Chapter II: Part 2

Do you say I am fickle and faithless? Else why are the old pictures gone? And why should the visions of many Melt into the vision of one?

Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, "One Eternal alone reigns above." Is it true? and all else are but idols, So the heart can have only one love?

Only one, all the rest are but idols, That fall from their shrines soon or late, When the Love that is Lord of the temple, Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate.

To be faithless oft means to be faithful, To be false often means to be true; The vale that loves clouds that are golden Forgets them for skies that are blue.

To forget often means to remember What we had forgotten too long; The fragrance is not the bright flower, The echo is not the sweet song.

Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight, Gaze I ever so long, all the same I only can see in its glowing A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

Farewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces! Only ashes now under the blaze, Ye never again will smile on me, For I'm touching the end of my days.

And the beautiful fading firelight Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, Three pictures -- yet only one picture -- A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

The Old Year and the New

How swift they go,
Life's many years,
With their winds of woe
And their storms of tears,
And their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes
Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes,
And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom
The clouds of the tempest -- the shadows of the gloom!

And ah! we pray
With a grief so drear,
That the years may stay
When their graves are near;
Tho' the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright,
With love and with beauty, with life and with light,
The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier,
To the hearts that survive them, are evermore dear.

For the hearts so true
To each Old Year cleaves;
Tho' the hand of the New
Flowery garlands weaves.
But the flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair,
With the past's withered leaflets may never compare;
For dear is each dead leaf -- and dearer each thorn --
In the wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn.

Yea! men will cling
With a love to the last,
And wildly fling
Their arms round their past!
As the vine that clings to the oak that falls;
As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls;
For the dust of the past some hearts higher prize
Than the stars that flash out from the future's bright skies.

And why not so?
The old, Old Years,
They knew and they know
All our hopes and fears;
We walked by their side, and we told them each grief,
And they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief;
And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed
In the hearts of the dead years are buried and sealed.

Let the New Year sing
At the Old Year's grave:
Will the New Year bring
What the Old Year gave?
Ah! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows,
And his brow is wreathed with many a rose:
But how many thorns do the roses conceal
Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal?

Let the New Year smile
When the Old Year dies;
In how short a while
Shall the smiles be sighs?
Yea! Stranger-Year, thou hast many a charm,
And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm,
But, dearer than thou -- in his shroud of snows --
Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes.

Yea! bright New Year,
O'er all the earth,
With song and cheer,
They will hail thy birth;
They will trust thy words in a single hour,
They will love thy face, they will laud thy power;
For the ~New~ has charms which the ~Old~ has not,
And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot.

Erin's Flag

Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! Lift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never! no, never! while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never! no, never! that banner should yield As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield: While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field.

Lift it up! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of old! Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears! Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky, 'Tis the sunburst resplendent -- far, flashing on high! Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh!

Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green! The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; What though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? What though for ages it droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? No, no! God is just! Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, Let him tear the Green Flag -- we will snatch its last shred, And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread; And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 'Til the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said -- That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red!

Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home, Full long has its lot been to wander and roam, It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, It has flitted and fled -- but it never shall rest, 'Til, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to the shores of its old home again, Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane.

Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar! That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war; Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth To join in the march to the land of their birth; And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home!"

The Sword of Robert Lee

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to Victory!

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee!

Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky -- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow -- and to die!

Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee!

Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully!

Life

A baby played with the surplice sleeve Of a gentle priest; while in accents low, The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe," And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow In the name of the Father, and the Son, And Holy Spirit -- Three in One.

Spotless as a lily's leaf, Whiter than the Christmas snow; Not a sign of sin or grief, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.

A smile flitted over the baby's face: Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing Just passing then, and leaving a trace Of its presence as it soared to sing? A hymn when words and waters win To grace and life a child of sin.

Not an outward sign or token, That a child was saved from woe; But the bonds of sin were broken, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.

A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast; Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, Out of the future, or the past? Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, And gall must mingle with the sweet.

Yea, upon the baby's laughter Trickled tears: 'tis ever so -- Mothers dread the dark hereafter; But the babe laughed sweet and low.

And the years like waves broke on the shore Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life; But her lone heart drifted away before Her little boy knew an hour of strife; Drifted away on a Summer's eve, Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve

Her humble grave was gently made Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow; The wild birds sang where her heart was laid, And her boy laughed sweet and low.

He drifted away from his mother's grave, Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide, Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. Out from the shore and over the deep, He sailed away and learned to weep.

Furrowed grew the face once fair, Under storms of human woe; Silvered grew the dark brown hair, And he wailed so sad and low.

The years swept on as erst they swept, Bright wavelets once, dark billows now; Wherever he sailed he ever wept, A cloud hung over the darkened brow -- Over the deep and into the dark, But no one knew where sank his bark.

Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, The world still laughed, 'tis ever so -- God only knows the baby's doom, That laughed so sweet and low.

A Laugh -- and A Moan

The brook that down the valley So musically drips, Flowed never half so brightly As the light laugh from her lips.

Her face was like the lily, Her heart was like the rose, Her eyes were like a heaven Where the sunlight always glows.

She trod the earth so lightly Her feet touched not a thorn; Her words wore all the brightness Of a young life's happy morn.

Along her laughter rippled The melody of joy; She drank from every chalice, And tasted no alloy.

Her life was all a laughter, Her days were all a smile, Her heart was pure and happy, She knew not gloom nor guile.

She rested on the bosom Of her mother, like a flower That blooms far in a valley Where no storm-clouds ever lower.

And -- "Merry, merry, merry!" Rang the bells of every hour, And -- "Happy, happy, happy!" In her valley laughed the flower.

There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn, And the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the morn.

* * * * *

Years passed -- 'twas long, long after, And I saw a face at prayer; There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care.

For the sunshine all had faded From the valley and the flower, And the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely evening hour.

And the lips that smiled with laughter In the valley of the morn, In the valley of the evening They were pale and sorrow-worn.

And I read the old, old lesson In her face and in her tears, While she sighed amid the shadows Of the sunset of her years.

All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that flow, Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe.

In Memory of My Brother

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest that wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay) Triumphant waved our flag one day -- He fell in the front before it.

Firm as the firmest, where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won -- but the field was red -- And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed On his country's hallowed altar.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again) The fairest form amid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there -- and the big tears crept Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. (His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him.)

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother -- His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; There is not a name, there is not a stone, And only the voice of the winds maketh moan O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn But -- his memory lives in the other.

"Out of the Depths"

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry went up from a sea -- The waves were wild with an awful wrath, Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; The clouds hung low: Lost! Lost! Lost! Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry floated over the waves -- Far over the pitiless waves; It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; The billows below them were weaving white shrouds Out of the foam of the surge, And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: Lost! Lost! Lost! Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Not the sign of a hope was nigh, In the sea, in the air, or the sky; And the lifted faces were wan and white, There was nothing without them but storm and night And nothing within but fear. But far to a Father's ear: Lost! Lost! Lost! Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Out of the depths of the sea -- Out of the night and the sea; And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed, And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed. Saved! Saved! Saved! And a calm and a joyous cry Floated up through the starry sky, In the dark -- in the storm -- "Our Father" is nigh.

A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory may be sweet; 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

The rose that waves upon its tree, In life sheds perfume all around; More sweet the perfume floats to me Of roses trampled on the ground.

The waving rose with every breath Scents carelessly the summer air; The wounded rose bleeds forth in death A sweetness far more rich and rare.

It is a truth beyond our ken -- And yet a truth that all may read -- It is with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase.

March of the Deathless Dead

Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all, From the private to the chief; Come they from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall The tears of a Nation's grief.

Gather the corpses strewn O'er many a battle plain; From many a grave that lies so lone, Without a name and without a stone, Gather the Southern slain.

We care not whence they came, Dear in their lifeless clay! Whether unknown, or known to fame, Their cause and country still the same; They died -- and wore the Gray.

Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart; Living, they struggled side by side, Why should the hand of Death divide A single heart from heart?

Gather their scattered clay, Wherever it may rest; Just as they marched to the bloody fray, Just as they fell on the battle day, Bury them, breast to breast.

The foeman need not dread This gathering of the brave; Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, We muster once more our deathless dead, Out of each lonely grave.

The foeman need not frown, They all are powerless now; We gather them here and we lay them down, And tears and prayers are the only crown We bring to wreathe each brow.

And the dead thus meet the dead, While the living o'er them weep; And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together bled, Together still shall sleep.

Reunited

[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.]

Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountains' height; Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; O Northland! to thy sister land, Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand.

Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed: Its mist of green o'er battle plain For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; And yet the crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed.

Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in war's dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears And blood and anguish of four deathless years.

When Summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of Spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight?

Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its brightness spread, And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome as its guest.

The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate Or unforgiveness e'er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed; Save -- she was generous and her foe was crushed.

No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide! For at the touch of Mercy's hand The North and South stood side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity's espousals are made one.

"Thou givest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my anguished years.

"Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore, Blessings that from sorrow save, Blessings giving more and more, For all thou gavest thy sister land, O Northland, in thy generous deed and grand."

A Memory

Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place at eventide.

Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue That well became the valley fair, And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders everywhere.

And where the stream, in wayward whirls, Went winding in and winding out, Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls Without their pride, all strewn about.

And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals made.

And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts, but not the palm of fame.

The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore; While bluer than the bluest sky The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore.

And on the height, and down the side Of either hill that hid the place, Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race.

While here and there the trees between -- Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, And frowning wrathful -- might be seen The moss-veiled faces of the rocks.

And round the rocks crept flowered vines, And clomb the trees that towered high -- The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a truth -- to touch the sky.

And to that vale, from first of May Until the last of August went, Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent.

'Twas there, one long-gone August day, I wandered down the valley fair: The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there.

The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day, Which flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away.

And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen, That flashed and faded, like the hopes That haunt us of what might have been.

And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems.

Low in the west gleam after gleam Glowed faint and fainter, till the last Made the dying day a living dream, To last as long as life shall last.

And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing; And e'en the lips of the summer breeze That sang all day, had ceased to sing.

And all was silent, save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet, And sang, while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet.

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.

A shadow slept folded in vestments, The dream of a smile on its face, Dim, soft as the gleam after sunset That hangs like a halo of grace Where the daylight hath died in the valley, And the twilight hath taken its place. A shadow! but still on the mortal There rested the tremulous trace Of the joy of a spirit immortal, Passed up to its God in His grace.

A shadow! hast seen in the summer A cloud wear the smile of the sun? On the shadow of death there is flashing The glory of noble deeds done; On the face of the dead there is glowing The light of a holy race run; And the smile of the face is reflecting The gleam of the crown he has won. Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestments Unstained by the priest who has gone.

And thro' all the nations the children Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss; But the glory that crowns him in heaven Illumines the gloom of their cross. They send to the shadow the tribute Of tears, from the fountains of love, And they send from their altars sweet prayers To the throne of their Father above.

Yea! sorrow weeps over the shadow, But faith looks aloft to the skies; And hope, like a rainbow, is flashing O'er the tears that rain down from their eyes. They murmur on earth "De Profundis", The low chant is mingled with sighs; "Laudate" rings out through the heavens -- The dead priest hath won his faith's prize.

His children in sorrow will honor His grave; every tear is a gem, And their prayers round his brow in the heavens Will brighten his fair diadem. I kneel at his grave and remember, In love, I am ~still~ one of them.

Tears

The tears that trickled down our eyes, They do not touch the earth to-day; But soar like angels to the skies, And, like the angels, may not die; For ah! our immortality Flows thro' each tear -- sounds in each sigh.

What waves of tears surge o'er the deep Of sorrow in our restless souls! And they are strong, not weak, who weep Those drops from out the sea that rolls Within their hearts forevermore, Without a depth -- without a shore.

But ah! the tears that are not wept, The tears that never outward fall; The tears that grief for years has kept Within us -- they are best of all; The tears our eyes shall never know, Are dearer than the tears that flow.

Each night upon earth's flowers below, The dew comes down from darkest skies, And every night our tears of woe Go up like dews to Paradise, To keep in bloom, and make more fair, The flowers of crowns we yet shall wear.