•••• Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/songsofsionOOmacc \ ce-c^ SONGS OF SION BY MARY STANISLAUS MAC CARTHY, O.S.D. SION HILL, DUBLIN XauDa, Sion, Salvatorem DUBLIN : BROWNE AND NOLAN, LIMITED 24 & 25 NASSAU STREET 1898 Nifjtl ®batat: Bmprtmatur : Matthaeds Russell, S.J., Censor Deputatus. Gulielmus J. Walsh, Archiep. Dublin., Hibernia Prhnas. Sister Mary Stanislaus Mac Carthy died on the nth of August, 1897, ln forty-eighth year of her age, at St. Catherine's Dominican Convent, Sion Hill, Blackrock, Co. Dublin. In this happy home she had spent some thirty-eight years of her life, thirty of them as a Religious of the Order of Saint Dominick. She had inherited in no small measure the literary gifts of her father, the poet Denis Florence MacCarthy; and she employed them occasionally in celebrating various little events, grave or gay, that concerned her Sisters in religion, her pupils, or her friends. She set no value upon those verses ; and, instead of being revised by her, the collection from which the following pages are drawn had to be carefully concealed from her knowledge. One can hardly conjecture the degree of literary perfection “S.M. S.” might have attained, if she had chosen to apply to these recreations the earnest assiduity with which even genius cannot dispense. In the many stanzas which commemorate departed friends, it has not seemed necessary either to eliminate or to explain the various personal allusions which will have a tender meaning for many readers. Some will be disappointed at finding no samples of this graceful Muse in her merrier moods ; but it has seemed better to make this little reliquary holy enough to be brought into the convent chapel, of which it was the poet’s dearest pleasure to take care. To the poems of Sister Mary Stanislaus are here prefixed some graceful lines addressed to her by her father during her life, as well as the tribute paid to her after her death by a friend who has elsewhere described her most truly as one of the sweetest, holiest, most amiable, and most gifted of God’s human creatures — one of those whose presence, or whose memory, helps many to love God, and to believe in purity and sanctity and heaven. CONTENTS. Dedication To S. M. S. By her Father In Loving Memory of Sister Mary Stanislaus Inscription of the “ Memoriale B.V.M.” On first seeing a Statue of Our Blessed Lady, designed after Murillo’s picture Jesus, teach me to do Thy Will “ Out, and Out, and Out ! ” A Picture To St. Joseph Another Prayer to St. Joseph The Cry of the Heathen Children Miserere qui plasmasti me ! The Stone Christ A Model for our Faith A Message and an Answer The Golden Jubilee of St. Vincent’s Hospital, Dublin The Rosary . . The Consecration of the Most Rev. Edward M'Cabe, Archbishop of Dublin . . The Jubilee of our Holy Father Leo XIII. The Pillar of the Cloud Cardinal Newman’s Eightieth Birthday . . Domine, ut videam Pilgrimages . . The Homeless One PAGE i 3 5 7 9 ii 14 17 21 23 26 29 3i 34 37 40 52 54 56 63 65 67 69 7i i VI Three Roundels 1 PAGE 73 St. Augustine and St. Monica at Ostia . . 75 Hymn to St. Augustine .. 77 An Invocation to the Deity. From the French of Lamartine 79 A Happy Birthday 8i A Wedding Day . . .. 84 St. Christopher . . 86 A Child’s First Communion . . 88 An Appeal . . .. 89 Delay. From the German . . 90 To a Bride . . . . 92 Our Lady of Good Counsel . . 93 The Island of Saints and Scholars 95 Jesus . . 100 To the Sacred Heart . . .. 103 An Orange Leaf .. . . 104 SONNETS. St. John the Evangelist . . 107 A Sunny Day in December 109 To S. M. S. By her Brother Florence .. .. no To Florence . . in Napoleon’s Happiest Day .. 113 A Eucharistic Thought .. 114 Dilexit me ! .. 115 Easter . . 116 Another Monica .. 117 A Winter Thought .. 118 Uncertainty .. 119 Life’s Mysteries Sought in Nature . . 120 Make Sure of Prayer .. 121 vn PAGE The Dead. From the French of Victor Hugo . . . . . . 122 A Protest. In answer to the foregoing . . . . . . 123 Quid Retribuam ? From the Italian of Manzoni . . . . 124 The Same Thought in Another Form .. .. .. .. 125 Mater Dolorosa . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 To Kathleen Murphy, M.A., F.R.U. I. .. .. .. ..127 My Three . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 Mary’s Intercession . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. After the Funeral . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 In Memory of S. R. . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 To Sisters in Heaven . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 A Convent Elegy . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 Gone to Heaven . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Her First Anniversary . . . . . . . . . . 147 In Memoriam . . . . . . . . . , . . 149 In Memory of M. T. M. .. .. .. .. .. 150 A Rebuke for Mourning the Death of a Dear Child . . . . 152 A Perfect Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 On the Second Anniversary of a Death . . . . . . 156 Christmas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 On Newman’s “ Church of the Fathers ” . . . . . . 158 No longer “ Waiting for the May ” . . . . . . . . 159 i ' ^ W x ^ Ai-/> ^ £uyi/- 0~j *jirz^/{ <2*T+U y>Ur*C f DEDICATION* i. D EAR Mother Stanislaus ! in days gone by Thou didst to us inscribe and dedicate, With words most solemn and affectionate, The sweet “ Memorial ” of our Queen on high. And now, dear Sister-Mother, we must try (For thou canst hear us, it is not too late) To prove to thee how lasting and how great The love we bear thee still, no longer nigh. What token of our love shall we in turn Send after thee ? Thine own sweet, holy songs. Yes, sweet enough are they to soar and burn Like incense ’mid the rapt celestial throngs — Holy as relics in a silver urn. Accept in love what all to thee belongs. ii Daughter of “ Ethna,” thou thyself wast truth ; Daughter of “ Desmond,” thou true poet wast. We now are free (thy life alas ! the cost) To rescue these bright blossoms of thy youth 2 Which thou hadst doomed to perish. And in sooth, Much of their dainty charm must needs be lost, First from thy hands with skill too careless tossed And gathered now by hands unskilled, uncouth. Thus would we keep thee near. Thy children we, “ Children of Mary,” and of Sion Hill — We fain would raise a monument to thee And to the love which all our hearts doth fill. Thy Poems shall thy best Memorial be : In these sweet strains we see and hear thee still. [Denis Florence MacCarthy, who was “Desmond,” of The Nation in the days of Thomas Davis, chose the Irish word for “ truth ” (Aithne or Ethna) as a poetic name for the pious and amiable mother of Sister Mary Stanislaus. The first of these sonnets is a sort of reply to the dedication of the Memoriale Beatissimae Virginis Marine, which stands first in the following collection]. 3 TO S* M. S. On receiving from her a drawing of St. Stanislaus . Ah! Mary , would that words of mine Could reach thy pencil's simple grace, Then would that pictured Saint of thine Be rivalled by as sweet a face . The calm white brow, the cheek' s young bloom , The eyes, those wells of holiest love, The prayerful lips that breathe perfume, The heart that flutters like the dove; The words of innocence and truth, The form that, bending low and sweet, Took off the golden crown of youth. And laid it at her Saviour's feet ; The hands unstained by sinful soil, Like his thy art has limned so fair, That grasp the discipline of toil In daily work and nightly prayer; And who, oh! joy, shutout from strife, Girt round by God's protecting grace , Beneath the lilies of her life, May contemplate death's awful face . 4 A h ! 'tis in vain ! these soulless words Respond not to my heart's desire ; I move along the trembling chords , But fail to wake the slumbering lyre. Yet , let the faintest murmuring string Harmonious vibrate back to thee ; Yet let this pebble that I fling Expand so far loves rippling sea. A nd as our hearts commingling mix , Like note with note and wave with wave> Take thou before thy crucifix The blessing and the prayer I crave. Denis Florence MacCarthy. 5 IN LOVING MEMORY OF SISTER MARY STANISLAUS MAC CARTHY, O.S-D. [Born December 26, 1849; died August 11, 1897. J When one within thy convent-home would die, Thine ever was the soft, low , soothing voice That bade the mourners lift their hearts on high, And in their sister' s joyful change rejoice . Whene'er sad hearts had need to be consoled, Thy soul's rich music, held in check too long, By thy meek modesty too well controlled, Would at love's bidding overflow in song . A nd now fond grief would fain with simplest rhyme To thee in turn affection's tribute pay ; For Heaven has taken thee before thy time, As in our selfish love we dare to say . We thought that earth for many a year to come Would brighter, purer, for thy presence be; But He who loves thee best has called thee home — Sad, sad for us, but oh, how well for thee ! Thy gentle mother died long years ago ; Thy poet-sire came back, near thee to die . May these and all whom thou didst love belo7v, Sharing, increase thy happiness on high . 6 Thou hadst not much to change ere thou wert fit For heavenly converse in that spirit sphere : Thy nature, radiant , playful , keen of wit, Was as ethereal as an angel's here. Thy voice was sweet enough for cherub choir , Thy heart burned brightly as the seraphim ; That heart glowed , e'en on earth , with heavenly fire — That voice on earth sang many a heavenly hymn. Of solid judgment and of knowledge wide , Gay as a child , and just as free from guile : The old would shelter fondly at thy side , The young would bask , delighted , in thy smile . A ll hearts have loved thee , but God loves thee best : He could not leave thee longer to our care . Take her , O God , into Thy home of rest . Sweet Sister , pray for us and love us there . M. R. 7 INSCRIPTION OF THE “MEMORIALE B.V.M.” H OW often in the thickest of life’s fight, When the strong present seems to bind most fast, The spirit-haunted chambers of the past Are lighted up, almost in our despite, By faithful memory’s melancholy light ; Back throng the dear home-pictures, round them cast Youth’s glorious sunshine, that we dreamt would last ; Our mother’s gentle smile, the touch, at night, Of her dear lips upon our sleeping brow ; The sound of voices, long, long silent now ; We see, hear, feel, re-live each vanished scene ; What is, less real seems, than what has been ; The spell that woke the buried past lies there — A faded flower, a tiny lock of hair ! Children of Sion , in the coming years, Which lie before you — an unwritten scroll, What different fates Time’s finger will unroll ! In all else varied, each of these careers Will have its cloudy days, those days of tears Which, with stern kindness, still re-teach the soul That unlearned lesson — “ Earth is not thy goal.” Perhaps in some dark hour of anxious fears Your eyes upon this little book may fall ; Oh ! may it gentle memories recall 8 Of visits to your Mother’s altar paid, Of acts of virtue in her honour made. Ah ! listen then (’twill cheer the darkest lot) To Mary’s whispered words , — Forget me not ! CHAPEL OF ST. CATHERINE’S CONVENT, SION HILL. To f ace p. g. 9 ON FIRST SEEING A STATUE OF OUR BLESSED LADY* ( Designed from Murillo's “ Immaculate Conception .”) I N Munich’s famous city, So many miles away, A block of snow-white marble First saw the light of day ; And from that block was fashioned, With loving care and skill, An image of Our Lady For distant Sion Hill. Far has our Mother travelled, Through regions rich and fair, Yet on to Ireland hastened : Her chosen home was there ; Till on her own sweet birthday She rests, no more to roam, Within her destined dwelling, Her Irish Convent home. While stand the walls of Sion, Through good and evil cheer, Through darkness and through sunshine, Our Mother will be here ; IO Still with her rapt eyes gazing Up through the azure sky, From earthly toils upraising Our hearts, our hopes on high. What, though no glance of kindness Be cast on us in prayer, Her eyes meet those of Jesus, She reads our longings there ; And oh ! what gentle pleading Her loving eyes then fill, And oh ! how sweet His answer, “ My Mother, have thy will !” When, one by one, departing From earth’s low rugged ways, We leave our Mother’s image, Upon Herself to gaze ; With those who shall succeed us She’ll dwell in peace and love, Till Sion’s last child reaches The Sion that’s above. II JESUS, TEACH ME TO DO THY WILL* M Y God, I cannot “ Fiat ” say, Nor murmur with Thy Son, As ’neath the olive-trees He lay, “ Thy will } not mine he done ! ” My heart is of such earthly mould, So cowardly, so weak, I lack the trust, the courage bold Those brave strong words to speak. No, — let Thy saints, Thy dear ones use These words through good and ill : For me, — another prayer I’ll choose ; “ Teach me to do Thy will.” Teach me, oh ! teach in pity, Lord ! To no one but to Thee Is fully known how very hard This lesson is to me. Teach me my own blind will to bend To Thine, through good and ill ; Teach me, oh ! teach me to the end To do Thy holy will ! Those who began the race with me Are now far up the hill. Myself far, far behind I see, — Teach me to do Thy will ! In upper air they safely soar ; I’m but beginning still. Still must I murmur as of yore, Teach me to do Thy will ! Within Thy school, I take my seat To learn one lesson still. Dear Master ! see me at Thy feet — Teach me to do Thy will ! Though I a dull, dull pupil prove, Have patience with me still, Let even my dulness pity move — Teach me to do Thy will ! Could I Thy great designs fulfil, What further should I need? Oh ! could I do Thy gracious will, I should be wise indeed ! Then often through the busy day I’ll seek Thy blessed school And try to learn as best I may To make Thy will my rule. 13 In every doubt, in every care, In all things great and small I’ll utter still this simple prayer, Then look to Thee for all. Be this my motto throughout life, And may these words distil Some comfort in the last dread strife— Teach me to do Thy will ! May they bring hope that ’spite the past I may find mercy still, Hope that I may gain heaven at last, For that must be Thy will ! 14 "OUT, AND OUT, AND OUT!" J ESUS, my Lord and Master, My King and Captain dear, Lead on, move fast and faster — I still shall follow near ; Close where Thy steps are printed, With not a fear or doubt, No service mean or stinted, But out, and out, and out ! What though all Hell oppose Thee ? What though Thy path be pain ? Long years ago I chose Thee, And still I’d choose again ! My Leader, no disaster Can make me turn about, I’ll serve Thee, my own Master, Yes, out, and out, and out ! What in me doth displease Thee? What fault hast Thou to find ? Speak, Thine Omniscience sees me To all Thy Will resigned. Let Nature growl, who’d heed her? I smile at Hell’s vain shout, I’ll follow Thee, my Leader, Yes, out, and out, and out ! i5 What offering shall I make Thee ? My all is long since Thine, Oh, I beseech Thee, take me, Dispose of me and mine. No smallest reservation Within me or about, Complete is my oblation, Yes, out, and out, and out ! Not for myself, my Jesus, Not seeking my reward, I’ll do whatever pleases Thy Sacred Heart, my Lord. For Thee , I promise truly All thought of self without, Then perfectly and duly, And out, and out, and out ! What task hast Thou assigned me ? What work am I to do ? Speak, Thou shalt ever find me Both diligent and true. Well knowing my unfitness, Thy aid I cannot doubt ; I’ll serve Thee, Heaven be witness ! Yes, out, and out, and out ! i6 No labour too distressing, No task too mean or small, With Thy dear smile and blessing, Thine eyes to mark it all. From Thee what force can sever? With Thee all foes I’ll rout, Thy faithful soldier ever, Yes, out, and out, and out ! A PICTURE. O H ! what a picture in these words, A picture fair indeed ; “ He would not quench the smoking flax, Or crush the broken reed.” What depth, what food for loving thought, These simple words contain ! Studied and pondered o’er and o’er, Exhaustless they remain. How fair the vision they awake ! I gaze upon it now — I see the noble godlike form, That calm and thoughtful brow, That grave sweet face beneath its shade Of dark and flowing hair, Those eyes that ever seek the earth, Unless when raised in prayer. I hear the voice which, soft and low, Revealed in every tone The Heart which felt for all our griefs As though they were His own. c i8 Oh ! to have listened to that voice From John’s much envied seat, Or — fitter place for such as I — With Mary at His feet. Oh ! to have seen that gentle glance In loving kindness beam On me, yes, wretched, worthless me — What rapture it had been ! Oh ! to have followed where He went At sorrow’s every call : To heal the sick, console the sad, And minister to all. Gentle and patient, hopeful, kind, When anyone but He Would have despaired, have given up Such thankless ministry. How often was His patience tried By His own chosen band ! Yet, never did He use rebuke, Reproach or reprimand. All disappointing as they were, He taught them as before ; Their dull stupidity but seemed To make Him love them more. l 9 As He was then, so is He now, Change cometh to Him never, Christ Jesus, yesterday, to-day, The same, the same for ever.” In each one’s history of life, These truthful words we read : “ He has not quenched the smoking flax Or crushed the broken reed.” He sees, within our hearts, a smoke Of good desires arise — A smoke too feeble to be seen By our own partial eyes. He quenches not the tiny spark Which scarce deserves the name, But patiently, with gentle care He fans it into flame. He mends our broken promises, And then — O loving Lord ! — For that which He Himself hath done He gives us such reward ! I view the picture — there arise Thoughts I cannot dismiss : “ He is my model — does my life The least resemble this ? ±6 Placing this picture near my own, As He has said I may, Can I discover in the two The least resembling trait?” The answer? — ah, were contrast sought 1 can but hope and pray That at some distant future time, By His sweet grace, there may ! TO ST. JOSEPH. S T. JOSEPH, lineal son of kings, Thy hands are set to lowly things, But oh, thy spirit upward wings To David’s kingdom true ; Oh, get us grace to labour here With hearts above this earthly sphere, Fixed in that home we’re drawing near By evil days and few. n. St. Joseph, rising in the night, And o’er the desert taking flight, To save from cruel Herod’s might The Mother and her Son : Oh, may we promptly night and day God’s angel messengers obey, And cheerfully, without delay, To do His bidding run. iii. O great St. Joseph, humble, mild, Spouse of the Virgin undefiled, Dear Foster-Father of her Child, How high a lot was thine ! 22 And yet how humble was thy heart ! Oh, teach us all the holy art To act with fervent zeal our part, Then trust in power divine. IV. St. Joseph, by thy passage blest From labour to eternal rest, Thy aged head on Jesus’ breast, And Mary’s hands in thine — Oh, come and help us all to die, With Mary and her Son be nigh, And bid Hell’s darksome shadows fly And Heaven’s calm light outshine. ANOTHER PRAYER TO ST. JOSEPH. S T. JOSEPH — He from whom is named All earth’s paternity — While yet He dwelt amongst us, claimed A father’s care from thee ; And she, whom “ David’s mighty Tower ” And 4 4 Christian’s Help ” we call, Leant on thy strength in danger’s hour, And trusted thee for all. ii. He who upholds the great round earth, And speeds the starry train, Who gives the little birds their birth. And feeds the flowers with rain ; Who shines in sun, bedews in shower, To fructify earth’s soil, Now seems a child bereft of power, Dependent on their toil. hi. See o’er the desert swift they go, To Egypt far away, St. Joseph’s prudence wills it so, St. Joseph leads the way ; 24 When once again they homeward wend, Not their’s the ruling choice, God’s secret guidance they attend, And Joseph is God’s voice. IV. In Nazareth, home of peace and prayer, St. Joseph still holds sway, He bears the weight of toil and care, They love and they obey. Does any doubt perplexing rise ? St. Joseph’s voice will guide — In every need, love trusting cries “ St. Joseph will provide ! ” v. O Joseph ! we who in degree Would tread the path they trod, And make our earthly dwelling be Like that dear home of God, Entreat thee dwell among us too, To aid, provide, defend, To give us good in season due, As father and as friend ! 25 VI. This thou hast done long years, great Saint, We thank thee, and we pray Our trust in thee may ne’er grow faint, But strengthen day by day ; Bless our dear Sion, bless and keep Its members far and wide, Whether they toil on Afric’s steep, Or by Dunedin’s tide. VII. And oh ! by all thy tranquil years, By all thy dangers run, By all thy joys, by all thy fears, For Mary and her Son ; Oh ! by thy peaceful failing breath, Jesus and Mary nigh, Be with us, Joseph, at our death, And help us all to die. 26 THE CRY OF THE HEATHEN CHILDREN* H ARK ! mounting slowly on the breeze, In distant land beyond the seas, Goes up a feeble cry ; So feeble and so faint the tone, That never of itself alone That plaintive little childish moan Could come our dull ears nigh. But other ears have caught the strain, And over ocean’s spreading main Wafting its echo clear, These hearts aflame with holy zeal, Tongues eloquent for man’s true weal, Have sounded on the sad appeal Until we also hear. % “The word is passed, and we must die ! ” (’Tis thus the little children cry In lands so far away), “ Ah, cruel ! those that gave us birth Would banish us from this bright earth, The sun, the flowers, the song-bird’s mirth, Down ’neath the cold dark clay. 27 “ And in that other Better Land, Where God from every distant strand Shall gather home his loved, No entrance there alas ! we’ll find, Or enter merely as the blind ; For us the veil God hides behind Shall never be removed ! “ O happy children far away ! In faith’s enchanting sunshine gay, Both heaven and earth are yours : Here, sheltered each like tender dove, With golden fence of parents’ love, Hereafter , God’s bright home above Which baptism secures. “ Ah ! won’t you listen to our cry, And come and save us ere we die ? Ah ! won’t our words beguile You, in compassion for our state, To lend your aid, ere yet too late, To open for us heaven’s barred gate. And let us see God’s smile ? “ And oh ! when we shall enter in, Secure from misery and sin, Safe for eternity, 28 What heartfelt prayers we’ll breathe for you, To whom our happiness is due, What friends both powerful and true To you henceforth we’ll be ! “ How we shall guard your path through life, And shield you ’mid the dangerous strife, Nor ever cease our care, Until the happy day you come To join us, never more to roam, Within our Father’s blissful home, Our endless joys to share ! ” Oh ! Irish children could not fail To answer swift that plaintive wail From lands beyond the sea ; For Irish hearts are fashioned so, God’s name can set them all aglow, And every tale of human woe Can win their sympathy ! Let Irish children then unite, In bonds of union, sweet and light, And stretch a helping hand To those poor little ones that lie Forsaken, wretched, doomed to die, And send them joyously on high To people heaven’s bright land I 2 9 MISERERE QUI PLASMASTI ME! '"INHERE are times, bitter times, full of doubt and despair, When we almost abandon the language of prayer : When our lips and our hearts scarcely venture to frame Even His, our dear Master’s own merciful Name ; When Mary our Mother seems deaf to our cry, And angels and saints seem too far and too high. Oh ! when God in His wisdom such moment shall send, Let one cry from our hearts in His presence ascend — A cry full of anguish yet truth let it be — “ O Thou who hast made me, have mercy on me ! ” O Thou who hast made me ! Thou only canst know The depth of my weakness, the weight of my woe ; And I feel thy tribunal will prove in the end More indulgent than verdict of best earthly friend ; For, Workman divine and all wise as Thou art, Thou hast made this weak mind and this cowardly heart, Nor can folly of mine mix a shade of surprise In the grave, tender love of Thy pitiful eyes. All wisdom, all power, all love is in Thee — O Thou who hast made me, have mercy on me ! O Thou, who hast made me ! Thou hadst a design, Thou didst mark out a special life-labour as mine ; A work to be finished ere setteth life’s sun — A work, which, I failing, shall never be done. 30 Then rouse thee, my soul, for all weak as thou art. Thou must play in life’s drama a Heaven-set part. Thy God, thy Creator, thy service doth claim — He calls thee, He needs thee, He nameth thy name : Dear Master, I hasten, Thy handmaiden see — O Thou who hast made me, have mercy on me ! O Thou who hast made me — so wretched in sooth, So wanting in gracefulness, goodness, and truth, Yet in whom, O strange marvel ! Thy wisdom can find Expression of thoughts of Thine Infinite mind ! By that something mysterious Thou seest in me, By that which Thy grace may assist me to be, Have pity, have patience a little while still, Oh ! let not our enemy frustrate Thy Will. In myself I despair, all my hopes are in Thee — O Thou who hast made me, have mercy on me ! 3 * THE STONE CHRIST* I N Italy’s fair land of flowers This cross of stone was wrought, And to its home far o’er the sea By pious hands was brought. The good ship “ Cometa,” which bore This freight across the wave, Beneath the wild Atlantic tide Had well-nigh found a grave. Dark was the night ; the wind, rough nurse ! Swayed the ship to and fro ; Pale faces pitiful to see Manned cordage, mast and bow. “ Haste ! throw the cargo overboard ! ” — The Captain wildly cried ; — And costly silks and fragrant oils Go floating down the tide. “ What care we for such treasures now ? — Let all o’erboard be thrown ! ” — “ Good Captain, nothing now remains, Save the huge cross of stone.” “ Then let it stay,” the Captain said, “ My mother used to tell How on the waters of the lake The Saviour’s footsteps fell. 32 I’ll test those oft-told nursery tales For sure, if they be true, That Lord can save from peril now His image and our crew.” Fierce beat the wind, they trembling thought Each lurch the last would be, When lo ! — one silvery ray of light Dropped down upon the sea. And there, upon the billows dark, Revealed by that pale beam, A calm, majestic figure stood Whose robes like crystal gleam. As though on earth’s green sod He stood, And, like pale flowerets sweet, The late rebellious wavelets lay Low, trembling at His feet. His hand in blessing slow was raised, Bowed was each sailor’s head, And when they lifted up their eyes, The sacred form had fled. Had fled, — but with it fled the storm. The moon shone out on high, Stilled was the fury of the waves, And hushed the gale’s shrill cry ; And down the silvery moon-beams streamed Upon the snow-white foam, 33 And up arose a gentle breeze Which wafted them towards home. And ever after, when they sailed Across the ocean’s waste, A figure of the gentle Christ High on the bow was placed ; And men who, in their life on shore, Would scoff at things divine, Bent low in humble, childlike prayer Before that holy sign. For like a chapel in the rock, Round which the wild flowers twine, Somewhere within their hearts was hid A little secret shrine, Open to faith, and hope, and love, To reverence and truth. Fresh with their mothers’ teachings pure, Bright with the flowers of youth. With lips now all unused to prayer Most fervently they prayed, Nor did the Ruler of the waves Refuse His needful aid, Till safe through many a danger brought, Now changed and contrite grown, On shore they knelt with grateful heart, Before the cross of stone. P 34 A MODEL FOR OUR FAITH* [Translated from the French.) F RIENDS of our Eucharistic Lord, Come hear a charming tale, Revealing something of His love Beneath the mystic veil. Through England, poor benighted isle, Where heresy is queen, A good priest travelled many a mile, By field and forest green ; With little children at their play, Upon the verdant sod, He often paused upon his way To speak to them of God. With burning words from heart on fire He chanced one day to tell Of Him whose paramount desire Was in our midst to dwell ; Who set all nature’s laws aside, Bade God’s own mandates bend, That only He might here abide, Our Neighbour and our Friend. One from among the infant bands Soon sought the nearest shrine, And stretched his little longing hands To reach its Guest Divine. 35 Too far off yet ! — a chair he seeks, And mounts the altar throne, And there, with loving faith, he speaks To Jesus all alone. Tap ! tap ! his little gentle hand Knocks softly at the door. “ Art Thou there, Jesus ! ” No reply. He waits, then knocks once more. Not losing heart at all, he pleads : “ Ah ! art Thou there? — please tell. At Catechism-class to day We heard where Thou dost dwell.” Again he listens breathlessly, No faintest sound is there : “ Perhaps our Jesus sleeps,” thought he, “ He must be waked with care. Dear little Jesus, dost Thou know My hope is all in Thee ! — Ah, when I love and trust Thee so, Wilt Thou not speak to me?” Oh ! faith and love have wondrous strength — No more can Jesus bear, His mystic silence breaks at length In answer to that prayer. 3 6 “ Yes, little brother ! yes, believe, Love keeps Me captive here ; I stay to comfort all that grieve : What wilt thou, brother dear ? ” The child with tearful voice replies : “ Papa is not so good. Ah, change his heart ; he would be wise If he but understood.” “Go then, for I have heard thy prayer,” Said Jesus. And the child Returned home with joyous air, More sweet, obedient, mild. Next day the miracle took place : Though not a hint was given, The father felt the force of grace And made his peace with heaven. O Jesus, Thou the children’s friend, We friend of sinners hail ; I’ll take a moral in the end From this sweet, simple tale. Each day I’ll hasten to thy door, In every want and fear ; And though thy voice may speak no more, Thy Heart will always hear. 37 A MESSAGE AND AN ANSWER* i. A CROSS the broad ocean, so deep and wide, A message has come to me ; And few there are could guess if they tried What that far-travelled message could be ; A chorus of youthful voices clear In a distant southern land Have sent the message ; — but you shall hear, And judge of their demand. “ Sing us a song of the island green, We love it well from afar. But we want no dirge for the days that have been. Sing a song of the days that are ! Let the name of the land to our fathers dear ” (So they ask o’er ocean’s span) “ Be blest with a name that we all revere, The name of the Grand Old Man !” ii. Across the broad ocean, so deep and wide, My answer must take its way. In words as mild as ever have tried To fashion a courteous “ nay.” 3 ^ I want you to feel it would please me well To do this thing that you ask, But if you will listen I’ll try to tell Why I find it too hard a task. What is close beside us is seldom clear, Lookers-on see most of the fight ; ’Tis hard to judge fairly of that which is near And mete out the wrong and the right ; And I for one cannot see my way Through the darkness round us to plan A song of our Island’s story to-day, A song of the Grand Old Man ! hi. You have often stood on a green hill’s slope To watch with enraptured eyes The rainbow’s arch, the symbol of hope, Built up ’gainst the cloudy skies. And did you not, childlike, long to be Just under that radiant bow, Where its prism tips the glistening tree, And sets its leaves aglow ? Yet were it so, you know you would find Each jewel of varied stain, Each ruby and turquoise gold-enshrined, Meie falling drops of rain ! 39 Just so, perhaps, from your station far Our rainbow of Hope you scan, Seeing brighter than we do the days that are, And the deeds of the Grand Old Man ! IV. But Hope is Hope, though faintly it shine, And despair we can never feel, For God will bless in His own good time All true work for our country’s weal. The seed may be set in deepest gloom, When sorrow floods the land, Yet coming eyes shall see in bloom The golden harvest stand ! All honour, then, to the men that strive, And let our land requite The man who of all men alive Strove most to do her right. Let all her millions, young and old. Send up one heartfelt cry That in the Church’s one true fold The Grand Old Man may die ! 4 o ODE ON THE OCCASION OF THE GOLDEN JUBILEE OF st. Vincent’s hospital, Dublin, i. O THOU ! whose aid I impetrate and choose Beyond the fabled succours of the Nine, Come, lend my words thy energy divine, Into their feebleness thy strength infuse. Sweet Charity, be thou thyself the muse, Thine is the tale — then be the telling thine, Speak as thou listest through these lips of mine. Thou canst do everything, except refuse ! And you, great Saints ! one first divinely fired To give your life for Him who died for man ; And one whom equal charity inspired A code of living martyrdom to plan ; Stephen and Vincent ! join with Charity And fitting laureates of St. Vincent’s be. ii. Deep in that darkest hour of gloom That comes before the day, Our country, silent as the tomb, In listless torpor lay 4i Though loosened hung her fetters strong, ’Twas pitiful to see That she had been a slave so long, She cared not to be free ! Where was the strength to rise once more ? She had but strength to die ; In myriads from her fated shore She saw her children fly. The rich forsook a pauper land ; The poor for living fled. Famine and fever, hand in hand, Made revel ’mong the dead. Over her verdant island slopes Her stately cloisters prone Lay, like her other cherished hopes, In ruins, and o’erthrown. Hushed was the sound of holy bell, And still the voice of prayer : The dismal silence seemed a knell Of death and of despair. ill. Who shall give her back the past, Days that were too bright to last ? Days of yore, 42 When Cis-Alpine Gaul and Dane, With the dusky sons of Spain, Sought, and never sought in vain, On her shore Knowledge of diviner things. Draughts of learning’s hidden springs, Welcome ever to explore All her treasuries of lore. Aye ! and Saxon, false and fair, Welcomed as the rest, was there, Destined on a future day In strange fashion to repay — By the sword and by the flame, By long centuries of shame ; By Plantation and Proscription, Emigration and Eviction ; By the martyrs in her cause, By Draconian Penal Laws — All the bounteous gifts she gave, Making her the surer slave. IV. But see ! a gleam, A morning beam Outbreaks ; And with a smile, The brave old isle Awakes. M 43 Ah ! Irish hearts have subtle springs, Elastic they rebound ; The harp amid its shattered strings Retains a hopeful sound. And now, when Death as victor there Had almost seized his prize — Now, when her bravest sons despair, Her faithful daughters rise. v. They come from the home they have brightened and blessed, They part from the dear ones that loved and caressed ; From the banks of the Boyne, from the shores of the Lee, Where Shannon or Liffey unites with the sea, To each in her turn the whisper has come, — “ My poor for thy kindred, my house for thy home ! ” And each has replied, putting gently away The soft, clinging hands that would stop or delay ; “ To God and our country my future is given, The Master has called — you shall meet me in Heaven ! ” VI. Then each to work, a work divinely planned For God, His Church, and this — her native land ! Some train the young, and some relieve the poor ; Some guard life’s dawn, some make its ending sure : 44 But all in habit, black or white or brown, In quiet cloister or in busy town. Whether their title u Presentation ” be, “ Loretto,” “ Mercy,” or sweet “ Charity ” — Of Irish birth and Irish nature still, Have Irish hearts that bleed for Ireland’s ill ; Fond, filial hearts that only yearn to know How they can best alleviate her woe. And Ireland’s grateful heart full soon is moved To give them place with those she long has loved - Franciscan cord, and Dominic’s holy beads, Old friends in need, and faithful in all needs. The land, by persecution’s storms laid bare, Once more is studded with abodes of prayer. Nay, soon these sapling shoots of Irish birth Are mighty trees, whose branches fill the earth ! — Each has a glorious record of its own, But here to-day, we speak of one alone : For when we name St. Vincent’s, we recall The Irish daughters of the great De Paul. VII. St. Stephen’s-green, in Dublin’s palmier times, Abode of her nobility and state, And so, perchance, of those ignoble crimes — The parasitic minions of the great, — 45 Had still — strange contrast — ’mid its rich and fair, Its outlawed lepers in St. Stephen’s care. And now St. Vincent's holy daughters come, One of its lordly mansions to secure, That they may render it a palace home For God’s nobility — the suffering poor ! A home in every sense, where they may find Ease for the body, comfort for the mind, Cure or relief in every form of ill To which our poor humanity is heir, Relief administered with such a skill, Tender respect and watchful, eager care, That the recipients scarce can help believing, They are conferring favours, not receiving ; And more than all — the dearest to the poor — That atmosphere of sympathy and love Which lifts the soul by easy steps and sure To trust in the Great Lovingness above. Through heavenly outposts here they seem to stray, And heaven no longer deem so far away. Not that the Sisters seek to proselytise, They strictly keep their mission of relief ; To all in need their ministry applies Without the least distinction of belief. Alike Jew, Protestant, Agnostic share With Turk and Papist in St. Vincent’s care. « 4 6 But better, sure, than argument or creed, Logical pose or inference severe, Is just the life St. Vincent’s daughters lead From morn till evening, and from year to year Sermon in deeds whose converts shall be known Only when all earth’s secret things are shown. And this continued on for fifty years, The workers changing, but the work the same As one by one each labourer disappears, New candidates the place of honour claim. Of palm and crown what martyr more secure Than these devoted servants of the poor ? VIII. And now we meet to keep the Jubilee, The fiftieth birthday of St. Vincent’s Home. Ah ! fifty years — it is a solemn space, Implying many shiftings of the scene ! And there are with us here to-night, we feel, Many of those who long since went to rest — The Mother Foundress, Mary Aikenhead, She of strong mind and tender, loving heart, i ‘Whose nature seemed to need an epic life,” And found it in her passion for the poor. She, too, of shrewd and homely common sense, (That’s not so common) with a merry gleam Of native humour in her kindly eyes ; 47 Yes ! she is here, and could we hear her speak, Would tell us in her own bright graphic way Of old St. Vincent’s pre-historic days ; Of how with more than “ one slate off” she took Her earliest patients in, “ to bring, you see, God’s blessing on the house.” Of how the Nuns To France repaired, to learn their holy trade — Poor France ! whose good works cover many sins — And thence returning home, a new “ Brigade ” Laid down their lives in sooth for Ireland’s weal. Of how St. Vincent’s made and kept its friends — Friends of its birth, its growth, its later years ; The kind Archbishop, with his cheering words, And he, whose name set like a corner stone Deep down in the foundation, shall survive In grateful memory, in murmured prayer, While stone on stone of old St. Vincent’s stands — O’Ferrall, first physician, and best friend, The pioneer of that illustrious band Who since have made St. Vincent’s lowly name Great in the world of science and of art. Long shall St. Vincent’s hold their memory ! — Familiar in her halls as household words Each honoured name, respected and beloved. Oh ! when a nation counts her heroes up, Why should the place of honour still be given To those whose pinnacles of fame are built 4 8 Out of the wreck of happiness and life ? Far more heroic, nay, more Godlike far The aim of those whose energies are set To swell the sum of happiness and life, To spare this poor, fair, fallen world of ours Some pangs of anguish, and some bitter tears ; Like Him, whom we may reverently call The first great Christian Doctor, to employ Talents and time and strength ungrudgingly, “ Going about,” like Jesus, “doing good.” — All honour, praise, and gratitude be their’s, St. Vincent’s great physicians of the past, The present, and the future ; for we know That never yet example’s fruitful seed Was barren of result, and charity Has a divine infection all its own. IX. And there are with us here to-night, be sure, The mighty Tribune — Ireland’s uncrowned king, Whose trumpet-notes had never truer ring Than when he pleaded for St. Vincent’s poor And by his side, the minstrel monarch, Moore, Who with grave thoughts that lay too deep for song, And tear-dimmed eyes, once mingled in its throng, And blessed the God whose works of love endure ; 49 Thither did brotherly affection bring The soaring “ sea-gull ” of our Irish waters * Who curbed his flights of fantasy to sing The humble labours of St. Vincent’s daughters ; And here has poor unhappy Mangan lain, Whose very wealth of genius was his bane. Yes, we feel that these are near, And another voice we hear, More familiar and more dear To us all. Ah, poetic hearts are frail, And thy Minstrel, Innisfail, No fond regret or wail Can recall. Far in the Golden West He takes his quiet rest, His soul is with the blest — Yet we feel, For St. Vincent’s still he cares. Our joy to-day he shares, And offers up his prayers For our weal. * Gerald Griffin, who is here alluded to, addressed some beautiful lines to the Irish sea-gull. E 5o To St. Vincent’s in the spring-time Of his life and of his fame, A gentle student poet, Poor Dalton Williams came. Here he fashioned many a ditty, Dreamed of “ Misadventures ” rare, Here he learned how scant Death’s pity “ For blue eyes and golden hair.” And here, as Laureate true and leal, He tuned his harp anew, To sing the glorious work of zeal St. Vincent’s daughters do. Oh, if he could but come again To tune another lay, How well St. Vincent’s Jubilee Were chronicled to-day ! In what a tide of melody His filial harp would sound, To waft St. Vincent’s name and fame To earth’s remotest bound ! x. Fifty years have rolled away Since St. Vincent’s earliest chime, “ Fifty pulse-beats,” we may say, On the withered wrist of Time ; And St. Vincent’s in its pride Stands majestic and secure, With its portals open wide To the suffering and the poor. May the years that lie before her Prove yet brighter than the past, As they still more richly store her With the treasures that shall last ! May God send her friends in legions, Those already hers retain, Those physicians, whose allegiance Is her greatest earthly gain ; All her zeal and courage strengthen, All her merits safely store, As her years to cycles lengthen, May He bless her more and more ! 52 THE ROSARY. S T. DOMINICK went forth over beautiful France, And strong was his courage and fearless his glance, For Mary had placed in the hands of her son That weapon by which all his battles were won ; Strange weapon thus gifted with forces untold ! A garland of Roses, white, crimson, and gold ! Gentle garland ; and yet, as with adamant chain, By its help was proud heresy fettered and slain ; And to Mary’s protection, invoked through her Beads, Holy Church ever since has recourse in her needs. On, on, through the ages the triumphs are told Of that garland of Roses, white, crimson, and gold ! White Roses of Joy ! — Quiet Nazareth days, Sweet Bethlehem’s stable, the temple’s rich blaze, Come back to our Mother, as we, o’er and o’er, In the dear “ Holy Mary ” her succour implore ; She cannot refuse ; — with our prayers weak and poor, Her pleadings are blended, the issue is sure. Crimson Roses of Sorrow ! — The Garden’s dim shade, Cruel Scourging and Crowning, the Cross harshly laid On those poor wounded shoulders, that last awful sight Of the Man-God expiring on Calvary’s height, While she stood by the Cross ; — solemn memories these, Nor Mary’s the heart to resist their strong pleas. 53 Golden Roses of Glory ! — In Heaven at last, Arisen, ascended, the suffering all past, The Comforting Spirit in pity sent down, The glorious Assumption, the bright endless crown Joy and Sorrow make Mary our earth’s kinship own, Glory gives us a glimpse of her heavenly throne. O Roses of Mary ! this old land of ours Has deep in her heart set your mystical flowers, Through long years of trial, temptation, and strife, Mary’s Beads have sustained and have quickened faith's life; Those mysteries of Joy and of Sorrow and Glory Are woven through all our dear Ireland’s story. From the child nestled closely by fond mother’s side, From the family gathered at sweet eventide, From the poor in their want, from the sick in their pain, From the aged and the lonely ascends the same strain ; In the Roses of Mary, white, crimson, and gold, May the strong patient faith of our people be told ! Long may it be thus ! O our Mother and Queen, In our midst may your Roses luxuriant be seen ! May the sons of St. Dominick new multitudes win From the snares of indifference, heresy, sin, And to all Erin’s children more fully unfold Treasures hid in your Roses, white, crimson, and gold ! 54 ON THE CONSECRATION OF THE MOST REV* EDWARD M'CABE, ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN* i. R OME’S calm decisive voice is heard at last Giving a shepherd to the mourning sheep, Turning to joy our sorrow late so deep, And bidding hope’s new leaves rebourgeon fast ; Her mandate almost gives us back the past — Even him we laid ’mid autumn leaves to sleep, For whom ’mid all our joy we still must weep, Our Church, our country’s light too soon o’ercast. For thou wert that dead Prelate’s own right hand. The one who best his views and projects knew — His second self to counsel and command, His chosen aid to solace and subdue. Well may we trust that o’er this Church and land He still shall rule with gentle sway through you. ii. Hail, then, great Prelate, Primate of the Land, From thee we may a special blessing claim, For thou, the fosterer of our dearest aim, Next to the sacred cincture of our band, 55 Ever sustained us in the work we planned — To guide the young and feed religion’s flame, Ere the great crozier of St. Laurence came By manifest prevision to thy hand. And like those two who thy great See resigned For thrones more lasting, they who oft were seen Among us here, so wise and yet so kind. Still wilt thou be as thou hast ever been, And we in Edward still shall see combined Paul’s placid strength and Daniel’s peaceful mien.* * Dr. M'Cabe was the successor of Paul Cardinal Cullen, who succeeded Dr. Daniel Murray in the see of Dublin. 56 THE JUBILEE OF OUR HOLY FATHER LEO XIIL (7 th February , 1878.) 1. L ISTEN, hark ! ’tis the Angelus bell Swinging slow through the evening air, Rome, as she hears it, lists to the knell Of her Pontiff King. He is lying there, The pale lips breathing in words of prayer The name of Her he had loved so well. He had wreathed the twelve-starred crown on her brow, And his dying lips are weaving now The very last chaplet of roses sweet He ever shall lay at our Lady’s feet. The joyful mysteries have gone before With the Ave Maria o’er and o’er ; And, with the Angelus sound, The Bearing of the Cross comes round, And he, whose life was cross on cross, Conflict, ingratitude and loss, Goes forward to be crowned ! 11. Yes, he is dead ! The kind eyes close, The sweet lips wear in fixed repose That smile that all his lengthened reign The poor and children loved to gain. 57 That reign beyond the years of Peter (Now scarce a swallow’s flight seems fleeter !) Why should we go through its painful years, And count up its trials and number its tears? From the day, when, above St. Peter’s square, To the surging multitude gathered there, The brave young Pope, with tears in his eyes, And pale with the weight of that great surprise, Came forth, the first time, in his snowy dress, The city and the world to bless — Came forth a stranger and unknown, Went back with every heart his own ! * No, why should we try to tell the tale? It is writ in the great world’s story — His schemes for his people’s good, His plans for his country’s glory Have ended thus — that here he lies : A prisoner, stript of all, he dies ! * When Cardinal Sforza proclaimed the accession of Pius IX. to the people, they received the news without a word or sign of approbation, for the modest Cardinal of Imola was not known in Rome. Then all the Cardinals came forward, according to ancient custom, on the balcony of the Quirinal, and formed a line along it, leaving one place vacant in the centre. This was for the new Pontiff. When all had ranged themselves in order, Pius IX., vested in white, looking pale and anxious, and with tears in his eyes, took his station in the midst of them, and lifted his hand to bless the multitude. Then, as ever afterwards, to see him was to love him, and the moment his first Papal Benediction was imparted to the people they felt that a great Pontiff had been given to them, and, as if from one heart and with one voice, a shout went up from the mighty crowd, “Evviva Pio Nono ! " 58 III. It is well with him now, but the night is dark ; And for the Church’s storm-tossed bark, Of his paternal care bereft, Without her watchful pilot left, It is an hour of woe ! The wicked gaze with joy malign, Even some short-sighted foes opine — “ We’ve seen the last of the Papal line ! And it was fully time, you know, That antiquated thing should go !” Ah ! in Peter’s bark is One that sleeps, Yet wakeful, watchful vigil keeps. Soon the voice that tempests stilled Calls the Ruler He has willed, Bids him from the dear, dead hand Take the rudder of command, Bids him forward bravely steer, Without doubt and without fear, He Himself abiding near ! IV. {Election of Cardinal Vincenzo Gioacchino Pecci, 20 th February, 1878. His Coronation as Leo XIII., 20 th March , 1878.) Who is this that now advances With the keen yet kindly glances, 59 Ample brows profound with thought, Grave dark eyes with genius fraught ; Intellect with boundless store Of profane and sacred lore ; All the lesser charms of art, Yet withal a father’s heart — Ruler, statesman, scholar, poet? Ah, we know, full well we know it ! ’Tis the Pontiff Christ has given — Glorious Leo — light in Heaven ! * v. Now, through ten eventful years, Safe the Church’s bark he steers. All events that since befell It would task himself to tell ! Span the globe from pole to pole, Pass the broadest floods that roll, Every region known to man, Distant China and Japan, Africa and Hindoostan, Far New Zealand’s sunny isles, Chilian groves, Australian wilds, *This and a previous line allude to the mottoes assigned (as some think, prophetically) to the Popes — for Pius IX. “Crux de Cruce,” and for LeoXIII. “ Lumen in Coelo.’ 6 o California and Brazil, Each and all his influence feel — In each widely-sundered place, Friends and foes alike must trace Work of that all ruling hand, Stretching free from land to land ; Work of that all-seeing eye, Lit with wisdom from on high, Wakeful eyes that cannot sleep, Watchful Shepherd of the sheep ! VI. Nearer home, look nearer home, See the nations turned to Rome ! See the captive Pontiff stand As in days of Hildebrand, Umpire ’twixt land and land ! Strangest sight to witness now, See the haughty German bow (King of statesmen though he be), Owning mightier than he ! Nor in lofty paths alone, Leo’s watchful care is shown ; Now providing for the schools The Angelic Doctor’s rules ; Wide the Papal archives throwing, Wise encouragement bestowing 6i On the learned ; while, be sure, He forgets not the dear poor ! Oh, their sufferings cause him grief, Fain to each he’d bring relief. In their hands he gently places, Rich with all the Church’s graces, Mary’s Chaplet, Mary’s Beads, To console them in their needs. VII. This our Pontiff, this is he ! And we keep his Jubilee. If his foes admiring kneel, What must loving children feel ? North and South, and East and West — Everywhere his name is blest. In the chorus of the nations, In the tide of gratulations, Must not Ireland’s voice resound With the deepest, sweetest sound, Ireland ever faithful found ? True to Peter and to Rome As to God, to friends, to home ! Owning, too, in Leo’s name An especial grateful claim, For his sympathetic voice, And the prelate of her choice ! 62 VIII. ( Pope Leo XIII. was born 2nd March , 1810. He was ordained Priest by the Venerable Cardinal Odescalchi on the 2 3rd December , 1837.) Fifty years have passed away ; Long live Leo, Pope and King ! Fifty years have passed away Since that well-remembered day When upon his youthful head The great unction first was spread. Fifty years have taken wing — Long live Leo, Pope and King ! Fifty golden years have sped : Long live Leo, Pope and King ! Fifty golden years have sped Since his earliest Mass was said ! And may years in countless store, Still as brightly stretch before ! Hark, how loud the echoes ring ! Long live Leo, Pope and King ! 6 3 THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD, These verses take their title and form as well as their inspiration from Cardinal Newman’s exquisite hymn : — “ Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home— Lead Thou me on ! Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see The distant scene — one step enough for me.” O KINDLY Light, how well thy guiding ray Has led him on ! With steady beam through all the rugged way It led him on ! Through thirsty deserts to the boundless sea, From Egypt’s bondage into liberty ! Step after step, as he himself had prayed, It led him on : — The future veiled, the near path smoother made, Thus led him on Till Doubt’s prolonged Gethsemane was done, And reason, faith, heart, intellect, were one. And, gentle Master, thou thyself since then Hast led men on, By silent prayer and with thy magic pen, Where thou hast gone. 6 4 England’s true Moses in these latter days, But first thyself to tread the new, strange ways. Oh ! still for long and happy honoured years Lead thou us on ! Till the shades vanish and the day appears, Lead thou us on ! Till on thy loved and venerable brow Gleams the full crown whose first rays dawn e’en now. JlT^rx. >/• ( U ^ To face /. ^ 5 . 65 ON CARDINAL NEWMAN'S 80 th BIRTHDAY* ( February 2 1st, 1881.) I. 1 1 ' | ''HUS would I have him to remain,” was said X Long since of one, the favourite of his Lord ; — And so the others passed to their reward, Rejoicing — while on John’s beloved head Well nigh a hundred slow-paced winters shed Their snowy blossoms. Why this exile hard ? Not his the flock of Christ to lead and guard, But his to nourish with the Word’s own bread. Evangelist and doctor, priest and seer, To pray, to teach, to write, he lingered here, When Peter’s self, when Mary passed above. His the deep Future, the eternal Past — Yet hear his single lesson at the last : “ Love, O my dear ones ; little children, love ! ” II. “ A dreary gift of years.” Ah ! such, in sooth, Seems thine, dear Father, kept beyond thy time. Gone are the comrades of thy early prime ; Long gone the loved companions of thy youth ; 66 And even those who followed thee, like Ruth, Choosing to share thy worship and thy clime, No longer darkly but in light sublime See all made plain, ere thou, their guide to truth. So swiftly now men live their lives away ; Almost two generations thou hast seen Rise in their vigour, culminate, and wane, And thou ’mong men a type of what has been, Lone ’mid their reverent love, dost fiat say To Him who wisely wills thee to remain. hi. Oh yes, remain ! So myriad voices pray Ad multos annos ! — far the echo rings. Thou hast more subjects than the mightiest kings, And all who own thy gentle, potent sway Are calling down a blessing on this day. But, while they wish thee all God’s choicest things, From heart to lips one reservation springs — We cannot spare thee yet ; dear Father, stay ! Stay for our sakes — to be the joy, the pride Of thine elected Church, thy native land ; Oh ! stay to be the beacon-light to guide More storm-tossed pilgrims to the welcome strand. Long may we greet thee on thy natal day — We cannot spare thee yet, — dear Father, stay ! 67 DOMINE UT VIDEAM. A PRAYER BEFORE RETREAT. A PART into a desert place, My God, Thou leadest me ; And here I ask one only grace : O Lord, that I may see ! Nature and Earth soft vapours raise, That dim my inward sight ; Oh, scatter that deceitful haze, And let me see aright ! It may be pain, it may be shame, Deep anguish it may be ; Yet shall my prayer be still the same ; O Lord, that I may see ! Show me Thy law, those precepts wise My every step should guide ; Then let me view with clearest eyes My practice side by side. Show me my vows and let me long That triple bond survey, To see that every link is strong, And strengthening day by day. Show me my duties one by one, Unshrinking let me see, 68 What was omitted, and what done For other end than Thee. Show me myself without disguise, As clearly, I entreat, As when death's hands shall ope my eyes Before Thy judgment seat. But, dearest Lord, my weakness pleads, Let not Thy light stop there ; The vision of my own misdeeds Were else too hard to bear. Show me Thyself, Thy tender Heart In all its love display — One ray of Heavenly light impart, To chase earth’s glare away. The truths of Faith, the joys of Love, And virtue’s solid bliss, The glories of the world above, The hollowness of this ; The sweetness of Thy service, Lord, The honour and the joy — Oh ! how can anything be hard In such a proud employ! All this, and many a lesson more, Make clear and plain to me. Oh ! I entreat Thee o’er and o’er, My God, that I may see. 6 9 PILGRIMAGES. I OFTEN think when pious pilgrims tell Of visits made to Mary’s grot at Lourdes And of the sick and sorrowdaden cured At many another shrine and holy well ; Of Paray’s quiet cloister and the cell Where first the stigmata St. Francis bore ; Of Genezzano’s sweet, mysterious spell ; And of the cave beside the torrent’s roar Where Magdalen grieved much, but loved the more — That, were I not (to His dear name be praise !) Christ’s happy captive held in pleasant bands, It were a joy to visit distant lands, And on such favoured sanctuaries gaze ; No pilgrim of these easy modern days, But as my little Saint once toiled to Rome, With staff and scrip along the rugged ways — With him to stand beneath St. Peter’s dome, And see our Holy Father in his home. Perchance to wander further yet, and see A holier country still. Oh ! it were sweet To kiss the soil trod by those blessed Feet That made so many painful steps for me And rested only on the cruel Tree ! 7o Ah well ! I know in Whom I place my trust And I can wait in patient hope till He, The bountiful Rewarder, more than just, Leads me to holier realms beyond earth’s dust. In Heaven shall all the best of earth be found, Yet shall we not forget our dwelling here, And to our human hearts shall still be dear This little planet’s sun-illumined round With all its spots of memory-hallowed ground. And so I sometimes fancy, when we die, Perchance our souls before their upward bound Can freely to this world’s wide circuit fly, And bid its varied scenes a last good-bye. If it were so, and if my spirit then Might choose its journeys, whither should I go? Would I elect new earthly scenes to know? Or would I rather visit once again Those rendered sacred by past joy or pain ? Ah ! sure I am, no famous foreign shrine Would be my choice, no classic mount or glen ; Our Island green my wanderings would confine And threefold be that pilgrimage of mine ! 7i THE HOMELESS ONE. T^HE long, bright eastern day is done, X Dark fall the shadows down, Abruptly sinks the burning sun, Night veils the distant town. He stands upon the green hill-side, Vast crowds around Him lay, But now they scatter, they divide, And slowly move away. Since morning He hath worked and taught, Hell’s force subdued and cowed, And many wondrous signs hath wrought For that departing crowd. He stands now, weary and oppressed, ’Neath heaven’s fast-darkening dome ; “ Foxes have holes, and birds their nests,” But Jesus has no home ! What ! will they every one depart — Those whom He blessed and fed — And not one loving grateful heart Shelter His weary head ? 72 What ! are they all so selfish, hard, Devoid of thought and grace, That they can leave that gentle Lord Without a resting-place ? They haste to drown life’s daily cares In home’s pure social light, While He who gave them all that’s theirs Walks homeless through the night. They come to Him in trial’s hour, When other hopes have fled — Come to invoke His wondrous power or dying and for dead. They find His aid and sympathy Unfailing, without end, And never seem to think that He Himself may need a friend. The kind need kindness most of all — And who so kind as He ? Ah ! as the shadows darker fall, How sad His heart must be ! He seeks a lonely spot to pray — Pray for these very men ! Without a word’s reproach next day He’ll welcome them again. 73 THREE ROUNDELS, i. W E little know, when friends are gay And pleasant jests pass to and fro, What load upon each heart may weigh We little know. Deep waters wear a surface glow, Though all their depths be cold and gray ; And God’s brave creatures often throw A gleam of sunshine on our way, While their own path is dark with woe : How many such we meet each day "V^e little know. ii. ’Tis strange to think what little things Can make our spirits rise or sink : Drops drown, and feathers lend us wings — ’Tis strange to think ! A sunbeam, and the rose’s pink, The artless song the linnet sings, A look, a smile, are each a link To joy, while sorrow’s bitter springs Can enter at so mere a chink As fogs or frown or verbal stings — ’Tis strange to think ! 74 ill. I sought afar, and they were near ; Mine eyes were on a distant star, Mine ears were strained those sounds to hear I sought afar. Meanwhile joy’s portals stood ajar, Unnoticed close beside me here. Ah, why should aimless yearnings bar My entrance where in home’s sweet sphere Within my reach those treasures are So priceless and so passing dear, I sought afar ? Ary Scheffer pinxit. ST. MONICA AND ST. AUGUSTINE. To pace p. 73. 75 ST. AUGUSTINE AND ST. MONICA AT OSTIA. S EE, the rich glory of the setting sun _ Gilds the deep azure waters of the bay ; See, the bright stars enkindled one by one, As tranquil night succeeds to sultry day ; See, not a ripple stirs the slumbering spray ; List to that bell, its chime doth but increase The silence round, deep bell that whispers “ Pray ! ” All nature owns thy gentle rule, sweet Peace, As this were now thy native sphere, where troubles cease Mark on the terraced heights o’er Ostia’s beach, Clasped hand-in-hand that pair that sit apart— Their converse not in faltering human speech, But in the full, rich language of the heart. High above earth their souls aspiring dart, Beyond the star-espangled fields of space, To thy great throne, Creator ! — Thou who art Viewing the bliss of those that see Thy face, For all eternity secure in love and grace. Upon the mother’s face, as on a scroll, We read of many a patient, waiting year, Of the long, ceaseless wrestle for a soul — A wayward soul, so erring, yet so dear — And now unearthly peace. The end is near. 76 We see how loose is every human tie — “ My task is done, my God, what do I hear?” We feel asunder soon life’s bonds shall fly, And the pure spirit seek its blissful home on high. And peace is on that other brow, but such As follows storm. O Child of many tears ! “ They love the most whom God forgiveth much ! ” Such lesson in thy after life appears. O glorious saint ! O giant ’mongthy peers ! No middle path thy lofty spirit trod, With one strong bound were burst the bonds of years. And, without fear of His avenging rod, Thy soul impassioned rushed into the arms of God ! 77 HYMN TO ST* AUGUSTINE* i. T HERE are glorious Saints in heaven, Whose love and power we own, From the bright angelic seven Who stand before God’s throne : Patriarchs and doctors hoary, Prophets crowned with mystic glory, Virgins’ lily, martyrs’ rod, Confessors with hearts of fire, And the Apostolic choir — But we greet thee , great Augustine, Glory of the Church of God ! ii. Thou didst wander long in blindness, But God was ever near, And still with patient kindness He whispered in thine ear. Till, thy mind submissive bending, Faith thy troubled doubtings ending, Thou the upward pathway trod, With a zeal weak souls confounding, Virtue now as sin abounding, Hail, Augustine ! glad we greet thee Glory of the Church of God ! 78 hi. Fitly grace’s mysteries teaching — Thou thyself its wonder-sign — Oh, thy burning words beseeching ! Oh ! thy force of love divine ! O Augustine ! lend thy pleading, Monica, thy interceding, That e’en here on earth’s cold sod One small spark of love be given To our hearts to make earth Heaven. Hail, Augustine ! glad we greet thee — Glory of the Church of God ! 79 AN INVOCATION TO THE DEITY* {From the French of Lamartine.} I N time and eternity, hail to Thee still, O Reason eternal, omnipotent Will ! To Thee whose dread presence Immensity feels, To Thee whose existence each morning reveals, Thy creative breath has descended on me — He who once was not appeared before Thee. Ere I yet knew myself, I acknowledged Thy voice, To the portals of Being I rushed at Thy choice. Behold me ! Here nothingness hails Thee at birth. Behold me ! What am I ? A vile clod of earth. Who can measure the distance that severs us two ? I who draw my brief breath of existence in You. Thy will, spite of me, shaped my frame and my lot : Lord, what claim had I on Thee while yet I was not ? None before and none after. Hail, Sovereign End ! Whence everything comes, and to which all things tend. Great Workman ! enjoy, then, the work of Thy hands — I exist to accomplish Thy mighty commands. Dispose, order, act, both in time and in space, For Thy glory appoint me my day and my place, * This is only the fragment of a fragment The second of the Medita- tions Poetiques is " L’Homme,” and it is addressed to Lord Byron. Of three hundred lines, S. M. S. left a hundred untranslated at the end, and out of her translation we have here omitted more at the beginning. 8o My soul, without question, complaint, or reply, To its post will with silent alacrity fly — Like those worlds of gold, that in regions of space, Fly with love in the tracks that Thy shadowings trace, Drowned in sunshine or lost in night’s shadows, they speed ; I will follow like them where Thy finger shall lead. Whether lighting up worlds, if such Thy decree, Reflecting the rays Thou hast shed upon me, 1 rush forward, bright satellites glittering around, And cross the vast gulf of the skies at a bound ; Or whether, dismissing me far from Thy sight, Thou but makest of me darksome creature of night, But an atom forgot on the borders of space, But a dust-grain that flieth the whirlwind’s face — Proud and glad of my lot, since it is Thy decree, I will everywhere give the same homage to Thee ; And, fulfilling Thy law with a love still the same, On the confines of space murmur, “Praise to Thy name!” Not so high nor so low ! Simple child of the earth, A problem my lot and a secret my birth, I resemble that globe which o’er night doth preside, Which, in the dark path where Thy finger doth guide, Reflects on the one side an ocean of light, While the other is plunged in the darkness of night. 8i A HAPPY BIRTHDAY! T HERE are epochs in each lifetime, There are points in each career, When special meaning seems to mark The newly-opening year. First, when to every youthful soul Fair reason’s light is given, Destined with Faith as guiding star To lead to God and Heaven. And then, when childhood’s days have passed, Another stage appears, When youth with rapture gains at last The goal of manhood’s years. Oh, there are dangers round them both That care and guidance crave, Lest God’s great gifts be seized without A thought of Him Who gave. And, as around each little child Fond mothers watch and pray To seize and dedicate to God The reason’s dawning ray : So on the threshold of young life, Its vistas opening wide, How many an anxious, trembling heart Would fain direct and guide ! G 8 2 But scarcely words of counsel then Will inexperience bear ; And so the mother’s words instead Go up to God in prayer. And oh ! how many a youthful soul, Too reckless and too brave, No power except a mother’s prayer, Could rescue or could save ! But on the other hand what joy To mother’s heart is given, Who sees the feet of him she loves Already set for heaven — Who sees the young, courageous soul, Before earth’s paths are trod, Renounce them all to live and love, And labour for his God ! That mother looks through days to come With eyes no doubt can dim, No anxious care for that dear son — ’Tis she can lean on him . She knows that in one Holy Mass, With all its wealth of grace, Each day her wishes and her needs Shall fill the foremost place. And for all others near and dear Her heart is set at rest : 83 The home and household of a priest Must needs by God be blessed. She knows that all through life’s decline, Those priestly hands shall bless, Yet never lose until the end Their filial, fond caress. And, most of all, full well she knows That, when her hour is come, His pleading still shall follow her And speed her going home. Ah, vain are words to speak of this, Yet from an Irish home Eyes full of this same hope and joy To-day are fixed on Rome ; And prayers are going up to God That, as years move apace, He will augment His blessings too And multiply His grace. Nor can the great St. Michael Forget his client’s claim, Nor the Seraphic Father Forget who bears his name. May they with Mother Mary And all who hold you dear Obtain that heaven’s choice gifts may crowd Your one-and-twentieth year. 8 4 A WEDDING DAY* G LAD wishes on this gladsome day Friend after friend imparts, Kind words keep striving to convey The feelings of kind hearts. Accept another wish from me As I in turn draw near ; Others more eloquent may be, None can be more sincere. There was a wedding long ago In Cana’s city fair, A lowly wedding, yet we know That sacred guests were there ; That Jesus with His brethren came, His Mother by His side ; That Mary’s pleadings screened from shame The bridegroom and the bride. And happy every wedding still Alone securely blest, Where Jesus and His Mother fill The place of honoured guest. Where right to Mary’s aid is won, There peace and love prevail ; Where dwell the Mother and her Son, Joy’s wine can never fail. 85 Bid them be present then to-day, And oh ! when they have come, Entreat them earnestly to stay And never quit your home — Keep them for friends the first, the best ; Your years already prove How wondrous and how manifest Have been their care and love ! Since God withdrew those guardian forms That watched your infant head, Have not His own paternal arms Been round you in their stead ? Has He not ruled and shaped and planned Your course along the way ? Has not His own Almighty hand Brought round this happy day ? Such is my wish to cheer and bless The happy years to come : The love and friendship still possess Of Mary and her Son. 86 SAINT CHRISTOPHER* W E keep the feast of a helpful Saint Of a Saint with a ready hand, A Saint who felt a neighbour’s plaint More than his heart could stand. That heart with Jesus’ love aglow Kept dwelling on the word : — “ By what you do for them I’ll know Your love forme, your Lord.” He felt he must aid his fellow-men, But the way was not so sure : He could not preach, nor wield the pen Nor tend Christ’s suffering poor. His will was strong, but his gifts were few, Yet his heart was not cast down — A lowly work he found to do, And it won him his deathless crown. One gift he had — the gift of strength — A gift too oft abused — And he saw a humble way at length In which it might be used. We’ve heard the legend o’er and o’er, We’ve seen it in pictured guise : The troubled stream where, shore to shore, The Saint his mission plies : — 87 Across the rushing waters wild, With steady step and sure, He bears the old man and the child, The weak, the maimed, the poor. No matter who or when they came, His strength for all sufficed, And there he won his glorious name “ The Carrier of Christ.” 88 A CHILD'S FIRST COMMUNION* O WONDER ! the Almighty God Comes down to pay A visit to your childish heart, This happy day. Heaven, earth, and hell in trembling awe Bow ’neath His sway, Yet oh ! how gentle, meek, and kind, He comes to-day. He comes to give you strength to tread Life's thorny way, That you may reach His Home above, Some future day. Oh ! tell Him that within your heart He now must stay — Tell Him you ne’er will let Him go, After to-day. Tell Him that every wish of His You will obey, If He will only keep the heart He takes to-day. 8 9 AN APPEAL. O H, there’s joy to-day in Heaven, Where Mary reigns as Queen, And happy Saints and Angels hold Glad holiday, I ween ; And in that fair green island St. Patrick’s preaching won They honour festively to-day St. Patrick’s noblest son. But we, far off from Heaven and home, Oh ! think of us to-day ! We cannot join Heaven’s raptured song, Or earth’s triumphant lay ; Amid the cleansing flames indeed We lie most patiently, We would not alter if we could God’s just, severe decree. But oh ! we look with wistful eyes To many a dwelling, where Our Saviour’s chosen spouses live Calm lives of peace and prayer, Where at a very trifling cost Each Sister could to-day Send many a ransomed soul on high To swell the Angels’ lay. go DELAY. ( Translated from the German.') T O-MORROW, yes, but not to-day !” Coward hearts will ever say. “To-morrow ! — Now I’ll rest, ’tis true- To-morrow this advance I’ll make ; To-morrow this defect forsake ; To-morrow this and that I’ll do !” And why not now ? To-morrow brings Enough without these other things ; Each day its proper task has got. The past is all thine own, and thou Canst mould at will the pliant Now ; But what’s to come thou knowest not. Who goes not forward goeth back ; Our moments speed their onward track In forward, not retreating line. These, these alone are mine to use — These present moments that I lose — Those hoped for never may be mine. 9i Shall, then, this day, bestowed in vain, Within my book of life remain A mere blank leaf, a vacant line? No ! as to-morrow, so to-day, I will upon that page display Some good, some noble act of mine. 92 TO A BRIDE* O EARTH, put on thy loveliest dress, O sun, shine bright and gay, O heaven and earth unite to bless The life begun to-day ! The old life’s o’er, its seed is sown, Its fruits are stored above, All it had best is still thine own, Mother’s and sister’s love. Into the sunny years to be Their prayers and wishes speed ; Could they but turn time’s glass for thee, Its sands were gold indeed ! There’s but one wish, but one, I ween, Enough to gild thy life : As child and sister thou hast been, Such be thou still as wife ! 93 OUR LADY OF GOOD COUNSEL* O VIRGIN Mother, Lady of Good Counsel, Sweetest picture artist ever drew, In all doubts I fly to thee for guidance; Mother, tell me what am I to do? By thy face to Jesus’ face inclining, Sheltered safely in thy mantle blue ; By His little arms around thee twining, Mother, tell me, what am I to do ? By the light within thy dear eyes dwelling, By the tears that dim their lustre too, By the story that these tears are telling, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? Life, alas ! is often dark and dreary, Cheating shadows hide the truth from view ; When my soul is most perplexed and weary. Mother, tell me, what am I to do? See my hopes in fragile vessel tossing, Be the pilot of that trembling crew ; Guide me safely o’er the dangerous crossing, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? 94 Should I ever, wilfully forgetting, Fail to pay my God His homage due ; Should I sin and live without regretting, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? Stir my heart while gazing on thy features, With the old, old story, ever new — How our God has loved His sinful creatures, Then, dear Mother, show me what to do. Plead my cause, for what can He refuse thee? Get me back His saving grace anew. Ah ! I know, thou dost not wish to lose me, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? Thus, alike, when needful sorrows chasten, As amid joy’s visits fair and few, To thy shrine, with loving trust, I hasten, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? Be of all my friends the best and dearest, O my counsellor, sincere and true ! Let thy voice sound always first and clearest, Mother, tell me, what am I to do ? In thy guidance tranquilly reposing, Now I face my toils and cares anew ; All through life and at its awful closing, Mother, tell me, what am I to do? 95 THE ISLAND OF SAINTS AND SCHOLARS* T HE Irish land, the Irish land, Our own dear mother Isle, Her varied scene, her emerald green, Her mingled tear and smile, Have furnished themes for countless songs, On many a tuneful lyre, Whilst the sad story of her wrongs Has waked a fiercer fire. Scarce free to live, scarce free to love, Her poets through the night, Each with his little torchlight strove Her gloomy path to light ; The harps that sang “ Sweet Innisfail,” Had minor chords, I ween, And hid love’s treason ’neath the veil Of their “ Dark Rosaleen.”. The Irish race, the Irish race — Look back from age to age, And you will find its glorious trace On history’s every page. In battlefield, in hall of state, In peaceful walks of fame, With pen or chisel — everywhere, You’ll meet an Irish name. 9 6 And yet, strange fate ! their native land, So richly blessed by Heaven, Was forced to banish from her strand The sons that God had given. And those who love as none can say The country of their birth, Are pilgrims in the world to-day, The exiles of the earth ! The Irish Church, the Irish Church, Since blessed Patrick came, And bade the Druid-fires give place To Faith's undying flame — The faithful Irish Church has stood, Though fierce storms rose to try her, As true to God, as true to Rome, As Patrick could desire ! From the green Island of the West, As from a source of light, Went forth the Gospel messengers That chased the old world’s night. Nay, God’s good providence decreed That o’er the world’s wide face Her exiles still should sow Faith’s seed — An Apostolic race ! 97 The Irish saints, the Irish saints. What chronicles were theirs, What miracles, what charity, What ecstasies and prayers ! St. Patrick and Bridget, St. Brendan, Columkille, St. Ita, Dympna, Malachy — Their names are honoured still. Not in their native Isle alone : No European state But owes to Irish sanctity A debt exceeding great ; Rome, Lucca and Tarentum, Besan^on, Mechlin, Hy, To Irish Apostolic men Send up a filial cry. The Irish priest, the Irish priest, O loved and honoured name ! At home or in the West, or East, Still faithful, still the same : Here , in the fever-tainted room, Or famine’s awful time, Letting God’s sunshine light the gloom, Routing despair and crime ; 9 8 Abroad , where spreading prairie rolls Or by Australian brake, Tending his fellow exiles' souls — An exile for their sake ! Lest time should loose or distance move The links that bind to Rome, Or (scarce less sacred bond) their love For the old land at home. Above the Britain of the South The English banners play, But Ireland and her Faith, thank God. Exert supremer sway ; Her sons are on its pastoral thrones For well Rome understands Faith’s seed is never deeper sown Than by true Irish hands. And now another patriot priest* Our Fatherland must spare, The crozier of a mighty see Is trusted to his care. * Cardinal Moran, Archbishop of Sydney, in whose presence these lines were recited, at Holy Cross College, Clonliffe, June 19th, 1884 99 And Erin’s exiles eagerly, Across the waters wide, Implore his coming speedily, Their father and their guide. And who more fitted for the task, Than he whose studious youth So loved to tread the dusky past, A searcher after truth, That he might clear our native land, Our race, our Church, our saints, From calumny’s insulting brand, Or ignorance’s taints. Old Ireland’s name is safe with him, Her fame shall know no loss In those wide regions far away, Beneath the Southern Cross. May countless blessings follow him, And mark his future way ! Such is our prayer who feebly thus Would many debts repay. IOO JESUS. i. T HE little Infant Jesus, How beautiful is He ! Come hither, little children, Draw near to Him and see. Fear not ! Ah, can you fear Him ? He looks so sweet and mild, He loves to have you near Him — He is Himself a Child. Laid in the lowly manger, The poor straw roof above ; His hands are full of blessings, His eyes are full of love ; And Mary, His sweet Mother, She speaks her welcome too : “ Come, for He longs to see you — My Son is here ioT you / ” ii. The Crucified Lord Jesus, How merciful is He ! Come hither, contrite sinners, Draw near to Him and see. IOI Fear not ! Ah, can you fear Him ? From wounded feet and side, From thorn-pierced head and outstretched hands, Pours down a crimson tide. Bed harder than the manger, Roof of the darkened skies ; — For you, for me, He suffers — For you, for me, He dies. And Mary in her anguish Still bids us venture near : “ O dearly-bought ones, hasten ! For you my Son is here.” hi. The Eucharistic Jesus, How amiable is He ! O all earth’s weary pilgrims, Draw near to Him and see. Fear not ! you cannot fear Him ; He lays His state aside That He may have you near Him And friend with friends abide. Upon the lonely altar, Content He dwells apart, That you may sometimes bid Him To dwell within your heart. 102 And Mary's gentle image Smiles down and seems to say : “Oh ! come ! for Jesus wants you — Ah, can you stay away ? ” IV. The glorified Lord Jesus, How wonderful is He ! Come, all ye saints, His chosen, Draw near to Him and see. Fear not ! You need not fear Him, Your eyes can bear His light ; You fain would linger near Him Upon the glorious height. But ah ! / cannot venture — My heart is all too weak. I see not Mary present, I hear not Mary speak : To me another mountain, My Mother’s hill, be given — Her Calvary I’d share on earth, And Thabor keep for Heaven. io3 TO THE SACRED HEART W ITHIN Thy Sacred Heart, dear Lord, My anxious thoughts shall rest ; I neither ask for life nor death ; Thou knowest what is best. Say only Thou hast pardoned me ; Say only I am Thine ; In all things else dispose of me ; Thy holy will is mine ! Ah ! why is not my love for Thee Unbounded, past control? Alas ! my heart obeyeth not The impulse of my soul ! Ah, Jesus ! if love’s trusting prayer Seem not too bold to Thee ; Place Thine own Heart within my breast ; Love Thou Thyself for me ! 104 AN ORANGE LEAR* A N orange leaf ! Six hundred years and more Since Dominick, our great patriarch and chief, First set the ancient, hallowed tree that bore That orange leaf. So through the ages, spite of unbelief, And waning love and persecution’s roar, Stands the great Order that he set of yore In Augustinian soil ; — and so in brief A type art thou of us and many more, — Dear orange leaf ! * Plucked from a tree planted by St. Dominick and still flourishing in the garden of the Dominican Convent of Santa Sabina in Rome. SONNETS. io7 ST, JOHN THE EVANGELIST, O JOHN, thy Master’s dearest earthly friend, How wise wert thou to raise thy heart so high, To let all fleeting human love go by And make thine own what ne’er could change or end. Ah ! scarcely can thy pitying love descend Where our poor hopes and cherished fancies die : Ne’er didst thou see thy trust in ruins lie Nor cruel truth thy fair delusions rend. No cloud of doubt thy loving eyes could dim, No fear thy love was burdensome to Him — See with what trust thou leanedst on His breast ! No thought — “ Perchance He wishes me away,” No fear — “ And am I worthy here to stay ? ” No doubt He loved thee more than all the rest. ii. But He thy Master, was He not in this, As in all else, more like to us and near ? How oft His loved ones, even Thou most dear, Pained His kind heart and took His love amiss ? Was not the traitor’s chosen sign a kiss ? And in the garden’s lonely vigil drear Did He not ask His dearest friends for cheer, And find them slumbering, careless, and remiss ? io8 Misunderstanding, disappointment’s chill, Coolness, unkindness, — He has felt them all ; Who knows their bitter pain so well as He? Oh ! then, His heart must be our comfort still On Him for pity more secure we call Than e’en on thee, dear Saint of Charity ! iog A SUNNY DAY IN DECEMBER. H OW soft the air, how genial warm the sun ! Brightly he lights the gaunt, old, naked trees. How gentle, almost sultry, is the breeze ! How blue the skies which late were dark and dun ! The birds their joyous carol have begun ; Poor little fools, because the sky is clear, They sing: “The Spring, the beauteous Spring is here Peep out, sweet flowers ! the dreary Winter’s done.” Deceived, alas ! To-morrow brings the frost. Are we not like them ? Should life’s darksome way By a stray wandering sunshine-beam be crossed, Joy fills our hearts. “ The summer’s come,” we say ; Too soon, alas ! discovering to our cost ’Twas but the false gleam of a wintry day. no TO S. M. S. S WEET Sister, playmate of my earlier years ! Though parted long, yet have I felt thee nigh In hours of happiness, when joy was high And merry laughter rang ; and, too, when tears Would start at saddest loss. Nor have I fears But that thy spirit with affection bright Will ever watch my progress through the night Of this bleak world, till the great dawn appears. May’st thou be granted many a grateful day To rear the tender flowers that are thy care, ’Neath the pure glory of Religion’s ray, With zeal unwearied and devotion rare : And may thy brother on his rougher way Have ever of thy love and thoughts a share ! Florence. Ill TO FLORENCE. F LORENCE, my lyre would fain responsive ring And echo back the harmony of thine, But ah ! the mystic gift was never mine — I do but strike a weak untuneful string. Yet let me tell thee Time shall never ring The knell of those past days where intertwine Our opening lives — the Rhone and stately Rhine Whose devious streams from one pure fountain spring: One rushing swiftly to the Midland Sea, One gliding smoothly towards the northern snows — In this, your active life of toil I see, And, in the other, mine of calm repose. In the wide ocean of eternity In circling rings their waves at last shall close. By neither be the fountain-head forgot — Those sweet glad days of childish sport and glee ; Our garden pranks and rambles by the sea ; Our heroes, each upheld with ardour hot ; Our readings — the old Iliad, Shakespeare, Scott, The immortal Boz, the tears we both have shed O'er Eva’s grave, by little Dombey’s bed, Our wrathful ire at great Napoleon’s lot. / I 12 But, O dear Brother (strongest tie of all), Those who began life's journey by our side, In whom a brief space did the work of years, Who joyous heard God’s loving early call And now secure in Paradise abide, Linking our hearts in bitter bonds of tears. S. M. S. 1 1.3 NAPOLEON'S HAPPIEST DAY* O NE who had reached the zenith of his fame — Kings and their kingdoms trembled when he frowned — Was asked, by them who cringing stood around, Efis brightest day, his gladdest hour to name. Without a moment’s pause the answer came — Some day of conquest, loud with trumpet’s sound ? Some day of civic triumph laurel-crowned ? None such may that proud appellation claim. “ My First Communion Day,” he brief replied, “ That was the happiest day I ever knew.” And then, as answer so unlooked-for tied The tongues of all that vapid, worldly crew, He murmured to himself, and, smiling, sighed : “Then I was young, and life seemed good and true.’ I A EUCHARISTIC THOUGHT/ H OW do we treat the Prisoner of our shrine ? Ah ! does He never from His altar throne Look round for us and find Himself alone? Alone though angels round His prison shine, Yet does His heart for our poor love so pine That ’mid their homage He feels sad and lone, And mourns the cold unkindness we have shown — A poor return for all His love divine. Alas ! in Judgment’s hour how shall we brook His tender, gentle, and reproachful look? Nay, though we enter heaven at once perchance, ’Twere surely purgatory most severe To pass its gate — whose opening cost so dear — Beneath the shadow of that sweet, sad glance. Sonnetized from Faber’s Notes on Spiritual Subjects, vol i., page 167. “5 DILEXIT ME! N OT in the mass God views us things of clay. As one by one we each shall stand alone, Clad in our works before the Judgment-throne, So singly ’neath his eyes from day to day We heedless live our puny lives away. Men could but loathe the best of us thus known : But with Him sight is love in service shown — “ All mine, mine only ! ” each of us can say. Lord, from my path Thy glance has never swerved, And, spite of all, Thy love remains unmoved — My very servant, Master, Thou hast been ! That I may serve as I each day am served, That I may love as I each day am loved, Oh, make me see as I each day am seen !* * Suggested by Father Faber’s Spiritual Conferences , page 399. “God does not look at us merely in the mass and multitude. As we shall stand single and alone before His Judgment-seat, so do we stand, so shall we always stand, single and alone before the eye of His boundless love,” 1 16 EASTER* “ Easter is a happy day, but I think our true Easter will not be till we look that first time on the beautiful welcome of His Easter Face.” — Father Faber’s Notes on Spiritual Subjects , vol. i., p. 158. O H, what a joyous feast is Easter Day ! All Nature risen hails her risen King ; The air is sweet with the fresh scents of Spring, The pale green boughs announce the coming May, And the young birds, with life’s strange newness gay, Their raptured joy at living loudly sing, While the freed church-bells alleluias ring And Lent gone by makes brighter the sun’s ray. Thus after life’s all-sanctifying gloom — That Holy-Week that ends but with the tomb — The purple veil of earthly grief gives place ; And, like the birds, our happy souls set free Pour the glad song of immortality, And read the welcome on God’s Easter Face. ANOTHER MONICA. A /T AKE no account of where my grave shall be. 1V1 The judgment call will echo everywhere, Let my soul’s welfare be thy only care, And at God’s altar, oh ! remember me ! ” Thus spoke the sainted Monica, and we Know how her son fulfilled her dying prayer, And would have all his future brethren share The duty of his filial piety. They say no martyr has our island seen, Yet, strangely some among her shamrocks green Rise tinged with martyr’s blood from out the sod. Oh, rather countless martyrs has she known, And chief amongst them shall one day be shown Mothers who gave their children up to God ! A WINTER THOUGHT. T HE winter’s here, and like an aged crone The shivering earth wraps close her foliage round ; The leaves forsake their boughs, and to the ground Nestle and leave their summer perches lone. Soon will earth’s regal winter mantle, thrown Above them, shield them from the angry blast ; Then, all their fluttering o’er, at rest at last, They’ll pass away, their place no more be known. When the snow melts, where will the dead leaves be ? For ever gone ! The flowerlets only sleep, The lazy flowers ! we cannot even see One little head above earth’s blanket peep ; Yet they are there, and fresh and bright shall rise — But last year’s leaves no more shall glad our eyes ! II 9 UNCERTAINTY* O H, for one tiny glimmering ray of light ! Oh, for one peep behind the dense dark cloud Whose dusky folds our earthly vision shroud Pitiless, black, impenetrable quite, Baffling our straining eyes, our feeble sight, Casting a shadow on the things we see ; Wrapping in awful gloom what is to be, Chilling our golden hours with shades of night. O Truth ! O Certainty ! O Peace ! O Love ! When shall I grasp you, when shall you be mine? Earth bears me bitter fruits, but if above I yet may taste you, I shall not repine. ’Twere mad to doubt, yet doubts my spirit rend — Oh, that the sun would rise, the shades descend ! 120 LIFE'S MYSTERIES SOUGHT IN NATURE, S AD, I have gazed upon the earth’s fair face, And, bathed in sunshine, it smiled back the while, But I could read no answer in that smile. Sometimes it wore a hollow empty grace Like some bright features, where we, raptured, trace All beauties joined, soon learning with surprise No soul looks out through those deep, lustrous eyes ; And sometimes it appeared to wear a space A look of mischief, as though well it knew My long-sought secret, and would keep it too. Oh ! can the joyous birds, the spotless flowers, See what is hidden from our sin-stained eyes ? And do they wonder with a meek surprise At all this blindness and this grief of ours ? 121 MAKE SURE OF PRAYER. \ RT thou still young, and dost thou glance along Life’s opening pathway with a timid dread? Make sure of prayer, thence be thy courage fed, And in the midst of strife thou shalt be strong. Or do the cares of middle lifetime throng In all-absorbing force round heart and head? Make sure of prayer ! Our Master erstwhile said : “ One thing sufficeth, over-care is wrong.” Or hast thou reached old age’s twilight drear? Make sure of prayer. The die is not yet cast, In sight of port sank many a vessel fair. If thou dost hope — and hope supposes fear — If thou dost hope for God and heaven at last, In life, in death, make sure , make sure of prayer !* * This sonnet versifies a few sentences from Father Faber’s Note on Spiritual Subjects, vol. ii. , page 159. 122 THE DEAD* ( From Victor Hugo. ) H OW many gaily sing and lightly smile, Who tears, unceasing bitter tears, should shed O’er the low grave where lies the best-loved dead . — The dead who cheered life’s journey many a mile, Whose love seemed life itself one little while ! Relentless might of time’s swift, noiseless tread! What soft, forgetful moss on each green bed A very few quick passing years will pile, And, as completely as do ocean’s waves, A little grass blot out unnumber’d graves ! The dead pass quickly — peaceful let them lie In lonely quiet ’mid the circling gloom — In human hearts their memory will die Before their ashes melt within the tomb ! 123 A PROTEST* {To the Translator of the foregoing Sonnet .) A H ! wherefore, gentle Sister, make thine own Of words interpreting so ill thy heart? Not hopeless thus the yearning tears which start Into thine eyes, and not thus sad thy tone When thou recallest all the lov’d ones flown. Not thus from mem’ry do our dead depart, For Faith and Love on soaring pinion dart Up from the grassy grave to God’s own throne. Of each dear friend that’s gone, the deathless soul, Whose mortal hovel crumbles ’neath the sod, Lives on (for all were good) in heavenly rest. May Love Divine my lot with theirs enrol, And in my flesh may I behold my God ! This, this my hope is laid up in my breast.* M. R, Job xix. 27. 124 QUID RETRIBUAM. {From the Italian of Manzoni.) W HO framed the tender grassy blade, And drew from thence the fruitful ear, And through the vine’s dry tendrils made The rich life-giving juice career? ’Twas Thou who now in barter strange Takest back thine own, O great, O good, O holy One, and in exchange Bestowest Thine own Flesh and Blood. These very hearts we bring are Thine, Thy gifts — but injured in our care ; Yet Thy creative Love divine Accepts them as an offering rare ; And with the same creating breath Gives Faith that through all veils can see, And Hope that finds in heaven its death, And Love that ever reigns with Thee. 125 THE SAME THOUGHT IN ANOTHER FORM. O LORD, we bring Thee gifts already Thine ! Thy hands have stored each bending ear with grain, And sent the rich, fruit-teeming juice amain Through every branch and tendril of the vine ; Yet, when we offer Thee this Bread and Wine, As gifts Thou takestThy good things back again, And in exchange, oh, what exchange ! dost deign To give us Thine own Flesh and Blood divine ! And so, though these our hearts belong to Thee — Alas, Creator, injured in our care ! — Thou dost accept them and enkindle there Faith that through every veil of sense can see, And Hope that meets its death in vision fair, And Love that lives and reigns eternally ! 26 MATER DOLOROSA. M OTHER of Sorrows ! All earth’s myriad woes Pressed on thy heart that hour beneath the Tree, When Jesus bade thee look from Him to me ! “ Behold thy son." The simple words enclose A depth of anguish that God only knows, Such as rung out that cry of agony, “ My God, my God, can I forsaken be ?” Whose echo vibrates to creation’s close. “ Behold thy Mother From the Saviour’s Cross, From Him above, from thee thus standing by, The lesson comes : — all earthly things are dross, All vain our hearts’ one craving to supply : The loss of God, of Jesus, that is loss ! O Mother, to thy sheltering arms I fly ! 127 TO KATHLEEN MURPHY, M.A., FAUX S UCCESS is sweet, but surely sweetest found When triumph’s chorus wakes no note of pain, Because the victor holds unquestioned reign, With love far more than with the laurel crowned. Then freely may our acclamations sound, For this success seems universal gain, So hearty and unanimous the strain Of joyous gratulation circling round. God’s blessing guard you through each coming year, Keeping you happy, good, beloved as now, St. Mary’s glorious Patroness be near, — And all the saints to whom to-day we bow, Watch over, guide you with protecting love, Until you reach their Fellowship above ! Feast of All Saints, 1895. St. Mary’s University College. Merrion Square, Dublin. 128 MY THREE- O H ! lovely blossoms of a fruitful tree, Dear Aloysius, Berchmans, Stanislaus ! Sometimes, in all my love for you I pause To think how is it that I love you three. Saints nearer earth were surely best for me. But why should I thus wonder at the cause ? Is it not one of Nature’s ancient laws That like attracted by unlike should be? And so I place my special trust in you — Who are not saints, but angels, to our view — And not in those of less sublime degree. Oh ! if that other maxim’s true above, That they who love grow like to what they love, Then, blessed Brothers, make a saint of me. 2 9 MARY’S INTERCESSION. O H ! thought to set the coldest heart on fire ! Oh ! thought to cheer the most despondent breast ! A thousand times within the regions blest, — A thousand times the bright angelic choir, Have heard my name in accents of desire, To Jesus’ ear, by Mary’s lips addressed ; — And always coupled with some grand request, Some grace not all my life-toil could acquire, And with such pleading in her voice and eyes, Persuasive grace, maternal majesty, That He who ne’er her slightest wish denies — (Although the boon be far too great for me, Unworthy as He knows me), He replies : “ As Thou dost will, my Mother, let it be ! ” * * “ Not a day passes in which our Lady does not interest herself for us. A thousand times and more has she mentioned our names to God in such a sweet persuasive way that the Heart of Jesus sought not to resist it, though the things she asked were very great for such as we are.” — Faber, T he Creator and Creature. K IN MEMORIAM VERSES. 4 133 AFTER THE FUNERAL/ W INDOWS stand open, and the curious sun, That beat so long upon the blind outside, Baffled in all his efforts to peep through, Now sends his beams, like children free to play, Through every nook and crevice of the room. The air is fragrant with the breath of flowers, Yet, as I stand here silent at the door, I feel that all the real sunshine’s fled ! Cold and uncheery is the garish light, The flowers themselves are whispering of death, For round an empty bed they lie, and she, Whose quiet sleep they lately decked, is gone ! The sweet, old face, the pleasant, ready smile, The genial word, the little hearty laugh, Are things that were. We often thought of this, We often said : “ The time cannot be long Before the Master calls His faithful one, And bids her enter on her great reward Due to a long life’s service truly done. How desolate our dear old mother’s loss Will make us then ! ” And now, this time has come, * Mother Dominic O’Brien Butler died in St. Catherine’s Convent, Sion Hill, Blackrock, Co. Dublin, on the 20th February, 1883, 134 Her five-and-eighty well filled years have closed, And she has entered on the night of rest. She was amongst us like a relic left Of older, happier times, more calm and true : The dear old-fashioned ways and modes of speech, Liking for what she still would call “genteel” Courteous politeness lavished upon all, For all were deemed her betters. “I, my dear, Am but a dull old woman, far behind The present day, advise me what to do.” Then the obedience, childlike and serene, Needing no more than, “ this has been arranged ; ” The sweet and even temper, nothing dimmed, As one by one was snapped each treasured link That bound her to the active life around — When failing sight, and weak and nerveless hands, Made her vacate her long-accustomed place Before the organ, patient she would sit Listening to what must oft have been a pain, Yet ever ready with encouragement. “ So much improved to-day ! you know, my dear, Practice is all you want ; when you have had But half my practice, you will far surpass Your former mistress ” Catechism class Had next to be relinquished, hearing failed, Then Agnus Deis were plied, and knitting next, And then the days came round that brought no work, 135 But only waiting patiently and long For those that came to read to her at times. This was her greatest pleasure, yet she found Excuses ready when a reader missed. “ They have so much to do ; — the school is large ; I know they’d come, if it were possible, To a poor, blind old woman, they’re so kind : Yes, everyone is kind, and God is good. I have my beads and cross here, and the hours Pass quickly.” Ah ! but still we cannot doubt That many a lonely hour the old nun knew, Sitting there silent in her quiet room, While busy life went coursing on around, Unable to go out of doors ; to join The recreation-hour, or to pay Her cherished visits to the little choir ; Yet, not a murmur words of thankfulness Were ever on her lips. To hear her name In absent sisters’ letters, to receive A sprig of wallflower — such things as these Filled her with pleasure : she would speak of them To every casual visitor that came. Bright was her interest in all passing things, And warm her sympathy in every need. Her room was like a consecrated shrine. How often we have gone in weary there — Wearied and worried with life’s teasing cares. i3 6 And felt the calm of that sweet, simple faith A “ Sursum Corda” and come out again Nerved with new courage for the daily strife ! She never preached, but there were quiet words That sank into the heart, and did their work And then her every act was eloquent ! Now this is over, and a blank and pain Seize on me standing by the open door, Never to see her gentle smile again, To hear her kind “ Oh, welcome,” never more ! Nay, she would chide me for a word like this. We must look on and upward, and meanwhile Our dear old Mother's memory will abide A light and guide and comfort on the way ! i37 IN MEMORY OF S. R. “Requiem seternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.” I. E TERNAL rest and endless light, ” So prays, O Lord, thy Church on earth For those who wait the second birth Within the tomb’s apparent night. And is not this a prayer inspired? In simple words how much expressed ! “ Eternal light and endless rest” — What more remains to be desired ? Rest for the busy hand and brain, Rest for the weary toil-stained feet ; For the poor heart that rest complete It ever sought on earth in vain. And light — God’s primal gift of old — All life’s strange problems now explained, All knowledge without toil attained, All mysteries as a scroll unrolled. ii. “ Eternal rest and light,” we pray Around another new-made grave. Oh ! may these blessings that we crave Be hers we love and mourn to-day ! i3« Rest . How she laboured to the end ! Though health and life were waning fast, Found at her post until the last, Ready to aid, instruct, befriend ; Laying, with unction from above, Faith’s teachings deep in many a breast, And — task that sweetened all the rest — Tending the Prison-House of Love. How very few there are who could, In life so noiseless and retired, Have such wide influence acquired And found such ways of doing good. “From youth,” friends write with eyes tear-dim, “ God’s love alone, I see it now, Drew us together, and, oh ! how She helped me on my way to Him ! ” And this was true from year to year : — “ I might have more and better done, But all was done for God alone,” This was the thought that banished fear. When in her noon, as God saw best, Her service was no more required, The Master knew her crown acquired, And called her gently to her rest, 139 hi. Light . Was there not a certain gloom Upon her path from first to last, A shadow from her childhood cast, Which never left her till the tomb ? Now all is clear — in God’s embrace All ignorance hath taken flight, She sees in Heaven’s “ eternal light” Those dear unknown ones face to face. Two loving mothers she has met — To leave behind, a little space, One who had filled a father’s place, This was in death her sole regret. Yet she will bless his years to come, Now that she can at length repay, And, after life’s brief passing day, Oh, how she’ll bid him welcome home ! IV. Yes, “ rest and light,” she has them now Dear, gentle sister, we are sad To miss her from our side, yet glad The crown so soon has reached her brow. Consistent in life’s smallest deeds, St. Dominic’s truest daughter she, ’Twas fit her latest act should be To seize the dear familiar beads. 140 Faithful to friendship’s holy ties, Grateful for every kindness shown, Forgetful of herself alone, God blessed her generous sacrifice, And sent her grace in richest store, No longing of her heart denied, One wish alone unsatisfied — That she might love Him more, yet more ! Dear sister, rest in holy peace Among our household of the dead ; Around your little mossy bed Our thoughts and prayers shall never cease. Oh, aid us in our daily fight, Teach us to live for God, and then Some day not too far off, again Come lead us , too, to “ rest and light” TO SISTERS IN HEAVEN. i. U NFIT were they for this bleak world of ours, So just its sunny opening path they trod, Then, pure as spring-tide’s tender early flowers, Their happy souls went back again to God Bearing nought earthly to the angels’ sphere Except the thought of those they loved while here. ii. Unchanged this love, and, as the years go by, So swift in heaven, on our poor earth so slow, With wistful eyes from God’s glad home on high, They watch those loved ones toiling on below, And whisper hope and cheer each effort made And ever stretch strong unseen hands to aid. in. Oh ! with such faithful advocates above, Oh ! bound to heaven with such a golden chain — What can they fear — the objects of this love — The severed links that still on earth remain? They cannot doubt God would have heaven complete A love which would have made this world too sweet. 142 A CONVENT ELEGY* i. T HE young birds trill their sweetest tunes ; Like acolyte, the freshening breeze Shakes incense from the hawthorn-trees — A beauteous, tardy May in June. But listen to the sound that swells ! — A sound befitting ill the scene — That solemn dirge for what has been, The slow, sad swing of funeral bells. From out the open convent door, With cross, and chant, and murmur’d prayer, She comes into the sunny air, Comes forth to enter in no more. And through the lawn, beneath the shade, And down the garden-slopes we pass, Across the daisy-fretted grass, To where God’s human seeds are laid. The “ prodigal laburnum ” there Strews its rich treasures on the way, Urging the passer-by to pay The golden largess of a prayer. *43 Wild roses promising increase, Low beds of green, white-flowering moss, And over each a simple cross, A name, and — “ May she rest in peace ! ” ii. Of all who tranquil here a space Await ‘in faith the second birth, Not one had pressed her hand on earth, Not one had gazed upon her face. But, oh ! if eyes undimmed by sin Could pierce through heaven’s unfathom’d blue, We’d see those loved ones that we knew Welcome the little stranger in ! Maternal, sister-like they come, Their wills but echo now God’s will, Yet with sweet human interest still They “ ask a thousand things of home ! ” Now all is o’er ; we turn away To face life’s daily toil again For yet a little while, and then Our turn shall come to rest as they. Born on the soil Columba trod, Like him — the saint she loved the best — This gentle dove forsook her nest. Her home, her native land for God. 144 Reversing the decree severe Iona’s saint so meekly bore, Self-exiled he on Scotland’s shore, And she a willing exile here. in. And now she rests where o’er her clay, Upon the fitful breezes borne, The Angelas at early morn, The vesper-bell at close of day, Shall sound their sweet accustomed peals From the old convent on the hill, Where life’s quick pendulum beats still, While Time with noiseless footstep steals. And children’s voices at their play, And often in the summer time The Rosary’s familiar chime, Into God’s garden plot may stray. Oh ! echoing thy latest breath, We pray thee, little sister dear, Remember us who linger here Now, and when comes the hour of death 145 GONE TO HEAVEN. i. S HE dreaded death, she put the thought away— “ She would get better, she was not to die.” Yet, when the time drew near, she pined to fly At once to God, nor brooked an hour’s delay. He came Himself to clear the clouds away : He suffers her to gaze upon His face For one ecstatic moment’s fleeting space, And Death’s grim terrors melt like ocean’s spray. Oh ! it is ever thus with those that serve This all too bounteous, all too loving Lord : More, ah ! far more than all their meeds deserve He gives in life — and then the great reward ! And, should they tremble when the last hour’s come, He comes Himself to guide their footsteps home. ii. Yes, lay these snowdrops and these immortelles Upon her grave, for fitting types are they Of that sweet, gentle spirit passed away ; Pure, innocent with much of childhood’s spell, h 146 And yet possessed of qualities that well May keep her memory as a guiding ray To those who still toil up the darksome way In the same paths where once her footsteps fell. Unfit was she for this low world of ours, Yet so unstained its dusty pains she trod That, pure as one of Springtide’s early flowers, Her happy soul went bacK again to God, Bearing nought earthly to tn^. angels’ sphere Except the thought of those sne loved while here. 1 47 HER FIRST ANNIVERSARY. I days and weeks that somehow passed Did Winter, Spring, and Summer glide, And now with Autumn’s fall at last Comes round again the day she died. Again October breezes blow, And withered leaves bestrew the sod : With us has passed a year of woe, With her a year of joy with God. fill now, when sad remembrance woke, As seasons came, and feasts drew near, We still could say, “ ’Twas thus she spoke. Thus acted, looked, this time last year.” First Christmas, Easter, natal day, Her loving greeting was denied ; First budding spring, first golden May Dimmed by her absence from our side. But now removed a farther space, We tread the seasons round anew, With memories of that vacant place, With sense of loss no longer new. Relentless time ! Behold the breach Between us widened by a year ! No ! cheating words of human speech, We have but drawn twelve months more near. 148 Those widow’d years of lagging time, Made up of days and hours of pain, Are lengthened steps by which we climb To press her in our arms again. We cannot see from first to last, Or span the road that lies before, But o’er the ground we this year passed We’ll never have to travel more. While she far up the steep ascent Is compassed round with light sublime, Future and Past together blent In God’s own wondrous Present time ; No sorrow on her radiant brow — She weeps not e’en our tears to see, For present to her vision now Is the glad meeting that shall be. Then welcome be this parting day, More welcome as the days go by — As earthly shadows melt away, And heavenly summits dawn on high ; And far from mourning that Time’s tide Divides us from the loved ones gone, We’ll joy that closer to their side We’re drawing as the years flow on. 1 49 IN MEMORIAM. P RAY for his Soul. Pray most at Holy Mass So long the opening action of his day • To life’s perplexing cares he would not pass Without this morning sunshine on his way ; Through all his years it might be truly said — His daily Mass was as his daily bread. “ An Angel for each Mass,” St. Gertrude saith. Oh, then, what legions of the heavenly host He hath secured around his bed of death, To bring him aid when aid was wanted most ! Will they not now excite kind hearts to pray That God may take him home without delay? For now that he himself can kneel no more Before the Altar Throne, his wants to plead, He calls on all he knew and loved before To be his helpers in his hour of need. At daily Mass be mindful of his soul, And speed its flight to the Eternal Goal ! IN MEMORY OF M. T. M. October 12 th, 1881. 1. H ER Mother took her home — we cannot doubt it — While yet she knew not of the world’s hard ways, While yet her dreams were golden ones about it, While yet her days were happy, guileless days, While yet a father’s fond affection cherished, While yet a brother’s answering smile could cheer. Oh, had she lingered, while these loved ones perished, How desolate had been her portion here ! 11. Her mother took her home. She was not fitted To fight her way amid a careless crowd. Home’s sacred precincts she should ne’er have quitted, And would such privilege have been allowed ? What pangs, her nature generous and believing, What pangs her warm confiding heart was spared ! Ah, could we see through earthly mists deceiving, God cares for us as mother never cared ! hi. Her mother took her home, but here behind her Long shall the memory of her worth remain. She did the work God’s providence assigned her — How patiently she bore her weight of pain ! Grateful herself for every trivial kindness, She lavished hers on all wno were in need ; Unnoticed sometimes in youth’s thoughtless blindness, Now are recalled full many a word and deed. I V . Her mother took her home — her seventeenth birthday Is spent, we trust, within the heavenly spheres, Yet even ’mid the grand angelic mirth-lay She watches those she loves and sees their tears ; For birthday presents they were wont to send her She sends them now celestial gifts instead, Pleading, with words importunate and tender, For God’s best blessings on each cherished head. v. Her mother took her home — ah, what is living That we should mourn so much for those that go ? Eternal thanks to God these souls are giving Who early screened them from life’s sin and woe. Waste not in grief the precious time that’s fleeting, Press bravely upward in the path she trod ; Soon, very soon, shall come the joyous meeting That knows no ending, in the home of God. A REBUKE* FOR MOURNING THE DEATH OF A DEAR CHILD. ^ A H, cruel Reaper of the Flowers ! J~\_ To steal that Lily-bud of ours, Our gentle little pet ! ” — No, you of little faith, not so, — Could you but clearly see and know, You’d cease your vain regret. Yours was too delicate' a flower For earth’s cold wind and nipping shower : She would have withered here, Her loving little heart been chilled, Her sweet bright hopes all crushed and stilled In this ungenial sphere. The world was far too cold and bleak For one so loving and so meek, So gentle and so gay. How could she in this wintry soil Have borne the dust, and pain, and toil Of life’s long, weary way ? She who was touched by every breath, To whom an unkind word was death, Who seemed to live on love, 53 Who needed love’s bright atmosphere, Love’s smiles around to soothe and cheer, Love’s sunshine from above. How could she bear the world’s cold gaze, How walk its rude, rough, jarring ways ’Mid selfish crowds, at best? How pass among the heartless throng, Where each one plods his way along, Unmindful of the rest? She who loved all, and for all grieved — Would you have had her undeceived, To learn how little worth, How very little love and truth (Once we have passed all trusting youth) We find on this cold earth? Ah, no ! — ere this you have confessed He acted kindly, for the best, The Gardener of the Flowers, Transplanting her, in youth’s soft light, With her sweet petals, pure and white, Into His Father’s bowers. There, there she tastes a perfect bliss, With no desire or wish, save this, That you were all “at home ! ” 154 She and her little angel brother Oft gently whisper to each other, “ When will the others come?” Ah ! you’ve a toilsome journey yet, But still no time to grieve or fret — Too great the work and hard ! By dear-bought triumphs over sin And nature only can you win Your Lillie’s bright reward. But, courage ! Sometimes, ’mid your sighs, Lift up on high your thoughts and eyes, Gaze on the bright, blue, cloudless skies, So tranquil, calm, and fair — And think : “ Amid the heavenly bowers, Among God’s choice and cherished flowers, There blooms a blossom once was ours — Our Lillie waits us there ! ” » ! 55 A PERFECT SOUL. S CARCE touching earth, she lived for many a year — God treated her as those He loves the best : Each cross He sent clasped closely to her breast Was her own secret ; we could scarcely hear The whispered fiat, could behold no tear Save those for others, for her heart was pressed With tender sympathy for all distressed, While in each joy her gentle smile would cheer. Heroic struggle, ah ! too bravely waged ! Death had to come to ease that self-control. Now while by prayer our grief is best assuaged (’Tis cruel to neglect the holiest soul) By her example let our lives be gauged, And let us strive more nobly for her goal. 156 ON THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF A DEATH r WO years since he departed — two brief years ! And suns have set and risen ; seasons came : Earth wound her course ; life sped ; all seemed the same, And we have had our smiles since, aye and tears For other thoughts than his ; and hopes and fears, Projects and plans, have filled both mind and heart In which he had no voice and took no part — And (strange) how natural it all appears! Could we have fancied once it could be so ? Not that he is forgotten — ten times No! Daily regrets, true, heart-felt, he has had ; Few leave such real mourners to deplore Their going hence — what can I ask for more ? In truth I know not, yet it makes me sad. *57 CHRISTMAS. S ADLY at Christmas time we know Come back the thoughts of long ago, Grey cheerless ghosts of treasures fled, Dim shades and echoes of the dead ! Yet on this Christmas Day, dear friend, Let holy joy with sadness blend. Though dark the world for you and me, We’ll hail the Christmas yet to be ! On earth indeed we ne’er may know The human joys of long ago, But oh ! in Heaven’s serener sphere They joy the most that sorrowed here ! — And there already safe and blest, Our loved and lost together rest, While like sweet blessings round us fall Their Christmas wishes for us all ! 158 ON NEWMAN'S “CHURCH OF THE FATHERS/' I T was reserved for later time And for a harsher northern clime To see these several graces blent : Origen’s penetrating mind, Grave Basil’s strength of will, combined With heart as Nazianzen’s kind, Tongue as Chrysostom’s eloquent ; Pen that with Clement’s own had vied, A sway more lasting far and wide Than e’en of Denis’ self they sing ; Trials alike from foe and friend, Injustice — triumph in the end, Like his, the oak that would not bend, Alexandria’s prelate king ! 159 NO LONGER ** WAITING FOR THE MAY"* A LL his patient life he waited, Waited for the May : — When the airy heights he builded, When the golden beams that gilded, Fading from his path belated, Left it cold and gray — Still with trustful heart he waited, Waited for the May. Oh, his heart was made for gladness, Made for sunny May, Like the joyous songbirds singing, Like the tender flowers upspringing : Nought should he have known of sadness All along life’s way — Yet what human heart has had less Of the joys of May ? Now at last his eyes elated Gaze on heaven’s own May, All his long-sought hopes have found him * Denis Florence MacCarthy, the father of Sister Mary Stanislaus, died on Good Friday, April 7th, 1883. The most popular of his lyrics is “Waiting for the May,” of which these verses imitate the metre. i6o With his darling treasures round him All his weary longings sated, There he dwells for aye. Ah ! he sees *twas well he waited — Waited for the May !