Part 6

SAINT ISBERGA, (_Itisberga_), a hermit virgin near Aire in Artois, afterwards abbess; 21st of May, about 770. As daughter of Pepin and sister of Charlemagne, she is often represented with a crown and a mantle covered with fleurs-de-lis. But she is particularly distinguished by another emblem. An eel is put in her hand, sometimes on a dish, and for this reason: A powerful prince had asked Isberga's hand in marriage; but in order to preserve the vow of virginity which she had made, she besought God to send her some disease which would disfigure her. Her face was soon covered with pustules, and the suitor no longer insisted upon marrying her. Heaven then revealed to Isberga that she would be cured by eating the first fish that would be caught in the Lys. The men whom she sent for that purpose toiled long without succeeding in taking anything but an eel, along with which they brought up in their nets the body of Saint Venantus, a hermit (the saint's director), who had been slain and cast into the river by the princess's lover, for he blamed the hermit for the resolution taken by the virgin whose hand he sought in marriage. The discovery of the body brought the crime to light, and made known the sanctity of Venantus, to whose merits Isberga ascribed the efficacy of the fish in delivering her from disease. (AA. SS. _Maii_, t. V., p. 44.--Dancoisne, _Numismatique béthunoise_, p. 165, sqq.)

SAINT ENIMIA OF GEVANDAN, virgin; 6th of October, about the seventh century. She, too, is depicted with a serpent because she is said to have delivered the country from that dangerous animal. (AA. SS. _Octobr._, t. XI., p. 630, t. III., p. 306, sqq.)

SAINT CRESCENTIAN; 1st of June, 287. Coins of Urbino represent him armed cap-a-pie, on foot or on horseback, and killing a dragon with his lance, or carrying a flag; at other times he is seen in deacon's costume, trampling a serpent under his feet. He is said to have been a Roman soldier, and to have introduced the Gospel into Citta-di-Castello. (Brantii _Martyrolog. poeticum_, 1 jun:

"Letifero Crescentinus serpente Tipherni Occiso, gladio victima cæsa cadit.")

Turning to another part of Father Cahier's work, we find that the following saints are also represented with serpents:

SAINT JOHN THE EVANGELIST; 27th of December. He is represented holding a sort of chalice surmounted by a little serpent or a dragon. The Golden Legend says, that, to prove the truth of his teaching, he was compelled to drink poison. Some of it was first given to two men condemned to death and they died on the spot. The saint made the sign of the cross over the cup, drank, suffered no inconvenience, and then restored the two dead men to life. Father Cahier adds that this story seems to have given rise to the custom especially prevalent among Germanic nations of drinking to friends' health under pretense of honoring Saint John. He says that this custom has sometimes been put under the protection of Saint John the Baptist, but that it is not probable the Germans would have cared about putting their _healths_ put under the protection of a saint who drank only water.

SAINT CHARITON, hermit and abbot in Palestine; 28th of September, about 350. Near him is represented a serpent plunging its head in a cup. A native of Lycaonia, and released by the Pagans after being tortured for the faith, he went to Jerusalem, where he was taken by robbers, and confined in the cave which was their retreat. A serpent came and drank out of the vase in which their wine was, at the same time poisoning it with his venom, and the robbers died in consequence, whereupon the saint made the cave the cradle of a monastery. (_Menolog., græc_, t. I., p. 73.)

SAINT POURCAIN (_Portianus_), abbot in Auvergne; 24th of November, about 540. He is represented with a broken cup from which emerges a serpent. King Thierry I. was ravaging Auvergne, and the holy abbot went to intercede with him for the poor people. The King was still asleep when he came, and the principal officer offered him a drink, which he refused because he had not yet seen the king or celebrated the office. Pressed, however, he blessed the vase which was brought him, it broke, and a serpent came out of it. The whole court considered that he had been saved from poison. (Gregor. Turon., _Vitæ PP._, cap. V.)

SAINT JOHN OF SAHAGUN, Hermit of Saint Augustine; 12th of June, 1497. He is represented amongst other ways, with a cup surmounted by a serpent. This is because he was really poisoned by a dissolute woman in revenge for the conversion of her lover by the saint and his consequent dismissal of her. (AA. SS. _Jun._, t. II., p. 625.)

SAINT LOUIS BERTRAND, Dominican; 10th of October, 1581. A cup with a serpent indicates that in his missions in America he had poison given him more than once by the Pagans, without being injured by it.

TH. XR. K.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] It is curious that our English prayer-books leave out that word "three." The French follow the original Latin.--TR.

The Poems of Rosa Mulholland.[4]

Miss Rosa Mulholland has at last been induced to gather her poems into a volume which will be dear to all lovers of poetry into whose hands it may fall. No person with the faintest glimmering of insight into the subtle mechanism of literary composition in its higher forms could study the prose writings of the author of "The Wicked Woods of Tobereevil," of "Eldergowan," and many other dainty fictions, without being sure that the writer of such prose was a poet also, not merely by nature but by art; and many had learned to follow her initials through the pages of certain magazines. The present work contains nearly all of these scattered lyrics; and, along with them, many that are now printed for the first time combine to form a volume of the truest and holiest poetry that has been heard on earth since Adelaide Procter went to heaven.

The only justification for the too modest title of "Vagrant Verses," which gleams from the cover of this pretty volume, lies in the fact that this most graceful muse wanders from subject to subject according to her fancy, and pursues no heroic or dramatic theme with that exhaustive treatment which exhausts every one except the poet. The poems in this collection are short, written not to order, but under the manifest impulse of inspiration, for the expression only of the deeper thoughts and more vivid feelings of the soul. Except the fine lyrical and dramatic ballad, "The Children of Lir," which occupies eight pages, and the first five pages given to "Emmet's Love," none of the rest of the seventy poems go much beyond a page or two, while they range through every mood, sad or mirthful, and through every form of metre.

We have named the opening poem, which is an exquisitely pathetic soliloquy of Sarah Curran, a year after the death of her betrothed, young Robert Emmet--a nobler tribute to the memory of our great orator's daughter than either Moore's verse or Washington Irving's prose. But the metrical interlacing of the stanzas, and the elevation and refinement of the poetic diction, require a thoughtful perusal to bring out the perfections of this poem, which, therefore, lends itself less readily to quotation. We shall rather begin by giving one shorter poem in full, taken almost at random. Let it be "Wilfulness and Patience," as it teaches a lesson which it would be well for many to take to heart and to learn by heart:--

I said I am going into the garden, Into the flush of the sweetness of life; I can stay in the wilderness no longer, Where sorrow and sickness and pain are so rife;

So I shod my feet in their golden sandals, And I looped my gown with a ribbon of blue, And into the garden went I singing, The birds in the boughs fell a-singing too.

Just at the wicket I met with Patience, Grave was her face, and pure and kind, But oh, I loved not her ashen mantle, Such sober looks were not to my mind.

Said Patience, "Go not into the garden, But come with me by the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains, To the higher levels of love and praise!"

Gaily I laughed as I opened the wicket, And Patience, pitying, flitted away. The garden glory was full of the morning-- The morning changed to the glamor of day.

O sweet were the winds among my tresses, And sweet the flowers that bent at my knees; Ripe were the fruits that fell at my wishing, But sated soon was my soul with these.

And would I were hand in hand with Patience; Tracking her feet on the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains, To the higher level of love and praise!

The salutary lesson that the singer wants to impress on the young heart, is here taught plainly and directly even by the very name of the piece. But here is another very delicious melody, of which the name and the purport are somewhat more mysterious. It is called "Perdita."

I dipped my hand in the sea, Wantonly-- The sun shone red o'er castle and cave; Dreaming, I rocked on the sleepy wave;-- I drew a pearl from the sea. Wonderingly.

There in my hand it lay: Who could say How from the depths of the ocean calm It rose, and slid itself into my palm? I smiled at finding there Pearl so fair.

I kissed the beautiful thing, Marvelling. Poor till now I had grown to be The wealthiest maiden on land or sea, A priceless gem was mine, Pure, divine!

I hid the pearl in my breast, Fearful lest The wind should steal, or the wave repent Largess made in mere merriment, And snatch it back again Into the main.

But careless grown, ah me! Wantonly I held between two fingers fine My gem above the sparkling brine, Only to see it gleam Across the stream.

I felt the treasure slide Under the tide; I saw its mild and delicate ray Glittering upward, fade away. Ah! then my tears did flow, Long ago!

I weep, and weep, and weep, Into the deep; Sad am I that I could not hold A treasure richer than virgin gold. That Fate so sweetly gave Out of the wave.

I dip my hand in the sea, Longingly; But never more will that jewel white Shed on my soul its tender light. My pearl lies buried deep Where mermaids sleep.

Some readers of this MAGAZINE are, no doubt, for the first time making acquaintance with Miss Mulholland under this character in which others have known her long; and even these newest friends know enough of her already to pronounce upon some of her characteristics. She is not influenced by the spell of modern culture which has invested the poetic diction of recent years with an exquisite expressiveness and delicate beauty. But, while her style is the very antithesis of the tawdry or the commonplace, she has no mannerisms or affectations; she belongs to no school; she does not deem it the poet's duty to cultivate an artificial, _recherche_, dilettante dialect unknown to Shakespeare and Wordsworth--if we may use a string of epithets which can only be excused for their outlandishness on the plea that they describe something very outlandish. Her meaning is as lucid as her thoughts are high and pure. If, after reading one of her poems carefully, we sometimes have to ask "What does she mean by that?" we ask it not on account of any obscurity in her language, but on account of the depth and height of her thoughts.

The musical rhythm of our extracts prepares us for the form which many of Miss Mulholland's inspirations assume--that of the song pure and simple. Those last epithets have here more than the meaning which they usually bear in such a context; for these songs are not only eminently singable, but they are marked by a very attractive purity and simplicity. There are many of them besides this one which alone bears no other name than "Song."

The silent bird is hid in the boughs, The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, The grateful sheep are shorn. Redder and redder burns the rose, The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows Along the path to the vale.

A little door is hid in the boughs, A face is hiding within; When birds are silent and oxen drowse, Why should a maiden spin? Slower and slower turns the wheel, The face turns red and pale, Brighter and brighter the looks that steal Along the path to the vale.

Here and everywhere how few are the adjectives, and never any slipped in as mere adjectives. Verbs and nouns do duty for them, and the pictures paint themselves. There is more of genius, art, thought, and study in this self-restraining simplicity than in the freer and bolder eloquence that might make young pulses tingle.

This remarkable faculty for musical verse seems to us to enhance the merit of a poem in which a certain ruggedness is introduced of set purpose. At least, we think that the subtle sympathy, which in the workmanship of a true poet links theme and metre together, is curiously exemplified in "News to Tell." What metre is it? A very slight change here and there would conform it to the sober, solemn measure familiar to the least poetical of us in Gray's marvellous "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." That elegiac tone already suits the rhythm here to the pathetic story. But then the wounded soldier, who, perhaps, will not recover after all, but may follow his dead comrade--see how he drags himself with difficulty away from the old gray castle where the young widow and the aged mother are overwhelmed by the news he had to tell; and is not all this with exquisite cunning represented by the halting gait of the metre, in which every line deviates just a little from the normal scheme of five iambics?

Neighbor, lend me your arm, for I am not well, This wound you see is scarcely a fortnight old, All for a sorry message I had to tell, I've travelled many a mile in wet and cold.

Yon is the old gray château above the road, He bade me seek it, my comrade brave and gay; Stately forest and river so brown and broad, He showed me the scene as he a-dying lay.

I have been there, and, neighbor I am not well; I bore his sword and some of his curling hair, Knocked at the gate and said I had news to tell, Entered a chamber and saw his mother there.

Tall and straight with the snows of age on her head, Brave and stern as a soldier's mother might be, Deep in her eyes a living look of the dead, She grasped her staff and silently gazed at me.

I thought I'd better be dead than meet her eye; She guessed it all, I'd never a word to tell. Taking the sword in her arms she heaved a sigh, Clasping the curl in her hand, she sobbed and fell.

I raised her up; she sate in her stately chair, Her face like death, but not a tear in her eye. We heard a step, a tender voice on the stair Murmuring soft to an infant's cooing cry.

My lady she sate erect, and sterner grew, Finger on mouth she motioned me not to stay; A girl came in, the wife of the dead I knew, She held his babe, and, neighbor, I fled away!

I tried to run, but I heard the widow's cry. Neighbor, I have been hurt and I am not well: I pray to God that never until I die May I again have such sorry news to tell.

The next piece we shall cite has travelled across the Atlantic, and come back again under false pretences, and without its author's leave or knowledge. Some years ago an American newspaper published some pathetic stanzas, to which it gave as a title "Exquisite Effusion of a Dying Sister of Charity." One into whose hands this journal chanced to fall, read on with interest and pleasure, feeling the verses strangely familiar--till, on reflection, he found that the poem had been published some time before in _The Month_, over the well-known initials "R. M." As the American journalist named the Irish convent where the Sister of Charity had died--not one of Mrs. Aikenhead's spiritual daughters, but one of those whom we call French Sisters of Charity--the reader aforesaid went to the trouble of writing to the Mother Superior, who gave the following explanation: The holy Sister had been fond of reading and writing verse; and these verses with others were found in her desk after her death and handed over to her relatives as relics. They not comparing them very critically with the nun's genuine literary remains, rashly published them as "The Exquisite Effusion of a Dying Sister of Charity." The foregoing circumstances were soon afterwards published in the _Boston Pilot_; but the ghost of such a blunder is not so easily laid, and the poem reappears in _The Messenger of St. Joseph_ for last August, under the title of "An Invalid's Plaint," and still attributed to the dying Nun, who had only had the good taste to admire and transcribe Miss Mulholland's poem. In all its wanderings to and fro across the Atlantic many corruptions crept into the text; and it would be an interesting exercise in style to collate the version given by _The Messenger_ with the authorized edition which we here copy from page 136 of "Vagrant Verses," where the poem, of course, bears its original name of "Failure."

The Lord, Who fashioned my hands for working, Set me a task, and it is not done; I tried and tried since the early morning, And now to westward sinketh the sun!

Noble the task that was kindly given To one so little and weak as I-- Somehow my strength could never grasp it, Never, as days and years went by.

Others around me, cheerfully toiling, Showed me their work as they passed away; Filled were their hands to overflowing, Proud were their hearts, and glad and gay.

Laden with harvest spoils they entered In at the golden gate of their rest; Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, Found their places among the blest.

Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid! Fain would their love have borne me onward, But I was unready, and sore afraid.

Now I know my task will never be finished, And when the Master calleth my name, The Voice will find me still at my labor, Weeping beside it in weary shame.

With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him, And when He looks for the fruits of years, Nothing have I to lay before Him But broken efforts and bitter tears.

Yet when He calls I fain would hasten-- Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone; And I am as weary as though I carried A burthen of beautiful work well done.

I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross; And the Lord, Who made them frail and feeble, Maybe will pity their strife and loss.

It might have been expected that so skilful an artist in beautiful words would be sure occasionally to find the classic sonnet form the most fitting vehicle for some rounded and stately thought. About half a dozen sonnets are strewn over these pages, all cast in the true Petrarchan mould, and all very properly bearing names of their own, like any other form of verse, instead of being labelled promiscuously as "sonnets." The following is called "Love." What a sublime ideal, only to be realized in human love when in its self-denying sacredness it approaches the divine!

True love is that which never can be lost: Though cast away, alone and ownerless, Like a strayed child, that wandering, misses most When night comes down its mother's last caress;

True love dies not when banished and forgot, But, solitary, barters still with Heaven The scanty share of joy cast in its lot For joys to the beloved freely given.

Love, smiling, stands afar to watch and see Each blessing it has bought, like angel's kiss, Fall on the loved one's face, who ne'er may know At what strange cost thus, overflowingly, His cup is filled, or how its depth of bliss Doth give the measure of another's woe.

As this happens to be the solitary one among Miss Mulholland's sonnets, which in the arrangement of the quatrains varies slightly from the most orthodox tradition of this pharisee of song, I will give another specimen, prettily named "Among the Boughs."

High on a gnarled and mossy forest bough, Dreaming, I hang between the earth and sky, The golden moon through leafy mystery Gazing aslant at me with glowing brow. And since all living creatures slumber now, O nightingale, save only thou and I, Tell me the secret of thine ecstacy, That none may know save only I and thou.

Alas, all vainly doth my heart entreat; Thy magic pipe unfolds but to the moon What wonders thee in faëry worlds befell: To her is sung thy midnight-music sweet, And ere she wearies of thy mellow tune, She hath thy secret, and will guard it well!

Unstinted as our extracts have been, there are poems here by the score over which our choice has wavered. Our selection has been made partly with a view to the illustration of the variety and versatility displayed by this new poet in matter and form; and on this principle we are tempted to quote "Girlhood at Midnight" as the only piece of blank verse in Miss Mulholland's repertory, to show how musical, how far from blank, she makes that most difficult and perilous measure. But we must put a restraint on ourselves, and just give one more sample, of the achievements of the author of "The Little Flower Seekers" and "The Wild Birds of Killeevy," in what an old writer calls "the melifluous meeters of poesie." This last is called "A Rebuke." Was there ever a sweeter or gentler rebuke?

Why are you so sad? (_sing the little birds, the little birds_,) All the sky is blue, We are in our branches, yonder are the herds, And the sun is on the dew; Everything is merry, (_sing the happy little birds_,) Everything but you!

Fire is on the hearthstone, the ship is on the wave, Pretty eggs are in the nest, Yonder sits a mother smiling at a grave, With a baby at her breast; And Christ was on the earth, and the sinner He forgave Is with Him in His rest.

We shall droop our wings, (_pipes the throstle on the tree_,) When everything is done: Time unfurleth yours, that you soar eternally In the regions of the sun. When our day is over, (_sings the blackbird in the lea_,) Yours is but begun.

Then why are you so sad? (_warble all the little birds_,) While the sky is blue, Brooding over phantoms and vexing about words That never can be true; Everything is merry, (_trill the happy, happy birds_,) Everything but you!

The setting of these jewels is almost worthy of them. The book is brought out with that faultless taste which has helped to win for the firm of No. 1 Paternoster Sq., such fame as poets' publishers. A large proportion of contemporary poetry of the highest name, including till lately the Laureate's, has appeared under the auspices of Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., who seem to have expended special care on the production of "Vagrant Verses."