Book. 'JP^^M\':b 
 
 Copyright N"- 
 
 aoa 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
A MARTYR 
 
 OF THE 
 
 MOHAWK VALLEY 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 P. J. COLEMAN 
 
 ' ,,' 
 
 The Messenger Press 
 
 27 AND 29 WEST I 6th STREEl 
 new YORK 
 
 c 
 
THE LtbRARYOF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Tv*o Copies Received 
 
 WAY i 1903 
 
 Copyright Entry 
 CLA96 a^ XXcTNo. 
 
 COPY e. 
 
 /9a :i 
 
 Copyright, 1902. 
 By Thb Mbssbnokr 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Harp vEolian 5 
 
 A Martyr of the Mohawk Valley 6 
 
 The Rose 15 
 
 To Joan in Heaven 20 
 
 -Shamrock Time 26 
 
 The'Mendicant 29 
 
 The Dream^f Colossus 30 
 
 The Widow's Mite 34 
 
 Joubert 36 
 
 Off Picket 39 
 
 A Spring-time Prayer 40 
 
 The Madonna of the Angel 41 
 
 Mustered Out 45 
 
 To the Sea-wind 47 
 
 The Sister of Charity 49 
 
 The Paschal Joy 52 
 
 In Memoriam— Sara Trainer Smith 54 
 
 Fragment 55 
 
 Afield 56 
 
 Coeli Enarrant Gloriam Dei 59 
 
 Noon 60 
 
 Sunset 61 
 
 Thermopylae to Spion Kop 62 
 
 The Rifles of DeWet 63 
 
 •The Cricket 65 
 
 What Answer ? • 66 
 
 Ghosts 67 
 
 Hie Jacet 68 
 
 Change 69 
 
 The Festival of Blood 70 
 
 Harvest Home . , , , , , 72 
 
 3 
 
4 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Autumnal 75 
 
 The Swallows 78 
 
 Saint Nathy's Land 80 
 
 Bethlehem 82 
 
 Christ With Us 83 
 
 Winter 85 
 
 Love's Gift 86 
 
 Adrift 87 
 
 The Vespers of the Slain 88 
 
 May Eve 93 
 
 The Old Boreen 97 
 
 Lullaby 99 
 
 Brian Bwee 100 
 
 The Dead Mother 102 
 
 • The Cry of the Gael 104 
 
 The Dream-Tryst 106 
 
 My Saint . . • • 107 
 
 The Soldiers of the Celt 109 
 
 The Test iii 
 
 The Irish Brigade . 112 
 
 Rochambeau 113 
 
 Gettysburg 114 
 
 Potter's Field 115 
 
 Inspiration 116 
 
 Miriam 117 
 
 Love's Sweet Petitioner 118 
 
 Pan or Christ 119 
 
 In Memoriam — Rev. Stephen Joseph Perry, S.J., F.R.S., 
 
 F.R.A.S „ 121 
 
 Ireland — 1902 122 
 
 The Bridal of Michael-mas Eve 124 
 
 Homeward 129 
 
 Katherine Tegakwita— The Lily of the Mohawks 132 
 
A HARP AEOLIAN. 
 
 Lord ! let Thy spirit breathe on me, 
 
 And I, a harp AeoHan, 
 Shall murmur with the praise of Thee 
 
 And hymn Thy mercies unto man. 
 
 Sweep Thou the chords of life and thrill 
 With lauds of Thee my spirit's lute, 
 
 To sing Thy love, to do Thy will; 
 Or else let me be wholly mute ! 
 
A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY. 
 
 (father ISAAC JOGUES, SJ., THE MARTYR MISSIONARY 
 
 OF THE MOHAWKS, SLAIN OCTOBER l8, 1646, 
 
 AT THE INDIAN CASTLE OF OSSERNENON, 
 
 NOW AURIESVILLE, ON THE MOHAWK.) 
 
 I. 
 
 The sunset dwindles in the darkening West, 
 Empurpling shadows mantle hill and vale; 
 
 A soft light haloes Ossernenon's crest, 
 Where mounts the moonrise pale. 
 
 The land is lulled save for the night-owl's flight, 
 The torrent moaning in the deep ravine. 
 
 The multitudinous murmur of the night 
 From grass and forest green. 
 
 The palisaded village lies in peace, 
 
 The swarthy brave dreams not of war's alarms. 
 When shall I taste, O Jesu ! sweet surcease 
 
 From sorrow in Thine arms? 
 
 When shall I find the solace that I seek? 
 
 For howsoe'er the spirit, Lord, be fain 
 To suffer for Thy sake, the flesh is weak 
 
 And, shuddering, shrinks from pain. 
 6 
 
A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 7 
 
 11. 
 
 Thou knowest, Lord, I have not scorned to bear 
 The bitter burden of Thy chastening cross, 
 
 Nor shirked of all that men hold sweet and dear 
 The sacrifice and loss : 
 
 Friends, fortune, fame, my country and my kin. 
 Ambition's dream, the beckoning hopes of youth, 
 
 To lead this nation from the night of sin 
 To the bright morn of truth. 
 
 So sweet it is to suffer for Thy sake. 
 So sweet to win one pagan soul to Thee, 
 
 One bondsman's chains of ignorance to break, 
 To set one captive free; 
 
 To lead one sinner to salvation's goal, 
 Tho' thrice ten thousand suffered sacrifice 
 
 Of life itself, of that one pagan soul 
 It were not worth the price. 
 
 III. 
 
 For this I sought the savage Iroquois; 
 
 For, so we rest, O Lord of love, in Thee, 
 Thy heart our home, Thy will our sovran law. 
 
 What matter where we be? 
 
8 A MARTYR Oh THE MOHAWK VALLEY 
 
 For this I've borne the torture and the stake, 
 Stripes, hunger, hardship, nakedness and shame, 
 
 Rejoicing, Lord, to suffer for Thy sake 
 And glorify Thy name. 
 
 Now, weak and worn, with torment torn and wreck'd, 
 I hide within the shelter of Thine arm ; 
 
 For Thou art still more powerful to protect 
 Than savage foes to harm. 
 
 Nay, in the Martyr's death I would rejoice, 
 My blood to Thee, O Christ ! would freely give, 
 
 So these, the dusky children of my choice, 
 To Thee in grace might live. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One golden day doth all my darkness pierce, 
 One memory shineth starlike in my gloom — 
 
 The fires were lit, the Mohawk warriors fierce 
 Pronounced on us the doom. 
 
 My captive comrades clomb the torture-stage; 
 
 They knelt to sate the captors' wrath in blood. 
 One made a sign — an old man white with age — 
 
 I saw and understood. 
 
A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 9 
 
 Beside him lay, to ease his hunger's pain, 
 
 A stalk of maize ; sparse dewdrops hung thereon — • 
 
 Bright gems wherewith to Thee from Satan's chain 
 His ransomed soul I won. 
 
 I poured the dewdrops from my hollowed hand 
 In rite baptismal on the Huron's head. 
 
 First Saint and Martyr of this pagan land, 
 His bright soul heavenward fled. 
 
 V. 
 
 The blood of martyrs is of faith the seed : 
 We've ploughed in grief, and sown with sigh and 
 tear — 
 
 Lord, shall our Christian heroes vainly bleed, 
 Nor any fruit appear? 
 
 My Rene perished at the fortress gate; 
 
 The blow that felled him gave the martyr's crown. 
 Three days I hid me from the warriors' hate. 
 
 Then, darkling, left the town. 
 
 I laid him where the golden sunbeams slant 
 
 'Twixt willow bough and slender maple stem ; 
 
 The torrent sings ; the pines, in priestly chant, 
 Entone his requiem. 
 
lO A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 
 
 The ground whereon he poured his precious veins 
 Not fruitless, aye, nor fallow. Lord, shall be; 
 
 Such field, made fertile by such heavenly rains. 
 Shall blossom yet for Thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Forbid us. Lord, to question or repine! 
 
 Some day, when all the destined days are run, 
 The world shall know Thy purpose all divine. 
 
 Thy will, not ours, be done ! 
 
 If seeming failure wait upon our toil, 
 To sow the seed be ours the chosen hand ; 
 
 In Thy good time along the teeming soil 
 The harvest ripe shall stand. 
 
 Poor race of men ! All flesh, we know, is grass 
 That grows to fall beneath the sickle's stroke. 
 
 The dusky warrior of the wild shall pass 
 Like his own wigwam's smoke — 
 
 Shall vanish like the vision of a dream 
 And only leave a memory and name 
 
 Where yonder winds his paradisal stream ; 
 But Thou art aye the same. 
 
A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY H 
 VII. 
 
 The future dawns in glory on mine eyes — 
 The' war shall waste and scorching vengeance scathe 
 
 Yon holy hill, upon it shall arise 
 Bright sanctuaries of faith. 
 
 Yea! for in vision I have seen it crowned 
 With pillared domes and alabaster piles ; 
 
 And years unborn shall gird its holy ground 
 With consecrated aisles. 
 
 When pensive twilight walks the valley sweet 
 Where ringeth now the Indian's whoop and yell, 
 
 Oft shall the bells of Angelus repeat 
 The words of Gabriel. 
 
 Yea! for while yonder smiling river runs 
 By bloody trails Thy martyrs' feet have trod. 
 
 Thy children here shall chant their orisons 
 To Thee, Eternal God ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lord ! Thou art light in midnight's deepest dark, 
 Refreshment cool in noonday's burning heat; 
 
 Thou'rt with me in my lodge of birchen bark, 
 And straightway pain grows sweet. 
 
12 A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 
 
 We chased the deer when Autumn woods were red ; 
 
 By flaming forests wound the tortuous trail ; 
 At night I groaned upon my fevered bed ; 
 
 My faith began to fail. 
 
 Sore throbbed my wounds ; the stars shone thick above, 
 Like swarming fireflies in a field of maize. 
 
 I felt the healing comfort of Thy love, 
 And sang aloud Thy praise. 
 
 The warriors heard, they left the pipe and dance; 
 
 Like ghosts they gathered in the moonlight dim. 
 They knelt, the while I saw Thee, Lord, in trance. 
 
 And swelled the forest hymn. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oft in the night when sings the whip-poor-will 
 And far away the gray wolf 'gins to bark, 
 
 Unseen I pass from Ossernenon's hill 
 And gain the forest dark. 
 
 There at the cross within that dim retreat — 
 The cross I carved upon the fragrant pine — 
 
 With Christ, my King, I hold communion sweet 
 In ecstasy divine. 
 
A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 13 
 
 Last night, methought I heard an angel choir, 
 I faring home, sing o'er the hill in flight ; 
 
 And all its summit, lit with mystic fire, 
 Shone lamplike in the night. 
 
 So may it in the golden years to be 
 Amid a world of darkness brightly shine — 
 
 A lamp to lead the hearts of men to Thee 
 With light of faith divine! 
 
 X. 
 
 Yestreen the sachems murmured at debate ; 
 
 They railed at Christ, His cross, my country, France. 
 The young men slew me with their eyes of hate, 
 
 The maidens looked askance. 
 
 To-day they bade me to the fatal feast ; 
 
 Beside the threshold lurks the treacherous foe. 
 Have mercy. Lord, upon Thy faithful priest ! 
 
 They call me, and I go. 
 
 Oh ! is mine hour of manumission come ? 
 
 And shall I lean, like John, upon Thy breast ? 
 And wilt Thou call the weary captive home, 
 
 Forevermore to rest? 
 
14 A MARTYR OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY 
 
 For their souls' sake I give my blood to Thee, 
 Nor at the last forsake me, sweetest Friend! 
 
 Into Thy hands, O Christ of Calvary ! 
 My spirit I commend. 
 
THE ROSE. 
 (suggested by the picture, "the last token/' nY 
 
 GABRIEL MAX.) 
 
 Glory and praise to Christ, our Sovran King I 
 
 Emparadised with them that bear the palm, 
 Before the Lord of Hosts I stand and sing 
 
 For thee, Beloved mine, the victor's psalm. 
 In watches of the night serene and calm 
 
 Thou knowest not I visit thee in sleep, 
 Thy spirit's wounds in poppied peace to balm 
 
 When slumber sealeth weary eyes that weep. 
 
 Sweet was our home by Almo's placid streams, 
 
 Thrice sweet the love of plighted maid and youth, 
 Twain hearts that ranged one realm of golden dreams, 
 
 But sweeter, dearer far were Christ and truth. 
 Dear was the dream, aye, beautiful in sooth, 
 
 Of that glad day that was to crown me bride, 
 Till came the Roman steeled to tears of ruth, 
 
 And tore me thence. Beloved, from thy side. 
 
 But I rejoiced, albeit the pulse of life 
 
 Ran virginal and rosy in my veins, 
 Nor now for ever might I call me wife. 
 
 And on my vision rose the martyr's pains. 
 
 15 
 
1 6 THE ROSE 
 
 But welcome were the dungeon and its chains 
 For Him, who for our souls' redemption died. 
 
 For what were life and all its joys and gains 
 With treason to the Holy Crucified? 
 
 Before their priests and judges me they brought, 
 
 And there with bribe and threat alternate strove 
 From Peter's Christ to woo my virgin thought. 
 
 With "Incense to Diana and to Jove"! 
 I wavered when they spoke of wedded love, 
 
 For all my spirit's tenderness to thee 
 Ebbed in full flood, but steadfast still above 
 
 I fixed my faith on Christ of Calvary. 
 
 They flung me in the Mamertine. What then? 
 
 Have shackles power o'er spirit? Can they bind 
 The will, or earthward curb the souls of men ? 
 
 Or cramp the subtle, immaterial mind ? 
 Ah, no, for wild, and free as is the wind, 
 
 Yea, fetterless as wing? of sea-birds are 
 Mine every thought, Beloved, fled to find 
 
 Thee in thine olive-nestled home afar. 
 
 One trial more, most terrible and last, 
 One test supreme and all was safely o'er. 
 
 Me, in my purpose rooted firm and fast, 
 The minions of the dread tribunal bore 
 
THE ROSE 17 
 
 To martyrdom. Beside the Tiber's shore, 
 Within the bloody Circus me they cast. 
 
 "The Christians to the lions" ! roar on roar 
 The tumult mounted, and we stood aghast. 
 
 Imperial sport ! 'Neath night's empurpled dome, 
 
 To glut them on her cruelty and shame, 
 From all her hills earth's haughty mistress, Rome, 
 
 Poured youth and sire, patrician, priest and dame. 
 With jesting scorn and laughter loud they came ; 
 
 The dim arena echoed to their shout ; 
 While shuddering maidens at the stakes aflame 
 
 Blazed all that angel-haunted gloom about. 
 
 From tier on tier out rang their rude applause 
 
 To see the virgin victims of their hate 
 Within the amphitheatre's bloody jaws. 
 
 A fiercer howl of rage infuriate ! 
 The ravening lions bellowing at the gate! 
 
 Then silence, and again that savage roar ! 
 The bolts are drawn — the lions leap to sate 
 
 Their maddening hunger on the Christians' gore. 
 
 As one adream I heard the strident jar, 
 
 The rattling bolt, the grating's iron clank, 
 
 The sullen growl, the clash of brazen bar; 
 Then, as against the wall aswoon I shrank 
 
1 8 THE ROSE 
 
 Beneath that host of faces rank on rank, 
 
 Down like a dove, from thy dear hand, my sweet, 
 
 From far above a red rose fluttering sank 
 And lay, love's fragrant token, at my feet. 
 
 One lightning glance, one lingering look of love 
 
 I flashed aloft and kissed thee over space ; 
 For there. Beloved, leaning from above, 
 
 I glimpsed the pallid beauty of thy face. 
 For thou hadst come unto the cruel place, 
 
 Yea, followed me with tender love and true 
 And flung thy rose before the populace. 
 
 To prove thee Christ's, bathed in baptismal dew. 
 
 Then with a smile I rose and conquered death ; 
 
 The struggle's o'er, the conflict past and done. 
 What matters now the lion's stifling breath ? 
 
 The palm's attained, the golden halo won. 
 White-robed before the Father and the Son 
 
 I stand amid the choirs of martyrdom. 
 My love thy light on earth, beloved one ! 
 
 Till to the heavenly bridal thou shalt come. 
 
 In watches of the night serene and calm 
 Thou knowest not I visit thee in sleep, 
 
 Thy spirit's wounds with poppied peace to balm, 
 When slumber sealeth weary eyes that weep. 
 
THE ROSE 
 
 Nor long hast thou earth's pilgrimage to keep ; 
 
 But when thy soul shall cleave the stellar fires, 
 Oh, how my soul in ecstasy shall leap 
 
 To bid thee welcome to the heavenly choirs ! 
 
TO JOAN IN HEAVEN. 
 
 And all the priests and friars in the realm 
 Shall in procession sing her endless praise. 
 
 No longer on St. Denis will we cry, 
 But Joan la Pncelle shall he France's saint. 
 — Shakespeare, Henry VI, Act I, Scene 6. 
 
 The lips that curse to-day the hero's fall 
 
 To-morrow vote him laurels and applause ; 
 Impartial Time doth justice unto all, 
 
 No blindfold goddess she, of erring laws. 
 Four hundred years of slander shrink dismayed 
 
 Beneath the shrivelling fervor of her glance, 
 And lo ! with praise of thee, O shepherd maid ! 
 
 Resound the stately sanctuaries of France. 
 
 For what is death, that men should fear to lose 
 
 The labored drawing of a little breath? 
 Or what is life, that coward men should choose 
 
 Its lease of pain before heroic death ? 
 Thy country grovelled 'neath the tyrant's yoke, 
 The Vision called, the Heavenly voices spoke. 
 And faring forth without or doubt or pause 
 'Twas thine to crown with victory her cause. 
 
 Yet, oh, 'twas sweet amid the morning dews 
 To range a-forest with thy lambs and ewes ; 
 20 
 
ro JOAN IN HE A VEN 2 i 
 
 To watch the punctual miracle of spring 
 
 And all the mystery of the blossoming 
 
 Of violets, and claim sweet sisterhood 
 
 With finch and linnet and the winged brood 
 
 Of tuneful things in old Domremy's wood ; 
 
 Or, when the wind, musician weird, awoke 
 
 The pealing organs of the pine and oak. 
 
 There, awed in trance of reverence, to hear 
 
 The waft of angel pinions hovering near. 
 
 And sweeter far were distaff to thy hand 
 
 Than gauntlet or the grip of battle-brand, 
 
 And homelier were the feel of woven stuiT 
 
 To thy soft breast than iron corselet rough. 
 
 But oh, when Conscience like a clarion spoke. 
 
 And on thy soul the voice of duty broke. 
 
 Obedient, in meek, unquestioning faith. 
 
 To rise and leave all these and march to death, 
 
 This — surely this — were sweet for country's sake ; 
 
 Yea, welcome e'en the dungeon and the stake ; 
 
 Or through the fierce Gethsemane of fire 
 
 To snatch the martyr's laurel from the pyre. 
 
 But oh, to fall and have his country doubt 
 
 His innocence; or, worse, 
 When flash the flames, above his murderers' shout 
 
 To catch his country's curse, 
 This is the patriot's crowning pang, 
 More poignant than the poisonous foeman's fang. 
 
22 TO JOAN IN HE A VEN 
 
 Yet not in vain 
 Didst thou the bitter dregs of anguish drain, 
 And pledge to Christ and France thy virgin veins. 
 Where now are grasping England's chains? 
 No smallest link upon thy land remains ; 
 Gone with thy judges and thy murderers, 
 
 And they were hers. 
 Yea, many a cause and many a leader since 
 Have bowed the head to Death, the sov'reign prince. 
 And where they rose shall others yet arise 
 And with ephemeral fancies snare men's eyes 
 And have their little day and pass again. 
 
 New hours demand new men. 
 
 And wise is he indeed 
 Who sees and shapes new ends to meet new need. 
 But all shall be as grass of yesterday, 
 While France is greater far than they ; 
 And France remains and suppliant seeks thine aid, 
 With hands outstretched to thee, O Martyr Maid ! 
 
 For ancient feuds, old passions and old hates 
 Watch at her walls and prowl about her gates. 
 And deadlier foes and subtler shapes of sin 
 Lurk at her hearth and plot her ruin within. 
 Sons recreant, devising blight and curse. 
 With wiles insidious would her heart divorce 
 
TO JOAN IN HE A VEN 23 
 
 From all that made her glorious and great 
 
 And raised her to her proud estate — 
 From truth and honor, and her wise belief 
 
 In justice, of all virtues chief. 
 For, walking humbly in the eyes of God, 
 
 France aye held Empire's rod ; 
 And kneeling, reverent, at Our Lady's feet 
 And drawing thence all heavenly virtue sweet, 
 France aye has been the France of high renown, 
 Sceptered with love and wearing honor's crown. 
 
 From that bright place of glory thou hast won. 
 
 Rapt in the vision of the Sire and Son, 
 
 In this dark hour that menaces thy land, 
 
 Above her hearthstones stretch protecting hand ! 
 
 'Gainst impious men who forth from school and shrine 
 
 Would scourge thy Christ and in the fields of France 
 
 Would raze thy Christ's sweet empery divine, 
 
 Oh, gird thee now with new deliverance! 
 
 Thy virtues emulating and thy fame 
 
 By hearths that burn with Chastity's pure flame, 
 
 The maids and matrons of thy land beseech 
 
 Thee o'er their homes thy shield of love to reach. 
 
 For blest that land and armor'd against ill 
 
 Where civic virtues wait on woman's will, 
 
 Where reverent manhood worships wife or maid 
 
 Queen-like in holy purity arrayed. 
 
24 TO JOAN IN HE A VEN 
 
 She, fenced around by chivalry, perchance 
 May suffer, but she cannot suffer long, 
 Nor, wronged, be victnn of enduring wrong. 
 
 Such happy land is France. 
 And, lifting high truth's oriflamme, behold 
 
 Her phalanx'd daughters, God-inspired, stand, 
 As thou 'gainst tyrant England didst -of old, 
 To drive dishonor from their honored land. 
 And, patient long and kindling slow 
 To wrath, their hearts for Christ aglow, 
 About His altars menaced by the law. 
 At woman's 'best her sons devoted draw. 
 While these love virtue, oh, she cannot fall, 
 Mother of Chivalry, beloved Gaul. 
 
 For not in spoil of sea or soil 
 
 Or ships on ocean waters 
 A nation thrives, but in the lives 
 
 Of noble sons and daughters. 
 While these shall last, in honor fast, 
 
 The happy land shall flourish ; 
 Nor foes prevail, but when they fail 
 
 Then laws and peoples perish. 
 
 But thou above thine ancient land 
 Wilt stretch in patronage thy hand. 
 For howso'er disguised in snowy fleece, 
 Christ's watchdogs lulling into perilous peace. 
 
TO JOAN^ \IN HE A VEN 25 
 
 The wolves of Hell upon Christ's fold would prey, 
 And shepherds false would lead astray 
 Christ's lambs in error's devious way, 
 
 The heart of France, as in her ardent youth. 
 Throbs still for Christ and Truth. 
 
 And from a thousand shrines thy people's love 
 
 Like incense rises to thy feet above, 
 
 Beseeching thee in humblest suppliance 
 To ward from harm thy France. 
 
 Thy country's sin, the insult and the shame, 
 The scafifold's doom, the faggot and the flame — 
 All these shall pass and be remembered not ; 
 Fair Charity with kindly tears shall blot 
 From France's shield the black, corroding stain, 
 Caught from thy blood, O Lily of Lorraine! 
 Thy land, so fair, of life shall be bereft 
 
 Nor smallest trace be left 
 
 To after years to tell 
 
 That Freedom once had here her choicest citadel ; 
 The hero's heart shall lose its thirst for fame 
 And truth be dead and virtue but a name, 
 Ere men shall cease to honor thee who gave 
 
 To France, to Liberty, to Truth — 
 In battle's bloodiest breaches undismayed, 
 'Neath insult meek, in persecution brave — 
 
 Thy love, thy life, thy stainless youth, 
 O Virgin, Patriot and Martyr Maid ! 
 
J 
 
 SHAMROCK TIME. 
 
 'Tis shamrock time, and the wild, wise swallow 
 
 Pursues the Summer on eager wmg. 
 Now April woos them, and all things follow, 
 
 Take flight and follow the feet of Spring. 
 But we, in stranger lands sojourning, 
 
 Like fledglings far from their forest nest. 
 Are filled with mourning and wild heart-yearning 
 To the soft green isle of the golden west. 
 Oh, my heart doth follow 
 The sweet spring swallow, 
 As it wings its way o'er the ocean foam, 
 Where the shamrock's springing, 
 The thrush is singing 
 His song of spring in my Irish home. 
 
 Earth's deep heart answers to-day with laughter, 
 
 But we, we only, nor laugh nor smile ; 
 For we are fain to follow after 
 
 The v/ild wind winging unto our isle. 
 To-day down many a leafy alley 
 
 The whitethorn blossom is odorous ; 
 O'er many a violet-purpled valley 
 The lark is singing, but not for us. 
 And my heart doth follow 
 The sweet spring swallow, 
 26 
 
SHAMROCK TIME 27 
 
 As it wings its way o'er the ocean foam, 
 
 Where the shamrock's springing, 
 
 The thrush is singing 
 His song of Spring in my Irish home. 
 
 "Oh! fair," ye say, "was the land our mother;" 
 
 Her smile was sweet, but it was not ours ; 
 We sowed the vineyard and vale, another 
 
 Sat as lord in her children's towers. 
 Her love was mild, but another claimed it ; 
 They took the harvest, 'twas ours the toil ; 
 Her name was fair, but her foes defamed it ; 
 We ploughed, but a stranger held the soil. 
 Yet my heart doth follow 
 The sweet spring swallow, 
 As it wings its way o'er the ocean foam. 
 Where the shamrock's springing, 
 The thrush is singing 
 His song of spring in my Irish home. 
 
 Small share have we in the stranger's city, 
 The scoff of scorn and the stony street, 
 
 There's never a kindly glance of pity, 
 Our tears embitter the bread we eat. 
 
 We sing no song, but in dreams we follow, 
 Take flight and follow, or bond or free, 
 
 The seaward sweep of the wild, wise swallow, 
 
28 SHAMROCK TIME 
 
 The west wind winging to lands o'er sea. 
 
 Oh, my heart doth follow 
 
 The sweet spring swallow, 
 As it wings its way o'er the ocean foam, 
 
 Where the shamrock's springing, 
 
 The thrush is singing 
 The song of spring in my Irish home. 
 
THE MENDICANT. 
 
 I met Him to-day in the wintry street, 
 
 The Christ on the cross who died, 
 All hungered and cold in the wind and sleet, 
 With bleeding forehead and hands and feet, 
 And I blindly thrust Him aside. 
 
 Had He only come with the crown of thorn 
 
 And the nail-prints ruby-red ; 
 Had the palms that pleaded for alms but worn 
 Their wounds, I had not put by in scorn 
 
 His piteous plea for bread. 
 
 But idly now and all in vain 
 
 I grieve for the grace gone by, 
 And muse, ''Might He only come again 
 I'd pity His plea and ease His pain 
 
 And hearken unto His cry." 
 
 Nay, nay, for the blind distinguisheth 
 The King in his robe and crown ; 
 
 But only the humble eye of faith 
 
 Beholdeth Jesus of Nazareth 
 In the beggar's tattered gown. 
 
 I saw Him not in the mendicant 
 
 And I heeded not His cry. 
 Now Christ in His infinite mercy grant 
 That the prayer I say in my day of want 
 
 Be not in scorn put by. 
 
 39 
 
THE DREAM OF COLOSSUS. 
 
 " The highest practical ideal was to workfoj' the imity of the 
 English-speaking race, in order that, being U7iited, it might 
 extend over all the world the beneficejit influe7ice luhich * this 
 best of races ' . . . . exercised for Justice, Liberty, and 
 Peace among the inhabitants of this planet.'' — William T. 
 Stead on Cecil John Rhodes. 
 
 " The sacred duty of taking the responsibility of the still 
 imcivilized pa7'ts of the world .... Poiiugal, Persia, 
 even Spain .... and, of course, the whole of the South 
 American Republics^ — Cecil John Rhodes. 
 
 This is the hymn of the EngHsh race, rising up from 
 
 the reeking veldt ; 
 Be mute and listen, ye peoples base — Frank and Teu- 
 ton and Slav and Celt! 
 This is the song of jubilee, chanted loud on the fields 
 
 of war: 
 "High Priests of the Most High God are we, anointed 
 
 to bear the light afar 
 Of the star that shone over Bethlehem to hail the 
 
 birth of the Prince of Peace, 
 Who healing had in His garment's hem and brought 
 
 of suffering sweet surcease! 
 We will not falter nor flinch nor fail in the task God 
 
 set to our mighty hands 
 Till the tongue of the English race prevail and our 
 
 empire girdle the heathen lands ; 
 
 30 
 
THE DREAM OF COLOSSUS 31 
 
 Till the flag of Trade and the truce of Love shall link 
 
 the nations of north and south, 
 And Peace aUght like a brooding dove and build her 
 
 nest in the cannon's moutli." 
 And the guns re-echo the impious strain, and the wail 
 
 of the widow rises loud 
 Where the veldt is red with the battle's rain, where the 
 
 Tagal sleeps in his crimson shroud. 
 But the patient God refrains to smite, tho' the lurid 
 
 bolts of His anger glow 
 To leap through the purple deeps of night and shrivel 
 
 the race of man below. 
 For new gods reign of a newer creed, and the image 
 
 of Christ is in the dust, 
 And they preach new gospels of gain and greed, and 
 
 worship self with the rites of lust. 
 And Gold is lord of the market-place, and Hate sits 
 
 throned in the tyrant's heart. 
 And Justice veileth her virgin face and shrinks 
 
 abashed from the brawling mart. 
 And Mercy hideth in fens and caves, and vultures of 
 
 force and 'falsehood gnaw 
 The bones that whiten on freemen's graves ; for 
 
 Wrong is master and Might is law. 
 But ye who grovel in dust and raise your idols false 
 
 in the street and mart, 
 Go ! preach your gospel of blood and lust to the sensu- 
 alist's sordid heart! 
 
32 THE DREAM OF COLOSSUS 
 
 Go forth in the cause of Bond and Stock; the weak 
 
 despoil in the holy name 
 Of the gentle Christ whom ye scourge and mock and 
 
 nail each day to the cross of shame. 
 Go! force your laws on the heathen blind in the name 
 
 of Him whom your lives blaspheme ! 
 There are other Gods than your Saxon kind, there are 
 
 other dreams than your Saxon dream. 
 
 What prize we to-day of passionate Greece ? A marble 
 
 torso, a temple's frieze. 
 She sleeps with the dead, but her lightning soul out- 
 leaps on the lips of Demosthenes. 
 Who careth now for the kings she quelled ? From the 
 
 mind of man they are passed and gone. 
 But the world's true heart is captive yet to the classic 
 
 grace of her Parthenon. 
 Rome's spectre flits with the past's pale ghosts, but 
 
 her sun-like splendors ever shine 
 And we catch the tramp of her haughty hosts in the 
 
 golden thunder of Virgil's line. 
 Her sceptre proud of the seas shall pass, her empire 
 
 fade like a blown-out flame, 
 And England's glory shrink at last to the single star of 
 
 Shakespeare's name. 
 And her Kings shall fail and the towers they pile to 
 
 shrine their fame, and their names be hid 
 
FHE DREAM OF COLOSSUS 33 
 
 With the noteless monarchs who raised by Nile the 
 
 empty pride of the pyramid. 
 For the dead are dead and are soon forgot, but the 
 
 great deed lives, and the hero's name 
 And the poet's dream are the lamps of earth and star 
 
 the dusk of the years with flame. 
 
 Blind, blind ! for profit your souls who pawn, and over 
 your lying ledgers gloze ! 
 
 Ye see not the miracle of the dawn, the Godhead hid 
 in the heart of a rose. 
 
 O prince of commerce! O consol-king! O dividend- 
 despot! your pride shall pass 
 
 When the Lord shall come to the harvesting, and flesh 
 shall be to His scythe as grass. 
 
 When the trump of doom to His threshing-floor bids 
 the nations gather in shroud and sheet. 
 
 And the winds of His wrath in judgment roar, to win- 
 now the chafif from the golden wheat ; 
 
 Then, then, O then, shall the simple heart and the peas- 
 ant's faith and the deed of love 
 
 Outshine your trophies of mine and mart, as jewels set 
 in God's crown above. 
 
THE WIDOW'S MITE. 
 
 In princely pomp, with cold disdainful pride 
 
 That scorned God's poor with loathing and with 
 curse, 
 
 The Publican unto the Temple hied 
 
 And in God's treasure poured his golden purse. 
 
 One on the Temple's threshold begged for alms. 
 
 With ''O Rabboni! Pity me, I pray!" 
 He heeded not, blind to the pleading palms, 
 
 And hard of heart went proudly on his way. 
 
 But to the Temple came in lowly guise 
 
 One who the Lord her length of days adored — 
 
 A widow meek, who stood with downcast eyes 
 And in God's name gave of her meager hoard. 
 
 "Mine offering poor deign. Master, to behold. 
 
 Unworthy of Thy majesty divine! 
 But, oh, were mine earth's jewels or its gold, 
 
 How gladly. Lord! my love would make it thine!" 
 
 "Tho' scant my store, the poor of it partake ; 
 
 For Thee I give them of my humble fare. 
 Tho' pinched my lot, yet Master, for Thy sake 
 
 With them that thirst my water-cup I share !" 
 
 34 
 
THE WIDOW'S MITE 35 
 
 Then, lo ! a voice from heaven that seemed to drift 
 Whispered anear, "God's blessing on thy mite ! 
 
 'Tis love, not worth, that consecrates the gift 
 And makes it precious in the Master's sight!" 
 
 "Since thou hast given unto God above, 
 
 Thy guerdon shall be great a hundred-fold. 
 
 The pittance, proffered in the name of Love, 
 
 In His just scales, outweighs earth's pompous 
 gold!" 
 
JOUBERT. 
 
 (march 27, 1900.) 
 "Felix opportimitate mortis." 
 O patriot, happy in thine hour of death ! 
 
 Rest, richly laurelled from thy battles won, 
 Who back to God hast given thy virile breath, 
 Thy task achieved, thy work of warrior done ! 
 
 Long hence when Honor calls her mighty roll 
 Thine shall be Fame's imperishable wreath ! 
 
 Thy name shall burn, a star, upon her scroll, 
 
 When red with rust thy sword shall sleep in sheath. 
 
 Rest heart heroic! Glory guards thy tomb 
 By tears of love to Freedom consecrate, 
 
 Ajax! who 'mid thy country's gathering gloom 
 Didst brave the lightnings of the tyrant's hate! 
 
 Majuba lifts thy monument in air, 
 
 For English eyes to mark the fatal day 
 
 Writ red in blood, when in his craggy lair 
 The lion of the Transvaal stood at bay. 
 
 Thy patriot prowess Eland's lake enshrines, 
 Colenso, too, drenched with the battle's rain, 
 
 Where Britain broke against thy burgher lines 
 Till Tugela ran swollen with her slain, 
 
 36 
 
JOUBERl 37 
 
 But now the terror flames in farm and field, 
 The sword of rapine ravages thy plains. 
 
 Up, up ! thy country calls on thee to shield 
 Her children from the foul invaders' chains. 
 
 Thou wilt not answer, tho' she shriek aloud 
 
 'Neath wrongs to make thy veins with lava surge; 
 
 Tho' over murdered Freedom's ghastly shroud 
 With broken heart she wails her bitter dirg^:. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on! since thee no chains may curb. 
 
 Nor foe invade thy peace inviolate, 
 Nor tryant fret, nor bitter tears disturb 
 
 Of heroes weeping for their country's fate. 
 
 For blest is he whoso in honored grave, 
 In strenuous battle stricken for the right, 
 
 Escapes the lot ignoble of a slave 
 
 Nor feels the yoke of proud, usurping might. 
 
 Him, having done his manhood's knightly part. 
 Death cannot touch nor the oblivious years ; 
 
 He lives forever in his country's heart 
 
 Crowned with the grateful tribute of her tears. 
 
 Thine are the laurels of Leonidas, 
 
 Of Tell and Emmet, Washington and Bruce; 
 Time shall not blight them till earth's tyrants pass, 
 
 And love shall link the lands in golden truce. 
 
38 JOUBERl 
 
 Thy deeds shall live, the nations' heritage. 
 Wherever clanks a helot in his chain, 
 
 Till Peace reborn in some Saturnian age 
 Shall smile on Freedom's universal reign. 
 
OFF PICKET. 
 
 Hark ! silver and shrilly the bugles have blown ! 
 
 ''Lights out!" is the warning; there's peace in the 
 camp. 
 The jungle is stilly, the lad is alone; 
 
 On picket till morning he sentries the swamp. 
 
 Youth, valor and beauty unite in his face, 
 His courage is steady, his heart it is pure. 
 
 Death waiteth on duty ; he stands to his place ; 
 His rifle is ready, his vigilance sure. 
 
 What sees he? His mother afar o'er the foam? 
 
 Or doth for a sister that dew dim his eye? 
 To these — and another — his heart has fled home ; 
 
 She wept when he kissed her and whispered good- 
 bye. 
 
 With her he is roaming in fancy again 
 
 Where blooms the blue aster and ripples the stream. 
 Ah, maid in the gloaming, thy tryst is in vain ! 
 
 War bringeth disaster to many a dream. 
 
 What hides in the bushes ? What lurks in the brake ? 
 Death creeps through the thicket, the foeman is 
 nigh! 
 His crimson blood gushes where hisses the snake ; 
 The lad is ofif picket, his face to the sky. 
 
 39 
 
A SPRING-TIME PRAYER. 
 
 Once more upon the threshold of the year 
 In virgin beauty May the maiden stands; 
 
 We know her well — her blended smile and tear, 
 Her girlish grace and blossom-laden hands. 
 
 Once more with dryad fingers she unseals 
 The volumed sweetness of the reddening rose ; 
 
 Once more unto her whisper, as she steals 
 By glade and glen, the daisy's eyes unclose. 
 
 Again, released from fetters of the frost. 
 In sylvan haunts the violet appears. 
 
 I see it with a sense of something lost, 
 A poignant sadness kindred unto tears. 
 
 The tender leaves the maple's height o'erspread; 
 
 With skyward yearning bud and blossom grope. 
 Where is my boyhood's keen, fresh joyance fled. 
 
 My youth's pure aspiration and its hope? 
 
 The withered rose, if healthy at the root, 
 Will wake again in spring's reviving rain, 
 
 But once time blights the spirit's tender shoot 
 No vernal magic bids it bloom again. 
 
 Lord, bring me back the spring-time of the soul, 
 The pure fresh joyance of mine April prime. 
 
 That so my life, like withered branch and bole, 
 May take new leaf of love and hope sublime. 
 40 
 
THE MADONNA OF THE ANGEL. 
 A Florentine I^kgknd. 
 
 ' ' Sempiterna laus sit Deo / Praise eterne to God the 
 Son!" 
 
 Sighed the young Bartolommeo as the golden eve 
 came on. 
 
 All day long, with brush and pencil, lighted by a 
 starry thought, 
 
 In the dim cathedral chancel at his easel had he 
 wrought, 
 
 Till the gracious dream of beauty that had lain with- 
 in his heart. 
 
 Imaged forth in loving duty, grew to life beneath his 
 art. 
 
 And her vision'd form and feature from the glowing 
 canvas smiled — 
 
 God's sole, sinless-hearted creature, holy Mary, un- 
 defiled. 
 
 But he fain would add new splendor, add new glory 
 and new grace, 
 
 With a touch more true and tender, to the sweet Ma- 
 donna face. 
 
 Therefore, ill at ease and weary, on his pallet down he 
 lay, 
 
 Dreaming of the Virgin Mary, and he slept till dawn 
 of day. 
 
 41 
 
42 THE MADONNA OF THE ANGEL 
 
 But a mystic glory kindles in the darkness of the 
 night, 
 
 And the mellow moonlight dwindles in the blinding 
 burst of light. 
 
 Arch and altar beam and brighten and a sudden splen- 
 dor falls, 
 
 As a meteor might lighten, o'er the sanctuary walls. 
 
 And with radiant raiment streaming like a ruddy 
 flame of gold 
 
 O'er the artist softly dreaming stands an angel aure- 
 oled. 
 
 Like unto the sun his face is, o'er Our Lady's picture 
 bent, 
 
 As her nimbus'd hair he traces forth in colors heaven- 
 blent. 
 
 Fresh from gazing on the vision of her loveliness 
 divine, 
 
 Where in lilied fields Elysian at her feet the seraphs 
 shine. 
 
 There he paints in burning rapture Mary's majesty 
 supreme 
 
 That the dreamer fain would capture from the fervor 
 of his dream; 
 
 Bids the canvas bloom and burgeon, for the joy of 
 mortal eyes, 
 
 With the beauty of the Virgin — Mystic Rose of Para- 
 dise. 
 
THE MADONNA OF THE ANGEL 43 
 
 But his face grows dim and dimmer and the Hght an- 
 geHc wanes, 
 
 As the gold dawn 'gins to ghmmer on the blazoned 
 chancel panes. 
 
 And the young Bartolommeo softly murmurs in his 
 sleep : " 
 
 * ' Sempiterna laus sit Deo ! ' ' And the morn doth up- 
 ward leap. 
 
 Then he woke, and lo ! the vision of the loveliness he 
 
 dreamed, 
 Like an angel face Elysian, on the canvas o'er him 
 
 gleamed. 
 And like unto one in trance he gazed upon the features 
 
 faint 
 That had cheated well his fancy and he fondly fain 
 
 would paint. 
 Humbly on his knees adoring knelt he at Our Lady's 
 
 shrine, 
 All his soul enraptured poring on her majesty divine, 
 All his heart in flame ascending to the smiling face 
 
 above, 
 In its purity transcending human thought or human 
 
 love. 
 Very sweet it was and tender, with a paradisal grace, 
 And a most ecstatic splendor such as angel's hand 
 
 might trace. 
 
44 THE MADONNA OF THE ANGEL 
 
 And it lights the dusky chancel in old Florence to this 
 
 day, 
 Painted of no earthly pencil. There the pilgrims come 
 
 to pray, 
 Bannered all in proud procession, with their canticles 
 
 of love, 
 Seeking Mary's intercession with her mighty Son 
 
 above. 
 For, as once at Cana's wedding wrought He wonders 
 
 for her, still 
 Through her hands His graces shedding, doth He love 
 
 to do her will. 
 And whoso in simple honor with a little child's delight 
 Looks with reverence upon her findeth favor in His 
 
 sight. 
 
 ^^ Sempiterna laus sit Deo! Praise eterne to Mary's 
 
 Son! " 
 Smiled the young Bartolommeo, when he saw his 
 
 work well done. 
 
MUSTERED OUT. 
 
 Martial drum and thrilling fife 
 
 Called them to the field of duty ; 
 In their cheeks the rose of life 
 
 Reddened in its April beauty. 
 Rolled the volumed cheer along; 
 
 Flag and banner gaily flaunted; 
 Roaring street and shouting throng 
 
 Hailed their hero hosts undaunted. 
 
 Glory beckoned down the years ; 
 
 Hope was high and courage throbbing — 
 Ah, the laughter quenched in tears, 
 
 And the lips in secret sobbing! 
 Ah, the lonely lives they left 
 
 In the tumult of the city! 
 Ah, the breaking hearts bereft 
 
 Of their tenderness and pity! 
 
 Mother, listening for the drum 
 
 That shall thunder his returning, 
 Watch no more ! He will not come. 
 
 Though thy heart be sore with yearning. 
 Death hath dulled thy soldier's ears, 
 
 Where the palm in verdure palls him, 
 To the drip of falling tears 
 
 And thy loving voice that calls him. 
 
 45 
 
46 MUSI E RED OUl 
 
 Winsome maiden, wan with wist, 
 
 When the sunset shadows hover, 
 Never at the twihght tryst 
 
 Shalt thou meet again thy lover ! 
 Only in the night when streams 
 
 Pearly moonlight on thy pillow, 
 Will he come to thee in dreams 
 
 From his grave beyond the billow. 
 
 Weeping widow, patient wife, 
 
 Baby with thy loving prattle. 
 He is mustered out of life, 
 
 Done with bivouac and battle. 
 Gallant husband, father fond, 
 
 Him no m.ore shall bugle rally; 
 God hath beckoned him beyond 
 
 War's red field and grief's dark valley. 
 
 Oh, may Peace, that on the blast 
 
 Earthward spreads her angel pinion, 
 Fix 'gainst vain ambition fast 
 
 In our hearts love's sweet dominion ! 
 May she sheathe the sword in rust, 
 
 Wreathe the cannon's mouth in roses. 
 While our tears bedew the dust 
 
 Where each hero heart reposes! 
 
TO THE SEA-WIND. 
 
 Wind! that from the golden orient, through the gates 
 of morning wingest ! 
 O'er the foam-flowered, green sea-meadows thou 
 hast journeyed many a mile. 
 From my native Irish valley, oh! what is the news 
 thou bringest? 
 For I know that thou hast lingered in mine own 
 beloved Isle ! 
 
 In the haunted hush of twilight, by the dim, dark- 
 flowing river, 
 Does the thrush still warble darkling through the 
 weird, enchanted hours? 
 In the fields, where with my comrades, oh ! 'twere 
 sweet to play forever ! 
 Are there any wills as wayward, any hearts as hot 
 as ours ? 
 
 Has the heather, O my sea-wind ! half the crimson of 
 my childhood ? 
 Does the sky-lark sing as madly as he used to sing 
 of old ? 
 Is the same soft hue of heaven on the blue-bells in the 
 wildwood ? 
 In the lake's long rippling shallows have the butter- 
 cups such gold ? 
 
 47 
 
48 TO THE SEA- WIND 
 
 \ 
 Are the hills as green as ever? Do the sunshine and 
 the shadow 
 Chase each other, alternating, on the fields of golden 
 corn? 
 Does the west-wind, as it used to, dance across the 
 rippling meadow? 
 Do the fairies sport at sunset 'neath the lonely 
 fairy-thorn ? 
 
 And the gray old cloister corner, where the shamrock 
 and the grasses 
 Softly fold my dear, dead mother, and the hush is 
 very deep, 
 Surely thou hast heard God's angels singing there 
 their requiem masses, 
 For the heart of kindred beauty 'neath the violets 
 asleep ? 
 
 Ah, the tears bedew mine eyelids and I cannot see for 
 weeping. 
 For thou bringest me, O sea-wind ! tender memories 
 of home. 
 God be with the dear old country where the sainted 
 dead are sleeping, 
 God be with the shamrock island far away across 
 the foam ! 
 
THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 Set her forth to the nation's ken, grimed with the 
 
 cannon's breath, 
 Her who went with the nation's men into the valley 
 
 of death, 
 Her who down to the smoke and guns went like the 
 
 bride of Christ, 
 Keeping there with the nation's sons Charity's holy 
 
 tryst. 
 
 Saintly and sweet and fair to see, womanhood's 
 
 queenliest queen. 
 Crowned with the gems of purity, modest and mild of 
 
 mien — 
 Leaders and lords of the nation's ranks, men of the 
 
 slaying sword, 
 Have office and pay and the nation's thanks, but she 
 
 hath never a word. 
 
 She who knelt in the battle's hell, calm 'mid the 
 
 raging strife. 
 Bending low where our heroes fell, stanching their 
 
 ebbing life. 
 Whispering texts of peace and love, comforting words 
 
 of light, 
 Pointing the way to heaven above to the spirit plumed 
 
 for flight, 
 
 49 
 
50 THE SISTER OF CHARITY 
 
 Ribbons and honors of senates and kings, medal and 
 
 bar and cross, 
 What are they all but worthless things? what are 
 
 they all but dross? 
 Time shall dim them and rust shall wear. She like 
 
 an angel stands. 
 The proudest badge that man could bear, the crucifix, 
 
 in her hands. 
 
 They are sordid things that are bought and sold and 
 
 measured by yard and scale. 
 They are vulgar things that are weighed by gold and 
 
 bartered at price and sale; 
 Could love be had in the market place, then love were 
 
 love no more, 
 But a thing of traffic, the bargain base of chaffering 
 
 shop and store. 
 
 God calleth a man His cause to aid in strenuous hours 
 
 of need ; 
 The heart of the coward shrinks dismayed, but the 
 
 hero's heart doth bleed. 
 We give him a golden gaud for meed, or a star on 
 
 his breast to shine ; 
 Does the medal repay the hero's deed? Nay, for the 
 
 deed was divine. 
 
THE SISTER OF CHARITY 51 
 
 Honor and truth are things above the value of 
 
 merchandise ; 
 Justice and mercy and faith and love, they cannot be 
 
 bought for price. 
 Love giveth and seeketh no reward, it taketh no heed 
 
 of loss — 
 She gave her love for the sake of the Lord who died 
 
 for man on the Cross. 
 
 '*An ye do it unto the least of these ye do it to Me," 
 
 He said. 
 And the maiden rose from her life of ease and went 
 
 where the Master led. 
 Into the flame of the lurid guns hastened the bride of 
 
 Christ, 
 Keeping there with the nation's sons Charity's noble 
 
 tryst. 
 
 Set her forth to the nation's ken, grimed with . the 
 
 cannon's breath. 
 Her who went with the nation's men into the valley 
 
 of death. 
 Leaders and lords have honors to wear — She like an 
 
 angel stands, 
 The proudest badge that man could bear, the crucifix, 
 
 in her hands. 
 
THE PASCHAL JOY. 
 
 From orient skies the sun of Easter flashes 
 And Hghts the Cross on Calvary's summit dim. 
 
 Put off, my soul, thy penitential ashes 
 And join the Paschal hymn ! 
 
 Melodious echoes of the sweet evangel 
 
 Of man redeemed from death by Love, the King, 
 
 Chanted of old by choiring saint and angel 
 The winds of April bring. 
 
 "Awake ! awake ! The Crucified is risen ! 
 
 The darkness dies ; the shades of sin depart. 
 The Lord of Life hath vanquished Death's dark 
 prison 
 
 And broken Death's grim dart." 
 
 Exultant ocean with symphonic voices 
 
 From all its deeps its diapason pours, 
 And, organ-like, touched by the storm, rejoices 
 
 Around earth's ransomed shores. 
 
 Awaking earth leans listening ear to capture 
 That song sublime, and lo ! in reddening rose 
 
 And efflorescence manifold the rapture 
 From her full heart o'erflowSc 
 
 52 
 
THE PASCHAL JO V. 53 
 
 The hawthorn hears and Hke a timid vestal 
 In bridal blossom veils her verdurous brow. 
 
 The emulous orchard, rich in raiment festal, 
 Bejewels every bough. 
 
 In reverence before its risen Master, 
 
 Where censers smoke and perfumed vapor drifts. 
 Its frosted vase of flawless alabaster 
 
 The fragile lily lifts. 
 
 So may our prayers, like fragrant incense blending, 
 Waft to His throne love's breath divinely sweet, 
 
 And may our hearts, like lilies lowly bending, 
 Find favor at His feet ! 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 SARA TRAINER SMITH — DIED MAY 4, 1 899. 
 
 Dead at the coming of the rose and leaf! 
 
 Fled, and I have not any tears to weep ! 
 Why should we trouble her deep rest with grief, 
 
 Since God hath given His beloved sleep? 
 
 Dead! and the days without her smile are dark! 
 
 Fled, when the lilac branch was blossom-flushed ! 
 Flow can I list to any song of lark. 
 
 Since her dear voice forevermore is hushed ? 
 
 Hushed? Nay, it rises in sublimer strain, 
 
 With sister saints who swell the joyous hymn, 
 
 Where parting is not, neither grief nor pain, 
 Nor any eyes with blinding tears are dim. 
 
 Her soul hath clomb God's starry ways aloft. 
 But earth ! of whose sweet flowers she was a part. 
 
 Hide her dear dust in blossoms deep and soft, 
 And fold her very gently to thy heart! 
 
 Take her, O flowers ! who was of kindred birth ; 
 
 Ah! though she reigneth with the pure and just, 
 Green be her grave in thy soft keeping, earth ! 
 
 And sweet with earliest roses be her dust ! 
 
 54 
 
FRAGMENT. 
 
 Butterfly blown on the breeze, 
 Brown bee robbing the roses, 
 Little bird high in the trees, 
 To me your beauty discloses 
 More than the head or hand 
 Hath power to understand, 
 That only the heart can feel, 
 But the tongue is vain to reveal. 
 
 Little star up in the sky, 
 
 Little flower down on the sod, 
 I love you because you cry 
 
 To my listening heart of God. 
 
 55 
 
AFIELD. 
 
 Trouble hence and care begone ! 
 
 This rich hour I call mine own, 
 Here where Nature's lips to man 
 
 Murmur of the Maker's plan. 
 
 Want and woe their burdens lift, 
 I am with my soul adrift 
 
 Where the buccaneering bees 
 Plunder my flow'r-argosies. 
 
 With her vague, illusive smile 
 Down yon leafy forest aisle 
 
 Spring allures me, gone ere seen. 
 Vanishing in coverts green. 
 
 Tracing her in mead or lawn, 
 Who the holy veil hath drawn 
 
 From her sacred mysteries, 
 Hid from sacrilegious eyes? 
 
 Of thy knowledge, say, my heart. 
 
 By what thought-transceneang art 
 She fulfils her mighty task! 
 Ah ! 'tis vain to seek or ask. 
 
 56 
 
AFIELD 57 
 
 Solve me in what magic crypt 
 
 In old necromancy dipt, 
 Do the craftsmen of the wold 
 
 Forge the lily's crown of gold ! 
 
 Of what mystic alchemy 
 
 Comes the sweet anemone ; 
 How the spirits of the breeze 
 
 Weave the wood's rich tapestries : 
 
 By what wisdom doth the flower 
 Know its heaven-appointed hour, 
 
 Wakes and wisely thrnsteth up 
 To the dew its dainty cup : 
 
 Working by what weird device 
 Doth the bird, with instinct nice, 
 
 Build such pensile house in air 
 As is shrewdest man's despair. 
 
 Peace! to what a petty span 
 
 Shrinks the straitened mind of man. 
 
 Musing here, where Nature's law 
 Worketh wondrous things of awe. 
 
 Sense or reason strive in vain 
 
 These to compass or explain. 
 Faith alone can here discern 
 
 Wisdom, ancient and eterne. 
 
58 AFIELD 
 
 Yea ! the lowliest weeds declare, 
 Trumpet-tongued, the sleepless care 
 
 Of the Providence whose love 
 Watches o'er us from above. 
 
COELI ENARRANT GLORIAM DEI. 
 
 As a chaste nun delectable, 
 
 Who, keeping virgin vigils pale. 
 Her beaded rosary doth tell 
 
 Before the lonely chancel rail, 
 
 In Thy vast heaven's templed gloom 
 
 Kneels Night, the vestal, when the stars 
 
 Their vesper lamps, O God, relume. 
 Before Thy tabernacle bars. 
 
 The bolts of darkness are withdrawn, 
 
 The cloudy portals open fly ; 
 Thy sanctuary of the dawn 
 
 Shines out resplendent in the sky. 
 
 Then, beautiful and aureoled, 
 
 Lo! Morning, Thine anointed priest, 
 
 Flame-chasubled in red and gold, 
 Ascends the altar of the East. 
 
 The world in adoration kneels ; 
 
 Creation's heart in awe adores ; 
 The organ of the ocean peals 
 
 Its solemn anthem on its shores. 
 
 Men may blaspheme Thy hallowed Name ; 
 
 But, till the latest hour of time-, 
 Night shall Thy glory, God, proclaim, 
 
 And Day, Thy majesty sublime. 
 
 59 
 
NOON. 
 
 Like one that at late revel hath caroused. 
 Or of some poppied cordial hath quaffed 
 
 Soul-stupor strong, lethean slumber deep, 
 Earth lies adream ; so stilly is she drowsed, 
 
 Methinks that she with hot lips, at one draught, 
 Unto the dregs hath drained the cup of sleep. 
 
 With wailing drone the bees above her pass ; 
 
 The faint wind spills its vase of perfume sweet 
 Filched from the rosy pleasances of June. 
 
 The garrulous cricket gossips in the grass, 
 The chattering locust chirrups of the heat, 
 
 But all so soft they will not break her swoon. 
 
 60 
 
SUNSET. 
 
 Where day and night wed in the west, behold 
 What city sparkles 'mid a sea of gold, 
 Where no wind wafteth sails of any ships. 
 And no keel comes, nor any sea-bird dips ! 
 
 Thus often we, with prescient eyes of faith, 
 Have golden glimpses past the bourne of death, 
 Where on the shore of time's remotest sea 
 Sparkle the turrets of eternity. 
 
 6i 
 
THERMOPYL^ TO SPION KOR 
 
 A voice of thunder o'er the echoing years ! 
 
 Thermopylae to Spion Kop — a voice 
 Wherein, meseems, clang battle shields and spears, 
 
 Bronze trumpets peal and laurelled ranks rejoice: 
 "We are immortal in the mouths of men; 
 
 With reeking slaughter smoked my purple pass 
 When Sparta's lions held their bloody den 
 
 And Persia's dead lay thick as scythed grass. 
 With rite heroic late I saw thee steam, 
 
 When on thy crags thy sons embattled stood ; 
 An altar thou of sacrifice supreme, 
 
 For sweet to Freedom smells the patriot's blood.' 
 
 A chant of joy across the gulf of time! 
 
 Hark, Marathon to Modder calleth out — 
 A chant wherein blend victor-hymns sublime 
 
 With paean shrill and host's exultant shout: 
 "On glory's page our names are blazoned red, 
 
 Time shall not blot them nor the hand of fate, 
 In blood baptismal of our happy dead 
 
 Alike to love and Freedom consecrate. 
 We breathe our inspiration on the brave, 
 
 The weak from us shall gather hope divine, 
 And tyrants curse us, for the patriot's grave 
 
 Is Freedom's holiest citadel and shrine." 
 62 
 
THE RIFLES OE DE WET. 
 
 To saddle, boys ! The Saxons come 
 With screeching fife and rolHng drum. 
 They're in the pass : now Hans, my son, 
 Let speak yon captured British gun ! 
 It roars! O heaven, what a voice 
 To make the burgher's heart rejoice! 
 Again, again ! Now, boot and spur, 
 God speed thee, gallant Kitchener! 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! De Wet ! De Wet ! 
 
 We'll pay them back our country's debt. 
 The gold hussar 
 He flies afar 
 
 When ring the rifles of De Wet. 
 
 French guards the ford; his squadrons bright 
 Shall sup with us in camp to-night. 
 Knox rides our trail; ere rise of moon 
 We'll have them, lancer and dragoon. 
 Our saddle bags are choked with cheer 
 For Gordon bold and grenadier. 
 His heart is large — bless Johann Bull 
 Who keeps our commissary full ! 
 
 Hurrah for freedom's friend, De Wet ! 
 
 Their robber raids the foe regret 
 When on them dash 
 With rifles' flash 
 
 The thunderous horsemen of De Wet! 
 
 63 
 
64 THE RIFLES OF DE WET. 
 
 Tho' Cronje in his island cage 
 
 Consumes his heart in silent rage; 
 
 Tho' gone is great Mareuil the brave 
 
 And gallant Joubert's in his grave, 
 
 De Wet is in the saddle still, 
 
 His burghers ride by kop and hill. 
 
 And many a Rooinek shall fall 
 
 Ere thou shalt perish, my Transvaal! 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah! De Wet! De Wet! 
 
 Where now is Britain's bayonet? 
 The kilted Gael 
 He well may quail 
 
 When ring the rifles of De Wet! 
 
 In Bloemfontein the foe encariip, 
 
 In Kimberley his chargers champ, 
 
 Pretoria is in his power, 
 
 His lion ramps o'er roof and tower, 
 
 But while remains one kop or crag 
 
 To lift aloft our country's flag 
 
 Ringed round with scorching rifle flame. 
 
 Their hireling hosts we'll put to shame. 
 
 Hurrah for freedom's Knight, De Wet! 
 
 The vultures of the veldt may whet 
 Their bloody beaks 
 On Biggar's peaks 
 
 When ring the rifles of De Wet! 
 
THE CRICKET. 
 
 Blithe minstrel at the door of June, 
 
 On golden hinges swung ajar, 
 That pipest there thy vesper tune 
 
 Beneath the moon and evening star ! 
 When into darkness melts the light, 
 
 And sweetest throats of song are mute, 
 'Tis chirrup ! chirrup ! all the night, 
 
 Upon thy fairy-fingered lute. 
 
 When morning's torch illumes the dark. 
 
 And dewdrops fill the violet's cup, 
 The silver-throated thrush and lark 
 
 God's matin-hymn of praise take up. 
 But when is lulled the woodland choir 
 
 And drowzy bats begin to flit, 
 'Tis then upon thine elfin lyre. 
 
 Gay troubadour! thou twangest it. 
 
 Sing cheerily, O blithe of heart ! 
 
 Pipe on thy message unto man ! 
 The humblest life hath some due part 
 
 To play in God's allotted plan. 
 Some chant His glory thunder-loud. 
 
 Some breathe it in a whisper small, 
 But high or humble, poor or proud, 
 
 He heedeth all and needeth all. 
 
 65 
 
WHAT ANSWER? 
 
 A million plumes are tossing in the grass, 
 The dandelions lift their shields of gold ; 
 
 Is it the fairy chivalry th.at pass 
 
 To tourney with the spirits of the wold? 
 
 Nay, each within himself the answer hath. 
 And reads the riddle as his mood may chance. 
 
 One paces, purblind, in a barren path. 
 One finds th' enchanted meadows of romance. 
 
 66 
 
GHOSTS. 
 
 Loud o'er the sough of the sea 
 And the sigh and sob of the rain. 
 
 The wind, Hke a ghost 
 
 Or a soul that is lost, 
 Wails at the window-pane. 
 
 Loud o'er life's care and fret, 
 The past to the present calls, 
 And the hot tears rise 
 To memory's eyes. 
 As she walks in its haunted halls. 
 
 Ah, the dreams and hopes that died ! 
 
 And the wistful eyes that weep ! 
 Ah, the ghosts that start 
 From the grave of the heart 
 
 In the silent hour of sleep. 
 
 67 
 
HIC JACET. 
 
 Upon a stone with lichens gray, 
 'Mid mossy marbles of the dead, 
 
 A wild rose weeps itself away 
 In crimson tears and kisses red. 
 
 The beech upon it rains in gold ; 
 
 A brier wantons over it. 
 And some old sculptor-hand hath scroll'd 
 
 Its brief Hie Jacet, quaintly writ. 
 
 But if or beauty, age or youth 
 Be pillowed in the green below ; 
 
 Or heart of hope, or tongue of truth, 
 Or babe or bride, we may not know. 
 
 Or if in life's allotted span, 
 
 Who slumbers here knew aught of love, 
 That, hopeless, wastes the heart of man ; 
 
 Or felt the gnawing pain thereof ; 
 
 What stern caprice of circumstance 
 O'ertook him, or what fate befell ; 
 
 What lifting wave of lucky chance, 
 Two words alone remain to tell. 
 
 For run as will our round of years. 
 In shine or shadow, peace or strife ; 
 
 Let laughter be our lot, or tears. 
 Hie Jaeet is the sum of life. 
 68 
 
CHANGE. 
 
 To-night the sea intones a sullen dirge, 
 
 Wringing white hands of foam o'er wasted ships ; 
 
 Another moon, in sportive mood its surge 
 Will laugh and sing like any lover's lips. 
 
 To-night, o'er wrecks of ruined hopes, thy voice 
 Takes on a mourner's tone, O sobbing heart! 
 
 To-morrow thou 'It forget it and rejoice. 
 
 Through storm and calm most like the sea thou art ! 
 
 69 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BLOOD, 
 October i8th. 
 
 ANNIVERSARY OF THE MARTYRDOM OF FATHER ISAAC 
 JOGUES, S. J. 
 
 Where stole the Indian's swift canoe, 
 Of old along the Mohawk's stream, 
 
 'Neath sad October's skies of blue 
 The heights of Ossernenon dream. 
 
 The purple pageant of the field, 
 The scarlet pomp of vale and wood, 
 
 Recall the saints to Christ who sealed 
 The land in crimson of their blood. 
 
 God's heroes here, unknown to fame, 
 Reaped harvests rich of savage souls ; 
 
 They died 'neath tomahawk and flame, 
 And won the martyrs' aureoles. 
 
 For Christ they spurned earth's golden dross, 
 Earth's honors and its empty ^ain; 
 
 For Christ they bore the bitter cross 
 And clomb His Golgotha of pain. 
 
 In deeds, by hands of angels scrolled. 
 
 Their glorious chronicle is writ, 
 Where Autumn leaves have hid in gold 
 
 The footprints of the Jesuit. 
 
 70 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BLOOD 71 
 
 Still memories of Isaac haunt 
 
 The forest, vocal of his fame ; 
 The rapids of the river chant, 
 
 The ripples murmur Rene's name. 
 
 And, in the twilight of the year, 
 
 When Autumn leaves are sere and shed, 
 
 The sumachs and the maples wear 
 The martyrs' livery of red. 
 
 The soft breeze swings above the sod 
 
 The perfumed censers of the pine ; 
 The tapers of the golden-rod 
 
 Are kindled in their forest-shrine. 
 
 Its miserere moans the wind. 
 
 And sacerdotal glade and wood 
 In chasubles incarnadined 
 
 Observe their festival of blood. 
 
^ HARVEST HOME. 
 
 When boughs are burdened with fruitage ripe 
 
 And vines are red on the village eaves, 
 On cart and wain comes the garnered grain 
 
 From tilths ateem with their golden sheaves. 
 Then at the door of the granary-floor 
 
 The children peer, where the threshers pant 
 In a swinking row, with cheeks aglow, 
 
 As they swing their flails with a merry chant. 
 For it's high and low 
 The flails, they go, 
 Sifting the grain from the empty husk, 
 With rhythmic beat 
 On the yellow wheat, 
 Till glow the lamps in the golden dusk. 
 
 Oh, glad to the heart of the harvester 
 Is the gift divine of the kingly corn; 
 With prayer and hopes, on the barren slopes 
 
 He sowed the seed, when the spring was born. 
 God sent it dew and sun and it grew, 
 
 More precious by far than minted ore; 
 Its furrows above larks sang of love. 
 But now it lies on the threshing-floor. 
 And it's ho! they pant 
 To the rhythmic chant 
 72 
 
HAR VEST HOME 73 
 
 Of flails that winnow the worthless chaff. 
 
 When hearths are bright 
 
 In the winter's night, 
 At their laden tables it's loud they'll laugh. 
 
 The noon was hot, when the reapers went 
 
 To gather it under the scorching sun; 
 
 To sickle and hook fell sheaf and stook. 
 
 But now they're merry, for work is done. 
 With brows of bronze the hamlet's sons 
 
 Laughing around the wagon come, 
 And red-cheeked girls with opulent curls. 
 Singing their happy harvest-home. 
 And it's oh, ho! ho! 
 The flails, they go, 
 Sifting the grain from the empty husk, 
 With rhythmic beat 
 On the yellow wheat. 
 Till glow the lamps in the golden dusk. 
 
 What nights shall be in the winter time, 
 When apples splutter upon the hearth, 
 
 And the purple juice of the vat runs loose 
 On lips that echo to jovial mirth ! 
 
 Oh, a royal thing is the crown of a king, 
 And a scepter, they say, is a sign of worth ; 
 
 For their boasts a fig! the hands that dig 
 
74 HAR VEST HOME 
 
 And delve are the hands that rule the earth. 
 
 And it's ho ! they pant 
 
 To the rhythmic chant 
 Of flails that winnow the worthless chaff. 
 
 When hearths are bright 
 
 In the winter's night, 
 At their teeming tables it's loud they'll laugh. 
 
AUTUMNAL. 
 
 The year hath reached its vesper hour, and soon 
 Shall mourn our Northland orphan'd of her flowers, 
 
 And all the spendthrift opulence of June 
 Be as a memory of dreaming hours. 
 
 For all things pass; joy's rosy hour is brief, 
 
 And youth and beauty wither like the leaf. 
 
 Cathedral-like, yon gorgeous forest gleams 
 With Gothic glories ; credulous fancy paints — 
 
 As in a chancel where the sunset streams 
 
 Through blazonry of gold and crimson saints — 
 
 Tall windows bright with shapes of Paradise 
 
 And martyrs raimented in rainbow dyes. 
 
 What artist ever blended tones so rich, 
 
 What minster walls e'er bore such heavenly tints 
 
 As these from palette faery with which 
 
 Her flaming frescoes wizard Autumn prints 
 
 On sylvan wall and foliage-woven ceil 
 
 And vaulted boughs of ruby and vermeil? 
 
 Beyond its threshold, lo ! what vistas dim 
 Of slender shaft and shadowy colonnade ! 
 
 What daedal floors that show 'twixt columns slim 
 Mosaics quaint inwrought of sun and shade! 
 
 And acolyte-like, at its golden porch 
 
 One frost-touched maple lifts a flaming torch. 
 
 75 
 
76 AUTUMNAL 
 
 With reverent feet we win its sacred peace; 
 
 The heart forgets its suffering and pain. 
 Here comfort dwells and bids old sorrow cease ; 
 
 The oak sheds healing and the beeches rain 
 A druid balm, a dryad influence, 
 In benediction on the soul and sense. 
 
 'Tis holy ground, for here may naught more rude 
 Than robin's rapture break the brooding calm. 
 
 And hark ! how softly on the solitude 
 
 Swelleth the chant of nature's evening psalm. 
 
 As in a church, when twilight gowned in gray 
 
 Steals forth amid its glimmering aisles to pray. 
 
 And as a vestal at a lighted shrine, 
 Or maiden meek on meditative knees. 
 
 That museth on some mystery divine 
 
 Of white thoughts weaving love's dear rosaries, 
 
 So, nun-like, from the leaf-engoldened sod 
 
 The gentian lifts its sweet blue eyes to God. 
 
 And if sad Autumn hath no choristers. 
 
 No fluting thrush nor mellow-throated lark, 
 
 The cricket and cicada shrill are hers — 
 
 Blithe minstrels of the waning days — and, hark! 
 
 What piping Pan woos music from the mere 
 
 Where in the wind the tall reeds rustle sere ! 
 
AUTUMNAL 77 
 
 But holier and more solemn harmonies 
 Are hers when peal her forest organs strong, 
 
 And, touched by tempest, all her deep-voiced trees 
 Exult in paeans of majestic song : 
 
 When smites the storm his thunderous harp and flings 
 
 Joy's diapason from his shuddering strings. 
 
 But ah, too soon, shall Winter with chill breath 
 Quench all her lights — snow-bearded sacristan. 
 
 Yet beautiful is Autumn in her death 
 
 And sweet the message that she hath for man : 
 
 E'en so to live that God, when life shall cease, 
 
 May find us full of beauty and of peace. 
 
 O grant us, Lord ! that, as the dying year 
 Spring's resurrection sees beyond the gloom, 
 
 We, too, shall lay us down upon the bier. 
 Glimpsing beyond the portals of the tomb 
 
 The resurrection and the blossoming 
 
 That 'wait us in Thy love's eternal spring. 
 
THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 When nips the frost and falls the leaf 
 And forest paths are deep in gold ; 
 
 When light grows briefer and more brief 
 
 And in the barn is housed the sheaf; 
 'Tis then the swallows from the cold 
 
 Prepare to seek a sunnier clime 
 
 Where blooms the palm, untouched by rime. 
 
 They leave behind the northern land 
 Where Ceres counts her golden sheaves ; 
 
 On plumes that southern winds have fanned, 
 
 For Carib isle and coral strand 
 
 They gather from our village eaves, 
 
 And, led divinely, win their home 
 
 Where purple seas of summer foam. 
 
 We, too, have seasons ; smiles and grief 
 
 Alternate rule us, pleasure flies, 
 Joy, like the rose of June, is brief 
 And crumbles earthward leaf by leaf. 
 
 And lonely 'neath life's autumn skies 
 We stand and watch with aching heart 
 Our winged hopes and dreams depart. 
 
 78 
 
THE SWALLOWS 79 
 
 'Tis Heaven that sends our days of rime, 
 For, chastened by the things of earth, 
 
 The soul recalls its native clime 
 
 And soars on wings of faith sublime 
 Back to the country of its birth, 
 
 Where, done with exile, fain 'twould rest, 
 
 Among the gardens of the Blest. 
 
 The paths of pain that we pursue 
 
 Are dark, but if we trust God's love, 
 
 As swallows to their instincts true 
 
 Sail the illimitable blue. 
 
 We'll win at length the land above, 
 
 Where the sweet springs of Mercy rise 
 
 Amid the palms of Paradise. 
 
SAINT NATHY'S LAND. 
 
 Saint Nathy's land is far across the sea, 
 
 An old gray land of murmuring lakes and streams. 
 
 No more, no more. Saint Nathy's land for me, 
 Save when I find it in the hour of dreams. 
 
 That sainted land I loved in days of old. 
 
 Its windy woods, its meadows sweet and green ; 
 
 The gorse that lit its fields with fairy gold, 
 Its hills empurpled with the heather's sheen. 
 
 How often there, in childhood's April hours, 
 Where on its green hill stood the convent gray. 
 
 Like angel voices chanting in its towers, 
 I heard the sweet bells call the town to pray ! 
 
 How oft I listened to Glen Arlar's thrush, 
 
 In careless joy untroubled by a tear; 
 When happy fairies haunted every bush. 
 
 And to the boy's heart heaven seemed very near ! 
 
 Kind folk were there, the simple and the true, 
 Large-hearted welcome, hospitable mirth ; 
 
 Ah, many a heart sleeps under Irish dew 
 Since I for exile left my father's hearth. 
 80 
 
SAINl^ NATHY'S LAND 8 1 
 
 The sunset fades along Saint Patrick's towers, 
 December's dusk empurples square and street; 
 
 Afar, afar from old Saint Nathy's bowers 
 I range them yet in fancy's musing sweet. 
 
 But oh, when March winds wake the marigold, 
 How joyous 'twere to roam by Nathy's streams ; 
 
 And oh, to be the blithe-heart boy of old, 
 Ere life brought disillusion of my dreams ! 
 
BETHLEHEM. 
 
 What have we here ? A manger, cold and bleak, 
 A new-born child, a gray-beard artisan. 
 
 Dumb oxen and a village maiden meek. 
 
 But Heaven's High King breathes in the flesh of 
 man, 
 
 And the great Mind that made the stars and skies 
 
 Looks from the wonder of a baby's eyes. 
 
 The hand that out of chaos fashioned earth 
 Clings helplessly unto a woman's breast; 
 
 Godhead disguised in veils of human birth, 
 Whom angels tend to do His high behest. 
 
 Incarnate Love, past thought to comprehend ! 
 
 Frail hands that yet the cruel nails shall rend ! 
 
 Divinely chosen, all earth's maids above. 
 To Calvary to train God's footsteps weak, 
 
 Sweet Mary ! teach us by thy mother's love 
 To walk with Him in spirit pure and meek. 
 
 Our sins it was that earthward drew Him down, 
 
 O win for us redemption's heavenly crown! 
 
 82 
 
CHRIST WITH US. 
 
 **Had we in Bethlehem been, when Mary came 
 For shelter from the storm," we muse in pity, 
 
 '*Oiir homes had not been shut to her in shame, 
 She had not been an outcast from the city." 
 
 "She had not passed forsaken and forlorn 
 
 From kindred doors, an exile and a stranger; 
 
 Her Babe in royal purple had been born. 
 Nor lain among the oxen in the manger." 
 
 "On bended knees had many a worshipper 
 On Christ, the King, in loyal love attended ; 
 
 And subject hands had offered gifts of myrrh 
 
 And frankincense, and gold, and jewels splendid." 
 
 Nay, nay, for Christ is ever at our door. 
 For shelter sweet and kindly pity pleading, 
 
 And we — we only, like the blind of yore, 
 
 Discern Him not, hard-hearted and unheeding. 
 
 With beggar hands He asketh us for alms. 
 He pines upon the threshold of the palace. 
 
 We know Him not, but scorn His outstretched palms, 
 And, while He hungers, drink of plenty's chaHce. 
 
 83 
 
84 CHRIST WITH US 
 
 Daily we meet Him, seeking mercy sweet, 
 
 With tender eyes of orphans, wan and wistful. 
 
 He haunts us in the starveling of the street, 
 Among the sad, the tearful, and the tristful. 
 
 For still He loves the lowly and the poor. 
 
 And he who scorns in pride his outcast brother 
 
 Had turned of old the Saviour from his door. 
 And barred his gates upon His maiden Mother. 
 
 But ah! the crust, the cup of water cold, 
 
 For Christ's sweet sake to whoso needeth given. 
 
 Will yield us gain of grace a hundred-fold. 
 With rich requital in the courts of heaven. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 Naked as is the wintry wood, 
 My soul is in her wintry mood, 
 Like leaves the cold wind whirleth by 
 My withered hopes around me lie. 
 
 Gone is the bird whose golden tune 
 Once in my heart made golden June; 
 Then all my heart was as a rose 
 In loveliness of joy that grows. 
 
 The wood will take new leaf in spring, 
 But hope's new leaf can April bring? 
 When April eves begin to burn 
 Will love, my singing-bird, return? 
 
 85 
 
LOVE'S GIFT. 
 
 From thy dear eyes to win one sunny smile, 
 
 Whose gleam might ransom worlds of wealth un- 
 told, 
 
 Before thy feet his realm a king might pile, 
 By Midas-touch transmuted into gold. 
 
 Ah, poor of purse, in vain I seek one gift 
 
 Of fitting worth my fealty to prove ; 
 I cannot find one pearl in all my thrift 
 
 To pay the priceless treasure of thy love. 
 
 But as beneath the jeweler's cunning art 
 The carven stone becomes the costly gem. 
 
 With lustre rare and incandescent heart 
 To sparkle on a sovran's diadem ; 
 
 So, day by day made perfect, I would fain 
 Lay at thy feet a flawless life of good. 
 
 Love's richest gift; to wear it thou might'st deign, 
 O, first and fairest flower of womanhood ! 
 
 86 
 
ADRIFT. 
 
 The sunset burns above, 
 
 The river burns below ; 
 Adrift together, love, 
 
 Mid-heaven we seem to go. 
 My pilot stars thine eyes, 
 
 Upon a golden tide 
 I drift away to Paradise 
 
 With thee, sweetheart, beside. 
 
 Like rubies, flake on flake 
 
 Drips from the drifting oar; 
 The golden ripples break 
 
 Upon a golden shore. 
 A golden moon above 
 
 And golden stars that shine. 
 And in thine eyes the light of love, 
 
 A golden world is mine. 
 
 What matter if the gleam 
 
 Shall melt from wave and sky? 
 We've dreamed love's golden dream 
 
 Together, you and I. 
 Here where our fond lips meet, 
 
 Within thy darling eyes 
 My heart hath found, O dear and sweet, 
 
 Its golden Paradise. 
 
 87 
 
THE VESPERS OF THE SLAIN. 
 
 A. D. 1580 
 
 In gray Cistercian robe and cowl, his feet with sandals 
 
 shod, 
 To shrive a dying sinner's soul, went Conal, priest of 
 
 God; 
 He went and left afar behind, 'mid garths of golden 
 
 corn, 
 St. Mary's abbey-towers, whose bells with music filled 
 
 the morn. 
 
 His heart was sore within his breast, his head in 
 
 grief was bowed. 
 "Lord Jesu, save my little lambs !" he wept and 
 
 prayed aloud ; 
 "Oh, save them from the Saxon wolves that range 
 
 our land at large, 
 And break into Thy fold and slay the shepherd and 
 
 his charge." 
 
 He scarce had gone a league when to St. Mary's 
 
 gates there rode 
 A kern — befleckt with foam the frothing charger he 
 
 bestrode — 
 With white lips crying, where the monks were singing 
 
 in their stalls, 
 "Fly, fly ! The Saxon soldiery are hard by Nenagh's 
 
 walls!" 
 
 88 
 
THE VESPERS OF THE SLAIA 89 
 
 Then spoke old abbot Brendan — his voice was firm 
 
 and calm — 
 "Now God be praised, that in mine age He sends the 
 
 martyr's palm ! 
 Fly, ye who will ! but here within the sanctuary I'll 
 
 abide, 
 Content to suffer for the sake of Christ the crucified! ' 
 
 Not one arose to quit the choir of all the brethren 
 there, 
 
 But, clustering 'round the altar, knelt in softly-mur- 
 mured prayer ; 
 
 While, thundering on the abbey gates, the Saxon 
 soldiers came 
 
 With curse and yell, and crypt and cell flashed into 
 lurid flame. 
 
 The doors have yielded to the axe ; they've gained the 
 
 abbey church; 
 They've torn our Lady's statue down and given it to 
 
 the torch. 
 The abbot Brendan's on his face, a sword hath cleft 
 
 his head ; 
 The monks are slain, the altar-steps with blood are 
 
 running red. 
 
90 THE VESPERS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 Before the altar foot they he, a ghastly, butchered 
 
 pile, 
 While to the Saxons' ribald shouts ring vaulted roof 
 
 and aisle. 
 And there is weeping of the wife and wail of ravished 
 
 bride, 
 As out of Nenagh's plundered town the red marauders 
 
 ride. 
 
 But heavy-hearted o'er the fields the young monk 
 Conal came, 
 
 And through the golden gloaming marked the devas- 
 tating flame. 
 
 And smote his breast and sobbed aloud : ''Thy will 
 be done, O Lord !" 
 
 And gained the church and saw the bloody havoc of 
 the sword. 
 
 He kissed the abbot Brendan's wounds, he kissed his 
 
 brethren all, 
 While to the floor, like April rain, his bitter tears 
 
 did fall. 
 And at our Lady's broken niche he groaned on bended 
 
 knee : 
 "Oh, woe ! that such a sacrilege within thy walls 
 
 should be!" 
 
THE VESPERS OF THE SLAIN 91 
 
 "No more in this thy ruined shrine we'll keep thy 
 
 harvest feast, 
 With psaltery and organ-peal and chant of holy priest. 
 No more at matin or at eve shall vesper be or psalm; 
 Yet, God be praised ! my brethren all have won the 
 
 martyrs' palm !" 
 
 But what is this that greets his eyes? The chimes 
 
 begin to ring. 
 He sees the murdered monks arise ; he hears them 
 
 chant and sing. 
 The steeple rocks unto the bells, the pealing organ 
 
 plays. 
 The solemn anthem round him swells, the altar tapers 
 
 blaze. 
 
 He marks the halo on each brow, in every hand the 
 palm; 
 
 But sweeter notes salute him now and swell the vesper 
 psalm. 
 
 Angelic voices echo unto heavenly harp and lyre 
 
 The deep-toned Magnificat that thrills the martyr- 
 choir. 
 
 And — oh, the sight ! — in blinding light, with face of 
 
 beauty mild, 
 Amid the band he sees her stand, the Mother with 
 
 her Child— 
 
92 THE VESPERS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 The Virgin Mother of our Lord — her voice is low and 
 
 sweet. 
 He veils his eyes, in ecstasy he falleth at her feet. 
 
 The chant is o'er, the martyred monks have sung their 
 
 last Amen! 
 The music fades upon his ear, the vision from his ken ; 
 But far, afar, 'mid moon and star still echo harp and 
 
 lyre. 
 While silent darkness settles down on cloister and on 
 
 choir. 
 
 The silent darkness settles down and leaves him with 
 
 the slain, 
 No light save where the moonlight falls upon the 
 
 ruby pane, 
 The ruby pane whose blazonry of saint and cherubim 
 Doth weave a nimbus for the dead beside the altar 
 
 dim. 
 
 "O Jesu ! Lord ! the sainted dead within Thy love are 
 
 safe !" 
 The young monk Conal kneels and prays, "but unto 
 
 me vouchsafe, 
 That death may join me to my freres, who bear the 
 
 martyrs' palm. 
 When life is run, before Thy throne to sing the 
 
 victor's psalm." 
 
MAY EVE. 
 
 Tis the last of April, 
 
 All the land is green : 
 Fill the pail and rake the hearth, 
 
 And sweep the cottage clean ; 
 Rowan tree and sally 
 
 Twine around the door, 
 Blossoms of the valley 
 Scatter on the floor. 
 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 Scatter on the floor ; 
 Evil cannot pass them 
 At our cottage door. 
 May the Virgin Mary 
 And her little Son 
 From the spell of fairy 
 Shield us, every one! 
 
 'Ware of how you wander 
 
 Where the haunted path 
 In the meadow yonder 
 
 Winds around the rath. 
 Little steeds a-prancing, 
 
 Cloaks of red and blue, 
 Fairy folk are dancing 
 
 There among the dew. 
 
 93 
 
94 MAY EVE 
 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 
 Scatter on the floor; 
 Evil cannot pass them 
 
 At the cottage door. 
 May the Virgin Mary 
 
 And her httle Son 
 From the spell of fairy 
 
 Shield us, every one! 
 
 After sunset linger 
 
 Not in Lisheen's fort ; 
 There the fairy finger 
 
 Decks the fairies' court. 
 Shemus Rua slept there 
 
 'Neath the fairy thorn : 
 Hale he was at ''Angelus," 
 Hunchback in the morn. 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 Scatter on the floor; 
 Evil cannot pass them 
 At the cottage door. 
 May the Virgin Mary 
 
 And her little Son 
 From the spell of fairy 
 Shield us, every one! 
 
MAY EVE 95 
 
 Darling's in the cradle, 
 
 Lullaby, asthore! 
 Phooka, fay, or leprechaun 
 
 Cannot cross our door. 
 Fire and holy water, 
 
 Elements of power, 
 Shield my little daughter 
 In this witching hour. 
 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 
 Scatter on the floor ; 
 
 Evil cannot pass them 
 
 At our cottage door. 
 
 May the Virgin Mary 
 
 And her little Son 
 From the spell of fairy 
 Shield us, every one! 
 
 Is the fever burning 
 
 On your baby's brow? 
 Do you miss in churning 
 
 Butter from the cow? 
 Bind the garden sally 
 
 Up above the door, 
 Blossoms of the valley 
 
 Scatter on the floor. 
 
96 MAY EVE 
 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 
 Scatter on the floor; 
 Evil cannot pass them 
 
 At the cottage door. 
 May the Virgin Mary 
 
 And her httle Son 
 From the spell of fairy 
 
 Shield us, every one! 
 
THE OLD BOREEN. 
 
 Beneath the furnace-heat of noon 
 
 The fervid city burns Hke brass — 
 Oh, for a country day of June, 
 
 Amid the buttercups and grass ! 
 But lo! the breath of violets sweet 
 
 Salutes me from the vender's hand, 
 And sudden, with enchanted feet, 
 
 I'm wandering in fairyland. 
 
 The stately homes of traffic fade, 
 
 The houses blossom into trees ; 
 The roar of mart and throb of trade 
 
 Are symphonies of birds and bees. 
 Subsides the thunder of the town, 
 
 And hand in hand with fancy, lo ! 
 A blithe-heart boy I wander down 
 
 The old boreen of long ago. 
 
 A-many a footstep there is heard — 
 
 Slow cattle watched by whistling boys. 
 That from its nest the brooding bird 
 
 Affright with rude, intrusive noise; 
 Or, when o'morns the mowers blithe 
 
 Come trudging from the neighb'ring farms. 
 O'er shoulders strong the clanging scythe, 
 
 Their coats flung loosely on their arms. 
 
 97 
 
98 THE OLD BORE EN 
 
 Or it may be, with panniers twain 
 
 Full of brown peat, a donkey jogs. 
 Led leisurely by barefoot swain. 
 
 Loitering homeward from the bogs ; 
 Or singing, with her pail of milk 
 
 At eve will trip some village girl, 
 A crimson kerchief of the silk 
 
 O'er roguish eye and raven curl. 
 
 Or laden with the fragrant hay, 
 
 To plodding horse and clacking wheel, 
 Here some all-golden harvest day 
 
 The farmer's cart will slowly steal; 
 Or when the chapel-bell to Mass 
 
 Summons the folk on Sunday morn, 
 Here townward will the peasant pass 
 
 With grave debate of rent and corn. 
 
 Dear lotus-land of long ago, 
 
 Sweet, lost elysium, I'd give 
 Whate'er of best life's triumphs show 
 
 One golden hour to there relive. 
 Ah city Sybarite! the town 
 
 Can never teach her child the joy 
 He feels, who heart-free wanders down 
 
 The old boreen, a blithe-heart boy. 
 
LULLABY. 
 
 Lullaby, little one! linnets are sleeping 
 In the green heart of the sycamore tree; 
 
 Smile in thy sleep while thy mother is weeping, 
 Lullaby, darling, asthoreen machree. 
 
 Lullaby, little one! spring and the swallow 
 Hasten them hither from over the sea. 
 
 Maybe a fonder one later may follow 
 Home to my darling, asthoreen machree. 
 
 Lullaby, little one ! over the billow 
 Ne'er will my warrior hasten to me; 
 
 Weird is the wail of the shivering willow 
 By the wan river, asthoreen machree. 
 
 Lullaby, little one ! deep in the meadow 
 
 Fairies are ringing their blue bells for thee ; 
 
 Mother is sobbing in sorrow and shadow, 
 Lullaby, darling, asthoreen machree. 
 
 Lullaby, little one ! soon wnll the sorrow 
 Dawn on thy heart in its innocence free; 
 
 Wailing will come with the bitter to-morrow. 
 Lullaby, darling, asthoreen machree. 
 
 Lullaby, little one ! crooneth the river. 
 
 Winds whistle down by the sorrowing sea ; 
 
 Warriors battle, but father will never 
 Come to my darling, asthoreen machree. 
 
 99 
 
 LofC. 
 
BRIAN BWEE. 
 
 The fair was over, the folk were flown, 
 Brian Bwee walked home alone; 
 Over the fields he followed the path, 
 That winds away to the haunted rath. 
 
 Over the fields his way he kept, 
 There in the moated rath he slept, 
 Under the lonely fairy-thorn 
 Such a sleep as he slept till morn ! 
 
 Deep he lay in a dreamy bed, 
 Downy pillows beneath his head. 
 Round and round on magical feet 
 Flew the fairies to fiddles sweet. 
 
 Wrinkled witches, old wizened chaps. 
 Scarlet mantles and crimson caps. 
 Silver buckles on tiny brogues. 
 Such a laughter of little rogues! 
 
 Round and round while the pipers played, 
 In and out, little man and maid, 
 Golden tresses and kirtles green, 
 Clown and courtier, and king and queen. 
 
 I GO 
 
BRIAN BWEE lOi 
 
 Up the middle and down again, 
 Here and there to the witching strain, 
 All night long, till the village cock 
 Crowed at half-past three o'clock. 
 
 One, two, three ! — and the weird spell broke ; 
 Brian Bwee from his sleep awoke. 
 From the crown of his head to the sole of his shoe, 
 With the feet of the fairies black and blue. 
 
 Now in his chimney hob he sits. 
 Robbed, they say, of his five wits. 
 Old and feeble and sorry and sore, 
 And he hears the music for evermore. 
 
THE DEAD MOTHER. 
 
 A CONNAUGHT TRADITION. 
 
 There was no sound throughout the house, 
 
 Either by rafter or by floor, 
 No sound at all, save of the mouse 
 
 That screeched behind the cupboard door 
 The mother in her grave did lie, 
 
 Under the shamrocks on the hill ; 
 Her two-weeks' babe began to cry 
 
 At dead of night, when all was still. 
 
 Was that a footstep on the stair? 
 
 The cross of Christ defend us all! 
 Who comes with dew-drift on her hair. 
 
 Clothed, head to foot, in funeral pall? 
 O, Jesu ! sad her face and sweet ! 
 
 But, where the moonlight soft did fall 
 Athwart the casement at her feet. 
 
 She made no shadow on the wall. 
 
 The filmy shroud that folded her 
 
 From throat to foot was white as milk; 
 
 Her girdle was as gossamer 
 Woven of shuttle of the silk. 
 
 I02 
 
THE DEAD MOTHER 103 
 
 Her lover slept, she leaned o'er him 
 
 And kissed his dreaming tears away, 
 Then paused, a spectral shadow dim, 
 
 Where, cradled soft, her baby lay. 
 
 She took the wee babe from its nest, 
 
 She soothed it with a lullaby. 
 And at the fountain of her breast 
 
 She eased its bitter hunger cry. 
 "O baby, baby! do not weep. 
 
 Your crying reached me in the clay. 
 ■Alanna! how can mother sleep. 
 
 With baby wailing far away!" 
 
 The village dog begins to bark. 
 
 The convent chime tolls three o'clock ; 
 The dawn is breaking red, and, hark ! 
 
 In distant farms crows loud the cock. 
 She turns and lingers, fain to stay, 
 
 She steals from cradle and from bed. 
 Unto the hill she must away — 
 
 May Christ have mercy on the dead! 
 
J 
 
 THE CRY OF THE GAEL. 
 
 sons and daughters of the Gael ! 
 I heard your voices in my sleep; 
 
 1 heard your broken-hearted wail 
 
 Surge upward from the world's wide deep. 
 The dirges of your scattered hosts 
 
 Came on the winds from many lands, 
 Lamenting for your Erin's coasts 
 
 With bleeding hearts and lifted hands. 
 
 I wake; that chant is in mine ears, 
 
 That anguished litany of woe ; 
 Mine eyes are blind with burning tears 
 
 That for my land's affliction flow ! 
 And as the shell with fairy tongue 
 
 Far inland mourns its native foam, 
 My heart on shores of exile flung 
 
 Sobs, yearning to its island home. 
 
 And thou. Beloved, making moan 
 
 Beside the brink of Time's dim sea! 
 Sweet Mary of the nations, prone 
 
 Upon thy centuried Calvary ! 
 Sad mother, crouching 'neath the cross ! 
 
 Look up ! Thy Saviour hangs above ; 
 And through the darkness of thy loss 
 
 Shines out the purpose of His love. 
 104 
 
THE CRY OF THE GAEL 105 
 
 His heralds predilect, thy sons 
 
 Subdue the nations to His word. 
 They go not with the conqueror's guns 
 
 Nor smite they with the tyrant's sword. 
 Not theirs the lust of gold or greed 
 
 Of power to shackle and enslave, 
 But with the lamp of faith to lead 
 
 Men upward to the truths that save. 
 
 Despair not ! Grosser minds may grope 
 
 Amid the spoils of mart and mine. 
 Thine is the realm of light and hope, 
 
 The empery of love divine. 
 Where'er thy children's feet have trod 
 
 Their stately sanctuaries rise, 
 And round the world ascends to God 
 
 The incense of their sacrifice. 
 
 The nations drawn from darkness bless 
 
 Thee, sad, discrowned and desolate; 
 But for earth's tyrants who oppress 
 
 They drug the chalice of their hate. 
 For Christ of crown and sceptre shorn ! 
 
 E'en now the clouds are backward rolled. 
 And lo ! Thy glad Assumption morn 
 
 Resplendent dawns in skies of gold. 
 
THE DREAM-TRYST. 
 
 When purple shadows fold the earth 
 
 And starry silence sits supreme, 
 When chirps the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 And o'er the world walks forth the dream ; 
 Her sad eyes touched with feeling deep. 
 
 Comes Memory and sits beside. 
 And all the ghostly land of sleep 
 
 With thy dear face is sanctified. 
 
 I range with thee the shadows dim, 
 
 And drink of joy a little space — 
 Such joy as feel the seraphim 
 
 Before Our Blessed Lady's face. 
 A little space, a heavenly while 
 
 'Twixt dark and dawn, thou art mine own, 
 Mine wholly ; but thy blessed smile 
 
 Fades at the light and leaves me lone. 
 
 Ah, welcome night, that bringeth sleep! 
 
 Beloved sleep, that brings the dream! 
 How sweet it were that tryst to keep 
 
 Forever by sad Lethe's stream ! 
 Come, purple shadows of the dusk. 
 
 Come poppied sleep from starry space. 
 And when the woodbine breathes its musk 
 
 To-night, oh bring me back her face ! 
 1 06 
 
MY SAINT. 
 
 Madonna — ah, that it were mine to paint 
 Her worth in words that compass praise — my saint, 
 Divinely dowered with beauty, at whose feet 
 My heart adoring mounts in worship sweet ! 
 
 Before the benediction of her face 
 Spontaneous blooms whate'er is best of good, 
 
 Unconscious she with what unconscious grace 
 She wears the jeweled crown of womanhood. 
 
 Of earth, yet bright with heaven's aureole, 
 Before the virgin Eden of her soul 
 Reserve's bright angel stands to warn afar 
 Whatever thoughts of her unworthy are. 
 Nor can things base abide the scorching light 
 Of her ethereal spirit's splendor white. 
 And, like to lilies, 'neath her quickening eyes 
 Along her path pure aspirations rise. 
 So, veiled in sweet humility, she lives. 
 Unwitting all of all the joy she gives. 
 
 Her eager thoughts like couriers bright outrun 
 Her hand that findeth joy in kindness done. 
 And winged wishes dove-like round her move 
 To do her little ministries of love. 
 For 'tis her pleasure round about her feet 
 
 In spendthrift mood to scatter wide the seeds 
 
 107 
 
lo8 MY SAINl 
 
 Of graciousness that make the rude world sweet 
 
 With UHed joy and rose of gentle deeds. 
 Nor knoweth she that masked in her mild mien 
 An angel walks, of her sweet self unseen. 
 
 No garish bloom in life's gay garden set, 
 
 My shy, sweet flower of winsome womanhood 
 She blossoms like the lowly violet 
 
 In dryad solitude of some dim wood. 
 She woos not adulation like the rose, 
 
 Nor flattery with the tulip's wanton tints. 
 Yet never wind by her green cloister goes 
 
 But by its sweetness of her presence hints. 
 
 High-privileged who doth her favor win 
 And to her heart's dear shrine doth enter in ; 
 His sordid self consumed by holy fire, 
 To purer realms his spirit doth aspire. 
 His nobler heart ignoble purpose spurns. 
 And with diviner flame his being burns. 
 
 Thrice blest am I since she hath on me laid 
 With touch ennobling love's dear accolade; 
 Supremely rich who hold from Heaven above 
 The priceless jewel of my lady's love. 
 Unworthy, God ! of such dear gift, O grant 
 I ne'er unto Thy trust be recreant, 
 But guard it well with reverential awe 
 In faultless faith and honor without flaw. 
 
THE SOLDIERS OF THE CELT. 
 
 Sweet Erin, long in sorrow bowed, 
 Exult and lift thy drooping head ! 
 
 The trumpets of the West are loud 
 To-day with praises of thy dead 
 
 Who sleep with Freedom's stars for shroud, 
 With glory's laurels garlanded. 
 
 Poor wanderer from thy distant isle, 
 See where thine exile hes to-day, 
 
 Shot down in Freedom's foremost file 
 Where flamed the lightnings of the fray, 
 
 Upon his dying lips the smile 
 
 That blessed thee, mother ! far away. 
 
 Their doom is thus since time began : 
 The children of thy gallant race 
 
 Have ever led the battle's van, 
 Have forward set their eager face, 
 
 Have ever for their brother man 
 In danger's gap held honored place. 
 
 Oh, bitter, bitter is thy loss. 
 
 Gray mourner by the golden sea! 
 
 They fell in field and fort and fosse 
 For others ; thee they might not free ! 
 
 God rest them, where 'neath stone or cross 
 Their lonely burial places be! 
 
 109 
 
I lO THE SOLDIERS OF THE CELT 
 
 More dear, perhaps, an Irish grave 
 
 With shamrocks swathed from head to feet ; 
 
 But in the sod where comrades brave 
 Have hollowed him his winding sheet, 
 
 Who died to free his fellow slave 
 His slumber April will make sweet. 
 
 Beneath the palm tree let him rest 
 Where o'er him moans the tropic dove ! 
 
 His soul is happy with the blest 
 Who wear God's amaranths above, 
 
 His body lieth in the west, 
 
 But thou, sweet Erin, hast his love ! 
 
 The above lines were suggested by the report of the Rev. 
 Dr. Henry C. McCook, of Philadelphia, who, commissioned by 
 President McKinley to identify the graves of the American dead 
 on the battlefield of San Juan in Cuba, found that the nearest 
 grave to the Spanish lines was that of Michael Daly, a private of 
 the Seventy-first New York Regiment. 'An Irishman by birth, 
 an American by adoption," said the rude cross that his com- 
 rades had made on his grave from an old biscuit box. 
 
THE TEST. 
 
 Three singers, met together, strove 
 For mastery. "Who singeth best 
 
 Of passion, prowess, faith or love, 
 The richest recompense shall test!" 
 
 One struck his harp and clear and loud 
 He sang a song of battle bold. 
 
 A sunburnt soldier in the crowd 
 
 Flung high his hat and gave him gold. 
 
 The second sang a soothing song 
 Of love in accents sweet and wild. 
 
 A lover, listening in the throng, 
 
 Hung breathless on his harp and smiled. 
 
 A song of faith deceived the third 
 Sang low, and, as his chords he swept, 
 
 A broken-hearted woman heard, 
 And tears of tender pity wept. 
 
 Then said the other twain : ''Behold ! 
 
 The latest singer singeth best ; 
 For guerdon we have smiles and gold. 
 
 But he hath woman's tears for test !" 
 
 Ill 
 
THE IRISH BRIGADE. 
 
 SOUTH AFRICA, I9OO-I9OI. 
 
 God give them rest, in duty's van who died ! 
 No more for them by Irish lake or rill 
 Shall flame the gold torch of the daffodill. 
 
 No more for them where Irish rivers glide 
 
 Shall kingcups blossom, or the primrose pied 
 Star Irish glen when over Irish hill 
 Green Ireland's throstle flutes at evening still 
 
 And May her hawthorn wreath wears like a bride. 
 
 Sad hearts there be in many an Irish field 
 
 At orphan'd hearths with tears of pride shall tell 
 
 How staunch they stood when battle thunders pealed, 
 With what heroic constancy they fell, 
 
 Their boast subhme: *'We kept dear Honor's shield 
 UnsulHed and we did our duty well !" 
 
 1 12 
 
ROCHAMBEAU. 
 
 Despairing 'neath the foot of despot Might 
 
 Our country lay, her glorious cause undone. 
 
 France heard her moan and sent her gallant son. 
 He raised anew the banner of the right, 
 His oriflamme beside it blazing bright. 
 
 His falchion flashed o'er fields for Freedom won; 
 
 Peace smiled and with God-given Washington 
 Linked in our love Rochambeau, Freedom's knight. 
 
 No need has he of monumental bronze 
 His golden claim of gratitude to plead. 
 No sculptured marble can his fame enhance. 
 
 His deathless deeds defy oblivion's 
 Erasive hand. In them let all men read 
 The debt we owe his generous mother, France. 
 
 113 
 
GETTYSBURG. 
 
 The violet blows, and hark ! in yonder wood 
 The robin flutes his pensive roundelay, 
 Hard by, whereon that fateful summer day 
 
 Rock-like in strength the country's lovers stood, 
 
 Stemming the tide of battle at its flood. 
 
 And lo ! where, spent and broken, ebbed away 
 The last long billows of the sea of Gray, 
 
 The wild rose blossoms red from patriot blood. 
 
 God rest their souls ! Heartache or scalding tears 
 We grudge them not, nor rain of weeping eyes, 
 If, haply quickened from their fruitful seed 
 
 Blood-sown, shall burgeon in the coming years. 
 In hour of need — should any need arise — 
 For freedom such another warrior breed. 
 
 114 
 
POTTER'S FIELD. 
 
 Poor outcasts ! In this sad, secluded spot, 
 Unknown, unnamed, unepitaphed they He, 
 At rest beneath God's hospitable sky 
 
 Who to the dregs have drained life's bitter lot. 
 
 Forgot of men, them June forgetteth not, 
 But keepeth aye in reverent memory. 
 And, pausing as her gracious feet go by. 
 
 With wild flowers heaps their lonely burial plot. 
 
 Earth's proudest monarchs have no more than they- 
 
 Peace after strife, oblivion and dust 
 
 With spring's impartial blossoms strewn above. 
 All journey to death's caravanserai ; 
 
 But well for whoso lieth down, in trust 
 
 To wake and find a Father's tender love. 
 
 115 
 
INSPIRATION. 
 
 An organ thrilling in cathedral glooms, 
 A song chance-heard, a robin's roundelay, 
 A kiss, a clasp of hands, a sprig of spray, 
 
 A sudden waft of meadow-land perfumes, 
 
 An old name graven in a place of tombs, 
 In winter-land a flower of spring astray, 
 A face remembered after many a day, 
 
 A bridal bell, a funeral with plumes : 
 
 Trifles, you say? But in the poet's heart 
 
 They set strange rhymes a-ringing, till, behold! 
 Well hewn beneath the master's cunning hand. 
 
 Touch unto touch and perfect part to part. 
 Finer than Phidian stone or statued gold. 
 His gradual-shapen dreams of beauty stand! 
 
 Ii6 
 
MIRIAM. 
 
 Oft as I see her pace the busy street 
 
 Or rainbow-gay bazaar, her raven hair 
 A rippHng darkness over shoulders fair, 
 
 With downcast eyes and smile demurely sweet, 
 
 Purity's self with dainty-slippered feet 
 
 Thridding the market like a silent prayer. 
 Or guerdoning with sweetly solemn air 
 
 The grave salaam of reverent eyes that greet, 
 
 I call to mind that maiden of her race, 
 Immaculate, unblemished, free of sin. 
 E'en so, methinks, went Mary to and fro ; 
 
 E'en so she walked with hallowing steps of grace, 
 Favored of God amid her kith and kin, 
 In that blest Nazareth of long ago. 
 
 117 
 
LOVE'S SWEET PETITIONER. 
 
 Close-cloistered in the virgin solitude 
 
 Of her pure heart such maiden thoughts abide 
 (Like vestals meek in convent sanctified,) 
 
 That word of mine too wanton were and rude 
 
 Within its precinct holy to intrude. 
 
 So Love pines, dumbfound, at her door, denied 
 By blushes that with mute reproaches chide 
 
 The words that fain its worship would denude. 
 
 But thou knowest all, O little violet, 
 I send to be Love's sweet petitioner ; 
 
 Perchance in her soft bosom to be set, 
 And, there emparadised upon the stir 
 
 Of her dear heart or in her loose hair's jet. 
 To whisper all that I would fain to her. 
 
 ii8 
 
PAN OR CHRIST? 
 I. 
 
 Great Pan is dead, and Nature's heart is sore. 
 
 Great Pan is dead, and fauns lamenting zveep; 
 
 The dryads in salt tears their tresses steep 
 And nymphs complain by Gytherea's shore. 
 On mellow reeds Sicilian lads no more 
 
 Shall hear him pipe unto their brozvsing sheep, 
 
 Nor bronzed reapers startle him asleep 
 Where poppied zvheat his slumber zvhispers o'er. 
 
 Great Pan is dead! Ah, foolish we, who voice 
 The shrill despair that shook the pagan world, 
 When Athens bent to lowly Bethlehem ! 
 
 Nay, rather should our ransomed race rejoice 
 That demon gods to hell were downward hurled 
 When Love's foot trampled Hatred's diadem. 
 
 n. 
 
 Great Pan is dead! laments the sensual lute 
 That fain would echo gross Hellenic loves, 
 Or thrill with Juno's worship or with Jove's, 
 
 And deify in man the satyr brute. 
 
 Great Pan is dead, and laughters lips are mute 
 For Aphrodite and her silver doves! 
 Ah, carnal crowd ! that in Circean groves 
 
 To David's harp prefers the Doric flute ! 
 
 119 
 
I20 PAN OR CHRIST? 
 
 The gods Olympian of old Greece are gone; 
 Their graven marbles moulder in the dust. 
 
 But Christ hath builded in the Christian heart 
 A statelier shrine than templed Parthenon. 
 There Beauty dwells and art sublimed o'er lust 
 Pays homage due — true end of noblest art. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 REV. Stephen Joseph Perry, SJ., F.R.S., F.R.A.S. 
 (died off the isle of salut in h. m. s. Comns, dec. 
 
 2^, 1889, WHILE IN CHARGE OF THE BRITISH 
 
 ASTRONOMICAL EXPEDITION TO OBSERVE THE 
 
 TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, DEC. 22, 1889.) 
 
 Dead ! and he lieth not in English land, 
 
 With English blossom garlanding his rest. 
 Soothed by the low sweet requiem of the west. 
 
 But alien waves lament on alien strand 
 
 The gentle sage of great Loyola's band. 
 Yet death to him was sweet at duty's 'best, 
 And aye he deemed the Master's will the best, 
 
 So passed in peace, with crucifix in hand. 
 
 Now April, with the primrose in her hair, 
 Breathes verdure over all his English North. 
 The chaffinch chirpeth vainly in the croft 
 
 For him who found God's every creature fair. 
 Ah, bird and bloom ! the Master has gone forth 
 By starry pathways to his home aloft. 
 
 121 
 
IRELAND. 
 1902. 
 
 I. 
 
 Discrowned, despoiled, for Christ accounted vile; 
 
 For Christ's sweet sake of liberty bereft; 
 
 Mocked, scourged, thy heart like Christ's with 
 sorrow cleft; 
 No wanton favorite of fortune's smile, 
 Still Honor bides with thee, O martyr isle ! 
 
 Else ravished by red hands of robber theft. 
 
 Yea, in thy heart to Honor still is left 
 A sanctuary and a domicile! 
 
 The nations slumber, lethargied in greed, 
 Ignobly mute while murder's dagger drips 
 With patriot blood and Freedom's heart is rent 
 
 Where Africa's stanch-hearted burghers bleed. 
 But, hark ! God's thunder, pealing from thy lips 
 For justice, shakes the tyrant's Parliament. 
 
 11. 
 
 Sole champion thou and witness of the right, 
 Thy generous heart sublimed o'er selfish aim 
 Alone redeems humanity from shame. 
 
 The torch of truth by thee uplifted bright 
 122 
 
IRELAND 123 
 
 Burns star-like In our gross, material night. 
 Thou vestal art of freedom's altar-flame, 
 And proudly thou in fair unblemished fame 
 
 Dost keep unsoiled thy robe's baptismal white. 
 
 Oh, rich at last shall be thy faith's reward. 
 
 The guerdon of thy loyalty and love. 
 
 Though God's decrees are dark to mortal ken 
 For thee endures the promise of the Lord : 
 
 Who Me denies shall he denied Above ; 
 
 Confessed who Me confesses before men. 
 
 " When it was intimated to them {the Irish Parliamentary 
 Party) that they had hit to uphold the war in South Africa 
 and all their demarids for their own country would be 
 granted, there was never a grander spectacle presented to the 
 world than the refusal of these Irish patriots to get justice at 
 the pfice of doing injustice to others. Even the bravery of 
 the Boers does not equal such bravery. They value liberty, 
 but they value it so highly that they would not purchase it at 
 the price of destroying the liberty of other s. England could 
 send policemen to drag them from their seats in the House of 
 Parliament, but they could not drag them from their devotion 
 to civilization.'' — Hon. Wm. Bourke Cockran, in the 
 New York Academy of Music, Feb. 16, /902. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF MICHAELMAS EVE. 
 
 In Dublin burg by Dublin bay 
 
 The ruthless Sitric reigns ; 
 The haughty lords of Leinster pay 
 
 Him tribute of their plains. 
 
 A thousand vikings throng his deck, 
 
 A thousand ply the sword; 
 A thousand berserks do his beck 
 
 From Norland firth and fiord. 
 
 Oh, woe for Wales, when on her coasts 
 
 His raven flag appears ! 
 And woe for Britain when his hosts 
 
 Are out with reddened spears ! 
 
 The plunder of a thousand shrines 
 
 Is in his galley's hold; 
 His keels are crammed with Gascon wines, 
 
 His coffers clogged with gold. 
 
 lona rues his robber bark. 
 
 And rifled church and fane 
 The passage of his pillage mark 
 
 From Thule unto Spain. 
 124 
 
THE BRIDAL OF MICHAELMAS EVE 125 
 
 And there is fear in fort and fosse 
 
 By Scotland's sunset seas, 
 When burst his pirate prows across 
 
 The stormy Hebrides. 
 
 But dearer far than all his ships 
 
 From Shetland to the South 
 To him are Lady Blanid's lips, 
 
 The blossom of her mouth — 
 
 The mouth of Blanid, young and fair, 
 
 The child of Malachi ; 
 The virgin lily of the mere 
 
 Is not more pure than she. 
 
 Her hair is like the golden fern, 
 
 Her throat the torrent's spray; 
 Her eyes are like the mountain tarn, 
 
 So deep and dark are they. 
 
 And Sitric he hath sworn, alas! 
 
 By Wodin and by Thor 
 To wed the maid ere Michaelmas, 
 
 Or plunge her plains in war. 
 
 And to her bower on foaming barb 
 
 Hath galloped Sitric's thrall. 
 And bade the maid in bridal garb 
 
 Attend the tyrant's hall. 
 
126 THE BRIDAL OF MICHAELMAS EVE 
 
 And in her train a hundred girls, 
 
 The flower of beauty sweet, 
 To wed a hundred Norland earls, 
 
 The captains of his fleet. 
 
 St. Michael's Eve! In Sitric's tower 
 
 The revel roareth high ; 
 But there is woe in Blanid's bower, 
 
 A tear in Blanid's eye. 
 
 "Now save me, by our plighted troth!" 
 
 She prays the prince of Meath. 
 And he hath thrust in reddest wrath 
 
 A dagger in its sheath. 
 
 And all in bridal robes arrayed, 
 With brooch and torque and pearl, 
 
 In shrewd disguise of timid maid, 
 Hath gone to meet the Earl. 
 
 A hundred youths as damsels drest. 
 
 The comeliest in the land. 
 Each with a dagger in his breast. 
 
 Have hied them in his band. 
 
 "Oh great Archangel militant!" 
 
 To Michael thus they pray, 
 "The strength of God unto us grant 
 
 To strike at wrong to-day!" 
 
THE BRIDAL OF MICHAELMAS EVE 127 
 
 "Our shrines and hearths are brought to shame 
 
 Beneath the tyrant's lust. 
 Dishonored damosel and dame 
 
 Weep with their heads in dust !" 
 
 The feast is set ; the goblets shine ; 
 
 In jeweled horn and cup 
 The mead is bubbling, and the wine 
 
 Brims every beaker up. 
 
 The mighty wassail fires his brain : 
 
 Earl Sitric in his pride 
 Hath bade his bards begin a strain 
 
 Of welcome to his bride. 
 
 "Our Norland maids are fresh and sweet, 
 
 But who hath Blanid's charms?" 
 Earl Sitric leapeth from his seat 
 
 To clasp her in his arms. 
 
 Earl Sitric leapeth in his lust 
 
 To clasp the Prince of Meath — 
 In his black heart the dagger's thrust 
 
 Hath found a bloody sheath. 
 
 The rafters ring with shriek and yell, 
 
 The tables rock and reel. 
 'Gainst Danish mail the hate of hell 
 
 Doth ply the Irish steel! 
 
1 28 THE BRIDAUJDF MICHAELMAS E VE 
 
 The wine is spilt, the banquet hall 
 
 With blood is reeking red. 
 The bridal is a burial 
 
 With none to mourn the dead. 
 
 In Dublin burg by Liffey side 
 
 The bells at morn ring loud : 
 The Prince of Meath hath won a bride, 
 
 Earl Sitric but a shroud. 
 
HOMEWARD. 
 
 When in infant bud 
 
 Lay life's flower unfolden, 
 Thou, O Lord ! of good 
 
 Gifts didst give me golden. 
 
 Placed his heart in mine — 
 
 Gift exceeding measure, 
 Dowery divine 
 
 Of Thy Godhead's treasure. 
 
 Now from out my hand 
 Love that Thou hast lended 
 
 Straightway to demand 
 
 Comes Thine angel splendid. 
 
 Hark ! his awful tread, 
 
 And his pinions trailing! 
 See ! his aureoled head 
 
 Lights the house of wailing! 
 
 'Tis mine hour of dole; 
 
 Pity me, O Mary ! 
 On his trembling soul 
 
 Jesu Miserere ! 
 
 129 
 
30 HOMEWARD 
 
 If I draw grief's breath, 
 
 I am only human. 
 Reconciled to death 
 
 Ne'er was man or woman. 
 
 Never fled above 
 
 Soul from fond soul grieving 
 But rebellious love 
 
 Questioned the bereaving. 
 
 Death's bright angel yet 
 Never summoned mortal, 
 
 But some eye was wet 
 
 At the grave's dark portal. 
 
 Home, if home he must, 
 Home to Thee, O Father ! 
 
 From his sacred dust 
 Lilies shall we gather. 
 
 From the dust we love 
 
 Faith and Hope upspringing, 
 
 Lift our hearts above. 
 Comfort to us bringing. 
 
 Gentle was my dear, 
 
 Soul of stainless splendor; 
 
 Therefore, all the year 
 
 Tend him, all things tender! 
 
HOMEWARD 131 
 
 Yea, for sure I know 
 
 Where his dust reposes 
 Violets will blow 
 
 And the summer's roses. 
 
 There shall April come 
 
 To her gentle lover, 
 And the gold bees hum 
 
 Where the flowers bend over. 
 
 Close to him shall creep 
 
 Crickets in the grasses, 
 Singing to his sleep 
 
 Golden midnight masses. 
 
 And in heaven above 
 
 Larks shall warble o'er him : 
 "Safe with Christ, our Love, 
 
 Weep not nor deplore him !" 
 
KATHERINE TEGAKWITA— THE LILY OF 
 THE MOHAWKS. 
 1 656- 1 680. 
 By pagan passions undefiled, 
 
 The stainless lily of her race, 
 Amid the Mohawk's sylvan wild 
 
 Bloomed Katherine, the flower of grace. 
 Than she no sweeter blossom breathes 
 
 Its odor on the winds of spring; 
 Meet for the coronal that wreathes 
 The royal brows of Christ, the King. 
 
 Hushed is the war-whoop of the brave. 
 
 His conquerors tread the trails he knew ; 
 No more upon the Mohawk's wave 
 
 Sweeps battleward his swift canoe, 
 But 'mid wild rose and goldenrod, 
 
 In paths that knew her virgin feet, 
 The fragrance of the Flower of God 
 
 Still haunts the forest, heavenly sweet. 
 
 As pure as is the lucent pearl 
 
 That lurks beneath the purple tide, 
 Christ saw and loved the Indian girl 
 
 And chose her for His heavenly bride. 
 For high espousals set apart. 
 
 Betrothed by privilege divine. 
 She nestles on her Bridegroom's heart, 
 
 Where round His throne the seraphs shine. 
 132 
 
fl 
 
 MAY 1 1903 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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