How is it, then? the past of men Is part of one eternity — The days of yore we so deplore, They are not dead — they are not fled, They live and live for evermore. And thus my past comes back to me With all its visions fair.

O past! could I go back to thee, And live forever there! But, no! there's frost upon my hair; My feet have trod a path of care; And worn and wearied here I sit I am too tired to go to it.

And thus with visions only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; But, no! the fire is dying, And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, Are sad, and I hear them sighing. The wind hath a voice to pine — Plaintive, and pensive and low; Hath it a heart like mine or thine? Knoweth it weal or woe? How it wails in a ghost-like strain, Just against that window pane! As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, And wanted to rest with me to-night. Cease! night-winds, cease! Why should you be sad? This is a night of joy and peace, And heaven and earth are glad! But still the wind's voice grieves! Perchance o'er the fallen leaves, Which, in their summer bloom, Danced to the music of bird and breeze, But, torn from the arms of their parent trees, Lie now in their wintry tomb — Mute types of man's own doom.

And thus with the night winds only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

How long have I been dreaming here? Or have I dreamed at all? My fire is dead — my pictures fled — There's nothing left but shadows drear — Shadows on the wall:

Shifting, flitting, Round me sitting In my old arm chair — Rising, sinking Round me, thinking, Till, in the maze of many a dream, I'm not myself; and I almost seem Like one of the shadows there. Well, let the shadows stay! I wonder who are they? I cannot say; but I almost believe They know to-night is Christmas eve, And to-morrow Christmas day.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To change life's bitter gall to sweet, And change the sweet to gall again; To take the thorns from out our feet — The thorns and all their dreary pain, Only to put them back again.

To take old stings from out our heart — Old stings that made them bleed and smart — Only to sharpen them the more, And press them back to the heart's own core.

Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, Bright and dark, and dark and bright. All these mingle, all these meet, In this great and solemn night.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To melt, with kindly glowing heat, From off our souls the snow and sleet, The dreary drift of wintry years, Only to make the cold winds blow, Only to make a colder snow; And make it drift, and drift, and drift, In flakes so icy-cold and swift, Until the heart that lies below Is cold and colder than the snow.

And thus with the shadows only, And the dreamings they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

'Tis passing fast! My fireless, lampless room Is a mass of moveless gloom; And without — a darkness vast, Solemn — starless — still! Heaven and earth doth fill.

But list! there soundeth a bell, With a mystical ding, dong, dell! Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? Solemn and slow, Now loud — now low; Pealing the notes of human woe Over the graves lying under the snow! Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell! Trembling along the gale, Under the stars and over the snow. Why is it? whence is it sounding so? Is it a toll of a burial bell?

Or is it a spirit's wail? Solemnly, mournfully, Sad — and how lornfully! Ding, dong, dell! Whence is it? who can tell? And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still! How the sounds tremble! how they thrill! Every tone So like a moan; As if the strange bell's stranger clang Throbbed with a terrible human pang.

Ding, dong, dell! Dismally, drearily, Ever so wearily. Far off and faint as a requiem plaint Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell Piercingly — thrillingly, Icily — chillingly, Near — and more near, Drearer — and more drear, Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!

Now sinking lower, It tolleth slower! I list, and I hear its sound no more. And now, methinks, I know that bell, Know it well — know its knell — For I often heard it sound before.

It is a bell — yet not a bell Whose sound may reach the ear! It tolls a knell — yet not a knell Which earthly sense may hear. In every soul a bell of dole Hangs ready to be tolled; And from that bell a funeral knell Is often outward rolled; And memory is the sexton gray Who tolls the dreary knell; And nights like this he loves to sway And swing his mystic bell. 'Twas that I heard and nothing more, This lonely Christmas eve; Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, At Christmas let me grieve.

Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on And murmur a holy prayer Over each grave, and for every one Lying down lifeless there!

And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, Robed in his shadowy stole; And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, To respond to his prayer of dole.

And list! he begins That psalm for sins, The first of the mournful seven; Plaintive and soft It rises aloft, Begging the mercy of Heaven To pity and forgive, For the sake of those who live, The dead who have died unshriven. Miserere! Miserere! Still your heart and hush your breath! The voices of despair and death Are shuddering through the psalm! Miserere! Miserere! Lift your hearts! the terror dies! Up in yonder sinless skies The psalms sound sweet and calm! Miserere! Miserere! Very low, in tender tones, The music pleads, the music moans, "I forgive and have forgiven, The dead whose hearts were shriven." De profundis! De profundis! Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, And pealed above ten thousand biers; And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate Of sinners and of just, When their souls are going up to God, Their bodies down to dust. Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears From mortal eyes that fall, And your notes evoke the darkest fears That human hearts appall! You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, And ever your music is sad, so sad, We seem to hear murmured in every tone, For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve Over our dead on this Christmas eve. De profundis! De profundis! And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, And the spirits immortal from far away, To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.

You think of the dead on Christmas eve, Wherever the dead are sleeping, And we from a land where we may not grieve Look tenderly down on your weeping. You think us far, we are very near, From you and the earth, though parted; We sing to-night to console and cheer The hearts of the broken-hearted. The earth watches over the lifeless clay Of each of its countless sleepers, And the sleepless spirits that passed away Watch over all earth's weepers. We shall meet again in a brighter land, Where farewell is never spoken; We shall clasp each other in hand, And the clasp shall not be broken; We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, Where we'll never know a sadness, And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, With rapture and with gladness. The snows shall pass from our graves away, And you from the earth, remember; And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, Shall follow earth's December. When you think of us think not of the tomb Where you laid us down in sorrow; But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, And wait for the great to-morrow. And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, Whispereth soft and low: Requiescat! Requiescat!

Peace! Peace! to every one For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, In their graves beneath the snow.

The stars in the far-off heaven Have long since struck eleven! And hark! from temple and from tower, Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour, Blessed by the Saviour's birth, And night putteth off the sable stole, Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, For one with many a starry gem, To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, Who comes to men the King of them, Yet comes without robe or diadem, And all turn towards the holy east, To hear the song of the Christmas feast.

Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed, Four thousand years the nations sighed, That their King so long delayed.

The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed, And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died.

Their faces towards the future, They longed to hail the light That in the after centuries Would rise on Christmas night.

But still the Saviour tarried, Within His father's home And the nations wept and wondered why The promised had not come.

At last earth's hope was granted, And God was a child of earth; And a thousand angels chanted The lowly midnight birth.

Ah! Bethlehem was grander That hour than Paradise; And the light of earth that night eclipsed The splendors of the skies.

Then let us sing the anthem The angels once did sing; Until the music of love and praise, O'er whole wide world will ring.

Gloria in excelsis! Sound the thrilling song; In excelsis Deo! Roll the hymn along. Gloria in excelsis! Let the heavens ring; In excelsis Deo! Welcome, new-born King Gloria in excelsis! Over the sea and land, In excelsis Deo! Chant the anthem grand. Gloria in excelsis! Let us all rejoice; In excelsis Deo! Lift each heart and voice. Gloria in excelsis! Swell the hymn on high; In excelsis Deo! Sound it to the sky. Gloria in excelsis! Sing it, sinful earth, In excelsis Deo! For the Saviour's birth.

Thus joyfully and victoriously, Glad and ever so gloriously, High as the heavens, wide as the earth, Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.

Lo! the day is waking In the east afar; Dawn is faintly breaking, Sunk in every star.

Christmas eve has vanished With its shadows gray; All its griefs are banished By bright Christmas day.

Joyful chimes are ringing O'er the land and seas, And there comes glad singing, Borne on every breeze.

Little ones so merry Bed-clothes coyly lift, And, in such a hurry, Prattle "Christmas gift!"

Little heads so curly, Knowing Christmas laws, Peep out very early For old "Santa Claus".

Little eyes are laughing O'er their Christmas toys, Older ones are quaffing Cups of Christmas joys.

Hearts are joyous, cheerful, Faces all are gay; None are sad and tearful On bright Christmas day.

Hearts are light and bounding, All from care are free; Homes are all resounding With the sounds of glee.

Feet with feet are meeting, Bent on pleasure's way; Souls to souls give greeting Warm on Christmas day.

Gifts are kept a-going Fast from hand to hand; Blessings are a-flowing Over every land.

One vast wave of gladness Sweeps its world-wide way, Drowning every sadness On this Christmas day.

Merry, merry Christmas, Haste around the earth; Merry, merry Christmas, Scatter smiles and mirth.

Merry, merry Christmas, Be to one and all! Merry, merry Christmas, Enter hut and hall.

Merry, merry Christmas, Be to rich and poor! Merry, merry Christmas Stop at every door.

Merry, merry Christmas, Fill each heart with joy! Merry, merry Christmas To each girl and boy.

Merry, merry Christmas, Better gifts than gold; Merry, merry Christmas To the young and old.

Merry, merry Christmas, May the coming year Bring as merry a Christmas And as bright a cheer.



"Far Away"



"Far Away!" what does it mean? A change of heart with a change of place? When footsteps pass from scene to scene, Fades soul from soul with face from face? Are hearts the slaves or lords of space?

"Far Away!" what does it mean? Does distance sever there from here? Can leagues of land part hearts? — I ween They cannot; for the trickling tear Says "Far Away" means "Far More Near".

"Far Away!" — the mournful miles Are but the mystery of space That blends our sighs, but parts our smiles, For love will find a meeting place When face is farthest off from face.

"Far Away!" we meet in dreams, As 'round the altar of the night Far-parted stars send down their gleams To meet in one embrace of light And make the brow of darkness bright.

"Far Away!" we meet in tears, That tell the path of weary feet; And all the good-byes of the years But make the wanderer's welcome sweet, The rains of parted clouds thus meet.

"Far Away!" we meet in prayer, You know the temple and the shrine; Before it bows the brow of care, Upon it tapers dimly shine; 'Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine.

"Far Away!" it falls between What is to-day and what has been; But ah! what is meet, what is not, In every hour and every spot, Where lips breathe on "I have forgot."

"Far Away!" there is no far! Nor days nor distance e'er can bar My spirit from your spirits — nay, Farewell may waft a face away, But still with you my heart will stay.

"Far Away!" I sing its song, But while the music moves along, From out each word an echo clear Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, "Far Away" means "Far More Near".



Listen



We borrow, In our sorrow, From the sun of some to-morrow Half the light that gilds to-day; And the splendor Flashes tender O'er hope's footsteps to defend her From the fears that haunt the way.

We never Here can sever Any now from the forever Interclasping near and far! For each minute Holds within it All the hours of the infinite, As one sky holds every star.



Wrecked



The winds are singing a death-knell Out on the main to-night; The sky droops low — and many a bark That sailed from harbors bright, Like many an one before, Shall enter port no more: And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore Before to-morrow's light.

The clouds are hanging a death-pall Over the sea to-night; The stars are veiled — and the hearts that sailed Away from harbors bright, Shall sob their last for their quiet home — And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam Before the morning's light.

The waves are weaving a death-shroud Out on the main to-night; Alas! the last prayer whispered there By lips with terror white! Over the ridge of gloom, Not a star will loom! God help the souls that will meet their doom Before the dawn of light!

* * * * *

The breeze is singing a joy song Over the sea to-day; The storm is dead and the waves are red With the flush of the morning's ray; And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep The eyes that watch for the ships shall weep For the hearts they bore away.



Dreaming



The moan of a wintry soul Melted into a summer song, And the words, like the wavelet's roll, Moved murmuringly along.

And the song flowed far and away, Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill — Each wave of it lit by a ray — But the sound was so soft and so still,

And the tone was so gentle and low, None heard the song till it had passed; Till the echo that followed its flow Came dreamingly back from the past.

'Twas too late! — a song never returns That passes our pathway unheard; As dust lying dreaming in urns Is the song lying dead in a word.

For the birds of the skies have a nest, And the winds have a home where they sleep, And songs, like our souls, need a rest, Where they murmur the while we may weep.

* * * * *

But songs — like the birds o'er the foam, Where the storm wind is beating their breast, Fly shoreward — and oft find a home In the shelter of words where they rest.



A Thought



Hearts that are great beat never loud, They muffle their music when they come; They hurry away from the thronging crowd With bended brows and lips half dumb,

And the world looks on and mutters — "Proud." But when great hearts have passed away Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud, And in love they kneel around their clay.

Hearts that are great are always lone, They never will manifest their best; Their greatest greatness is unknown — Earth knows a little — God, the rest.



"Yesterdays"



Gone! and they return no more, But they leave a light in the heart; The murmur of waves that kiss a shore Will never, I know, depart.

Gone! yet with us still they stay, And their memories throb through life; The music that hushes or stirs to-day, Is toned by their calm or strife.

Gone! and yet they never go! We kneel at the shrine of time: 'Tis a mystery no man may know, Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.



"To-Days"



Brief while they last, Long when they are gone; They catch from the past A light to still live on.

Brief! yet I ween A day may be an age, The poet's pen may screen Heart-stories on one page.

Brief! but in them, From eve back to morn, Some find the gem, Many find the thorn.

Brief! minutes pass Soft as flakes of snow, Shadows o'er the grass Could not swifter go.

Brief! but along All the after-years To-day will be a song Of smiles or of tears.



"To-Morrows"



God knows all things — but we In darkness walk our ways; We wonder what will be, We ask the nights and days.

Their lips are sealed; at times The bards, like prophets, see, And rays rush o'er their rhymes From suns of "days to be".

They see To-morrow's heart, They read To-morrow's face, They grasp — is it by art — The far To-morrow's trace?

They see what is unseen, And hear what is unheard, And To-morrow's shade or sheen Rests on the poet's word.

As seers see a star Beyond the brow of night, So poets scan the far Prophetic when they write.

They read a human face, As readers read their page, The while their thought will trace A life from youth to age.

They have a mournful gift, Their verses oft are tears; And sleepless eyes they lift To look adown the years.

To-morrows are to-days! Is it not more than art? When all life's winding ways Meet in the poet's heart?

The present meets the past, The future, too, is there; The first enclasps the last And never folds fore'er.

It is not all a dream; A poet's thought is truth; The things that are — and seem From age far back to youth —

He holds the tangled threads, His hands unravel them; He knows the hearts and heads For thorns, or diadem.

Ask him, and he will see What your To-morrows are; He'll sing "What is to be" Beneath each sun and star.

To-morrows! Dread unknown! What fates may they not bring? What is the chord? the tone? The key in which they sing?

I see a thousand throngs, To-morrows for them wait; I hear a thousand songs Intoning each one's fate.

And yours? What will it be? Hush! song, and let me pray! God sees it all — I see A long, lone, winding way;

And more! no matter what! Crosses and crowns you wear: My song may be forgot, But Thou shalt not, in prayer.



Inevitable



What has been will be, 'Tis the under law of life; 'Tis the song of sky and sea, To the key of calm and strife.

For guard we as we may, What is to be will be, The dark must fold each day — The shore must gird each sea.

All things are ruled by law; 'Tis only in man's will You meet a feeble flaw; But fate is weaving still

The web and woof of life, With hands that have no hearts, Thro' calmness and thro' strife, Despite all human arts.

For fate is master here, He laughs at human wiles; He sceptres every tear, And fetters any smiles.

What is to be will be, We cannot help ourselves; The waves ask not the sea Where lies the shore that shelves.

The law is coldest steel, We live beneath its sway, It cares not what we feel, And so pass night and day.

And sometimes we may think This cannot — will not — be: Some waves must rise — some sink, Out on the midnight sea.

And we are weak as waves That sink upon the shore; We go down into graves — Fate chants the nevermore;

Cometh a voice! Kneel down! 'Tis God's — there is no fate — He giveth the Cross and Crown, He opens the jeweled gate.

He watcheth with such eyes As only mothers own — "Sweet Father in the skies! Ye call us to a throne."

There is no fate — God's love Is law beneath each law, And law all laws above Fore'er, without a flaw.



Sorrow and the Flowers

A Memorial Wreath to C. F.



Sorrow:

A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom, And only bloom to fade as fast away, We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb, And with your dying beauty crown her clay.

Ye are the tender types of life's decay; Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath, From out the hand of June, or heart of May, Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death.

My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, All o'er the weary world for weary years; I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears.

And yet, the while I garland graves as now, I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe; Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow, I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below.

She was a flower — fresh, fair and pure, and frail; A lily in life's morning. God is sweet; He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail; Her lily drooped: 'tis blooming at His feet.

Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower? I want a garland for another grave; And who will bring them from the dell and bower, To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven gave?

As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will; Ye come with fairest flowers: give them to me, To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory still, To prove at graves love's immortality.

White Rose:

Her grave is not a grave; it is a shrine, Where innocence reposes, Bright over which God's stars must love to shine, And where, when Winter closes, Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, Just like this hand of mine, The whitest of white roses.

Laurel:

I found it on a mountain slope, The sunlight on its face; It caught from clouds a smile of hope That brightened all the place.

They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, And crown the chieftain's head; But the laurel's leaves love best to grace The garland of the dead.

Wild Flower:

I would not live in a garden, But far from the haunts of men; Nature herself was my warden, I lived in a lone little glen. A wild flower out of the wildwood, Too wild for even a name; As strange and as simple as childhood, And wayward, yet sweet all the same.

Willow Branch:

To sorrow's own sweet crown, With simple grace, The weeping-willow bends her branches down Just like a mother's arm, To shield from harm, The dead within their resting place.

Lily:

The angel flower of all the flowers: Its sister flowers, In all the bowers Worship the lily, for it brings, Wherever it blooms, On shrines or tombs, A dream surpassing earthly sense Of heaven's own stainless innocence.

Violet Leaves:

It is too late for violets, I only bring their leaves, I looked in vain for mignonettes To grace the crown grief weaves; For queenly May, upon her way, Robs half the bowers Of all their flowers, And leaves but leaves to June. Ah! beauty fades so soon; And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, For flowerets are fading fast, one by one. Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.

Forget-Me-Not:

"Forget-me-not!" The sad words strangely quiver On lips, like shadows falling on a river, Flowing away, By night, by day, Flowing away forever. The mountain whence the river springs Murmurs to it, "forget me not;" The little stream runs on and sings On to the sea, and every spot It passes by Breathes forth a sigh, "Forget me not!" "forget me not!"

A Garland:

I bring this for her mother; ah, who knows The lonely deeps within a mother's heart? Beneath the wildest wave of woe that flows Above, around her, when her children part, There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone; It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms, A grave is dug within the mother's heart: She watches it alone; no words of art Can tell the story of her vigils there. This garland fading even while 'tis fair, It is a mother's memory of a grave, When God hath taken her whom heaven gave.

Sorrow:

Farewell! I go to crown the dead; Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, For they whose hearts so faithful love The lonely grave — the very clay; They crown themselves with richer gems Than flash in royal diadems.



Hope



Thine eyes are dim: A mist hath gathered there; Around their rim Float many clouds of care, And there is sorrow every — everywhere.

But there is God, Every — everywhere; Beneath His rod Kneel thou adown in prayer.

For grief is God's own kiss Upon a soul. Look up! the sun of bliss Will shine where storm-clouds roll.

Yes, weeper, weep! 'Twill not be evermore; I know the darkest deep Hath e'en the brightest shore.

So tired! so tired! A cry of half despair; Look! at your side — And see Who standeth there!

Your Father! Hush! A heart beats in His breast; Now rise and rush Into His arms — and rest.



Farewells



They are so sad to say: no poem tells The agony of hearts that dwells In lone and last farewells.

They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill To summer's roses, and to summer's rill; And yet we breathe them still.

For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away; Hearts! we said to them, "Stay with us! stay!" And they said, sighing as they said it, "Nay."

The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells The starless story of the night that dwells In lone and last farewells.

Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear; Their hearts may break, breathing, "Farewell fore'er."



Song of the River



A river went singing adown to the sea, A-singing — low — singing — And the dim rippling river said softly to me, "I'm bringing, a-bringing — While floating along — A beautiful song To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary, To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary. A song sweet and calm As the peacefulest psalm; And the shore that was sad Will be grateful and glad, And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream; And the tempests shall cease And there shall be peace." From the fairest of fountains, And farthest of mountains, From the stillness of snow Came the stream in its flow.

Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair — Where the sunlight flashed — where the shadows lay Like stories that cloud a face of care, The river ran on — and on — and on — Day and night, and night and day; Going and going, and never gone, Longing to flow to the "far away", Staying and staying, and never still; Going and staying, as if one will Said, "Beautiful river, go to the sea;" And another will whispered, "Stay with me:" And the river made answer, soft and low — "I go and stay" — "I stay and go."

But what is the song, I said, at last? To the passing river that never passed; And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me, I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea, — A song whose grand accents no earth-din may sever, And the river flows on in the same mystic key That blends in one chord the 'forever and never'."

_ December 15, 1878.



Dreamland



Over the silent sea of sleep, Far away! far away! Over a strange and starlit deep Where the beautiful shadows sway; Dim in the dark, Glideth a bark, Where never the waves of a tempest roll — Bearing the very "soul of a soul", Alone, all alone — Far away — far away To shores all unknown In the wakings of the day; To the lovely land of dreams, Where what is meets with what seems Brightly dim, dimly bright; Where the suns meet stars at night, Where the darkness meets the light Heart to heart, face to face, In an infinite embrace.

* * * * *

Mornings break, And we wake, And we wonder where we went In the bark Thro' the dark, But our wonder is misspent; For no day can cast a light On the dreamings of the night.



Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"]



Sometimes, from the far-away, Wing a little thought to me; In the night or in the day, It will give a rest to me.

I have praise of many here, And the world gives me renown; Let it go — give me one tear, 'Twill be a jewel in my crown.

What care I for earthly fame? How I shrink from all its glare! I would rather that my name Would be shrined in some one's prayer.

Many hearts are all too much, Or too little in their praise; I would rather feel the touch Of one prayer that thrills all days.



A Song

Written in an Album.



Pure faced page! waiting so long To welcome my muse and me; Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song That floats from my spirit to thee.

And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings, And sweet as the Summer's birds, And pure and bright and white be the wings That will waft thee into words.

Yea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea To rest on the far-off beach, And breathe forth the message I trust to thee, Tear toned on the shores of speech.

But ere you go, dip your snowy wing In a wave of my spirit's deep — In a wave that is purest — then haste and bring A song to the hearts that weep.

Oh! bring it, and sing it — its notes are tears; Its octaves, the octaves of grief; Who knows but its tones in the far-off years May bring to the lone heart relief?

Yea! bring it, and sing it — a worded moan That sweeps thro' the minors of woe, With mystical meanings in every tone, And sounds like the sea's lone flow.

* * * * *

And the thoughts take the wings of words, and float Out of my spirit to thee; But the song dies away into only one note, And sounds but in only one key.

And the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest wave That sobs on the loneliest shore; And the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave; And the chord! — 'tis a sad "nevermore".

And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach, And, sighing, sinks back to the sea, So my song — it just touches the rude shores of speech, And its music melts back into me.

Yea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep, Let others hear only thy moan — But I — I forever shall hear the grand sweep Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone.

Sweep on, mighty song! — sound down in my heart As a storm sounding under a sea; Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, Nor a note of it float out from me.



Parting



Farewell! that word has broken hearts And blinded eyes with tears; Farewell! one stays, and one departs; Between them roll the years.

No wonder why who say it think — Farewell! he may fare ill No wonder that their spirits sink And all their hopes grow chill.

Good-bye! that word makes faces pale And fills the soul with fears; Good-bye! two words that wing a wail Which flutters down the years.

No wonder they who say it feel Such pangs for those who go; Good-bye they wish the parted weal, But ah! they may meet woe.

Adieu! such is the word for us, 'Tis more than word — 'tis prayer; They do not part, who do part thus, For God is everywhere.



St. Stephen



First champion of the Crucified! Who, when the fight began Between the Church and worldly pride So nobly fought, so nobly died, The foremost in the van; While rallied to your valiant side The red-robed martyr-band; To-night with glad and high acclaim We venerate thy saintly name; Accept, Saint Stephen, to thy praise And glory, these our lowly lays.

The chosen twelve with chrismed hand And burning zeal within, Led forth their small yet fearless band On Pentecost, and took their stand Against the world and sin — While rang aloud the battle-cry: "The hated Christians all must die! As died the Nazarene before, The God they believe in and adore." Yet Stephen's heart quailed not with fear At persecution's cry; But loving, as he did, the cause Of Jesus and His faith and laws, Prepared himself to die.

He faced his foes with burning zeal, Such zeal as only saints can feel; He told them how the Lord had stood Within their midst, so great and good, How he had through Judea trod, How wonders marked his way — the God, How he had cured the blind, the lame, The deaf, the palsied, and the maimed, And how, with awful, wondrous might, He raised the dead to life and light; And how his people knew Him not — Had eyes and still had seen Him not, Had ears and still had heard Him not, Had hearts and comprehended not. Then said he, pointing to the right, Where darkly rose Golgotha's height: "There have ye slain the Holy One, Your Saviour and God's only Son."

They gnashed their teeth in raging ire, Those dark and cruel men; They vowed a vengeance deep and dire Against Saint Stephen then. Yet he was calm; a radiant light Around his forehead gleamed; He raised his eyes, a wondrous sight He saw, so grand it was and bright, His soul was filled with such delight That he an angel seemed. Then spoke the Saint: "A vision grand Bursts on me from above: The doors of heaven open stand, And at the Father's own right hand I see the Lord I love."

"Away with him," the rabble cry, With swelling rage and hate, But Stephen still gazed on the sky, His heart was with his Lord on high, He heeded not his fate.

The gathering crowd in fury wild Rush on the 'raptured Saint, And seize their victim, mute and mild, Who, like his master, though reviled, Still uttered no complaint.

With angry shouts they rend the air; They drag him to the city gate; They bind his hands and feet and there, While whispered he for them a prayer, The martyr meets his fate.

First fearless witness to his belief In Jesus Crucified, The red-robed martyrs' noble chief, Thus for his Master died. And to the end of time his name Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim, And with a mother's pride shall tell How her great proto-martyr fell.



A Flower's Song



Star! Star, why dost thou shine Each night upon my brow? Why dost thou make me dream the dreams That I am dreaming now?

Star! Star, thy home is high — I am of humble birth; Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky, Mine, only on the earth.

Star! Star, why make me dream? My dreams are all untrue; And why is sorrow dark for me And heaven bright for you?

Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray, And take it off my face; Within my lowly home I stay, Thou, in thy lofty place.

Star! Star, and still I dream, Along thy light afar I seem to soar until I seem To be, like you, a star.



The Star's Song



Flower! Flower, why repine? God knows each creature's place; He hides within me when I shine, And your leaves hide His face.

And you are near as I to Him, And you reveal as much Of that eternal soundless hymn Man's words may never touch.

God sings to man through all my rays That wreathe the brow of night, And walks with me thro' all my ways — The everlasting light.

Flower! Flower, why repine? He chose on lowly earth, And not in heaven where I shine, His Bethlehem and birth.

Flower! Flower, I see Him pass Each hour of night and day, Down to an altar and a Mass Go thou! and fade away.

Fade away upon His shrine! Thy light is brighter far Than all the light wherewith I shine In heaven, as a star.



Death of the Flower



I love my mother, the wildwood, I sleep upon her breast; A day or two of childhood, And then I sink to rest.

I had once a lovely sister — She was cradled by my side; But one Summer day I missed her — She had gone to deck a bride.

And I had another sister, With cheeks all bright with bloom; And another morn I missed her — She had gone to wreathe a tomb.

And they told me they had withered, On the bride's brow and the grave; Half an hour, and all their fragrance Died away, which heaven gave.

Two sweet-faced girls came walking Thro' my lonely home one day, And I overheard them talking Of an altar on their way.

They were culling flowers around me, And I said a little prayer To go with them — and they found me — And upon an altar fair,

Where the Eucharist was lying On its mystical death-bed, I felt myself a-dying, While the Mass was being said.

But I lived a little longer, And I prayed there all the day, Till the evening Benediction, When my poor life passed away.



Singing-Bird



In the valley of my life Sings a "Singing-Bird", And its voice thro' calm and strife Is sweetly heard.

In the day and thro' the night Sound the notes, And its song thro' dark and bright Ever floats.

Other warblers cease to sing, And their voices rest, And they fold their weary wing In their quiet nest.

But my Singing-Bird still sings Without a cease; And each song it murmurs brings My spirit peace.

"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!" No one knows, When your holy songs are heard, What repose

Fills my life and soothes my heart; But I fear The day — thy songs, if we must part, I'll never hear.

But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!" Should this e'er be, The dreams of all thy songs I heard Shall sing for me.



Now



Sometimes a single hour Rings thro' a long life-time, As from a temple tower There often falls a chime From blessed bells, that seems To fold in Heaven's dreams Our spirits round a shrine; Hath such an hour been thine?

Sometimes — who knoweth why? One minute holds a power That shadows every hour, Dialed in life's sky. A cloud that is a speck When seen from far away May be a storm, and wreck The joys of every day.

Sometimes — it seems not much, 'Tis scarcely felt at all — Grace gives a gentle touch To hearts for once and all, Which in the spirit's strife May all unnoticed be. And yet it rules a life; Hath this e'er come to thee?

Sometimes one little word, Whispered sweet and fleet, That scarcely can be heard, Our ears will sudden meet. And all life's hours along That whisper may vibrate, And, like a wizard's song, Decide our ev'ry fate.

Sometimes a sudden look, That falleth from some face, Will steal into each nook Of life, and leave its trace; To haunt us to the last, And sway our ev'ry will Thro' all the days to be, For goodness or for ill; Hath this e'er come to thee?

Sometimes one minute folds The hearts of all the years, Just like the heart that holds The Infinite in tears; There be such thing as this — Who knoweth why, or how? A life of woe or bliss Hangs on some little Now.



M * * *



When I am dead, and all will soon forget My words, and face, and ways — I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet Adown thy after days.

I die first, and you will see my grave; But child! you must not cry; For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave O'er you from yonder sky.

You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears Tho' sleeping in a tomb: My rest would not be rest, if in your years There floated clouds of gloom.

For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine, And dearer it became, Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine Thy name — my child! thy name.

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair, And in your soul — and face — I saw a likeness to another there In every trace and grace.

You came to me in girlhood — and you brought An image back to me; No matter what — or whose — I often sought Another's soul in thee.

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became — Gentle though I be — Gentler than ever when I called thy name, Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your guide I watched your spirit's ways; We walked God's holy valleys side by side, And so went on the days.

And so went on the years — 'tis five and more; Your soul is fairer now; A light as of a sunset on a shore Is falling on my brow —

Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead Think this, my child, of me: I never said — I never could have said — Ungentle words to thee.

I treated you as I would treat a flower, I watched you with such care; And from my lips God heard in many an hour Your name in many a prayer.

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, On not a leaf a stain; Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; I did not watch in vain.

I guide you still — in my steps you tread still; Towards God these ways are set; 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead I'll watch and guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before, And you awhile should stay; But I will wait upon the golden shore To meet my child some day.

When I am dead; in some lone after time, If crosses come to thee, You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme — "He holds a crown for me."

I guide you here — I go before you there; But here or there — I know — Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear I'll watch where'er you go,

And wait until you come; when I am dead Think, sometimes, child, of this: You must not weep — follow where I led, I wait for you in bliss.



God in the Night



Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: He walks the world; He puts His holy hand On every sleeper — only puts His hand — Within it benedictions for each one — Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad. (Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?) He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow — But more than that, He leaves His very breath Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this, He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils That hide the visions of the world unseen. The brightest sanctities of highest souls Have blossomed into beauty in the dark. How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes That blight the souls of men are strangely born Beneath the shadows of the holy night.

Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet — Around Him rustle archangelic wings; He lingers by the temple where His Christ Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep; And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest, He lingers there to soothe their weariness. Where mothers weep above the dying child, He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears, And consecrates the cradle of her child, Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leaves E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts. Still as a shadow through the night He moves, With hands all full of blessings, and with heart All full of everlasting love; ah, me! How God does love this poor and sinful world!

The stars behold Him as He passes on, And arch His path of mercy with their rays; The stars are grateful — He gave them their light, And now they give Him back the light He gave. The shadows tremble in adoring awe; They feel His presence, and they know His face. The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray, How they would flower all His way with prayers! The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams — Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang. The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers Watch their Creator as He passes on, And mourn they have no hearts to love their God, And sigh they have no souls to be beloved. Man — only man — the image of his God — Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.



Poets



Poets are strange — not always understood By many is their gift, Which is for evil or for mighty good — To lower or to lift.

Upon their spirits there hath come a breath; Who reads their verse Will rise to higher life, or taste of death In blessing or in curse.

The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, Ordained from very birth To keep for hearts an everlasting feast — To bless or curse the earth.

They cannot help but sing; they know not why Their thoughts rush into song, And float above the world, beneath the sky, For right or for the wrong.

They are like angels — but some angels fell, While some did keep their place; Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, And God's or Satan's face

Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, In blessing or in blight, And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace Of sunlight or of night.

They move along life's uttermost extremes, Unlike all other men; And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, Like shadows in a glen.

They all are dreamers; in the day and night Ever across their souls The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright In mystic rhythm rolls.

They live within themselves — they may not tell What lieth deepest there; Within their breast a heaven or a hell, Joy or tormenting care.

They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, No matter what they seem; The stars and sunlight of their nights and days Move over them in dream.

They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath — To bless the world or blight; To bring to men a higher life or death; To give them light or night.

The words of some command the world's acclaim, And never pass away, While others' words receive no palm from fame, And live but for a day.

But, live or die, their words leave their impress Fore'er or for an hour, And mark men's souls — some more and some the less — With good's or evil's power.



A Legend



He walked alone beside the lonely sea, The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face, His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair! Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast, As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns. His face looked like His Mother's — only hers Had not those strange serenities and stirs That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow. He wore the seamless robe His Mother made — And as He gathered it about His breast, The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" — the white sands felt The touch of tender tears He wept the while. He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave — For He had walked across the desert sands All day long — and as He bathed His feet He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years! And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave All weary feet on all their thorny ways." "Three years! three years!" He murmured still again, "Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will — My Father's will — biddeth Me bide that time." A little fisher-boy came up the shore And saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy, Approached, but when he saw the weary face, Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired." He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow Caressingly and blessingly — and said: "I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm That had been sweeping on the farther shore, Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell At His feet and died; and then the boy said: "Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone; He took the bird and laid it in His hand, And breathed on it — when to his amaze The little fisher-boy beheld the bird Flutter a moment and then fly aloft — Its little life returned; and then he gazed With look intensest on the wondrous face (Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said: "Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God." He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: "I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him, With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock That little boy knelt down, and there adored, While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.



Thoughts



By sound of name, and touch of hand, Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, We know each other in this land, How little must that knowledge be?

How souls are all the time alone, No spirit can another reach; They hide away in realms unknown, Like waves that never touch a beach.

We never know each other here, No soul can here another see — To know, we need a light as clear As that which fills eternity.

For here we walk by human light, But there the light of God is ours, Each day, on earth, is but a night; Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.

I call you thus — you call me thus — Our mortal is the very bar That parts forever each of us, As skies, on high, part star from star.

A name is nothing but a name For that which, else, would nameless be; Until our souls, in rapture, claim Full knowledge in eternity.



Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"]



The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, And joy aboundeth everywhere, The glorious stars crown every night, And thro' the dark of ev'ry care Above us shineth heaven's light.

If from the cradle to the grave We reckon all our days and hours We sure will find they give and gave Much less of thorns and more of flowers; And tho' some tears must ever lave

The path we tread, upon them all The light of smiles forever lies, As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall, The sun shines sweeter in the skies. Life holdeth more of sweet than gall

For ev'ry one: no matter who — Or what their lot — or high or low; All hearts have clouds — but heaven's blue Wraps robes of bright around each woe; And this is truest of the true:

That joy is stronger here than grief, Fills more of life, far more of years, And makes the reign of sorrow brief; Gives more of smiles for less of tears. Joy is life's tree — grief but its leaf.



C.S.A.



Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The Martyr-band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us They stood in front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er o'er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed — we weep, We live — they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us: The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in Gray Shall forever live over again for us.



The Seen and The Unseen



Nature is but the outward vestibule Which God has placed before an unseen shrine, The Visible is but a fair, bright vale That winds around the great Invisible; The Finite — it is nothing but a smile That flashes from the face of Infinite; A smile with shadows on it — and 'tis sad Men bask beneath the smile, but oft forget The loving Face that very smile conceals. The Changeable is but the broidered robe Enwrapped about the great Unchangeable; The Audible is but an echo, faint, Low whispered from the far Inaudible; This earth is but an humble acolyte A-kneeling on the lowest altar-step Of this creation's temple, at the Mass Of Supernature, just to ring the bell At Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the world Prepares its heart for consecration's hour. Nature is but the ever-rustling veil Which God is wearing, like the Carmelite Who hides her face behind her virgin veil To keep it all unseen from mortal eyes, Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers, And ceaseless sacrifices night and day, Shields souls from sin — and many hearts from harm.

God hides in nature as a thought doth hide In humbly-sounding words; and as the thought Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart That giveth life and keepeth life alive, So God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul; For nature is His word so strangely writ In heav'n, in all the letters of the stars, Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds, And on the seas in syllables of waves, And in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers, And on the grasses and the stately trees, And on the rivers and the mournful rocks The word is clearly written; blest are they Who read the word aright — and understand.

For God is everywhere — and He doth find In every atom which His hand hath made A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal His name, love, power, to those who kneel In holy faith upon this bright below And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, To catch the vision of the great beyond.

Yea! nature is His shadow, and how bright Must that face be which such a shadow casts? We walk within it, for "we live and move And have our being" in His ev'rywhere. Why is God shy? Why doth He hide Himself? The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore Entemples Him; the fragrance of the rose Folds Him around as blessed incense folds The altars of His Christ: yet some will walk Along the temple's wondrous vestibule And look on and admire — yet enter not To find within the Presence, and the Light Which sheds its rays on all that is without. And nature is His voice; who list may hear His name low-murmured every — everywhere. In songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers, In swaying of the trees, and on the seas The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships That come and go, His holy, holy name. The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same; And some have ears and yet they will not hear The soundless voice re-echoed everywhere; And some have hearts that never are enthrilled By all the grand Hosannahs nature sings. List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pause Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, That hearts with power to love may echo back Their Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn.



Passing Away



Life's Vesper-bells are ringing In the temple of my heart, And yon sunset, sure, is singing "Nunc dimittis — Now depart!" Ah! the eve is golden-clouded, But to-morrow's sun shall shine On this weary body shrouded; But my soul doth not repine.

"Let me see the sun descending, I will see his light no more, For my life, this eve, is ending; And to-morrow on the shore That is fair, and white, and golden, I will meet my God; and ye Will forget not all the olden, Happy hours ye spent with me.

"I am glad that I am going; What a strange and sweet delight Is thro' all my being flowing When I know that, sure, to-night I will pass from earth and meet Him Whom I loved thro' all the years, Who will crown me when I greet Him, And will kiss away my tears.

"My last sun! haste! hurry westward! In the dark of this to-night My poor soul that hastens rest-ward 'With the Lamb' will find the light; Death is coming — and I hear him, Soft and stealthy cometh he; But I do not believe I fear him, God is now so close to me."

* * * * *

Fell the daylight's fading glimmer On a face so wan and white; Brighter was his soul, while dimmer Grew the shadows of the night; And he died — and God was near him; I knelt by him to forgive; And I sometimes seem to hear him Whisper — "Live as I did live."



The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children)



The shades of night were brooding O'er the sea, the earth, the sky; The passing winds were wailing In a low, unearthly sigh; The darkness gathered deeper, For no starry light was shed, And silence reigned unbroken, As the silence of the dead.

The wintry clouds were hanging From the starless sky so low, While 'neath them earth lay folded In a winding shroud of snow. 'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary, And the blast that swept along The mountains hoarsely murmured A fierce, discordant song.

And mortal men were resting From the turmoil of the day, And broken hearts were dreaming Of the friends long passed away; And saintly men were keeping Their vigils through the night, While angel spirits hovered near Around their lonely light.

And wicked men were sinning In the midnight banquet halls, Forgetful of that sentence traced On proud Belshazzar's walls. On that night, so dark and dismal, Unillumed by faintest ray, Might be seen the lonely pilgrim Wending on his darksome way.

Slow his steps, for he was weary, And betimes he paused to rest; Then he rose, and, pressing onward, Murmured lowly: "I must haste." In his hand he held a chaplet, And his lips were moved in prayer, For the darkness and the silence Seemed to whisper God was there.

On the lonely pilgrim journeyed, Nought disturbed him on his way, And his prayers he softly murmured As the midnight stole away. Hark! amid the stillness rises On his ears a distant strain Softly sounding — now it ceases — Sweetly now it comes again.

In his path he paused to wonder While he listened to the sound: On it came, so sweet, so pensive, 'Mid the blast that howled around; And the restless winds seemed soothed By that music, gentle, mild, And they slept, as when a mother Rocks to rest her cradled child.

Strange and sweet the calm that followed, Stealing through the midnight air; Strange and sweet the sounds that floated Like an angel breathing there. From the sky the clouds were drifting Swiftly one by one away, And the sinless stars were shedding Here and there a silver ray.

"Why this change?" the pilgrim whispered — "Whence that music? whence its power? Earthly sounds are not so lovely! Angels love the midnight hour!" Bending o'er his staff, he wondered, Loath to leave that sacred place: "I must hasten," said he, sadly — On he pressed with quickened pace.

Just before him rose a mountain, Dark its outline, steep its side — Down its slopes that midnight music Seemed so soothingly to glide. "I will find it," said the pilgrim, "Though this mountain I must scale" — Scarcely said, when on his vision Shone a distant light, and pale.

Glad he was; and now he hastened — Brighter, brighter grew the ray — Stronger, stronger swelled the music As he struggled on his way. Soon he gained the mountain summit, Lo! a church bursts on his view: From the church that light was flowing, And that gentle music, too.

Near he came — its door stood open — Still he stood in awe and fear; "Shall I enter spot so holy? Am I unforbidden here? I will enter — something bids me — Saintly men are praying here; Vigils sacred they are keeping, 'Tis their Matin song I hear."

Softly, noiselessly, he glided Through the portal; on his sight Shone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling; Down he knelt — 'twas Christmas night — Down, in deepest adoration, Knelt the lonely pilgrim there; Joy unearthly, rapture holy, Blended with his whispered prayer.

Wrapped his senses were in wonder, On his soul an awe profound, As the vision burst upon him, 'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound. "Is it real? is it earthly? Is it all a fleeting dream? Hark! those choral voices ringing, Lo! those forms like angels seem."

On his view there rose an altar, Glittering 'mid a thousand beams, Flowing from the burning tapers In bright, sparkling, silver streams. From unnumbered crystal vases, Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers, Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance 'Mid the lights in sweetest showers.

Rich and gorgeous was the altar, Decked it was in purest white. Mortal hands had not arrayed it Thus, upon that Christmas night. Amid its lights and lovely flowers, The little tabernacle stood; Around it all was rich and golden, It alone was poor and rude.

Hark! Venite Adoremus! Round the golden altar sounds — See that band of angels kneeling Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns! And the pilgrim looked and listened, And he saw the angels there, And their snow-white wings were folded, As they bent in silent prayer.

Twelve they were; bright rays of glory Round their brows effulgent shone; But a wreath of nobler beauty Seemed to grace and circle one; And he, beauteous, rose and opened Wide the tabernacle door: Hark! Venite Adoremus Rises — bending, they adore.

Lo! a sound of censers swinging! Clouds of incense weave around The altar rich a silver mantle, As the angels' hymns resound. List! Venite Adoremus Swells aloud in stronger strain, And the angels swing the censers, And they prostrate bend again.

Rising now, with voice of rapture, Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone, "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" Round the sacramental throne. Oh! 'twas sweet, 'twas sweet and charming As the notes triumphant flowed! Oh! 'twas sweet, while wreathes of incense Curled, and countless tapers glowed.

Oh! 'twas grand! that hymn of glory Earthly sounds cannot compare; Oh! 'twas grand! it breath'd of heaven, As the angels sung it there. Ravished by the strains ecstatic, Raptured by the vision grand, Gazed the pilgrim on the altar, Gazed upon the angel band.

All was hushed! the floating echoes Of the hymn had died away; Vanished were the clouds of incense, And the censers ceased to sway. Lo! their wings are gently waving, And the angels softly rise, Bending towards the tabernacle, Worship beaming from their eyes.

One last, lowly genuflection! From their brows love burning shone — Ah! they're going, they've departed, All but one, the brightest one. "Why remains he?" thought the pilgrim, Ah! he rises beauteously — "Listen!" and the angel murmured Sweetly: "Pilgrim, hail to thee!"

"Come unto the golden altar, I'm an angel — banish fear — Come, unite in adoration With me, for our God is here. Come thy Jesus here reposes, Come! He'll bless thy mortal sight — Come! adore the Infant Saviour With me — for 'tis Christmas night."

Now approached the pilgrim, trembling, Now beside the angel bent, And the deepest, blissful gladness, With his fervent worship blent. "Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly, "Thou hast seen bright angels here, And hast heard our sacred anthems, Filled with rapture, filled with fear.

"We are twelve — 'twas we who chanted First the Saviour's lowly birth, We who brought the joyful tidings Of His coming, to the earth; We who sung unto the shepherds, Watching on the mountain height, That the Word was made Incarnate For them on that blessed night.

"And since then we love to linger On that festal night on earth; And we leave our thrones of glory Here to keep the Saviour's birth. Happy mortals! happy mortals! To-night the angels would be men; And they leave their thrones in heaven, For the Crib of Bethlehem."

And the angel led the pilgrim To the tabernacle door; Lo! an Infant there was sleeping, And the angel said: "Adore! He is sleeping, yet he watches, See that beam of love divine; Pilgrim! pay your worship holy To your Infant God and mine."

And the spirit slowly, slowly, Closed the tabernacle door, While the pilgrim lowly, lowly, Bent in rapture to adore. "Pilgrim," spoke the angel sweetly, "I must bid thee my adieu; Love! oh! love the Infant Jesus! —" And he vanished from his view.

* * * * *

All was silent — silent — silent — Faded was the vision bright — But the pilgrim long remembered In his heart that Christmas night.



A Reverie ["Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange!"]



Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange! How they yearn to ramble and love to range Down through the vales of the years long gone, Up through the future that fast rolls on.

To-days are dull — so they wend their ways Back to their beautiful yesterdays; The present is blank — so they wing their flight To future to-morrows where all seems bright.

Build them a bright and beautiful home, They'll soon grow weary and want to roam; Find them a spot without sorrow or pain, They may stay a day, but they're off again.

Those hearts of ours — how wild! how wild! They're as hard to tame as an Indian child; They're as restless as waves on the sounding sea, Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free.

Those hearts of ours — how lone! how lone! Ever, forever, they mourn and moan; Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer; The revelry o'er, they're all the more drear.

Those hearts of ours — how warm! how warm! Like the sun's bright rays, like the Summer's charm; How they beam and burn! how they gleam and glow Their flash and flame hide but ashes below.

Those hearts of ours — how cold! how cold! Like December's snow on the waste or wold; And though our Decembers melt soon into May, Hearts know Decembers that pass not away.

Those hearts of ours — how deep! how deep! You may sound the sea where the corals sleep, Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled — Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold.

Where the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been known The wrecks of the sea lie low and lone; Thus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow, There are wrecks far down — there are graves below.

Those hearts of ours — but, after all, How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small; Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill, They're as easy to empty — as easy to fill.

One hour of storm and how the streams pour! One hour of sun and the streams are no more; One little grief — how the tears gush and glide! One smile — flow they ever so fast, they are dried.

Those hearts of ours — how wise! how wise! They can lift their thoughts till they touch the skies; They can sink their shafts, like a miner bold, Where wisdom's mines hide their pearls and gold.

Aloft they soar with undazzled gaze, Where the halls of the Day-King burn and blaze; Or they fly with a wing that will never fail, O'er the sky's dark sea where the star-ships sail.

Those hearts of ours — what fools! what fools! How they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules! How they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieve For what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve.

Those hearts of ours — how strong! how strong! Let a thousand sorrows around them throng, They can bear them all, and a thousand more, And they're stronger then than they were before.

Those hearts of ours — how weak! how weak! But a single word of unkindness speak, Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang, That one slight word leaves a life-long pang.

Those hearts of ours — but I've said enough, As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough; I'll rest me now, but I'll come again Some other day, to resume my strain.



—— Their Story Runneth Thus



Two little children played among the flowers, Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; The children's ages were the very same E'en to an hour — and Ethel was her name, A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes That seemed to listen just as if they held The gift of hearing with the power of sight. Six summers slept upon her low white brow, And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks. Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke Her words were music; and her laughter rang So like an altar-bell that, had you heard Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think Of kneeling down and worshiping the pure.

They played among the roses — it was May — And "hide and seek", and "seek and hide", all eve They played together till the sun went down. Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day: And tired at last she plucked a crimson rose And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin; And he went thro' the garden till he found The whitest rose of all the roses there, And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair. "I give you red — and you — you give me white: What is the meaning?" said she, while a smile, As radiant as the light of angels' wings, Swept bright across her face; the while her eyes Seemed infinite purities half asleep In sweetest pearls; and he did make reply: "Sweet Ethel! white dies first; you know, the snow, (And it is not as white as thy pure face) Melts soon away; but roses red as mine Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away."

She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, And hand in hand they walked the winding ways Of that fair garden till they reached her home. A good-bye and a kiss — and he was gone.

She leaned her head upon her mother's breast, And ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called: "Does white die first? my mother! and does red Live longer?" And her mother wondered much At such strange speech. She fell asleep With murmurs on her lips of red and white.

Those children loved as only children can — With nothing in their love save their whole selves. When in their cradles they had been betroth'd; They knew it in a manner vague and dim — Unconscious yet of what betrothal meant.

The boy — she called him Merlin — a love name — (And he — he called her always Ullainee, No matter why); the boy was full of moods. Upon his soul and face the dark and bright Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass Rippling with his bright prattle; and then, hours Would come and go, and never hear a word Fall from his lips, and never see a smile Upon his face. He was so like a cloud With ever-changeful hues, as she was like A golden sunbeam shining on its face.

* * * * *

Ten years passed on. They parted and they met Not often in each year; yet as they grew In years, a consciousness unto them came Of human love. But it was sweet and pure. There was no passion in it. Reverence, Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence.

One night in mid of May their faces met As pure as all the stars that gazed on them. They met to part from themselves and the world; Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed; Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears Fell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each: They were to meet no more. Their hands were clasped To tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars Looked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt, Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. And in the heart of that last parting hour Eternity was beating. And he said: "We part to go to Calvary and to God — This is our garden of Gethsemane; And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: Not my will, Father! but Thine own be done." Raptures meet agonies in such heart-hours; Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms Around the cold, white neck of grief — and thus The while they parted — sorrow swept their hearts Like a great, dark stormy sea — but sudden A joy, like sunshine — did it come from God? —

Flung over every wave that swept o'er them A more than golden glory. Merlin said: "Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine; The human satisfies nor you nor me, (No human love shall ever satisfy — Or ever did — the hearts that lean on it); You sigh for something higher as do I, So let our spirits be espoused in God, And let our wedlock be as soul to soul; And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring, And God will bless us both." She sweetly said: "Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts; Let God's own heart be our own holy home And let us live as only angels live; And let us love as our own angels love. 'Tis hard to part — but it is better so — God's will is ours, and — Merlin! let us go."

And then she sobbed as if her heart would break — Perhaps it did; an awful minute passed, Long as an age and briefer than a flash Of lightning in the skies. No word was said — Only a look which never was forgot. Between them fell the shadows of the night. Their faces went away into the dark, And never met again; and yet their souls Were twined together in the heart of Christ.

And Ethel went from earthland long ago; But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross. He would not move a nail that nails him there, He would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there. He hung himself upon the blessed cross With Ethel; she has gone to wear the crown That wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept Their bodies with their souls from earthly taint.

And years and years, and weary years, passed on Into the past. One Autumn afternoon, When flowers were in their agony of death, And winds sang "De Profundis" over them, And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk Where, in a resting place as calm as sweet, The dead were lying down; the Autumn sun Was half way down the west; the hour was three — The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died. He walked alone amid the virgin's graves Where virgins slept; a convent stood near by, And from the solitary cells of nuns Unto the cells of death the way was short. Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew, Entwining grave and grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name A cross was graven on the lowly stone. He passed each grave with reverential awe, As if he passed an altar, where the Host Had left a memory of its sacrifice. And o'er the buried virgins' virgin dust He walked as prayerfully as tho' he trod The holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine. He passed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into names Of sacrifice known only to their God; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names; The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they passed there, would know no more than he Or any stranger where their playmates slept; And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears. He wondered at the stories that were hid Forever down within those simple graves. In a lone corner of that resting-place Uprose a low white slab that marked a grave Apart from all the others; long, sad grass Drooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it With veil of purest green; around the slab The whitest of white roses 'twined their arms — Roses cold as the snows and pure as songs Of angels — and the pale leaflets and thorns Hid e'en the very name of her who slept Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when He reached its side a spell fell on his heart So suddenly — he knew not why — and tears Went up into his eyes and trickled down Upon the grass; he was so strangely moved As if he met a long-gone face he loved. I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leaves That hid the name; but as he did, the thorns Did pierce his hand, and lo! amazed, he read The very word — the very, very name He gave the girl in golden days before —

"ULLAINEE".

He sat beside that lonely grave for long, He took its grasses in his trembling hand, He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, He read the name again, and still again, He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought It all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyes And read the name again to be more sure; Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself: "What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave? I dreamed her soul had fled. Was she the white dove that I saw in dream Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?"

The convent bell Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him His question. And he rose and went his way Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked One hour before the sunset, and the birds Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. As silent as a star-gleam came a nun In answer to his summons at the gate; Her face was like the picture of a saint, Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke, And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone As only voices own which day and night Sing hymns to God.

She locked the massive gate. He followed her along a flower-fringed walk That, gently rising, led up to the home Of virgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomed Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes, (For they had fashioned them with holy care, Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross, And sacred hearts — and many saintly names, That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign), Were fairer far within the convent walls, And purer in their fragrance and their bloom Than all their sisters in the outer world.

He went into a wide and humble room — The floor was painted, and upon the walls, In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke: "I'll call the mother," and she bowed and went.

He waited in the wide and humble room, The only room in that unworldly place This world could enter; and the pictures looked Upon his face and down into his soul, And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood A crucifix, the figured Christ of which Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look More nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe When he beheld a something in its face Like his own face. But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot Of that strange crucifix he read the name —

"ULLAINEE".

A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul — When to the door he heard a footstep come, And then a voice — the Mother of the nuns Had entered — and in calmest tone began: "Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song Had not yet ended when you came; our rule Forbids our leaving choir; this my excuse." She bent her head — the rustle of her veil Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to him And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look What brought him there, and waited his reply. "I am a stranger, Sister, hither come," He said, "upon an errand still more strange; But thou wilt pardon me and bid me go If what I crave you cannot rightly grant; I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time, Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strong As life, has brought me to this holy place."

He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave Him no reply, save that her very look Encouraged him to speak, and he went on:

He told her Ethel's story from the first, He told her of the day amid the flowers, When they were only six sweet summers old; He told her of the night when all the flowers, A-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice — He told her all; then said: "I saw a stone In yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep, And writ on it, all hid by roses white, I saw a name I never ought forget."

She wore a startled look, but soon repressed The wonder that had come into her face. "Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said

"ULLAINEE",

She forward bent her face and pierced his own With look intensest; and he thought he heard The trembling of her veil, as if the brow It mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts But quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone, Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn. Return to-morrow; then, if so God wills, I'll see you."

He gave many thanks, passed out From that unworldly place into the world. Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps — Swift to the "White-Rose-Grave", his heart: he knelt Upon its grass and prayed that God might will The mystery's solution; then he took, Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose, The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam Of summer waves upon a summer sea.

Then thro' the night he went And reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts, Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave, And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears That shone like jewels on a diadem, And two great angels with such shining wings — All these and more were in most curious way Blended in one dream or many dreams. Then He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept Again and had another dream. His dream ran thus — (He told me all of it many years ago, But I forgot the most. I remember this): A dove, whiter than whiteness' very self, Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream, Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It Flew away across great, long distances, Thro' forests where the trees were all in dream, And over wastes where silences held reign, And down pure valleys, till it reached a shore By which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; The dove rested there awhile, rose again And flew across the sea into the sun; And then from near or far (he could not say) Came sound as faint as echo's own echo — A low sweet hymn it seemed — and now And then he heard, or else he thought he heard, As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words: "White dies first!" "White dies first."

The sun had passed his noon and westward sloped; He hurried to the cloister and was told The Mother waited him. He entered in, Into the wide and pictured room, and there The Mother sat and gave him welcome twice. "I prayed last night," she spoke, "to know God's will; I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints That they might pray for me, and I might know My conduct in the matter. Now, kind sir, What wouldst thou? Tell thy errand." He replied: "It was not idle curiosity That brought me hither or that prompts my lips To ask the story of the 'White-Rose-Grave', To seek the story of the sleeper there Whose name I knew so long and far away. Who was she, pray? Dost deem it right to tell?" There was a pause before the answer came, As if there was a comfort in her heart, There was a tremor in her voice when she Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone Of whisper more than word:

"She was a child Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave, And who has filled it long — and yet it seems To me but one short hour ago we laid Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. We often look for her in places where Her face was wont to be: among the flowers, In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet It seems to hover here and haunt us all. I cannot tell you all. It is enough To see one ray of light for us to judge The glory of the sun; it is enough To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue For us to know the beauty of the sky. It is enough to tell a little part Of her most holy life, that you may know The hidden grace and splendor of the whole."

"Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all! Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother."

She went on, Unheeding his abruptness: "One sweet day — A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month Of May, at early morn, ere yet the dew Had passed from off the flowers and grass — ere yet Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came, With summons quick, unto our convent gate A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew — Another dew was moist within her eyes — Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me And as I went she rushed into my arms — Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed Until I thought her very soul would rush From her frail body, in a sob, to God. I let her sob her sorrow all away. My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat In this same room — and gently spoke to her, And held her hand in mine — and soothed her With words of sympathy, until she seemed As tranquil as myself.

"And then I asked: 'What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?' 'Mother!' she said, 'wilt let me wear the veil? Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve Him in this cloistered place? I pray to be — Unworthy tho' I be — to be His spouse. Nay, Mother — say not nay — 'twill break a heart Already broken;' and she looked on me With those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more, More strongly and more sadly than her lips That I might grant her sudden, strange request. 'Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. 'I had,' She said, 'but heaven has her now; and thou Wilt be my mother — and the orphan girl Will make her life her thanks.' 'Thy father, child?' 'Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.' 'And hast nor sister nor brother?' 'No,' she said, 'God gave my mother only me; one year This very day He parted us.' 'Poor child,' I murmured. 'Nay, kind Sister,' she replied, 'I have much wealth — they left me ample means — I have true friends who love me and protect. I was a minor until yesterday; But yesterday all guardianship did cease, And I am mistress of myself and all My worldly means — and, Sister, they are thine If thou but take myself — nay — don't refuse.' 'Nay — nay — my child!' I said; 'the only wealth We wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace. Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, Or buy a single thread of Virgin's veil. Not all the coins in coffers of a king Could bribe an entrance here for any one. God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil, For any one He sends. Who sent you here, My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? Or, mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps, A sickly weariness of that bright world Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.' 'Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke. 'Who sent you, then?' 'A youthful Christ,' she said, 'Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure — Would have been His own gentle John; and would Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast, And stood on Friday eve beneath His cross To take His Mother from Him when He died. He sent me here — he said the word last night In my own garden; this the word he said — Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear! Your heart was born with veil of virgin on; I hear it rustle every time we meet, In all your words and smiles; and when you weep I hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil — And outward be what inwardly thou art, And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: My heart was born with priestly vestments on, And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood, And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep — And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host, A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt, Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel say — Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night To climb our Calvary and to meet in God; And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane — And He is here, who, in that other, bled; And they are here who came to comfort Him — His angels and our own; and His great prayer, Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then: Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil And I my vestments." He did send me here.'

"She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upon Her closing words and softened them to sighs. I listened, inward moved, but outward calm and cold To the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said: 'I see it is a love-tale after all, With much of folly and some of fact in it; It is a heart affair, and in such things There's little logic, and there's less of sense. You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head Outside the gates; nay, go, and find the head You lost last night — and then, I am quite sure, You'll not be anxious to confine your heart Within this cloistered place.' She seemed to wince Beneath my words one moment — then replied: 'If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, Dost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more? If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, Dost thou do well to chill them into ice? And were I disappointed in yon world, Should that debar me from a purer place? You say it is a love-tale — so it is; The vase was human — but the flower divine; And if I break the vase with my own hands, Will you forbid that I should humbly ask The heart of God to be my lily's vase? I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth Save his who yesternight did send me here To dip it in the very blood of Christ, And plant it here.' And then she sobbed outright A long, deep sob. I gently said to her: 'Nay, child, I spoke to test thee — do not weep. If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come And find e'en here a home. But God is slow In all His works and ways, and slower still When He would deck a bride to grace His court. Go, now, and in one year — if thou dost come Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee; Nay — urge me not — it is our holy rule — A year of trial! I must to choir, and thou Into the world to watch and wait and pray Until the Bridegroom comes.' She rose and went Without a word.

"And twelvemonth after came, True to the very day and hour, and said: 'Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil? Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again? I came once with my wealth and was refused: And now I come as poor as Holy Christ Who had no place to rest His weary head — My wealth is gone; I offered it to him Who sent me here; he sent me speedy word "Give all unto the poor in quiet way — And hide the giving — ere you give yourself To God!" 'Wilt take me now for my own sake? I bring my soul — 'tis little worth I ween, And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.'

"'My child,' I said, 'thrice welcome — enter here; A few short days of silence and of prayer, And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'

"Her novice days went on; much sickness fell Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks In awful agonies, and no one heard A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide Her sufferings from us all. When she was well She was the first to meet the hour of prayer — The last to leave it — and they named her well: The 'Angel of the Cloister'. Once I heard The Father of our souls say when she passed 'Beneath that veil of sacrificial black She wears the white robe of her innocence.' And we — we believed it. There are sisters here Of three-score years of service who would say: 'Within our memory never moved a veil That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.' And we — we felt it, and we loved her so, We treated her as angel and as child. I never heard her speak about the past, I never heard her mention e'en a name Of any in the world. She little spake; She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew Absent-minded, and would come and ask me To walk alone and say her Rosary Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine; And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed The very heart of song was breaking on her lips. The dower of her mind as of her heart, Was of the richest, and she mastered art By instinct more than study. Her weak hands Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful. There is a picture hanging in our choir She painted. I remember well the morn She came to me and told me she had dreamt A dream; then asked me would I let her paint Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day She kept her cell all busy with her work. At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth — A picture my poor words may not portray. But you must gaze on it with your own eyes, And drink its magic and its meanings in; I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.

"In every May for two whole days she kept Her cell. We humored her in that; but when The days had passed, and she came forth again, Her face was tender as a lily's leaf, With God's smile on it; and for days and days Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips Save when in prayer, and then her every look Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God Strange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did.

"I half forgot — on yonder mantlepiece You see that wondrous crucifix; one year She spent on it, and begged to put beneath That most mysterious word — 'Ullainee'.

"At last the cloister's angel disappeared; Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed — Her words were missed where every day we met In recreation's hour. And those who passed The angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe A prayer that death might pass the angel by And let her longer stay, for she lay ill — Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. Ah! many were the orisons that rose From all our hearts that God might spare her still; At Benediction and at holy Mass Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went To heaven for her; we did love her so — Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps Our love was far too human. Slow and slow She faded like a flower. And slow and slow Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim. Hope died on all our faces; but on her's Another and a different hope did shine, And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end. Never such silence o'er the cloister hung — We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke, Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound Might jar upon her ear. The sisters watched In turns beside her couch; to each she gave A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look. At times her mind did wander; no wild words Escaped her lips — she seemed to float away To far-gone days, and live again in scenes Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words About her mother; and sometimes she sang The fragments of sweet olden songs — and when She woke again, she timidly would ask If she had spoken in her sleep, and what She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear That sleep might open there some long-closed gate She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud, A golden cloud upon a summer's day, Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea, So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve, The fourteenth day of August, when the sun