Chapter 4

And now and then it surely seemed The little stream was laughing low, As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed Such dreams as only children know.

So still that not the faintest breath Did stir the shadows in the air; It would have seemed the home of Death, Had I not felt Life sleeping there.

And slow and soft, and soft and slow, From darkling earth and darkened sky Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro, And spectral shadows flitted by.

And then, methought, upon the sward I saw -- or was it starlight's ray? Or angels come to watch and guard The valley till the dawn of day?

Is every lower life the ward Of spirits more divinely wrought? 'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard To think 'tis but a poet's thought.

But God's or poet's thought, I ween, My senses did not fail me when I saw veiled angels watch that scene And guard its sleep, as they guard men.

Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed, As sorrow sings a heart to sleep; As a mother sings one child to rest, And for the dead one still will weep.

I walked adown the singing stream, The lilies slept on either side; My heart -- it could not help but dream At eve, and after eventide.

Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach With more than earthly fancies fraught, That not the strongest wings of speech Could ever touch their lowest thought.

Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far -- Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue -- That swept around, as sweeps a star The boundless orbit of the True.

Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, Where human passion played no part, As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, Or hunt an archangelic heart.

Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense, And rose too high to stoop to it, And framed aloft like frankincense In censers round the infinite.

Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight! And, soaring, bore my heart away Beyond the far star-bounds of night, Unto the everlasting day.

How long I strolled beside the stream I do not know, nor may I say; But when the poet ceased to dream The priest went on his knees to pray.

I felt as sure a seraph feels When in some golden hour of grace God smiles, and suddenly reveals A new, strange glory in His face.

Ah! starlit valley! Lilies white! The poet dreamed -- ye slumbered deep! But when the priest knelt down that night And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep?

* * * * *

The stream sang down the valley fair, I saw the wakened lilies nod, I knew they heard me whisper there, "How beautiful art Thou, my God!"

At Last

Into a temple vast and dim, Solemn and vast and dim, Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn Was floating far away, With eyes that tabernacled tears -- Her heart the home of tears -- And cheeks wan with the woes of years, A woman went one day.

And, one by one, adown the aisles, Adown the long, lone aisles, Their faces bright with holy smiles That follow after prayer, The worshipers in silence passed, In silence slowly passed away; The woman knelt until the last Had left her lonely there.

A holy hush came o'er the place, O'er the holy place, The shadows kissed her woe-worn face, Her forehead touched the floor; The wreck that drifted thro' the years -- Sin-driven thro' the years -- Was floating o'er the tide of tears, To Mercy's golden shore.

Her lips were sealed, they could not pray, They sighed, but could not pray, All words of prayer had died away From them long years ago; But ah! from out her eyes there rose -- Sad from her eyes there rose -- The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes To Heaven -- winged with woe.

With weary tears, her weary eyes, Her joyless, weary eyes, Wailed forth a rosary; and her sighs And sobs strung all the beads; The while before her spirit's gaze -- Her contrite spirit's gaze -- Moved all the mysteries of her days, And histories of her deeds.

Still as a shadow, while she wept, So desolately wept, Up thro' the long, lone aisle she crept Unto an altar fair; "Mother!" -- her pale lips said no more -- Could say no more -- The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore, For Mary's shrine was there.

A Land without Ruins

"A land without ruins is a land without memories -- a land without memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade -- crowns of thorns endure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity -- the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are forgotten -- the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations."

Yes give me the land where the ruins are spread, And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead; Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast Has flashed to the future the fame of the past; Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays That tell of the memories of long vanished days; Yes, give me a land that hath story and song! Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot, And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb; There is grandeur in graves -- there is glory in gloom; For out of the gloom future brightness is born, As after the night comes the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, And each single wreck in the war path of might Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right.

Memories

They come, as the breeze comes over the foam, Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep -- The fairest of memories from far-away home, The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep.

They come as the stars come out in the sky, That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep, And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh And I welcome them all while I wearily weep.

They come as a song comes out of the past A loved mother murmured in days that are dead, Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last, When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head.

They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves, And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way; And they murmur around us as murmur the waves That sigh on the shore at the dying of day.

They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright; They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale; They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night; They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale.

There is not a heart that is not haunted so, Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past, Its memories will follow wherever we go, And the days that were first sway the days that are last.

The Prayer of the South

My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! My face is wan and white with many woes! But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, And for my children pray, and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done!

My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast! My hopes are buried with my children's dust! My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee.

Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone, I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done! Pity me, Father of the desolate! Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care.

Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break, Might go to His and find a sure relief. Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse? Or is it night with no to-morrow's sun? O Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done.

My homes are joyless, and a million mourn Where many met in joys forever flown; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn, Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. And ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries, Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee.

Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead -- Oh! how I loved each known and nameless one! Above their dust I bow my crownless head And murmur: Father, still Thy will be done. Ah! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair; But foeman came, and with a ruthless hand, Spread ruin, wreck, and desolation there.

Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod, And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, To catch one smile of pity from my God. Around me blight, where all before was bloom, And so much lost, alas! and nothing won Save this -- that I can lean on wreck and tomb And weep, and weeping, pray Thy will be done.

And oh! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet; The words are bitter, but they hold a balm -- A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, And lulls my sorrow into holy calm. It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings, When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me! When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?

My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; Alas! their hearts have only place for tears! Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed, And every sin of those four bloody years; And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, And from their hearts take every thought of hate; And while they climb their Calvary with their cross, Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight.

And for my dead, my Father, may I pray? Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more! I keep eternal watch above their clay; Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore; Forgive my foes -- they know not what they do -- Forgive them all the tears they made me shed; Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead.

Oh! may my woes be each a carrier dove, With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears, Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave -- A desert waste, where all was erst so fair -- And for my children and my foes I crave Pity and pardon. Father, hear my prayer!

Feast of the Assumption

"A Night Prayer"

Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead: Thy Feast has fled; My eyes are wet with tears unshed; I bow my head; Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway I bend my knee, And, like a homesick child, I pray, Mary, to thee.

Dark! Dark! Dark! And, all the day -- since white-robed priest In farthest East, In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast, I -- I the least -- Thy least, and last, and lowest child, I called on thee! Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild; Didst think of me?

Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no! The angels bright, With wings as white As a dream of snow in love and light, Flashed on thy sight; They shone like stars around thee, Queen! I knelt afar -- A shadow only dims the scene Where shines a star!

Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long, beyond the sky, Sweet, pure, and high, The angel's song swept sounding by Triumphantly; And when such music filled thy ear, Rose round thy throne, How could I hope that thou wouldst hear My far, faint moan?

Dark! Dark! Dark! And all day long, where altars stand, Or poor or grand, A countless throng from every land, With lifted hand, Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale In glad acclaim; How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail Thy sweet, pure name?

Dark! Dark! Dark! Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear Nor bend thy ear, To prayer of woe as mine so drear; For hearts more dear Hid me from hearing and from sight This bright Feast-day; Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night I kneel and pray?

Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set, the day is dead; Thy Feast hath fled; My eyes are wet with the tears I shed; I bow my head; Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen, All day; ah! be To-night what thou hast ever been -- A mother to me!

Dark! Dark! Dark! Thy queenly crown in angels' sight Is fair and bright; Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night Its jeweled light Shines not as the tender love-light shines, O Mary! mild, In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines For poor, lost child!

Dark! Dark! Dark! Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway Fore'er and aye In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray Lay it away. Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above Where angels are; But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love Thy child afar!

Dark! Dark! Dark! Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer My poor lips dare? Yea! be to all a Queen most fair, Crown, sceptre, bear! But look on me with a mother's eyes From heaven's bliss; And waft to me from the starry skies A mother's kiss!

Dark! Dark! Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead; Her Feast has fled; Can she forget the sweet blood shed, The last words said That evening -- "Woman! behold thy Son! Oh! priceless right, Of all His children! The last, least one, Is heard to-night.

Sursum Corda

Weary hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, Ye are wand'ring in the shadows -- ye are sighing for a rest: There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below, And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary hearts! God is Rest.

Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of grief; Ye are pining for repose -- ye are longing for relief: What the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God above, And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you lean upon His love. Lonely hearts! God is Love.

Restless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way: Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toilings all shall cease, And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for peace. Restless hearts! God is Peace.

Breaking hearts! broken hearts! ye are desolate and lone, And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan! In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy, And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy. Broken hearts! God is Joy.

Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years, Ye are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet with tears; In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur, "Where is home?" Homeless hearts! God is Home.

A Child's Wish

Before an Altar

I wish I were the little key That locks Love's Captive in, And lets Him out to go and free A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell That tinkles for the Host, When God comes down each day to dwell With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair, That holds the Blood of Love, When every flash lights holy prayer Upon its way above.

I wish I were the little flower So near the Host's sweet face, Or like the light that half an hour Burns on the shrine of grace.

I wish I were the altar where, As on His mother's breast, Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er In Eucharistic rest.

But, oh! my God, I wish the most That my poor heart may be A home all holy for each Host That comes in love to me.

Presentiment

"My Sister"

Cometh a voice from a far-land! Beautiful, sad, and low; Shineth a light from the star-land! Down on the night of my woe; And a white hand, with a garland, Biddeth my spirit to go.

Away and afar from the night-land, Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, To the splendors and skies of the light-land, Where reigneth eternity's day; To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, Whose sun never passeth away.

And I knew the voice; not a sweeter On earth or in Heaven can be; And never did shadow pass fleeter Than it and its strange melody; And I know I must hasten to meet her, "Yea, ~Sister!~ thou callest to me!"

And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, It flashed from the crown that she wore, And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, My lips had kissed often of yore! And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, Had smiled on me sweetly before.

And I saw the hand with the garland, Ethel's hand -- holy and fair; Who went long ago to the far-land To weave me the wreath I shall wear; And to-night I look up to the star-land, And pray that I soon may be there.

Last of May

To the Children of Mary of the Cathedral of Mobile

In the mystical dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the day, The sunlight spoke soft to the shadows, And said: "With my gold and your gray, Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin, And ere her fair feast pass away, Let us weave there a mantle of glory, To deck the last evening of May."

The tapers were lit on the altar, With garlands of lilies between; And the steps leading up to the statue Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen; The sun-gleams came down from the heavens Like angels, to hallow the scene, And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows That crept to the shrine of the Queen.

The singers, their hearts in their voices, Had chanted the anthems of old, And the last trembling wave of the Vespers On the far shores of silence had rolled. And there -- at the Queen-Virgin's altar -- The sun wove the mantle of gold While the hands of the twilight were weaving A fringe for the flash of each fold.

And wavelessly, in the deep silence, Three banners hung peaceful and low -- They bore the bright blue of the heavens, They wore the pure white of the snow And beneath them fair children were kneeling, Whose faces, with graces aglow, Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful, And woeless, in life full of woe.

Their heads wore the veil of the lily, Their brows wore the wreath of the rose, And their hearts like their flutterless banners, Were stilled in a holy repose. Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, Whose glad gaze would never disclose That from eyes that are most like the heavens The dark rain of tears soonest flows.

The banners were borne to the railing, Beneath them, a group from each band; And they bent their bright folds for the blessing That fell from the priest's lifted hand. And he signed the three fair, silken standards, With a sign never foe could withstand. What stirred them? The breeze of the evening? Or a breath from the far angel-land?

Then came, two by two, to the altar, The young, and the pure, and the fair, Their faces the mirror of Heaven, Their hands folded meekly in prayer; They came for a simple blue ribbon, For love of Christ's Mother to wear; And I believe, with the Children of Mary, The Angels of Mary were there.

Ah, faith! simple faith of the children! You still shame the faith of the old! Ah, love! simple love of the little, You still warm the love of the cold! And the beautiful God who is wandering Far out in the world's dreary wold, Finds a home in the hearts of the children And a rest with the lambs of the fold.

Swept a voice: was it wafted from Heaven? Heard you ever the sea when it sings Where it sleeps on the shore in the night time? Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings From the hearts of a thousand bright summers? Heard you ever the bird, when she springs To the clouds, till she seems to be only A song of a shadow on wings?

Came a voice: and an "Ave Maria" Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled; And in the embrace of its music The souls of a thousand lay stilled. A voice with the tones of an angel, Never flower such a sweetness distilled; It faded away -- but the temple With its perfume of worship was filled.

Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar The white veils swept on, two by two; And the holiest halo of heaven Flashed out from the ribbons of blue; And they laid down the wreaths of the roses Whose hearts were as pure as their hue; Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, Whose loves to the Mother are true!

And thus, in the dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the day, The Angels and Children of Mary Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away, Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows And wove with their gold and their gray A mantle of grace and of glory For the last lovely evening of May.

"Gone"

S. M. A.

Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into far away; Gone! and we can only dream of you Each as you fade like a star away. Fade as a star in the sky from us, Vainly we look for your light again; Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us? "Come!" and our hearts will be bright again.

Come! and gaze on our face once more, Bring us the smiles of the olden days; Come! and shine in your place once more, And change the dark into golden days. Gone! gone! gone! Joy is fled for us; Gone into the night of the nevermore, And darkness rests where you shed for us A light we will miss ~forevermore~.

Faces! ye come in the night to us; Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep; Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us; Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into the far away; Gone! and we only can dream of you Till we sink like you and the stars away.

Feast of the Sacred Heart

Two lights on a lowly altar; Two snowy cloths for a Feast; Two vases of dying roses; The morning comes from the east, With a gleam for the folds of the vestments And a grace for the face of the priest.

The sound of a low, sweet whisper Floats over a little bread, And trembles around a chalice, And the priest bows down his head! O'er a sign of white on the altar -- In the cup -- o'er a sign of red.

As red as the red of roses, As white as the white of snows! But the red is a red of a surface Beneath which a God's blood flows; And the white is the white of a sunlight Within which a God's flesh glows.

Ah! words of the olden Thursday! Ye come from the far-away! Ye bring us the Friday's victim In His own love's olden way; In the hand of the priest at the altar His Heart finds a home each day.

The sight of a Host uplifted! The silver-sound of a bell! The gleam of a golden chalice. Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well; He made, and He keeps love's promise, With thee all days to dwell.

From his hand to his lips that tremble, From his lips to his heart a-thrill, Goes the little Host on its love-path, Still doing the Father's will; And over the rim of the chalice The blood flows forth to fill

The heart of the man anointed With the waves of a wondrous grace; A silence falls on the altar -- An awe on each bended face -- For the Heart that bled on Calvary Still beats in the holy place.

The priest comes down to the railing Where brows are bowed in prayer; In the tender clasp of his fingers A Host lies pure and fair, And the hearts of Christ and the Christian Meet there -- and only there!

Oh! love that is deep and deathless! Oh! faith that is strong and grand! Oh! hope that will shine forever, O'er the wastes of a weary land! Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven In the palm of the priest's pure hand.

In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne

Superior General of the Congregation of the Mission and of the Sisters of Charity.