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THE CASCADE METRE 
 
 or 
 
 Poems Pertaining to Oregon 
 
 Copyright 1921 
 
 by 
 
 BRO. MICHAEL DUNN, 0. S. B. 
 
 (Price 35c per copy) 
 
CONTENTS f\ f\^ , 
 
 Page 
 
 The Cascade Metre 7 
 
 McLoughlin, Father of Oregon 9 
 
 Titular — Abbot Adelhelm in Church History 11 
 
 At. St. Benedict 13 
 
 Crater Lake 14 
 
 To the First "Tufa" Church in Oregon 17 
 
 Glimpses of St. Benedict's Abbey 19 
 
 The Angel Guardian 21 
 
 Some Features of Mt. Angel 23 
 
 The Oregon Mist 25 
 
 Christmas at St. Benedict 28 
 
 Queen of Angels; Convent Bells 29 
 
 The River Abiqua 31 
 
 The Green Willamette Vale 33 
 
 At Mt. Tabot— Peace 34 
 
 In Memoriam (Rev. Paul Manion, O. S. B.) 36 
 
 Death of Father Paul 37 
 
 Perennial Flow (Sonnet) 39 
 
 Evaporated Sunshine 40 
 
 The Call of the Oregon Trees 42 
 
 Sunset on the Oregon Coast 43 
 
 Echoes Around the Golden Gate 45 
 
 Dreams of Youth 48 
 
 A Jubilee of Peace 49 
 
 Vive La Voyageur 59 
 
 SEP 29 71 
 
 S)CI.A524434 
 
 "W* I 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 In these days of national reconstruction, following in the 
 Vv^ake of international distruction ; it is well that the rising gen- 
 eration should have a more poetical conception of the beauties 
 of nature around them, and broader views of humanity in gen- 
 eral. 
 
 Poetry is not always a thin fabric woven with the warp 
 and woof of dreams ; dissolving like a cloud at the first ray of 
 sunshine; yea, rather it is a species of cloth of gold either 
 adorning the edges of a personality, or the literature of a na- 
 tion. 
 
 It is the soul expression of minds traveling at a rate 
 swifter than the ordinary individual; flying at an altitude 
 higher than the migratory birds ; and catching sparks from the 
 "Muse" in the higher ether of thought where the time-honored 
 facts of religion and philosophy are mystically hammered on 
 the anvil of Truth. 
 
 The following poems were written during the spare mo- 
 ments of a busy life, and the average reader is earnestly ex- 
 horted to peruse them. 
 
 No better injunction could be given, than the inspiring 
 one given to St. Augustine in the fourth century; when he 
 heard those mysterious words emanating from an invisible 
 source : "Tolle Lege !" "Tolle Lege !" ''Take and read." 
 
 — The Author 
 
THE CASCADE METRE 
 
 Apart from the crowd, and the madden'd throng 
 
 That rush to all gates ajar ; 
 I list to a brook, to its murmur'd song — 
 
 Sweet chant of the things afar. 
 
 Where the hills roll up, and the streams run down 
 
 'Mid dews to the ocean's breast ; 
 Here a thought gets ripe, as a berry brown — 
 
 One gleam of the sunset West. 
 
 Here the rain-clouds float, as a goodly throng 
 
 O'er fields with a green-clad vest; 
 But the "Muse" and I, climb the hills along 
 
 The trail of the *'anapest." 
 
 Not the slow-wing flap of the buzzard's flight 
 
 O'er the Cascade range to swing ; 
 But a pen-point trace, as a feather bright 
 
 When dropp'd from an angel's wing. 
 
 Through the dews of life on the Cascade hills, 
 Walks the ''Maid" in sweet content; 
 
 And her tracks are found 'twixt the flowing rills 
 And the star environment. 
 
 Here the snow-capp'd mountains pierce the zone 
 
 Where the fleet of foot may climb ; 
 But this list'ner here in the monotone. 
 
 Hears nought but the "Maid's" sweet rhyme. 
 
 Not the coldest steel to the magnet lode 
 Is held by a strange caress; 
 
 (7) 
 
For the warmest thought of the oldest code — 
 Is a Homer wi-re-less ! 
 
 On the tower'd shelf of the mountains' cap 
 
 Are the purest dews concealed, 
 And the spirit stream.s on no listed map 
 
 Have the brightest gems concealed. 
 
 Here the convex earth, and the planets' rush 
 
 Keep time to each moving cell ; 
 But the angels' wings have a *'Coelo" hush — 
 
 And scent of the asphodel. 
 
 Like the blue eggs still in a robin's nest 
 
 Hung up in a tree-top high, 
 May I trust these lines to an ink-clad test, 
 
 Ere they plume their wings to fly. 
 
 Thus, my nectar drink — what the ''Muse" distiIJi 
 On each mountain, mead, or plain; 
 
 For to live my life on the Cascade Hills — 
 Or die on the hills of Pain ! 
 
 («) 
 
McLOUGHLIN: FATHER OF OREGON 
 (Echoes of the Willamette Falls) 
 
 How long IVe rushed the lime-stone rock 
 No man can tell by time's dull clock, 
 Or reckon by electric shock 
 
 Half hidden in my tale ; 
 I only know that white men came 
 To seek the trout and mountain game, 
 And cultivate for world fame 
 
 The great Willamette Vale. 
 
 One white man here upon my banks, 
 Is numbered in the the foremost ranks 
 Of them that sue for nation thanks 
 
 With deeds of chivalry ; 
 McLoughlin from Canadian coast, 
 Who saved in wilds the starving host, 
 And nourished at the "Trading Post" 
 
 Of fur-clad rivalry. 
 
 My gurgling waters in his ear. 
 Repeated with a friendly cheer- 
 That drives from man his servile fear- 
 Then rais'd him from despond ; 
 To white men from Missouri plains 
 He gave the seed— the golden grains- 
 Yet he the man of inner pains, 
 The whitest in the land! 
 
 To Oregon he gave a birth, 
 And white men knew his sterling worth 
 Ere sorrows of the ''dual" earth 
 Overflowed his noble soul ; 
 
 (9) 
 
Willamette banks his olivet; 
 Where perfidy is touching yet 
 The goodly deed we can't forget 
 As long as time shall roll. 
 
 Electric streams are rushing fast, 
 To carry light upon the blast, 
 Like some unseen '"Iconoclast" 
 
 In watery turmoil ; 
 But light of history outward peeps, 
 And moral echoes climb the steeps 
 Where John McLoughlin slumbering sleeps 
 
 At rest ,from all his toil. 
 
 Bright waters from the sparkling rills. 
 And dew-drops from the distant hills 
 Uniting here in day-light thrills 
 
 The spray of charity; 
 Electric streamlets upward start. 
 To brighten still each hidden part, 
 And show to men McLoughlin's heart 
 
 Shocked by humanity ! 
 
 1 
 
 (10) 
 
TITULAR-ABBOT ADELHELM IN CHURCH HISTORY 
 (Born Dec. 10, 1844 at Stans, Switzerlanl, and died 
 as Titular Abbot of St. Benedict's Abbey Nov. 6 1920) 
 
 In the Arts of Peace, on the earth below, 
 Where the works of God advance ; 
 
 We see in the light of an Alpine glow 
 The 'Tax" of a boy from Stans. 
 
 O'er the seas afar, from the land of Tell 
 
 To this sunset land he came ; 
 And his heart rang true as a silver bell— 
 
 With his Faith a living flame. 
 
 He came to the Coast on a Mission quest 
 
 With the Benedictine Law ; 
 For to Found a Home in the new-born West- 
 
 A '^Shrine" by the Abiqua! 
 
 In the dismal swamp that he found afloat 
 
 With the atheistic ghouls ; 
 You can trace the sail of a Peter's Boat 
 
 In the town of Christian Schools. 
 
 He went to the homes of the poor and lone 
 
 With grace of a cheery smile. 
 And each sick man knew by his ardent tone 
 
 That his heart was free of guile. 
 
 No road was too long, and no night too dark 
 For him of the zealous breath ; 
 
 When he sought the light of a soul-clad spark 
 Pursued by the Angel Death. 
 
 (11) 
 
He spoke to the crowd, and all hearts were stirr'd 
 
 As the spirits turned to flee ; 
 Like the demons turned at the Saviour's word — 
 
 To swine in the Gallilee ! 
 
 In the prison cells of the earth below, 
 With the suff'ring Church confined; 
 
 For the souls alight in that golden glow — 
 Long, long, he had daily mined ! 
 
 With the light of Faith as their atmosphere. 
 
 And sin as their only load ; 
 Well those 'prisoned souls knew his * "Sestet" prayer 
 
 Far down on the *'Dante" Road ! 
 
 He has passed away from the scenes of man, 
 
 To scenes of a wider zone ; 
 But the mourner here, still the thoughts may Icen — 
 
 To the atheist unknown. 
 
 As a shaft he sped in his ardent quest 
 
 With a sacrificial cheer ; 
 But an Abbey tells in the sunset West — 
 
 That the Founder's "Pax" is. here! 
 
 (*Six times Pater, Ave, and Gloria.) 
 
 (12) 
 
AT ST. BENEDICT, OREGON 
 
 Where the hills roll up to the mountain peaks, 
 And the rain-drops cup in its joy bespeaks 
 
 The birth of an infant stream; 
 There Mt. Hood looks down, from a Cascade crown 
 With a peaceful smile, on a stately Pile — 
 
 Alight in a sunset gleam. 
 
 Where the Cross glints high in the Western sky, 
 And the atmosphere makes the "Pax" appear 
 
 As a symbol stone of worth ; 
 With the Munich Bust, as a God-like trust 
 To watch from a niche, on a landscape rich 
 
 In the green Willamette Vale. 
 
 Here the fir trees green make the woodland scene 
 Betray 'mid the hills, here the flowing rills 
 
 To speak with a day-light cheer ; 
 Where the Indian old, here from times untold, 
 Had worshipped One, in the morning sun — 
 
 That God of the pioneer. 
 
 Lo ! the Andesite, in a Christian light ; 
 That its faith fulfills, as the rain instills 
 
 The green in the grassy sod ; 
 And the ''Black-gowns" work, ne'er the task will shirk, 
 Till the Oregon rolls, with a wealth of souls 
 
 Afar, to the Home of God! 
 
 (13) 
 
CRATER LAKE 
 (A link in the mountain chain) 
 
 Ensconed in the mountain fastness, 
 Fair Lake of the crater birth ; 
 
 Who called thee forth from the vastness 
 From the fertile womb of earth ? 
 
 Half hid in the rocks primeval 
 
 As a mountain coronet ; 
 Thou art thus removed from evil — 
 
 Like cell of an anchoret. 
 
 Unique with the living creatures 
 Unknown on the broader plain; 
 
 Yet, linked with thy virile features 
 To glint in a mountain chain. 
 
 In each sunlit coruscation 
 
 That plays in the light and shade ; 
 You can feel the adumbration 
 
 On thy surface here displayed. 
 
 In your water elocution 
 
 Deep down where the winds are mute; 
 You are thus an inland ocean 
 
 That no surface streams pollute. 
 
 In the present generation 
 
 Men watch, on your surface clear; 
 But what of the adulation 
 
 Of the early pioneer? 
 
 (14) 
 
He had crossed the plains as feeling 
 The ''dance" of the bison reels — 
 
 With the march of Empire, stealing 
 A ride, on his ox-cart wheels ! 
 
 Ere he sought the scent of mountains, 
 Or the Rockies' wave divide ; 
 
 You were fed by cloudlet fountains, 
 And smiled as a Cascade bride. 
 
 Ere the ship — the ''Mayflower" entered, 
 And docked on the Plymouth shore ; 
 
 You were then as now charm centered 
 
 Where the "Crater" gleamed no more! 
 
 Ere a sailor crossed the ocean 
 
 With his ships, the dauntless Three; 
 You were there with fond devotion 
 
 To the hills' tranquility. 
 
 Ere the Red Man saw the lonely 
 Deep floes of the Behring Sea ; 
 
 Like him you had lost in the briny — 
 All trace of your history. 
 
 Ere the Pyramids empurpled 
 
 A sailor boy on the Nile — 
 You were then as now encircled 
 
 With a Cascade mountain smile! 
 
 In your crystal depths men ponder 
 'Neath shade of the Douglas Firs ; 
 
 While the maids and matrons wonder 
 At a depth that's more than theirs. 
 
 (15) 
 
Fair Lake of the Cascade sweetness 
 Where feet of the earthquake trod ; 
 You are thus in full completeness — 
 A "Gem" in the hand of God ! 
 
 (16) 
 
TO THE FIRST ^TUFA" CHURCH IN OREGON 
 
 Fair child of the Cascade reaches, 
 Long hid on the dust frontier ; 
 
 Your voice is a song that preaches 
 As a Cascade pioneer. 
 
 Sweet child of the mountain fastness, 
 To speak where your words recount 
 
 Of a solemn Christmas vastness. 
 Or the Sermon on the Mount. 
 
 From the fields of mountain slumber 
 
 Where a ''Magnus" found your face; 
 
 Now the men of science wonder 
 As you speak to the populace. 
 
 You are here no dull misnomer 
 
 For men with their efforts pooled; 
 
 In the daylight dream of E. Kroner, 
 Or the force of A. Warren Gould. 
 
 Fair ''Tufa" pile of the wildwood. 
 
 Long searched in a science quest; 
 
 By the river plains of Sellwood 
 You will stand the acid test. 
 
 As the unborn children ponder 
 
 Deep thoughts in this "Tufa" Shrine 
 May their throbbing hearts surrender 
 
 To peace of the Babe Divine. 
 
 Not the fire-proof lumber story 
 Alone, in the Cruciform ; 
 
 (17) 
 
But the hidden veils of glory 
 Afloat in a mystic form. 
 
 Near waves of the blue Willamette | 
 
 With its silt and surface dross, 
 May they learn the sweetest gamut 
 In the music of the Cross. 
 
 May they view those things supernal, 
 
 In a solemn azure sphere; 
 As they move to things eternal — 
 
 Like a Magdalena tear. 
 
 May their passion waves be stiller, 
 
 And their conscience chant more plain ; 
 
 In this church without a pillar, 
 And the stone without a grain. 
 
 (18) 
 
GLIMPSES OF ST. BENEDICT'S ABBEY 
 (With apologies to the New Road) 
 
 At the head of navigation 
 
 On the trans-Mt. Angel Road, 
 Stands a Home of transmigration 
 
 To a newer high abode; 
 And the Highway now is finished 
 
 With the curves and white cement, 
 And the trafl^c undiminished 
 
 Seeks the green environment. 
 
 Not the sight that was volcanic — 
 
 Where it rolled a lava stream — 
 But a Home and school organic 
 
 For a student and his theme; 
 O'er the mountain border'd meadows 
 
 Where your eyes can daily sail; 
 Are the tree-top gleaming shadows 
 
 Of the sweet Willamette Vale ! 
 
 From the tow-path of Time's highway 
 
 Comes the oft unbidden guest, 
 Ere his longing seeks a by-way 
 
 To this "Mecca" of the West; 
 Yet 'tis oft-times he is freighted 
 
 With a load that's more than dream 
 And his light-clad soul is weighted 
 
 With his conscience for a theme. 
 
 From the fields of gay-clad portals, 
 
 He may come to browse a while; 
 
 For to watch the wee immortals 
 
 That the demons fain would rile: 
 
 (19) 
 
Yet, Mt. Hood looks down upon him 
 
 In the Eastern halo'd sky, 
 Though the ''Silver Falls" may shun him 
 
 With a cold averted eye. 
 
 Here the hope of living mortals 
 
 Is a shade that's ever green, 
 And the highway to those portals 
 
 Is a transformation scene ; 
 Not the fields of bleak agnostics, 
 
 Where all weeds of passion start; 
 But a garden — Faith's acoustics — 
 
 That God plants within the heart. 
 
 So the Highway now is finished 
 
 With the curves and white cement, 
 And the traffic undiminished 
 
 Seeks the green environment; 
 From the fields of strong endeavor 
 
 As a guest you're welcome in ; 
 And on Satan's head forever 
 
 You can dump your load of sin ! 
 
 (20) 
 
THE ANGEL GUARDIAN 
 
 (In the garden of St. Benedict is a Guardian Angel holding 
 a child by the hand, and both figures are wrought in Carrara 
 marble) . 
 
 Across the ''Mount/* the orb of day, 
 Pours out his light in bold display 
 
 Above the hills of morn ; 
 Fair herald of the gladsome East, 
 To burnish now the last and least 
 
 Of tender buds new-born. 
 
 In forest glades the wildings meet 
 The pressure of thy daylight feet. 
 
 With light and joy to blend; 
 Yet, in a garden that I know, 
 Carrara forms a morning glow 
 
 For me to comprehend. 
 
 Where hills roll up to heights above, 
 An angel points to scenes of love — 
 
 Out to the Orient ; 
 And Cloister walls as dimly gray, 
 Bends 'neath the cross in bold display 
 
 To gild earth's firmament. 
 
 This is a garden hedg'd around. 
 Where flow'rets hear the tuneful sound 
 
 Proceeding from the choir; 
 And here the Guardian Angel m.ild, 
 Holds by the hand an orphan child 
 And points to heaven higher. 
 
 (21) 
 
The mountains gild the rosy East, 
 
 As morn displays the great High Priest 
 
 Within those blessed walls ; 
 For on the altar as we pass, 
 The bell recalls in Holy Mass — 
 
 His presence that enthralls. 
 
 Dear Guardian Angel wrought in stone, 
 Were I that child with thee alone 
 
 Upon this mundane sphere; 
 How gladly would those saving wings, 
 Transport me from all earthly things 
 
 Beyond the marge of here! 
 
 For souls on earth a guardian dear — 
 In woodland space, or ocean mere 
 
 Companion is to man ; 
 Each raylet in its morning vest. 
 Is but a shade — a ''Blue Print" test 
 
 In God's divinest plan! 
 
 (22) 
 
SOME FEATURES OF MOUNT ANGEL 
 
 (Written in January 1916) 
 Where the scent of the broad Pacific 
 
 Is felt at your sunset door, 
 And the green of your fields prolific 
 
 Is fed from the self -same store; 
 There the scenes of the by-gone wildwood 
 
 That the owl and beaver tell, 
 Is a place where the Oregon childhood 
 
 Can drink at a "living" well. 
 
 Dull were the scenes of the wildwood here. 
 
 As known in their morning dress ; 
 When Filmore dwelt in its old-time cheer — 
 
 A **spot" in the wilderness ; 
 But a stranger came with an open hand — 
 
 A winning smile on his lips — 
 A *'Black Robe" true for to bless the land, 
 
 That '^Black-beard" far from the Alps. 
 
 Some people might think it a mystery 
 
 In those thirty years or more, 
 But your names are wrote in the history 
 
 With pages read at your door ; 
 Looking back to the scenes of the marshes 
 
 And views of the forest then ; 
 To the trees that have gone to ashes 
 
 And Babes that have grown to men ! 
 
 Of the forest past you may lightly speak. 
 
 Or sum up its long-lost dates ; 
 But its fame has gone with your name unique 
 
 Afar in the annals of States ; 
 
 (23) 
 
Could a view of the hills be choicer 
 
 Where the Cascade Range looks down, 
 
 On an Abbey, and College, and Cloister — 
 The "Roots" of your home-made town? 
 
 Now a Church here stands in splendor — 
 
 To the Cascade view the best — 
 With your former Pastor's strong endeavor 
 
 The pride of the great Northwest ; 
 'Neath the shade of its tow'ring steeple — 
 
 And its sermons sung in stone — 
 Is Faith in the hearts of the people 
 
 Where "Beutsch" is bred in the bone ! 
 
 Here you are blessed in this '"sunset" town 
 That's good for the old or young. 
 
 You have the name of a high renown 
 That in distant States is sung; 
 
 From here you can start with a Christian pass- 
 As all transit means avail — 
 
 To heaven high in the daily Mass, 
 Or to any place else by "Rail !" 
 
 But the stranger that came from a far land. 
 
 Still watches o'er you with a pray'r ; 
 And the "Crosses" now seen are a "garland" 
 
 As wreaths for his silver'd hair ; 
 Some day he v/ill stop the prayerful toil 
 
 Ere he starts for a distant shore 
 The self-same heart, and the self-same smile, 
 
 But the "black-beard" seen no more! 
 
 These then, as the salient features go, 
 Is seen in your city framed ; 
 
 (24) 
 
And the joy of God's fairest creatures know 
 For them is Mount Angel named ; 
 
 With the Convent, and Abbey, and Pastor 
 That work for your souls' true worth ; 
 
 With the Church, the soil, and the Cloister, 
 Is your "garden spot" on Earth ! 
 
 (25) 
 
THE OREGON MIST 
 
 As the wild winds roam, 
 
 On the ocean's foam 
 Afar, from the great South Seas ; 
 
 Then the pressure high 
 
 In the misty sky. 
 Must come in the South-West breeze. 
 
 Let the winds now break 
 
 On the great intake ; 
 The stretch of the Oregon strand ; 
 
 Till the mist must roll 
 
 Like a blanket scroll 
 On the hills of this sunset land. 
 
 Have you sought the mist 
 
 In the loving tryst 
 That your eyes should now descry? 
 
 For all nature gay 
 
 Loves the rain-drops sway, 
 That rules from a liberal sky. 
 
 As the days grow long, 
 
 And the Mermaid's song 
 Is heard in the Oregon Mist; 
 
 Sing a song of cheer 
 
 To the rain-drops here, 
 As the Maid's new wintry tryst. 
 
 To the boys in blue 
 
 Of an Eastern hue, 
 
 Who dwell in the sunset vale ; 
 
 (26) 
 
You should ply your trade 
 Like the misty "Maid" 
 And hark to her home-made tale. 
 
 When the long March days 
 
 Lift the valley haze 
 High over the tree-tops shade ; 
 
 Then the grasses green — 
 
 Willamette's sheen — 
 Can tell how the plot was laid. 
 
 When the leafy June 
 
 Brings the bees to **spoon" 
 Where the clover-blossoms blow; 
 
 Then the honey sweet 
 
 On their nimble feet 
 Makes the freighted load to stow. 
 
 So list to the tale 
 
 In each fruitful vale 
 Where the swaying clover grows; 
 
 Till two blades of grass 
 
 Shall bow as you pass 
 Where the milk and honey flows. 
 
 (27) 
 
CHRISTMAS AT ST. BENEDICT. 
 
 What sound is heard among the trees, 
 Some critic now may ask? 
 
 These are angehc melodies — 
 The group is at their task. 
 
 They celebrate an ancient rite 
 
 Upon this hill of song: 
 Their harps are clad in spirit light — 
 
 And you may listen long. 
 
 For once upon a hillside brown 
 
 Where shepherds listed them — 
 
 They sang that song of high renown 
 The song of ''Bethlehem" ! 
 
 The text was drawn from heaven high- 
 All glory to the Three — 
 
 And peace to men that can apply 
 Their will to set them free. 
 
 The Masses that in triplicate 
 Are said this Blessed morn; 
 
 Are partly for to extirpate 
 
 The world's Herodial scorn. 
 
 The song that angels sang on earth 
 
 Above the Blessed Cave; 
 Is sang again at the rebirth 
 
 Of Him who came to save. 
 
 (28) 
 
"QUEEN OF ANGELS" CONVENT BELLS. 
 
 With a willing hand, and a heart as bland 
 
 For to strike a sort of gamut ; 
 Is my mild refrain, of the grassy plain — 
 
 The Vale of the great Williamette. 
 
 Here the grasses green, are a native screen 
 To buds on the Convent forum ; 
 
 And the tall fir trees, hold their limbs at ease, 
 With a value "ad valorem." 
 
 From the Alpine peaks, where an echo speaks 
 From a "Rickenbach" saint-haunted — 
 
 Came a pioneer, in the eighties here. 
 
 And the Convent walls were planted. 
 
 Here the growth was good, near the vernal wood 
 'Mid the Cascade sentries Eastward; 
 
 And the Nuns of peace, saw their own increase 
 In the psalms as rolling upward. 
 
 Thus "Helvetia" land, sent the little band 
 From the Alpine stock recruited : 
 
 Yet, the dress they wore, on the self-same score 
 As the "Dove" Subiaco suited. 
 
 From the country side, flows the youthful tide 
 
 To this home of self-reliance ; 
 And the maids at school learn the Christian rule 
 
 And the art — domestic science. 
 
 But the native dells hear the chapel bells 
 And the watchers are appointed, 
 
 (29) 
 
When they rise with love, as Subiaco's dove 
 
 For to pray to Christ annointed. 
 Yet, each change of time does not change their rhyme 
 
 Or grate on that higher action; 
 For the Master there seeks a fervent prayer 
 
 As free from all human faction. 
 
 In this fertile vale, may the bell-clad tale 
 
 Of the Queen of Angels sounding — 
 Be an hour prayer, on the peaceful air, 
 
 With the Cascades here surrounding. 
 
 'Neath that cross-clad roof, is the v^arp and woof 
 
 For the cloth of gold adorning; 
 As the sun's bright rays in the East displays 
 
 Its gold in the early morning. 
 
 May the bells resound to the hills around. 
 
 Like the voice of music pealing ; 
 And the call to prayer, be a spirit glare — 
 
 What the Master is revealing ! 
 
THE RIVER ABIQUA. 
 
 No small "pappoose" is here today 
 
 To cry his fond desires ; 
 No Indian brave in feathers gay 
 
 To light his council fires. 
 
 Although no Chief in "daffodils*' 
 
 We have one handsome "squaw" — 
 
 As running through the Cascade hills 
 Her name is "Abiqua." 
 
 Long years before the white man came 
 
 She was a timid maid — 
 As wooing but the mountain game 
 
 In some primeval glade. 
 
 But now her treasures she imparts, 
 To all who seek her smiles — 
 
 In cooling shade of nature's arts 
 Her pleasant voice beguiles. 
 
 Like freedom of the "Sunset West," 
 
 Is her contortion act; 
 Where gliding from the Cascade crest 
 
 She throws one "cataract." 
 
 Along her banks the verdure green 
 
 Is restful to the eye; 
 As hastening the Willamette's sheen 
 
 Is e'er our home-made joy. 
 
 Meand'ring down her winding ways 
 Like flight of startled quail, 
 
 (31) 
 
She sings perpetual twilight lays — 
 "0, sweet Willamette Vale!" 
 
 Each flow'ret bloom along her banks 
 
 Is honey to the bee, 
 And tree-top birds returning thanks 
 
 Make mountain melody. 
 
 Those princes here, the stately firs 
 
 That sentinel her banks; 
 May bring afar, those mountain airs 
 
 To Oriental ranks. 
 
 Fair maiden of the Cascade dells 
 
 Reflecting lights of ''Hood:" 
 How cooling are your drinking wells 
 
 In all the vernal wood! 
 
 Your presence is a factor now 
 
 For this my day-light dream — 
 
 As *'dew-drop" from the mountain's brow 
 Lost in the 'Tudding" stream. 
 
 Sweet "Siwash" maid, v/hat treasures thine. 
 
 Gaug'd by Willamette rules? 
 To give the great Pacific brine 
 
 Your mountain molecules! 
 
 (32) 
 
THE GREEN WILLAMETTE VALE 
 
 Pacific waters feel the breeze, 
 
 That roaming from the great South Seas, 
 
 Proclaims the current "Japanese" 
 
 That warms this latitude: 
 But I must catch the spirit waves — 
 Unruffled by prosaic staves — 
 That now as musicale still laves 
 Upon my solitude. 
 
 The mountains of the coastal Range 
 Proclaim to ocean that a change 
 Is being wrought, that will derange 
 
 The native water-shed: 
 The white man with his axe and saw, 
 Outstrips the beaver with his paw 
 To break the code of forest law 
 
 Inscribed above his head. 
 
 The sighing winds must now deplore 
 The falling crowns upon the shore, 
 Where peace had entered by the door 
 
 Of realistic dream; 
 The sentries cry aloud to *'Hood," 
 Who looks upon the vernal wood, 
 And weeps alone in solitude — 
 
 To build the sylvan stream. 
 
 (38) 
 
AT MOUNT TABOR— PEACE ! 
 
 (Mt. Tabor is a Convent of the Precious Blood in the suburbs 
 
 of Portland.) 
 
 High-brow'd above the vernal green, 
 
 In smiles of sunlit morn; 
 Mt. Hood looks down upon a scene 
 
 Where roses gild a "Thorn;" 
 The thorn is on Mt. Tabor high, 
 
 Where roses deck the plain; 
 As hedg'd within the Cloister nigh, 
 
 The "Brides of Christ" remain. 
 
 Out to the East, in sunlit rays 
 
 The blue Columbia rolls, 
 And near its murky shipyard "Ways" 
 
 A freight of human souls; 
 In verdure of the pastures green 
 
 They browse insensate joy, 
 But odors of Mt. Tabor scene 
 
 To them do not apply. 
 
 The broader highway is to them 
 
 A route to "Shepherd's Dell," 
 But not a starlit "Bethlehem" 
 
 Of what the shepherds tell: 
 It speaks not of the other fold, 
 
 With love and joy intense; 
 But of the slipping underwold — 
 
 Their five-fold active sense. 
 
 But human nature built to share 
 This plan of God on earth; 
 
 (34) 
 
Is speaking .from Mt. Tabor there 
 What mortal souls are worth : 
 
 The hedges green in symmetry 
 But gives an outward sign; 
 
 Where ''Gard'ner" of Gethsemane 
 Still prunes each growing vine. 
 
 The cloistered roses blooming there 
 
 In contemplation grand; 
 Regales upon the upper air 
 
 A fragrance on its strand: 
 This '"Cage" of souls in their balloon 
 
 Where silent pray'r has lease, 
 Still swings beneath the harvest moon 
 
 Those fledgling ''Doves of Peace!" 
 
 (35) 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (Rev. Paul Manion, 0. S. B.) 
 
 Through Faith and Hope and Love sublime 
 We glide along through years of time — 
 
 Uncertain years: 
 We toil for body and for soul, 
 We play on earth our simple roll 
 
 Till death appears. 
 
 Such is the life for one and all, 
 Such was the fate for Father Paul — 
 
 A destiny: 
 His was a gentle, saintly soul, 
 With gift of song in deep control 
 
 And sympathy. 
 
 0! Paul of Tarsus in thy might. 
 Lead on his soul with kindly light 
 
 To heaven's door; 
 And may his memory brightly burn 
 Within our hearts, a sacred Urn 
 
 For evermore! 
 
 (36) 
 
DEATH OF FATHER PAUI^— FIRST ANNIVERSARY 
 (Died July 15th 1914) 
 
 Sojourner here in this "Vale of tears 
 Where weight unknown of the coming years 
 
 Abides for one and all: 
 Just one short year on the lapse of time, 
 Where memory's tear, and the season's chime 
 
 The death of Father Paul. 
 
 Tis not for us in the present tense. 
 To murmur now of the consequence — 
 
 A steed's erratic course: 
 Too hard the rocks for his gentle heart 
 Made swift the blow, for his soul to part 
 
 With Death the angel nurse. 
 
 His soul has fled from the haunts of men, 
 Yet lives a life where his facile pen 
 
 Portray'd the lines of truth: 
 Those lines as fair as the rolling hills. 
 Or limpid streams of the mountain rills 
 
 Of Sacerdotal youth. 
 
 His life though short as a songster here, 
 Had touch'd the chord where a higher cheer 
 
 Imbues the hearts of men; 
 For music sweet as a sunset glow 
 Still melts the chill on the plains below— 
 
 That music of his pen. 
 
 Perhaps, his soul, in a. cleansing fire. 
 Is burning now with a strong desire 
 
 (37) 
 
To see the God of love: 
 For pain below is a cleansing tool 
 That burns out sin, as a ''Golden Rule" 
 
 To reach the heights above. 
 
 We ask you thus, and the readers all — 
 For the song-clad soul of Father Paul — 
 
 To offer now your pray'r: 
 When death will play, then, its last Fiat — 
 On the holy plains of "Josephat" — 
 
 Some day you'll meet him there! 
 
 (38) 
 
PERENNIAL FLOW 
 
 Near margent lands with warm sub-tropic smile 
 The Gulf Stream rises in perennial flow, 
 And there unlocks from coast of Mexico 
 
 The Equatorial heat; to thus beguile 
 
 The yearning vegetation on some distant Isle, 
 
 And pierce the iceberg that the Esquimaux 
 Saw reeling down amid the glacier flow, 
 
 With century etchings of its Arctic toil. 
 
 Adown the inner lands of Palestine, 
 
 The "Dead Sea'* felt the thrill where Magi Star 
 Once glistened on the coast of Galilee: 
 
 There Christ still warm — internal heat Divine, 
 Diffused to all the Seven Seas afar — 
 With His "Gulf Stream'* to warm humanity ! 
 
 (89) 
 
EVAPORATED SUNSHINE 
 
 (Written at St. Mary's Sanitorium, Tucson, Ariz., in Decem- 
 ber, 1910.) 
 
 Where the cactus blooms by moonlight 
 ^ " In its home-made tailor clothes; 
 
 And a hundred more by sunlight 
 In the desert also grows: 
 There the Sisters of St. Joseph — '^ 
 
 For thirty years or more — 
 Have been hushing back their patients, 
 Ere they enter at Death's door. 
 
 Where the Tucson valley stretches 
 
 Till the mountains make it yawn. 
 And the germicide of ages 
 
 Then approaches with the dawn : 
 There the Sisters have the climate 
 
 That they freely give to you. 
 With the sunshine as they mine it 
 
 For all ''Lungers" that are true. 
 
 Here they buy the clime by acres. 
 
 And they sell it by the pound; 
 Yet they can't supply all ''takers" 
 
 In their Sanatorium round: 
 Note the Arizona zephyr 
 
 In its disinfecting course; 
 Thus each sun-ray is a doctor. 
 
 And each zephyr a train'd nurse. 
 
 Here the air is legal tender. 
 
 For all '"Lungers" out of tune ; 
 
 (40) 
 
*Mid the traces of November 
 
 Is the sunshine hke to June: 
 
 For the Nuns are sunshine allies 
 When the skies are overcast, 
 
 From the broad Missouri valleys 
 
 They have brought enough to last! 
 
 Then be moving down to Tucson 
 
 All ye "Lungers'' from the North, 
 For to seek the clime's effusion 
 
 While its joy is gushing forth ; 
 May the cactus help your vision 
 
 And the climate make you strong, 
 Till your health will make impression 
 
 Like the accent of my song! 
 
 (41) 
 
THE CALL OF THE OREGON TREES 
 
 Out in the thrill of the Western breeze, 
 Out where the call of the peaceful seas 
 Is echoing loud in the great tall trees 
 
 That were blazed by Lewis-Clarke : 
 It is here the land has a gentle roll, 
 It is here the plants have a living scroll 
 That will etch right into your burnish'd soul 
 
 When the harvest moon is dark. 
 
 You have heard the call of the Western wild. 
 
 Like the distant cry of a lon'ly child 
 
 When the night was still and the climate mild — 
 
 Yet warmed by the peaceful sea : 
 But you never heard of the rolling hills, 
 And you never read of the lakes and rills 
 That can here be seen with their daylight thrills 
 
 And charm with their melody. 
 
 It is here the birds in the tree-tops high 
 
 Sing a lilt so gay in the azure sky 
 
 That the angels come in their winged joy 
 
 For to hear the latest tune : 
 For the birds are up when the mist is down, 
 As all nature moves when her morning gown 
 Is trailed in the dew of some home-made town 
 
 When the time is leafy June. 
 
 On the tracks that run from the bare-back East, 
 Are the coaches clean — for to say the least — 
 That will bring you here to the daily feast 
 
 Of the Oregon scenes in view: 
 If you don't come now you are color blind. 
 For as Lewis and Clarke were another kind 
 To the treeless plains they had left behind — 
 
 Thus their trees are calling you! 
 
 (42) 
 
SUNSET ON THE OREGON COAST 
 
 Liquid gold on the waters spilt, 
 Leaves attuned to the blackbirds' lilt 
 
 Where the headland's curve is sharp; 
 Lightning born in a distant cloud, 
 Color scheme in the fields once plowed. 
 
 Yet, green as an Irish Harp. 
 
 Lum'nous scene at the end of day, 
 Stubble and sod in the even play 
 
 With guests of a higher rank; 
 Music floats on the peaceful brine, 
 Globules float, where the homeward kine 
 
 Are fresh from the clover bank. 
 
 Birds a-bush, with their songs half told. 
 Sands aglow, with their liquid gold 
 
 Unknown at a Sutter's mill: 
 Prospects here in the beauty shows. 
 Meadow mists that the farmer knows 
 
 Is gold in his home made till. 
 
 Peaceful light on the ocean wave. 
 Ship Ahoy! with a freight to save 
 
 From grip of some wild monsoon: 
 Stars agleam in their lover lanes. 
 Darkness grows, and the sunset wanes. 
 
 As merged in the silver moon. 
 
 Sunset moves on the convex form. 
 Daylight slips from the fields yet warm 
 
 (43) 
 
Awaiting the future dawn: 
 Clouds are coming to intervene, 
 Eyelids droop, and I leave the scene 
 
 With the silver moon in pawn. 
 
 (44) 
 
ECHOES AROUND THE GOLDEN GATE 
 
 Insurgent waves from the Orient, here touch 
 
 at the Golden Gate; 
 And echoes loud from the distant past, liRe 
 
 sea-shell songs reverberate. 
 
 Each wavelet as it breaks in force, a thrill 
 
 on the rocky lea ; 
 Is but as the monsoon moanings, adrift from 
 the China Sea. 
 
 Each comber as it disembarks, with its gift 
 
 of tidal cheer ; 
 Is but repeating what was said for many a 
 
 thousand year. 
 
 And water nymphs on the flowing tide, in 
 
 necromancer throngs 
 Are echoing far to the sea-tuned ear, the 
 
 South Sea Idyll songs. 
 
 But the living visions on the land, where the 
 
 human echoes roll; 
 Fling back to the wild insurgent depths ; 
 "You are born without a soul V 
 
 So the seal rocks here romantic, in a grim 
 
 Pacific mood 
 Throw back all the human accents, of the 
 
 by-gone multitude. 
 
 They came from the East, they came from the West 
 And they came around the Horn, 
 
 (45) 
 
Till a tidal wave of human joy beat up to 
 the newly born. 
 
 They had found a treasure in valley glades, and 
 
 gold at a Sutter's mill, 
 And the *'forty-niner" searched the hills, 
 
 with a pick and placer skill. 
 
 He has passed away from the gilt-edge scenes, 
 that rang with his golden store, 
 
 But his soul is somewhere in the realms, on 
 the great eternal shore. 
 
 And the Mission Indian lived and loved, ere the tread 
 
 of pale-face chief, 
 As the ancient faith was planted here, with 
 
 the Padres' strong belief. 
 
 Not a trace of the yellow portal, was then 
 
 on the higher tide; 
 But the gleam of things immortal, to gleam 
 
 from a Serra's stride. 
 
 Portola passed by the Guadalupe, where the 
 
 Padres toiled and won; 
 But he stowed no gold in the copper chest 
 
 Of the disappearing Galleon. 
 
 Marcello came from the mountain heights, with 
 
 his giant form to trace 
 The stretch of the Alameda, as last of the 
 
 Mission race. 
 
 (46) 
 
Then the poets came in the offing, and 
 
 their echoes still resound 
 From the Santa Clara valley, to the loved 
 
 Assisian's ground. 
 
 Bret Harte with his vivid pictures, in the art 
 
 of strong display; 
 And their colored tones of nature, that will live 
 
 to a future day. 
 
 And a Stoddard fresh from the gleaning of the 
 
 golden harvest sheaves; 
 Bedecked with the cloth of the Islands, that 
 
 only a poet weaves. 
 
 A Miller high on the summit, wrought his 
 
 treasured golden lore; 
 With a music high o'er breakers, that is 
 
 known from shore to shore. 
 
 And last to enlist in the muse's call, and 
 
 thrill with his facile pen: 
 A Markham to stand by a teachers desk, and 
 
 live with his fellow men. 
 
 He had written the titled : **Man with the hoe," 
 and the echoes still resound — 
 
 That he was a product of the soil, with his 
 life above the ground. 
 
 Thus the lone Marcello's pleadings, and the 
 
 Miners' golden scroll; 
 Are echoing still to the world, that each 
 
 had a human soul. 
 
 (47) 
 
DREAMS OF YOUTH 
 
 Youth is but a fond fruition 
 
 Of a God's creative love, 
 And through fields of earth condition 
 We must e'er with nature move. 
 
 Dreams of youth are but the vapor 
 On life's ever flowing sea; 
 
 With each soul a ready taper 
 For to light humanity. 
 
 When the dawn of reason enters 
 
 With its footprints in our soul, 
 We should be as bright inventors 
 For to keep that beauty whole. 
 
 On the stream of life as flowing 
 Onward, to its own deep sea; 
 
 Surges at its last outgoing — 
 Echoes of eternity. 
 
 Dreams of youth are passing vapors 
 Ere the dawn of a perfect day, 
 
 And that dawn will light the tapers— 
 When we live with God for aye. 
 
 (48) 
 
A JUBILEE OF PEACE 
 
 (Written for the occasion — Silver Jubilee of 4 Brothers) 
 
 With God, and Time, and nature's goad, 
 We travel on the narrov^ road 
 
 That leads to life intense: 
 We pave that road with little acts; 
 Mosaic stones of daily facts 
 
 For future consequence. 
 
 But Time with all its tinsel show, 
 Has gilded on our lives below 
 
 A "Jubilee" to share — 
 Those marks of time, that now bespeak 
 Its hieroglyphics on our cheek; 
 
 Its silver in our hair. 
 
 What brought us here from many lands? 
 What brought us here with willing hands 
 
 And hearts in unison? 
 We came afar from over seas, 
 The holy will of God to please. 
 
 And cloth of Christ to don. 
 
 Perhaps, some snow-clad avalanche. 
 That cut its own imperial trench 
 
 Afar, in distant clime; 
 Had called you from your boyish play. 
 And waked to life a minstrel lay 
 
 With deep religious chime? 
 
 (49) 
 
Perhaps it was near Alpine peak, 
 
 Where nature's grander moods still speak 
 
 Above the larch and pine? 
 There elemental harvest yields 
 Its garner'd ice, of glacier fields 
 
 To source the flowing Rhine. 
 
 Perchance, it was on Austrian plain, 
 Where battle-scarr'd the soldier slain 
 
 Yields up his youthful life? 
 You heard the call that angels sing. 
 The bugle-call of heaven's King, 
 
 Afar, from war and strife. 
 
 Or was it on that known terrain. 
 Where hills and vales spell out Lorraine, 
 
 That saw your youth advance? 
 Near "Mausoleum" sacred bones. 
 Of men that left vacated thrones 
 
 As Kings and Saints of France! 
 
 The land is there and memories too, 
 That rush upon your distant view 
 
 Across the lapse of years : 
 Where bubbling hope as youth instills. 
 Forced streamlets from the native hills 
 
 To wash your cradle tears. 
 
 Perchance those hills, romantic there; 
 Had heard in glee your ardent pray'r 
 
 Pour'd out to God on high! 
 Or angels on some rocky crest. 
 Had longed for strong intentions best 
 
 To float unto the sky. 
 
 (50) 
 
The voice of God, Divine, Supreme; 
 Was present to your daylight dream. 
 
 High in that upper air — 
 That voice above the "Matterhorn," 
 And sweeter than the "Alpen Horn" 
 Or mountain ''yodle" there. 
 
 Thus, then, equipped with Faith Divine, 
 And Hope that hngers in its line 
 
 At God's own high bequest; 
 You started with your souls to save. 
 Still glinting o'er the briny wave — 
 
 Columbus-like, due West ! 
 
 Then to the West, the Golden West, 
 Your mottoed ''Crux" you forward press'd 
 
 Unto this sunset shore — 
 'Mid snow-clad peaks contiguous, 
 'Mid native tribes indigenous. 
 
 Ye found "San Salvador!" 
 
 The trees that bowed at your approach, 
 Knew nought in fear at your encroach 
 
 Upon primeval glades; 
 Yet, saplings in the forest born. 
 Then gave their dust, that wheat and corn 
 
 Might multiply their blades. 
 
 Upon this mound — this Holy Hill — 
 Re-echoed here at heaven's will 
 
 The psalms of David speak: 
 Where ages long above those stones. 
 Resounded once the "ritual" tones 
 Of some long dead "Cacique." 
 
 (51) 
 
Such was the call of willing hands. 
 Unshackled by the five-fold bands 
 
 Of strong religious ties : 
 Yet, in the freedom of the West, 
 Those virgin lands are God-careesed 
 
 'Neath bright Pacific skies. 
 
 In midnight skies — electric here — 
 Redem.ption's Sign of Christian cheer 
 
 Its light of glory sheds : 
 While near below in sympathy, 
 One cheering word for you and me — 
 The *Tax" above our heads ! 
 
 But Time is gliding on apace, 
 And sweeping still the human race 
 
 With measur'd cadence flow: 
 The moments now like cataracts, 
 Pour down with strong erosive acts. 
 
 To gild our lives below. 
 
 The hills here yawn in mountain glee, 
 And shores still hold upon our lea 
 
 The great Pacific brine — 
 But creatures we, as tempest-tossed; 
 With God and Time have safely crossed 
 
 Our life's Meridian Line! 
 
 Yet, onward there; on life's great sea, 
 Our ship and freight sails merrilly 
 
 To reach its final goal — 
 Yea, sailing on through storm and calm. 
 And swifter still with pray'r and psalm 
 
 The 'Trade Winds" of the soul! 
 
 (52) 
 
How long shall each as "voyageur/' 
 Still plough the waves, and commandeer 
 
 All glory due to God? 
 How long till thus each mortal frame, 
 Be hidden with the insect fame 
 
 To fructify the sod? 
 
 For turning o'er the bible page. 
 The same is seen in ev'ry age 
 
 Like one Primeval Tree: 
 1 ill light of grace in gleaming parts ; 
 A '"Horeb's" light within our hearts — 
 
 The ''Burning Bush" we see! 
 
 Not unto us prophetic voice, 
 Not unto us a leader's choice 
 
 As Moses of the Nile — 
 Yea, rather sweet ecstatic joys, 
 That may be seen with virgin eyey, 
 
 Like John on Patmos' Isle! 
 
 Strong Pharoh hosts embattle still, 
 The chariot hordes — at heaven's will — 
 
 Of Demon cavalry: 
 With water walls upon our side. 
 And light of grace to be our guides. 
 
 We cross our own ''Red Sea!" 
 
 But demon hordes of land and mere. 
 Still Paroah-like now interfere 
 To wreak on us distress — 
 Primordial trials that Aaron stay'd. 
 Beneath the hill where Moses pray'd 
 Out in the "Wilderness." 
 
 (53) 
 
With light of Faith as still imbued, 
 The ''Burning Bush" is here renewed — 
 
 This holy ground we tread ; 
 And counting for the *Torty" years, 
 The Cross above at night appears, 
 
 At morn the ''Manna" spread! 
 
 How slow in youth the step of Time? 
 
 How light it fell in ringing chime 
 Upon each daylight dream? 
 
 But now we see youth's overthrow. 
 
 And watch Time's thrill — its overflow- 
 Run like a mountain stream! 
 
 In bloom of youth 'mid childish toys 
 We saw that stream, its fountain joys 
 
 Gush from a thousand springs ; 
 But now in age we drag our load. 
 And watch behind a "Roman Road" — 
 
 Paved with a milhon things ! 
 
 O ! joyous race 'neath heaven's arch ! 
 Your glory of triumphal march 
 
 Is but as half discerned ; 
 For nature with her fading bloom, 
 Holds still the armor'd weaving loom 
 
 In which we are interned. 
 
 Poor nature nurse, Poverelle!" 
 How long shall your dull prison cell 
 
 Conceal the living soul? 
 Or, how shall pain, or something worse, 
 Conceal you as the "Red Cross" nurse 
 
 Of second birth control? 
 
 (54) 
 
But grace of God in ambient air, 
 Expanding to our proffer'd pray'r, 
 
 Is still within our reach ; 
 And nature with her fading bloom, 
 Insensate in the human loom 
 
 Must still a lesson preach. 
 
 The things of life are easy now ; 
 Upon our path, before our plow 
 
 All hills are sloping down; 
 For with the Cross — investiture — 
 Those things are gliding swift and sure 
 
 Unto the sere and brown. 
 
 Thus gliding down 'twixt fear and wrath. 
 Somewhere upon the ambush path 
 
 We meet the angel ''Death"— 
 This body then, will turn to clay ; 
 That vision grabs our soul away, 
 
 Its spctre takes our breath ! 
 
 Within that cell, or narrow room ; 
 All other cells then meet their doom 
 
 In passing through that door; 
 And judgment of the Savior mild. 
 Is proffer'd to the sinful child 
 
 On that eternal shore. 
 
 The spirit that in life could feel 
 Each sentimental wall conceal 
 
 The grandeur of his soul ; 
 Must then with grace be still imbued, 
 And penitential acts renewed 
 
 In purgatorial scroll. 
 
 (55) 
 
Each sin of life, each blandishment, 
 Must have its due of punishment 
 
 Where justice is revealed — 
 
 'Till farthings of all earthly glint 
 
 Are melted in that saving mint. 
 
 And there with fire annealed. 
 
 Not burning bush, but burning soul, 
 Is livid as a diamond coal 
 
 In furnace purified ; — 
 Thus shall the soul then gladly stray. 
 As Peter on the "Appian Way", 
 Who like a Martyr died. 
 
 Fair Lady by the Tiber's wave. 
 Who built upon St. Peter's grave 
 
 In Faith, earth's greatest Shrine — 
 Behold the Church in retrospect ! 
 But only sin the "Architect" 
 
 Can build my *'Mamertine!" 
 
 How long shall be duration's call, 
 Where sin can throw its arching pall 
 
 Within that midway land? 
 Hovv^ long shall fire be ''Red Cross" nurse, 
 Where nature has no drilling force. 
 And Time has no command ! 
 
 Then think of me when passion's rust 
 Is burning 'neath the planet's crust. 
 
 And let your prayers increase; 
 For thus with God's eternal laws. 
 And charter'd with a demon clause. 
 
 This Hill has there a "Lease !" 
 
 (56) 
 
The summer solstice in its swing, 
 Shall many times returning bring 
 
 Its joy to Mother Earth ; — 
 But there within that anchored tomb, 
 My soul must thirst until that womb 
 
 Bestows a second birth. 
 
 At length the sound of flut'ring wing. 
 And voice of angel there shall ring : 
 
 "Arise to reach your goal !" 
 "The Blood of Christ must still atone, 
 That last *Black Mass' on Altar Stone 
 
 Has freed your erring soul!'' 
 
 No joy of life refulgent here. 
 Could reach such high ecstatic cheer 
 
 To youth that never dies — 
 Far! Far! Away from earthly things, 
 Far out beyond dull Saturn's rings 
 
 A soul and angel files ! 
 
 What vision's of eternal light, 
 Shall break upon my joyous sight 
 
 Where Christ eternal reigns! 
 What pleasures in the passing here, 
 What "pockets" in its atmosphere 
 
 Can stoo s^ ul "aeroplane:?*?" 
 
 For far abpve the "Milky Way" 
 No sound of earth comes into play 
 
 Amid those moving spheres; 
 How vain the thought of yesterday. 
 In that great light of astral ray 
 How small the earth appears? 
 
 (57) 
 
Another view sweeps all before — 
 The glory on that starry shore — 
 
 Of Him who said: "I am!" 
 The Light that shone in Palestine, 
 And still reflects in light Divine 
 
 The ''Pathway" of the 'VLamb !" 
 
 Nay, there above in mansions great, 
 Our souls reflect the new-born state, 
 And there God's face shall see — 
 *Mid ecstasy of Cherubim, 
 Unending song of Seraphim — 
 Peace! Peace! A Jubilee! 
 
 (58) 
 
*'VIVE LA VOYAGEUR" 
 
 (To Father Leo, 0. S. B.) 
 
 Your path is set unto the East, 
 To reach your native land; 
 
 And blessings to impart as priest 
 With Sacerdotal hand. 
 
 The voices heard in early youth 
 On boyhoods ardent shore; 
 
 Re-echo still in living truth 
 Out near the Labrador. 
 
 The pulse that beat a Celtic drum 
 
 So many years for you : 
 Is beating still the message. Come! 
 And hear its music too. 
 
 The boyhood friends of other days 
 Have changed like tides of time — 
 
 But waves that seek Newfoundland Bays 
 Still keep the same old rhyme. 
 
 The iceberg sons of glacier peers 
 Are floating still the while, 
 
 And dashing waves as chevaliers 
 
 Still court the same ''Belle Isle!" 
 
 Far out to sea the polar bear 
 
 With boneless neck is seen, 
 
 And Notre Dame is staging there 
 Some song of Mermaid Queen. 
 
 (59) 
 
Adjacent lands 'mid solitudes 
 Retain their astral view; 
 
 In lordly halls — primeval woods — 
 Range moose and caribou. 
 
 Should iceberg zone be chilly there 
 
 To bathe with fond delights ; 
 Then, 'neath the shower'd astral glare, 
 Bathe in the Northern Lights! 
 
 Such are the scenes your native land 
 Presents as wreath to you ; 
 
 Whilst we expect from Newfoundland 
 A moose or caribou. 
 
 This sunset land — a fond request — 
 Kesounds o'er wood and mere: 
 
 ''Back to the West, the peaceful West, 
 With all you commandeer!" 
 
 Each Cascade lock, and mountain dell 
 
 Reverberates in air — 
 Where "Hood" sings out as Sentinel — 
 
 "Return, bon Voyageur!" 
 
 (60) 
 
PRINTED AT OFFICE OF OUR SUNDAY VISITOR 
 HUNTINGTON, INDIANA. 
 
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