Chapter 14

A cloud hangs o'er Thy Erin's shore -- Ah! God, 'twas always so. Ah! virgin fair Thy heaven pray'r Will help thy people in their care, And save them from their woe.

Thou art in light -- They are in light; Thou hast a crown -- they a chain. The very sod, Made theirs by God, Is still by tyrants' footsteps trod; They pray -- but all in vain.

Thou! near Christ's throne, Dost hear the moan Of all their hearts that grieve; Ah! virgin sweet, Kneel at His feet, Where angels' hymns thy prayer shall greet, And pray for them this eve.

New Year

Each year cometh with all his days, Some are shadowed and some are bright; He beckons us on until he stays Kneeling with us 'neath Christmas night.

Kneeling under the stars that gem The holy sky, o'er the humble place, When the world's sweet Child of Bethlehem Rested on Mary, full of grace.

Not only the Bethlehem in the East, But altar Bethlehem everywhere, When the ~Gloria~ of the first great feast Rings forth its gladness on the air.

Each year seemeth loath to go, And leave the joys of Christmas day; In lands of sun and in lands of snow, The year still longs awhile to stay.

A little while, 'tis hard to part From this Christ blessed here below, Old year! and in thy aged heart I hear thee sing so sweet and low.

A song like this, but sweeter far, And yet as if with a human tone, Under the blessed Christmas star, And thou descendest from thy throne.

"A few more days and I am gone, The hours move swift and sure along; Yet still I fain would linger on In hearing of the Christmas song.

"I bow to Him who rules all years; Thrice blessed is His high behest; Nor will He blame me if, with tears, I pass to my eternal rest.

"Ah, me! to altars every day I brought the sun and the holy Mass; The people came by my light to pray, While countless priests did onward pass.

"The words of the Holy Thursday night To one another from east to west; And the holy Host on the altar white Would take its little half-hour's rest.

"And every minute of every hour The Mass bell rang with its sound so sweet, While from shrine to shrine, with tireless power, And heaven's love, walked the nailed feet.

"I brought the hours for ~Angelus~ bells, And from a thousand temple towers They wound their sweet and blessed spell Around the hearts of all the hours.

"Every day has a day of grace For those who fain would make them so; I saw o'er the world in every place The wings of guardian angels glow.

"Men! could you hear the song I sing -- But no, alas! it cannot be so! My heir that comes would only bring Blessings to bless you here below."

* * * * *

Seven days passed; the gray, old year Calls to his throne the coming heir; Falls from his eyes the last, sad tear, And lo! there is gladness everywhere.

Singing, I hear the whole world sing, Afar, anear, aloud, alow: "What to us will the New Year bring!" Ah! would that each of us might know!

Is it not truth? as old as true? List ye, singers, the while ye sing! Each year bringeth to each of you What each of you will have him bring.

The year that cometh is a king, With better gifts than the old year gave; If you place on his fingers the holy ring Of prayer, the king becomes your slave.

Zeila (A Story from a Star)

From the mystic sidereal spaces, In the noon of a night 'mid of May, Came a spirit that murmured to me -- Or was it the dream of a dream? No! no! from the purest of places, Where liveth the highest of races, In an unfallen sphere far away (And it wore Immortality's gleam) Came a Being. Hath seen on the sea The sheen of some silver star shimmer 'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmer O'er a wave half in dream on the deep? It shone on me thus in my sleep.

Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing, In the night, of our eyes from the light? Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest? Or doth it not toil all the more? When the earth-wearied frame is reposing, Is the vision then veiled the less bright? When the earth from our sight hath been taken, The fetters of senses off shaken, The soul, doth it not then awaken To the light on Infinity's shore? And is not its vision then best, And truest, and farthest, and clearest? In night, is not heaven the nearest? Ah, me! let the day have his schemers, Let them work on their ways as they will, And their workings, I trow, have their worth. But the unsleeping spirits of dreamers, In hours when the world-voice is still, Are building, with faith without falter, Bright steps up to heaven's high altar, Where lead all the aisles of the earth.

Was I sleeping? I know not -- or waking? The body was resting, I ween; Meseems it was o'ermuch tired With the toils of the day that had gone; When sudden there came the bright breaking Of light thro' a shadowy screen; And with the brightness there blended The voice of the Being descended From a star ever pure of all sin, In music too sweet to be lyred By the lips of the sinful and mortal. And, oh! how the pure brightness shone! As shines thro' the summer morn's portal Rays golden and white as the snow, As white as the flakes -- ah, no! whiter; Only angelic wings may be brighter When they flash o'er the brow of some woe That walketh this shadowed below.

The soul loseth never its seeing, In the goings of night and of day It graspeth the Infinite Far. No wonder there may come some Being, As if it had wandered astray At times down the wonder-filled way -- As to me in the midnight of May -- From its home in some glory-crowned star, Where evil hath never left traces; Where dwelleth the highest of races, Save the angels that circle the throne, In a grace far beyond all our graces, Whose Christ is the same as our own.

Yea! I ween the star spaces are teeming With the gladness of life and of love. No! no! I am not at all dreaming -- The Below's hands enclasp the Above. 'Tis a truth that is more than a seeming -- Creation is many, tho' one, And we are the last of its creatures. This earth bears the sign of our sin (From the highest the evil came in); Yet ours are the same human features That veiled long agone the Divine. How comes it, O holy Creator! That we, not the first, but the latter Of varied and numberless beings Springing forth in Thy loving decreeings, That we are, of all, the most Thine?

Yea! we are the least and the lowly, The half of our history gone, We look up the Infinite slope In faith, and we walk on in hope; But think ye from here to the "Holy Of Holies" beyond yon still sky, O'er the stars that forever move on, I' the heavens beyond the bright Third, In glory's ineffable light; Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word Reign circled by angels all bright -- Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder There is naught but the silence of death? There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder, And naught but an infinite night? No! no! the great Father is fonder Of breathing His life-giving breath Into beings of numberless races. And from here on and up to His throne The Trinity's beautiful faces, In countlessly various traces, Are seen in more stars than our own. This earth telleth not half the story Of the infinite heart of our God -- The heavens proclaim of His glory The least little part, and His power Broke not its sceptre when earth Was beckoned by Him into birth. Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? Can He rest when His love sways His will? Will He rest ere His glory shall fill All spaces below and above With beings to know and to love?

Creation -- when was it begun? Who knows its first day? Nay, none. And then, what ken among men Can tell when the last work is done? Is He resting, I wonder, to-night? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To Darknesses rays of His light? Doth He ever grow weary of giving To Nothings the rapture of living And waiting awhile for His sight? If His will rules His glorious power, And if love sways His beautiful will, Is He not, e'en in this very hour, Going on with love's wonder-work still?

* * * * *

Let me pray just awhile, for betimes My spirit is clouded; and then Strange darknesses creep o'er my rhymes, Till prayer lendeth light to my pen. And then shall I better unfold The story to me that was told, Of the unfallen star far away, In the noon of the night 'mid of May, By the beautiful Being who came, With the pure and the beautiful name. "Call me Zeila," the bright spirit said, And passed from my vision afar. With rapture I bowed down my head, And dreamed of that unfallen star.

Better than Gold

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousand fold, Is a healthy body and a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please A heart that can feel for another's woe, With sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.

Better than gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, Doubly blessed with content and health, Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth, Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; For mind and morals in nature's plan Are the genuine tests of a gentleman.

Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when the labors close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts on the downy bed, Where luxury pillows its aching head, The toiler simple opiate deems A shorter route to the land of dreams.

Better than gold is a thinking mind, That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore. The sage's lore and the poet's lay, The glories of empires passed away; The world's great dream will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home Where all the fireside characters come, The shrine of love, the heaven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And centre there, are better than gold.

Sea Dreamings

To-day a bird on wings as white as foam That crests the blue-gray wave, With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home Seaward. The God who gave To the birds the virgin-wings of snow Somehow telleth them the ways they go.

Unto the Evening went the white-winged bird -- Gray clouds hung round the West -- And far away the tempest's tramp was heard. The bird flew for a rest Away from the grove, out to the sea -- Is it only a bird's mystery?

Nay! nay! lone bird! I watched thy wings of white That cleft thy waveward way -- Past the evening and swift into the night, Out of the calm, bright day -- And thou didst teach me, bird of the sea, More than one human heart's history.

Only men's hearts -- tho' God shows each its way That leadeth hence to home -- Unlike the wild sea-birds, somehow go astray, Seeking in the far foam Of this strange world's tempest-trampled main A resting place -- but they seek in vain.

Only the bird can rest upon the deep, And sleep upon the wave, And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. And sweet the God who gave The birds a rest place on the restless sea -- But this, my heart, is not His way with thee.

Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll, And every fleck of foam Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul That never shall reach home. Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace, My heart, is thy only resting place.

Sea Rest

Far from "where the roses rest", Round the altar and the aisle, Which I loved, of all, the best -- I have come to rest awhile By the ever-restless sea -- Will its waves give rest to me?

But it is so hard to part With my roses. Do they know (Who knows but each has a heart?) How it grieves my heart to go? Roses! will the restless sea Bring, as ye, a rest for me?

Ye were sweet and still and calm, Roses red and roses white; And ye sang a soundless psalm For me in the day and night. Roses! will the restless sea Sing as sweet as ye for me?

Just a hundred feet away, Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide; And the wavelets, blue and gray, Moan, and white sails windward glide O'er the ever restless sea From me, far and peacefully.

And as many feet away, Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees; And they wail, the while they sway In the sad November breeze, Echoes in the sighing sea To me, near and mournfully.

And beside me sleep the dead, In the consecrated ground; Blessed crosses o'er each head. O'er them all the Requiem sound, Chanted by the moaning sea, Echoed by each moss-veiled tree.

Roses! will you miss my face? Do you know that I have gone From your fair and restful place, Far away where moveth on Night and day the restless sea? But I saw eternity

In your faces. Roses sweet! Ye were but the virgin veils, Hiding Him whose holy feet Walked the waves, whose very wails Bring to me from Galilee Rest across the restless sea.

And who knows? mayhap some wave, From His footstep long ago, With the blessing which He gave After ages ebb and flow, Cometh in from yonder sea, With a blessing sweet for me.

Just last night I watched the deep, And it shone as shines a shrine, (Vigils such I often keep) And the stars did sweetly shine O'er the altar of the sea; So they shone in Galilee.

Roses! round the shrine and aisle! Which of all I loved the best, I have gone to rest awhile Where the wavelets never rest -- Ye are dearer far to me Than the ever restless sea.

I will come to you in dreams, In the day and in the night, When the sun's or starlight's gleams Robe you in your red or white; Roses! will you dream of me By the ever restless sea?

____ Biloxi, Miss.

Sea Reverie

Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest? And tell me why you never go to sleep? Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed -- (And the waves are the tears you weep) -- And thou didst never sin -- what ails the sinless deep?

To-night I hear you crying on the beach, Like a weary child on its mother's breast -- A cry with an infinite and lonesome reach Of unutterably deep unrest; And thou didst never sin -- why art thou so distressed?

But, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm, Where crieth the lone and the wearied child; And soft the arms that shield her own from harm; And her look is unutterably mild -- But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild, so wild!

What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright -- How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast! O Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so white, To give thy utter weariness a rest? (And to-night the winds are a-coming from the West).

* * * * *

Where the shadows moan o'er the day's life done, And the darkness is waiting for the light, Ah, me! how the shadows ever seek and shun The sacred, radiant faces of the bright -- (And the stars are the vestal virgins of the night);

Or am I dreaming? Do I see and hear Without me what I feel within? Is there an inner eye and an inner ear Thro' which the sounds and silences float in In reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din?

I know not. After all, what do I know? Save only this -- and that is mystery -- Like the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flow In unison, and the tides of the sea Ever reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me.

Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gray, Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white? Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray, With the sea's ritual, every day and night? And the suns and stars your only altar light?

Great Sea! the very rhythm of my song (And the winds are a-coming from the West), Like thy waves, moveth uncertainly along; And my thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest, Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest.

____ Biloxi, Miss.

The Immaculate Conception

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil And surpliced the city in white; I wonder who wove the pure flakelets? Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.

It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol, And earth wore the surplice at morn, As pure as the vale's stainless lily For Mary, the sinlessly born;

For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness; And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East, With the brightest and fairest of flashes, Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast.

And round the horizon hung cloudlets, Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast; While the earth and the heavens were waiting For the beautiful Mass of the priest.

I opened my window, half dreaming; My soul went away from my eyes, And my heart began saying "Hail Marys" Somewhere up in the beautiful skies,

Where the shadows of sin never rested; And the angels were waiting to hear The prayer that ascends with "Our Father", And keeps hearts and the heavens so near.

And all the day long -- can you blame me? "Hail Mary", "Our Father", I said; And I think that the Christ and His Mother Were glad of the way that I prayed.

And I think that the great, bright Archangel Was listening all the day long For the echo of every "Hail Mary" That soared thro' the skies like a song,

From the hearts of the true and the faithful, In accents of joy or of woe, Who kissed in their faith and their fervor The Festival's surplice of snow.

I listened, and each passing minute, I heard in the lands far away "Hail Mary", "Our Father", and near me I heard all who knelt down to pray.

Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel, And the same as the Christ of our love -- "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father" -- Winging just the same sweet flight above.

Passed the morning, the noon: came the even -- The temple of Christ was aflame With the halo of lights on three altars, And one wore His own Mother's name.

Her statue stood there, and around it Shone the symbolic stars. Was their gleam, And the flowerets that fragranced her altar, Were they only the dream of a dream?

Or were they sweet signs to my vision Of a truth far beyond mortal ken, That the Mother had rights in the temple Of Him she had given to men?

Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder, For the Christian to honor her so? Ought her statue pass out of His temple? Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow.

Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices, I know what their white lips would say; And I know that the lights on her altar Would pray with me if they could pray.

Methinks that the flowers that were fading -- Sweet virgins that die with the Feast, Like martyrs, upon her fair altar -- If they could, they would pray with the priest;

And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary", Till they drooped on the altar in death, And be glad in their dying for giving To Mary their last sweetest breath.

Passed the day as a poem that passes Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings; Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses -- Did I hear a faint sound as of wings

Rustling over the aisles and the altars? Did they go to her altar and pray? Or was my heart only a-dreaming At the close of the Festival day?

Quiet throngs came into the temple, As still as the flowers at her feet, And wherever they knelt, they were gazing Where the statue looked smiling and sweet.

"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blended In a pure and a perfect accord, And passed by the beautiful Mother To fall at the feet of our Lord.

Low toned from the hearts of a thousand "Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" swept on To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder Did they wrong the great name of her Son.

Her Son and our Saviour -- I wonder How He heard our "Hail Marys" that night? Were the words to Him sweet as the music They once were, and did we pray right?

Or was it all wrong? Will he punish Our lips if we make them the home Of the words of the great, high Archangel That won Him to sinners to come.

Ah, me! does He blame my own mother, Who taught me, a child, at her knee, To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"? If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me.

Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless; Let me suffer for her if You blame. Her pure mother's heart knew no better When she taught me to love the pure name.

O Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother Must I hide her name down in my heart? But, ah! even there you will see it -- With Thy Mother's name how can I part?

On Thy name all divine have I rested In the days when my heart-trials came; Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human, And I need Mary's pure human name.

Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? I heard -- or I sure seemed to hear -- "Who blames you for loving My Mother Is wronging my heart -- do not fear.

"I am human, e'en here in My heavens, What I was I am still all the same; And I still love My beautiful Mother -- And thou, priest of Mine, do the same."

I was happy -- because I am human -- And Christ in the silences heard "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father", Murmured faithfully word after word.

* * * * *

Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~ Down the aisles -- did the starred statue stir? Or was my heart only a-dreaming When it turned from her statue and her?

The door of a white tabernacle Felt the touch of the hand of the priest -- Did he waken the Host from its slumbers To come forth and crown the high Feast?

To come forth so strangely and silent, And just for a sweet little while, And then to go back to its prison. Thro' the stars -- did the sweet statue smile?

I knew not; but Mary, the Mother, I think, almost envied the priest -- He was taking her place at the altar -- Did she dream of the days in the East?

When her hands, and hers only, held Him, Her Child, in His waking and rest, Who had strayed in a love that seemed wayward This eve to shrine in the West.

Did she dream of the straw of the manger When she gazed on the altar's pure white? Did she fear for her Son any danger In the little Host, helpless, that night?

No! no! she is trustful as He is -- What a terrible trust in our race! The Divine has still faith in the human -- What a story of infinite grace!

~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altar That came from the heart of a saint, Swept triumph-toned all through the temple -- Did my ears hear the sound of a plaint?

'Neath the glorious roll of the singing To the temple had sorrow crept in? Or was it the moan of a sinner? O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win

In the little half-hour's Benediction The heart of a sinner again? And, merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfort The sorrow that brings Thee its pain.

Came a hush, and the Host was uplifted, And It made just the sign of the cross O'er the low-bended brows of the people. O Host of the Holy! Thy loss

To the altar, and temple, and people Would make this world darkest of night; And our hearts would grope blindly on through it, For our love would have lost all its light.

~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph! Our souls soared to God on each tone; And the Host went again to Its prison, For our Christ fears to leave us alone.

Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailor! Thy hand holds the beautiful key That locks in His prison love's Captive, And keeps Him in fetters for me.

* * * * *

'Twas over -- I gazed on the statue -- "Our Father", "Hail Mary" still came; And to-night faith and love cannot help it, I must still pray the same -- still the same.

____ Written at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December 8, 1880.

Fifty Years at the Altar

"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore; next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination."