Chapter 13

When the stately trees were bending O'er a simple, quiet home, That looked humble as an altar, Nestling 'neath a lofty dome; Thither went they gaily! gaily! Where their coming was a joy, Just to pass away together One long day without alloy.

"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!" Melted morning's mist away, Till the sun, in all its splendor, Lit the borders of the bay. "Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!" Glanced the waters that were gray, While the wavelets whispered "Welcome!" To us all that happy day.

And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the bell in every heart, And it chimed, "All day let no one Think that ye shall ever part. Go and sip from every moment Sweets to perfume many years; Keep your feast, and be too happy To have thought of any tears."

There was song with one's soul in it, And the happy hearts grew still While they leaned upon the music Like fair lilies o'er the rill; Till the notes had softly floated Into silent seas away O'er the wavelets, where they listened While they rocked upon the bay.

And ---- "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!" When the song's sweet life was o'er, Drooped the eyes that will remember All its echoes evermore. And "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!" Beat the hearts of some, I ween, That can see the unseen mystery Which a song may strive to screen.

Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!" Rang the laughter everywhere, From the lips that seemed too lightsome For the sigh of any care. And the dance went "Merry! Merry!" Whilst the feet that tripped along, Bore the hearts that were as happy As a wild bird's happy song.

And sweet words with smiles upon them, Joy-winged, flitted to and fro, Flushing every face they met with With the glory of their glow. Not a brow with cloud upon it -- Not an eye that seemed to know What a tear is; not a bosom That had ever nursed a woe.

And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!" Like the ripples of a stream, Did the bright hours chase each other, Till it all seemed like a dream; Till it seemed as if no ~Never~ Ever in this world had been, To o'ercloud the ~brief Forever~, Shining o'er the happy scene.

Dimly! dimly fell the shadows Of the tranquil eventide; But the sound of dance and laughter Would not die, and had not died; And still "Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the voiceless vesper bells O'er the hearts that were too happy To remember earth's farewells.

Came the night hours -- faster! faster! Rose the laughter and the dance, And the eyes that should look weary Shone the brighter in their glance: And they stole from every minute What no other day could lend -- They were happy! happy! happy! But the feast must have an end.

"Children, come!" the words were cruel -- 'Twas the death sigh of the feast; And they came, still merry! merry! At the bidding of the priest, Who had heard the joy-bells ringing Round him all the summer day. "Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!" Did he hear an angel say?

"Happy! happy! still more happy! Yea, the happiest are they. I was moving 'mid the children By the borders of the bay, And I bring to God no record Of a single sin this day.

"Happy! Happy! Happy!" When your life seems lone and long, You will hear that feast's bells ringing Far and faintly thro' my song.

Lines ["The death of men is not the death"]

The 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 those 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 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 fell, And all his lines Are humble shrines Where love of right will love to dwell.

Death of the Prince Imperial

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" A breaking heart in a broken breath, A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death! Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail, When love's last lily lies dead in the vale! Let her alone, Under the 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.

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache, Why do your passionate pulses throb? No lips that speak -- have ye souls that sob? We carry the cross -- ye wear the crest, We have our God -- and ye, your shore, Whither ye rush in the storm to rest; We have the havens of holy prayer -- And we have a hope -- have ye despair? For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore, Adown the shores and along the years, In the whitest foam of the saddest tears, And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves! Drift over a sea more deep and wide, For we have sorrow and we have death; And ye have only the tempest's breath; But we have God when heart-oppressed, As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.

O waves! sad waves! how you flowed between The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen!

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed, For the love of her love is cold and dead, The joy of her joy hath forever fled; A starless and pitiless night hath rushed On the light of her life -- and far away In Afric wild lies her poor dead child, Lies the heart of her heart -- let her alone Under the rod With her infinite moan, O my God! He was beautiful, pure, and brave, The brightest grace Of a royal race; Only his throne is but a grave; Is there fate in fame? Is there doom in names? Ah! what did the cruel Zulu 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, "O my son!" He was her own and her only one, She had nothing to give him but her love. 'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- 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, "O my child!" And who can sound that depth of woe? Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now She bows her sorrow-wreathed brow -- (So fame and all its grandeurs go) Let her alone Beneath the rod With her infinite moan, "O my God!"

In Memoriam (Father Keeler)

Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala. Inscribed to his sister.

"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life, And woe to us if he goes! Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair, Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer; Let him linger to help us in the strife On earth, with our sins and woes."

'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so, The Angel of Death said: "No! oh! no!" He was passing away -- and none might save The virgin priest from a spotless grave.

"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray, He taught us to love You so -- So, so much -- his life is so sweet and fair -- A still, still song -- and a holy prayer; He is our Father; oh! let him stay -- He gone, to whom shall we go?"

'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so, But the Angel of Death murmured low: "No, no;" And the voice of his angel from far away, Sang to Christ in heav'n: "He must not stay."

"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne, And pray with your children there -- Our hearts need his heart -- 'tis sweet and fair, Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer, Goeth he now -- we are lone -- so lone, And who is there left to care?"

'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so -- But the Angel of Death sang: "Children, no!" And a voice like Christ's from the far away, Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay."

From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan: "O God let my brother stay -- I need him the most -- oh! me! how lone, If he passes from earth away -- O beautiful Christ, for my poor sake Let him live for me, else my heart will break."

But the Angel of Death wept: "Poor child! no," And Christ sang: "Child, I will soothe thy woe."

"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard, Let her look on his face once more! Ah! that prayer was a wail -- without a word -- She will look on him nevermore!"

The long gray distances unmoved swept 'Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept.

He was dying fast, and the hours went by, Ah! desolate hours were they! His mind had hidden away somewhere Back of a fretted and wearied brow, Ere he passed from life away. And one who loved him (at dead of night), Crept up to an altar, where the light That guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep, Shone strangely down on his vow: "Spare him! O God! -- O God! for me, Take me, beautiful Christ, instead; Let me taste of death and come to Thee, I will sleep for him with the dead."

The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No! You must suffer and live, but he must go." And a voice like Christ's sang far away: "He will come to me, but you must stay."

We leaned on hope that was all in vain, 'Till the terrible word at last Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain, And his beautiful life had passed.

Oh! take him away from where he died; Put him not with the common dead (For he was so pure and fair); And the city was stirred, and thousands cried Whose tears were a very prayer.

No, no, no, take him home again, For his bishop's heart beats there; Cast him not with the common dead, Let him go home and rest his head, Ah! his weary and grief-worn head, On the heart of his father -- he is mild For he loved him as his own child.

And they brought him home to the home he blest, With his life so sweet and fair, He blessed it more in his deathly rest -- His face was a chiseled prayer, White as the snow, pure as the foam Of a weary wave on the sea, He drifted back -- and they placed him where He would love at last to be.

His Father in God thought over the years Of the beautiful happy past; Ah! me! we were happy then; but now, The sorrow has come, and saddest tears Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow.

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; When the evening shadows fall, Let him rest alone -- unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy hosts on their humble throne Will watch him all thro' the night.

The doors were closed -- he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night, Your life was beautiful, fair, and young, Not a cloud upon its light. To-morrow -- to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."

Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud (Ah! the happy, happy years!) They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried, and the people wept, The fairest flower in the church's vale (Ah! me! how soon we pass!) In the vase of his coffin slept.

We bore him out to his resting place, Children, priests, and all; There was sorrow on almost ev'ry face -- And ah! what tears did fall! Tears from hearts, for a heart asleep, Tears from sorrow's deepest deep.

"Dust to dust," he was lowered down; Children! kneel and pray -- "Give the white rose priest a flower and crown, For the white rose passed away."

And we wept our tears and left him there. And brought his memory home -- Ah! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair, A heavenly hymn -- a sweet, still prayer, Pure as the snow, white as the foam,

That seeks a lone, far shore. Dead Priest! bless from amid the blest, The hearts that will guard thy place of rest, Forever, forever, forever more.

Mobile Mystic Societies

The olden golden stories of the world, That stirred the past, And now are dim as dreams, The lays and legends which the bards unfurled In lines that last, All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams. Fragments and fancies writ on many a page By deathless pen, And names, and deeds that all along each age, Thrill hearts of men. And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade Of many climes, And life's great poems that can never fade Nor lose their chimes; And acts and facts that must forever ring Like temple bells, That sound or seem to sound where angels sing Vesper farewells; And scenes where smiles are strangely touching tears, 'Tis ever thus, Strange Mystics! in the meeting of the years Ye bring to us All these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh, Strange power ye hold! When New Year kneels low in the star-aisled sky And asks the Old To bless us all with love, and life, and light, And when they fold Each other in their arms, ye stir the sight, We look, and lo! The past is passing, and the present seems To wish to go. Ye pass between them on your mystic way Thro' scene and scene, The Old Year marches through your ranks, away To what has been, The while the pageant moves, it scarcely seems Apart of earth; The Old Year dies -- and heaven crowns with gleams The New Year's birth. And you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace To enter here; A prayer -- ascending from an orphan face, Or just one tear May meet you in the years that are to be A blessing rare. Ye pass beneath the arch of charity, Who passeth there Is blest in heaven, and is blest on earth, And God will care, Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth, For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.

Rest

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed -- And I desire, what I have long desired -- Rest -- only rest.

'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain, In barren ways; 'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain, In harvest days.

The burden of my days is hard to bear, But God knows best; And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer For rest -- sweet rest.

'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap The Autumn yield; 'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed; And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, For rest -- for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years, And cares infest My path, and through the flowing of hot tears, I pine -- for rest.

'Twas always so; when but a child I laid On mother's breast My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed As now -- for rest.

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; For down the West Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest.

Follow Me

The Master's voice was sweet: "I gave My life for thee; Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss, Arise and follow Me." I clasped it in my hand -- O Thou! who diedst for me, The day is bright, my step is light, 'Tis sweet to follow Thee!

Through the long Summer days I followed lovingly; 'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near, His glorious face to see. Down where the lilies pale Fringed the bright river's brim, In pastures green His steps were seen -- 'Twas sweet to follow Him!

Oh, sweet to follow Him! Lord, let me here abide. The flowers were fair; I lingered there; I laid His cross aside -- I saw His face no more By the bright river's brim; Before me lay the desert way -- 'Twas hard to follow Him!

Yes! hard to follow Him Into that dreary land! I was alone; His cross had grown Too heavy for my hand. I heard His voice afar Sound thro' the night air chill; My weary feet refused to meet His coming o'er the hill.

The Master's voice was sad: "I gave My life for thee; I bore the cross thro' pain and loss, Thou hast not followed Me." So fair the lilies' banks, So bleak the desert way: The night was dark, I could not mark Where His blessed footsteps lay.

Fairer the lilied banks Softer the grassy lea; "The endless bliss of those who best Have learned to follow Me! Canst thou not follow Me? Hath patient love a power no more To move thy faithless heart? Wilt thou not follow Me? These weary feet of Mine Have stained, and red the pathway dread In search of thee and thine."

O Lord! O Love divine! Once more I follow Thee! Let me abide so near Thy side That I Thy face may see. I clasp Thy pierced hand, O Thou who diedst for me! I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss, So let me cling to Thee.

The Poet's Child

Lines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams.

Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song! The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins; Dost ever hear faint echoes float along Thy days and dreams of thy dead father's strains? Dost ever hear, In mournful times, With inner ear, The strange sweet cadences of thy father's rhymes?

Child of a child of art, which Heaven doth give To few, to very few as unto him! His songs are wandering o'er the world, but live In his child's heart, in some place lone and dim; And nights and days With vestal's eyes And soundless sighs Thou keepest watch above thy father's lays.

Child of a dreamer of dreams all unfulfilled -- (And thou art, child, a living dream of him) -- Dost ever feel thy spirit all enthrilled With his lost dreams when summer days wane dim? When suns go down, Thou, song of the dead singer, Dost sigh at eve and grieve O'er the brow that paled before it won the crown?

Child of the patriot! Oh, how he loved his land! And how he moaned o'er Erin's ev'ry wrong! Child of the singer! he swept with purest hand The octaves of all agonies, until his song Sobbed o'er the sea; And now through thee It cometh to me, Like a shadow song from some Gethsemane.

Child of the wanderer! and his heart the shrine Where three loves blended into only one -- His God's, thy mother's, and his country's; and 'tis thine To be the living ray of such a glorious sun. His genius gleams, My child, within thee, And dim thy dreams As stars on the midnight sea.

Child of thy father, I have read his songs -- Thou art the sweetest song he ever sung -- Peaceful as Psalms, but when his country's wrongs Swept o'er his heart he stormed. And he was young; He died too soon -- So men will say -- Before he reached Fame's noon; His songs are letters in a book -- thou art their ray.

Mother's Way

Oft within our little cottage, As the shadows gently fall, While the sunlight touches softly One sweet face upon the wall, Do we gather close together, And in hushed and tender tone Ask each other's full forgiveness For the wrong that each has done. Should you wonder why this custom At the ending of the day, Eye and voice would quickly answer: "It was once our mother's way."

If our home be bright and cheery, If it holds a welcome true, Opening wide its door of greeting To the many -- not the few; If we share our father's bounty With the needy day by day, 'Tis because our hearts remember This was ever mother's way.

Sometimes when our hands grow weary, Or our tasks seem very long; When our burdens look too heavy, And we deem the right all wrong; Then we gain a new, fresh courage, And we rise to proudly say: "Let us do our duty bravely -- This was our dear mother's way."

Then we keep her memory precious, While we never cease to pray That at last, when lengthening shadows Mark the evening of our day, They may find us waiting calmly To go home our mother's way.

Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple

The priests stood waiting in the holy place, Impatient of delay (Isaiah had been read), When sudden up the aisle there came a face Like a lost sun's ray; And the child was led By Joachim and Anna. Rays of grace Shone all about the child; Simeon looked on, and bowed his aged head -- Looked on the child, and smiled.

Low were the words of Joachim. He spake In a tremulous way, As if he were afraid, Or as if his heart were just about to break, And knew not what to say; And low he bowed his head -- While Anna wept the while -- he, sobbing, said: "Priests of the holy temple, will you take Into your care our child?" And Simeon, listening, prayed, and strangely smiled.

A silence for a moment fell on all; They gazed in mute surprise, Not knowing what to say, Till Simeon spake: "Child, hast thou heaven's call?" And the child's wondrous eyes (Each look a lost sun's ray) Turned toward the far mysterious wall. (Did the veil of the temple sway?) They looked from the curtain to the little child -- Simeon seemed to pray, and strangely smiled.

"Yes; heaven sent me here. Priests, let me in!" (And the voice was sweet and low.) "Was it a dream by night? A voice did call me from this world of sin -- A spirit-voice I know, An angel pure and bright. `Leave father, mother,' said the voice, `and win'; (I see my angel now) `The crown of a virgin's vow.' I am three summers old -- a little child." And Simeon seemed to pray the while he smiled.

"Yes, holy priests, our father's God is great, And all His mercies sweet! His angel bade me come -- Come thro' the temple's beautiful gate; He led my heart and feet To this, my holy home. He said to me: `Three years your God will wait Your heart to greet and meet.' I am three summers old -- I see my angel now -- Brighter his wings than gold -- He knoweth of my vow." The priests, in awe, came closer to the child -- She wore an angel's look -- and Simeon smiled.

As if she were the very holy ark, Simeon placed his hand On the fair, pure head. The sun had set, and it was growing dark; The robed priests did stand Around the child. He said: "Unto me, priests, and all ye Levites, hark! This child is God's own gift -- Let us our voices lift In holy praise." They gazed upon the child In wonderment -- and Simeon prayed and smiled.

And Joachim and Anna went their way -- The little child, she shed The tenderest human tears. The priests and Levites lingered still to pray; And Simeon said: "We teach the latter years The night is passing 'fore the coming day (Isaiah had been read) Of our redemption" -- and some way the child Won all their hearts. Simeon prayed and smiled.

That night the temple's child knelt down to pray In the shadows of the aisle -- She prayed for you and me. Why did the temple's mystic curtain sway? Why did the shadows smile? The child of Love's decree Had come at last; and 'neath the night-stars' gleam The aged Simeon did see in dream The mystery of the child, And in his sleep he murmured prayer -- and smiled.

And twelve years after, up the very aisle Where Simeon had smiled Upon her fair, pure face, She came again, with a mother's smile, And in her arms a Child, The very God of grace. And Simeon took the Infant from her breast, And, in glad tones and strong, He sang his glorious song Of faith, and hope, and everlasting rest.

St. Bridget

Sweet heaven's smile Gleamed o'er the isle, That gems the dreamy sea. One far gone day, And flash'd its ray, More than a thousand years away, Pure Bridget, over thee.

White as the snow, That falls below To earth on Christmas night, Thy pure face shone On every one; For Christ's sweet grace thy heart had won To make thy birth-land bright.