Chapter III: Part 3

For ah! the surest way to God Is up the lonely streams of tears, That flow when bending 'neath His rod, And fill the tide of earthly years. On laughter's billows hearts are tossed, On waves of tears no heart is lost.

Flow on, ye tears! and bear me home; Flow not! ye tears of deeper woe; Flow on, ye tears! that are but foam Of deeper waves that will not flow. A little while -- I reach the shore Where tears flow not forevermore!

Lines (Two Loves)

Two loves came up a long, wide aisle, And knelt at a low, white gate; One -- tender and true, with the shyest smile, One -- strong, true, and elate.

Two lips spoke in a firm, true way, And two lips answered soft and low; In one true hand such a little hand lay Fluttering, frail as a flake of snow.

One stately head bent humbly there, Stilled were the throbbings of human love; One head drooped down like a lily fair, Two prayers went, wing to wing, above.

God blest them both in the holy place, A long, brief moment the rite was done; On the human love fell the heavenly grace, Making two hearts forever one.

Between two lengthening rows of smiles, One sweetly shy, one proud, elate, Two loves passed down the long, wide aisles, Will they ever forget the low, white gate?

The Land We Love

Land of the gentle and brave! Our love is as wide as thy woe; It deepens beside every grave Where the heart of a hero lies low.

Land of the sunniest skies! Our love glows the more for thy gloom; Our hearts, by the saddest of ties, Cling closest to thee in thy doom.

Land where the desolate weep In a sorrow no voice may console! Our tears are but streams, making deep The ocean of love in our soul.

Land where the victor's flag waves, Where only the dead are free! Each link of the chain that enslaves But binds us to them and to thee.

Land where the Sign of the Cross Its shadow hath everywhere shed! We measure our love by thy loss, Thy loss by the graves of our dead!

In Memoriam

Go! heart of mine! the way is long -- The night is dark -- the place is far; Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song, Beside two graves where Mary's star Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest, With Mary's medals on their breast.

Go! heart! those children loved you so, Their little lips prayed oft for you! But ah! those necks are lying low Round which you twined the badge of blue. Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast, With poet's song and prayer of priest.

Go! like a pilgrim to a shrine, For that is holy ground where sleep Children of Mary and of thine; Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep; Last summer how their faces smiled When each was blessed as Mary's child.

* * * * *

My heart is gone! I cannot sing! Beside those children's grave, song dies; Hush! Poet! -- Priest! Prayer hath a wing To pass the stars and reach the skies; Sweet children! from the land of light Look down and bless my heart to-night.

Reverie ["We laugh when our souls are the saddest,"]

We laugh when our souls are the saddest, We shroud all our griefs in a smile; Our voices may warble their gladdest, And our souls mourn in anguish the while.

And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory, When winter is wailing beneath; And we tell not the world the sad story Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath.

Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter, And bright as the brook to the sea But ah! the dark hours that come after Of moaning for you and for me.

Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting As birds, fly the moments of glee! And we smile, and mayhap grief is sleeting Its ice upon you and on me.

And the clouds of the tempest are shifting O'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright; And the snows of woe's winter are drifting Our souls; and each day hides a night.

For ah! when our souls are enjoying The mirth which our faces reveal, There is something -- a something -- alloying The sweetness of joy that we feel.

Life's loveliest sky hides the thunder Whose bolt in a moment may fall; And our path may be flowery, but under The flowers there are thorns for us all.

Ah! 'tis hard when our beautiful dreamings That flash down the valley of night, Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming, And leave us, like eagles in flight;

And fly far away unreturning, And leave us in terror and tears, While vain is the spirit's wild yearning That they may come back in the years.

Come back! did I say it? but never Do eagles come back to the cage: They have gone -- they have gone -- and forever -- Does youth come back ever to age?

No! a joy that has left us in sorrow Smiles never again on our way, But we meet in the farthest to-morrow The face of the grief of to-day.

The brightness whose tremulous glimmer Has faded we cannot recall; And the light that grows dimmer and dimmer -- When gone -- 'tis forever and all.

Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom; Youth's roses perfume not the fingers Of age groping nigh to the tomb.

For "the memory of joy is a sadness" -- The dim twilight after the day; And the grave where we bury a gladness Sends a grief like a ghost, on our way.

No day shall return that has faded, The dead come not back from the tomb; The vale of each life must be shaded, That we may see best from the gloom.

The height of the homes of our glory, All radiant with splendors of light; That we may read clearly life's story -- "The dark is the dawn of the bright."

I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So

Some find work where some find rest, And so the weary world goes on: I sometimes wonder which is best; The answer comes when life is gone.

Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, And so the dreary night-hours go; Some hearts beat where some hearts break; I often wonder why 'tis so.

Some wills faint where some wills fight, Some love the tent, and some the field; I often wonder who are right -- The ones who strive, or those who yield?

Some hands fold where other hands Are lifted bravely in the strife; And so thro' ages and thro' lands Move on the two extremes of life.

Some feet halt where some feet tread, In tireless march, a thorny way; Some struggle on where some have fled; Some seek when others shun the fray.

Some swords rust where others clash, Some fall back where some move on; Some flags furl where others flash Until the battle has been won.

Some sleep on while others keep The vigils of the true and brave: They will not rest till roses creep Around their name above a grave.

A Blessing

Be you near, or be you far, Let my blessing, like a star, Shine upon you everywhere! And in each lone evening hour, When the twilight folds the flower, I will fold thy name in prayer.

In the dark and in the day, To my heart you know the way, Sorrow's pale hand keeps the key; In your sorrow or your sin You may always enter in; I will keep a place for thee.

If God's blessing pass away From your spirit; if you stray From his presence, do not wait. Come to my heart, for I keep For the hearts that wail and weep, Ever opened wide -- a gate.

In your joys to others go, When your feet walk ways of woe Only then come back to me; I will give you tear for tear, And our tears shall more endear Thee to me and me to thee.

For I make my heart the home Of all hearts in grief that come Seeking refuge and a rest. Do not fear me, for you know, Be your footsteps e'er so low, I know yours, of all, the best.

Once you came; and you brought sin; Did not my hand lead you in -- Into God's heart, thro' my own? Did not my voice speak a word You, for years, had never heard -- Mystic word in Mercy's tone?

And a grace fell on your brow, And I heard your murmured vow, When I whispered: "Go in peace." "Go in peace, and sin no more," Did you not touch Mercy's shore, Did not sin's wild tempest cease?

Go! then: thou art good and pure! If thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure, Back to me thy footsteps trace! In my heart for year and year, Be thou far away or near, I shall keep for thee a place.

Yes! I bless you -- near or far -- And my blessing, like a star, Shall shine on you everywhere; And in many a holy hour, As the sunshine folds the flower, I will fold thy heart in prayer.

July 9th, 1872

Between two pillared clouds of gold The beautiful gates of evening swung -- And far and wide from flashing fold The half-furled banners of light, that hung O'er green of wood and gray of wold And over the blue where the river rolled, The fading gleams of their glory flung.

The sky wore not a frown all day To mar the smile of the morning tide; The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay -- You never would think they had ever sighed; The stream went on its sunlit way In ripples of laughter; happy they As the hearts that met at Riverside.

No cloudlet in the sky serene! Not a silver speck in the golden hue! But where the woods waved low and green, And seldom would let the sunlight through, Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen, The faces of children might be seen, And the flash of ribbons of blue.

It was a children's simple feast, Yet many were there whose faces told How far they are from childhood's East Who have reached the evening of the old! And father -- mother -- sister -- priest -- They seemed all day like the very least Of the little children of the fold.

The old forgot they were not young, The young forgot they would e'er be old, And all day long the trees among, Where'er their footsteps stayed or strolled, Came wittiest word from tireless tongue, And the merriest peals of laughter rung Where the woods drooped low and the river rolled.

No cloud upon the faces there, Not a sorrow came from its hiding place To cast the shadow of a care On the fair, sweet brows in that fairest place For in the sky and in the air, And in their spirits, and everywhere, Joy reigned in the fullness of her grace.

The day was long, but ah! too brief! Swift to the West bright-winged she fled; Too soon on ev'ry look and leaf The last rays flushed which her plumage shed From an evening cloud -- was it a sign of grief? And the bright day passed -- is there much relief That its dream dies not when its gleam is dead?

Great sky, thou art a prophet still! And by thy shadows and by thy rays We read the future if we will, And all the fates of our future ways; To-morrows meet us in vale and hill, And under the trees, and by the rill, Thou givest the sign of our coming days.

That evening cloud was a sign, I ween -- For the sister of that summer day Shall come next year to the selfsame scene; The winds will sing the selfsame lay; The selfsame woods will wave as green, And Riverside, thy skies serene Shall robe thee again in a golden sheen; Yet though thy shadows may weave a screen Where the children's faces may be seen, Thou ne'er shall be as thou hast been, For a face they loved has passed away.

Wake Me a Song

Out of the silences wake me a song, Beautiful, sad, and soft, and low; Let the loveliest music sound along, And wing each note with a wail of woe: Dim and drear As hope's last tear; Out of the silences wake me a hymn, Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim.

Out of the stillness in your heart -- A thousand songs are sleeping there -- Wake me a song, thou child of art! The song of a hope in a last despair: Dark and low, A chant of woe; Out of the stillness, tone by tone, Cold as a snowflake, low as a moan.

Out of the darkness flash me a song, Brightly dark and darkly bright; Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along The mystical shadows of the night: Sing it sweet; Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim, And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn.

In Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping In thy lonely battle grave; Shadows o'er the past are creeping, Death, the reaper, still is reaping, Years have swept, and years are sweeping Many a memory from my keeping, But I'm waiting still, and weeping For my beautiful and brave.

When the battle songs were chanted, And war's stirring tocsin pealed, By those songs thy heart was haunted, And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, Clamored wildly -- wildly panted: "Mother! let my wish be granted; I will ne'er be mocked and taunted That I fear to meet our vaunted Foemen on the bloody field.

"They are thronging, mother! thronging, To a thousand fields of fame; Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging God and thee to crush this longing; On the muster-roll of glory, In my country's future story, On the field of battle gory I must consecrate my name.

"Mother! gird my sword around me, Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-bye.'" In her arms she wildly wound thee, To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee, With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee, If you fall, I'll know they found thee Where the bravest love to die."

At the altar of their nation, Stood that mother and her son, He, the victim of oblation, Panting for his immolation; She, in priestess' holy station, Weeping words of consecration, While God smiled his approbation, Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, Cheered the mother's desolation, When the sacrifice was done.

Forth, like many a noble other, Went he, whispering soft and low: "Good-bye -- pray for me, my mother; Sister! kiss me -- farewell, brother;" And he strove his grief to smother. Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, And his parting gaze was tearless Though his heart was lone and cheerless, Thus from all he loved to go.

Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing In the sunny Southern sky: On, to death and glory dashing, On, where swords are clanging, clashing, On, where balls are crushing, crashing, On, 'mid perils dread, appalling, On, they're falling, falling, falling. On, they're growing fewer, fewer, On, their hearts beat all the truer, On, on, on, no fear, no falter, On, though round the battle-altar There were wounded victims moaning, There were dying soldiers groaning; On, right on, death's danger braving, Warring where their flag was waving, While Baptismal blood was laving All that field of death and slaughter; On, still on; that bloody lava Made them braver and made them braver, On, with never a halt or waver, On in battle -- bleeding -- bounding, While the glorious shout swept sounding, "We will win the day or die!"

And they won it; routed -- riven -- Reeled the foemen's proud array: They had struggled hard, and striven, Blood in torrents they had given, But their ranks, dispersed and driven, Fled, in sullenness, away.

Many a heart was lonely lying That would never throb again; Some were dead, and some were dying; Those were silent, these were sighing; Thus to die alone, unattended, Unbewept and unbefriended, On that bloody battle-plain.

When the twilight sadly, slowly Wrapped its mantle o'er them all, Thousands, thousands lying lowly, Hushed in silence deep and holy, There was one, his blood was flowing And his last of life was going,

And his pulse faint, fainter beating Told his hours were few and fleeting; And his brow grew white and whiter, While his eyes grew strangely brighter; There he lay -- like infant dreaming, With his sword beside him gleaming, For the hand in life that grasped it, True in death still fondly clasped it; There his comrades found him lying 'Mid the heaps of dead and dying, And the sternest bent down weeping O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping: 'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, And they told us how they found him Where the bravest love to fall.

Where the woods, like banners bending, Drooped in starlight and in gloom, There, when that sad night was ending, And the faint, far dawn was blending With the stars now fast descending; There they mute and mournful bore him, With the stars and shadows o'er him, And they laid him down -- so tender -- And the next day's sun, in splendor, Flashed above my brother's tomb.

What? (To Ethel)

At the golden gates of the visions I knelt me adown one day; But sudden my prayer was a silence, For I heard from the "Far away" The murmur of many voices And a silvery censer's sway.

I bowed in awe, and I listened -- The deeps of my soul were stirred, But deepest of all was the meaning Of the far-off music I heard, And yet it was stiller than silence, Its notes were the "Dream of a Word".

A word that is whispered in heaven, But cannot be heard below; It lives on the lips of the angels Where'er their pure wings glow; Yet only the "Dream of its Echo" Ever reaches this valley of woe.

But I know the word and its meaning; I reached to its height that day, When prayer sank into a silence And my heart was so far away; But I may not murmur the music, Nor the word may my lips yet say.

But some day far in the future, And up from the dust of the dead, And out of my lips when speechless The mystical word shall be said, 'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, When the soul of the bard has fled.

The Master's Voice

The waves were weary, and they went to sleep;
The winds were hushed;
The starlight flushed
The furrowed face of all the mighty deep.

The billows yester eve so dark and wild,
Wore strangely now
A calm upon their brow,
Like that which rests upon a cradled child.

The sky was bright, and every single star,
With gleaming face,
Was in its place,
And looked upon the sea -- so fair and far.

And all was still -- still as a temple dim,
When low and faint,
As murmurs plaint,
Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn.

A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark
Slept Mary's Son --
The only One
Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.

His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair
He dreamed of me
On that still sea --
The stars He made were gleaming through His hair.

And lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep;
The sky grew dark:
The little bark
Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep.

The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat;
The bark was tossed:
Shall all be lost?
But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet.

The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath,
The winds howled on,
All hope seemed gone,
And darker waves surged round the bark's lone path.

The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep;
He whispered: "Peace!
Winds -- wild waves, cease!
Be still!" The tempest fled -- the ocean fell asleep.

And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed,
When life's lone bark
Drifts through the dark
And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost,

He now, as then, with words of power and peace,
Murmurs: "Stormy deep,
Be still -- still -- and sleep!"
And lo! a great calm comes -- the tempest's perils cease.

A "Thought-Flower"

Silently -- shadowly -- some lives go, And the sound of their voices is all unheard; Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. Deep lives these As the pearl-strewn seas.

Softly and noiselessly some feet tread Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark; They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead, As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark. Sweet lives those In their strange repose.

Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, And none may know that they beat at all; They muffle their music whenever they meet A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall. Great hearts those -- God only knows!

Soundlessly -- shadowly -- such move on, Dim as the dream of a child asleep; And no one knoweth 'till they are gone How lofty their souls -- their hearts how deep. Bright souls these -- God only sees.

Lonely and hiddenly in the world -- Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay -- The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled Until they fly from the world away, And find their rest On "Our Father's" breast, Where earth's unknown shall be known the best, And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest.

A Death

Crushed with a burden of woe, Wrecked in the tempest of sin: Death came, and two lips murmured low, "Ah! once I was white as the snow, In the happy and pure long ago; But they say God is sweet -- is it so? Will He let a poor wayward one in -- In where the innocent are? Ah! justice stands guard at the gate; Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate? Alas! I have fallen so far! Oh, God! Oh, my God! 'tis too late! I have fallen as falls a lost star:

"The sky does not miss the gone gleam, But my heart, like the lost star, can dream Of the sky it has fall'n from. Nay! I have wandered too far -- far away. Oh! would that my mother were here; Is God like a mother? Has He Any love for a sinner like me?"

Her face wore the wildness of woe -- Her words, the wild tones of despair; Ah! how can a heart sink so low? How a face that was once bright and so fair, Can be furrowed and darkened with care? Wild rushed the hot tears from her eyes, From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, Her poor heart was broken; but then Her God was far gentler than men.

A voice whispered low at her side, "Child! God is more gentle than men, He watches by passion's dark tide, He sees a wreck drifting -- and then He beckons with hand and with voice, And he sees the poor wreck floating in To the haven on Mercy's bright shore; And He whispers the whisper of yore: `The angels of heaven rejoice O'er the sinner repenting of sin.'"

* * * * *

And a silence came down for a while, And her lips they were moving in prayer, And her face it wore just such a smile As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear, Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, Ere the soul of the girl knew the wile, That had led her to passion's despair.

Death's shadows crept over her face, And softened the hard marks of care; Repentance had won a last grace, And the Angel of Mercy stood there.

The Rosary of My Tears

Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art; But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth, of years, Few or many they come, few or many they go, But time is best measured by tears.

Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps thro' the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by the furrows the fingers of care

On forehead and face have made. Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brows be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold -- O'er them the spring -- but winter is there.

And the old are ofttimes young, When their hair is thin and white; And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But bead, by bead, I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well, And they're blest with a blessing of tears.

Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a long stream of life The tempests and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never the foam brings the lone back home -- It reaches the haven through tears.

Death

Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the sunshine of gladness, Into the light of the blest; Out of a land very dreary, Out of a world very weary, Into the rapture of rest.

Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, Into a blissful to-morrow, Into a day without gloom; Out of a land filled with sighing, Land of the dead and the dying, Into a land without tomb.

Out of a life of commotion, Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er; Into a land calm and quiet, Never a storm cometh nigh it, Never a wreck on its shore.

Out of a land in whose bowers Perish and fade all the flowers: Out of the land of decay, Into the Eden where fairest Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest, Never shall wither away.

Out of the world of the wailing Thronged with the anguished and ailing; Out of the world of the sad, Into the world that rejoices -- World of bright visions and voices -- Into the world of the glad.

Out of a life ever mournful, Out of a land very lornful, Where in bleak exile we roam, Into a joy-land above us, Where there's a Father to love us -- Into our home -- "Sweet Home".

What Ails the World?

"What ails the world?" the poet cried;
"And why does death walk everywhere?
And why do tears fall anywhere?
And skies have clouds, and souls have care?"
Thus the poet sang, and sighed.

For he would fain have all things glad,
All lives happy, all hearts bright;
Not a day would end in night,
Not a wrong would vex a right --
And so he sang -- and he was sad.

Thro' his very grandest rhymes
Moved a mournful monotone --
Like a shadow eastward thrown
From a sunset -- like a moan
Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes.

"What ails the world?" he sang and asked --
And asked and sang -- but all in vain;
No answer came to any strain,
And no reply to his refrain --
The mystery moved 'round him masked.

"What ails the world?" An echo came --
"Ails the world?" The minstrel bands,
With famous or forgotten hands,
Lift up their lyres in all the lands,
And chant alike, and ask the same

From him whose soul first soared in song,
A thousand, thousand years away,
To him who sang but yesterday,
In dying or in deathless lay --
"What ails the world?" comes from the throng.

They fain would sing the world to rest;
And so they chant in countless keys,
As many as the waves of seas,
And as the breathings of the breeze,
Yet even when they sing their best --

When o'er the list'ning world there floats
Such melody as 'raptures men --
When all look up entranced -- and when
The song of fame floats forth, e'en then
A discord creepeth through the notes --

Their sweetest harps have broken strings,
Their grandest accords have their jars,
Like shadows on the light of stars,
And somehow, something ever mars
The songs the greatest minstrel sings.

And so each song is incomplete,
And not a rhyme can ever round
Into the chords of perfect sound
The tones of thought that e'er surround
The ways walked by the poet's feet.

"What ails the world?" he sings and sighs;
No answer cometh to his cry.
He asks the earth and asks the sky --
The echoes of his song pass by
Unanswered -- and the poet dies.

A Thought

There never was a valley without a faded flower, There never was a heaven without some little cloud; The face of day may flash with light in any morning hour, But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven shroud.

There never was a river without its mists of gray, There never was a forest without its fallen leaf; And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our way, When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the face of grief.

There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck, There never was an ocean without its moaning wave; And the golden gleams of glory the summer sky that fleck, Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure-mantled grave.

There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear, Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide; Hope's brightest robes are 'broidered with the sable fringe of fear, And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either side.

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head, And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain, And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd tear is shed.

For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh; For without the dreary winter there has never been a year, And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer sky.

The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the grave; The mother's song scarce hides the ~De Profundis~ of the priest; You may cull the fairest roses any May-day ever gave, But they wither while you wear them ere the ending of your feast.

So this dreary life is passing -- and we move amid its maze, And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light; And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of our ways, Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly bright.

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide,
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key;
And a cross gleams o'er our pathway -- on it hangs the Crucified,
And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, "Follow Me."
Life is a burden; bear it;
Life is a duty; dare it;
Life is a thorn-crown; wear it,
Though it break your heart in twain;
Though the burden crush you down;
Close your lips, and hide your pain,
First the Cross, and then, the Crown.

In Rome

At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The sunshine of the home of truth Falls tremulously o'er me.

And tower, and spire, and lofty dome In brightest skies are gleaming; Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, Or am I only dreaming?

No, 'tis no dream; my very eyes Gaze on the hill-tops seven; Where crosses rise and kiss the skies, And grandly point to Heaven.

Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side, Each stone an age's story; They seem the very ghosts of pride That watch the grave of glory.

There senates sat, whose sceptre sought An empire without limit; There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought That death would never dim it.

There rulers reigned; yon heap of stones Was once their gorgeous palace; Beside them now, on altar-thrones, The priests lift up the chalice.

There legions marched with bucklers bright, And lances lifted o'er them; While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, Unfurled their wings before them.

There poets sang, whose deathless name Is linked to deathless verses; There heroes hushed with shouts of fame Their trampled victim's curses.

There marched the warriors back to home, Beneath yon crumbling portal, And placed upon the brow of Rome The proud crown of immortal.

There soldiers stood with armor on, In steel-clad ranks and serried, The while their red swords flashed upon The slaves whose rights they buried.

Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, And fame would not forsake it, Until a simple cross of wood Came from the East to break it.

That Rome is dead -- here is the grave -- Dead glory rises never; And countless crosses o'er it wave, And will wave on forever.

Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome Above the hill-tops seven; It arches o'er the world from Rome, And leads the world to Heaven.

____ December 6, 1872.

After Sickness

I nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever and no more; I think I heard the awful hinges grate, Hour after hour, while I did weary wait Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain: The door half-opened and then closed again.

What were my thoughts? I had but one regret -- That I was doomed to live and linger yet In this dark valley where the stream of tears Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. My lips spake not -- my eyes were dull and dim, But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn -- A triumph song of many chords and keys, Transcending language -- as the summer breeze, Which, through the forest mystically floats, Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes. A song of victory -- a chant of bliss: Wedded to words, it might have been like this:

"Come, death! but I am fearless,
I shrink not from your frown;
The eyes you close are tearless;
Haste! strike this frail form down.
Come! there is no dissembling
In this last, solemn hour,
But you'll find my heart untrembling
Before your awful power.
My lips grow pale and paler,
My eyes are strangely dim,
I wail not as a wailer,
I sing a victor's hymn.
My limbs grow cold and colder,
My room is all in gloom;
Bold death! -- but I am bolder --
Come! lead me to my tomb!
'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary,
'Tis still, and lone, and deep;
Haste, death! my eyes are weary,
I want to fall asleep.

`Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry?
Of time why such a loss?
Dost fear the sign I carry?
'Tis but a simple cross.
Thou wilt not strike? Then hear me:
Come! strike in any hour,
My heart shall never fear thee
Nor flinch before thy power.
I'll meet thee -- time's dread lictor --
And my wasted lips shall sing:
`Dread death! I am the victor!
Strong death! where is thy sting?'"

____ Milan, January, 1873.

Old Trees

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom There's many a warrior laid, And many a nameless and lonely tomb Is sheltered beneath your shade. Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer We buried the brave and the true, We fired a volley and left them there To rest, old trees, with you.

Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward Over each grass-grown bed; 'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard Over the Southern dead; Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away Like the leaves you yearly shed, But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay, Old trees, to guard "our dead".

After Seeing Pius IX

I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief Who fears not human rage, nor human guile; Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, But in that grief the starlight of a smile. Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell; A low voice -- strangely sweet -- whose very tone Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone. I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet; "No, no," he said; and then, in accents sweet, His blessing fell upon my bended head. He bade me rise; a few more words he said, Then took me by the hand -- the while he smiled -- And, going, whispered: "Pray for me, my child."

Sentinel Songs

When falls the soldier brave, Dead at the feet of wrong, The poet sings and guards his grave With sentinels of song.

Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The living and dead of the conquered land Have now no guards save you.

Gray ballads! mark ye well! Thrice holy is your trust! Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; Rest arms! and guard their dust.

List, songs! your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief; Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, Ye may not seek relief.

Go! wearing the gray of grief! Go! watch o'er the dead in gray! Go! guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay!

And the songs, in stately rhyme And with softly sounding tread, Go forth, to watch for a time -- a time -- Where sleep the Deathless Dead.

And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low, Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe.

What tho' no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave? What tho' no monument epitaphed Be built above each grave?

When marble wears away And monuments are dust, The songs that guard our soldiers' clay Will still fulfil their trust.

With lifted head and stately tread, Like stars that guard the skies, Go watch each bed where rest the dead, Brave songs, with sleepless eyes.

* * * * *

When falls the cause of Right, The poet grasps his pen, And in gleaming letters of living light Transmits the truth to men.

Go, songs! he says who sings; Go! tell the world this tale; Bear it afar on your tireless wings: The Right will yet prevail.

Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! Boom o'er the world and say: Brave men may die -- Right has no death! Truth never shall pass away!

Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs! Go! sob thro' a people's tears! Sweep the horizons of all the skies, And throb through a thousand years!

* * * * *

And the songs, with brave, sad face, Go proudly down their way, Wailing the loss of a conquered race And waiting an Easter-day.

Away! away! like the birds, They soar in their flight sublime; And the waving wings of the poet's words Flash down to the end of time.

When the flag of justice fails, Ere its folds have yet been furled, The poet waves its folds in wails That flutter o'er the world.

Songs, march! and in rank by rank The low, wild verses go, To watch the graves where the grass is dank, And the martyrs sleep below.

Songs! halt where there is no name! Songs! stay where there is no stone! And wait till you hear the feet of Fame Coming to where ye moan.

And the songs, with lips that mourn, And with hearts that break in twain At the beck of the bard -- a hope forlorn -- Watch the plain where sleep the slain.

* * * * *

When the warrior's sword is lowered Ere its stainless sheen grows dim, The bard flings forth its dying gleam On the wings of a deathless hymn.

Songs, fly far o'er the world And adown to the end of time: Let the sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled, Thro' the sheen of the poet's rhyme.

Songs! fly as the eagles fly! The bard unbars the cage; Go, soar away, and afar and high Wave your wings o'er every age.

Shriek shrilly o'er each day, As futureward ye fly, That the men were right who wore the gray, And Right can never die.

And the songs, with waving wing, Fly far, float far away From the ages' crest; o'er the world they fling The shade of the stainless gray.

Might! sing your triumph-songs! Each song but sounds a shame; Go down the world, in loud-voiced throngs, To win, from the future, fame.

Our ballads, born of tears, Will track you on your way, And win the hearts of the future years For the men who wore the gray.

And so -- say what you will -- In the heart of God's own laws I have a faith, and my heart believes still In the triumph of our cause.

Such hope may all be vain, And futile be such trust; But the weary eyes that weep the slain, And watch above such dust,

They cannot help but lift Their visions to the skies; They watch the clouds, but wait the rift Through which their hope shall rise.

The victor wields the sword: Its blade may broken be By a thought that sleeps in a deathless word, To wake in the years to be.

We wait a grand-voiced bard, Who, when he sings, will send Immortal songs' "Imperial Guard" The Lost Cause to defend.

He has not come; he will. But when he chants, his song Will stir the world to its depths and thrill The earth with its tale of wrong.

The fallen cause still waits -- Its bard has not come yet. His sun through one of to-morrow's gates Shall shine, but never set.

But when he comes he'll sweep A harp with tears all stringed, And the very notes he strikes will weep As they come from his hand woe-winged.

Ah! grand shall be his strain, And his songs shall fill all climes, And the rebels shall rise and march again Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.

And through his verse shall gleam The swords that flashed in vain, And the men who wore the gray shall seem To be marshaling again.

But hush! between his words Peer faces sad and pale, And you hear the sound of broken chords Beat through the poet's wail.

Through his verse the orphans cry -- The terrible undertone -- And the father's curse and the mother's sigh, And the desolate young wife's moan.

* * * * *

But harps are in every land That await a voice that sings, And a master-hand -- but the humblest hand May gently touch its strings.

I sing with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day, In minor keys of my people's woe, But my songs pass away.

To-morrow hears them not -- To-morrow belongs to Fame -- My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name.

And yet who knows? Betimes The grandest songs depart, While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart.

But, oh! if in song or speech, In major or minor key, My voice could over the ages reach, I would whisper the name of Lee.

In the night of our defeat Star after star had gone, But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet Where the star of Lee led on.

But sudden there came a cloud, Out rung a nation's knell; Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud, All fell when the great Lee fell.

From his men, with scarce a word, Silence when great hearts part! But we know he sheathed his stainless sword In the wound of a broken heart.

He fled from Fame; but Fame Sought him in his retreat, Demanding for the world one name Made deathless by defeat.

Nay, Fame! success is best! All lost! and nothing won: North, keep the clouds that flush the West, We have the sinking sun.

All lost! but by the graves Where martyred heroes rest, He wins the most who honor saves -- Success is not the test.

All lost! a nation weeps; By all the tears that fall, He loses naught who conscience keeps, Lee's honor saves us all.

All lost! but e'en defeat Hath triumphs of her own, Wrong's paean hath no note so sweet As trampled Right's proud moan.

The world shall yet decide, In truth's clear, far-off light, That the soldiers who wore the gray, and died With Lee, were in the right.

And men, by time made wise, Shall in the future see No name hath risen, or ever shall rise, Like the name of Robert Lee.

Ah, me! my words are weak, This task surpasses me; Dead soldiers! rise from your graves and speak, And tell how you loved Lee.

The banner you bore is furled, And the gray is faded, too! But in all the colors that deck the world Your gray blends not with blue.

The colors are far apart, Graves sever them in twain; The Northern heart and the Southern heart May beat in peace again;

But still till time's last day, Whatever lips may plight, The blue is blue, but the gray is gray, Wrong never accords with Right.

Go, Glory! and forever guard Our chieftain's hallowed dust; And Honor! keep eternal ward! And Fame! be this thy trust!

Go! with your bright emblazoned scroll And tell the years to be, The first of names that flash your roll Is ours -- great Robert Lee.

Lee wore the gray! since then 'Tis Right's and Honor's hue! He honored it, that man of men, And wrapped it round the true.

Dead! but his spirit breathes! Dead! but his heart is ours! Dead! but his sunny and sad land wreathes His crown with tears for flowers.

A statue for his tomb! Mould it of marble white! For Wrong, a spectre of death and doom; An angel of hope for Right.

But Lee has a thousand graves In a thousand hearts, I ween; And teardrops fall from our eyes in waves That will keep his memory green.

Ah! Muse, you dare not claim A nobler man than he, Nor nobler man hath less of blame, Nor blameless man hath purer name, Nor purer name hath grander fame, Nor fame -- another Lee.

Fragments from an Epic Poem

A Mystery

His face was sad; some shadow must have hung Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, Like cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there -- A shadow; and his face was always sad.

His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray Within them met and blended with the blue, And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream They looked beyond you into far-away, And often drooped; his face was always sad.

His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim, As if the edges of a cloud of tears Had gathered there, and only left a mist That made them moist and kept them ever moist. He never wept; his face was always sad.

I mean, not many saw him ever weep, And yet he seemed as one who often wept, Or always, tears that were too proud to flow In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze -- Froze down into himself; his face was sad.

And yet sometimes he smiled -- a sudden smile, As if some far-gone joy came back again, Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face A moment like a light through rifts in clouds, Which falls upon an unforgotten grave; He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad.

And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, And strange as stories of an unknown land, And full of meanings as the sea of moans. At times he was so still that silence seemed To sentinel his lips; and not a word Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad.

But then at times his speech flowed like a stream -- A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves Hung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad.

He had his moods of silence and of speech. I asked him once the reason, and he said: "When I speak much, my words are only words, When I speak least, my words are more than words, When I speak not, I then reveal myself!" It was his way of saying things -- he spoke In quaintest riddles; and his face was sad.

And, when he wished, he wove around his words A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard Could soften hardest soul; that he so still Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad.

He spoke of death as if it were a toy For thought to play with; and of life he spoke As of a toy not worth the play of thought; And of this world he spoke as captives speak Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men As one who found pure gold in each of them. He spoke of women just as if he dreamed About his mother; and he spoke of God As if he walked with Him and knew His heart -- But he was weary, and his face was sad.

He had a weary way in all he did, As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross; And yet the weary went to him for rest. His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. He seemed to have two selves -- his outer self Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, And gentle as a child's; that outer self Kept open all its gates, that who so wished Might enter them and find therein a place; And many entered; but his face was sad.

The inner self he guarded from approach, He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; He guarded it with silence and reserve; Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass Beyond the portals; and his face was sad. But whoso entered there -- and few were they -- So very few -- so very, very few, They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" They murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" They went their ways, but wore a lifted look, And higher meanings came to common words, And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; And, near or far, they never did forget The "Shadow and the Shrine"; his face was sad.

He was not young nor old -- yet he was both; Nor both by turns, but always both at once; For youth and age commingled in his ways, His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, The child played thro' his words; his face was sad.

I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: "The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, Just born to-day, is not as young as I; The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms -- An acorn cradled ages long ago -- Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." It was his way -- he always answered thus, But when he did his face was very sad.

* * * * *

Spirit Song

Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art now a golden wave On the golden shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Thou wert once the bluest wave Shadows e'er hung o'er; Thou art now the brightest wave On the brightest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Thou wert once the gentlest wave Ocean ever bore; Thou art now the fairest wave On the fairest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Whiter foam than thine, O wave, Wavelet never wore, Stainless wave; and now you lave The far and stormless shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Who bade thee go, O bluest wave, Beyond the tempest's roar? Who bade thee flow, O fairest wave, Unto the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who waved a hand, O purest wave? A hand that blessings bore, And wafted thee, O whitest wave, Unto the fairest shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who winged thy way, O holy wave, In days and days of yore? And wept the words: "O winsome wave, This earth is not thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?