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.

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?

Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave — The strength a great soul wore — And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy shore!" Ever — ever — evermore?

Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever — ever — evermore?

And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore, Ever — ever — evermore?

Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar! I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever — ever — evermore!

Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore, Ever — ever — evermore!

* * * * *

"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place — The shadows of the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The marble floor memorials of their tears."

And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad.

When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild, Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!

But he would pass His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, And then the olden gentleness, like light Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, Would tremble on his face, and he would look More gentle then than ever, and his tone Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.

I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved And darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, And all the smiles arose as from the dead, And wore the glory of an Easter morn; And passed beneath the sceptre of a hope Which came from some far region of his heart, Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. I marveled much; he answered to my look With all his own, and wafted me these words:

"There are transitions in the lives of all. There are transcendent moments when we stand In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, And weak with very strength of human love We fain would build our tabernacles there; And, Peter-like, for very human joy We cry aloud: ''Tis good that we are here;' Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, Which glorifies a shadow and is gone.

"And then we stand upon another mount — Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there For awful hours, to make us there His own In Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. We wish to cling to Thabor; He says: 'No.' And what He says is best because most true. We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: 'No.' And it is true because it is the best. And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same.

"They lie apart, distinct and separate, And yet — strange mystery! — they are the same. For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, And Thabor is a Calvary in the light. It is the mystery of Holy Christ! It is the mystery of you and me! Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, And, like the shadows of a dial, we Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours The sun tells brightly in the sinless skies. Dost understand?" I did not understand — Or only half; his face was very sad. "Dost thou not understand me? Then your life Is shallow as a brook that brawls along Between two narrow shores; you never wept — You never wore great clouds upon your brow As mountains wear them; and you never wore Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies Oft wear them; and your lips — they never sighed Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul; You never reached your arms a-broad — a-high — To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. Life, only life, can understand a life; Depth, only depth, can understand the deep. The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face Can never learn the story of the sea."

* * * * *

One day we strolled together to the sea. Gray evening and the night had almost met, We walked between them, silent, to the shore. The feet of weird faced waves ran up the beach Like children in mad play, then back again As if the spirit of the land pursued; Then up again — and farther — and they flung White, foamy arms around each other's neck; Then back again with sudden rush and shout, As if the sea, their mother, called them home; Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed Away, and farther up the beach, and fell For utter weariness; and loudly sobbed For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. But all in vain, for other waves swept on And trampled them; the sea cried out in grief, The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands. It was the flood-tide and the even-tide — Between the evening and the night we walked — We walked between the billows and the beach, We walked between the future and the past, Down to the sea we twain had strolled — to part.

The shore was low, with just the faintest rise Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells, Until about a stone's far throw they met A fringe of faded grass, with here and there A pale-green shrub; and farther into land — Another stone's throw farther — there were trees — Tall, dark, wild trees, with intertwining arms, Each almost touching each, as if they feared To stand alone and look upon the sea. The night was in the trees — the evening on the shore. We walked between the evening and the night — Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. There lies between man's silence and his speech A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass Are never silent, tho' they may not speak; And yet they more than breathe. It is the vale Of wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard. It is the vale of the unutterable. We walked between our silence and our speech, And sighed between the sunset and the stars, One hour beside the sea.

There was a cloud Far o'er the reach of waters, hanging low 'Tween sea and sky — the banner of the storm, Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays That fled far down the West had rested there And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. Its inner folds were dark — its central, more. It did not flutter; there it hung, as calm As banner in a temple o'er a shrine. Its shadow only fell upon the sea, Above the shore the heavens bended blue. We walked between the cloudless and the cloud, That hour, beside the sea.

But, quick as thought, There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light — Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, Its scabbard in the darkness — and it tore The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, Then quivered far away, and bent and broke In flashing fragments;

And there came a peal That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach; Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung Clouds darker gathered — and they proudly waved Like flags before a battle.

We twain walked — We walked between the lightning's parted gleams, We walked between the thunders of the skies, We walked between the wavings of the clouds, We walked between the tremblings of the sea, We walked between the stillnesses and roars Of frightened billows; and we walked between The coming tempest and the dying calm — Between the tranquil and the terrible — That hour beside the sea.

There was a rock Far up the winding beach that jutted in The sea, and broke the heart of every wave That struck its breast; not steep enough nor high To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock; Yet not so low as that its brow was laved By highest tide, yet not sufficient high To rise beyond the reach of silver spray That rained up from the waves — their tears that fell Upon its face, when they died at its feet. Around its sides damp seaweed hung in long, Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. A tuft or two of grass did green the rock, A patch or so of moss; the rest was bare.

Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; But when we reached the rock the eve and night Had met; light died; we sat down in the dark Upon the rock.

Meantime a thousand clouds Careered and clashed in air — a thousand waves Whirled wildly on in wrath — a thousand winds Howled hoarsely on the main, and down the skies Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath; And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, And all the horror shrank in horror back Before the maddest peals that ever leaped Out from the thunder's throat.

Within the dark We silent sat. No rain fell on the rock, Nor in on land, nor shore; only on sea The upper and the lower waters met In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts Far parted — parted long — which meet to break, Which rush into each other's arms and break In terror and in tempests wild of tears. No rain fell on the rock; but flakes of foam Swept cold against our faces, where we sat Between the hush and howling of the winds, Between the swells and sinking of the waves, Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, Between the rushings of the maddened rains, Between the dark beneath and dark above.

We sat within the dread heart of the night: One, pale with terror; one, as calm and still And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock.

* * * * *



Lake Como



Winter on the mountains Summer on the shore, The robes of sun-gleams woven, The lake's blue wavelets wore.

Cold, white, against the heavens, Flashed winter's crown of snow, And the blossoms of the spring-tide Waved brightly far below.

The mountain's head was dreary, The cold and cloud were there, But the mountain's feet were sandaled With flowers of beauty rare.

And winding thro' the mountains The lake's calm wavelets rolled, And a cloudless sun was gilding Their ripples with its gold.

Adown the lake we glided Thro' all the sunlit day; The cold snows gleamed above us, But fair flowers fringed our way

The snows crept down the mountain, The flowers crept up the slope, Till they seemed to meet and mingle, Like human fear and hope.

But the same rich, golden sunlight Fell on the flowers and snow, Like the smile of God that flashes On hearts in joy or woe.

And on the lake's low margin The trees wore stoles of green, While here and there, amid them, A convent cross was seen.

Anon a ruined castle, Moss-mantled, loomed in view, And cast its solemn shadow Across the water's blue.

And chapel, cot, and villa, Met here and there our gaze, And many a crumbling tower That told of other days.

And scattered o'er the waters The fishing boats lay still, And sound of song so softly Came echoed from the hill.

At times the mountain's shadow Fell dark across the scene, And veiled with veil of purple The wavelets' silver sheen.

But for a moment only The lake would wind, and lo! The waves would near the glory Of the sunlight's brightest glow.

At times there fell a silence Unbroken by a tone, As if no sound of voices Had ever there been known.

Through strange and lonely places We glided thus for hours; We saw no other faces But the faces of the flowers.

The shores were sad and lonely As hearts without a love, While darker and more dreary The mountains rose above.

But sudden round a headland The lake would sweep again, And voices from a village Would meet us with their strain.

Thus all the day we glided, Until the Vesper bell Gave to the day, at sunset, Its sweet and soft farewell.

Then back again we glided Upon our homeward way, When twilight wrapped the waters And the mountains with its gray.

But brief the reign of twilight, The night came quickly on; The dark brow o'er the mountains, Star-wreathed, brightly shone.

And down thro' all the shadows The star-gleams softly crept, And kissed, with lips all shining, The wavelets ere they slept.

The lake lay in a slumber, The shadows for its screen, While silence waved her sceptre Above the sleeping scene.

The spirit of the darkness Moved, ghost-like, everywhere; Wherever starlight glimmered, Its shadow, sure, fell there.

The lone place grew more lonely, And all along our way The mysteries of the night-time Held undisputed sway.

Thro' silence and thro' darkness We glided down the tide That wound around the mountains That rose on either side.

No eyes would close in slumber Within our little bark; What charmed us so in daylight So awed us in the dark.

Upon the deck we lingered, A whisper scarce was heard; When hearts are stirred profoundest, Lips are without a word.

"Let's say the Chaplet," softly A voice beside me spake. "Christ walked once in the darkness Across an Eastern lake,

"And to-night we know the secret That will charm Him to our side: If we call upon His Mother, He will meet us on the tide."

So we said the beads together, Up and down the little bark; And I believe that Jesus met us, With His Mother, in the dark.

And our prayers were scarcely ended When, on mountain-top afar, We beheld the morning meeting With the night's last fading star.

And I left the lake; but never Shall the years to come efface From my heart the dream and vision Of that strange and lonely place.

_ February 1, 1873.



"Peace! Be Still"



Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light, And when they close wild waves rush on His bark, And toss it through the dead hours of the night.

So He slept once upon an eastern lake, In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will; A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake, He softly whispered, and the sea grew still.

It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark; A storm is sweeping all across the deep, While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark.

The sky is darkened, and the shore is far, The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour: Upon the howling deep there shines no star — Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power?

Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath; Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm The ship of faith upon its homeward path.

The Master sleeps — His pilot guards the bark; He soon will wake, and at His mighty will The light will shine where all before was dark — The wild waves still remember: "Peace! be still."

_ Rome, 1873.



Good Friday



O Heart of Three-in-the evening, You nestled the thorn-crowned head; He leaned on you in His sorrow, And rested on you when dead.

Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening He gave you His richest dower; He met you afar on Calvary, And made you "His own last hour".

O Brow of Three-in-the evening, Thou wearest a crimson crown; Thou art Priest of the hours forever, And thy voice, as thou goest down

The cycles of time, still murmurs The story of love each day: "I held in death the Eternal, In the long and the far-away."

O Heart of Three-in-the evening, Mine beats with thine to-day; Thou tellest the olden story, I kneel — and I weep and pray.

_ Boulogne, sur mer.



My Beads



Sweet, blessed beads! I would not part With one of you for richest gem That gleams in kingly diadem; Ye know the history of my heart.

For I have told you every grief In all the days of twenty years, And I have moistened you with tears, And in your decades found relief.

Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed And joys have died; but in my needs Ye were my friends, my blessed beads! And ye consoled me when I wailed.

For many and many a time, in grief, My weary fingers wandered round Thy circled chain, and always found In some Hail Mary sweet relief.

How many a story you might tell Of inner life, to all unknown; I trusted you and you alone, But ah! ye keep my secrets well.

Ye are the only chain I wear — A sign that I am but the slave, In life, in death, beyond the grave, Of Jesus and His Mother fair.



At Night



Dreary! weary! Weary! dreary! Sighs my soul this lonely night. Farewell gladness! Welcome sadness! Vanished are my visions bright.

Stars are shining! Winds are pining! In the sky and o'er the sea; Shine forever Stars! but never Can the starlight gladden me.

Stars! you nightly Sparkle brightly, Scattered o'er your azure dome; While earth's turning, There you're burning, Beacons of a better home.

Stars! you brighten And you lighten Many a heart-grief here below; But your gleaming And your beaming Cannot chase away my woe.

Stars! you're shining, I am pining — I am dark, but you are bright; Hanging o'er me And before me Is a night you cannot light.

Night of sorrow, Whose to-morrow I may never, never see, Till upon me And around me Dawns a bright eternity.

Winds! you're sighing, And you're crying, Like a mourner o'er a tomb; Whither go ye, Whither blow ye, Wailing through the midnight gloom?

Chanting lowly, Softly, lowly, Like the voice of one in woe; Winds so lonely, Why thus moan ye? Say, what makes you sorrow so?

Are you grieving For your leaving Scenes where all is fair and gay? For the flowers In their bowers, You have met with on your way?

For fond faces, For dear places, That you've seen as on you swept? Are you sighing, Are you crying, O'er the memories they have left?

Earth is sleeping While you're sweeping Through night's solemn silence by; On forever, Pausing never — How I love to hear you sigh!

Men are dreaming, Stars are gleaming In the far-off heaven's blue; Bosom aching, Musing, waking, Midnight winds, I sigh with you!



Nocturne ["Betimes, I seem to see in dreams"]



Betimes, I seem to see in dreams What when awake I may not see; Can night be God's more than the day? Do stars, not suns, best light his way? Who knoweth? Blended lights and shades Arch aisles down which He walks to me.

I hear him coming in the night Afar, and yet I know not how; His steps make music low and sweet; Sometimes the nails are in his feet; Does darkness give God better light Than day, to find a weary brow?

Does darkness give man brighter rays To find the God, in sunshine lost? Must shadows wrap the trysting-place Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace? Who knoweth it? God hath His ways For every soul here sorrow-tossed.

The hours of day are like the waves That fret against the shores of sin: They touch the human everywhere, The Bright-Divine fades in their glare; And God's sweet voice the spirit craves Is heard too faintly in the din.

When all the senses are awake, The mortal presses overmuch Upon the great immortal part — And God seems further from the heart. Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, Lose star by star at sunlight's touch?

But when the sun kneels in the west, And grandly sinks as great hearts sink; And in his sinking flings adown Bright blessings from his fading crown, The stars begin their song of rest, And shadows make the thoughtless think.

The human seems to fade away; And down the starred and shadowed skies The heavenly comes — as memories come Of home to hearts afar from home; And thro' the darkness after day Many a winged angel flies.

And somehow, tho' the eyes see less, Our spirits seem to see the more; When we look thro' night's shadow-bars The soul sees more than shining stars, Yea — sees the very loveliness That rests upon the "Golden Shore".

Strange reveries steal o'er us then, Like keyless chords of instruments, With music's soul without the notes; And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats A melody not made by men, Nor ever heard by outer sense.

And "what has been", and "what will be", And "what is not", but "might have been", The dim "to be", the "mournful gone", The little things life rested on In "Long-ago's", give tone, not key, To reveries beyond our ken.



Sunless Days



They come to ev'ry life — sad, sunless days, With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; And thro' the dark we grope along our ways With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.

What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence? Why does it banish all the bright away? How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense? Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?

Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know How oft and suddenly the shadows roll From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, To wrap their darkness round the human soul.

Those days are darker than the very night; For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams; But these days bring unto the spirit-sight The mysteries of gloom, until it seems

The light is gone forever, and the dark Hangs like a pall of death above the soul, Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.

_ Winter on the Atlantic.



A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?"]



Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Why ask when the night only knoweth? The night — and the angel of sleep! But ever since then a music deep, Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth Under each thought of my spirit that groweth Into the blossom and bloom of speech — Under each fancy that cometh and goeth — Wayward, as waves when evening breeze bloweth Out of the sunset and into the beach. And is it a wonder I wept to-day? For I mused and thought, but I cannot say If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night; And now — even now — 'neath the words I write, The flush of the dream or the flow of the song — I cannot tell which — moves strangely along. But why write more? I am puzzled sore: Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; The words of earth are a darksome veil, The poet weaves it with artful grace; Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, Lets it rustle along his rhymes, But gathers it close, covering the face Of ev'ry thought that must not part From out the keeping of his heart.



St. Mary's



Back to where the roses rest Round a shrine of holy name, (Yes — they knew me when I came) More of peace and less of fame Suit my restless heart the best.

Back to where long quiets brood, Where the calm is never stirred By the harshness of a word, But instead the singing bird Sweetens all my solitude.

With the birds and with the flowers Songs and silences unite, From the morning unto night; And somehow a clearer light Shines along the quiet hours.

God comes closer to me here — Back of ev'ry rose leaf there He is hiding — and the air Thrills with calls to holy prayer; Earth grows far, and heaven near.

Every single flower is fraught With the very sweetest dreams, Under clouds or under gleams Changeful ever — yet meseems On each leaf I read God's thought.

Still, at times, as place of death, Not a sound to vex the ear, Yet withal it is not drear; Better for the heart to hear, Far from men — God's gentle breath.

Where men clash, God always clings: When the human passes by, Like a cloud from summer sky, God so gently draweth nigh, And the brightest blessings brings.

List! e'en now a wild bird sings, And the roses seem to hear Every note that thrills my ear, Rising to the heavens clear, And my soul soars on its wings

Up into the silent skies Where the sunbeams veil the star, Up — beyond the clouds afar, Where no discords ever mar, Where rests peace that never dies.

So I live within the calm, And the birds and roses know That the days that come and go Are as peaceful as the flow Of a prayer beneath a psalm.



De Profundis



Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! Woe are we! woe are we! And the nights are ages long! From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips O my God! woe are we! Trembleth the mourner's song; A blight is falling on the fair, And hope is dying in despair, And terror walketh everywhere.

All the hours are full of tears — O my God! woe are we! Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes — Every heart is strung with fears, Woe are we! woe are we! All the light hath left the skies, And the living awe struck crowds See above them only clouds, And around them only shrouds.

Ah! the terrible farewells! Woe are they! woe are they! When last words sink into moans, While life's trembling vesper bells — O my God! woe are we! Ring the awful undertones! Not a sun in any day! In the night-time not a ray, And the dying pass away!

Dark! so dark! above — below — O my God! woe are we! Cowereth every human life. Wild the wailing; to and fro! Woe are all! woe are we! Death is victor in the strife: In the hut and in the hall He is writing on the wall Dooms for many — fears for all.

Thro' the cities burns a breath, Woe are they! woe are we! Hot with dread and deadly wrath; Life and love lock arms in death, Woe are they! woe are all! Victims strew the spectre's path; Shy-eyed children softly creep Where their mothers wail and weep — In the grave their fathers sleep.

Mothers waft their prayers on high, O my God! woe are we! With their dead child on their breast. And the altars ask the sky — O my Christ! woe are we! "Give the dead, O Father, rest! Spare thy people! mercy! spare!" Answer will not come to prayer — Horror moveth everywhere.

And the temples miss the priest — O my God! woe are we! And the cradle mourns the child. Husband at your bridal feast — Woe are you! woe are you! Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; They will never smile again — Every tie is cut in twain, All the strength of love is vain.

Weep? but tears are weak as foam — Woe are ye! woe are we! They but break upon the shore Winding between here and home — Woe are ye! woe are we! Wailing never! nevermore! Ah! the dead! they are so lone, Just a grave, and just a stone, And the memory of a moan.

Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet — O my God! woe are we! Tears will trickle into prayers When we kneel down at His feet — Woe are we! woe are we! With our crosses and our cares. He will calm the tortured breast, He will give the troubled rest — And the dead He watcheth best.



When? (Death)



Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds sing, And fewest hearts are sad — Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know it will be sweet To leave the homes of men And rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In Thy home, O my God!

Some Summer morn Of splendors and of songs, When roses hide the thorn And smile — the spirit's wrongs — Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know I will rejoice To leave the haunts of men And lie beneath the sod, To hear Thy tender voice In Thy home, O my God!

Some Autumn eve, When chill clouds drape the sky, When bright things grieve Because all fair things die — Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when, I know I shall be glad, Away from the homes of men, Adown beneath the sod, My heart will not be sad In Thy home, O my God!

Some Wintry day, When all skies wear a gloom, And beauteous May Sleeps in December's tomb, Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; My soul shall throb with joy To leave the haunts of men And sleep beneath the sod. Ah! there is no alloy In Thy joys, O my God!

Haste, death! be fleet; I know it will be sweet To rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In heaven, O my God!



The Conquered Banner



Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it — let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner — it is trailing! While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it! Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages — Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently — it is holy — For it droops above the dead. Touch it not — unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead!



A Christmas Chant



They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng Will care for the words I sing?

Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, Their voices and hearts are glad; But I — I am old, and my locks are gray, And they tell me my voice is sad.

Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm With hopes, bright as life's first spring; But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm Hath gone from the songs I sing.

I have lost the spell that my verse could weave O'er the souls of the old and young, And never again — how it makes me grieve — Shall I sing as once I sung.

Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, Since my days are so nearly past, That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve Is the old man's best and last.

Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? Art's sweet but meaningless notes? Or the music of thought, that, like the chime Of a grand cathedral, floats

Out of each word, and along each line, Into the spirit's ear, Lifting it up and making it pine For a something far from here;

Bearing the wings of the soul aloft From earth and its shadows dim; Soothing the breast with a sound as soft As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;

Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears From our being's higher part; Dimming the eyes with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart?

Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along — The undertone of a life!

Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules — A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools:

A music I learned in the days long gone — I cannot tell where or how — But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow.

And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells.

But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song?

The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there;

That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few?

They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so?

That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd.

They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above;

That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath.

And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true?

No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song.

And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels.

Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve Are haunting the lonely man, Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, He'll sing them as best he can.

Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke This holiest night of the year, Who knows how its melody may wake A Christmas smile or a tear?

So on with the mystic song, With its meaning manifold — Two tones in every word, Two thoughts in every tone; In the measured words that move along One meaning shall be heard, One thought to all be told; But under it all, to be alone — And under it all, to all unknown — As safe as under a coffin-lid, Deep meanings shall be hid. Find them out who can! The thoughts concealed and unrevealed In the song of the lonely man.

* * * * *

I'm sitting alone in my silent room This long December night, Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom With many a picture bright. Ah! how the fire can paint! Its magic skill, how strange! How every spark On the canvas dark Draws figures and forms so quaint! And how the pictures change! One moment how they smile! And in less than a little while, In the twinkling of an eye, Like the gleam of a summer sky, The beaming smiles all die.

From gay to grave — from grave to gay — The faces change in the shadows gray; And just as I wonder who they are, Over them all, Like a funeral pall, The folds of the shadows droop and fall, And the charm is gone, And every one Of the pictures fade away.

Ah! the fire within my grate Hath more than Raphael's power, Is more than Raphael's peer; It paints for me in a little hour More than he in a year; And the pictures hanging 'round me here This holy Christmas eve No artist's pencil could create — No painter's art conceive;

Ah! those cheerful faces, Wearing youthful graces! I gaze on them until I seem Half awake and half in dream. There are brows without a mark, Features bright without a shade; There are eyes without a tear; There are lips unused to sigh. Ah! never mind — you soon shall die! All those faces soon shall fade, Fade into the dreary dark Like their pictures hanging here. — Lo! those tearful faces, Bearing age's traces!

I gaze on them, and they on me, Until I feel a sorrow steal Through my heart so drearily; There are faces furrowed deep; There are eyes that used to weep; There are brows beneath a cloud; There are hearts that want to sleep; Never mind! the shadows creep From the death-land; and a shroud, Tenderly as mother's arm, Soon shall shield the old from harm, Soon shall wrap its robe of rest Round each sorrow-haunted breast Ah! that face of mother's, Sister's, too, and brother's — And so many others, Dear is every name — And Ethel! Thou art there, With thy child-face sweet and fair, And thy heart so bright In its shroud so white; Just as I saw you last In the golden, happy past; And you seem to wear Upon your hair — Your waving, golden hair — The smile of the setting sun. Ah! me, how years will run! But all the years cannot efface Your purest name, your sweetest grace, From the heart that still is true Of all the world to you; The other faces shine, But none so fair as thine; And wherever they are to-night, I know They look the very same As in their pictures hanging here This night, to memory dear, And painted by the flames, With tombstones in the background, And shadows for their frames.

And thus with my pictures only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve. I'm sitting alone in my pictured room — But, no! they have vanished all — I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, I'm watching the ashes fall. And far away back of the cheerful blaze The beautiful visions of by-gone days Are rising before my raptured gaze. Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm, Hast thou a wizard's magic charm To bring those far-off scenes so near And make my past days meet me here?

Tell me — tell me — how is it? The past is past, and here I sit, And there, lo! there before me rise, Beyond yon glowing flame, The summer suns of childhood's skies, Yes — yes — the very same! I saw them rise long, long ago; I played beneath their golden glow; And I remember yet, I often cried with strange regret When in the west I saw them set And there they are again; The suns, the skies, the very days Of childhood, just beyond that blaze! But, ah! such visions almost craze The old man's puzzled brain! I thought the past was past! But, no! it cannot be; 'Tis here to-night with me!