LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, ^ ©|iip* iapijngi^ !f u» Shelf .!>. 5X9" l^ hs- UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. A TUSCAN MAGDALEN, AND OTHER LEGENDS AND POEMS. ELEANOR C. DONNELLY, Author of " Poems," " Children of the Golden Sheaf," " Hymns of the Sacred Heart," " Petronilla and Other Stories," " Our Birthday Bouquet," etc., etc. PHILADELPHIA : H. L. KiLNER & Co., PUBLISHERS. x-^ \^ PER 4 18961 ^ . K '^^ Copyright, 1896, by ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. /^-'il9Q^ TO MY SISTERS, THOSE DEAREST OF ALL DEAR FRIENDS, THE DEVOTED COMPANIONS OF MY LIFE AND UN- FAILING ENLIVENERS OF MY LABORS, THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED. CONTENTS A TUSCAN MAGDALEN . THE INSPIRING OF C^DMON PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING THE MIRACLE OF THE LEPER THE KING AND THE SLAVE ST. CHRISTOPHER'S BURDEN THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFARDUS ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES THE TRUE CHRISTMAS TREE ST. wulstan's CROZIER THE master's CLOAK . forty martyrs of sebaste the key of heaven Estrada's spouse THE shepherd's FEAST THE TEMPTED NUN SIR VERITAS AND THE KING OUR LADY OF THE LAMP THE FRUIT OF OBEDIENCE AN EASTER LESSON AN Arab's logic THE STAR OF THE KINGS . ST. JOSEPH'S CHARGE AN EASTER LILY A CHAPLET AT COVENTRY THE SINGING LEPER . THE BIRTH OF THE HOLLY A MIDSUMMER MEMORY SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR THE THANKSGIVING OF THE CHASTENED 7 16 23 33 37 41 44 50 55 56 58 64 67 70 76 81 84 89 91 92 93 96 98 102 103 105 107 109 112 115 (5) CONTENTS. CHRISTMAS IDYL THE sparrow's SERMON . SAN BONIFAZIO .... THE CHINESE LILY DOING THE WILL OF GOD ST. Anthony's client THE FIERY TONGUES WHEN, WHERE AND HOW ? THE LIFTED HAT FORGIVING AND FORGETTING THE MOTHERLESS HOME A TAPER AT LOURDES THOSE OUTSTRETCHED ARMS THE hermit's vision Christ's doves . ... the queen and the kings the graves of children " as the hen gathereth her chickens flowers of the night the death op the lily . morning-glories a sunset symbol the new jerusalem abandoned .... a prayer and its answer the bridge of light the way of the cross the apostle who proved the drama spiritualized . sympathy .... the acadians in philadelphia . ascension day the chamber of christ sweet peace. — a picture the changes of the years GONE ! 117 119 123 127 129 131 132 133 135 137 139 142 145 147 149 151 153 159 161 163 165 167 169 171 173 174 175 177 178 185 186 190 193 196 198 202 A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. MARGHERITA DI CORTONA. (ARGHERITA! Margherita ! " Through the warm and fragrant Of the flow'ring Tuscan June, " Margherita ! Margherita ! " Came the eerie accents falling, Of a weird voice calling, calling : — " From the castle rise and flee ! I am waiting here for thee. Wouldst thou meet me ? Wouldst thou greet me ? Late, alas ! but all too soon, Ere the rising of the moon, Margherita ! come to me ! " In a robe of trailing silk, Soft as down and white as milk. A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. Roses bound about her hair, Jewels on her bosom bare, (From the spacious castle-hall) Lo ! a woman tall and fair Answered to the airy call, Tripping down the marble stair To the leafy garden-wall, Where a fountain flashed and fell, Tinkling like a silvern bell. " Margherita ! Margherita ! " (Once again the voice came sighing,) " I am waiting, Margherita ! " (Like a lost soul wailing, crying,) " Margherita ! come to me ! " — Right and left the woman gazed. Put her white hand to her brow ; Looked ^bout her, all amazed, Shudder'd, turn'd as pale as snow. Not a creature could she see In the baffling mystery Of the sunny silence round ; A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. Only to her slipper'd feet, Rustling thro' the grasses sweet, Came her absent lover's hound. " Faithful dog ! " she, stooping, said, (Jewelled hand upon his head,) " Bringest thou good news to me ? Doth thy master follow thee ? " Drops of blood upon his fur. Pitiful he looked at her : Whining, trembling, crouching down, Pulled the fringes of her gown, Grovel'd like a smitten cur — As to say with gesture dumb, " Lady, if thou wilt but come, I will lead thee to my master." — Throbbed her pulses fast and faster, Cheek and brow were white as death ; White as sculptural alabaster ; Dreading some unknown disaster, Gasping came her labored breath. 10 A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. Thro' the gate, still looking back, Sped tiie dog ; and on his track, In her beaut}^ blighted, bent, Margherita, tott'ring, went. How the sunlight, blazing, flung Coals of fire on her head ! Round her brow the roses hung. In their freshness, wither'd, dead. Dusty trailed her robes of snow ; Stains of blood began to show Where her feet (in satin shod) Up the rocky pathway trod. Faint, yet fearing still to I'est, From that strange, mysterious quest ; Though her heart burst in her breast, She must follow, follow, follow ; When the olive groves were near'd, Sudden paused the dog, distress'd, And, as sudden, disappear'd In a little woody hollow ; A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. 11 There, beneath u blasted tree, Dumb with cruslimg agony, Margherita, trembling, found At her feet the faitliful hound. Turning up the bloody clay From a crevice in the ground, Where a corpse, disfigured, lay ! Oh I the vision of that face In its awful putrefaction ! Fetid limbs, devoid of grace. With the mould'ring silk and lace Dropping from their foul inaction. Purple, swollen, worm-defiled, — (Would the grass the sight might cover !) On her knees, the woman wild Glared upon her murthered lover. Murthered, hurried out of life In the fulness of his sin : Hapless breast ! th' assassin's knife, Blood-incrusted, gleamed therein. 12 A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. And the grinning lips apart, Seemed to whisper to her heart : " Look r.pon me (O Remorse !) Woman, whom I loved too well, Thou art gazing on the corse Of a soul whose home is hell ! In thy beauty and thy bloom, Thou hast helped to seal my doom ; Hear me, I am calling thee, Margherita ! come to me ! " " Ah ! reproach me as thou wilt, Partner of my shame and guilt ! " Cried the woman, shrinking back From the ghastly sight before her. (Wretched victim ! — on the rack Mem'ry's furies scourged and tore her); "Vent thy scorn upon my head. Do whate'er thou wilt to me, But oh ! call me not to thee, Call, oh ! call me not to be Fetter'd to thy fiery bed Through the long Eternity ! A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. 13 " See I " — and with her trembling hands From her throat, she tore the gems, Wrench'd the roses' wither'd stems From her long litdr's shining strands : " See, great God ! I here lament All my wanton days of ciime ; Judge me not before my time ! I repent — repent — repent ! " (Thro' the woods the echoes went : *'■ I repent — repent — repent ! ") " Lo ! beside this fest'ring clay, (Broken idol of my sin ! ) If thy pardon I may win, Silks and gems I cast away, And a nobler life begin. Hear and help me, Love Divine ! By Thy Blood and by Thy tears, Wash me from the guilt of years, Make my heart forever Thine ! " On her head, the dews were falling, (Angel-tears of Paradise 14 A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. Falling thro' the night of June !} — Rose on high the rounded moon, Like a silvery balloon, Floating thro' the quiet skies; But another Voice was calling, Sweet, a far-off Voice was calling From the pure empyrean skies: " Margherita ! Margherita ! Listen to thy Lover true, (Ever ancient, ever new,) Who hath bled and died for thee On the fatal Calvary-Tree. " He hath loved thee, Margherita With an everlasting love, In the mighty strength whereof, (Being merciful to thee) He hath drawn thee, Margherita, From thy life of misery ! " — Scandal of thine Alviano ! Shame of Montepulciano ! A TUSCAN MAGDALEN. 15 Thou shalt be renowned in story For thy wondrous puritj- ; Thou shalt be Cortona's glory, Pearl of grateful Tuscany ! I have claimed thee, I have named thee, — Rise, repent, and follow jMe ! " * * * * a Ere the night had settled down Over Montepulciano, Thro' the gates of that old town, Winding forth to Alviano, Went a woman clad in brown, Ashes on lier shrouded head. Sobbing (whilst the child she led Clung, affrighted, to her gown) : "Farewell, home of sinful leisure. Farewell, scenes of guilty pleasure, Ye have fled mine eyes at last ! Welcome, life of blessed losses ! Welcome, penan ce ! Welcome, crosses ! — O my God I forgive the past I " THE INSPIRING OF CjEDMON. I. WN the Abbey of Whitby vast and quaint, 2r! Ruled by Hilda, Abbess and saint, ^ (Whose blood ran pure from the royal spring Of her great-grandsire, Edwin the King), Hundreds of learned nuns and friars In separate cloisters kept the rules, Toiled in the cells and sang in the choirs, Studied and taught in the ancient schools ; Gentle and simple, all in their way, Owning the Abbess Hilda's sway. IT. Down in the servants' hall outside, Where the great logs blazed in the hearth-place wide, Many a poor retainer shared The Minster's bounty; and, tender, cared THE INSPIRING OF C^DMON. 17 For the sick and the sore, who thronged the grate Of the Abbess Hilda's convent-gate. Many a rude, unlettered serf Swung the scythe o'er the abbey-turf, Or ploughed its fields ; or the horses led To the crystal brooks ; or the poultry fed ; Or guided the kine and the browsing sheep Through the clover-pastures, lush and deep ; — Harmless louts, of as little lore As the beasts they fed at the stable-door. III. Dullest of all the dull souls there, Who knew no secrets of book or prayer. Who sang no song, and who spake no word, Was Caedmon, the humble cattle-herd. Csedmon, the homely, honest clown Whose gray locks hung o'er his temples brown; Whose stolid visage and sunken eyes From the mists of the moorlands seemed to rise, Like those of a phantom, gaunt and high. Tracking the herds 'neath the autumn sky. 18 THE INSPIEING OF C^DMON. IV. Though many a rural ininstrel woke The harp, at night, in the halls of oak, — ■ Ne'er Ijad the herdsman's hand been known To rouse sweet Music's slumbering tone. Whenever liis comrades sat at board, And the meats were passed or the malt was pour'd, If the song, in its turn, to Csedmon came, (Half in sorrow and half in shame), He rose from his seat in silent mood, And toss'd the harp to the nearest bard, Then, wending his way to an out-house rude. Where the kine were stalled in the stable-yard. In cold and darkness cowered alone, Couch'd with tlie beasts on the floor of stone. Murmuring ever the same sad thing : " If I could but sing ! If I could but sing ! " V. There, on the straw, on one such night. With a heavy heart, but a conscience light, He cast him down (when liis prayers were said,) THE INSPIRING OF C^DMON. 19 Where the dumb brutes shnnber'd left and right, And, watching the stars through the chinks over- head, Fell fast asleep on his fragrant bed. VI. The moon rose up in the quiet West, With a fleecy veil round her virgin breast ; The night-wind sighed through the broken walls, The cattle stirred in their blacken'd stalls, And, over beyond, in the convent choir. Sounded the voice of a chanting friar. But Ccedmon lay with a smile on his face. Nor heard nor saw these sounds or sights ; He only marveled to see the place Filled with splendor and strange delights ! VII. Over him floated a golden cloud, Rare as the mists of that last bright hour. When the rainbow-tints of the sunset crowd The western skies with their gorgeous dower ; 20 THE INSPIRING OF C^DMON. And out of the cloud, an angel came, With flower-like face and wings of flame, • Who cried in a voice, both sweet and strong : " Csedmon ! sing me a blessed song ! " VIII. "Alas!" groaned the herdsman, hoarse and low, "I cannot sing ! If thou didst but know, 'Twas because of the harp and the song, fair sprite, I fled from the feast, this very night ! " "Yet, nevertheless," the angel said, " A singer thou 'It be ! " — And with bended head, Csedmon questioned : " What shall I sing? " The spirit answered : " The praise of the King I " Answered : " Th// theme shall Creation be, — Sing thou of Time and Eternit}^ I " IX. And Csedmon lifted his voice and sang — (His thrilling tones to the rafters rang) — Verses in praise of the God Triune, Father, Creator of sun and moon, THE INSPIRING OF C.EDMON. 21 Of earth, and of all the things thereof That speak His wisdom, His might. His love ! The stars in the sky, the winds that blow, The rain and the dew, the frost and the snow, The birds in the air, tlie fish in the sea. The beasts that roam over hill and lea. The flowers, the trees, and the silver streams. The lakes land-lock'd in their crystal dreams, All, all the beautiful things of earth In the pristine glow of their sinless birth, Swelled through the strains of Csedmon's song, A Benedieite, grand and strong ! X. " Praise God, ye creatures ! " the herdsman cried ; " Praise God ! " tlie Angel soft replied ; And the musical echoes swept abroad Their mighty chorus : " Praise God ! praise God ! " XI. Lo ! in the morning, gaunt and thin, The Abbess Hilda led him in 22 THE IXSPIRING OF LVEDMON. To the learned men ; and bade him there Sing the song he had learned in prayer, Tlie song of his dream, tiie psalm of might, The Angel taught him in the niglit. And when, from his grand, enlightened soul, The strains majestic 'gan to roll. When, from his bearded lips gushed oat A paean glad as a seraph's shout. And all his dull, dark, stolid face Transfigured grew, with light and grace, — The Abbess spake : " Oui' God in heaven Hath wondrous gifts to the guileless given ! Henceforth, O friars, this man shall be The least of your gracious company I " And then she added, with "bated breath : " Pure in thy life- pure in thy death, O poet Csedmon ! O burd sublime ! In soul and song to the saints allied. The world shall hail thee tlironghout all time, As Whitby's glory and Whitby's pride ! " PEDRO VELHaS WARNING. I. ^.-^"^HERE the blue waves, sparkling, ran 'Ifflrlll ^P ^^^^ beach at old San Tchan,* [^=g|^4 ^'^^^ "^ foaming eddies went, Circling in and out again, In a little Chinese tent On the sands beside the main. In a little Chinese tent, With a friend from sunny Spain, Pedro Velho sat at play. On a long-gone Summer's day. Gay and guileless cavalier, Gallant Velho was most dear To that Spanish saint, whose fame Even then the Indies filled ; And if Francis Xavier's name Many a colder bosom tln-illed, * Saiician. 24 PEDRO YELHO'S WARNING. It awoke a rapture blest In the ardent Pedro's breast. So it chanced that, as he sat In his plumed and drooping hat, With the jewels of his sword Glowing 'neath his silken cloak, — (While his friend, across the board, In the soft Castilian spoke,) — Pedro lifted up his eyes With a start of glad surprise. For the curtains of the tent By a master-hand were rent, And before them, grave and sweet. Stood th' Apostle of San Tchan ! — Pedro, springing to his feet, Knelt before the holy man, And, in reverential tone, Humbly craved a benison. Softly Xavier spake and smiled : " God requite thee, dearest child, PEDRO VELHO'S WAUNING. 25 For thy gracious charity ! Yesternooii, beside the sea, When I asked of thee a dole For a tried and tempted soul, Thou didst answer, ' Willi this key, Lo ! I give to thee control Of my coffers ; go, and take What thou wilt for Christ's dear sake ! ' " "But, my Father," Pedro said, Lifting up his handsome head, " Was it right or just to scorn The poor gift I tendered thee ? Half my riches I had sworn Should be thine — but lo ! instead, When I chanced, this very morn, To inspect my treasury, (God forgive Your Reverence !) Hot a coin was missinu thence ! " Then St. Francis' face grew bright With a strange, prophetic light : 26 PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. " See I " he murmured, " O my son ! O my brave, unselfish one 1 See how woncVrously the Lord, Far from lessening thy hoard. Or diminishing thy store — For each deed of mercy done Doth increase it more and more ! " Ah ! thy gold shall never fail, Nor distress thy doors assail ; For 'twill chance, as I foresee, (Blessed meed of charity ! ) That thy little cai'es and woes Shall dissolve in peace divine ; And when life is near its close, Tliere shall come to thee a sign Of that awful, final lionr Which precedes the soul's repose : When the sweetness of the wine In thy mouth, alone, shall sour, Then, I say to thee, my friend, Make thou ready for the end! " ****** PEDKO VELHO'S WARNING. 27 II. At a banquet at Yenchow, Witli a calm, umvrinkled brow, With a face still fresh and fair, — (Spite of many a silver thread In the mass of ebon hair Clust'ring round his noble liead), — Pedro Vellio, 'mid tlie rest, Sate a staid and honored guest. Stately speech and sparkling song Swept the polish'd board along, While it groaned beneath the load Of the luscious fruits thereon ; Rarest liquors foamed and flowed, Or in glitt'ring goblets shone, — As applauding knight and dame Drank to Pedro Velho's name. To his feet with grave repose Pedro graciously arose, 28 PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. And with courtesy profound Touched the goblet to his lips, Touched, and took it from his lips, Then, affrighted, gazed around ! — From his hand the beaker slips, Crush'd in atoms on the ground ! For the sweet wine of the South Is as acid in Ids month ! Like a whisper, fine and clear, Long-forgotten, floating near, Till his blood within him froze And his tears ran down like brine, Pedro Velho seemed to hear In the porches of his ear : "And when life is near its close, There shall come to thee a sign Of that awful, final hour Which precedes the soul's repose ; — Whe7i the sweetness of the wine In thy mouthy alone^ shall sour, Then, I say to thee, my friend. Make thou ready for the end ! " PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. 29 Right and left, he turned and bowed To the silent, wondering crowd, And a light shone thro' liis face, Like a sunrise thro' a cloud ; And as one who looks his last 'Round an old familiar place — • (Tender-eyed and dreamy-brow'd, Doomed to linger but a space) — With his cloak about him cast, Through the open door he pass'd, And along the starlit street Sped with swift, unsandall'd feet. Soft ! a chapel by the road Whence an altar-lamp outglowed, And the portal standing wide Wooed the weary wanderer in ! " O my Master ! " Pedro cried, (Looking strangely gaunt and thin), " Li this spot Thou dost abide. Far from worldly pomp and pride ; 30 PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. And to-night, alone herein, While the earth is all asleep, (Shaking off the cUist of sin), I shall wake and I sliall weep, And my last, long vigil keep ! " At the altar rail alone. On the marble pavement prone, Pedro cast himself — and prayed, As the dying only pray. Soft the lamp shone through the shade, Wore the silent hours away. Till the stars began to fade In the rosy light of day ; And a friar, entering, found The lone watcher on the ground. But he rose, and calmly said, (Folded hands and bended head), "Shrive me, Father, from my sins, For my soul abhorreth them ; And when once the Mass begins. Let it be a Meqide?7i ; PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. 31 And the server, let hiiu bring, Let him spread the funeral-pall; Clouds of incense o'er nie fling, Drops of blessed rain let fall ; While recumbent, on tliis bier, I shall lie and listen here." Swift they placed the couch of death, Draped the inky pall, beneath Whose black folds, a sombre cloud, Pedro Velho laid him down, Wholly hidden in tliat shroud, As in friar's cowl and gcAvn. And the altar-tapers flung Tender light on book and bell, And, below, the censer swung, And the blessed raindrops fell, As the solemn Mass was said For the dear, departed Dead. But when soft upon tlie air Rose the last celestial prayer, 82 PEDRO VELHO'S WARNING. And tlie acolyte's response Echoed, like an angel's song, — In the central aisle, at once, Gathered then an anxious throng; And a chill crept over all. Every cheek grew ashen -gray, As the priest withdrew the pall From the bier where Pedro lay ! Lo ! a lustre, pure and faint, Like the nimbus of a saint! Lo ! a delicate perfume As of lilies ! — and behold ! Like a statue on a tomb, Sculptured white, and still, and cold, Like a marble effigy Of a knight in dreamless rest, With his sword across his knee, And his hands upon his breast ; Full of Christian purity. Full of peace, supernal, blest, — ■ In the midst (O vision dread ! ) hay the noble Velho, — dead! THE MIRACLE OF THE LEPER. A Legend of St. Elizabeth of Hungary. ACK from the chase return'd (his knightly suite Lagging behind from weariness and heat, And in their sturdy silence, as the}' came, Bending beneath the weight of hard-won game), Dust on his doublet, languor in his tread, The velvet cap doff'd from his noble head, Duke Louis crossed the threshold, first of all. And met his mother in the outer hall. A stately Duchess, dark and scornful-eyed. She caught his hand, and hurried him aside. And, with an angry lip and lowering brow, " Listen ! " she cried ; " I've that to tell thee now, I've that to show to thee, which shall arouse Thy just and lawful ire against thy spouse ; For thine Elizabeth this day hath done A deed which doth disgrace us both, m}^ son I '" 34 THE MIRACLE OF THE LEPER. Worn as he was, and wearied nigh to death, And loving, as he did, Elizabeth, Duke Louis, while his fair cheek scarlet burn'd. Scorning her words, withdrew his hand, and turn'd As though to go ; but she, too, flushing red, " Dost doubt the tale ? Then come with me," she said; " Come " (with a bitter smile), " and thou shalt see The one thy wife loves better far than thee." So, by the hand, his tardy steps she led Unto his room, unto his nuptial bed ; And, pausing, whispered to the startled Duke : " Now, look, my son ! by thy fair knighthood, look ! Whilst thou wert at the chase, thy childish bride, (Whose saintly whims and lack of proper pride Make her at once the scandal and the sport Of all the lords and ladies of the court). Whilst thou wert gone, I say, she and her maid Hugo, the leper, to this room conveyed, THE MIRACLE OF THE LEPER. 35 Cleansed his foul sures, his loathsome palate fed, Anointed him, and laid him on thy bed ! Aha ! thou frownest ! Dost thou doubt me now ? " The Duke was flush'd with shame from throat to brow. Saint as he was, (for only Heaven knew How pure his knightly soul, his faults how few), And dearly as he loved his little wife For her sweet charities and stainless life, Yet did this deed of mercy she had done, Seem to him then a most imprudent one. 'Twas not in knighthood to repress the ire Which knit his brow and lit his eye with fire, As stepping back, by angry impulse led. He quickly raised the curtains of the bed. O Love divine ! the sight which there he view'd His flashing eyes with tenderest tears subdued ; His cheek grew white, his heart, tumultuous, throbb'd, And his proud mother hid her face and sobb'd. 36 THE MIEACLE OF THE LEPER. No wretched Hugo slumbered, hideous, there, No leper, foul with sores and matted luiir — But, mild and meek, with fair arms open'd wide, And dim eyes lifted — Jesus Crucified Upon the silken couch, discovered, lay, The fresh blood dropping from His wounds away ! — " O spouse ! " the young Duke said, (for at his side His wife was standing), — " O my saintly bride ! Oft to such guests, I pray thee, yield my bed. And may our Lord rain blessings on thy head " ! Then, while his Duchess-mother stood dismay 'd, Down on his knees Duke Louis fell and prayed : " O Lord, my God, whom earth and heaven praise, Be merciful to one unfit to gaze Upon the awful secrets of thy power Made manifest in this tremendous hour I Gracious, and good, and loving as Thou art, Make me a man according to Thy heart; And in her life, O Lord I and in her death, Bless Thou ray spouse, my sweet Elizabeth " ! THE KING AND THE SLA VE. I. ^IS told somewhere in an Eastern story, The tale of a king, ^j Who once, in the prime of his pomp and glory, Did a strange thing. A thing so mad in its melancholy, That many a sheik Laughs as he tells his sons the folly Of King Bal-zeek. He called, one day, from his myriad minions, A wretch of a slave, And, in spite of the court's and the queen's opinions. To him he gave 38 THE KING AND THE SLAVE. Complete control of the royal realm, All absolute power To rule, as a king, at the nation's helm, — For one brief hour. The crown, the robe, and the regal tunic Were put upon him, And the king himself, as the veriest eunuch, Attended on him. And silvery sweet from mosque and tower The chimes did ring, — The king was slave for one short hour, The slave was king ! II. But how did the crowned and jeweled actor His liege repay? — Lo ! with his heel on his benefactor, He cried : " To-day^ " /, as a monarchy deal destruction To this vile thing ! THE KING AND THE SLAVE. 39 Seize on him, slaves I " — and without compuuction, Tliey slew the king ! III. Deep ill the sea of the allegory Lies the coral ; Deep in the heart of this Eastern story Lies a moral. Slaves are we, by a gracious Sovereign Called from naught, Not for an hour alone to govern A world of thought, But ci'owned for a lifetime, crowned and sceptred, To rule (vast scheme ! ) O'er the world and the flesh and the subtle tempter, In power supreme. With the precious oil of a sacred chrism Our Liege anointed The regal garb of a blest baptism To us appointed ; 40 THE KING AND THE SLAVE. And leaving the heavenly court and castle, The King who saves Hath made Himself the humblest vassal Of us poor slaves. IV. And what return have we made ou7- Master? Have heart and blood Beat 'neath our borrowed robes the faster With gratitude ? Alas! alack! O base dishonor! O outraged Throne ! We have set our heel on the royal Donor Of all we own ! We have cried aloud to our passions: "Seize Him ! And Sin shall reign ! " — Weep, till our tears of blood appease Him, Our King is slain ! ST. CHRISTOPHER'S BURDEN. teVER the river, black with night, The giant, Offero, man of might. Carried a Child, both fair and small. Light as a feather, the Baby hung By His slender hands, from the shoulders strong ; It seemed, in truth, that a spirit clung To the monster's neck, as he ploughed along. But lo ! as the waters, rising, pour'd Their misty spray on that brawny breast, — In the deepest part of the darksome ford, The Boy on his bearer firmer press'd. And little by little, the weight increased Till the great feet faltered in their track ; A mountain of lead, at the very least. Seemed bending and crushing the stalwart back ! 42 ST. Christopher's burden. " 'Tis the weight of the world ! " — he groaned in fear ; But a sweet Voice murmur'd: "Be not afraid ! " Not the weight of the world thou carriest here, But Him by whose power the world was made ! " "Who art Thou, Child?" — (as the sweatdrops sprang From his corded tem[)les) — the giant roared; And clear, thro' tlie night, the answer rang, Like a silver trump — " I am Christ the Lord I " " And since thou hast borne Me from shore to shore. And tliy rest and thy comfort sacrific'd ; — Behold ! thou art Offero, now, no more. But brave Christofero — bearer of Christ ! " * * * * 'A Sweet legend ! cheering the Aveary soul, As it fords the stream of a fate ill-starr'd ; ST. CHRISTOPHEli's BURDEN. 43 When tlie floods in their fnry, fiercest, roll, And tlu' biiiden of Duty presses liard : No need to env}^ the blessed load 'J'he saint tliro' the raging waters bore ; For, bearing a burden imposed by God, We are all St. Christophers, brave and broad, Carrying Christ to the heavenly shore ! THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFARDUS. I. teEAR a little silent swamp, fn Lying low and dark and damp ^=^1|; In the shadow of an abbey, (Famed in annals mystical), Of an old Cistercian abbey, Far away in ancient Gaul, In a hut among the kine Monk Liffardus kept the swine. II. Dreary moss upon the gables, Where the pens, the sties, the stables Filled the atmosphere surrounding With a foul and noisome scent — Dust and darkness all around him, Monk Liffardus was content, In humility divine. Tending faithfully the swine. THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFARDUS. 45 III. Gently born and gently bred, It might seem a portion dread, In the light of worldly reason, To endure a yoke like tliis ; But the ever -changing season Brought a never-changing bliss To the hut among the kine, Where Liffardas kept the swine. IV. Never-changing till the day (In those ages far away), When the demon in his malice Came to murmur in his ear : " Didst forsake thy father's palace For such works as wait thee here ? Shall a prince, O brother mine, Stoop to grovel with the swine ? " V. On his narrow bed, that night, Full of anguish and affright, 46 THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFAEDUS. Monk Liffardus lay, temptation Brewing fever in his brain. Had this life of abnegation, After all, been lived in vain ? Gentle birth and breeding fine Cast, like pearls, before the swine ? VI. Should he rise and should he flee From this den of misery ? Rise and flee unto the castle On his father's fair domains. Where the merry guests make wassail And the god of pleasure reigns? Are not women, song and wine, Better comrades than the swine? VII. Musing thus upon his bed, Lo ! a sudden light was shed Through the darkness of the gable. And he saw an angel's face Filling all the wretched stable THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFARDUS. 47 With its glory and its grace. " Follow me ! " the sweet voice said, And he followed where it led. VIII. Through the cloister, through the yard, Through the church (whose doors, uii- barr'd By the hands of viewless wardens. Opened wide before the twain), Lo ! the angel and Liffardus Came at last to Death's domain, To the graveyard grim and gray, Where the dead Cistercians lay. IX. Down a starry vista looms The long avenue of tombs, And Liffardus shrinks with terror From the view on ev'ry side. For the earth is cleft (O horror !) And the graves are open wide ! 48 THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFARDUS. And he sees, 'mid mold and worms, A thousand ghastly forms ! X. In their winding-sheets laid bare — ■ All the balmy midnight air Is pregnant with the odor Of their terrible decay. And each corse (a dread foreboder) Seems to murmur, " Yesterday, Dearest brother, was for me. But to-day may be for thee ! " XI. Then the angel grave and stern On the trembling monk doth turn, And in clarion -tones out crieth, " O thou tempted one ! take heed. When, erelong, thy corse low lieth, And the worms upon it feed, Will earth's pleasures, gold or station, Profit then thy soul's salvation ? " THE TEMPTATION OF LIFFAEDUS. 49 XII. Was it all a midnight dream ? — Silver- white the moonrays stream On the pallet poor and lowly Where the lone Liffardus lies. In a rapture deep and holy, Doth the grateful monk arise, And, with moist uplifted eyes, Prayetli softly, prayeth slowly, " Everlasting thanks to Thee, Source of meek humility ! XIII. " Bearing part in C'lirist's dear shame. Pride and pleasure, wealth, and fame, I renounce henceforth forever : Living poor, despised, unknown, It sliall be my chief endeavor Thee to serve, and Thee alone ! For Thy sake, O Love divine ! 'Twill be sweet to tend the swine ! " ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES. I. IS a legend of the past, (In old books and paintings seen), J Of the Augustinian hermit Nicholas of Tulentine ; How within his cell he lay Once upon his })allet bare, With a mortal sickness on him Born of penance and of prayer ; While the sunshine, like a flame, Thro' the western window came. II. How it lit his wasted cheek, With the glory of the skies ! Touched his pale, etherial temples, And illumed his lifted eyes ; And a halo seemed to shed Round the tonsure on his head ! ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES. 51 111. Till he cried : '' O brotliers ! see, What a glorious light it is I Jacob's ladder, thronged with angels, Must have been, indeed, like this ! Fur the blessed spirits go Up and down, with constant wing. With their tender voices callino- O And their white hands beckoning ! Ah ! if God should deem it best, I would fain go up and rest ! " IV. But the Prior said : "Nay, nay," (Bending o'er his saintly son), " Thou must not depart, Nicole, Till thy ministry is done. And it is the Master's will (Since thou art so faint and ill), For a time thou shouldst relax Those austerities of thine 52 ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES. Which have worn thy feeble body, To a shadow, — son of mine ! Therefore, thro' obedience. Thou must break thine abstinence." V. At a sign, a monk appeared. Bearing on a wooden disli Two small doves (a feast prepared Solely at the Prior's wish) : And the good Superior Turning to the saint once more, Said : " O true and faithful son ! Make thy victory complete ; Scorning ev'ry foolish scruple, — Take, and through obedience, eat ! " VI. Nicholas looked up and smiled, Tranquil as a little chihl : Took, with outstretch 'd hand, the doves ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES. 53 (Roasted at the Prior's wish), And serenely made the symbol Of the cross above the dish. VIT. Lo ! a miracle of faith ! Ere the monks a word could utter, They beheld the little creatures On the dish begin to flutter, — Ope their eyes and stretch tlieir wings, Happy, sliining, living tilings I VIII. Thro' the sunny window fell Ivy shadows on the floor : And a fragrance from the garden Floated thro' the open door. It was spring-time in the land, (Tender grass and golden mist), As the little doves exulting Settled on Nicolo's wrist ; Then, up-soaring thro' the air, 54 ST. NICHOLAS AND THE DOVES. While the hermit smiling lay, Round his bed went sailing, sailing, In a graceful, grateful way, — 'Till, at last, (the window neared), Thro' the vines, tney disappeared ! THE TRUE CHRISTMAS TREE. ^|'h\# Of mighty Ygdra Sel,- The sacred, thieeprong'd Ash- ^pHE Sagas tell in Norseland, tree, Which heaven, earth and hell Sustains and binds together ; While, from its roots up-spring Three fountains, whence the Virtues Are ever issuing. II. Veiled in the Sngas' story Is Calvary's blest Tree — Earth, heaven, purgatory, Its Rood-borne trinity. While from its roots three fountains Forever leap and shine — Well-springs of all God's graces, Faith, Hope and Love divine I S7\ WULSTAN'S CROZIER. m HE Noniuin king and the Norman courtiers rir Spake of old to the Saxon saint, Wulstan, bishop of ancient Worcester, Last of the Saxon prehites quaint : " Thy beard is long and thy Saxon jaigon Soundeth rude to our Norman ears, — Doff thy mitre, resign thy crozier! " — The eyes of Wulstan swam with tears, As down he step[)ed from his grand old minster, Down to the ancient abbey came. Unto the tomb of sainted Edward, King, Confessor, of deathless fame. Tliere, in the midst of the Norman courtiers, Praying, he faced their eyes of gloom, — Doff'd his mitie, and smote his crozier Firm on the stone of the dead king's tomb. ST. wulstan's crozier. 67 Ope'd the marble Land of the monarch, (Hid below in its cavern cold,) Caught the gilded staff of the bishop, Clutched it fast in its rigid hold. Bare of head, with his feet unsandaled, Wulstan knelt at the royal shrine ; — Wrestled the while the proud invaders, Seeking to free the staff divine. Vainly their martial hands assailed it, Vainly shook it with arms of might, King, Confessor, the sainted Edward Kept firm hold of the crozier bright. Till, spent with struggle, and half-affrighted, Cried to the Saint, the malcontents : " Don thy mitre, — resume thy crozier — Be sure we meant thee no offence ! " Sweet the smile of the brave old bishop " See how God protects His own ! His the power, and His the crozier ! " — And lo ! with ease, with a calm composure, He drew the staff from the vieldino- stone! THE MASTER'S CLOAK. smr^aP'NDER the archway, carved and quaint, (In th' hnsh of the court yard, bleak, for- lorn), Zita, the wonderful servant-saint, Stood at the dawn of a winter's morn Zita, whose modest eyes now shine From many a rich Italian shrine: Zita, whose visage mild and brown, (Under its gemm'd and golden crown). From many a splendid niche looks down; There, in the days of her poor estate, — Centuries gone, in Lucca town, — Stood ill the dawn at her master's gate. Lantern in hand, about to pass Forth, in the gloom, to the blessed Mass. Ah ! what a })itiless dawn it was ! Keen and raw was the wind that blew : TH1-: MASTEIl's CLOAK. 69 E'en in the instant's fleeting pause, It pierced the maiden through and througli -, And her scanty shawl and her raiment tliin Were drench'd with the lain as it drifted in. Angel-eyes thro' the shadows bent Their looks of love on the lonely girl ; Over tiie portal, came and went Beautiful shapes on their wings of pearl. But other presence than angels fair Followed the maid as she linger'd there, And a pair of eyes at the latticed pane. Were moist with something that was not rain. "Zital " — she started, half afraid, (The voice was full of a grave command. And tlie circle of light her lantern made Revealed h.er master close at hand) : " Zita, poor child I your shawl is old, The rain falls fast, and the wind blows cold, Take this, my daughter," — and, while he spoke, He folded about her liis ermine cloak, And, ere she could utter a word, had pass'd Through the court-yard gate, and lock'd it fast. 60 THE master's cloak. jMerrily sweet, like a skjhirk singing, A bell, high up thro' tlie rain, was ringing, And Zita followed the well-known sound With feet that scarcely touched the ground; Her heart, like a chalice of precious wine. Running over and over with faith divine. Close to the church -porch dimly grand, A beggar was kneeling with outstretch 'd hand, Kneeling, unshorn, on the cold, wet flags, A mass of ulcers, half-clothed with rags ; Such hopeless want in his abject air. That Zita paused with a murmured prayer. Silver or gold she hud none to give, — For the maiden's purse was a ceaseless sieve, (Sifting Love's alms over shrine and street) ; But, tender and true, in lier breast arose A marvellous balm for the beggar's woes ; And her tears of sympathy, warm and sweet, Fell with the rain on his naked feet. Could she kneel to pray in a cloak of fur, While the robe of her Loi'd was turn and scant? - THE master's cloak. 61 Would His gracious ear incline to Iwr, If she left Him to perish of cold and want? With never a thouglit that tlie gift belonged To one whom she would not, for worlds, have wronged, She saw but her Lord in the beggar's form, And cast on his shoulders tlie mantle warm ; Then, luirrjing in to a secret spot In the grand old church, all else forgot, She fell on her knees and knew no more Till the night drew near. ... At the castle- door. She stood with her own poor garments on, And the rich fur cloak of the master gone ! Out of the portal looked a face Witli serious eyes and flowing beard; Under the swinging lamp, appeared A reverend presence, full of grace. " Zita ! — (how grave and stern he spoke !) " What hast thou done with thy master's cloak ? " 62 THE MASTEa'S CLOAK. The maiden, fearing to move or speak, Bowed to the dust with a blushing cheek. While the penitent tears began to swim In her lovely eyes, downcast and dim. "Zita, I charge thee, speak the truth. And thou shalt not suffer hurt or harm," — A pause, — a rustle of wings, — forsooth, It filled the maid with a vague alarm. Behold I in the midst, a princely youth Stood ivith the lost cloak on his arm! Brighter than diamonds were his eyes, Richer than gold his sunny hair ; The master kneeling, in grave surprise, Knew that an angel liad enter'd there. And he hid his face with awe, and prayed As the stranger pass'd to the servant-maid, Pass'd on to Zita, with pinions fleet, And laid the cloak at her humble feet. Then, there were bursts of seraph-singing, And tinkle of harps, and cymbals ringing; THE master's cloak. 63 While heavenly light and odors lare Filled with splendor the dusky air. But over it all, supremely free, One glorious Voice, thro' the rise and fall Of the angel-chorus, seemed to call ; " O love I O dove! I am debtor to thee, And blessed forever shalt thou be ; For inasmuch as thou didst this deed, Uuto the beggar in his need, Zita, thou didst it unto Me ! " FORTY MARTYRS OF SEBASTF. T. ^WORTY souls, intrepid, pure, Strong to suffer and endure, Forty soldiers of Sebaste, Christian soldiers, long ago, For their faith were, naked, cast In a pool of ice and snow. II. Close at hand, across the path, Stood a warm, delicious bath, Where, beneath the star-light dim, Any coward, sin-entic'd, Might immerse each frozen limb, And apostatize from Christ. III. Up and down the pathway cold Strode the i)agan-keeper bold ; FORTY MARTYRS OF SEBASTE. 65 O'er the victims keeping guard, — Watching till the fight was done, Watching till the struggle hard, With the martyr's crown, was won. IV. Martyr's crown ? The keeper raised Wond'ring eyes, which wildly gazed On a vision in the air ! — O'er the pool, thro' star-light soft, Angel-shapes were floating fair. Bearing starry crowns aloft ! V. Crowns for all? Ah! no, ah ! no, — As the pagan reckon'd slow, Counting out the chaplets rare. Floating in a mystic line, — Forty victims suffered there, Crowns there were but thirty-nine ! 66 FORTY MARTYRS OF SEBASTE. VI. Mused the keeper, full of awe, Oil this sight, — when lo I he saw, 111 a trice, from out the pond. One apostate, weak and young, Who, despairing, rusli'd beyond, And into the warm bath sprung ! VII. Rang aloft a piercing cry ! — On the instant doom'd to die. Faith, and life, and Heaven lost — Sank the poor, deluded fool ! — Swift TJside his garments toss'd. Sprang the keeper in the pool ! VIII. " Christ, my God ! I believe ! " he said, " Let me suffer in his stead ! " — Then the long, cold hours pass'd. . . But when morning mastered night, Forty martyrs of Sebaste Wore in Heaven their crowns of light ! THE KEY OF HE A YEN. N an old Franciscan cloister, In the fair South-Germany, ^ Lay the convent-tailor dying, Holy old lay-brother, he. Holy Brother Bonaventure, He had labored long and well: On his bed, amid his brethren, Lay he dying in his cell. All the solemn prayers were uttered, All the sacred rites were given, — Spake the dying from his pillow, " Bring to me my Key of Heaven." " Key of Heaven ?— Call the Prior ! " And the Prior softly came. Bringing- to the sinkinsf friar An old missal of that name. 68 THE KEY OF HEAVEN. Slow the dying head was shaken,— " Key of Heaven ? " Quick as thought, Crucifix, and Rule, and Chaplet, To the monk, in turn, were brought. All in vain. — The brethren marveled: What could be the Key he craved ? Surely such demand unusual Was the plea of one who raved. Last, uprose an aged friar, Bowed obedience left and light. From a nook beside the fire. Brought a something small and bright ; Brought it to the bed, and placed it Where they saw it thro' their tears, 'Twas the needle of the tailor, Wherewith he had wrought for years ! Ah ! to see the dim eyes brighten ! Ah ! to see the white lips smile ! Round the tool the chill hands tightened. Broken words he spake the while : THE KEY OF HEAVEN^. 69 " Many years, old friend, we've labored, — Ev'ry stitch I made with thee "Was for God's dear glory taken — For the blest Eternity I " Now, when life's last cords are riven, Blessed needle ! " (soft he cries), — " Thou shalt be my Key of Heaven, Thou shalt ope my Paradise ! " On the instant, fled the spirit, Smiling in his waxen rest. Lay the Brother Bonaventure With the needle on his breast. All the monks around him kneeling, (Startled at such swift release,) Question with the deepest feeling, " Doth he truly rest in peace ? " " Brethren I " prays the weeping Prior, " May his end to all be given ! May the life-work of each friar Be, indeed, his Key to Heaven!" ESTRADA'S SPOUSE. The Legend of the Persian Princess. ^c^^pITHIN her palace, in tlie Hall of Mirrors, -'il// \ \i^ One glorious day in Spring — [M^ 'Mid all the glamour of the glittering mirrors, The daughter of the King, A Princess, young and innocent and tender, Sat silent and alone, In satin robes, whose wealth of trailing splendor Half-veiled her ivory throne. Her lustrous eyes like liquid sapphires gleaming, Her white hand 'neath her head — The noble maid was dreaming — dreaming — dreaming Of him she soon should wed. ESTRADA'S SPOUSE. 71 Her Persian prince ; how grand his royal bearing I How grave his manly face ! His soul so full of chivalry and daring ! His form so full of grace! 'Mid all the flower of her father's courtiers, Was none as fair as he ! " O prince of men ! " she sighed, and blushing faltered, " Who can compare with thee ? " Lo ! on the instant, swift as though it lightened, A glory filled the air ; And all the lofty room was warmed and bright- ened By one grand Presence there ! No mortal eye had seen the Stranger enter, No ear had heard His tread, Yet there, resplendent, in the chamber's centre, He stood unheralded. 72 ESTRADA'S SPOUSE. A tall and stately shape, divinely mouldeu, In regal vestments clad ; His floating hair and beard, a halo golden, Around a visage glad. Deep, earnest eyes, supremely true and tender, A brow majestic, mild, Upon the startled maiden fair and tender, The radiant Vision smiled. " Behold ! " He sighed, and (strange to say) as slowly He raised His gracious Hand, Across the velvet of its palm all holy. She saw a Wound expand. A deep red Wound, which, like a flaming jewel. Shone with a ruddy light : Ah ! who (she thought) had dared with weapon cruel That beauteous Hand to smite ? ESTRADA'S SPOUSE. 73 " Look round ! " He said : and then, the king's fair daughter, Turning, beheld it all ! — Like clearest stretch of calm, unruffled water, ' The mirrors on the wall Reflected back the beauty and the glory, Of that Eternal King^ Whose endless praise in sweetest song and story The Bards of Heaven sing. " Hear, and take heed, O child of My affection ! " The dulcet Voice pursued, " Each faithful mirror's pure and true reflection Of Mine own pulchritude : " Each curve, and tint, and line— each shining shimmer Of robes reflected there , The Brow, the Lip, the Eye — the golden glimmer Of every single hair, 74 ESTRADA'S SPOUSE. " Are sN^mbols, dear Estrada, of My creatures 111 whom My beauties shine : The human soul's celestial form and features, Reflecting the Divine ! " And wilt thou love the unsubstantial shadow More than the substance true ? O virgin Princess ! innocent Estrada, Wilt tliou, in vain, pursue " An apparition fair, but falsely fleeting, Which fades before 'tis won ; A bright chimera evermore retreating Before the changeless One ? " Look on My Wounds, and tell me, young Estrada, Shall phantoms claim thy vows ? Wilt thou, indeed, prefer this mortal shadow To thine immortal Spouse ? " — The Persian princess heard, and, swift uprising. Drew close her virgin zone ; With burning love, with faith and hope surprising, She stepp'd from off her throne. esthada's spouse. 75 Her lovely face aglow with glad decision, (O maid, supremely blest !) Her arms, like lilies, twining round the Vision, Her head upon His breast, — In ringing tones, she cries : " The dream is over ! — No bride of earth I'll be ! O Lord, ray God ! my first Eternal Lover ! I leave all loves for TheeT' THE SHEPHERD'S FEAST. ^WO-NIGHT in far-off, quaint Liguiia, This Christmas Eve, in Genoa the fair,- ^;j Fair, even thro' the veil of dim despair Which later law^less years have roughly spread Over the glory of her classic head, — This sacred Eve, in ancient Genoa, The silvern bells are swinging thro' the hush Of night's high noon ; and all the city swarms Unto the Midnight Mass. Ga}-, motley forms, Whose olive faces in the darkness flush With tenderest emotions, — lo ! they hold To one devout tradition, still most dear, (A Christian idyl), wliich, from year to year, Renews itself in pastoral delight ; A relic of the ages primitive, — a rite. Sublimely grand, and touching to behold, — It glorifies the Christ-Child's natal night \ THE shepherd's FEAST. 77 When midiiiglit frosts upon the mountains creep. The shepherds from the Alps descend in pairs : Fresh, stalwart youths, and men with silver hairs. And little sturdy boys, (who lead the sheep To grassy spots upon the pastures steep), — Like chamois, from the mountains springing down, They march, in pairs, across the dusky town. Erect and grave the troop — with faces brown, Their hair unshorn, their torn cloaks fluttering. Hardy as oaks their native snow-drifts crown. They from their vigils and their scanty sleep, — While flaring torch-flames o'er them blaze and leap—. Have snatched this hour to march, and, marching, sing The praises of the new-born Saviour-King ! With many a Christmas carol, quaint and old, Pealing in liquid sweetness from their throats. On, thro' through the crowded Strada^ bright and cold ; 78 THE shepherd's feast. 'Neath vi'let skies, which many a star doth gem, (So like the skies of ancient Bethlehem, And they so like the ancient shepherds bold !) The strange procession, as a vision, floats Into the cluirch, ablaze with pearls and gold, Where all of Genoa seems waiting them. A murmur, as from wind-blown forests, stirs The mighty throng ; and thro' them, marching mute, (Their cheeks like roseate, o'er-ripen'd fruit,) These simple shepherds, these grave worshippers. Poor as the Christ they hasten to adore, — Are swift assigned by sumptuous officers. The post of honor on that sacred floor. They kneel — they kiss the dust, prostrated low; O Gloria in excehis ! — from behind A curtain, soar wild doves as white as snow, Released from jesses of the purest flax ; Meek emblems of the Et in terra pax ! — The angel's song in their soft plaint doth find Celestial echoes, musical and low. THE shepherd's FEAST. 79 'Tis well. The nobles and the knights make way, And all the civic troops, with banners gay. Follow in file ; (what time their armor bright Flashes and sparkles in the torches' light,) The flow'r of court and camp, alike, give way, To form a background to that strange display, And kneel amid the common herd, to-night. Shepherds, alone, on this the Shepherds' Feast, Sons of the Alpine avalanche and storm, Precursors of the Monarchs of the East, — Alone, to-night, must circle shrine and priest. And with their glowing hearts a bulwark form To keep the dear Bambino safe and warm ! O, Blessed Babe ! now art thou born again In " House of Breads * O, grave, adoring men ! With streaming eyes, lift np your hardy hands. And offer your ex-voto beautiful, — A little, fleecy lamb, with many bands Of rainbow-ribbons, brightening its wool ; — * Betlilehem— EAR Lord ! in some dim future year, In some dim future month and da}^ Abides the hour, the solemn hour, When Thou shalt call my soul away, That year, that month, that day of days, Come soon? come late?— I know not when. O Thou, who rulest all my ways ! Master of life, whom Death obeys. Be with me then, be with me then ! Somewhere upon this globe of ours Is hid the spot where I must die. Where 'mid the snows, or 'mid the flowers, My shrouded form shall coffin'd lie. If north or south ? If east or west ? At home? abroad ?— I know not where. O tender Father, Lord of grace ! Whose presence fills the realms of space. Be with me there, be with me there ! 131 WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW? By fire ? by flood ? by famine sore ? By sudden stroke ? by slow decay ? — When Death's dark angel opes my door, How shall it call my soul away? God only knows ; He bends the bow, And He alone can fix the dart. Yet care I not when, where, or how The end may come, sweet Lord ! if Thou Wilt then but shield me in Thy Heart! THE LIFTED HAT. T dawn, along a lonely street, Thro' winds and wliirlino- snow, _J|^ Unto his toil, with hurrying feet, I watched a poor man go. His thread-bare garments, 'gainst the cold, Were sad defence, I fear : But, bravely pressing on — behold ! Our Lady's Church stood near. And, as he pass'd where Jesus sat Upon His altar throne, The poor man raised his rusty hat. And hailed the Hidden One. What secret prayer was on his tongue, What rev'rence in his heart, (While his rapt soul its incense flung To Him who dwells apart,) 136 THE LIFTED HAT. No man can say, — God only knows The prayers conceived or said ; — Few, save the angels, saw him pause With meek, uncover'd head. Yet, did his act more faith declare Than schoolmen's tomes profound ; — A speaking Faith and Love were there, Tho' lips gave forth no sound ; And heaven's court with splendor blazed, And angels 'gan to sing, — When, his torn hat, the poor man raised, To hail his hidden King ! * -Sfr * * * * O tender Heart of Christ, our Lord ! Perchance, that gesture mute More glory on Thine altar poured Than might a King's salute ! Perchance, the guileless piety Of Thine unlettered poor Is sweeter, dearer, far to Thee Than angel's worship pure ! FORGIVING AND FORGETTING Cl FORGIVE, but I never forget 1 " she said, With a frown on her dark, forbidding 14 brow, When one she had wounded liumbly [)led For peace and pardon now. "'My foes, my footstool!' cried David the king; ' A Christian ' (you say) ' forgives the debt ! ' Ah ! yes, but forgetting's another thing — /never can forget! " And then, ignoring the proffer'd hand. Blind to the love in the wistful eyes, She went her way to the woful land That knows no Paradise ; Went her way to the black eclipse Shadowing all that from Love depart, The rose of forgiveness on her lips, The thorns of hate in her heart. 138 FORGIVING AND FORGETTING. For, after her trod a shadowy Shape — Thorn-crown'd — cross-laden — wounded sore — The crimson Blood, like the juice of the grape, Dropping behind, before ! And ever and aye in her ears sliall live His piercing cry ; " What of tliy debt? How shalt thou fare if / forgive. Yet never, never forget ? " TEE MOTHERLESS HOME. ^EFORE that sad day when the Angel of .A Death Swept over our hearth on his pinions of sorrow, And the mother we prized as the breath of our breath, Lay lifeless and cold on the morrow; Before that dark day,— did I wander afar At Duty's behest, or the promptings of Pleas- ure ? My heart, like the needle that turns to the star. Turned ever to Home, as its treasure. And I wearied of joys, I grew sick of delights, 'Mid scenes new and charming, I pined for an- other, — Mine own quiet ingle, where Home's cheery lights Were the face and the smile of my motlier! 140 THE MOTHERLESS HOME. But since, from our midst, from the arms of our love, The shade of our dearest pass'd outward for- ever, — Let me flee where I will (like the wind-beaten dove), My heart's never home-sick, no, never ! Indifferent, tho' weary, — where'er I may roam (With sighs, that the bravest of wills cannot smother), I have learn'd, in Love's language, that Mother is Home, And Home but a weak word for Mother ! O Friend I as you sit at your desolate hearth, And gaze thro' your tears at the one vacant corner, Whence the shadow of Death seems to spread o'er the earth And veil every joy, like a mourner ; THE MOTHERLESS HOME. 141 In the long, lonesome days that are certain to come, Let this comforting balm to your sore heart be given : That, if Home is but Mother, and Mother is Home, Both Mother and Home are in heaven ! A TAPER AT LOURDES. |;OWN in the Giotto of Lourdes, )jf)) Over the wide blue sea, A taper fine, at our Lady's shrine, Was liglited and burned for me ; Lighted and burned for me, By a loved and loving friend, Whose constant soul no chances control, No changes or doubts attend. On the purest feast of our Queen, A-blaze at her rose-deck'd feet, — That taper of grace to her beautiful face Lifted its lustre sweet. Wasting and waning there. Running in drops to the ground, — The incense thick from its sparkling wick, Scenting the air around,— A TAPER AT LOURDES. 143 Like a star of the iiiglit it shone, Like a flower of flame it bloomed, As tho' 'twere a joy without alloy To be at Her feet consumed. . beautiful, trembling light! O candle aglow in the Grot ! In the midst of the moil of my daily toil, My spirit forgets thee not. And ever across the gloom Of the clonds that come and go, 1 seem to behold thy flicker of gold, And thy wax like sunlit snow. I bless the bees in their hive. That wrought so gracious a comb, And the myriad flowers of Pyrenese bowers Whose honey enticed them to roam. I bless the friend of my soul Whose love remembered me there, Where the Virgin white, with her rosary bright, Shineth, a Vision of prayer ! 144 A TAPER AT LOURDES. And, taking my heart in my hands, I offer it up to the Queen ; And cr}' : " Blest Maid, in glory arrayed, Behold, my taper terrene ! " Ah ! set it aglow with thy love, Let purity kindle its blaze, Till here on thy shrine, heart and taper of mine Be burned and consumed in thy praise ! " THOSE OUTSTRETCHED ARMS. TOUCHING old tradition sweetly saith m\t That when the dead Christ 'neath the ^^^ Cross reposed, His open Eyes, all glazed and dim with death. By Mary's tender hand, were meekly closed. But when the bruised and swollen Arms she strove To gently fold upon His bleeding breast — O might and mystery of deathless Love ! She could not close or bend those Members blest ! Covered with wounds, He lay upon her knee, His blesst^d mangled Hands spread wide apart. As though to say : " Poor sinners! come to Me, And, even yet, I'll clasp you to My Heart! " As though to say : " O suff'ring saints, who j^earn To hide your sorrows in a faithful breast, Come, cast yourselves into these Arms, and learn That in My Bosom ye may safely rest ! " 146 THOSE OUTSTRETCHED ARMS. Dear Arms, where thus, both saint and sinner find Repose from pain, release from sin and woe ; — (Within whose sanctuary close-enshrined The coldest heart with rapturous love must glow ;) Dear outstretched Arms! so full of mute appeal, Tho' oft I've spurned your fond embrace of yore. Ah I let me now unto your shelter steal. And nestle there, sweet Love ! forever more ! THE HERMITS VISION. ^^E saw the land before hiin, dark'ning, lie, Spread with unnumbered snares and pit- falls deep. — G^hig with fixed and slow-distending eye, (As one who wakes from nightmare in his sleep,) " O, who," he cried, " shall be of safety sure? Who, 'mid these many toils, shall pass secure? " Around, about, and midways, unaware, And yet aware, (their passions for their guide),- Like game entrapp'd, or birds in fowler's snare. The souls of men were caught. The hermit sighed : - O, Christ, my Saviour, who shall 'scape the lure? Who, 'mid these wiles, shall pass to Thee, secure?" 148 THE hermit's vision. Clear from the heavens (in whose azure arc, The stars, like jewels, glowed), the answer fell; O'er ambush'd land, and pitfalls deep and dark, The message rang, like some blest golden bell : " Lowly of heart, and of a spirit poor, Humility alone can pass secure ! " CHRIST S DOVES. (On seeing a Community of Nuns enter their Chapel for prayer.) I. ^m |VER the sea, in Venice fair, flfji At the old Cathedral of St Mark, ^^i When the silvery chimes on the noon- tide air, Float o'er the waters cool and dark — From aiiy turret, from spire and dome, (A murmuring throng at the portal grand), The doves of St. Mark in legions come To be fed, each day, by a loving hand. II. Why do I dream of the doves this hour? A fluttering sound, as of wings, I hear; The bell hath chimed in the convent tower, The nuns at the chapel door appear. 150 Christ's doves. Slender figures in raiment dark, (Flowing wimple and snowy band) : The doves of Christ, like the doves of St. Mark, Have come to feed from a loving Hand ! III. Murmuring low the whispered words Of a tender prayer, the virgins kneel ; Lo ! like the meek Venetian birds, They gather here for their mystic meal; And the Master keepeth the noonday tryst, And manna sweet from His golden ark Abundant giveth, — O doves of Christ ! Ye are better fed than the doves of St. Mark! THE QUEEN AND THE KINGS. I. rM INKLING bells and camels brave, P Spices, gold, and precious stones, ■=^3 Glittering train of dusky slaves, Silken-clad, with jewel'd zones ; From Arabia Felix rare, (Honey-breatlVd and bright of sun), Comes the Queen of Saba fair To the ancient Solomon. II. Camels brave and tinkling bells. Myrrh, and frankincense, and gold ; Lo ! the sparkling cortege swells With the dark-skinn'd slaves of old! Epha, Madian, Saba sweet. Send their Kings. O Queen, long gone ! Greet they at the Chrtst-child's feet, Greater King than Solomon ! THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. I. 'HEN in the west hangs low The autumn sun, Among the trees, till slow Fall, one by one, The withered leaves and brown,— It is a quiet fancy then to wander Into the little village churchyard yonder, And there to sit me down. II. It is a pleasant place Of peace and prayer ; And with a rev'rent pace And thoughtful grace. Grief covers up her face In silence there; THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. 153 Fierce wail and bitter moan, Above these couches, mossy in their chillness, Waver and die, — and in the placid stillness, God's patience walks alone. III. Here do the aged lie, Like garnered grain, Beneath the quiet sky. With darkly-shadowed eye And dreamless brain, Pale hands and pulseless breast. After the years of life, (a weary number,) God to their tired frames hath given slumber, And everlasting rest. IV. Not there I care to go. Nor pause to weep ; But where I know There falls the purest snow, 154 THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. And wild vines creep, O'er little ones asleep In peace below. 'Tis there the quiet woos To steal apart from all the world's rude bustle, And in this solitude, where dead leaves rustle, To linger long and muse. V. Muse on the blessed lot Which gathered here On flower-sprinkrd bier, (Earth's sorrow knowing not), Into this sacred spot, And silence drear. These little tender lambs — With tiny frames unused to life's fierce wrest- ling And folded hands with fairy blossoms nestling Within the snowy palms. THE GEAVES OF CHILDREN. 155 VI. Soft is their endless rest ; Above them now There come no visions blest Of floating hair caress'd, Or aching brow On Mother's bosom press'd. There lie neglected toys, By many a hearth — but tiny form and finger In twilight memories of loved ones linger, Like buried household joys ! VII. O angel hands ! which hold Death's bitter draught, — We grieve not when by old And weary lips a-cold. Your cup is quaffed ; But when its droplets shine On blushing lips of those in childhood taken, O God ! how hope and loving faith are shaken By that dread blow of Thine ! 156 THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. VIII. To fiud amid the dead A mossy nest, Wherein must rest The little pet whose head Was in. the twilight laid ; Upon thy breast; Whose dreamy eyes were raised And searching thine, while soft reply was given Unto the earnest question of that Heaven, Where 7iow it stands amazed! IX. 'Tis hard, — and yet we know We should not mourn When children pure as snow, (The loved of long ago). Are to the churchyard slow And sadly borne ; (Life's fairest buds but blow To deck the urn ;) THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. 157 And dying early thus, They have been spared the bitter, biting sorrow Which sad to-day, or sadder still to-morrow Shall ever bring to us. X. Here in their slumber they May rest as sweet As when from eager play, They, tired, turned away. And at their mother's feet Reposeful lay ; With pretty shining hair Thrown back to wave upon the fair young shoulder. And thought-touch 'd brow, which ne'er might know the older And deeper lines of care. XI. Peace to their rest beneath The rustling trees ! As falls the leaf. Or blossom from the wreath, 158 THE GRAVES OF CHILDREN. As sword flashed from its sheath, The lot of these Hath brilliant been, but brief; And though we weep, — Room, angels, room within yon happy Heaven, And rare rejoicing that our God hath given His little children sleep ! ^^AS THE HEN GATHERETH HER CHICKENt.VER the trellis, up to the eaves, Sffl The vine's strong tendrils creep : W Out of the glistening, heart-shaped leaves The morning-glories peep. Tiny chalices, purple, pink, And clear, translucent white,— Into their depths the dewdrops sink, Warm with the autumn light. And round the vine, (with the fair sunshine Aglow on its heart-shaped leaves), Some tender dreams of the Heart Divine, My reverent fancy weaves. The purple chalices seem a type Of the Sorrows of that Heart ; The radiant pink of the blossoms ripe, Of Its Glories seem a part. 166 MORNING-GLORIES. And the silvery grail yon spray lifts up, All stainless, seems to be A type of the Eucharistic cup And the Host's white purity I O heart-shaped leaves! ye may decay, Ye flovi^'rets, withered lie, — But the Heart ye image lives for aye, Its Glories never die I A SUNSET SYMBOL. EYOND you screen of spectral trees, ^^ The rosy Sunset Land arises; '^^' Its opal gates swing in the breeze, Its paths are rich with glad surprises. The ruddy glow above the blue, Is like a torch, rose -red and tender; — Each crystal pane it sparkles through. And fills my chamber with its splendor! O Sunset Land, so close at hand. Thine open portals twined with roses, — The Sacred Heart's dominions grand, In thee, I hail, as twilight closes ! What time, methinks, the Precious Blood Dyes crimson all thine airy vapors, Thy quiv'ring flames — a fiery flood — Blaze forth, as from a thousand tapers. 168 A SUNSET SYMBOL. And when thine inner cloudlets part, I see within their glowing centre, A thorn-encircled, cross-crown'd Heart, Inviting all Its depths to enter ! Fling wide Thy gates, O Heart Divine, So full of tenderness and pity ! Within this Sunset Land of Thine, Reveal to me Thy Golden City ! Receive me to those depths so dear. Ere Death's dim twilight round me closes, There to repose, devoid of fear, Love's victim, crowned with deathless roses I THE NEW JERUSALEM. W-.W-ISION of peace— Jerusalem ! iwin'i How gently to the heart's unrest, <^^^' Those words, like angel-accents, seem Thy glories to suggest ! A holy calm is on thy streets. The river floweth noiselessly ; And tranquil float through fair retreats A gracious company. For, tho' they sing and strike their lyres, A hush is on each happy sense ; The brightest flame of their desires Burns quiet, if intense. And all their song is full of peace, And all their peace is full of God — The soul's eternal sin-release, A rapture deep and broad. 170 THE NEW JERUSALEM. The wearing fret, the hurrying rush Of earth, stir not that life of love, For over all a sacred hush Broods, like a nestling dove. Nor doubt, nor fear, (nor shattered hopes. That scourged the soul to Death's abyss,) Are there ; they form but golden ropes Whereby it mounts to bliss ! O peaceful Home ! how deep, how strong Our yearning for thy niiinsions cool! How long, my fevered heart, how long. Must strife and discord rule ? How long, ere sorrow, care and pain, Jerusalem ! in thee shall cease ? Hasten the coming of thy reign. Vision of endless Peace I i m ABANDONED. Then His disciples leaving Him, all fled aimy. (St, Mark, xiv, 50.) ^HY seamless robe is redder than tlie rose, Thy beauteous Face is blaiich'd with ^] agony ; The brutal soldiery around Thee close, While, left and right, the poor disciples flee. 'Mid howling wolves (meek Lamb !) Thou stand'st alone, Thy bosom heaves ; Thy tears, unheed»ed, start ; Tho' cruel hands assault Thee, hard as stone, It is not they^ alas ! that wound Thy Heart ! The ring of coin still echoes in Thine ears, (Whereby betrayed Thee the Iscariot,) — And ontrag'd Love now shudders, as it hears The cherished Simon's loud "I knov/ Him not ! " 172 ABAKDONED. Ingratitude hath dealt its deadliest blow ; — O faithfid Heart I forsaken at the end, Far better are the insults of a foe, Than the false kisses of a treach'rous friend ! Lo ! to Thy feet we bring (with souls oppress'd). Our wreck of broken joys, of hopes over- thrown ; The secret, silent anguish of a breast Which claps its cross, abandon'd and alone. When friends prove false, and loving hearts grow cold, O constant Friend ! true Love ! we turn to Thee, And to Thy dear, deserted Heart make bold To breathe our plaint of lonely misery. And oh ! the while we tenderly unite Our tiny sorrows to Thy mighty woes, — How sweet to find (tho' all earth's joys take flight,) In Thee, alone, firm peace and fix'd repose ! A PRAYER AND ITS ANSWER. RUSTY shield prayed to the sun: i\t " O Sun ! illuminate my face ^^ With the glad glory of thy rays, That I may shine, resplendent one ! As once I shone in ancient days ! " Replied the sun : " First cleanse thyself from rust— and then My Face in thee shall shine again ! " A guilty soul prayed to its Lord : " O Christ ! illuminate my face. And let Thy lustrous flood of grace Upon my darkened eyes be pour'd ! Their radiant vision once restored, Thy glory shall the gloom displace ! " Replied the Lord : "First cleanse thyself from sin— and then My Face in thee shall shine again ! " THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. ;0N line of light across the sea, That 'twixt the em'rald shadows lies, Let down from rifts in cloud}^ skies. Outstretching to the crystal rim, Where meet and part the sails of snow, It sparkles through the distance dim, A pier where angels come and go. Ah! thus, my soul, across Life's sea, 'Mid dark'ning shades of grief and care, Outstretches to Eternity The pure, resplendent Bridge of Prayer. Time's airy ships advance, retreat — This firm bridge leadeth to the skies — For, following fast on angels' feet, We pass from Prayer to Paradise ! THE WAY OF THE CROSS. • OPENED the Blessed Book In the hush of a sylvan spot, - And I read : "Whoever followth Me, In darkness walketh not. Cried my soul : " When shadows flee, Lover, more than friend! In the glow of the light I will follow Thee, Rejoicing to the end ! " But a wind the woodland fann'd. And the leaves of the forest shook, Turning, as if with a viewless hand, The leaves of that precious Book. And lo ! on another page, 1 read again, with a sigh : " If any man will come after Me, Let him, himself, deny. 176 THE WAY OF THE CROSS. " Let him, himself, deny '' — it said, (And I trembled shudderingly) — "And take up his cross " — it sternly read, " And follow, follow Me ! " O truth of truths ! On the moss, I knelt in the greenwood lone, And pondered the secret of the Cross, In the living Word made known. Who wills to walk in the light That flows from a Source divine, Lord ! in the path to Calv'ry's heiglit, Must plant his steps in Thine! For none that path can tread. Can walk that royal road, Save those that suffer, toil, and sweat, And carry the cross of God ! The way is narrow and rough, Sharp stones the footpath strew, And after the bleeding, burden'd Christ, The suffering Christians go. THE WAY OF THE CROSS. 177 But a glow ;uk1 a glory bright On those pilgrims ever beam ; For the way of the Cross is the way of light, Of light and love supreme ! THE APOSTLE WHO PROVED. ^^^BSENT when came the Risen Christ to PI "'""' 4^^ The trembling Ten, Saint Thomas by his doubt. The Resurrection proved, and every fear By his bold testimony, put to rout. Absent, when Mary died, and was interr'd — Beside her tomb, it was to Thomas given, To view its lilied void. It was his word That proved our Queen's Assumption into heaven ! THE DRAMA SPIRITUALIZED. Read by request belore the Convention in tlie Women's Building of the Cotton States and International Exposition, Atlanta, Georgia, November 26, 1895. HEY tell in ancient mythologic story Of young Eurydice, once beauteous bride Of Orpheus, the prince of lyric glory, (The bard by pagans to the gods allied) — Fated Eurydice I from out the chaos Of Grecian lore, we see her rise and flee Across the meads, pursued by Aristaeus, Inflamed with Bacchanalian revelry ! Lo I as with wind-blown robes, in flight she passes — (Hearing afar her spouse's silv'ry flute) — A jeweled serpent darting from the grasses Stings unto death lier slender, roseate foot ! THE DRAMA. SPIRITUALIZED. 179 And down she sinks into the gloomy region Where Pluto holds his comt, and Proserpine Ringed by the Harpies and the Fates, (foul legion !) Reigneth a queen, infernally divine ! What time Eurydicc in mortal sorrow Doth languish in that place of torturing shame, Her spouse — her Orpheus, the fatal morrow. Comes seeking her within the realms of flame. He sees the Parcse with wild eyes a-kindle, He sees the serpent-crown'd Eumenides: The first display the Distaff, Shears and Spindle, The latter guard the Trident and the Keys. Pressing his way to Pluto's throne of fire, (Past the dog Cerberus and the streams that burn), The mighty minstrel strikes his golden lyre, And singing, pleads for his lost bride's return. 180 THE DRAMA SPIRITUALIZED. O matchless music ! Pluto's heart dissolving, Acknowledges the singer's magic sway ; The wheel of Ixion is no more revolving — The stone of Sisyphus is stilled to-day ! And wretched Tantalus, his thirst forgetting. Listens entranced to that rare melody ; The Furies hear, while tears their eyes are wetting: " Oh, give me back my lost Eurydice ! " " She shall be thine !" Pluto at last replieth ; " Thy song hath conquered e'en our cruel spell. Take her — but look not hack! The mortal dieth Who turns one backward glance on us and hell ! " Oh, joy ! the lost one to her lover rushes ! They clasp — they weep — they sob aloud their bliss ! Already doth the sun illume her blushes, The winds of heav'n her shining tresses kiss ! THE DRAMA SPIRITUALIZED. 181 When "Hasten, love!" — her happy spouse ex- claiming, Turns with a backward glance to speed her flight- Alas ! alas ! the pit of Pluto flaming Hath swallowed her forever from his sight ! My gentle friends, methinks you are well able To solve this riddle of antiquity, To read the moral of this Grecian fable Of hapless, lovely, lost Euiydice. Behold ! the drama in its chaste transcendence, The glory of its pristine loveliness. Pursued, in all its classical resplendence, By lustful suitors to hell's dread abyss ! From out the green of treacherous morasses, See, where the serpent of a Sensual art Springs on the trembling Genius as she passes. And wounds her to the death with poison'd dart ! 182 THE DRAMA SPIRITUALIZED. Alas ! she sinks, — down — down she sinks despair- ing Into the dark domain of sin and hell, The stigma of the Damned forever sharing, Eternal slave of Death's black citadel ! Corruption hath assailed her incorruption, The Sensual her spirit hath defiled, For Art lascivious hath wrought destruction Upon the Drama's pure and lovely child. Oh ! who shall free the captive from her fetters ? Who lead her, radiant, from hell's gloomy door ? Who shall release her from that den of debtors, And lift her to a higher life once more ? When shall there come some selfless, brave re- former Far better, wiser than Apollo's son, (Whose music dies in meanest, tuneless murmur Before the measures of this mighty one I) THE DRAMA SPIRITUALIZED. 183 To cleanse the age in its polluted fountains, To tame the savage beasts of Passions wild, Uproot Impurity's gigantic mountains, And flood the stage with beauty undefiled ? All this must be the work of some grand creature In true, regen'rate Art's Millennium, When Grace shall rule triumphant over Nature, And heav'nly cohorts smite the demons dumb ! Arise, O Christian Orpheus ! bring hither Thy golden lyre filled with heaven's song ! Make music with the viol and the zither That shall beguile the cruel and the strong! Sing, till the very courts of Satan tremble. Till Fate and Fury, melting, yield to thee ! Cry where the princes of the Dead assemble : " Oh, give us back our Drama's purity ! " And when she comes, the Genius fair and gifted, In all her blushing beauty's smiles and tears, When to thy bosom she is, rapturous, lifted. And borne aloft to higher, purer spheres— 184 THE DEAMA SPIRITUALIZED. O Christian Orpheus ! look not back, Ipra^/ thee, Let not thy glances seek a sensual past ; No lure should tempt — no obstacle delay thee From speeding to thine eyiie, free and fast ! Onward and upward ! Death and hell behind thee May clamor for their prey. Albeit baptized With fire, thou shalt fear naught — no chain shall bind thee, No hounding demon ever track or find thee ; — Heav'n's victor thou shalt be, since 'tis assigned thee, To hail the Drama pure and spiritualized ! SYMPATHY. t GOLDEN oil upon Life's creaking wheels, Bidding the noisy cycles soundless turn ; __j^_^ Love's unguent on each smarting seam and burn, Blessing the wounds its gracious balsam heals; A perfect strain of harmony which steals Into the jarring discords of our earth, 'Till ev'ry soul its soothing sweetness feels. And melancholy brightens into mirth. Sans sympathy— a man can never prove A true apostle of the One whose tread Broke not the bruised reed, nor (in His love) The smoking flax crush'd or extinguished. He who would image Christ must ever be Filled with a Christlike genial sympathy. THE ACADIANS IN PHILADELPHIA, " Those of the Acadiaus (or French Neutrals) who came to Philadelphia were provided with quarters in a long range of one-story wooden houses built on the north side of Pine street, and extending from Fifth to Sixth street." — (Watson's Annals, Vol. I.) SIT alone at my window ; The twilight lowers its veil, #! And soft thro' the violet shadow, The stars peep far and pale. Just over the way, the houses Melt from sight, like the snow, And in their stead arises A vision of long ago ; A dream of the days departed, When (near the pine trees' belt), The simple-soul'd, meek -hearted Acadian exiles dwelt. THE ACADIANS IN PHILADELPHIA. 187 Dissolved are bricks and mortar — The children of Grand-Pro Fill all tliat ancient (quarter With Inits, long past away ! The low huts of the brethren Of sweet Evangeline, Flow'r of the poor French Neutrals, In meadows still and green ! Near by, the Quaker Almshouse Stretched long and low and red, Where Gabriel, the lost one, Lay dying on his bed. When thro' its doors, heart-broken, His sweetheart passed one day, Leaving her love-dream's golden rose A heap of ashes gray. Up yonder square, dear reader. If wand'ring thoughtfully, You'll find the little graveyard Of Holy Trinity ; 188 THE ACADIANS IN PHILADELPHIA. And there, amid their brethren, 'Tis said, they slumber sweet,* Evangeline, the faithful, With Gabriel at her feet. The moss creeps o'er the marble. The rank grass wilts or waves; The wild birds come to warble Where ivy clothes the graves ; And o'er them floats the singing Of the old German choir, The church-bells' mellow ringing From realms purer, higher. The busy streets around them Are full of change and stir; No sound of strife can reach his life, And all is peace for her ! * " In their uameless graves, the lovers are sleeping; Under the humble vpalls of the little Catholic churchyard, lu the heart of the city they lie." — Longfellow's Evangeline. There has been much contention as to the exact spot vyhere the Acadians lie buried. THE ACADIANS IN PHILADELPHIA. 189 The Past (outside my window) The Present blurs and blots; I see naught in the shadow Of white Acadian cots, Save two fair phantom models Of pure devotedness — Evangeline Bellefontaine And Gabriel Lajeunesse! \^mm^,i ASCENSION DAY. WEARY time was that, to mortals given, When (all abyssed in misery profound), Tln-oughout the vast bright courts of beauteous heaven No human soul was found. No creature of our race in flesh or spirit Abode within God's holy Paradise, No child of earth w^as suffered to inherit That kingdom of the skies. Angels, archangels, thrones and dominations, Powers and virtues, shining cherubim, Glad principalities, in jubilation, Made music with the glowing seraphim ; But in that chorus of exultant sweetness, While golden harp-strings with delight were stirr'd. The ear of God perceived an incompleteness, — No human voice ivas heard ! ASCENSION DAY. 191 At last, there came a Day when all those mansions Thrilled thro' their rapturous void of Self's alloy, The jasper walls upon their jewel'd stanchions Trembled with strangest joy ! For from the outer space, there came a thunder Of many voices chanting, as in choir, A psalm so sweet, the angels gazed in wonder, And hush'd was every lyre. Wide on their hinges, rolled the pearly portals. Forth swept the spirits by sweet urgence driven, Thrice welcome was that band of blessed mortals Who came to share their heaven ! Foremost and fairest, shone their Captain glori- ous, The Risen Christ. He led that shining throng. That white-robed throng, who bore tlieir palms victorious And sang their triumph-song ! 192 ASCENSION DAY. Out from the Limbo of the buried ages, They came, those ransomed souls of long ago, Prophets and patriarchs, saints, heroes, sages, And virgins chaste as snow. They came to claim their heritage supernal. Purchased by Jesus' Blood * * * With rare delight. To see, where all was peerlessly eternal, Their flesh uplifted to the Godhead's height ! " Roll back your gates ! " they sang : " the night is over, The long night of our waiting I (Cleansed from sin,) With Christ, our King of glory, man's best Lover, We come to reign — oh ! let us enter in ! " Ye mighty doors give way, (as clouds auroral Melt rosy-hued before the rising sun ! ) Hail ! Land of Rest! Welcome, celestial choral ! The goal of Paradise at last is won ! ''•> TEE CHAMBER OF CHRIST. I. f=N the homes of the early Christians, (Those shrines of peace and prayer,) ^L Of all the goodly chambers. The one beyond compare,— The fairest and the brightest, Where Faith and Love held tryst,— Was the tranqnil little chamber They called the Room of Christ. II. For there, the brave believers. Across the threshold pure, Led in the weary wand'rers. The sick, the sad, the poor; And there, the homely banquet For hungry ones was spread ; And pilgrim limbs were rested Upon the peaceful bed. 194 THE CHAMBER OF CHRIST. III. O Faith and Love I that worshipp'd With fond adoring eyes, Behind each veil of suff'ring, Your Lord in lowly guise : — 'Twas Jesus whom ye welcomed, And wooed to food and rest, In ev'ry wand'ring pilgrim. In ev'ry sorrowing guest ! IV. And thus that hallowed chamber, (To strangers sacrificed,) Was known, throughout the mansion, As the little Room of Christ ; And who shall say what blessings A bounteous heaven pour'd Upon each happy household That there received its Lord ? V. Dear Christians, gentle readers, When ye your homes adr^rn. THE CHAMBER OF CHRIST. 195 Do ye reserve a chamber For pilgrim-guests forlorn ? A spot where woes may slumber, And withered hopes may bloom ? — Ah ! then, within your households, Christ hath His favorite Eoom ! ^r> SWEET PEACE.— A PICTURE. T-PON the wall The autumn light, like golden wine, is pour'd ; Upon the wall There hangeth high a soldier's belt and sword. Thro' lattice low, The winds of Indian summer steal and melt ; And to and fro, They gently blow the soldier's sword and belt. Oh, slumb'ring sword ! Swing lightly on the wall ; shine bright and blue ! Oh, idle sword ! There's no more bloody work for thee to do. No more for thee, Oh, belt content to dangle in the sun ! War, anarch3% And girded strife for thee are surely done. SWEET PEACE. — A PICTURE. lU? F'oi- thee no more — Ah ! best of all— no more, no more for thee, Oh, soldier ! Sick of war. Here rest, and take thy baby on thy knee ! Here calmly sit. And watch the orchards ripen in the sun ; Thy pipe is lit. And gaily prate thy wife and little one. Oh ! golden Peace I Oh, happy calm, which follows after storm ! When clamors cease. How sweet to rest in haven still and warm ! Good sword ! the rust May creep and creep along thy polish'd blade ; And moth-flies must Make havoc, belt, among thy tinsel'd braid, But (happy wight I) Your master tastes the bliss of your release. Oh, God of might ! Who blessed our fight, bless now our welcome peace ! THE CHANGES OF THE YEARS. WHERE is naught so sad, (save Sin), ^, .P In this sad old world of ours, — ' ^^ (Where the light is shadow's kin, And the thorns outlive the flowers); — There is naught so rends the heart. Or so melts the soul in tears, As the pain which forms a part Of the changes of the years. Earth and all the things thereof Find their fate in Death's decree ; Hearts once linked in fondest love Drift apart, like ships at sea. Through the roses on the wall, Lo ! the imp of Ruin leers ; — And the fairest fabrics fall "With the changes of tlie years. THE CHANGES OF THE YEARS. Now, 'tis absence,— now, deceit,— Now, some foolish words, half-play,— Yet a friendship strong and sweet Hath forever passed away. There are sadder things than death In the vision of the seers, — Love's a dream, and Joy's a breath In the changes of the years. In the fane, and at the feast. There is many a stranger-guest: At the shrine, a stranger-priest Offers up the Victim blest ; While the vacant seats are filled, — We must mount to purer spheres, If we seek the balm distilled From the changes of the years. One by one, the dear ones go,— One by one, old friends depart, — Strangely still old homesteads grow ; Death is busy with his dart. 199 200 THE CHANGES OF THE YEARS. Like a ghost beside the hearth, Mocking Memory appears, — Ah ! there's naught so sad on earth As the changes of the years ! Here, we miss a friendly face, — There, a form we prized hath fled : Beams no more a tender grace From beloved eyes long-dead. Marriage-bells ring funeral-chimes, Bridal beds have turned to biers, — Thro' all places, — thro' all times, Roll the changes of the years. Ah! the heart grows faint with dread, Ah ! the eyes grow dim with woe ; O'er unnumber'd tombs we tread, Stumbling blindly on below; Tracking ever thro' the dark Some lov'd shape which disappears,- Leaving naught, save grief to mark The sad changes of the years. THE CHANGES OF THE YEARS. 201 O Thou fair and faithful One ! Ever old, yet ever new, — O Thou Father, Spirit, Son ! Who, alone, art firm and true : Thou hast nothing sad or strange That can freeze our hopes to fears, — Thou dost alter not nor change With the changes of the years. Then, to Thee, my God ! I'll cling, — On Thy Rock my soul is stayed ; 'Neath the shadow of Thy wing, I shall nestle undismayed : Hold me fast thro' Death's dark night, Till Tliy day-star bright appears, — Lo I Eternity shall right All the changes of the years I :d GONE! A Carol for New Year's Eve. 1. OLL, bells, within your airy heights ; wail, winds, o'er moor and mere, ^M) On this, the saddest of all nights, the last night of the year ; The last, long night when lamps are lit, like tapers 'round a bier, When quiet folk at still hearths sit, and God seems very near. II. Tho' vainly o'er his nameless woes, full many a mortal weeps, Tho' folded in the silent snows, full many a dar- ling sleeps ; Tho' pleasant eyes that saw it come, can never see it go. Still, kindly hath this Old Year done its mission here below. GONE ! 203 III. For ev'ry cloud within its breast, a golden sun- beam bore, And ev'ry joy was doubly bless'd by sorrows gone before ; And ev'ry sinless soul that laid mortality aside, — Departing, left us in its stead an angel holy-eyed ! IV. And on this last night of the year, this quiet, dreamy night. The angel-messengers are here, a goodly, gracious sight ! With white robes shining thro' the gloom, with fair, immortal faces, They flit around the home-like room, and fill fa- miliar places. V. Their hands are felt, where other hands were felt in days before. Their heads are laid where other heads shall never nestle more ! 204 GONE ! Their rustling footsteps seem to mock the patt'ring feet, now clay, And mingling with the ticking clock, their voices breathe alwaj VI. Of myriad blessings to be born within the com- ing year ; Of love and peace for those that mourn, and hope for those that fear ; Of darksome records cleansed for aye, from sorrow and from sin. Of good seed sown, and (in their day), rich har- vests gathered in. VII. Of ships that shall go down to sea, and leave a shining track, And after cruising merrily, shall bring their treasures back ; And of those ships of rarer sort, Man's noblest argosy, Which back shall bring to safest port, the wealth of Faith's fair Sea ! GONE I 205 VIII. — The old clock strikes upon the stair ; Time's tide is at the turn ; And here, and there, and everywhere, tlie New Year tapers burn. The mimes and masquers fill the street ; the bells clang o'er the river ; The horns are blown, — the drums are beat, — the Old Year's gone forever ! Note, "The conversion of St. Margaret of Cortona," "The Master's Cloak," "The Star of the Kings," and "The Sparrow's Lesson" were first printed in the Are 3faria ; "A Sunset Symbol " in the Blessengcr of the Sacred Heart ; in " The Birth of the Holly ^^ in the Little Pilgrim; ^^ Sympathy'' in DonaJtoe^s Slagazinc ; and " y/te AcacUans" iu the American Catholic Historical Records. LIBRARY OF CONGRE«?c! ■iiiiiiiii I _0 016 211 838 9 #