...as^.i^ Class Book Gopyright}!'. COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. j^WKi^sa J Rev. D. O. Ckowley, LL.D. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS SONGS AND ESSAYS REV. d/oSKc V CROWLEY. LL.D. San Francisco, California SONGS AND SONNETS BY REV. T. L. CROWLEY, O. P. Aquinas College, Columbus, Ohio PREFACE BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, LL.D. Minister of the United States to Denmark BOSTON THOMAS J. FLYNN & CO. PUBLISHERS r^ir>^ :^^ xV> Copyright, 1912, By Rev. T. L. Crowlhy, O. P. f I ( £CI.A3274G8 FOREWORD REV. r. L. CROWLEY, O.P. TN submitting this collection of poems to the public, I am not miconscious of my literary limitations. The natural misgivings which come to every tyro in this field of effort are keenly experienced by me. I have yielded, however, to the wishes of my friends, and, encouraged by them, venture to offer my first effusions in a collective form. My lyrics and sonnets have appeared at different intervals in Catholic periodicals. They were written during the busy clays of my student life, when there was little leisure to bestow mature thought and labor upon them. Another motive for this publication is to give per- manency to the poems which my uncle, the Rev. D. O. Crowley, had written in his earlier years. From childhood I learned to love the music of his verses, and the publication of them now affords me an opportunity of manifesting both my admiration and affection. The permission of my very reverend superior has been granted for the issuance of this volume. Au- thorization from P'ather Crowley will be found in a fac-simile letter on another page. Any comment fiom my pen on the character of the man or the merit iii FOREWORD of his writings I am confident would fail in its pur- pose. A scholarly appreciation of his work and worth has been forwarded to me by a distinguished author from the Pacific coast, which I here append : " There is no man so splendidly loyal as he to whom love of country is a birthright and devotion to liberty, a passion and principle handed down from father to son through gen- erations of those who struggled and suffered for that freedom which they know to be the inalienable right of themselves and their children unto all generations. The Patriotism that is tear-wet and blood-moistened alters not, whatever circum- stances the years may bring. He who possesses it may be an exile from the country of his birth, but his unforgetting heart forever will turn back to his native land in love and longing, and no year can come to him so late that his eyes will not grow dim at thought of fair places that his childhood knew. " And he will be a better citizen of his adopted land be- cause of this love of country that was his divine heritage. Patriotism, it is true, will tolerate no divided allegiance, but again and again we see demonstrated that it may bear a double allegiance right proudly. High and fair in American history are written the names of those who have loved this country most because they first loved a land that is far away beyond wide waters. " So it is that in his few poems in this little book the memory of Rev, D. O. Crowley — Father Crowley, as those of us who know and love him are most pleased to think of him — turns back in affectionate longing to ' The Green Isle of the Celt,' where ' The zephyrs, softly breathing, Waft a fragrance o'er the plains, And the fadeless ivy's wreathing Round the ancient, mouldering fanes.' "Splendid American that he is; beloved by young and old, by Catholic and Protestant, Jew and gentile. Christian and pagan ; beloved of these because of good deeds tliat FOREWORD have known no creed distinction, to me there seems some- thing beautiful in Father Crowley's tender yearning unto the dear home of his childhood. His is no divided allegiance of patriotism, but a double allegiance equally glorious, whether told in dreams of an olden time that come in quiet hours, or written in valiant striving for the welfare of the home of later years. It is love of Ireland emphasized in righteous deeds for America. "The music of the verse appeals. As much might be said of much current poetry that has little or naught save its music to recommend it, but here there is more that needs the saying. In the lines, and between the lines for him who reads understandingly, is written deep devotion for the Green Isle of the author's birth, indignant sorrow for the many grevious wrongs its children have endured, and intense long- ing for the good day yet to come when the long night of Erin's brutal subjection shall terminate in the bright dawn of her freedom. " Herein are poems that should appeal to the sons and daughters of Ireland, whether here or there, and they should appeal, too, to all who deem that love of country, wherever and however expressed, is a sentiment to be held dear by all who believe that He has placed the nations here to work out His purpose unto the ' far off, divine event to which the whole Creation moves.' " I wish this book, of which these verses contribute a part, much prosperity in its voyage over the somewhat stormy waters of literature, and I fancy it will have it, for — it deserves it." A. J. Waterhouse. Berkeley, California, April, igi2. ^^^ — . PREFACE r^OVENTRY PATMORE says that "poetry is ^-^ essentially catholic and affirmative, dealing only with the permanent facts of nature and human- ity and interested in the events and controversies of its own time only so far as they evolve manifestly abiding fruits." Now, as one of the most essentially catholic and affirmative qualities of life, is religion, it follows that religion is one of the most fitting subjects for poeti- cal treatment. If a lyric is an expression of an emotion, religion cannot be cast out from the essen- tial motives of the poet who sings. It is almost an axiom among the modern poets that poetry should never be didactic — that it should never teach directly — and that since the religious poet as a rule, teaches directly, he has really no reason to be. One may admit — that the man who pretends to teach had bet- ter confine himself to prose. Plato, for instance, would have been very dull as a teaching poet. Even Dante becomes wearisome when he tries to force dogma into musical verse. Milton is insufferably uninteresting when he attempts to do this, too, and Pope, with all his smoothness, becomes a mere maker of proverbs, when he assumes the character of a pedagogue. Admitting this, then, poets like Father Crowley, the author of this little volume I have the honor to present to the public, are all the more legitimately exercising their vocations when they express the vii VI 11 PREFACE emotions of religion, the passing shades of sentiment which result from those deep convictions which spring from the sources of spiritual life. If one assumes that poetry is a criticism of life, life cannot be the object of criticism in the fullest sense, unless the religious side of life is taken into consideration. To the religious man all things are sacramental. The aspect of nature is real it is true, but its varying shades are only at best symbols of more essential things. You may call the color of the rose an accident of beauty ; but it must be re- membered that the real substance of the rose, per- sistent and perennial, is still more beautiful. It is unnecessary for me to point out examples of such beauty in this book — they are easily found on every page. Nature and religion poetically have become one. Beauty is faith and faith beauty. In prefacing the book of a Dominican by these words, I am safe in saying that if a rigid theologian might cavil at these phrases, the most orthodox philosopher will not. Should the reader, following a vulgar tradition which is becoming outworn, be tempted to pass by this volume because it consists of religious, aspira- tional and reflective verse, let me stay his steps with the assertion that there is not here one line that be- trays an affectation or a pose. Vn INDEX By rev. D. O. CROWLEY, LL.D. The Mountain-Girt Valley of Beare The Sweet and Golden West Decoration Day . Erin .... The Coliseum Clountreem . Ma Colleen Dhas Crutha Na Mo An Old Man's Soliloquy St. Patrick's Day The Songs of Our Land ROBARD .... MoRiY Oge Law and Liberty . Farewell. My Native Home Returning to Erin Hurrah for the Sword and the Rifle The Exile's Return An Exile's Prayer Christmas Memories The Green Isle of the Celt Mountain Streams Joseph Cleburne's Grave The Tocsin of War Essays .... The Poet Priest. Personal Recollections of John B. Tabb . James Ryder Randall. Poet Laureate of the federacy, Patriot and Journalist ix Rev. Con- Page I 4 6 23 24 27 3^ 32 34 37 40 43 45 47 49 51 52 55 57 INDEX By rev. T, L. CROWLEY, O.P. Page Beyond 95 The Flowers of Present Love .... 96 Awakened Joy 98 Magdalen 99 Friend of Our Exile 100 The Azure of Remembrance . . . . ioi Rabboni 102 Nature's Lessons 103 My Offering 104 The Triple Legacy 105 The Crater of Calumny 107 The Tender Love of Christ .... 108 The Holy Name no My Mother's Eyes in An Autumnal Musing 112 Life's Canopy 114 Prepare Your Hearts 115 A Nobler Conquest 117 The Deathless Gift 118 A Brighter Flame 120 Easter Dawn 121 A Sweeter Harp 123 The One Sweet Day 124 The Wisdom of the Cross 126 The Seasons 127 The Christian Sacrifice 129 Mother of Sorrows 13° An Awakening 132 The Sanctuary Lamp 133 The Silver Sheaf 135 The Spiritual Dynasty of Pain . . .136 To THE Garden of Heaven . . . .138 INDEX XI Lazarus Come to Thy Throne . In The Garden of the Heart . Millers at Life's Stone The Spices of a New Life . The Month of May Life's Calvaries .... Companion of Our Way Confidence The Vision of the West Life's Truest Friend . The Symphony of the Saints The Better Quest My Idol The Guerdoned Brides of Christ The Hem of His Gar:\ient . The Kingly Guest The Fleeting Breath of Fame . Rest Page 141 142 143 T46 148 149 151 152 154 156 158 160 161 163 165 167 169 SONGS AND ESSAYS BY REV. D. O. CROWLEY. LL.D. San Francisco, California THE MOUNTAIN-GIRT VALLEY OF BEARE \1 7HEN fanned by the halcyon breezes That down from the Indian Isles, Career o'er Caribbean waters, Where summer eternally smiles, I've dreamt of thee, sweet, sunny Erin, And oft-times away o'er the foam, In spirit I lovingly wandered The haunts of my boyhood — my home ; For, oh ! there is naught in the tropics In beauty, with thee can compare, Loved land of the bard and the Brehon,— Sweet mountain-girt Valley of Beare. Away where the calm Sacramento Rolls down over nuggets of gold, And thousands of freemen are herding Their flocks by the mountain and wold, SOiVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS I've sauntered when twilight was brooding, And sipped the delicious perfume, Of oranges, limes, and bananas, And trellised vines bright in their bloom ; But oh, than the fair Occidental, There is one land I cherish more dear, — 'Tis the sweet, happy home of my boyhood. The mountain-girt Valley of Beare. I've roamed thro' the Yosemite Valley, And gazed with excessive delight On torrents that there, 'neath the sunshine, Leap down inaccessible height ; I've climbed the Sierras' proud summits. And basked in the sunshine and glow Of a beautiful calm Indian summer, By the waters of lonely Tahoe ; SOA'GS, SONiVETS AND ESSAYS 3 But oh ! to my eye thou art fairest Of all the fair climes of the sphere, To my heart thou art nearest and dearest — Sweet mountain-girt Valley of Beare. When the day-god's last lustre is gilding The slopes of the grand Golden State, And the modern Argonaut's fleet ships Come home through the famed Golden Gate, I stray o'er the new El Dorado, The land of the free and the blest, And sigh for that Emerald Island That gems the Atlantic's white crest ; For fate, so relentless and cruel. Doth cause me to linger still here, And pine for my home by the ocean — The mountain-girt Valley of Beare. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS THE SWEET AND GOLDEN WEST 'T^HEY talk of the beauteous Dardanelles, And the sunny land of Spain ; Of scenes where primeval Nature dwells Away by the Indian main ; But the plastic germ of empire great Wakes hope in every breast, Where a future grand looms o'er the land Of the sweet and golden West. I have roamed by sunny southern seas, Thro' breathing groves of palm, Where flight of birds alone disturbs The blue ethereal calm ; But the vernal vest of the glowing West Is fairer far to me Than the sun-robed South with its coral isles And cloudless canopy. SOA'GS, SOA^NETS AND ESSAYS 5 The sun there smiles on a hundred isles Of the greenest and loveliest hue, Ere his rays are spent in the Occident Where he bids the world adieu ; And Sierras tall from a hundred peaks Their darkling shadows throw O'er a virgin land where glades expand And beautiful rivers flow. Those sombre dells where the wild deer dwells, And the rude red Indian roams, Are yielding now to the white man's steel, And the white men build their homes Over Indian graves where the Madrone waves And sunbeams love to rest When evening shades steal thro' the glades Of the sweet and golden West. SOA^GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS DECORATION DAY \\J E pray for the fond ones whose hfe-blood On liberty's altar was shed ; And deck with green garlands and flowers The graves of the patriot dead ; Who stood by the Union's proud banner, With sabre and rifle in rest, When her cause looked as gloomy and cheerless As storm-clouds blocked in the West ; Who marched thro' the red field of battle, And breasted the brunt of the fight. When the guns of Rebellion outrattled Death-hail against Justice and right. Weave, weave your gay garlands, young maidens. And make no distinction today, 'Twixt those who went down in the blue ranks And those who fell under the gray. SOJVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS The Patriot, Poet and Statesman, Long, long shall their virtues proclaim In the fond-feeling heart of the Nation, Upbuilt is their temple of fame. And there it shall stand forth unshaken, Defying wreck, ruin and change, Adown thro' the vistas of ages While Time on his orbit doth range. SOJVGS, SONNE 7^S AND ESSAYS ERIN T O ! the nations are advancing! Wilt thou not with them keep pace ? Art thou dead, or art thou sleeping In the tyrant's vile embrace ? Awake ! arise ! inglorious slumber Ne'er should pall thy queenly brow — Hark ! Republics, sunward soaring, Fondly call thee onward now. There are paths abundant ever Through which dauntless souls may tread On the sunbright fame and freedom. Though they be with carnage spread. Through such pathways young Columbia Sought relief from tyrant's sway — Only steel such freedom giveth As doth wreath her brow today. Had she trusted — vainly trusted — Moral force to right her wrong, Still her fate were thine, dear Erin, Bound in abject slavery's tongs, Nature loves her for her action, And hath strewn with bounteous hnnd Golden harvests from Alaska Southward to Haytian strand. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS O'Connell, Grattan, Clay and Everett, Place them in a province each — Bid them bring back Ireland's freedom With their magic powers of speech. All their eloquence and logic Backed by oratorio art Would not rend the tiniest rivet Of her festering gyves apart. Heed not, then, those slavish doctrines That denounce and deem not good Freedom won through strife of battle, Fields of carnage, streams of blood ; Thus did Tell, on Switzer Mountains, Hurl his land's enslavers back, Ghastly death profusely 'round him, Glorious Freedom on his track. Strike ! nor wait until tomorrow ; Strength is wasting, life is frail ; What you picture for the future Bring within the present's pale. He who climbs to lofty station Dreams not strength and youth away ; Heaven is sure to crown his purpose Who doth work as well as pray. THE COLISEUM Part I T T EARKEN, ye bards, I sing a noble theme, The pride of Rome, the wondrous CoHseum : Whose aged ruins in tow'ring boldness stand, Their shadows casting o'er a storied land ; Whose ancient splendor e'en surpassed the height Of fact's far range, or fancy's chainless flight. Ere yet the Christian sun of modern Rome Had shed effulgence on St. Peter's dome, The Coliseum, six hundred feet in length. In width five hundred, peerless in its strength Of pillar 'd arches, tow'rs and turrets high, Reared its dimensions to the sapphire sky. Caesar spoke, Augustus laid its plan ; Titus finished what Augustine began ; Tier after tier uprose in doric style. Out-soaring the pyramids of the mystic Nile ; And its vast awning when at morn outrolled, Flashed in the sun, an undulating sea of gold. 12 SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Its cushioned theatre of elliptic mould, Glittered with lamps inlaid with Syrian gold ; With precious rubies, culled from eastern mines, And sacred pendants torn from Juda's shrines. The broad arena in the centre stood, Crimson and reeking with barbarian blood, Drawn by the lion's fang, the lictor's dart, And acting like incense on the Roman heart. Ten times ten thousand gazers, breathing low. Watched with impatience the descending blow That forced some spirit from its mortal zone. And sent it trembling to its Maker's throne ; Then call'd and clamor'd till Orphean strains Stilled the fierce current in their fiery veins. Void of humanity, it seemed their aim To drug with human woes their draught of fame, They, with a force which uncurbed passion lends, Oppressed the world, to further private ends ; And so, at length, impelled by savage greed, Outstepped the limit Nature's laws decreed. And wrung from sacred heaven that direful fate. Which humbled Rome in ail her strength elate. Alaric came to vent with sword and fire, On Pagan heads the Lord's avenging ire ; God's Chast'ning rod was he, surcharged with doom. That smote those savage games in all the pride of bloom. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 13 Part II \ 17 HEN Luna shed her melancholy light O'er this vast ruin, and peoples all the night. With spectral forms, the wandering poet's brain Fills the wide space with yelling crowds again ; Creative fancy olden acts renew, And former scenes come thronging to his view. His bosom heaves, he sheds a pitying tear For poor barbarians, brought from Finland here ; Torn from their native springs, their forest home, To glut the cravings of licentious Rome. Young Christians kneeling on the crimsoned sands, Raise to high heaven their wistful eyes. In bands, Scorning alike the emperor's smile and frown. Reject they the ermine for the martyr's Crown. Where once the sands were dyed with human blood, Now hostile navies sweep along the flood. He sees them grapple, whirl their flashing spears. Tumultuous shouts are sounding in his ears ; Anon the galleys, red with human gore, Sink 'neath their crews, alas ! to rise no more. And drowning wretches, crying for aid aloud, Receive but jeers from the encircling crowd. 14 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS The floods recede, and vernal woods appear ; Wherein are crouched the " forest king " and bear ; Where flitting birds of gaudy plumage sing, And sparkling fountains from their sources spring, Where the rich lawns mirror the countless dyes That fleck the azure of Italia's skies. Part III T^HUS, the young poet, through fancy's golden maze, Roams, laughs and weeps mid scenes of other days ; Now sips the cup of visionary joy. Brimful of hope and bliss without alloy. But as the joy that most substantial seems Breaks from our grasp, like sparks from meteor beams, Alas, doth bliss evanish ! The shrill screams Of the night owl arouse him from his dreams. And starting up he sees the silent moon Gaze softly down the vast expanse of ruin ; Then slowly spake he — thus his stanzas ran : " How frail, how faulty is the work of man ! How fleeting joy, how fickle power and health ! How false is pride and how deceiving wealth ! You Celean hifls as full and firmly stand As when just moulded by the Maker's hand, SONGS, SOAWETS AND ESSAYS 15 The rushing Tiber flows with force unspent, As when Rome's founder gazed from out his tent On its bright bosom, spreading far and wide, Or led his flocks along its cooling tide ; While this huge wreck, the climax of man's power, 'Neath Time's corroding breath, is wasting hour by hour. Where stilted Trajan reared his haughty head, The busy spider spins his glossy thread ; And hooting owls in nightly broils engage. Where proud Com modus reddened into rage : The swiftly swallows, the silent sable bat, Usurp the arches 'neath which Titus sat. Ye Kings of Commerce, ye who gaze with pride, On fertile acres, stretching far and wide ; Who would oppress the wealth-producing poor. Ponder the fate of those who ruled of yore. From Obe's tide to Britain's western shore. Observant man who studies Nature's laws And deeply thinks this one deduction draws : All works of Art, no matter how sublime, Shrink from the touch of all-subduing time ; W'hile those of Nature — ocean, dale and steep. Sky, sun and stars — the Godhead's impress keep. i6 SOA^GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Then how account for Rome's unequalled age, Her sisters' fall illumines History's page ? Greece, Carthage, Antioch, Syria, — all Who lived ere she was conqueror of Gaul, Have slunk beneath the fertile fibrous plains, But she of all the ancient throng remains ? A simple Cross, the symbol sign of Truth, Though old in years, in strength a wondrous youth. Is poised whereon ' Colossal of the sun.' The culminating height of Rome's dominion shone ; And, after centuries of Mortal strife. Reveals the mystery of Rome's immortal life." SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS IJ CLOUNTREEM T KNOW a dell where torrents well All crystal, cool and clear ; Where swallows wing and throstles sing Throughout the circling year ; And sweet perfume of flowers in bloom Makes fragrant all things there. A streamlet strays from creeks and bays Down o'er its emerald leas, And, as it flows, weird tales of woes 'Tis babbling to the breeze That flits and sings, and wildly rings, Like minstrels in the trees. Ah ! when a youth, I loved in sooth. Among those scenes to stray. And truant oft, I climbed aloft The tapering hills all day, Which o'er those dells like sentinels, Look down on Bantry Bay. 1 8 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS MA COLLEEN DHAS CRUTHA NA MO T^HE sun in his lustre is bathing The heather on summit and steep, And gilding the ivy unfading, That twines round each mouldering keep, As proudly our fleet ship is sailing, Away o'er the ocean's bright glow That bears me from thee and dear Erin, Ma Colleen dhas crutha na mo. Before me in splendor are towering, The sea-beaten cUffs of the south, Which, oft times of old had re-echoed O 'Sullivan's fierce battle shout ; But soon from my sight they'll be waning. As westward in sorrow I go. Afar from the hills of my sireland, Ma Colleen dhas crutha na mo. SOJVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 19 Oh ! fair is the scene, by the twilight, That stretches from Cove to Fercail, But bitter the thoughts of the exile When leaving his loved Innisfail ; And bitter and briny the quick tears, That down o'er my lone bosom flow, For Ireland in distance is fading, Ma Colleen dhas crutha na mo. What torrents of bliss filled by bosom, And love -light flashed forth from your eye. That eve when by Dermod's old castle, You called me your patriot boy ; And bade me go forth to do battle While one of the Sassenach foe Polluted the valleys of Erin Ma Colleen dhas crutha na mo. We fought, but how vain were our efforts To sever the bonds of the slave ! And thus we've been banished forever Away o'er Atlantic's blue wave ; But memory within me shall mirror Thine image wherever I go. And that of the land of my fathers. Ma Colleen dhas crutha na mo. SONGS. S0NNE7S AND ESSAYS AN OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY A N old man stood on the shelving shore Neath the heat of a summer's day, With furrowed cheek and wrinkled brow And locks of silvery gray ; And he gazed with an ardent wistful gaze, O'er the ocean's blue expanse Where the amber light of the radiant sun On the wavelets seemed to dance. And thus he spoke in sorrowing mood, As he bent his princely head : " Where yon clouds dip in the sparkling sea Have my darling boiichals sped, For they hated the yoke of a foreign power, And its clink on our plunder'd plains Made the rebel blood, from their manly hearts, Rush red through their youthful veins. SOATGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS : Ah me ! to think on that morning fair When to their blighted home They bade adieu, and turned away, O'er distant dimes to roam. They shaped their course to the glowing West, Where Atlantic seeks the strand. And the farmer reaps as he tills and sows. In a bright and prosp'rous land. He comes not yet, though he said he'd come When the seasons thrice had rolled ; When Nature thrice, in her mantle green, Decked mountain and fibrous wold. Ah ! Fortune frowned on my bouchal baun, Though he courted her fickle smile. And he bent his steps to the setting sun Far away from his own Green Isle. And now they will lay me down to sleep In a grave by yonder dun Ere the pulse of my heart is homeward bound From the land of the setting sun. Yet some day over my grave he'll kneel And filial tears will start When these longing arms no more can fold That son to this aching heart." 2 2 SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS ST. PATRICK'S DAY 'THROUGH far from thy valleys, dear Erin, we roam In this freedom bless'd land by the Western Ocean, We love the Green Island, our Country and Home, With a filial, fond and undying devotion. Fair land of our fathers, how dearly we love thee ! Bright home of the gifted, the gallant and gay, We cherish thy shores and the blue sky above thee Wherever we wander on Patrick's Day. While Scotland and Wales, 'neath the heel of the Norman, In wiUing submission lay prone and supine Thy daughters and sons, both at home and in exile. Have proved their devotion at Liberty's shrine. When the gallant Colonials, camped about Boston, Drove the black-hearted red coats of Howe from the Bay The sons of Gael bore the brunt of the battle, And Washington's watchword was " Patrick's Day." Let the stout Caledonians fatten the fetters, The Cambrians forfeit their right to be free ; But a son of proud Erin shall never surrender, Nor bend to a tyrant "the suppliant knee." We have kept the Green Banner of freedom unfurled, Though ofttimes defeated ; we'll keep it for aye, 'Till our sons, scattered far o'er the lands of the world. Shall hail it triumphant on Patrick's Day. sojvgs, sonnets and essays 23 By the shades of the stout-hearted chieftains of Erie, The martyred Fitzgerald, brave Emmet and Tone, By the graves of our dead from Dungannon to Beara, And the wrecks which the red-handed Britain has strewn, We'll never surrender our Isle to the stranger Nor yield to a title of Sassenach sway, But fight to defend her through famine and danger 'Till stands she erect upon Patrick's Day. * 4» * THE SONGS OF OUR LAND O, roam w^here you will through the civilized nations, G From grim keeps of winter to summer's bright zone. And still it will greet you in sweet intonations — " The Last Rose of Summer left blooming alone ! " Ye sons of the Muse that illumine our pages — Moore, Mahoney, Davis, and Callinan grand — Your names shall go down thro' the long coming ages Enshrined in the beautiful songs of our land. Dear children of Nature, sweet bards of our Island, Balfe, Mangan, and Lover and Griffin sublime, Your songs are a beacon that gleams from the highland, " A rainbow of hope," through the vistas of Time. You may roam through the universe, mix with the races From the Orient sky to the Occident strand, And still you shall hear, 'mid all people and places. The soul-stirring, sweet-sounding songs of our Land. 24 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS ROBARD T ENVY thee thy lot, Robard, In consecrated earth Thou sleepest 'neath the Shamrock sward In thine own land of birth ; And after years of exile spent, Far in the golden West, Thy motherland doth fold thee fond To her enraptured breast. Those song birds, dearly loved in youth. Make vibrant all the air ; The flora of thy sunny South Is round thee ev'rywhere, And the river of the valley We roamed, when young and free — The Kista — chants thy requiem ere It murmurs to the sea. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 25 While in a clime where Winter grim A long, long vigil keeps, Far from his home, thy bosom friend, The noble Dermod sleeps, And I, a pilgrim, bent beneath A weary weight of years, Am left of that triumvirate To roam f/iis vale of tears. In early youth we left our home, Impelled by dangers grim, And sought the land of Massasoit Beyond the Ocean's rim. Thence, lured by lust of gold and fame. We traversed fields afar. Until we reached these coasts beneath The bright Hesperian star ; And there, amid the sunset slopes, Came bright and blissful days, Until, alas ! the fates decreed A parting of our ways. Dost know that I, returned once more, With tear-dimmed eyes to-day Intone my Miserere o'er Thy tenement of clay ? 2 6 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Rest calmly by the Kista's wave ; The sordid ones of earth Who kneel beside thy hallowed grave Can ill appraise thy worth : They little knew the wealth of love, The purpose pure and high That deep within thy bosom strove, In summer days gone by. With all the constancy of fate, You wrought to raise this land High to her former proud estate. Among the nations grand : The patriot ardor of thy soul On mine was fondly set ; The exile's cares of thirty years Have not effaced it yet. Farewell, Robard, adieu for I, Far from the Kista's wave, Must find beneath some foreign sky A mute unlettered grave ; But we shall meet, my friend of yore, " Philosopher and guide," Where kindred spirits part no more, Beyond the Great Divide. SONGS, SOiVNETS AND ESSAYS 27 MORTY OGE The subjoined verses are translated from a Gaelic narrative poem, supposed to have been composed by Owen Roe O'Sullivan, who won con- siderable fame on the borders of Cork and Kerry in the middle of the eighteenth century. The revolting deed which the poem commemorates is still a fresh tradition among the inhabitants of that picturesque territory that lies between the Kenmare River, Bantry Bay and the Dursey Sound. Mortimer O'Sullivan, commonly called " Morty Oge," was the last chief of the O'Sullivans of Beare. He sei'ved with distinction in the wars of Maria Theresa of Austria. After the battle of Fontenoy, in 1745, he joined the Irish Brigade in the service of France with the hope of one day recovering his ancestral home and patrimony in the barony of Beara. While recruiting in the South of Ireland for the Brigade which had lost so heavily on that famous Belgian battlefield, he got into difficulties with the revenue officer of the British Government, who at that time occupied the home of the O'Sullivans, the Castle of Dunboy. O'Sullivan, whose reputation for skill and bravery in battle was well known along the wild coasts and in the glens of his native barony, com- manded a fast sailing brigantine in which he took back to the Coast of France the very flower of the Irish peasantry who, in all ages, had a love for war and adventure. The work of recruiting might have gone on indefinitely, without any action on the part of Mr. Puxley, the revenue official in those parts, were it not that a company of Irish soldiers, in the English service, left their bar- racks, in Cork, where they were awaiting transportation beyond the sea, hastened across the mountains to an inlet of the Kenmare River, joined the standard of the young Irish Chief and sailed away to France. The government naturally became alarmed and Puxley was severely censured. Needless to say that he now increased the number of his yeomen and kept a sharp lookout for the return of the Clan Na Dara. This was the name given by the Irish Chief to his brigantine, fitted out by the French government for the transportation of the wild geese. To prove to the English officials in Ireland his vigilance and activity, Mr. Puxley shot down, with his own hand, an aged uncle of Morty Oge. On the return of the Clan Na Dara, Colonel O'Sullivan was shocked by the news of his uncle's fate. Leaving his ship in Coulach Bay, he mounted his horse and crossing over a spur of the Caha hills, reached Dunboy, the home of the levenue officer, just in time to find him mounted for his morn- ing's ride. The meeting was sudden; the salutation short and fatal. At the first exchange of shots, Puxley fell lifeless from his horse in the presence of his wife. Retracting his journey across the mountains, O'Sullivan reached his shiji in safety, and with a second cargo of wild geese, was soon scudding under full sail to the shores of la belle France. 28 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS The fact that Puxley had murdered his uncle did not justify the act of the avenger ; but there was no other means of redress in those evil days when the native population were shot down like beasts of prey, if they dared to assert their rights. The cohorts of the invader rode rough shod over the rights of the original owners of the land, and there was no other way of obtaining redress for grievances, save by an appeal of force. 'T^HE bitter winds of hoary March were lashing sky and main, And hghtnings flashed thro' heaven's arch mid tempest, clouds and rain, As through the brightness and the gloom, amid the splashing spray, A cutter swept round Mizen Head, and into Bantry Bay. On deck Walter Fitzsimmon stood, a wiley Norman Thief, A tiger thirsting for the blood of Clan Na Dara's Chief. Around him are his hireling yeos, a God forsaken pack — Beware tonight, brave Morty Oge, those thieves are on your track. Beware young Chief before whose blows proud Austria's foemen reeled. Whose sword has turned the tide of war on many a foreign field; Whose Celtic skill and valor well upheld the Austrian Crown When Europe's proudest despot hand would fain have torn it down. SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 29 'Tis midnight now ; the storm has ceased ; the rain comes gently down, And naught beside the baying dog is heard in Castletown. Straight to old Dermott's ancient keep the skulking yeomen steer ; Then with a oath ascend Miscush, dark, rugged, cold and bare. On through the stillness and the gloom those mighty demons stride, By brush and broom, through glen and coom, o'er plain and mountain side ; Nor halt they for the boistrous brook, nor check their head- long pace But forward press to seize their prey, like beagles in the chase. And now falls on their guilty ears the booming of the brine, As dimly through the night appears Cille Catherine's holy shrine. Where all around in hut and hall the guileless peasants sleep : Without the dogs from stack and sty a wary vigil keep. Hark to their shrill alarm now ! The inmates up and out As round the cottage, front and rear the savage yeomen shout. Within stood brave O'Sullivan, by Scully's"* greed betrayed ; His powder wet, without defence, save his good Austrian blade. * Scully. A tradition states that Scully, his trusty man, betrayed O'Sullivan by wetting his powder. 30 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Beneath the eaves those cowardly yeos thrust flaming brands of fire ; Then roof and thatch, in lurid light, blazed like an Indian pyre. With sword in hand against the band of brigands forth he prest And two stout yeos in mortal throes before him bit the dust. A one-eyed yeoman hidden in a nearby live oak tree, With his unerring rifle set the Chieftain's spirit free ; And thus fell gallant Morty Oge with trusty sword in hand : — He died as did his noble sires, for Faith and Fatherland. With fiendish jest and ribaldry the yeos retrace their course Bearing along the murdered chief athwart a boney horse. Dunbuie is reached ; thence through the tide to Cork's fair town they trail His mangled corpse, and spike his head above the North Cork jail. Aye, mock us aliens, as you will, but by that Chieftain's hand Yourselves and all your hireling crew we'll chase from off the land, And flaunt our olden battle flags o'er bay and mountain blue With that old war-inspiring shout, " Lav Feeston hous abu." SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 31 When Celtic bands from foreign lands again shall homeward come, And legions bound, and hills resound to voice of harp and drum ; When pales with fear each Norman peer and quails each Saxon rogue, 'Tis then a vengeance stern we'll have for the death of Morty Oge. LAW AND LIBERTY /^ LAW, thou shield of liberty, God's light is on thy brow ; O Liberty, thou life of law, God's very self art thou ; Twin daughters of the bleeding past, The hope the prophets saw ; God give us law in liberty, And liberty in law. 32 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY NATIVE HOME "r'AREWELL, farewell, my native home, By Cleena's darkly swelling foam ; The tyrants say that I must roam Across the stormy water. I love my country as my Lord, For which they mete the dark award Of exile from my native sward The gibbet, cell or slaughter. O, Deremihan ! farewell to you. Betwixt the bay and mountains blue, And to thy breezy height of view Where first I saw the morning. Of all the world I love thee most, Wild hamlet of the fairy coast ; Nor can Columbia's realms boast Of scenes more fair and charming. No more, my loyal comrades brave, We meet beside the glowing wave. And vow our hallow'd land to save, Or fall with deathless glory ; SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS ?>?> We seek no more the thrilling chase, The ride, the jump, the swim, the race — But naught, save death, can e'er efface Their fondly cherished story. Exult you children who can stay Among those scenes so wild and gay Of olden fanes and castles gray ; Pride of the Christian era : Where balmy breezes murmur through The waving corn of golden hue : Poor, homeless Celt, they're not for you Adieu, my sunny Beara. 34 SONGS, S0NNE7S AND ESSAYS RETURNING TO ERIN TOY, joy! Our ship is cleaving now Old Cleena's sparkling water, Where Carew sailed, in the reign of Bess, With the dark intent of slaughter. Lo ! in the light of the amber dawn A hundred shining fountains Come glimmering through the morning mist From Beara's tapering mountains. The Dursey Head heaves full in view, Fercael leaps out to meet us, And old Ccan Salas battered points Spring up as if to greet us. O glorious sight, O radiant dawn, O morn of joy and gladness ! This wanderer's heart is well repaid For many a day of sadness. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 35 'Tis many a year since I beheld That scene, which seemed elysian — The shoreline of my native land Slow sinking from my vision. But isn't it blissful now to see That shore-line growing nearer — And feel the breath of my native heath, By absence long made dearer ! Hail lovely Erin, Motherland, While wandering lone and weary I've yearned for thee, arooti machree, Beyond the Western Prairie. Hail dauntless Erin, Motherland Of Grattan, Burke, O'Connell, Of great Red Hugh and Owen Roe And ardeJit Aegh O'Donnell. A million martyrs died for thee And proved their deep devotion. On battle plain and scaffold tree. Dear Emerald of the ocean ; And millions, in the land I've left, Who love thee, still are yearning To aid thy fearless sons at home, Who keep the "beacons burning." 36 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Home of my youth, of love and truth, Of all my youth's relations. Albeit thou art called, in sooth. The Niobe of nations ; Thy exiled children love thee still The more for thy defiance To rack rent rule, and tryant hate And Britain's base aUiance. Though famine-fever's ghastly hand Thou'st felt in hut and hovel. Thou wouldst not yield, ill fated land, Nor to the tyrant grovel. Stand firm for Faith and Freedom still O trampled Isle of Beauty ! Resistance to a despot's will Is man's most sacred duty. 1 i ^^*^m 1 ^sbb^i c -— --^^J^^™^ ■ ■ Wk . _...au. . ^ ^ . L ■'*'^'^"" ' ■i SOA^GS, SOA'A'ETS AND ESSAYS 37 HURRAH FOR THE SWORD AND RIFLE! "THE VOICE AND PEN'' What burst the chain far over the main And brightened the captive's den ? 'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power — Hurrah for the Voice and Pen! Hurrah ! Hurrah for the Voice and Pen ! — Denis Florence MacCarthy. \ IT" HEN the foe accurst on our Island first His ruthless legions flung, Their arms were then the swords of men, Not the Orator's flaming tongue. Wouldst thou rejoice o'er the nation's weal And her Senate house restore, To her foes appeal through the flash of steel And the "'murderous cannon's roar." Hurrah for the sword, the gleaming sword ! With which no tyrants trifle, And the men who fight in the cause of right, With sabre and flashing rifle ! 38 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS How canst thou say, in the light of day, That the Voice and the Pen have broken The chains accurst, where of Freedom first Hath Patrick Henry spoken ? His words were feeble, fruitless, vain, Were there no swords to aid them. No fearless men from town and glen, No Washington to lead them. Hurrah for the sword, the gleaming sword ! With which no tyrants trifle, And the men who fight, in the cause of right, With sabre and flashing rifle ! Of such tame stuff we've had enough, O genial bard of Erin ! For our Birthright we'll have to fight In battle strong and daring ; To break that yoke we must evoke The battle's Voice and thunder Which cultured " men of voice and pen " Have failed to burst asunder. Hurrah for the sword, the gleaming sword ! With which no tyrants trifle, And the men who fight, in the cause of right. With sabre and flashing rifle ! SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 39 When the foe accurst on our Island first His ruthless legions flung, Their arms were then the swords of men. Not the Orator's flaming tongue. Wouldst thou rejoice o'er the nation's weal And her Senate house restore, To her foes appeal through the flash of steel And the " murderous cannon's roar." Hurrah for the sword, the gleaming sword ! With which no tyrants trifle, And the men who fight for sacred right. With sabre and flashing rifle ! 40 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS THE EXILE'S RETURN T OW sank the sun beneath the Caha hills, Leaving a mellow light on land and sea, As a lone stranger from a foreign shore Paused 'mid the storied wreck of grand Dunbuie. In such a place must poet-patriot feel Emotions welling to his trembling lips, Treading alone the sacred mound where sleep Ingus, the bard, and " Donal of the ships/*' Swift sped the sun o'er half the convex earth. And morning flashed along the Eastern waves. As the lone stranger from a distant shore In Cille Fijiaiie knelt o'er two new made graves Chanting a de Profiindis for the souls Whose mortal tenements are silent there, Awaiting 'till Gabriel's trumpet blast Peals from the clouds and rolls from sphere to sphere. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 41 Where fast by Castle Dermod's ruined keep Nestles his native town secure from storm, And the blue bay mirrors the darkling hills That cluster round in grand theatric form, He stood by the " Patriot's trysting rock" And thus soliloquized : "In this lone wood Full oft we met, ye brave and gallant few. Who've nobly kept the faith in nationhood." These are the haunts that erst I dearly loved While yet a blithe and listless youth. 'Twas here I learned to lisp my hallowed country's name, And con the history of her sad career. Then was I charmed by Bauba's bardic lays Or what my breast could still more warmly fire, The sweet symphonies of these latter days. Young Ireland's muse, or Moore's enchanting lyre. What sad vicissitudes hath time, since then, Among the dwellers of this hamlet wrought ; My aged friends have passed unto the tomb ; My schoolmates, homes in distant climes have sought, And here, alone, at twilight's mellow hour. Sad and unknown, in pensive mood I stand Gazing around on old ancestral halls — A homeless stranger in my native land. 42 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS Homeless, 'tis true, yet not a stranger here ; The sparkling fountains seem to murmur, ' Hail,' And out from each grove the speckled throstles sing Ceade Millie failfhe back to Innisfail ; And fond Erinna smiles to see me come. My first and only love who still appears, Through care and grief and feudal lordlings hate, A widowed beauty smiling thro' her tears. God of our Fathers, have we cried in vain To thee our Lord for succor and for hope — Nerv^e Erin's arm as thou didst Judith's hand, To dye with tyrant's blood Bethulia's slope. Look down and see with what Satanic pride Britannia fain thy glory would eclipse ; For she's the harlot on the Scarlet beast Foretold by John in the Apocalypse. Creative Power, when Nature'' s morning dawned, And from Atlantic's swell green Erin rose. Was it ordained in Thy divine decree That she should be the future Isle of woes ? When shall that Niobe, bereft of woe. Wreathe her old harp and chant a joyful song ? Yet must her children mournful exiles stray On foreign shores ; How long, O Lord, how long ? SONGS, SOAWETS AND ESSAYS 43 AN EXILE'S PRAYER T^HOUGH I have won an honored name, True friends and wealth galore ; A free-born people's proud acclaim On this bright alien shore, I feel the sadness of my lot — An exile far away — And pine for thee, my native spot, Upon St. Patrick's Day. Oh for an hour, this hallowed morn, 'Mid Erin's pleasant vales, I'd give this fruitful western land Its gold and tropic gales ; My life I'd gladly give to see In war-like vast array, Thy patriot sons 'neath Emerald folds Upon St. Patrick's Day. 44 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS I love the Union's starry flag Have sealed it with my blood, When, on the slopes of Malvern Hill, Our Irish legions stood ; But when the hurtling bullets flew, Where surged the deadly fray, I pray'd to strike, my land, for you On some St. Patrick's Day. Great " God of Armies," thou dost see How hapless Erin stands ! Her friends divided and as weak As uncemented sands ! Send her a leader to unite Her sons, and crush for aye, All foreign pow'r within her shores, Upon St. Patrick's Day. Grant, also, this request to me. That when I come to die. My spirit may ascend to Thee Through Munster's glorious sky ; And that these bones be laid to rest, With their ancestral clay. In that Green Isle, by freedom blest, Upon St. Patrick's Day. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 45 CHRISTMAS MEMORIES "T'AR across the shimmering ocean Lies a lonely little dell, Nestling 'mid the hills of Beara, Where a hundred fountains well ; Sylvan slope and leaping torrent, Verdant glade and cliff and stream Make that lonely mountain hamlet Lovely as a painter's dream. There, above the darkling river, And beneath the hillock brown, Stands the dear old white walled school-house By a busy, ancient town ; And beyond the olden school-house Stands a solitary cot Which in all my world-wanderings, I have never once forgot. 46 SOA^GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS I have still some cherished memories Of the festive Christmas mirth When the yule logs glowed and crackled In the ample cottage hearth ; Of the charms that made its precincts Like another Eden bloom — But the smiles that were its sunshine Now are gathered to the tomb. And this weary, weary wanderer From that home that erst was bright With weal and wine and welcome, On each blessed Christmas night, To that hamlet may return now, Where he roamed a listless boy, But a mother's love and welcome He may never more enjoy. SOA'GS, SOAWETS AND ESSAYS 47 THE GREEN ISLE OF THE CELT T AM dreaming, nightly dreaming Of a land almost divine, Where a hundred torrents streaming, In the radiant sunlight shine ; 'Tis a land where saints and sages In ages flown have dwelt; 'Tis writ in history's pages, The Green Isle of the Celt. I am thinking, thinking ever Of the scenes 'mong which I strayed, Of the green lawn, by the river, Where in boyhood oft I played, Of the songs that into tenderness The listener's heart would melt. And the heroes brave who died to save The Green Isle of the Celt. 48 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS There the zephyrs softly breathing, Waft a fragrance o'er the plains, And the fadeless ivy's wreathing Round the ancient, mouldering fanes ; There first my infant bosom These patriot feelings felt, 'Mid thy fair hills and valleys. Green Island of the Celt. I am pining, pining bitter For that land so heavenly fair, And the myriad charms that glitter In celestial beauty there. My bosom's tide shall wet thee, And bones to ashes melt. Ere this lone heart forget thee, Dear Green Isle of the Celt. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 49 THE MOUNTAIN STREAMS T^HE mountains streams of Ireland, How grandly rolling down, They dash and foam through glen and coom, By castle, mole and town. They cheer the exile in his woe, Who sees them in his dreams — The streams he loved long, long ago — The rushing mountain streams. They waft a fragrant odor down, Through many a sylvan vale, And, murmuring to the breezes, tell The story of the Gael ; They saw the plundering Norman hordes And heard their lawless schemes To bow the changeless Irish race — The bright, eternal streams. 50 SO JVC S, S0NNE7S AND ESSAYS Methinks thy ancient bards, oh land ! First learned their tuneful song, Where those exhaustless, rushing springs In dazzling beauty throng ; For yet their charming voices thrill, With olden bardic themes, That haunt the exile's mem'ry still — Exhaustless mountain streams ! Oh, rushing rills, oh, magic streams, Your absence long I've mourned ; For you and all your pastoral scenes This cheerless heart has yearned ; Yet, yet I hope some morn to roam Where dance the mild sunbeams Along the glorious swelling waves Of Ireland's bounding streams. SOJVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 51 JOSEPH CLEBURNE'S GRAVE On a wild hillside not far from Virginia City, Nevada, Dr. Joseph Cle- burne lies buried. A rude paling which marked the final resting place of this gifted Irish physician has been torn up by one of those tornadoes that frequently sweep down from the tall summits of the Sierra Nevadas. Doctor Cleburne was the brother of General Patrick Cleburne of Con- federate fame. The family belonged to C'ounty Cork, Ireland, and gave many distinguished men to the arts of peace and the havoc of war. F^ AR from the verdant slopes of cove, 'Neath Occidental skies, Where the rude Indians camp and rove Poor Joseph Cleburne lies. Neglected and forgot the mound Where rests his sacred clay As if the race from which he sprang Were dead and passed away. Coyotes dun o'er Erin's son May howl through the long night ; The owl and bat that dread the day Wing their nocturnal flight, But prayer nor sigh ascends on high Nor flowerets fragrance shed, Nor friendly hands strew green garlands O'er Joseph Cleburne's bed. 52 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS THE TOCSIN OF WAR T O ! how the war-cloud is sullenly lowering, And threatens to burst over Europe afar ; Clan Erin assemble ! and grand be your pouring When Russia resounds the dread Tocsin of War. Soon shall the Russian Bear Drag from his ruddy lair The tyrants still red with the blood of our sires. Wake the old battle cry, Onward to do or die ! Every proud Celt who to freedom aspires. A bright gleam of hope Mother Erin caresses ; The Goddess of Freedom smiles down on her plains ; As the eagle sores up from his mountain recesses Sunward she'll burst thro' the sassenach chains. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 53 Sons of the sturdy North, Peal the Rosg Caha forth ! Ye mountains re-echo the spirit afar ! Sons of the gallant South, Fling the old banner out. When Russia resounds the dread Tocsin of War ! Ye bards of our island, wake from your slumber To fan the dull embers of battle once more ; Strike Erin's dairsach 'till every wild number Be heard by her sons on each far-distant shore. Spirit of Shears and Tone, Hark to the Britons' groan ! The highway to freedom no tyrant can bar. Join every Celtic clan, Erin's avenging van, When Russia rings out the dread Tocsin of War ! ESSAYS T^HESE essays are included because of their kin- ship to the poems, and especially by reason of the close friendship which existed between the author and the men of whom the essays treat. The essay relating to Father Tabb received wide publication on account of the many interesting facts relating to his life which have not appeared in any biographical sketch hitherto published. The author of " Maryland, My Maryland," was also a very dear friend of Rev. D. O. Crowley for many years, and because of his intimate knowledge of Mr. Randall's literary ambitions he was qualified to write appreciatively of his character and genius. 55 SO.VGS, SONA'ETS AND ESSAYS 57 THE POET-PRIEST PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF REV. JOHN B. TABB T^HE popular and dearly beloved poet-priest, who died in St. Charles' College, Howard County, Maryland, on the 19th of November, 1909, had an eventful career. In the second year of the struggle which ended at Appomattox Courthouse, John Ban- ister Tabb, at the age of eighteen years, graduated from the university of his native State. The Tabb family was one of long and high standing in Virginia. John B. Tabb's father was the owner of a large plantation and of many slaves. The children of that household were loyal Southerners, every one, and on the day of his graduation John tendered his services to the Confederacy. Being young and too delicate for active service in the field, he was assigned to duty in the Com- missary Department. Later he was appointed secre- tary to Colonel Stone, who was sent by Jefferson Davis on a mission to England. The steamer which 58 SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS carried Colonel Stone and his gifted secretary out of New Orleans also gave passage to the Rev. Father Bannon who, having served as chaplain in the South- ern Army, was commissioned to visit Pius IX, then head of the States of the Church, with a view of obtaining the Holy Father's recognition of the Con- federacy. Father Bannon was a splendid specimen of young manhood, tall, handsome and straight as an arrow. A man of high intellectual attainments, it was pleasant to meet and instructive to converse with him. Having run the blockade out of New Orleans, the steamer was far on the high seas when young Tabb, walking on the bridge with the captain one day, asked about the distinguished looking man who paced the deck beneath them. " That's a Catholic priest," replied the captain, " and he's going to Rome on a mission similar to yours." Mr. Tabb had read of priests in nursery books, but he had never to his knowledge set eyes on a real priest before that day. There were no Catholics that he knew in Amelia County, where he was raised, and he had never seen a Catholic priest during his course at the University of Virginia. His mother, an Episcopalian, one of the best of women, had read and believed strange and awful things about "Romish priests," which were related to the young SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 59 Tabbs as nursery tales. Father Bannon was, there- fore, a subject of curiosity to our future poet-priest. Descending to the promenade deck, young Tabb eyed the clergyman engaged in reading the divine office, "not," as he often afterwards said, ''without feelings of awe." With a simplicity characteristic of genius, Mr. Tabb accosted the clergyman with the question : " Are you a Catholic priest ? " Father Bannon replied in the affirmative. " Was your father a priest?" " No, my boy," answered Father Bannon with a smile. Encouraged by the winning smiles of the amiable padre, Mr. Tabb launched another question, saying, " Will your son be a priest ? " Father Bannon, see- ing the young man was speaking in good faith, kindly replied, " I think not ! " Having satisfied himself that Rev. Father Ban- nons' breviary contained no imprecations against the Protestants, the young Southerner was disposed to think kindly of the priest. Before they landed at Glasgow, Tabb was an ardent admirer of the virtues and the learning of his fellow passenger. John Banister Tabb was at that early day one of the best Latin and Greek scholars of the South. In classical learning he excelled, and could appreciate 6o SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS the erudition and attainments of his new found friend. During a voyage across the Atlantic of fourteen days, Father Bannon had the time and ability to dis- abuse Mr. Tabb's mind of the false impressions which it had received about Catholics and Catho- licity. It is reasonable to believe that the foundation of his conversion was then laid by the good and zealous priest who had been doing missionary work south of the Mason and Dixon line in ante-bellum days. About the middle of November, 1863, Tabb came back to his native coasts on the steamer Robert E. Lee, which was pursued and captured by the United States ship Keystone State. Among other prisoners our poet was sent to a northern dungeon at Old Lookout, Maryland. Here he formed the acquaint- ance of that brilliant young poet, Sidney Lanier, who died all too soon for his country and the litera- ture of the *' Lost Cause." The prison acquaint- ance ripened into friendship which never knew a waning. He dedicated a volume of poems to the memory of Lanier, and tenderly cherished that memory to his very last day. The spiritual relations with this friend of youth seem never to have been severed, according to the following beautiful lines: SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 6i SIDNEY LANIER. Ere time's horizon-line was set, Somewhere in space our spirits met, Then o'er the starry parapet Came wandering here. And now that thou art gone again Beyond the verge, I haste amain Lost echo of a loftier strain To greet thee there. Released from prison, he taught music for awhile in St. Paul's Episcopal School, at Baltimore. Later he occupied the Chair of Rhetoric in Racine Col- lege, Michigan. For a time he held a position on the staff of Harper's Weekly. After much wandering, his weary spirit found a resting place and a home in the bosom of Mother Church, and he settled down to his life's work in that ecclesiastical college, founded by and called after Charles Carroll, of Carrollton. There in the shadow of the woods that surrounded the manor house of the Carrolls, he spent the happiest days of his life and framed his sweetest songs. In 1 88 1 he entered St. Mary's Seminary, Balti- more, to study for the priesthood. He had already achieved fame as a poet, a wit, and a writer of the best English prose. We looked upon him with awe, and thought it a privilege to " touch the hem of his garment." 62 ^ONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS We soon discovered, however, that this scion of the Southern aristocracy was as humble and demo- cratic as ourselves, the very soul of wit and soci- ability. His room in the Seminary was across the corridor from mine, and I, therefore, saw much of him. Both of us having had considerable experience in the outer world, we easily became friends. Much of our evening recreation was spent to- gether in the beautiful little park that skirted the Seminary on Paca Street, and I still remember the peals of hearty laughter evoked by his brilliant flashes of wit and mirth-provoking humorous re- marks. As a punster he had no peer ; but the arrows that flew in all directions left neither sting nor wound behind. He was always kindly con- siderate of others' feelings, and, unlike most wits, cordially enjoyed a joke on himself. It was his wont, when the poetic inspiration moved him, to retire from his company or w^ork, go to his room and remain there until the finished poem appeared on paper. He often came to my door after an absence of two or more days, with the product of his genius fresh from the busy workshop of his brain. Once committed to writing, he seldom used the " labor of the file" upon his verses. They were sent post haste to some one of the big maga- SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 63 zines, and a good cheque came back within a week or two as an acknowledgment. One beautiful evening in May he came to my room with the manuscript of the following sonnet on SHELLEY IN NATURE. Shelley, the ceaseless music of thy soul Breathes in the cloud and in the skylark's song, That float as an embodied dream along The dewy lids of morning. In the dole That haunts the west wind, in the joyous roll Of Arethusan fountains, or among The wastes where Ozymandias, the strong. Lies in colossal ruin, thy control Speaks in the wedded rhyme. Thy spirit gave A fragrance to all nature, and a tone To inexpressive silence. Each apart — Earth, air and ocean — claims thee as its own, The twain that bred thee, and the panting wave That clasped thee, like an overflowing heart. The magazines of that day compared this with Wordsworth's great sonnet, which contains the oft- quoted verse on the Immaculate Conception — " Our Tainted Nature's Solitary Boast." Mr. Tabb could wax warm and eloquent at all times over the poetry of Shelley. When the poet-priest of the South, Rev. Abram Ryan, was getting out an edition of his poems in Baltimore, about 1882, the students of the Seminary saw him frequently, and were very much interested 64 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS in him and his literary work. He was not entirely free from the eccentricities of genius, and rumor had it that he did not stand well with his bishop. While this was noised abroad we had reached that chapter in Church history which treats of the Arian heresy. One evening coming out of class Mr. Tabb gravely put his hand on a student's shoulder, and said with a sad face, " I have bad news for you." The student listened to hear him say, "The poet- priest of the South is declared a heretic." We anxi- ously inquired the grounds for such a proceeding. He cooly answered, " Because he is an A-ryan — an Arian." On another occasion, finding some difficulty in studying dogmatic theology, he expressed a wish, in case he should die at the Seminary, to have the inscription on his headstone read : "Here Lies John B. Tabb, D. D." " What is the D. D. for ? " exclaimed the students. " Died of dogma," he answered, without a smile. He compiled a skeleton grammar for his English classes, in St. Charles' College, which he entitled, " Bone Rule." When the little volume was published he sent me a copy, on the fly-sheet of which was written, by his own hand : SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 65 THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH. *' Here lies the old fool Who taught us at school To use the 'Bone Rule;' — Oh, Lord, keep him cool^ With all this seeming levity, fun and froUc, Mr. Tabb was a serious, sensible and reHgious gentle- man. There was no malice in his composition. Rev. John B. Tabb, D. D. 66 SONGS. SOAWETS AND ESSAYS He took very sane and conservative views of matters in general. He was an extremist only in two things — his devotion to the " Lost Cause," and love for the memory of Edgar Allan Poe. He made periodical visits to the grave of Poe, and, on free days, I occasionally accompanied him to the old Westminster Churchyard, in Baltimore, where the author of " The Raven " is buried. Poe, Keats and Lanier, among the poets, were his favorites ; made all the dearer to him by their sorrows and sufferings while in the "Vale of Tears." In December, 1884, John B. Tabb was ordained a priest in the Cathedral at Baltimore. He was afhliated to the diocese of Richmond, but with the permission of his bishop, he went back to St. Charles' College, in order to devote most of his time to teaching and literature. There Father Tabb worked faithfully and well for a quarter of a century, and enriched by his untiring genius the poetic literature of the English language. In every sentence written by Father Tabb there is a thought, and every thought is poetic. The power of condensation belongs to him above most men who have written in our language. Here is a sample from the beautiful verses entitled : SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 67 EVOLUTION. " Out of the dusk a shadow, Then a spark ; Out of the cloud a silence, Then a lark ! Out of the heart a rapture, Then a pain ; Out of the dead, cold ashes, Life again." His poetry on the whole is not for the hurrying crowd. It appeals more to the thoughtful, the criti- cal and the learned. Yet some of his verses have a charming simplicity. Such are the sweet, euphoni- ous couplets of THE EROOK. '• It is the mountain to the sea That makes a messenger of me : And. lest I loiter on the way And lose what I am sent to say. He sets his reverie to song And bids me sing it all day long. Farewell ! for here the stream is slow, And I have many a mile to go." How vividly the autumn of life is pictured in the following verses : " Behold the fleeting swallow. Forsakes the frosty air; And leaves, alert to follow, Are falling everywhere Like wounded birds, too weak, A distant clime to seek. 68 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS And soon with silent pinions The fledgUngs of the North From Winter's wild dominions Shall drift, affrighted, forth, And, phantom-like, anon, Pursue the phantoms gone." That those who place all their trust in t/iis life are phantoms pursuing phantoms, Father Tabb dis- covered in his early youth, and turned away from the transitory glories of fame and fortune to find Faith, Hope and Consolation in the bosom of the Catholic Church. He never looked back. He shunned renown, but fame persistently followed him. While yet in the full possession of health and vigor, he was acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic a great poet and a brilliant wit. An Anthology of his poems was edited by Alice Meynell, and published in London several years ago. The English critics of that time placed him in the front rank of living poets, and his works are in high demand wherever English is spoken. What Fontaine wrote of Chateaubriand cannot be applied to him : "His fate had been, with anxious mind To chase the phantom Fame — to find His grasp eluded ; calm, resigned, He knows his fate — he dies. Then comes Renown, then Fame appears, Glory proclaims the coffin hers ; Aye, greenest over sepulchres Palm-tree and laurel rise." SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 69 This was not the fate of Father Tabb. What most Hterary men strive for came to him unsought. Father Tabb's felicity in writing quatrains is well illustrated in his lines on the death of FATHER DAMIEN. O God, the cleanest offering Of tainted earth below, Unblushing to Thy feet we bring — " A leper white as snow ! " The disappointments, the failures and sorrows of Father's Tabb's youth had their compensation in the peace, contentment and happiness of after years. He celebrated his daily Mass, mingled with pupils and dreamed his dreams in the seclusion of his study. For more than a quarter of a century he lived in the congenial company of Nature and his books ; he published several volumes of poems which sold well ; he was highly esteemed by thou- sands who never saw him, and loved by all who felt the influence of his affectionate nature. Surrounded by those who were dearest to him on earth, he died full of faith and good works, and hundreds who passed under his tutorship to the priesthood will offer prayers and sacrifices for his eternal rest. SOA^GS, SOAWETS AND ESSAYS 71 JAMES RYDER RANDALL POET LAUREATE OF THE CONFEDERACY, PATRIOT AND JOURNALIST jy /I R. Matthew Page Andrews, of Baltimore, is getting out a complete edition of Randall's poems. The advance sheets of the work are before me. The book is being gotten out under the auspices of the James Ryder Randall Memorial Association, organized to " honor the name and cherish the fame of the Maryland poet." The association is doing a creditable work, and all lovers of good literature should show their appreciation in a practical way. A portrait of the gifted Southern poet, painted at the expense of his native State, by Miss Catherine Walton, has recently been unveiled in the State House at Annapolis. Augusta, Georgia, is preparing to erect a monument to Mr. Randall in that city, where he spent so many years as a hard-working newspaper editor and correspondent. Seven different communities claimed the distinc- tion and honor of having Homer born among them. 72 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS That, however, was after Homer's death ; for in his dedining years the bUnd old Bard of the Ihad was obHged to beg his bread from door to door. Homer was not the only poet who could not commercialize his genius and accumulate wealth. Born in the South and educated there before the advent of the " Carpet-Bagger," James Ryder Ran- dall was not trained to turn his talents into coin, and, therefore, he remained poor during his long, laborious life. Had he been born and educated in Massachusetts instead of in Maryland, had he kenned the New England knack of judiciously tipping the press agents, he might have widened the circle of his fame, hobnobbed with the swells of clubdom while living, and left behind him worldly possessions to equal those of Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes and John Boyle O'Reilly. In his day the dollar was not deified south of the Mason and Dixon line. He was out of joint with contemporary writers of the Northern States, and having manifested no exalted opinion of his own talents, the world rated him according to his own standard until he had ceased to sing. Neglected like Goldsmith, Mangan and Edgar Allan Poe while living, the Southern States are now vieing with one another to honor and perpetuate his memory. SO.VGS, SONjVETS AND ESSAYS 73 Born in Baltimore, on the first day of January, 1839, Randall was descended from Acadian French and Irish ancestry. His first teacher was Mr. J. H. Clarke, who in his youth had been the preceptor of Edgar Allan Poe. After leaving the Clarke school he entered Georgetown College, where the Jesuits, those masters of belks lett?'es, soon discovered and developed his love and talent for literature. Georgetown soon recognized him as the college poet. Like most young classical students, the heroes of Greek and Roman history were the subjects of his early muse. " Leonidas at Ther- mopylae" and the " Mother of the Gracchi" were his first poetic compositions to attract public notice and determine the bent of his great talents. His constant companions at College were Byron, Mangan, Keats and Poe. Temperamentally he resembled Poe. Fortunately Randall had none of those vices which blasted the career of that brilliant but erratic child of song. James Clarence Mangan, one of the most truly gifted and genuine poets of the prolific age in which he lived, was a prime favorite of Randall's during all the days of a long lifetime. In 1905 Mr. Randall made a visit to the Pacific Coast and became my guest. We spent a part of the time at Rutherford, Napa County, where we 74 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS talked a good deal about poetry in general, and the war songs of the South in particular. While en- gaged in one of those pleasant conversations, I remarked that the patriotic ardor, religious fervor and the glow of poetic feeling which characterized his poetry reminded me of Clarence Mangan. " Mangan," he replied, " influenced my youth very much indeed, and his book of poems, given to me in the beginning of my career by Mr. D. C. Jenkins, the editor of the New Orleans Delia, has been the vade meciim of my maturer years. ' The Karamanian Exile ' of that great, though neglected Irish poet, solved the metre of ' Maryland, My Maryland.' " "While teaching," he continued, "in Poydras College, near Pointe-Coupee, Louisiana, I read and absorbed a good deal of Mangan's poetry. To- wards the end of April, 1861, I went to the neigh- boring town to get the latest news from the North. The Civil War was brewing and I was anxious for news. Purchasing a paper, the first thing that appeared to me was an account of a bloody en- counter between the citizens of Baltimore and the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, on its way to intimi- date the people of the South. The clash occurred on the 19th day of April, and the first man to fall in defence of what he believed to be the rio-ht was SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 75 a brave young fellow who had been an intimate friend of mine in Georgetown College. About dusk I returned to my room in a very agitated state of feeling. Love of my native State began to assert itself. I felt that an indignity had been cast upon her. I wished I had been able to stand beside my college mate, with him to defend the honor of Maryland. '' That night I tried in vain to sleep. In troubled dreams my schoolmate seemed to beckon me to his aid where the melee grew fierce and sanguine. Sorrowful and excited I got out of bed and lit my candle. The euphonious measures of the ' Kara- manian Exile ' came welling up in my memory, and ' Maryland, My Maryland,' wrote itself that night." Next morning the professor of literature read the finished copy of the poem to his class. The students were fired by the spirit and patriotic fervor of the verses, and urged him to have it published forthwith. Complying with the wishes of the pupils and faculty of Poydras College, the author sent his manuscript to T/ie Delta of New Orleans. It was published in that paper on April 26th, and within a week in every paper of all the Southern States. Mr. Randall, at the age of twenty-two years, achieved fame and, by virtue of a single war song, became the favorite poet of the South. 76 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND 1 The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland ! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland! Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland ! My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland ! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland ! My Maryland I Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland ! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust — And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland ! My Maryland ! Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland ! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland ! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland ! My Maryland ! SOiVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 77 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland ! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong^ Maryland I Come to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along. And gives a new key to thy song, Maryland ! My Maryland ! Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland I Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland ! She meets her sisters on the plain — ^' Sic se?nper!^^ 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back again, Maryland I My Maryland ! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland ! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek- Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland 1 My Maryland I Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland ! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland ! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland ! My Maryland ! 78 SOJVGS, SONJVETS AND ESSAYS I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland ! The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, Maryland ! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb — Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum I She breathes! she burns! she'll come! she'll come! Maryland ! My Maryland ! It had not gone the rounds of the press more than ten days when Miss Jennie Gary, a famous belle of Baltimore, and a talented musician, set it to music. The evening on which the music sheets came from the publisher, there was a meeting of a local glee club to which Miss Gary belonged. Sitting at the piano, she sang out with fine voice — "The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! " The house went wild with enthusiasm, and everybody joined in the refrain ; immense crowds gathered in the vicinity of the club rooms, and the new secession song has ever since that night held its popularity in the chief city of Maryland. On the evening of the 4th of July following the first appearance of the poem. Miss Gary, her brother and several friends, as the guests of General Beauregard, near Fairfax Gourt House, Virginia, were serenaded by the renowned Washington so AGS, SOXjVETS AND ESSAYS 79 Artillery of New Orleans, in recognition of their services to the South. Captain Sterrett, expressing their thanks for the compliment, asked if there was anything the ladies could do in return. The James Ryder Randall. soldiers cried out, " Let us hear a woman's voice." Miss Jennie Gary, standing at the door of a tent, under cover of the darkness, sang " Maryland, My Maryland ! " The refrain was caught up by the Rebel lines and flung back from ten thousand Rebel So SOJVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS throats. As the last strains died away in the sultry night air, the soldiers gave three cheers and a tiger for Maryland. Thus was " Maryland, My Maryland ! " inaugu- rated as the battle song of the Confederacy, on the bloody field, a few days after the memorable battle of Manassas. Never has song been written in such soft euphonious measures that could arouse so much fierce enthusiasm in the breasts of fighting men ; and I know of no instance in the history of war where a battle song has been thus introduced and adopted on the field of action. " Maryland, My Maryland ! " stands alone in this respect and in its undying popularity. This brief and incomplete sketch of the gentlest and kindliest of men would be wanting, indeed, without some reference to his prose waitings. The greater part of his life had been given to filling the maw of some newspaper. He edited T/ie Morning Star in New Orleans ; for a long time acted in a similar capacity for The Chronkk in Augusta, Georgia, and wrote regularly for several Catholic weeklies. While acting as private secre- tary to more than one United States Senator, he also filled the role of Washington correspondent for the Augusta Chronicle. Writing to this journal, in the early eighties, of the battle royal, in the Senate, SOA'GS, SOJVNETS AND ESSAYS 8i between Conkling of New York and Lamar of Mis- sissippi, he wound up a very brilliant, epigramatic and able article with these words : " I need not repeat the scene : the charge of bad faith ; its indignant repulse ; the lying brand ; the bucket-shop retort through all the gamut of the subjective mood — these things I need not reproduce. But it must be recorded that when Lamar, with absolute calm and awful deliberation, said : ' I have only to state to the Senator from New York that he understood me correctly. I said precisely the words that he understood me to say. My language was harsh and unparliamentar}-, and I beg the pardon of the Senate for it ; but my lan- guage was such as no good man would deserve and no brave man would bear.' Mr. Conkling lay like a Goliath in the dust, with a great gash upon his brazen front, while over him the Mississippian stood in very majesty." This is a specimen of his prose, taken at random ; it combines the descriptive elegance of Washington Irving with the vigorous brevity of Emerson. When Father Ryan, " the poet-priest of the South," died, Randall, in the Augusta Cliro?iicIe^ paid a beautiful tribute to his character and poetry, which 82 SONGS, SONNE 7S AND ESSAYS was copied not only in nearly all the papers of the United States, but in many foreign journals also. The same issue of the Chronicle printed " Resur- gam/' To these two articles Theodore C. Cone, of Washington, D.C., refers in the following strain : " Yesterday a copy of your paper fell into my hands. It contained two notable things which I take to be from the same hand. One a poem, * Resurgam ; ' the other what may well be called a prose-poem on the death of Father Ryan. Either one or the other is sufficient to entitle the author to lasting fame. It seems a great pity, indeed, that a man who has the remarkable gifts which are evidenced in these splendid productions should be doomed to the dray-horse work of journalism. There certainly is no higher gift than that which enables a man to move the deepest cords within us by the exaltation of his thought and the high har- mony in which it is given expression. Such a man merits a large mead of praise and public approval." Though Mr. Randall was always ready with his facile pen to contribute to the public approval of other writers, he never sought it for himself. Through the press of the South he first called the attention of all lovers of American literature to SOJVGS, SOA'iVETS AND ESSAYS ^2) the neglected grave of Edgar Allan Poe. While visiting his aged mother in Baltimore, he made a visit to the final resting place of that author, in Westminster churchyard. He then wrote an elo- quent letter to the Augusta Chronicle, appealing to the public to erect a monument to the author of the *' Raven." The appeal was sent to Mr. George W. Childs of Philadelphia. Through him the funds were raised and the memorial erected. Though his attitude to his own work was one of indifference, Randall was appreciated far and near. In his "Fifty Years Among Authors, Books and Publishers," Derby relates an incident that occurred in London, not long after "Maryland" had first appeared. " My friend," writes Mr. Derby, " the Hon. J. R. Thompson, on a visit to England, was invited to the house of a very distinguished family in London. There he was introduced to a brilliant young lady who, sitting at the piano, played and sang for him in a charming voice, ' Maryland, My Maryland ! ' " When she had finished, amid great applause, she stepped up to him and said, ' When you return to America and see the poet who wrote that song, tell him that you heard it sung by a Russian girl who lives at Archangel, north of Siberia, and learned to sing it there.' " 84 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS This reminds us of what an English officer, serving in India, wrote to Thomas Moore after the publication of " Lalla Rookh " : "They tell me, Moore, your songs are sung — Can it be true, you lucky man ? By moonlight, in the Persian tongue, Along the streets of Ispahan." Those who were on the opposite side of the "armed controversy" of 1861 thought highly of Randall's literary talents. Oliver Wendell Holmes, expressing his regret for not being able to attend the unveiling of a bust of Sidney Lanier at John Hopkins University, said in his letter to Gilman, then the president of that great school, " I was anxious to go down because Baltimore had pro- duced the three best things of their kind in our poetic literature : ' The Star Spangled Banner,' ' The Raven ' and ' Maryland, My Maryland ! ' " Dr. Holmes, writing to Mr. Chas. Strahan as late as 1886, said: " I always regretted that I could not write for what I believed to be the right side of the Civil War a song as genuine, life-like, musical and effective as ' Maryland, My Maryland ! ' " In 1907 Governor Edwin Warfield, of Maryland, proposed to call home and give official recognition to the bard who had immortalized his State in song. The entire State enthusiastically endorsed SOiVGS, SOAWJSTS AND ESSAYS 85 the proposition, and a poet who loved Randall and Maryland, catching the spirit that was then evoked, wrote the following verses in honor of both : • Maryland, My Maryland," I heard the bugles play, And oh the golden music turned my heart the golden way; I saw the old State gleaming in her beauty as of yore, Beside her rippling rivers, and beside her dreamy shore ; The sweet old song woke echoes of her beauty in my breast — The song of Randall's Maryland — may the wreath upon him rest! The song of Randall's Maryland, how it rings upon the air When from the sweet old valleys of the dear old State we fare; Amid the alien cities, or on hills and seas afar It woos the heart's affection and it wakes you where you are To the old home's tender beauty, and the spirit breathes a cheer For the poet in whose music rings the old home love so clear. Oh Randall, God be with you, for we owe you much who know The glory of your Maryland, feel the rapture of its glow; The world should give you comfort and the land reward your worth With all the goodly blessings of the golden dream of earth — For all the world is beauty when the bugles and the band Ring out the stately measures of the song you gave the land. I heard the bugles play it, and I heard the voices sing The words of Randall's Maryland and my heart began to ring, And my soul was filled with longing for the valleys that I knew. The tender skies above them w^ith their balmy breath of blue; I heard the rivers calling, saw the green fields by the shore. And felt the old emotions that I felt in days of yore. • Maryland, My Maryland," I heard the echoes ring, I saw the dear old hills of home grow green with breath of spring; I saw the orchards ripen in October's golden sun, I saw the shores of Edenland unto the blue bay run ; My heart re-echoed, " Maryland," and my soul responded, too, O Randall of the golden song God's grace be unto you. 86 SOA'GS, SONA'ETS AND ESSAYS RESURGAM. Teach me, my God, to bear my cross, As thine was borne ; Teach me to make of every loss A Crown of Thorn. Give me thy patience and thy strength With every breath, Until my lingering days at length Shall welcome death. Dear Jesus, I belisve that thou Didst rise again ; Instil the spirit in me now That conquers pain. Give me the grace to cast aside All vain desire, All the fierce throbbing of a pride That flames like fire. Give me the calm that Dante wrought From sensual din ; The peace that errant Wolsey sought From stalwart sin. I seek repose upon Thy breast With child like prayer ; Oh, let me find the heavenly rest And mercy there ! If I have, in rebellious ways. Profaned my life ; If I have filled my daring days With worldly strife ; If I have shunned the narrow path In crime to fall — Lead me from the abode of wrath And pardon all I so AGS, S0iVNE7S AND ESSAYS 87 Banished fiom Thee, "where shall I find For my poor soul A safe retreat from storms that blind. Or seas that roll ? Come to me, Christ, ere I, forlorn, Sink ' neath the wave. And on this blessed Easter Morn A Lost one save. This poem was written in Washington, D. C, while Mr. Randall was acting as private secretary to Senator Joseph E. Brown. The most prominent men of that time thought it one of his best efforts in poetry. It was copied in all the papers of the land, committed to memory by thousands of ad- mirers, and preserved in innumerable scrap books. Many critics compared it to Cardinal Newman's beautiful hymn : "Lead kindly light, amid the circling gloom: Lead thou me on." The poet himself, whose attitude towards his own poetry was not highly appreciative, thought well of this. He evidently did not relish being introduced everywhere as the author of " Maryland, My Maryland ! " He was not a single song writer. The fame of his war song, however, became so great as to cast into obscurity all his other brilliant works. S8 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS On the occasion of his visit with the Knights of Columbus to San Francisco, I had the pleasure of introducing him to an audience of very select and prominent people as " Mr. Randall, the author of 'Maryland, My Maryland!' the ' Marsellaise ' of the South." In a brief preface to his remarks he wondered why he should always be announced as the writer of a single song. Yet such was his fate, notwithstanding that he had written many things of greater literary merit than " Maryland, My Maryland ! " Among other pieces he men- tioned the following, which, perhaps, on account of his deeply religious nature was first, last and all the time a favorite with the bard of the Confederacy : WHY THE ROBIN'S BREAST IS RED. The Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, Clomb up the dreary hill, While from the agonizing wreath Ran many a crimson rill. The brawny Roman thrust him on With unrelenting hand — 'Till staggering slowly 'mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand. A little bird that warbled near That memorable day Flitted about and strove to wrench One single thorn away ; The cruel spike impaled his breast, And thus ' tis sweetly said, The Robin wears his silver vest Incarnadined with red. SOJVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 59 Ah Jesu! Jesu ! Son of Man! My dolour and my sighs Reveal the lesson taught by this Winged Ishmael of the skies. I, in the palace of delight, Or caverns of despair. Have plucked no thorns from Thy dear brow, But planted thousands there. I believe it was Emerson that said, " Where the poet is, though his abode be the wilderness, there the heart of the race beats." The heart of humanity throbs through these pathetic lines ; goes out in sympathy with — ' The little bird that warbled near That memorable day," and the " heart of the race " loves Randall the dreamer, — even in this materialistic age, because he is able to reveal a something divine that is in every human being. The poet of the Confederacy was a practical and devout child of the Church. His faith also was childlike, sublime and beautiful. The non-Catholic writer of his life and works says: "Always religi- ously inclined, he grew to be one of the most devout members of the Catholic Church in America. Whatever the storm or stress of time, he neglected no form of religious observance which he deemed to be a part of his duty towards his Maker. In his 90 SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS last letter to Miss Shepherd, of Maryland, he ex- hibits his patience and trust in Divine Providence. Having given expression to his great longing for his native State, he concluded thus : " ' I have so long submitted to what I felt was God's will that whenever I am not supernaturally helped to go where I wish, I patiently wait for the deliverance and always find it for the best. Where- fore, using every human effort to get back to Baltimore, what can I do but await the summons from on high and the necessary pecuniary help ! ' " " The necessary pecuniary help " has reference to a plan which the State Legislature had under consideration of engaging Mr. Randall to collect and catalogue the historical documents in the arch- ives at Annapolis. This plan was about to materialize when " God's will " called the poet to his eternal home. When "the summons from on high" came, a little over two years ago, it found him ready and resigned. Fortified with the last ministrations of the Church which he had served so faithfully during a long, eventful and distinguished career, he died as he had lived with the love of our blessed Savior in his heart and " Resurgam" on his lips. SONGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 91 Like many another lyrist he sleeps far away from the place of his birth, immortalized by his genius ; but Augusta, Georgia, where he lived and labored for forty years, will raise a monument to commemo- rate his worth, and carve upon its polished surface a stanza from his own majestic muse, expressive of our common fate and fondest hope : AFTER A LITTLE WHILE. The Cross will glisten and willows wave Above my grave. And Planets smile ; Sweet Lord! then pillowed on Thy gentle breast. I fain would rest, After a little while. SONGS AND SONNETS BY REV. T. L. CROWLEY, O. P. Aquinas College, Columbus, Ohio SONGS, SONA'ETS AND ESSAYS 95 BEYOND T PICKED a tinted sea-shell from the shore One day, and while I held its orifice Unto my ear, I heard the zephyrs kiss The deep, — the rustling sails of ships which bore Across the crested main their laden store, — The quick and whirring wings of birds whose bliss Sweet-cadenced sped along above the hiss Of angry surf that on the sea-rocks tore. A softer music from the pearl-gemmed shell Of faith enchants my heart. Across God's hill A golden symphony awakes of song And angel minstrelsy. Sweet anthems swell And voice and heart and lute my soul so thrill, That winged wdth love it seeks the blessed throng. g6 SONGS, SOIVNETS AND ESSAYS THE FLOWERS OF PRESENT LOVE T^HE fleeting moments of our life Eternities contain For constant ministrations rife With love or needless pain. The honied words of genial cheer Sepulchered hearts revive, And minds o'ercast with laden fear Resurgent move and strive. Our alabaster box of love Too oft is sealed with care Whose healing ointment poured above Sad hearts would soon repair. The jewel of each friendly thought Uncasketed should shine, And show that spirits kindly fraught Partake of the divine. The ever present is the time For anguish to allay, And raise from depths, to heights sublime, The souls who cannot pray. SOiVGS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 97 Post-mortem kindness never brings Sweet smiles upon the dead; Our madrigal all hollow rings When chosen ones are fled. The flowers you'd place upon the biers Cull now with eager hand, And bathed with nature's sunny tears, Unite with love's sweet band. Bring then the hast'ning joys of earth To every troubled heart, And by your Midan touch of mirth New strength and hope impart. 98 SONGS, SOANETS AND ESSAYS AWAKENED JOY T WATCHED the dandelion unfold Its beauteous shield of shining gold, And saw the tiny creature's bliss When on it fell the sunbeam's kiss. I heard the goldfinch far away, Singing his joyous roundelay To field and stream and tree and flower, Even beyond the vesper hour. I wondered then, why I was cold, Why fetters strong my heart did hold ; I could not, like this flower, gold-spun, Drink in the glory of the sun ; Nor from my soul with shadows drear Sing like the finch, a song of cheer, Yet bird and flower awoke my lyre And set my chilling heart afire. SOA'GS, SONNETS AND ESSAYS 99