in bloom, 
 
 Had blossomed from the bud of Spring ; 
 
 Oh ! who could deem, the dews of doom, 
 Upon the blushing lips, could cling ? 
 
 And who could believe, its fragrant light, 
 
 Would e er be freighted, with the breath of blight. 
 
 Yet o er the Southland, crept the spell, 
 
 That e en from out its brightness spread ; 
 And prostrate, powerless, she fell ; 
 
 - Rachel-like, amid her dead. 
 Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, 
 The waiting grave would welcome, as its guest. 
 
 The Northland, strong in love, and great, 
 
 Forgot the stormy days of strife ; 
 Forgot that souls, with dreams of hate, 
 
 Or unforgiveness, e er were rife. 
 Forgotten was each thought and hushed ; 
 Save, she was generous and her foe was crushed. 
 
as. A. 213 
 
 No hand might clasp, from land to land- 
 Yea there was one to bridge the tide ; 
 
 For at the touch of Mercy s hand, 
 
 The North and South stood side by side : 
 
 The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, 
 
 In Chanty s espousals, are made one. 
 
 " Thou givest back my sons again," 
 
 The Southland to the Northland cries ; 
 " For all my dead, on battle plain, 
 
 Thou biddest my dying now uprise : 
 I still my sobs ; I cease my tears ; 
 And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. 
 
 " Blessings on thine every wave, 
 
 Blessings on thine every shore, 
 Blessings that from sorrows save, 
 
 Blessings giving more and more, 
 For all thou gavest thy sister land, 
 Oh 1 Northland, in thy generous deed and grand." 
 
 C. S. A. 
 
 we weep for the heroes who died for us ? 
 
 living were true and tried for us, 
 And dying sleep side by side for us ; 
 The Martyr-band 
 That hallowed our land 
 With the blood they shed in a tide for us. 
 
214 C. S. A. 
 
 Ah ! fearless on many a day for us 
 
 They stood in the front of the fray for us, 
 
 And held the foeman at bay for us, 
 
 And tears should fall 
 
 Fore er o er all 
 Who fell while wearing the gray for us. 
 
 How many a glorious name for us, 
 
 How many a story of fame for us, 
 
 They left, would it not be a blame for us, 
 
 If their memories part 
 
 From 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 us 
 
 Will not forget 
 
 Its warriors yet 
 Who sleep in so many a grave for us. 
 
 On many and many a plain for us 
 Their 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 lay 
 
 Our heroes in gray 
 Shall forever live over again for us. 
 
1 
 
 THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 
 
 lATURE is but the outward vestibule 
 
 Which God has placed before an unseen shrine ; 
 The visible is but a fair, bright vale 
 That winds around the great Invisible ; 
 The finite, it is nothing but a smile 
 That flashes from the face of Infinite, 
 A smile with shadows on it, and tis sad 
 Men bask beneath the smile but oft forget 
 The loving Face that very smile conceals. 
 The changeable is but the broidered robe 
 Enwrapped about the great Unchangeable ; 
 The audible is but an echo faint 
 Low whispered from the far Inaudible ; 
 This earth is but an humble Acolyte 
 A-kneeling on the lowest Altar-step 
 Of this Creation s Temple, at the Mass 
 Of Supernature, just to ring the bell 
 At Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! while the world 
 Prepares its heart for Consecration s hour. 
 
 Nature is but the ever-rustling veil 
 
 Which God is wearing like the Carmelite 
 
 Who hides her face behind her virgin-veil 
 
 To 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. 
 
216 THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 
 
 God hides in Nature as a thought doth hide 
 In humbly-sounding words ; and as the thought 
 Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart 
 That giveth live and keepeth life alive, 
 So God, thro Nature works on ev ry soul : 
 For Nature is His word so strangely writ 
 In 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 rocks 
 The word is clearly written, blest are they 
 Who read the word aright, and understand. 
 
 For God is everywhere and he doth find 
 In every atom which His hand hath made " 
 A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal 
 His Name, Love, Power, to those who kneel 
 In holy faith upon this bright Below 
 And lift their eyes thro all this mystery 
 To catch the vision of the great Beyond. 
 
 Yea ! Nature is His Shadow, and how bright 
 Must that face be which, such a shadow, casts? 
 We walk within it, for " we live and move 
 And have our being" in His ev rywhere. 
 Why is God shy? why doth He hide Himself? 
 The tiniest grain of sand on ocean s shore 
 En-Temples Him, the fragrance of the rose 
 Folds Him around as blessed incense folds 
 The Altars of His Christ : yet some will walk 
 Along the Temple s wondrous vestibule 
 And look, on and admire, yet enter not 
 
PASSING A IV AY. 
 
 To find Witliin the Presence, and the light 
 Which sheds its rays on all that is Without. 
 
 And Nature is His voice ; who list may hear 
 His Name low-murmured every everywhere. 
 In song of birds, in rustle of the flowers 
 In swaying of the trees,- and on the seas 
 The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships 
 That 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 hear 
 The soundless voice re-echoed everywhere 
 And some have hearts that never are enthrilled 
 By all the grand Hossannahs Nature sings. 
 List ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! without pause 
 Sounds sweetly out of all creation s heart 
 That hearts with power to love may echo back 
 Their Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! to the Hymn. 
 
 217 
 
 PASSING AWAY, 
 
 IFE S Vesper-bells are ringing 
 
 In 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 shine 
 On this weary body shrouded ; 
 But my soul doth not repine. 
 
1218 PASSING A WA Y. 
 
 "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 shore 
 That is fair and white and golden 
 
 I will meet my God ; and ye 
 Will forget not all the olden 
 
 Happy hours ye spent with me. 
 
 " I am glad that I am going, 
 
 What a strange and sweet delight 
 Is thro all my being flowing 
 
 When I know that, sure, to-night 
 I will pass from earth and meet Him 
 
 Whom 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-night 
 My 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 glimmer 
 
 On a face so wan, and white 
 Brighter was his soul while dimmer 
 
 Grew 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 him 
 
 Whisper -"Live as I did -live." 
 
POETS. 
 
 ! OETS are strange ; not always understood, 
 
 By 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 verse 
 Will rise to higher life, or taste of death 
 
 In blessing or in curse. 
 
 The Poet is great Nature s own High-priest, 
 
 Ordained from very birth ; 
 To keep for hearts an everlasting feast ; 
 
 To bless or curse the earth. 
 
 They cannot help but sing, they know not why 
 Their 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 trace 
 
 Of sunlight or of night. 
 
.220 POETS. 
 
 They move along life s uttermost extremes, 
 
 Unlike all other men, 
 And in their spirits depths sleep strangest dreams 
 
 Like shadows in a glen. 
 
 They all are dreamers ; in the day and night 
 
 Ever across their souls 
 The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright 
 
 In mystic rhythm rolls. 
 
 They live within themselves, they may not tell 
 
 What lieth deepest there ; 
 Within their breast, a Heaven or a hell, 
 
 Joy or tormenting care. 9 
 
 They are the loneliest men that walk men s ways, 
 
 No matter what they seem, 
 The stars and sunlight of their nights and days 
 
 Move 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. 
 
 ik 
 
 But live or die, their words leave their impress 
 
 Fore 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. 
 
 v,... 
 
 3lv 
 
 walked alone beside the lonely sea, 
 
 <|jj|ia vo v rhe slanting sunbeams fell upon his face, 
 ^ His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands 
 Like 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 her s 
 Had not those strange serenities and stirs 
 That 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 voice 
 Murmur "Oh ! my mother;" the white sands felt 
 The touch of tender tears he wept the while. 
 He walked beside the sea ; He took his sandals off 
 To bathe his weary feet in the pure cool wave, 
 For he had walked across the desert sands 
 All day long, and as he bathed his feet 
 He murmured to himself, " Three years ! three years ! 
 And then poor feet the cruel nails will come 
 And make you bleed : but ah ! that blood shall lave 
 All 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 shore 
 
222 A LEGEND. 
 
 And 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 brow 
 Caressingly and blessingly and said 
 
 " I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. 
 Sudden, a sea-bird driven by a storm 
 That had been sweeping on the farther shore 
 Came fluttering towards Him and panting fell 
 At 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 amaze 
 The little fisher-boy beheld the bird 
 Flutter a moment and then fly aloft 
 Its little life returned, and then he gazed 
 With 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 rock 
 That little boy knelt down, and there adored 
 While others cursed the Thorn-crowned Crucified. 
 
WHAT AILS THE WORLD? 
 
 * W$ ^ 
 
 HAT ails the world ? the Poet cried 
 
 " And why does Death walk everywhere ? 
 > And why do tears fall anywhere ? 
 ) N And skies have clouds, and souls have care ? 
 
 Thus the Poet sang, and sighed. 
 
 For he would fain have all things glad, 
 All lives happy, all hearts bright 
 Not a day would end in night, 
 Not a wrong would vex a right 
 
 And so he sang and he was sad. 
 
 Thro his very grandest rhymes 
 
 Moved a mournful monotone 
 
 Like a shadow Eastward thrown 
 
 From a sunset like a moan 
 Tangled in a Joy-bell s chimes. 
 
 " What ails the world ? " he sang and asked 
 And asked and sang but all in vain, 
 No answer came to any strain, 
 And no reply to his refrain 
 The mystery moved round him masked. 
 
 " What ails the world ? " an echo came 
 
 "Ails the world ?" The minstrel bands, 
 
 With famous or forgotten hands, 
 Lift up their lyres in all the lands, 
 And chant alike, and ask the same 
 
22 4 WHAT AILS THE WORLD. 
 
 From him whose soul first soared in song 
 A thousand-thousand years away, 
 To him who sang but yesterday, 
 In dying or in deathless lay 
 "What ails the world?" comes from the throng. 
 
 They fain would sing the world to rest 
 And so they chaunt in countless keys 
 As many as the waves of seas, 
 And as the breathings of the breeze, 
 
 Yet even when they sing their best 
 
 When o er the list ning world there floats 
 Such melody as raptures men 
 When all look up entranced -.and when 
 The song of fame floats forth e en then 
 
 A discord creepeth through the notes. 
 
 Their sweetest harps have broken strings 
 Their grandest accords. have their jars 
 Like shadows on the light of stars 
 And somehow, something ever mars 
 
 The songs the greatest minstrel sings. 
 
 And so each song is incomplete, 
 
 And not a rhyme can ever round 
 Into the chords of perfect sound, 
 The tones of thought that e er surround 
 
 The ways walked by the Poet s feet. 
 
 " What ails the world ?" he sings and sighs- 
 No answer cometh to his cry 
 He asks the earth and asks the sky 
 The echoes of his song pass by 
 Unanswered, and the Poet dies. 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 : sound of name, and touch of hand 
 p> c # Thro ears that hear, and eyes that see, 
 We know each other in this land 
 How little must that knowledge be? 
 
 Our 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 clear 
 As 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 bar 
 That parts forever each of us 
 
 As skies, on high, part star from star. 
 
 A name is nothing but a name 
 
 For that which, else, would nameless be ; 
 Until our souls, in rapture, claim 
 
 Full knowledge in Eternity. 
 
LINES. 
 
 HE world is sweet and fair and .bright, 
 
 And joy aboundeth everywhere, 
 V The glorious stars crown every night 
 
 And thro the Dark of ev ry care 
 Above us shineth Heaven s light. 
 
 If from the cradle to the grave 
 We reckon all our days and hours 
 
 We, sure, will find they give and gave 
 
 Much less of thorns and more of flowers ; 
 
 And tho some tears must ever lave 
 
 The path we tread, upon them all 
 
 The 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 blue 
 Wraps 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. 
 
THE PILGRIM. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS LEGEND FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 HE shades of night were brooding 
 O er the sea, the earth, the sky ; 
 The passing winds were wailing 
 
 In 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 hanging 
 
 From the starless sky so low, 
 While neath them earth lay folded 
 
 In a winding shroud of snow. 
 Twas cold twas dark twas dreary 
 
 And the blast that swept along 
 The mountains, hoarsely murmured 
 
 A fierce, discordant song. 
 
 And mortal men were resting 
 
 From the turmoil of the day, 
 And broken hearts were dreaming 
 
 Of the friends long passed away, 
 And saintly men were keeping 
 
 Their vigils through the night, 
 While angel spirits hovered near 
 
 Around their lonely light. 
 
228. THE PILGRIM. 
 
 And wicked men were sinning 
 
 In the midnight banquet halls, 
 Forgetful of that sentence traced 
 
 On proud Belshazzar s walls. 
 On that night so dark and dismal 
 
 Unillumed by faintest ray, 
 Might be seen the lonely Pilgrim, 
 
 Wending 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 silence 
 
 Seemed to whisper, God was there. 
 
 On the lonely Pilgrim journeyed, 
 
 Nought disturbed him on his way, 
 And his prayers he softly murmured, 
 
 As the midnight stole away. 
 Hark ! amid the stillness rises, 
 
 On his ears a distant strain, 
 Softly sounding now it ceases 
 
 Sweetly now it comes again. 
 
 In his path he paused to wonder, 
 
 While he listened to the sound : 
 On it came, so sweet, so pensive, 
 
 Mid the blast that howled around. 
 And the restless winds seemed soothed 
 
 By that music, gentle, mild, 
 And they slept, as when a mother 
 
 Rocks to rest her cradled child. 
 
THE PILGRIM. 229 
 
 Strange and sweet the calm that followed 
 
 Stealing through the midnight air ; 
 Strange and sweet the sounds that floated 
 
 Like an angel breathing there. 
 From the sky the clouds were drifting 
 
 Swiftly w one by one away, 
 And the sinless stars were shedding 
 
 Here 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 music 
 
 Seemed so soothingly to glide, 
 " I will find it," said the pilgrim, 
 
 " Though this mountain I must scale," 
 Scarcely said, when on his vision 
 
 Shone a distant light, and pale. 
 
 Glad he was ; and now he hastened 
 
 Brighter, brighter grew the ray 
 Stronger, stronger, swelled the music, 
 
 As 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. 
 
230 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 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 glided 
 
 Through the portal on his sight 
 Shone 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 tapers 
 
 In 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. 
 
THE PILGRIM. 231 
 
 Rich and gorgeous was the altar, 
 
 Decked it was in purest white. 
 Mortal hands had not arrayed it 
 
 Thus, 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. 
 
 H>_rk ! Venite Adoremus ! 
 
 Ivound the golden altar sounds 
 See that band of angels kneeling 
 
 Prostrate, 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 glory 
 
 Round their brows effulgent shone ; 
 But a wreath of nobler beauty 
 
 Seemed to grace and circle one ; 
 And he, beauteous, rose and opened 
 
 Wide the Tabernacle door : 
 Hark ! " Venite Adoremus " 
 
 Rises bending, they adore. 
 
 Lo ! a sound of censers swinging ! 
 
 Clouds of incense weave around 
 The altar rich a silver mantle, 
 
 As the angels hymns resound. 
 List ! Venite Adoremus 
 
 Swells aloud in stronger strains, 
 And the angels swing the censers, 
 
 And they prostrate, bend again. 
 
232 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 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 charming 
 
 As the notes triumphant flowed ! 
 Oh ! twas sweet, while wreaths of incense 
 
 Curled, and countless tapers glowed. 
 
 Oh ! twas grand ! that hymn of glory 
 
 Earthly 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 echoes 
 
 Of 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 murmured 
 Sweetly : " Pilgrim, hail to thee ! " 
 
THE PILGRIM. 233 
 
 " Come unto the golden altar, 
 
 I m an angel banish fear 
 Come, unite in adoration 
 
 With me, for our God is here. 
 Come ! ihy Jesus here reposes, 
 
 Come ! He ll bless thy mortal sight 
 Come ! adore the Infant Saviour 
 
 With 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 chanted 
 
 First the Saviour s lowly birth, 
 We who brought the joyful tidings 
 
 Of His coming, to the earth ; 
 We who sung unto the Shepherds, 
 
 Watching on the mountain hight, 
 That the Word was made Incarnate,. 
 
 For them on that blessed night. 
 
 "And since then we love to linger, 
 
 On that festal night on earth, 
 And we leave our thrones of glory 
 
 Here 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." 
 
234 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 And the angel, led the Pilgrim 
 
 To 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 holy 
 
 To 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 remembered, 
 In his heart, that Christmas night. 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS: 
 
 WO little children played among the flowers, 
 Their mothers were of kin, tho far apart ; 
 The children s ages were the very same 
 E en to an hour ; and Ethel was her name, 
 A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond ring eyes 
 That seemed to listen just as if they held 
 The 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 spoke 
 Her words were music ; and her laughter rang. 
 So like an Altar-bell that, had you heard 
 Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think 
 Of kneeling down and worshiping the Pure. 
 
 They played among the roses, it was May, 
 And "hide and seek," and "seek and hide," all eve 
 They played together till the sun went down. 
 Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day : 
 And tired at last she plucked a crimson rose 
 And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin ; 
 And he went thro the garden till he found 
 The 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 : 
 AVhat is the meaning?" said she, while a smile 
 As radiant as the light of angel s wings, 
 Swept bright across her face ; the while her eyes 
 
336 THEIR STOR Y R UNNETH THUS. 
 
 Seemed infinite purities half asleep 
 In 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 mine 
 Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away." 
 
 She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, 
 And hand in hand they walked the winding ways 
 Of 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 Red 
 Live longer?" and her mother wondered much 
 At such strange speech. She fell asleep 
 With 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 Bright 
 Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass 
 Rippling with his bright prattle, and then, hours 
 Would come and go ; and never hear a word 
 Fall from his lips, and never see a smile 
 Upon his face. He was so like a cloud 
 With ever-changeful hues, as she was like 
 A golden sunbeam shining on its face. 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 237" 
 ***** * * * 
 
 Ten years passed on. They parted and they met 
 Not often in each year, yet as they grew 
 In years, a consciousness unto them came 
 Of 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 met 
 As 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 tears 
 Fell down like rain upon the cheeks of each : 
 They were to meet no more. 
 
 Their hands were clasped. 
 To tear the clasp in twain ; and all the stars 
 Looked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt 
 Or seemed to kneel around them with the awe 
 Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. 
 And in the heart of that last, parting hour 
 Eternity 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 prayer 
 Whose 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 arms 
 Around the cold, white neck of grief ; and thus 
 The while they parted sorrow swept their hearts 
 Like a great, dark stormy sea, but sudden 
 A joy, like sunshine, did it come from God ? 
 
238 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 Flung over every wave that swept o er them 
 A 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 home, 
 And 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 flash 
 
 Of 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 souls 
 Were 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. 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 239 
 
 He hung himself upon the blessed cress 
 With Ethel ; she has gone to wear the crown 
 That wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept 
 Their bodies with their souls from earthly taint. 
 
 And years and years, and weary years passed on 
 Into 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 walk 
 Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet, 
 The dead were lying down ; the Autumn sun 
 Was 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 virgins graves, 
 Where virgins slept, a convent stood near by, 
 And from the solitary cells of nuns 
 Unto 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 with grave. He read the names 
 
 Engraven on the stones, and " Rest in Peace." 
 
 Was written neath them all and o er each name 
 
 A Cross was graven on the lowly stone. 
 
 He passed each grave with reverential awe, 
 
 As if he passed an Altar, where the Host 
 
 Had left a memory of its sacrifice. 
 
 And o er the buried virgins virgin dust 
 
 He walked as prayerfully as tho he trod 
 
 The holy floor of fair Loretto s shrine. 
 
 He passed from grave to grave, and read the names 
 
 Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names 
 
24 o THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 By which this* world had known them, into names 
 
 Of 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 he, 
 
 Or 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 hid 
 
 Forever down within those simple graves. 
 
 In a lone corner of that resting-place 
 Uprose a low, white slab that marked a grave 
 Apart from all the others : long, sad grass 
 Drooped o er the little mound, and mantled it 
 With veil of purest green, around the slab 
 The whitest of white roses twined their arms, 
 Roses cold as the snows and pure as songs 
 Of angels, and the pale leaflets and thorns 
 Hid e en the very name of her who slept 
 Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when 
 He reached its side, a spell fell on his heart, 
 So suddenly, he knew not why, and tears 
 Went up into his eyes and trickled down 
 Upon the grass ; he was as strangely moved 
 As if he met a long-gone face he loved. 
 I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leaves 
 That hid the name ; but as he did, the thorns 
 Did pierce his hand ; and lo ! amazed he read 
 The very word, the very, very name 
 He gave the girl in golden days before, 
 
 "ULLAINEE." 
 He sat beside that lonely grave, for long, 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 241 
 
 He took its grasses in his trembling band, 
 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 thought 
 It all might be a dream, then rubbed his eyes 
 And 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 dream 
 Fly o er the sleeping sea so long ago ? " 
 The convent-bell 
 
 Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him 
 His question. And he rose and went his way 
 Unto the convent gate ; long shadows marked 
 One hour before the sunset ; and the birds 
 Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. 
 As silent as a star-gleam came a nun 
 In answer to his summons at the gate ; 
 Her face was like the picture of a saint, 
 Or like an angel s smile ; her downcast eyes 
 Were like a half-closed Tabernacle, where 
 God s presence glowed, her lips were pale and worn 
 By ceaseless prayer, and when she sweetly spoke 
 And bade him enter, twas in such a tone 
 As only voices own which day and night 
 Sing hymns to God. 
 
 She locked the massive gate. 
 He followed her along a flower-fringed walk 
 That, gently rising, led up to the Home 
 Of Virgin-Hearts. The very flowers that bloomed 
 Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes, 
 (For they had fashioned them with holy care, 
 
242 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 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 bloom 
 
 Than 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 Saint 
 Were 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 place 
 
 .> 
 
 This world could enter, and the pictures looked 
 
 Upon his face and down into his soul 
 
 And strangely stirred him. On the mantel stood 
 
 A crucifix, the figured Christ of which 
 
 Did seem to suffer ; and he rose to look 
 
 More nearly on it ; but he shrank in awe 
 
 When he beheld a something in its face 
 
 Like his own face. 
 
 But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot 
 Of that strange crucifix he read the name, 
 
 "ULLAINEE." 
 
 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 nuns 
 Had entered, and in calmest tone began : 
 " Forgive, kind sir, my stay ; our Matin-song 
 Had not yet ended when you came ; our rule 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 243 
 
 Forbids our leaving choir ; this, my excuse." 
 She bent her head, the rustle of her veil 
 W.as like the trembling of an angel s wing, 
 Her voice s tone as sweet. She turned to him 
 And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look 
 What 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 go, 
 If what I crave, you cannot rightly grant, 
 I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time 
 Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strong 
 As life, has brought me to this holy place." 
 
 He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent 
 Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave 
 Him no reply, save that her very look 
 Encouraged 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-listning, heard the words of sacrifice, 
 He told her all ; then said : " I saw a stone 
 In 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 repressed 
 The wonder that had come into her face. 
 " Whose name ?" she calmly spoke. But when he said : 
 
 "ULLAINEE," 
 She forward bent her face and pierced his own 
 
244 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 With look intensest ; and he thought he heard 
 The trembling of her veil, as if the brow 
 It mantled, throbbed with many thrilling thoughts. 
 But quickly rose she, and in hurried tone 
 Spoke thus : " Tis hour of sunset, tis our rule 
 To close the gates to all till morrow s morn. 
 Return to-morrow, then, if .so God wills, 
 I ll see you." 
 
 He gave many thanks, passed out 
 From that unworldly place into the world. 
 Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps, 
 Swift to the " White-Rose-Grave," his heart : he knelt 
 Upon its grass and prayed that God might will 
 The mystery s solution ; then he took, 
 Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose, 
 The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam 
 Of summer waves upon a summer sea. 
 
 Then thro the night he went 
 
 And reached his room where, weary of his thoughts, 
 Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears 
 Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil 
 Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. 
 A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave, 
 And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears 
 That shone like jewels on a diadem, 
 And two great angels with such shining wings ; 
 All these and more were, in most curious way, 
 Blended in one dream or many dreams. Then 
 He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept 
 Again and had another dream. 
 His dream ran thus, 
 (He told me all of it many years ago, 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 245 
 
 But I forgot the most. I remember this) : 
 A dove whiter than whitness very self 
 Fluttered thro his sleep in vision or dream, 
 Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It 
 Flew 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 shore, 
 By which blushed a sea in the ev ning sun ; 
 The dove rested there awhile ; rose again 
 And 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 now 
 And 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 told 
 The mother waited him. He entered in 
 Into the wide and pictured room, and there 
 The 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 Saints 
 That they might pray for me, and I might know 
 My conduct in the matter ; now, kind sir, 
 What would st thou ? Tell thy errand." He replied : 
 
 " It was not idle curiosity 
 
 That brought me hither or that prompts my lips 
 To ask the story of the White-Rose-Grave, 
 To seek the story of the sleeper there, 
 Whose name I knew so long and far away. 
 Who was she pray? Dost deem it right to tell ?" 
 
246 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 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 she 
 Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone 
 Of whisper more than word. 
 
 " She was a child 
 
 Of lofty gift and grace, who fills that grave, 
 And who has filled it long, and yet it seems 
 To me but one short hour ago, we laid 
 Her body there. Her mem ry clings around 
 Our hearts, our cloister, fresh and fair and sweet. 
 We often look for her in places where 
 Her face was wont to be ; among the flow rs, 
 In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years 
 Have passed and mouldered her pure face : and yet 
 It seems to hover here and haunt us all. 
 I can not tell you all. It is enough 
 To see one ray of light for us to judge 
 The glory of the sun ; it is enough 
 To catch one glimpse of heaven s blue, 
 For us to know the beauty of the sky. 
 It is enough to tell a little part 
 Of her most holy life that you may know 
 The 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 month 
 Of May at early morn, e re yet the dew 
 Had passed from off the flowers and grass, e re yet 
 Our nuns had come from holy Mass, there came 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 247 
 
 With summons quick unto our Convent gate 
 
 A 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 me, 
 
 And as I went she rushed into my arms 
 
 Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch 
 
 That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed, 
 
 Until I thought her very soul would rush 
 
 From her frail body, in a sob, to God 
 
 I let her sob her sorrow all away. 
 
 My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs 
 
 Sank into sighs, and they too sank and died 
 
 In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat 
 
 In this same room, and gently spoke to her. 
 
 And held her hand in mine, and soothed her 
 
 With words of sympathy, until she seemed 
 
 As tranquil as myself. 
 
 And then I asked ; 
 What brought thee hither, child, and what wilt thou ? 
 
 1 Mother ! she said ; * Wilt let me wear the veil ? 
 Wilt let me serve my God as e en you serve 
 Him in this cloistered place ? I pray to be, 
 Unworthy tho I be, to be his spouse. 
 Nay, Mother say not nay twill break a heart 
 Already broken ; " and she looked on me 
 With those brown, wond ring eyes which pleaded more, 
 More strongly and more sadly than her lips 
 That I might grant her sudden, strange request. 
 
 1 Hast thou a mother ? questioned I. I had, 
 She said but heaven has her now ; and thou 
 Wilt be my mother, and the orphan girl 
 Will make her life her thanks. 
 
243 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 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 year 
 This 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 all 
 My worldly means, and Sister, they are thine 
 If thou but take myself, nay don t refuse. 
 Nay nay my child? I said, The only wealth 
 We 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 king 
 Could 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 one 
 Direct thy steps ? Or else some sudden grief ? 
 Or mayhap, disappointment ? Or perhaps, 
 A sickly weariness of that bright world 
 Hath cloyed thy spirit ? Tell me, which it is. 
 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 would 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 249- 
 
 Have leaned, on Thursday night, upon his breast 
 
 And stood, on Friday eve, beneath His cross 
 
 To take His Mother from Him when He died. 
 
 He sent me here, he said the word last night 
 
 In my own garden, this the word he said : 
 
 Oh ! had you heard him whisper : Ethel dear r 
 
 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 weep- 
 
 I hear it rustle more. Go wear your veil, 
 
 And outward be what inwardly thou art, 
 
 And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list I 
 
 My heart was bcrn 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 would st not take the vestments from my heart 
 
 No more than I would tear the veil from thine. 
 
 My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night 
 
 To 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 veil 
 
 And I my vestments, He did send me here. 
 
 " She paused, a few stray tears had dropped upon 
 Her closing words and softened them to sighs. 
 I listened, inward moved, but outward, calm and cold, 
 To the girl s strange story. Then smiling said : 
 
250 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 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 things 
 There s little logic, and there s less of sense. 
 You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head 
 Outside the gates, nay ! go, and find the head 
 You lost last night, and then, I am quite sure, 
 You ll not be anxious to confine your heart 
 Within this cloistered place. 
 
 She seemed to wince 
 
 Beneath my words, one moment ; then replied : 
 If e en a wounded heart did bring me here, 
 Djost thou do, Sister, well, 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 ask 
 The heart of God to be my lily s vase ? 
 I d trusi my lily to no heart on earth 
 .Save his, who yester-night, did send me here 
 To dip it in the very blood of Christ, 
 And plant it here. 
 
 "And then she sobbed outright 
 A 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 come 
 And find e en here a home. But God is slow 
 In all His works and ways, and slower still 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 251 
 
 When He would deck a bride to grace His Court. 
 Go, no\v, and in one year ; if thou dost come 
 Thy 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 thou 
 Into the world to watch and wait and pray 
 Until the Bridegroom comes. 
 
 She rose and went 
 Without 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 Christ 
 
 Who had no place to rest his weary head, 
 My wealth is gone ; I offered it to him 
 Who sent me here ; he sent me speedy word ; 
 Give all unto the poor in quiet way 
 And hide the giving ere you give yourself 
 To 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 fell 
 
 Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks 
 
 In awful agonies, and no one heard 
 
 A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile 
 
252 THEIR STOR Y R UNNETH THUS, 
 
 A gunny, playful smile that she might hide 
 Her sufferings from us all. When she was well, 
 She 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 heard 
 The Father of our souls say, when she passed, 
 
 Beneath that veil of sacrificial black 
 She wears the white robe of her innocence. 
 And we, we believed it. There are Sisters here 
 Of three scoje years of service, who would say : 
 
 Within our mein ry never moved a veil 
 That 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 name 
 Of any in the world. She little spake. 
 She seemed to have rapt moments then she grew 
 Absent-minded, and would come and ask m-e 
 To walk alone and say her Rosary 
 Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine, 
 And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed 
 The 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 art 
 By instinct more than study. Her weak hands 
 Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful. 
 There is a picture hanging in our choir 
 She painted. I remember well the morn 
 She came to me and told me she had dreampt 
 A dream ; then asked me would I let her paint 
 Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks 
 Went by, and ev ry spare hour of the day 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 25-5 
 
 She 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 kept 
 
 Her cell. We humored her in that, but when 
 
 The 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 dayi 
 
 Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips 
 
 Save when in prayer, and then her every look 
 
 Was rapt as if her soul did hold with God 
 
 Strange converse. And who knows ? mayhap she difli 
 
 I half forgot. On yonder mantelpiece 
 You see that wondrous crucifix, one year 
 She spent on it, and begged to put beneath 
 That 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 met 
 In recreation s hour. And those who passed 
 The Angel s cell would lightly tread and breathe 
 A prayer that Death might pass the Angel by 
 And let her longer stay, for she lay ill, 
 Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. 
 
 Ah ! many were the orisons that rose 
 
 From all our hearts that God might spare her stiH. 
 
 At Benediction and at holy Mass 
 
 Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went 
 
B54 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 To Heaven for her ; we did love her so, 
 
 Perhaps too much we loved her ; and perhaps 
 
 Our love was far too human. Slow and slow 
 
 She faded like a flower. And slow and slow 
 
 Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow 
 
 Her large, brown wondering eyes sank deep and dim. 
 
 Hope died in all our faces but on her s 
 
 Another and a different Hope did shine, 
 
 And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose 
 
 That 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 sound 
 
 Might jar upon her ear. The Sisters watched 
 
 In turns beside her couch. To each she gave 
 
 A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look. 
 
 At times her mind did wander ; no wild words 
 
 Escaped her lips ; she seemed to float away 
 
 To far-gone days and live again in scenes 
 
 Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep 
 
 She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words 
 
 About her mother. Arid sometimes she sang 
 
 The fragments of sweet, olden songs, and when 
 
 She woke again, she timidly would ask 
 
 If she had spoken in her sleep and what 
 
 She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear 
 
 That sleep might open there some long-closed gate 
 
 She 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 sun 
 
 Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 255 
 
 Around 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 light 
 
 Upon her face, unearthly ; and it shone 
 
 Like gleam of star upon a dying rose. 
 
 I sat beside her couch, and took her hand 
 
 In mine, a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem d 
 
 Of flesh, so wasted, white and wan it was. 
 
 Her great, brown, wond ring eyes had sunk away 
 
 Deep in their sockets, and their light shone dim 
 
 As tapers dying on an Altar. Soft 
 
 As a dream of beauty on me fell, lo\v, 
 
 Last words. 
 
 Mother ! the tide is ebbing fast ; 
 But e re it leaves this shore to cross the deep 
 And seek another, calmer I would say 
 A few last words, and, mother, I would ask 
 One 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 clid st love me, Mother, as she loved 
 Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away, 
 But no, it is not far, that other Heav n 
 Touches 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 clouds 
 To sing the second Vespers of tbv* day 
 With all the Angels. Mother ere I go 
 Thou lt listen. Mother sweet, to my last words. 
 
256 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 Which, like all last words, tell what e er was first 
 In life or tenderest in heart. I came 
 Unto my convent cell and virgin veil, 
 Sent by a spirit that had touched mine own 
 As wings of angels touch, to fly apart 
 Upon their missions till they meet again 
 In 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 goes 
 To-morrow home. This earthly part which stays 
 You 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 ago 
 By 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 read 
 That name upon my grave, and come to thee 
 And ask thee 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 then 
 There 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, 
 
THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 257 
 
 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 then 
 A 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 wave 
 Of shining tears swept thro the Mother s eyes. 
 ( And thus," she said, " our Angel passed away. 
 We buried her, and at her last request 
 We wrote upon the slab, Ullainee. 
 And I, (for she had 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 hid 
 The graven name, and still, we sometimes cull 
 Her sweet, white roses, and we place them on 
 Our Chapel- Altar." 
 
 Then the Mother rose, 
 Without another word, and led him thro 
 A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs 
 Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge 
 Noiselessly, then into a Chapel dim, 
 On Gospel-side of which there was a gate 
 From ceiling down to floor, and back of that 
 A long and narrow choir, with many stalls, 
 Brown-oaken ; all along the walls were hung 
 Saint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon 
 The faces of the Sisters in theif jlrayers. 
 Beside a "Mater Dolorosa" hung 
 The 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 fresh 
 
258 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 
 
 In tint and touch and look as long ago. 
 
 There was a power in it, as if the soul 
 
 Of her who painted it had shrined in it 
 
 Its very self ; there was a spell in it 
 
 That 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, wierd 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 Aveep, and all was bare 
 As bleakness own bleak self ; a mountain stood 
 All mantled with the glory of a light 
 That flashed from out the heavens, and a Cross 
 With such a pale Christ hanging in its arms 
 Did crown the mount ; and either side the Cross 
 There were two crosses lying on the rocks, 
 One of whitest roses; ULLAINEE 
 Was woven into it with buds of red ; 
 And one of reddest roses; Merlin s name 
 Was woven into it with buds of white. 
 Below the Cross and Crosses and the mount 
 The earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear, 
 Above, a golden glory seemed to hang 
 Like God s own benediction o er the names. 
 
 I saw the picture once ; it moved me so 
 I nee r forgot its beauty or its truth; 
 But words as weak as mine can never paint 
 That Crucifixion s picture. 
 
LINES. 259 
 
 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 know 
 A love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE." 
 
 LINES. 
 
 HE death of men is not the death 
 
 Of Rights that urged them to the fray ; 
 
 For men may yield 
 
 On battle field 
 A noble life with stainless shield, 
 
 And swords may rust 
 
 Above their dust, 
 
 But still, and still 
 
 The touch and thrill 
 Of Freedom s vivifying breath 
 Will nerve a heart and rouse a will 
 In some hour in the days to be, 
 To win back triumphs from defeat, 
 And thosje who blame us, then will greet 
 Right s glorious eternity. 
 
 For Right lives in a thousand things ; 
 
 Its cradle is its martyr s grave, 
 Wherein it rests awhile until, 
 
 The life that heroisms gave 
 
260 DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 
 
 Will rise again, at God s own will, 
 
 And right the wrong 
 
 Which long and long, 
 Did reign above the true and just ; 
 And thro the songs the poet sings. 
 Right s vivifying spirit rings ; 
 
 Each simple rhyme 
 
 Keeps step and time 
 With those who marched away and feM, 
 
 And all his lines, 
 
 Are humble shrines, 
 Where love of Right will love to dwell. 
 
 DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 
 
 " 
 
 AILETH a woman "Oh ! my God!" 
 "^A breaking heart in a broken breath. 
 
 P 
 
 i> A hopeless cry o er her heart-hope s death ! 
 N Can words catch the chords of the winds that waM, 
 L When love s last lily lies dead in the vale ? 
 Let her alone, 
 
 Under the rod 
 With the infinite moan 
 Of 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. 
 
DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 261 
 
 Waileth a woman, Oh ! 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, oh ? 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. 
 
 Oh waves ! sad waves ! how you flowed between 
 The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen ! 
 
 Waileth a woman ! oh ! 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 rushed 
 On the Light of her life, and far away 
 Jn an Afric wild lies her poor dead child, 
 Lies the Heart of her heart, let her alone 
 
 Under the rod 
 
 With her infinite moan, 
 
 Oh ! my God ! 
 
262 DEATH OF THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 
 
 He was beautiful, pure and brave, 
 
 The brightest grace 
 
 Of a royal race ; 
 Only his throne is but a grave ; 
 
 Is there fate in fames ? 
 
 Is there doom in names? 
 Ah ! what did the cruel Zulu-spears 
 Care for the Prince or his mother s tears? 
 What did the Zulu s ruthless lance 
 Care for the Hope of the future France ? 
 
 Crieth the Empress " Oh ! my son ! " 
 He was her own and her only one, 
 She had nothing to give him but her love, 
 Twas kingdom enough on earth, Above 
 She gave him an infinite faith in God ; 
 
 Let her cry her cry 
 Over her own and only one, 
 All the glory is gone is gone, 
 
 Into her broken-hearted sigh. 
 
 Moaneth a mother, " Oh ! my child ! " 
 And who can sound that depth of woe ? 
 Homeless, throneless, crownless, now 
 She bows her sorrow -wreathed brow, 
 (S(y Fame and all its grandeurs go) 
 Let her alone 
 
 Beneath the rod 
 With her infinite moan, 
 Oh ! my God. 
 
O words of mine ! and if you lire 
 
 Only for one brief, little day; 
 If peace, or joy, or calm you give 
 
 To any soul ; or if you bring 
 A something higher to some heart, 
 I may come back again and sing 
 Songs free from all the arts of Art. 
 
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