Chapter 10

Pure faced page! waiting so long To welcome my muse and me; 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 a 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.

* * * * *

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 loneliest 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

Farewell! 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

First champion of the Crucified! Who, when the fight began Between the Church and worldly pride So nobly fought, so 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, Saint 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 Nazarene 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, 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 height: "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."

"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 martyr 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-martyr fell.

A Flower's Song

Star! Star, why dost thou shine Each night upon my brow? Why 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 dark for me And heaven 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

Flower! Flower, why repine? 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

I love my mother, the wildwood, I sleep upon her breast; A day or two of childhood, And then I sink to rest.

I 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,

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.

Singing-Bird

In 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!" O "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.

Now

Sometimes 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 every 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.

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 thing as this -- Who knoweth why, or how? A life of woe or bliss Hangs on some little Now.

M * * *

When 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 brightest 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 you brought An image back to me; No matter what -- or whose -- I often sought Another's soul in thee.

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became -- Gentle though I be -- Gentler than ever when I called thy name, Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your 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 you tread still; Towards God these ways are set; 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead I'll watch and guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before, And you awhile should stay; But I will wait upon the golden 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.

God in the Night

Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: He walks the world; He puts His holy hand On every sleeper -- only puts His hand -- Within it benedictions for each one -- Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad. (Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?) He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow -- But more than that, He leaves His very breath Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this, He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; And more than that, He ofttimes 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 mother's bitter tears, And consecrates the cradle of her child, Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. He shudders past the haunts of sin -- yet 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.

Poets

Poets 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.

They move along life's uttermost extremes, Unlike all other men; And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, Like shadows in a glen.

They all are dreamers; in the day and 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.

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.

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

He walked alone beside the lonely sea, The 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 hers 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 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.

Thoughts

By sound of name, and touch of hand, Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, We know each other in this land, How little must that knowledge be?

How souls are all the time alone, No spirit can another reach; They hide away in realms unknown, Like waves that never touch a beach.

We never know each other here, No soul can here another see -- To know, we need a light as 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 ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"]

The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, And joy aboundeth everywhere, The glorious stars crown every night, And thro' the dark of ev'ry 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.

C.S.A.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The Martyr-band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us They stood in 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.

The Seen and The Unseen

Nature 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.

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 life 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.