W.i'' i :.iaAUCER. THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY ATHOLI u OETS YWU eflAD6ER TO THE PRESENT DAY. risfio-is«i.) ETilTED B\_. ' ELIOT *RYDER.2^ "the poKTRV or kakiu in tt-ftrk dead." UM.l^. h\ joseph a . lyons, thp: university of notre dame: XOTKE DAME, INDIANA. 1881. 7K H\ < f<:^* C O P Y K I G U T , 1 S S 1 . By JOSEPH A. LYONS, A. M . L L . I) . ALL K I G U 1' S K K » E K V E I> . PREFACE No history of the Church would hv complete without a Jiistory of its literature; and no liistory of its literature would be complete without a comprehensive review of the poetry written by Catholics. Keats has beau- tifully and truly said that '"The poetry of earth is never dead." While the world lasts there will be poets to make verses, and people to read them. For poetr}', then, there is, and will always be, a demand. In this department of literature there are many sources of supply, but the lover of good verse is very apt to choose for liis reading some of the works of poets widely known to fame. That this is right and proper no one will call in question ; but there is a tendency to ignore the excellent work of many whom only the difflculty of access to their writings has prevented from betomiug famous. The lover of literature, unless he be a student, does not like to prepare his feasts of reason for himself ; he chooses, rather, to enjoy the dainty repasts provided b}- the patient labors of love of those who, knowing his desires and his nidolence, secure a reading of selections from their favorite authors b}- presenting tlitm in an attractive and convenient form. Hence the profusion of anthologies which happily furnish delight to the reader and spare liim a labor always arduous, and in too many instances distasteful Some years ago it was remarked to the editor of this volume by a learned clergyman in New York: ''How few persons are aware of the magnitude and excellence of the contributions to literature made by Catholics ! Take the field of poetry, for instance ; how many persons can tell you the names of a dozen Catholic poets'? They may know the poets, and be familiar witli their works, but tliey do not know them as Catholics The Reformation followed close upon the invention of printing, and all things pertaining to Catholic faith have been carefiflly withheld from the people. It is time that the chiUlren of our own Church should know what members of the Catholic faith have done : and that those who assume them to be lacking in either the power to produce, or the capacity to appreciate, literature, should be shown how egregiously tliey are in error." (V.) vi. PREFACE. This couversaliou resullod in llic uudertaking of whicli liiis volume is the i'ruit. It is to be questioned wliellier auy poetic collection was ever attended ^^•ith so many obstacles, and such great difficulties. As the very reverend clergyman had pointed out, it was by no means easy to locate many poets as Catholics. The various dictionaries and cyclopiedias of literature, all of them edited by Protestants, have carefully concealed the religious faith of nearly all Catholic writers of eminence, and those who were not exceedingly well known to fame have been ignoix'd altogether. When (as in the case of Po2)e; a writer's Catholicity has been noted, it is with an- assumption of surprise that any thing good could come from a "Papist" source. Indeed it may be truly said that the researches recjuired in ascertaining who were, and who were not. Catholics, has constituted the chief labor in preparing this volume. It has not been intended to include here a selection from all Catholics who have written poetiy. Several of the earlier English poets have been omitted for the reason that their productions figure but slightly in literature al the present day, and because their language, long since obsolete, is so unintelligible to the average reader, as to render selections from them uninteresting and unprofitable. Other omissions may be noted, for which to most readers the reasons will be obvious. Indeed, it is hardly to be expected that one should hope to find all his favorite poems includetl in any collection, however large. Few persons are agreed as to the merits of any one poem, and in compilations the compiler must be largely guided by his own taste and preference, although he may in some degree be infiu- enced by the varied and accepted judgments of others. The necessities imposed upon the editor have impelled him to take his selections almost entirely from the lyrical productions of the poets rejiresented ; and wherever practicable, the briefest poems have been used, in order that the volume might not assume too large proportions. In all cases where a poet of the first rank has been quoted, the utmost care has been used to con.sult the best editions ; and in the cases of others the selections have been taken from standard sources. The chronological arrangement has been adopted as affording a general survey of the progress of Catholic coutribution.s to poetic literature in connection with history. It is greatly to be regretted that this design could not be fully carried out, l)ut the timid modesty of many writers of the present day has prevented this, and Las necessitated an appendix with an alphabetical classification. It is to be hoped that tliis PREFACE. vu feature, which in a measure detracts from Ihc making of a perfect booli, m»y be remedied in thj near future, but this can not be done without the co-operation of the authors themselves. Tliere has been no purpose to present lengthy biographies, but rather to create a desire among the Catholic people to cultivate and explore for themselves the many beauties which their own brethren in the faith have produced. If in some instances it be noted that unusual space is given to the notice of an author, it will l)e found that information is conveyetl which can not be obtained in ordinary channels. The editor is not unaware of the learned discussions which liave taken place concerning the Oatholicity of Shakspere, and the ultimate return to the faith of ]\Iilton, as well as of the conversion of some other prominent poets. But it has been thought best not to admit into this work any matter which is open to d()ul)t. Especially is it desired that our poets of the younger generation shall meet witli that encouragement so often withheld, but which, when given, so frequently stimulates to vigorous effort fertile powers which had else lain dormant. For this reason the names of many whose ascent of Moun!, Parnassus has little more than begun, have been admitted. It is with deep gratitude that the editor acknowleges the services i-endered liim by various members of the clergy and literati. Especially is lie indebted to the Rev. James. J. Dougherty, John Savage, LL.D., John Boyle, Esq., Maurice F. Egau and Peter F. Collier, of New York City; the Very Rev. J. A. Rochford, O.P., of Washington, D. C, the Rev. D. E. Hudson, C.S.C, and the faculty of the University of Xotre Dame, and to Boyle O'Reilly, LL.D., of Boston. ELIOT RYDER. Univkusity of Notre Dame, August 15, 188L NAMES OF THE POETS. Acton, John. Ellet, Mrs. Elizabktfi Fuiks. Andrew op Wtntoun. Emery, Susan L. v Arkington, Alfred W. EsLiNG, Charles H. A. AzARiAS, Brother. ^ Faber, Rev. Frederic William. I). 1) Banim, John. Fitzgerald, Annie A Barbour, John. Fitzgerald. Marcella F. Benson, John K. Foran, James K. Berners. Juliana. Fullerton. Lady Georgian v. Blake, Mrs. Mary K. Boyle, John. Gahan, James Joseph. Brann, Rev. Henry A.. T). I). Garland, He.nry W. I. Brenan, Joseph. Geoghegan, William. Brown, Kev. Michael B (iODDARD, Vinton Augustixk. BuKKE, Mrs. Mary C. (iRiFFiN, Gerald. Birke, Rev. Thomas N., O. P. BuTLEK, Rev. Thomas Ambrose. Habington, William. Hamilton, William. Callanan, Jeremiah Joseph. Cassidy, Patrick Sarsfield. Caswall, Rev. Edward. Chaucer, Geoffrey. Cokain, Sir Aston. Connolly, Daniel. Constable, Henry. Conway, Katherine Kleanok. Hendry. Elizabeth Cakmki. Henrysoun, Robert. Hill, Rev. B D (FatlR'i- Eilimiml, C. P.j HoLLow.i^Y, Mrs. E. B. Hosmer, William H. C. Howard. Timothy E. Huntington, J. V. Hyde, Edward. Cook, Edith W. James I., of Scotland. Crash.\w, Richard. Ckonin, Rev. Patrick. Joyce, Robert Dwyer. CuMMiNGS, Rev. Jeremiah W., I). D. Keegan, John Curran. CURTIN, J. C. Kelly, William D. Dahlgren, Mrs. Madeleine Vinton. Kelly, William J. Kelly, William Louis. Davenant, William. Ue Verb, Sir Aubrey. Ketchum, Mrs. Annie Chambers. DiGBY, Sir Kenelme. Locke, John. Donnelly, Eleanor C. Lodge, Thomas. DoKSEY, JIf>s. Anna Hanson. DORWARD, Bernard Isaac. Mag INN, William. Douglas, Gavin. Mahony, Rev. Francis. DoYLE, P. Henry. Mangan, James Clarence. Dryden, John. Mannix, Mrs. Mary E. Duffy, Charles Gavan. Mary, Queen of Scots. Dunbar, William. Massinger, Philip. McCarthy, Denis Florence. Egan, Maurice Francis. McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. Elder, Mrs. Susan Blanchabd. McGkoghbgan, Thomas J. ix NAMES OF THE POETS. McLkod, Rev. Don'ald Xavier. McNamara, James. McPhelim. E. J. McPhelim, K. T. Mkehan, Rev. Charles. Miles, Geougk Henky. mooke, tuomas. More, Sir Thomas. MoiR, Marton. Mullen, Rev. Michael, I). 1) Newmak, Cardinal .1. H. XoRRis, Joseph W. S. O'Callaghan, T. D. O'Connor, Miciiakl. O'Hagan, Tho.mas. O'Hara, Theodore. O'Meara, Henry. O'Reilly, John Boyle. O'Ryan, Fkaxk. Patmore, Coventry. Phelan, Agnes V. M. Pope, Alexander. Procter, Adelaide .Vnne. Purcell, V. Rev. Edward. Roberts, Rebecca V. ROCHFURD, V. RkV. Joh.N .\ . RouQi'ETTE, Rev. Adrian. RossETTi, Christina G. RossETTi, Dante Gabriel. Russell, Rev. Matthew S. J. Evan, Rev. Abram J. Ryder, Eliot. Sadlier, Anna T. Savage, John. "" Scanlan, John F. Scanlan, Michael. Seton, Emily. Seton, William. Sherburne, Sir P^dward. Shirley, James. Skid-more, Harriet M. Smith, Sarah T. Southwell, Rev. Robert, 8. .1. Stage, Arthur J. Starr, Miss Eliza Allen. Stoddard, Charles Warrex. Stone, Rev. James Kent (FiUIut KiiU-lis.C.P Sullivan, Mrs. Margaret F. Tabu, John H. Treacv, Rev. William T., S J. Wavle.n-, Elizabeth. Wuitaker, Lily C. Whitaker, Mrs. M. S. Wilde, Rich.vrd Henry. Williams, Richard Dalton. Wiseman, Cardinal. Names of the Poets and Titles of the Poems, ARKAXGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORUEK. Geoffrey Chai'cek, 13 14()U, - To My Empty Purse, Praise of Womeu, \ An April Day, John Barbour, 1326 — 13JJ, Apostrophe to Freedom, Andrew of Wyntoun, (About) 14UU, Interview of St. Serf with Satlia James I., of Scotland, 1395 — 143T, Juliana Berners, 1400 — From the Epilogue, - Robert Hexrysonn, 14 i.'iUS. Tlie Garment of Good Ladies. AViLLiAM Dunbar, 1165—1520, Of Discretion in Giving, Of Discretion in Talcing, Gavin Douglas, 1474 — 1522, From a Description of May. Sir Thomas More, 1480— 15.^"), Fortune Described, Mary, Queen of Scots, 1342 i.")SS, Sonnet, - - - Robert Southwell, 1560 — 15H5. .- Love's Servile Lot, Time Goes by Turns. Loss In Delays, Thomas Lodge, 1556 — 1625, Rosalind's Madrigal, Hknry Constable, 1566 — Love's Troubles, - Damolus' Song to his Dia))lirin;i, I'HiLlP Massingek, 1584 — 16411, Death, - - - - .Iames Shirley, 1594 -1666, The Passing Bell, Death's Final Conquest. - Sir Kenelmk DlGBY, 1603 — l«6."i. - Life, Sii: William Davenant. 1605—1668, The Soldier Boy Going to the Fi Song, - - . - \Villiam Habixgion, 1605—1664, Cpon Castara's Departure, To Roses in the Bosom of Casim ige IT IT IT IT 18 IS William H.\bington— Continued. The Moment Last Past, A Lesson for Belles, Sir Aston Cokain, 1608—1683, To Plautia, Richard Crashaw, 1616—1630, Out of the Italian, rtin Edward Sherburne, 1618 — 1T02, Love Once, Love Ever, .'oiiv Dryden, 1631— ITOO, ■ Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, - An Incantation, Alkxander Pope, 1688— 1T41, - On Pride, The Jlessiah, The Dying Christian to liis Soul, William Hamilton, 1T04 — 1754, Song, - - - - Thomas Moore, 1779 — 1833, The Meeting of the Waters. - (), Blame Not the Bard! - The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Rich and Rare were tlie Gems Sli Wore, - - - A Hymn, - - - - Richard Henry Wilde, 1789- 1S4T. My Life is Like the Summer Rose. William Maginn, 1794-1842, I Give My Soldier Boy a Blade, - .T..L Callanan, 1795— 1829, Mary Magdalene, - If I Lose Tliee, I am Lost. - John Banim, 1798-1842, Ailleen, Rev. Francis Mahony iKatlur Trout 1800(?)— 1866. - The Bells of Sluuulon, The Flight into Egypt. Popular Recollections of lidiiiiiiarn Cardinal Newman, 1801— The Queen of the Seasons. Valentine to a Little Girl. Submission, Cardinal Wiseman. 1SU2— 1865. - Sonnet, Page ■ 29 30 ■ 30 30 - 30 30 xii NAMES OF POETS AND TITLES OF POEMS. Cardixai, Wiseman — Continued. Vxgh 1'agk Sonnet to St. Thomas, 4,5 I^EV. .1. W. CUMMINGS, D. D., 1822— 1SC,6, 711 Jamks Clarence Manoan, 1S03— 1S4 158 The Lily, - 175 xiv HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY OF CATHOLIC POETS, THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY OF CATHOLIC POETS. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 13 — 1400. The time and place of tlie birth of this eminent poet ai'e uncertain. He lived in the fourteenth century, and died in 1400. He is designated as the father of English poetry. The obsolete phraseology of his writings, though presenting a barrier to general appreciation and popularity, will never deter those who truly love the "dainties that are bred in a book," from holding him in affection and reverence. His chief work, "The Canterbury Pilgrim- age," was written in the decline of life, when its author had passed his sixtieth year. For catholicity of spirit, love of na- ture, purity of thought, pathos, humor, subtle and minute discrimination of char- acter and power of expressing it, Chaucer has but one superior— Shakspere. TO MY EMPTY PURSE. To you, my purse, and to none other wight. Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere ; Me were as lefe be laid upon a here. For which unto your mercy thus 1 crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowiie may liere. Or see your color like the sunne briglit, Tliat of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die, Now, purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as down in this world here. Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, • But I pray unto your curtesie. Be heavy again, or els mote 1 die. PRAISE OF WOMEN. For, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie, In women is all truth and steadfastness; For, in good faith, I never of them sie But much worship, bounty, and gentle- ness. Right coming, fair, and full of meekness; Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure, Is this goodly and angelic creature. And if it hap a man be in disease. She doth her business and her full pain With all her might him to comfort and please. If fro his disease him she might restrain: In word ne deed, I wis, she woll not faine; With all her might she doth her business To bringen him out of his heaviness. Lo, here what gentleness these women have, If we could know it for our rudeness! How busy they be us to keep and save Both in hele and also in sickness, And alway right sorry for our distress! In every manure thus shew they ruth, That in them is all goodness and all truth. S 17 AN APRIL DAY. Ail day the low-hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fulness down; 18 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY All day that soft gray mist hath wrapt Hill, valley, grove, and town. There has not been a sound today To break the calm of nature, Nor motion, I miaht almost say, Of life or living creature, Of waving bough or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing; I could have half believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing. I stood to hear— I love it well, — The rain's continuous sound- Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, Down straight into the ground. For leafy thickness is not yet Earth's naked breast to screen. Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green. Sure, since I looked at early morn, Those honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs. That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now, upon my senses first Methinks their sweets are stealing. The very earth, the steamy air Is all with fragrance rife; And grace and beauty everywhere Are flushing into life. Down, down they come— those fruitful stores ! Those earth-rejoicing drops ! A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops. And ere the dimples on the stream Have circled out of sight, Lo ! from the west a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light. But yet behold— abrupt and loud. Comes down the glittering rain; The farewell of a passing cloud. The fringes of her train. JOHN BARBOUR. 1326— 1396. John Barbour is supposed to have been born about 1326. In 1357 he was arch- deacon of Aberdeen. He wrote two long poems, "The Brute," and "The Bruce," which are now but little known. He died in 1396. APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM. (In modern spelling.) Ah ! Freedom is a noble thing. Freedom makes man to have likening; Freedom all solace to man gives; He lives at ease who freely lives. A noble heart may have no ease, Nor else naught that may him please, If freedom fails: for free likt'ing Is yearned o'er all other thing, Nor he that ayes has lived free, May not know well the property. The anger, nor the wretched doom, That is coupled to foul thraldom. ANDREW OF WYNTOUN. 1400. Andrew of Wyntoun, prior of St. SerPs Monastery in Lochleven, about the year 1120, completed, in eight-syllable meter, an Oryginale Cronykil of Scotland, which may be considered as a Scottish member of the rhymed chronicles. The genius of this author is inferior to thai oi Barbour, but his versification is easy, his language pure, and his style often animated. The dates of his birth and death are not known. INTERVIEW OF ST. SERF WITH SATHANAS. While St. Serf, intil a stead Lay after matins in his bed. The devil came, in foul intent For til found him with argument. And said, " St. Serf, by thy werk, I ken thou art a cunning clerk." St. Serf said: "Gif I sae be. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 19 Foul wretch, what is tliat for tliee?" The devil said: "This question I ask in one collation- Say where was God, wit ye oucht. Before that heaven and erd was wi oucht?"' St. Serf said: "In himself steadless, His Godhead hampered never was." The devil then askit, "What cause He had To make tiie creatures that ho made?" To that St. Serf answered there, "Of creatures made he was maker. A maker micht he never be, But gif creatures made had he." The devil askit iiim, "Why God of nouclit His werkis all full gude had wroucht?" St. Serf answered, "Tliat Goddis will Was never to make his werkis ill. And as envious as he had been seen, Gif nought but he full good had been." St. Serf the devil askit than, "Where God made Adam the first man?" "In Ebron Adam formit was," St. Serf said. And til him Satlianas, "Where was he, eft that, for his vice, He was put out of Paradise?" St. Serf said: " Wiiere he was made." The devil askit, "How long he bade In Paradise, after his sin?" " Seven hours," Serf said, " bade he there- in." " When Eve was made ?" said Sathanas. "In Paradise," Serf said, "slie was."* * The devil askit, "Why that ye Men, are quite delivered free. Through Christ's passion precious boucht. And we devils sae are nauclit ? " St. Serf said, "For that ye Fell through your own iniquity; And through ourselves we never fell; But througli your fellow false counsel!." Then saw the devil that he could noucht. With all the wiles that he wroucht. Overcome St. Serf. He said than He keened him for a wise man. Forthy there he eave him quit, For he wan at him na profit. St. Serf said, " Thou wretch, gae Frae this stead, and 'noy nae mao Into this stead, I bid ye." Suddenly then passed he; Frae that stead he held his way, And never was seen there to this day. JAMES. I. OF SCOTLAND. '395—1437- James I. of Scotland was born in 1395, and was assassinated at Perth, in 1437. His principal poem, " The King's Quhair," contains poetry superior to any besides that of Chaucer, produced in England be- fore the reign of Elizabeth, as will be tes- tified to by the following verses : [James I., a Prisoner in Windsor, first sees Lady Jane Beavfort, who after- wards was his Queen.] Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, And to the window gan I walk in hyi To see the world and folk that went for- bye,2 As, for the time, though I of mirthis food Might have no more, to look it did me good. Now was there made, fast by the towris wall, A garden fair; and in the corners set Ane arbour green, with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet. That lyf was none walking there forbye, That might within scarce any wight espy So thick the boughis and the leavis green Beshaded all the alleys that there were, And mids of every arbour might be seen The sharpe greene sweete juniper. Growing so fair with branches here and there, That as it seemed to a lyf without. The boughis spread tiie arbour all about. And on the smalle greene wtistiss sat, Tiie little sweete nightingale, and sung 1 Haste. 2 Past. 8 Twig*. 20 THE HOUSHEOLD LIBRA.RY So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song. ♦ * Cast 1 down mine eyes again, Where as I saw, wallving under the tower. Full secretly, new comen here to plain. The fairist or the freshest younge flower That ever 1 saw, methougiit, before tiiat hour. For which sudden abate, anon astart,> The blood of all my body to my heart. And though I stood abasit tho a lite,^ No wonder was, for why? my wittis all Were so overcome with pleasance and de- light. Only through letting of my eyen fall. That suddenly my heart became her tluall For ever of free will, — for of menace There was no token in her sweete face. And in my head I drew right hastily. And eftesoons I leant it out again. And saw her walk that very womanly. With no wight mo,' but only woman twain. Then gan I study in myself, and sayn.s "Ah, sweet ! are ye a worldly creature, Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature ? "Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comin ai-e to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand, This garden full of flowers as they stand? What shall I think, alas ! what rever- ence Shall I mister* unto your excellence? If ye a goddess be, and that ye like To do me pain, I may it not astarti^ If ye be wardly wight, that doth me sike,* Why list' God make you so, my dearest heart, To do a seelys prisoner this smart, 1 Went and came. 2 Confounded for a little while. 3 Say. 4 Minister. 5 Fly. 6 Makes me sigh. 7 Pleased. 8 Wretched. That loves you all, and wot of nought bu wo? And therefore mercy, sweet I sin' it is so." * * Of her array the form if I shall write, Towards her golden hair and rich attire. In fretwise couchiti with pearlis while And great balas^ learning^ as the fire. With mony ane emeraut and fair sap- phire; And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue. Of pluinis parted red, and white, and blue. Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, Forged of shape like to the amorets. So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold. The plumis eke like to the flower jonets,'* And other of shape, like to the flower jonets; And above all this, there was, well I wot, Beauty enough to make a world to doat. About her neek, white as the fire amail,* A goodly chain of small orfevory,* Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail. Like to ane heart shapen verily, That as a spark of low,' so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat. Now if there was good party,'^ God it wot. And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, Ane hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen to- forow,9 As I suppose; and girt she was alite.'o Thus halflings loose for haste, to such de- light It was to see her youth in goodlihede. That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport. Bounty, richess, and womanly feature, God belter wot than my pen can report: 1 Inlaid like fret work. 2 A kind of precious stone. 3 Glittering. 4 A kind of lily. It is conjectured that the royal poet may here covertly allude to the name of his mis- tress, which, in the diminutive, was Janet or Jonet. — Thomson's Ectilion of King Qulidir (Ayr, 1824). 5 Enamel. 6 Gold work. 7 Flame. 8 Match. 9 Before. 10 Slightly. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 21 Wisdom, largess, estate, and cuiiningi sure, In every point so guided her measure, in word, in deed. In shape, in counten- ance, That nature might no more her child avance ! * * * And when she walked had a little thraw Under the sweete greene boughis bent, Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw, She turned has, and furtli her wayis went; But tho began mine aches and torment. To see her part and follow I na might; Methought the day was turned into night. JULIANA BERNERS. 1400 . About 1481, Juliana Berners, a sistpr of Lord Berners, and Prioress of the Nun- nery of Sopewell, composed what is re- garded as the great literary curiosity of the lime, a work, coniaining treatises on hawking, hunting, and heraldry, which, in 1486, was printed. A second edition has a treatise on angling, and a sort of. lyrical epilogue to the treatise on hunting, which last is written in rhyme. We give the following: FROM THE EPILOGUE. A faithful friend I fain would find. To find him there he might be found, But now is this world wext so unkind. That friendship is fall to the ground. Now a friend I have found That I will neither ban ne^ curse; But all friends in field or town, Ever gramercys my own purse. li fell by me, upon a time. As it hath doo* by many rao,5 My horse, my neat, my sheep, my swine. And ail my goods they fell me fro; I went to my friends and told them so. And home again they bade me truss. I said again, when I was wo,'' Ever gramercy mine own purse. ROBERT HENRYSOUN. 14 1508. Of Robert Henrysoun there are no per- sonal memorials (although he was one of the most conspicuous of the Scottish poets of his day), save that he was a school-mas- ter at Dumfermline, is conjectured to have been a Benedictine monk, and died about 1508. He wrote a large number of poem?. 1 Knowledge, to. 4 Dune. 2 Xor. 6 More. 3 Great thanks 6. Sorrowful. THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES. Would my good lady love me best, And work after my will, I should a garment goodliest Gar make her body till.' Of high honoLir should be her hood, Upon her head to wear, Garnish'd with governance, so good Na deeming should her deir.* Her sark^ should be her body next. Of chastity so white: With shame and dread together mixt, The same should be perfyte.* Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, Lacit with lesum^ love; The mailies'' of continuance, For never to remove. Her gown should be of goodlinesg. Well ribbon'd with renown; ParfiU'd'' with pleasure in ilk!* place, Furrit with fine fashioun. Her belt should be of benignity. About her middle meet; Her mantle of humility. To thole^ both wind and weit.'» Her hat should be of fair having. And her tippet of truth; Her patelet of good pausing," Her hals-ribbon of ruth.i* Her sleeves should be of esperance, To keep her fra despair: 1 Cause to be made to her shape. 2 'No opinion should injure her. 3 Shift. 4 Per- fect. 5 Lawful. 6 Eyelet holes for lacing her kirtle. 7 ParflU (French), fringed, or bordered. 8 Each. 9 Endure. 10 Wet. 11 Thinking. 12 Her ucck-ribbon of pity. 23 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBKARY Her glovis of good governance, To hide her fingers fair. Her shoen should be of sickerness, In sign that she not slide; Her hose of honesty, I guess, I should for her provide. Would she put on this garment gay, I durst swear by my seill,i That she wore never green nor gray That set2 her half so weel. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 1465—1520. William Dunbar flourished at the court of James IV., at the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries. He was born about the year 1465, and is supposed to have died about 1520. He was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and took the degree of Master of Arts. He afterwards became a Fran- ciscan friar, in which capacity he travelled for some years, not only in Scotland, but also in England and France. After some years he left tlie priesthood. His writings are voluminous, yet with scarcely any ex- ception remained in the obscurity of manu- script until the beginning of the last cen- tury. But his fame has been gradually rising since then, and fifty years ago his works were issued in a complete edition. Sir Walter Scott pronounces Dunbar "a poet equal to any that Scotland has ever produced." OF DISCRETION IN GIVING. To speak of gifts and almos deeds: Some gives for merit, and some for meeds ; Some, wardly honour to uphie; Some gives to them that nothing needs; In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives for pride and glory vain; Some gives with grudging and with pain : Some gives on prattick for supplie; Some gives for twice as gude again: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives for thank, and some for threat; Some gives money, and some gives meat; Some givis wordis fair and slie; And gifts fra some may na man treit: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some is for gift sae lang required. While that the craver be so tired. That ere the gift delivered be. The thank is frustrate and expired: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives so little full wretchedly. That all his gifts are not set by,' And for a hood-pick halden is he. That all the warld cries on him, Fye 1 In Giving sould Discretion be. Some in his giving is so large. That all o'er-laden is his barge; Then vice and prodigalitie. There of his honour does discharge: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some to the rich gives his gear, That might his giftis weel forbear; And, though the poor for fault* sould die. His cry not entei's in his ear: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives to strangers with faces new, That jesterday fra Flanders flew;^ And to auld seiTants list not see. Were they never of sae great virtue: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gives to them can ask and pleinyie,* Some gives to them can flatter and feignie: Some gives to men of honestie, And halds all janglers at disdenyie: In Giving sould Discretion be. Some gettis gifts and rich arrays. To swear all that his master says, Though all the contrair weel knaws he; Are mony sic now in thir days: In Giving sould Discretion be. 1 Appreciated. 2 Starvation. 3 A large proportion of the strangers who visited Scot- land at this early period were probably from Flanders. 4 Complain. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 33 Some gives to gude men for their thews; Some gives to trumpours and to shrews; Some gives to knaw his autiioritie. But in their oEBce gude fund in few is; la Giving sould Discretion be^ Some givis parochines full wide, Kirlis of St. Bernard and St. Bride, The people to teach and to o'ersee, Though he nae wit has them to guide : In Giving sould Discretion be. OF DISCRETION IN TAKING, After Giving I speak of Taking, But little of ony gude forsaking; Some takes o'er little authoritie, And some o'er mickle, and that is glaik- ing:i In Taking sould Discretion be. The clerks takes benefices with brawls, Some of St. Peter and some of St. Paul's; Tak he the rents, no care has he, Suppose the dev.l tak all their sauls: In taking sould Discretion be. Barons taks fra the tenants puir All fruit tiiat growis on the fur, In mails and gersotus' raisit o'er him. And gars them beg fra door to door : In taking sould Discretion be. Some merchants taks unleesome^ wine, Whilk maks their packs oft time full thin By their succession, as ye may see, That ill-won gear 'riches not the kin: In Taking sould Discretion be. Some talcs other mennis tacks,'* And on tlie puir oppression maks, And never remembers that he maun die, Till that the gallows gars him rax:* la Taking sould Discretion be. Some taks by sea, and some by land. And never fra taking can hold their hand, Till he be tyit up to ane tree; And syne they gar him understand, In Taking sould discretion be. 1 Foolish. 2 Rents and fines of entry. 8 Unlawful. 4 Leases. 5 Till the gallows stretches him. Some wald tak all his neighbor's gear; Had he of man as little fear As he has dread that God hira see; To tak then sould he never forbear: In Taking sould Discretiou be. Some wald tak all this warld on breid;' And yet not satisfied of their need. Through heart unsatiable and greedie: Some would tak little, and cannot speed : la Taking sould Discretion be. Great men for taking and oppression. Are set full famous at the Session,* And puir takers are hangit hie, Shawit forever and their succession: In Taking sould Discretion be. GAVIN DOUGLAS. 1474—1522- Gavin Douglas, born about the year 1474, was educated for the church, and rose through a variety of inferior offices to be Bishop of Dunkeld. After occupy- ing a prominent place in tlie history of his country, he died of the plague in Loa- don, in the year 1522. His principal orig- inal composiiion is a long poem called " The Palace of Honor. FROM A DESCRIPTION OF MAY.* And lusty Flora did her bloomes sprede Under the feet of Phebus sulyeart^ steed: The swardit'* soil, embrode* with sel- couths hues Wood and fordst obumbrate' with the bews,8 Whais^ blissful branches, portrayed 00 the ground With shadows sheen, show rochisiorubi- cund, Towers, turrets, kirnals," and pinnacles high *In Ellis's Specimens. The spelling Is per- haps somewhat modernized. 1 In its whole breadth. 2 Get high places In the supreme court of law. 3 Sultry. 4 Turfed. 5 Embroidered. 6 Uncommon. 7 Shade. 8 Boughs. 9 Whose. 10 Kocks. 11 Battlements. 24 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Of kirkis,' castles, and ilk fair city: Stood paintit every fane, phiall,^ and stage, Upon the plain ground hy their own um- brage. The daisy did un-braid her crownel small, And every flower unlappit^ in the dale. Sere downis small on dentilion* sprang, The young, green, bloomit strawberry leaves amang; Gimps Gilliflowtjrs their own leaves un- schet,* Fresh primrose and pourpour violet. SIR THOMAS MORE. 1480— iS3S. Sir Thomas More, the celebrated chan- cellor of Henry VIIL, was born in 1480, and, in consequence of his disapproval of the divorce of his monarch from his lawful wife, in 1535 was executed. He was the author of a few short poems of considerable merit. FORTUNE DESCRIBED. Then, as a bait, she bringeth forth her ware. Silver and gold, rich pearl and precious stone. On which the raasfed people gaze and stare. And gape therefor, as dogs do for the bone. Fast by her side doth weary labor stand. Pale fear, also, and sorrow all bewept; Disdain and hatred on that other hand, Eke restless watch, from sleep with tra- vail kept, Befoi'e her standeth danger and envy. Flattery, deceit, mischief, and tyrann.v. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 1542—1588. This unfortunate queen was born in 1542, and on pretences which probably few writers at this time will justify, was exe- 1 Churches. 2 Cupola. S Unfolded. 4 Dandelion. S Pretty. 6 TJnshut. cuted in 1588. She did not understand Englisii, but composed verses in Latin and French with great facility. The follow- ing is a translation: SONNET. Alas ! what am I, and in what estate? A wretched corse, bereaved of its heart; An empty shadow, lost, unfortunate. To die is now in life my only part. Foes to my greatness, let your envy rest ! In me no taste for grandeur now is found, Consum'd by grief, by heavy ills oppress'd. Your wishes and desires will soon be crown'd. And you, my friends, who still have held me dear, Bethink you that when health and heart are fled. And every hope of future good is dead, 'Tis time to wish our sorrows ended here; And that this punishment on earth is given, That my pure soul may rise to endless bliss in heaven. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1560— 1595. Robert Southwell occupies a high place among the poetical lights of the reign of Elizabeth. He was born in 1560 at St. Faith's, Norfolk, of Catholic parents, was educated at Douay, in Flanders, and at Rome, where, at sixteen years of age, he entered the Society of Jesus. In 1584 he returned to. his native country as a mis- sionary, notwithstanding a law which threatened with death all members of his profession found in England. He con- tinued his work for eight years, when, in 1593, he was apprehended and committed to a dungeon in the tower of London. After three years he was brousht to trial, and found guilty, upon his own confes- sion of being a Catholic priest, and was condemned to death, and executed at Tyborn. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 25 LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. She shroutleth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill; She offereth joy, but bringeth grief; A l chaiacterized him as a man of yf^i't genius. ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. I. Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with mo. Now with his feet. Within mine eyes lie makes his nest. His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye. IL And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight. And makes his pillow of my knee. The live-long night. Strike I ray lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if 1 do sing; He lends me every lovely thing: Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. Whist, wanton, still ye I IIL Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence; And bind you when you long to play, For your offence. I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin; Alas, what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me? IV. What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a gou. Then sit thou safi ij on my knee. And let thy bower my bosom be: Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. O Cupid ! so thou pity me. Spare not, but play thee ! HENRY CONSTABLE. 1566—. Henry Constable was born about 1566. He took his degree at Cambridge in 1579. He was noted as a sonnetteer. He is sup- posed to have been the Henry Constable who, for his zeal in the Catholic cause, was long obliged to live in a state of ban- ishment, and, having privately returned to London, was imprisoned in the tower. The year of bis death is not known. LOVE'S TROUBLES. To tread a maze that never shall have end; To burn in sighs and starve in daily tears; To climb a bill, and neTer to descend, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 27 Giants to kill, and quake at cliildish DEATH. fears; Why art thou slow, thou rest o\ tiouble. To pine for food, and watch tlie Hespe- Death, rian tree; To stop a wretch's breath. To thirst for drink, and nectar still to That calls on thee, and offers her sad draw; heart To live accurst, whom men hold blest to be ; A prey unto thy dart? And weep those wrongs which never I am not young, nor fair; be, therefore. creature saw; bold: It this be love, and love in these be found- Sorrow hath made me old. ed, Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can My heart is love, for these are in it crave grounded. Is quiet in ray grave. Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel: DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA. I. Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily. But to me thou art cruel. It thou end not my tedious misery, And I soon cease to be. Strike, and strike home, then; pity unto me, In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. Heigh ho, how I do love thee I I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams; How blest were I it thou wouldst JAIklES SHIRLEl prove me ! 1594 — 1666. II. James Shirley, one of the great English Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, dramatic poets, was born in London in That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, 1594. He was a convert to the Catholic Fair sweet, how I do love thee I faith. His works consist of thirty- nine I do love thee as each flower plays, and a volume of poems. In 1666 Loves ihe sun's life-giving power; the great fire of London drove him, with For dead, thy breath to life might i)is family, from his home, and soon after- move me. wards both he and his wife died on th« HI. same day. Diaphenia, like to all things blessed. When all thy praises are expressed, THE PASSING-BELL. Dear joy, how I do love thee ! As the birds do love ihe Spring, Or the bees their careful king; Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! Hark ! how chimes the passing-bell, There's no music to a knell: All the other sounds we hear Flatter, and but cheat our ear. o This doth put us still in mind PHILIP MASSINGER. That our flesh must be resigned. And a general silence made. 15S4 — 1640. The world be mufHed in a shade Philip Massinger was born in Salisbury, He that on his pillow lies, England, in 1584. He wrote numerous Tear-embalmed before he dies, plays, many of which were lost by being Carries, like a sheep, his life burned by an ignorant hireling. Many To meet the sacrificer's knife. of Massinger's occasional verses are very And for Eternity is prest, beautiful. He died in 1640. Sad bell-wether to the rest. 28 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. I. The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate; Death lays his ley hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 11. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another stiU: Early or late They stoop to Fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. III. The garlands wither on your brow. Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. SIR KENELME DIGBY. 1603 — 1665. Sir Kenelme Digby. one of the most noted and remarkable men of his time, was born at Gothurst, in 1603. He was educated at Oxford, and having completed his studies, travelled in France, Spain and Italy. He was a convert to the Catholic faith, and his conversion seems to have been first publicly professed in 1636. He wrote many works in prose and verse. His death occurred June 11, 1665. Of a poem ascribed to him, Ellis cites the fol- lowing passage: LIFE. Fame, honor, beauty, state, trains, blood, and birth. Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. I would be great but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the highest hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak More subject to the rending thunder- stroke; I would be wise, but that the fox I see Suspected guilty, while the ass goes free; I would be fair, but see that champion proud, The brightest sun, oft setting in a cloud. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 160S— 1668. Sir William Davenant was born in 16U5, and was the son of a vintner at Oxford. About the year 1628 he began to write for the stage, and in 1638, on the death of Ben Jonson, he was appointed poet lau- reate. He died April 7, 1668. Davenant was a convert to Catholicity. THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD. Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl. To purify the air: Thy tears to thread instead of pearl. On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse. And wakes the louder drum; Expense of grief gains no remorse. When sorrow should be dumb. For I umst go where lazy Peace Will hide her drowsy head. And, for the sport of kings, increase The number of the dead ! But first I'll chide thy cruel theft. Can I in war delight. Who being of my lieart bereft Can have no heart to fight? Thou know'st the sacred laws of old Ordained a thief should pay, To quit him of his theft, seven-fold What he had stolen away. Thy payment shall but double be: then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me, Accompanied with thine. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 29 SONG. Tlie lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings; Ho takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings. Awake, awake, the morn will never rise Till she can dress her heauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The plowman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn. Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 1605 — 1654. William Habington was born in 1605, of a Catholic family, in Worcestershire, England. He was educated at Paris and St. Omer's. By his literary attainments he won the favor of Charles I., at whose request he wrote a history of Edward IV. He also wrote "Observations upon His- tory," and "The Queen of Arragon," a play which was acted at Court. He died in 1654. His poetry is remarkable for its delicacy and elegance. UPON CASTARA'S DEPARTURE. Vows are vain. No suppliant breatli Stays the speed of swift-heeled Death. Life witli her is gone, and I Learn but a new way to die. S.^e, the flowers condole, and all Wither in my funeral. The bright lily, as if day Parted with her, fades away. Violets hang their heads and loso All their beauty. That the rose A sad part in sorrow bears, Witness all those dewy tears, Which as pearl, or diamond like. Swell upon her blushing cheek. All things mourn. But 0, behold How the withered marigold Closeth up now she is gone. Judging her the setting sun. TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CAS- TARA. 1. Ye, blushing virgins, happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair. Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests. IL Transplanted thus how briglit ye grow. How rich a perfume do ye yield ! In some close garden, cowslips so Are sweeter than i' the open field. IIL In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath; E ich hour more innocent and pure. Till you shall wither into death. IV. Then that which living gave you room. Your glorious sepulchre shall be: There wants no marble for a tomb. Whose heart hath marble been to me. THE MOMENT LAST PAST. O whither dost thou fiye? Can not my vow Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now, And thou art gone ; like ships wliich plough the sea. And leave no print for man to tracke the way. unseene wealth ! who thee did husband, can Out- vie the jewels of the ocean. The mines of th' earth ! One sigh well- spent in thee Had beene a purchase for eternity ! We will not loose thee then. Castara, where Shall we tinde out his hidden sepulcher; 30 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And wee'le revive him. Not tlie cruell stealth Of fate sliall rob us of so great a wealth. Undone in thrift ! while we besought him stay, Ten of his fellow-moments fled away. A LESSON FOR BELLES. Faire Madame ! You May see what's man in jond' bright rose, Though it the wealth of Nature owes, It is opprest, and bends with dew. Which shewes, though fate May promise still to warme our lippes, And keepe our eyes from an ecclips; It will our pride with teares abate. Poor silly flowre ! Though in thy beauty thou presume, And breatli which doth the Spring per- fume; Thou may'st be cropt, this very houre. And though it may Then thy good fortune be, to rest 0' th' pillow of some Ladle's brest; Thou'lt wither, and be throwne away. For 'tis thy doome However, that there shall appeare No memory that ihou grew'st heere, Ere the tempestuous winter come. SIR ASTON COKAIN. 1608— 1683. Sir Aston Cokain was born at Ashbourn, in 1608. He studied at both Oxford and Cambridge. He led a retired life during the civil wars, and suffered much for his religion. He died in 1683. He published a volume of verse called "Poems of Divers Sorts." TO PLAU'lIA. I can behold thy golden hair. And for the owner nothing care; Thy starry eyes can look upon, And be mine own when I have done; Can view the garden of thy cheeks, And slight the roses there as leeks; My liberty thou canst not wrong With all the magic of thy tongue; For thou art false, and wilt be so, I else no other fair would woo. Away ! therefore; tempt me no more ! I'll not be won with all thy store. RICHARD CRASHAW. 1616 — 1650. Richard Crashaw is supposed to have been born in 1616. He graduated at Cam- bridge in 1633. He wrote many poems of considerable merit. Owing to religious troubles he left England and went to Italy, where he became secretary to one of the C.irdinals, and canon of the church of Lore! to. In this situation he died in 1650. He wrote many Latin poems, in one of which occurs the beautiful line: " Lymplim pudica Denm vldit et erubuit." (The conscious water saw its God and blushed.) These Latin poems are greatly admired. OUT OF THE ITALIAN. I. To tliy lover, Dear, discover That sweet blush of thine that shameth (When those roses It discloses) All the flowers that Nature nameth. II. In free air Flow thy hair That no more Summer's best dresses Be beholden For their golden Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses. III. O deliver Love his quiver; From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, Where Apollo Can not follow. Feathered with his mother's sparrows. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 81 IV. envy not (That we die not) Those dear lips whose door encloses All the Graces In their places, Brother pearls, and sister roses ! V. From these treasures OC ripe pleasures One bright smile to clear the weather: Earth and heaven, Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. VI. The air does woo thee, Winds cUng to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee, S orm and thunder Would sit under, And keep silence round about thee. VII. But if Nature's Common creatures So dear glories dare not borrow; Yet thy beauty Owes a duty To my loving, lingering sorrow, VIII When to end me Death shall send me All his terrors to affright me; Thine eyes, graces Gild their faces. And those terrors shall delight me. IX. When my dying Lite is flying, Those sweet airs that often slew me Shall revive me, Or reprieve me, A.nd to many deaths renew me. SIR EDWAKD SHERBURNE. 1618 — 1702. Sir Edward Sherburne was born in Lon- don in 1618. His Catholicity subjected him to many persecutions. At the Resto- ration he was knighted. He died in 1702. He wrote several translations and poems. LOVE ONCE, LOVE EVER. Shall I, hopeless, then pursue A fair shadow that still flies me? Shall I still adore, and woo A proud heart that does despise me? I a constant love may so. But, alas ! a fruitless show. Shall I by the erring light Of two Grosser stars still sail? That do shine, but siiine in spite. Not to guide, but make me fail? I a wandering course may steer, But the harbour ne'er come near. Whilst these thoughts my soul possess, Reason passion would o'ersway. Bidding me my flames suppress, Or divert some other way: But what reason would pursue, That my heart runs counter to. So a pilot, bent to make Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take. Sailing to the unknown strand: But that, steer which way he will, To the loved North points still. JOHN DRYDEN. 1631 — 1700. John Dryden is supposed to have been born at Aldwinckle, in 16J1. In 1670 he was made poet laureate, and Royal His- toriographer, and in 1685 publicly ac- knowledged himself a convert to the Catholic faith. He died in 1700. His poems are remarkable for power of ex- pression and reasoning, and his works occupy a deservedly high rank in English literature. He was buried among the poets in Westminster Abbey, where a plain tablet simply records his name. ODE TO ST. CECILIA'S DAY. L From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began. 32 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY When nature, underneath a heap Ot jarring atoms lay. And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, "Arise, ye more than dead." Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to tiieir stations leap, And music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony. This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran. The diapason closing full in man. II. What passion can not music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the corded shell. His listening brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship tliat celestial sound. Less than a God, they thought there could not dwell Witliin the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well — What passion can not music raise and quell? in. The trumpet's loud charger Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms — The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, " hark ! the foe comes. Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." IV. The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of iiapless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. V. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation. Fury, frantic indignation. Depths of pain and hight of passion For the fair, disdainful dame. VI. But oh ! what art can teach. What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love. Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. VII. Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place. Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher. When to iier organ vocal breath was given. An angel heard, and straight appeared, Mistaking earth for heaven. GRAND CHORUS. As from the power of sacred lays Tne spheres began to move, And sang the great Creator's praise To all the bless'd above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high. The dead shall live, the living die. And music shall untune the sky. AN INCANTATION. L Choose the darkest part o' th' grove, Such as ghosts at noonday love. Dig a trench, and dig it nigh Where the bones of Laius lie; Altars raised of turf, or stone. Will the infernal powers have none. Answer me, if this be done? 'Tis done. IL Is the sacrifice made fit? Draw her backward to the pit: Draw the barren heifer back: Barren let her be, and black. Cut the curled hair that grows Fall betwixt her horns and brows; And turn your faces from the sun. Answer me, if this be done? 'Tis done. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 83 in. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine, To Mother Earth and Proserpine: Mingle milk into the stream; Feast the ghosts that love the steam: Snatch a brand from funeral pile: Toss it in, to make them boil; And turn your faces from the sun. Answer me, if this be done? 'Tis done. ALEXANDER POPE. 1688 — 1744. Alexander Pope was born in London in 1688, died in 1744, As a poet, Pope holds a first place. In his " Rape of the Lock " he has blended the most delicate satire with the most lively fancy, and produced the finest and most brilliant mock-heroic poem in the world. His '• Essay on Man,'' "Essay on Criticism," and "Temple of Fame," are each unsurpassed in beauty and elegance of style. ON PRIDE. Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, ■yViiat the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Wiiatever nature has in worth denied. She gives in large recruits of needful pride I For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind, Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our de- fence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of every friend— and every foe, A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not tlie Pierian spring: 8 Tliere shallow draughts intoxicate the brain; And drinking largely sobers it again. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts. In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise. New distant scenes of endless science rise ! So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthen'd way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wonder^ ing eyes; Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. THE MESSIAH. Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flow'r with fragrance fills the skies: The etiiereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. And on its top descends the mystic dove. Ye heavens ! from higli the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r! The sick and weak, the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes sliall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand ex- tend, 34 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn; Oh, spring to light, auspicious Babe; be born! Harlj ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! Lo ! earth receives him from the bending sliies: Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys rise ! With heads reclined, ye cedars homage pay; Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way ! The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards fore- told; Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, be- hold. He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day: 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear. And bid new music charm the unfolding ear; The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world sliall hear; From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. As the good sliepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air; Elxplores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. By day o'ersees them, and by night pro- tects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his band, and in his bosom warms; Thus shall mankind his guardian care en- gage. The promised Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes. Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er. The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend. And the broad falchion in a plowshare end. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead. And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger leai The steer and lion at one crib shall inee', And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hands shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake. Please- 1 the green lustre of the scales survv. And with their forky tongue shall inno- cently play. The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving power re- mains; Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messah reigns ! THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife. And let me languish into life ! Hark ! they whisper— angels say, " Sister spirit, come away !" What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts ray sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes, it disappears ! Heaven opens to my eyes !— my ears OF CATHOLIC POETS. 85 With sounds seraphic ring; All nature seemed in still repose Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! Her voice alone to hear, Grave I where is thy victory? That gently rolled the tuneful wave. Death ! where is thy sting? She spoke, she blessed my ear; " Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy WILLIAM HAMILTON. You fondly fancy mine; Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast 1704 — 1754. Love renders wholly thine." William Hamilton, of Bangour, was horn in Scotland in 170i, In 1745 he The woods struck up to the soft gale, joined the standard of the pretender, Tiie leaves were seen to move, Prince Charles. On the discomfiture of Tiie feathered choir resumed their voice. the party he escaped to France, but was And wonder filled the grove. soon pardoned. He wrote many lyrical The hills and dales again resound poems. He died in 1754. The lambkin's tender cry. With all his murmurs Yarrow trilled SONG. The song of triumph by; Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, Above, beneath, around, on all Where Yarrow streams along, Was verdure, beauty, song; Forsake your rural toils, and join I snatched her to my trembling breast, In my triumphant song. And nature joyed along. Slie grants, siie yields; one heavenly smile Atones her long delays, THOMAS MOORE. One liappy minute crowns the pains Of many suffering days. 1779— 1852. Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, May Raise, raise the victor notes of joy, 28, 1779, and died February 25, 1852. Of These suffering days are o'er; his life and works it is not necessary to Love satiates now his boundless wish speak. They have rendered him famous From beauty's boundless store. No doubtful liopes, no anxious fears, the world over. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. This rising calm destroy; Now every prospect smiles around, There is not in the wide world a valley so All opening into joy. sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright Tne sun with double lustre shone waters meet; That dear consenting hour. Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must Brightened each hill, and o'er each vale depart. New colored every flower. Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. The gales iheir gentle sighs withheld. No leaf was seen to move. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er The hovering songsters round were mute. the scene And wonder hushed the grove. Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; The hills and dales no more resound 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or The lambkin's tender cry; hill, Without one murmur Yarrow stole Oh, no,— it was something more exquisite In dimpling silence by; still. 86 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY *Twa8 that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantr ment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of na- ture improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca 1 how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with tlie friends I love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- gled in peace. OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.* Oh 1 blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in hap- pier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, thac now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to tlie warrior's dart;t And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. *We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, de- scribes In his "State of Ireland," and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty tlowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the grac- ing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify vir- tue." tit Is conjectured, by Wormlus, that the name of Ireland is derived from Tr, the Kunic for a bow, In the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is cer- tainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire. from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." — Lloyd's State Worthies, art. T/ie Lord Qrandeson. Bit alas for his country !— her pride is eone by. And that spirit is broken, whicli never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learu'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way. Must be c lught from the pile, where their country expures. Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream. He should try to forget what he never can heal; Oh ! give but a hope— let a vista but gleam Through the gloom ot his country, and mark how he'li feel ! That instant, iiis heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it artor'd ; Wliile tiie myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodious, should cover his sword.* But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp sliall be sent o'er the deep. Till thy masters themselves, as Uiey rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep. *See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus— " I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like I Harmodius, and Aristogiton," etc. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 87 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* "They made her a grave, too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her light canoe. And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see. And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, Wiien the footstep of death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds— His path was rugged and sore. Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And, when on the earth he sank to sleep. If slumber his eyelids knew. He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "0, when shall I see the dusky lake, And the white canoe of my dear ?" He saw the lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played— "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light ! " *"They tell of a young man who lost Ws mind upon the deaili of a girl he loved, and who, sud- d( nly disapp,\u-iiig from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was nor dead, but gone to th'^ Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness and had died of hunger or been lost in some of Its dread- ful morasses." The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, Va., where lliis ballad was written, and the Lake in the m.ddle of it (about seven miles long; is called Druiumond's Pond. And the dim shore echoed, for many a night. The name of the death-cold maid. Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark. Which carried him off from shore ; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark. And the boat returned no more. But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe I RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.* AiB — The Summer is coming. Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. " Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray. So lone and lovely through this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " "Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm— For though they love women and golden store. Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more I " * This ballad Is founded upon the following anecdote: " The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue and religion, by the great example of Bjien, and by his excellent ad- ministration, that, as a proof of it, we are in- formed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, under- took a journey alone from one end of the king- dom to the otlier, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clotlies or jewels." — Warner's History qf Ire- land, vol. i, book 10. 38 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY On she went, and her maiden smile In safety liglited her round the green isle, And blessed forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erm's pride I A HYMN. Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night, Her hand may sow the seeds of light— Thy Grace can send its breathing o'er The spirit, dark and lost before. And, fresli'ning all its depths, pijpare For Truth divine to enter there. Till David touch'd his sacred lyre In silence lay th' unbreathing wire ; But when he swept its chords along, Ev'n angels stoop'd to hear that song. So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord, Shall deign to touch its lifeles? cliori— Till, waked by Thee, its brea;h shall rise In music, worthy of the skies ! RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 1789—1847. Richard Henry Wilde was born in Dub- lin in 1789, and, with his parents, came to Baltimore in 1797. Some years later his family removed to Georgia. He was ad- mitted to the bar in 1815, and became At- torney-general of the State. He several times represented Georgia in tiie National Congress. In 1844 he went to New Or- leans, and becami^ a Professor of Law In the University of Louisiana, which post he retained until his death on September 10, 1847. The following poem has ren- dered him famous: MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the Summer rose, That opens to the morning sky. But ere the shades of evening close, Is scatter'd on the ground to die ! Yet on the humble rose's bed, The sweetest dews of night are shed; As if she wept the waste to see;— But none shall weep a tear for me 1 My life is like the Autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail, its date is brief. Restless, and soon to pass away I Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,— But none shall breathe a sigh for me I My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand I Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race. On that lone shore loud moans the sea,- But none, alas, shall mourn for me I WILLIAM MAGINN". 1794-1842. William Miginn was born in Cork, November It, 1794, and died at Walion- on-Thames, near London, August 21, 1842. He wrote numerous and valuable papers for the magazines, which were distin- guished for their wit and sclioiarship. Maginn was the founder of Frazer's Mag- azine, in the conducting of which he was supported by " F.ither Prout," and other famous writers. I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE. I give my soldier-boy a blade; In fair D.imascus fashioned well: Who first tiie glittering falchion swayed. Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling base or low, I gave my soldier- boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done; As calm, as clear, as cool of mood. Be thou whene'er it sees the sun ; For country's claim, at honor's call. For outraged friend, insulted mai Which the feet of Christ have coasted before? For the angel of death alone can deliver Grief-laden souls that are yearning to soar. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 66 for the faith all my darkness to brighten; O for the faith all the demons to frighten; for tlie love that all terror can lighten— Mary, sweet Mother, I ask for no more! REV. ADRIAN ROUQUETTE. 1813 . Bev. A Rouquette was born in New Orleans, February 26, 1813. He received his ecclesiastical education in tiiis country and in France. He was ordained in 1845, and has since passed his time as a mis- sionary to the Indians. He has published several volumes of prose and verse. THE WILD LILY AND PASSION- FLOWER. Sweet flower of light, The queen of solitude, The image bright Of grace-born maidenhood. Thou risest tall Midst struggling weeds that dro^xp: Thy lieges all, They humbly bow and stoop. Dark color'd flower. How solemn, awful, sad I— I feel thy power, king, in purple clad 1 With head recline, Thou art the emblem dew Of woes divine; The flower I most revere I The lily white, The purple passion-flower. Mount Thabor bright, The gloomy OUve-bower. Such is our life,— Alternate joys and woes, Short peace, long strife. Few friends and many foes I My friend, away All wailings here below: The royal way To realms above is woel To suffer much Has been the fate of saints; Our fate is such :— Away, away all plaints I THE REV. FREDERICK WILL- IAM FABER. 1814— 1864. Frederick William Faber was born in Yorkshire, England, June 28, 1814, and was one of the most illustrious of English converts to Catholicity. He was for many years a minister of the Cliurch of En- gland, and after his conversion, in con- junction with other eminent converts, founded the London Oratory of St. Philip Nerl. His works are distinguished for their great purity and beauty of senti- ment. PARADISE. 0, Paradise ! 0, paradise I Who doth not crave for rest ? Who would not seek the happy land Where they that loved are blest ? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight ? 0, Paradise ! O, Paradise ! The world is growing old ; Who would not be at rest and free Where love is never cold. Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight? 0, Paradise 1 0, Paradise ! Wherefore doth death delay- Bright death that is the welcome dawn Of our eternal day, Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light. All rapture througli and through. In God's most holy sight ? 0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I 'lis weary waiting here ; 56 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY I long to be where Jesus is— To feel, to see Him near, VVIiere loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light. All rapture through and tlirough, In God's most holy sight. 0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I I want to sin no more ; I want to be as pure on earth As on thy spotless shore, Wliere loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight. 0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I I grf'atly long to see The special place my dearest Lord Is destining for me, Wliere loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight. O, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I I feel 'twill not be long- Patience ! I almost think I hear Faint fragments of thy song, Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light. All rapture through and through. In God's most holy sight. IF THOU COULDST BE A BIRD. If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wonldst thou be? A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea, Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave. Or anchor'd, wiiite thing I on the merry green wave ? Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwell- ing, Free of the caves of the hoary Helvellyn, Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower, And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour ? Or a heron that haunts the Wallachian edge Of the barbarous Danube, 'mid forests of sedge. And hears the rude waters through dreary swamps flowing, And the cry of the wild swans and buffa- loes lowing ? Or a stork on a mosque's broken pillar in peace. By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece— A sweet-manner'd houseiiolder ! waiving bis state. Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate ? Or a murmuring dove at Stamboul, buried deep In the long cypress woods where the in- fidels sleep ; Whose leaf-muffljd voice is the soul of the seas. That hath pass'd from the Bosphorus into the trees ? Or a heath-bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor. Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor ; Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few- Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue ? Or if thy man's heart worketh in thee at all, Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron's hall, A black, glossy rook, working early and late, Like a laboring man on the baron's estate ? Or a linnet who builds in the close haw- thorn bough, Where her small, frighten'd eyes may be seen looking through ; Who heeds not, fond mother I the oxlips that shine OF CATHOLIC POETS. 57 On the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine ? Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over, The true home of Spring and Spring- flowers to discover ; Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings Good words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings ? But what ! can these pictures of strange winged mirth Make the child to forget that slie walks on the earth ? Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start From some place wliere they lie folded up in thy heart ? Tlien love the green things in thy first simple youth. The beasts, birds and fishes, with heart and in truth, And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill ; Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will ! THE CHERWELL WATER LILY. How often doth a wild flower bring Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring From inmost depths of feehng ! Nay, often they have power to bless With their uncultured lovehness, And far into the aching breast There goes a heavenly thought of rest Witii their soft influence stealing. How oflen, too, can ye unlock, Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shock. Tile wells of holy tears ! While somewhat of a Christian light Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sight, To calm unquiet fears ! Ah ! snrely such strange power is given To lowly flowers like dew from heaven; For lessons oft by them are brought. Deeper than mortal sage hath taught, Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise From some clear fountains in the skies. Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters That bloom by siilly-running waters, Fair lily I thou a type must be Of virgin love and purity I Fragrant thou art as any flower That decks a lady's garden-bower. But he who would thy sweetness know, Must stoop and bend his loving brow To catch thy scent, so faint and rare, Scarce breathed upon the Summer air. And all thy motions, too, how free, And yet how fraught with sympathy ! So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam. Shed on thy kindly father-stream ! StiJI, as he swayeth to and fro, How true in all thy goings. As if thy very soul did know The secrets of his flowings. And then that heart of living gold, Which thou dost modestly infold. And screen from man's too searching view. Within thy robe of snowy hue ! To careless man thou seem'st to roam Abroad upon the river. In aU thy movements chain'd to home, Fast-rooted there forever: Link'd by a holy, hidden tie, Too subtle for a mortal eye Nor riveted by mortal art. Deep down within thy father's heart Emblem in truth thou art to me Of all a daughter ought to be I How shall I liken thee, sweet flower. That other men may feel thy power. May seek thee on some lovely night. And say how strong, how chaste the night, , The tie of lilial duty. How graceful, too, and angel-bright, The pride of lowly beauty ! Thou sittest on the varying tide As if thy spirit did preside. With a becoming, queenly grace. As mistress of this lonely place; A quiet magic hast thou now To smooth the river's rufiled brow. And calm his rippling water. 58 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And yet, so delicate and airy. Thou art to him a very fairy, A widow'd father's only daughter. LADY GEORGIANA FULLER- TON. 1814 . Lady Georgiana Fullerton was born in 1814, and is a daughter of Earl Granville, and the wife of Captain Alexander Ful- lerton. She has been successful as a nov- elist, and has published a volume of poems. She is a convert to the Catholic faith. A FINE DAY IN SUMMER. A day when Summer supersedes the Spring, And June's innumerable roses fling Their perfumed odors o'er the passing breeze That sweeps, enamored, o'er the fairy trees; When floods of light intoxicate the eye. When earth expands beneath a cloudless sky, And every waving branch and leafy bower Bursts into song,and blossoms into flower. A FAREWELL. I leave tbee friendless in a world of tears, I leave thee helpless 'midst a host of fears; The morning promise of thy young days fled, A withering sorrow bowing down thy head. I know thee well; betwixt thee and the past A deep, irrevocable grief is cast ; Life can no more have common joys for thee ; Great as thy trial, must thy courage be. Despondency will cloud, and grief assail Thy faltering heart ; its strength will seem to fail; But God will help thee. Onward thou wilt go, Bearing thy own, and cheering others' woe; Treading the path where guidmg angels lead. And scattering on thy way the priceless seed. Which, sown in tears, is harvested in joy. Aim at high virtue; in thy soul destroy All but the sacred impulses that give Grace upon earth an angel's life to live. Seek for naught else: in this surrender lies Peace without end; and when those tempt- ing sighs Cease to convulse thy over-burthened breast. When thy dear eyes from tears begin to rest. Then tenderly and gladly call to mind How thy poor father on this day re- signed All meaner and more earthly hopes for thee Than the blest freedom of those God makes free. W. H. 0. HOSMER. 1814 — 1877. William Henry Cuyerl Hosnier was born in Avon, N. Y., in 1814, and died in his native place May 23, 1877. He was a graduate of Geneva College, but such was his reputation as a poet in those early years, that before he obtained his degree of A. M. from his own college, the honor- ary degree was conferred upon him by Hamilton College and the University of Vermont. He published several volumes of prose and verse. He was converted to the Catholic faith some years before his death. THE OLD SONG. Sing on! I love that olden lay, Though mournful are the notes and wild. It drives the haunting fiend away; It thrilled me when a child. OF CATHOLIC POETS 59 Long buried gold the past reveals; The sentiment is gone that made Charmed by the magic of that strain, Love's golden round of faith divine. My weary lieart refreshment feels, IV. And I am young again. Though fashioned not witli cunning art, Sing on! The land of shadows now And plain some gold, engaeement ring. Hath raised ils curtain, dark and dim. Worn by the lady of his heart, Back comes my sire with furrowed brow, It is a precious, priceless tiling. That smile belongs to him. V. Each old familiar word invokes The glittering circlet is profaned The phantoms of the pictured past. When on another's finger drawn. And, sighing tiirough ancestral oaks, And though, to outward view, unstained. I hear the midnight blast. Its hallowed purity is gone. Sing on! For, borne on music's tide, VL My soul floats back to other days; Thy costly, sullied gift I spurn. From dust rise up the true and tried. For naught from spot tiie gold can free. To greet my yearning gaze; And blame me not that I return And she, meek violet that grew The desecrated thing to thee. In rosy boyhood's "Eden Lost," Springs up, as if her eyes of blue Had never known the frost. YEH-SA-GO-WA.* Sing on! Sing on! Entranced I hear. I. While bloom once more earth's per- A son-^jYeh-sa-go-wa! I measure for thee. ished flowers; Though day may not dawn on the night For mother warbled in my ear of my grief; That song in other hours; Oh! why art thou haughty and cruel to And when the sweet refrain is breathed. me— Her gentle spirit hovers nigh- Why break, witii thy coldness, the heart Fond arms are round the wanderer of a chief ? wreathed. By fate was I doomed a poor exile to Kind voices make reply. roam Far, far from the valley so dear to me still: - By fraud was I robbed of my sweet cot- RETURN OF AN ENGAGEMENT RING. tage-home. I. And the foot of the stranger is crossing The lover, with a knightly soul, its sill. Deems sacred every gift bestowed II. On her who, with a queen's control. The wild "Forest E:igle" is tame enough Holds, in his constant heart, abode. now. II. Heart-broken by proud Yeh-sa-g5 wa's Its value is as worthless sand. disdain. A cloud is on its brilliance thrown. And dark was the seal that despair on his If ever, on another's hand. brow Tiiat ring of plighted faith has shone. *Wlien a Soneca lover Is wooing his mistress, he can bestow on the object of ins attacliinent IIL no sweeter term of endearment than " Yeh-sa- No light can dissipate the shade g6-wa." It implies that she Is peerless— the loveliest Attaching to its metal fine; of her sex In soul and person. I 60 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Impressed, when he knew that he loved her in vain. His hearth-stone is desolate;— last of his race- By the grave-mounds of tribesmen he lingers alone ; No more, with a smile on her beautiful face. She looks on the chief, once her loved, and her own! III. How long with the fever of passion must burn A heart that is fondly and faithfully thiue! How long must I meet with a frigid re- turn For love as intense and devoted as mine! Dark shadows have over thy lover been cast, And faith.unto thee has been plighted in vain; A song, Teh sa-g6-wa! it may be my last, I weave in the night of my sorrow and pain. AUBREY DE VERE. 1814 . Aubrey de Vere is the third son of the late Sir Aubrey de Vere, Bart., and was born in 1814, at Curragh Cliase, Co. Limerick, Ireland. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He became a Catholic in 1851, and his faith has been the chief source of his poetical inspira- tion. Mr. De Vere is a disciple and a warm admirer of Wordsworth. Though liis verse has not always musical smooth- ness, it always glows with lofty purpose. He has been a very prolific writer. TO MY LADY, SINGING. She whom this heart must ever hold most dear (This heart in happy bondage held so long), Began to sing. At first a gentle fear Eosied her countenance,— for she is young, And he wbo loves her most of ail was near ; But when at last her voice grew full and strong, 0, from their ambush sweet, bow rich and clear Bubbled the notes abroad — a rapturous throng ! Her little bands were sometimes flung apart. And sometimes palm to palm together prest. Whilst wave-hke blushes, rising from her breast, Kept time with that aerial melody. As music to the sight !— I, standing nigh. Received the falling fountain in my heart. SONG. Sing the old song, amid the sounds dis- persing That burden, treasured in your hearts too long ; ' Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never name her ; She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing High thoughts— too high to mate with mortal song; — Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim her. In twilight caves and secret lonehnesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; The forest winds alone approach to woo her ; Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses. And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her. That spirit charged to follow and defend her, He also, doubtless, suffers this love- pain ; OF CATHOLIC POETS. 61 And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing. And yet, that face is not so sad as tender ; Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain, From the heaved heart, is gradually dying. SONNET. Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing. In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for tliey were sweet in sowing— But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat ; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing — And still, oh I still, their dying breath is sweet ; And sweet is youth, although it hath be- reft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; Aud sweet is middle age, for it has left us A nearer good to cure an older ill ; And sweet are all things, wlien we learn To prize them, Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them I JEDEDIAH VINCENT HUNT- INGTON. 1815—1862. Dr. Huntington was born in New York in 18! 5. and graduated at Yale College. He was for some years a physician, and subsequently a minister ol the Protestant Episcopal Church. He entered the Cath- olic communion in 18i9. He wrote sev- eral novels, and published a volume of poems. His death occurred in 1862. The front of shadow-chasing morn 1 And, ere the day slar was re-born, With borrow'd but auspicious Hght, Gladden'd the night long watcher's sigh; ! Fair herald of a brighter sun, And pledge of Heaven's own day begun, Wlien th' ancient world's long night was o'er, So shone, above death's dreaded shore, And life's now ever-brightening sea, The lowly Maid of Galilee. Lost now in His effulgent ray, Bathed in the brightness of His day, Morning Star ! still sweetly shine Through that dim night which yet is mine; Precede for me His dawning light, Who only puts all shades to flight 1 CHAKLES GAVAN DUFFY. 1816 . Charles Gavn Duffy was born in Ire- land in 1816, and has held various offices under the British government. He has recently published a historical work called "Young Ireland " His poeius are full of thought and feeling. STELLA MATUTINA, ORA PRO NOBIS. Gleaming o'er mountain, coast and wave. What splendor It, foretokening, gave THE Voice OF LABOR. A CHANT OF THE CITY MEETINGS I.\ IRELAND IN 1849. Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this sight to-day. When stalwart trade, in long brigade, be- yond a king's array, Marched in the blessed light of heaven, beneath the open sky. Strong in the might of sacred right, than none dare ask them why ? These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye spit upon with scorn— The spawn of < arth, of nameless birth, and basely bred as born : Ye know, ye soft and silken lords, \^ere we the thing ye say. Your broad domains, your cofiferel gains, your lives were ours to-day. 62 THE HOUSEHOLD LlBRARl Measure thai rank from flan ; to flank ; 'tis fifty thousand strong ; And mark you here, in front and rear, b igades a . deep and long ; And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's deadly breeze, Tried by assay of storm or fray, more dauntless hearts than these ; The sinewy Smith, little he recks of his own child— the sword, The men of gear, think you they fear tJieir handiwork— a lord ? And undismayed, yon sons of trade miglit see the battle's front. Who bravely bore, nor bowed before the deadlier face of want. What lack we here of sliow or form, that lure your slaves to death ? Not serried bands, nor sinev/y hands, nor music's martial breatli ; And if we broke the bitter joke our sup- pliant race endure, No robbers we— but chivalry— the Army of the Poor. Shame on ye now, ye lordly crew, tliat do your betters wrong— We are no base and braggart mob, but merciful and strong. Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would fly our first defiance ; In us— in our strong, tranquil breasts- abides your sole reliance. Aye ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers and costly jewels- Keep your vile gain, and in its train the passion that it fuels. We envy not your lordly lot— its bloom or its decayanee ; But ye have that we claim as ours — our right in long abeyance : Leisure to live, leisure to lov ', leisure to taste our freedom — Oh 1 euff'ring poor, oh ! patient poor, how bitterly you need them ! •'Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your social charter. And city slave or peasant serf, the Toiler is its martyr. Where Frank and Tuscan sheJ their sweat, the goodly crop is theirs— If Norway's toil muke rich the soil, she eats the fruit she rears— O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, saving the Lord on high ; But we are slaves in our own land— proud masters, tell us why ? The German burgher and liis men, broth- er with brothers live. While Toil must wait without your gate what gracious crusts you give. Long in your sight, for our own right, we've bent, and still we bend- Why did we bow ? why do we now ? proud masters this must end. Perish the past— a generous land is this fair land of ours. An enmity may no man see between its towns and lowers. Come, join our bands — here take our hands — now sliame on him that lingers, Mercliant or Peer, you have no fear from Labor's blistered fingers. Come, join at last, perish the past— its traitoi^s, its seceders— Pioud names of old, frank hearts and bold, come join and be our leaders. But know, ye lords, that be your swords wiih us or witii our wronger. Heaven be our guide, for we will bide this lot of shame no longer. LITERARY LEISURE. Let my life pass in healthful, happy ease. The world and all its sciiemes shut out my door : Rich in a competence, and nothing more. Saving the student's wealth— " Apollo's fees " — Long rows of goodly volumes to appease My early love and quenchless thirst of lore. No want to urge me on the path of gain- No hope to lure me in ambition's track. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 63 Straggles and strife, and all their savage train, Still from my tranquil dwelling driven back. My only triumphs — if such toys I lack- Some subtle nut of science, rent in twain, Or knot unravelled. Thus be't mine to live And feel life pass like a long Summer eve. B. I. DURWARD. 1817 . Isaac Durward was born at Montrose, Scotland, on the 26th of March, 1817. His faUier was drowned when Isaac was an infant. His mother was a Baptist, but it does not st^am tliat he was brought up in any religion. As a boy, he sang in the Episcopal Church, although warned against it by his mother; " for you know," siie would say," it is next door to the Roman Catholic." His tastes soon led him to art, and he went to England as a por- trait painter. Here he married. In 1846 he came to America and settled at Milwau- kee, Wis. Having been engaged to paint the likenesses of Bishop Henni and several prominent Catholics, he became acquaint- ed with the true faith, and with his wife and children joyfully embraced what he had never rejected, but simply had not known. This was in the Spring of 1853. In baptism he took the name of Bernard, and some time after at a family meeting, it was decided that as the family had gone back to the old faith, it should also adopt the old and Catholic spelling of the name, " Durward." After his conversion he gave his attention more to literature, and held the position of Professor of the " English language. Rhetoric and Poetry," for ten years at the Ecclesiastical Seminary near Milwaukee. He wished to retire to the quiet that poets have ever loved, and pur- chased "Durward's Glen," a romantic spot in Columbia County. He was induced by urgent entreaties from Dr. Salzman to teach two years more at the starting of the "Teachers' Seminary" at St. Francis. He is now at the "Glen" among his vines and books, where the world that he wished to leave still finds him out. TO THE WILD ROSE. Symbol of love divine. Five petaled rose ! Sparkhng with dewy wine, On the uncultured sod ' Thy beauty glows. Fresh from the hand ot God. One petal for each well, Each crimson fount, Opened by sin and hell On Jesus' bloody pale, In thee we count. Wild rose of hill and dale. Thou art my passion-flower; For Winter's storm Of sleet or stony shower Avails not to destroy The peerless form That fills my heart with joy. When o'er the hills in June I sighing come, My soul all out of tune. Jarred by the ills of time, Thy blossoms dumb Suggest a theme sublime. ■ The theme that fills with love The earth beneath. And all the stars above. And scatters with its light The gloom of death. Turning our day to night. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 1818— 1877. Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet was the daughter of Dr. William N. Lummis, and was born at Sodus Bay, N. Y., in 1818. She married William H. Ellet, Professor ot Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology, in South Carolina College, whence she 64 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY retarneci with him in 1848, and setlled in New York. He died five years later. Mrs. EUet is best l?nown as the author of "Women of the Revolution," published about thirty years ago. She was a con- vert to the Catholic faith. SUSQUEHANNA. Softly the blended light of evening res' Upon thee, lovely stream! Ttie gentle tide. Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind. Majestically flows. Oh ! by thy side, Far from tlie tumults and the throng of men. And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 'Twere happiness to d well alone with thee, And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene. From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, Slowly receding toward the sides ascend, Enrobed with clustering woods o'er which the smile Of Autumn in his loveliness haih pass'd. Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub His golden livery. On the distant heights Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretcli afar Their burnish'd summits in the clear blue heaven, Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye Turns drooping from the sight.— Nature is here Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell In music never silent, of her power. Nor are thy tones unanswer'd, where she builds Such monuments of regal sway. These wide Untrodden forests eloquently speak, Whether the breath of Summer stirs their depths. Or the hoarsa moaning of November's blast Strip from the boughs their covering. All the air Is now instinct with life. The merry hum Of the returning bee, and the blithe song Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude. Swell upward— and the play of dashing streams From the green mountain side is faintly heard. The wild swan swims the waters' azure breast With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away. Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air. Oh ! in the boasted lands beyond the deep. Where Beauty hath a birth-right— where each mound And mouldering ruin tells of ages past— And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone. Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back. Waking the soul to lofty memories, Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill The heart with peace more pure? — Nor yet art tliou. Proud stream! without thy records- graven deep On yon eternal hills, which shall endure Long as their summits breast the wint'ry storm Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been The chroniclers of centuries gone by: Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides, Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth Which now they shade. Hero onward swept thy waves. When tones now silent mingled with their sound. And the wide shore was vocal with the song Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 65 Those pass'd away — forgotten as they pass'd; But holier recollections dwell with thee: Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud And solemn monuments. The mighty dust Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, Hath mingled with the soil, and hal- low'd it. Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen The desperate strife that won a rescued world — The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts. And hymn'd their requiem. Par beyond this vale That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, Gay village spires ascend— and the glad voice Of industry is heard.— So in the lapse Of future years those ancient woods shall bow Beneath the levelling axe — and Man's abodes Display their sylvan honors. They will pass In turn away;— yet heedless of all change, Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom. THE WAVES THAT ON THE SPARK- LING SAND. The waves that on the sparkling sand Their foaming crests upheave. Lightly receding from the land, Seem not a trace to leave. Those billows in their ceaseless play Have worn the solid rocks away. The summer winds, which wandering sigh Amid the forest bower. So gently as they murmer by. Scarce lift tlie drooping flr)wer. Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom. Spring's wither'd beauties to the tomb. Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne, Their impress leave behind; Aad spirits, which their bonds would spurn, The blighting traces find. Till alter'd' thoughts and hearts grown cold. The change of passing years unfold. MRS. M. S. WHITAKER. 1820 . Mrs. Mary Scrimzeom Whitaker was born in Beaufort, S. C, February 25, 1820, and is a daughter of the Rev. Samuel Furman, D.D., a distinguished Baptist minister. At an early age she was sent to Edinburgh, where she completed her edu- cation, and married John Miller, assessor of Leith, advocate, and afterwards attor- ney-general of the British West Indies, where he died three months after their marriage. In 1849 she married Dr. Daniel K. Whitaker, LL.D., editor of the South- ern Quarterly Review. She has published a volume of poems and other works. Mrs. Whitaker was received into the Church in 1877. MAN. The beautiful world hath its mountains and plains, And far-rolling ocean's majestic domains, With cataracts, caverns, white glaciers and lakes. With tropical groves and thick matted brakes, With sandy, bare deserts and numberless isles. With blue-arching heaven, its frowns and its smiles. And man, with intelligence almost divine. Commands the broad globe from the throne to the mine; 66 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Old ocean is traversed with ease as he wills. And electrial speed his mission fulfills: — Fair science he masters with daring era- prize, And brings down to earth the lore of tlie skies; — His far-seeing vision creajiion cons o'er, Explores every desert and treads every shore. He strikes his wild harp, and lo ! all things sub'ime. Sweet poesy sings with rapturous chime; Grand structures arise by his magical skill, And purple-clad orchards bloom rich on the hill, From barrenness freed by the strength of his hand. See golden fields ripened invitingly stand; And, traced by his fingers, what wisdom appears, What stores of vast learning— the record of years ! Majestic his form with seraphim grace. And a light, not of earth, looks forth from his face; Strange eloquence flashes untaught from his eye,— The spirit's effulgence, which never can die. His soul-stirring language, to awe or en- treat. Like whirlv?inds appalling, like Summer airs sweet, Takes captive the spirit enthralled by its "might, Makes midnight of morning and morn- ing of night. But mystic his being and changeful his state, If walking in sadness or proudly elate; And strange the connection of spirits un- known. Which links higher life with this life of his own. Far off he descries an elysium blest. With gush of clear fountains and music and rest. Religion's blest teaching his spirit con- trols. And points all his hopes to the country of souls; The far off, the grand, celestial and fair. For He, tlie Great Maker in glory dwells there ! THEODORE O'HARA. 1820—1867. Colonel Theodore O'Hara was born in Kentucky, in 1820, and died in Grant County, Alabama, in 1867. He served with distinction in the war witli Mexico, in 1848, and in the Confederate army dur- ing the late war. It is probable that he wrote many poems, but his fame rests on his stirring " Bivouac of the Dead." This poem was written soon after the Mexican war, and immediately won recognition from the magnates of literature through- out the world. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ! No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread. And glory guards with solenwi round The bivouac of the dead. The rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind, Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind. No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms. No braying horn, no screaming fife At dawn shall call lo arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their hauglity banner, trailed in dust, • Is now their martial shroud — OF CATHOLIC POETS 67 And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle grasped, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast. The charge, tlie dreadful cannonade, Tlie din and shout are passed. Nor War's wild notes, nor Glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel Tiie rapture of the fight. Like the fierce Northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau. Flashed with the triumph yet to gain, Come down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath. Knew well the watchword of the day Was " Victory or death ! " Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long tlie pitying sky has wept Above its mouldering slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay. Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the dark and bloody ground I We must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war its richest spoil — The ashes of her brave. Til us 'neath their parent turf they rest. Far from the gory field. Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here. And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The hero's sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead I Dear is the laud you gave— No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave. Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps. Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Von marble minstrel's voiceful stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown. The story how you fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. EEV. XAVIER DONALD Mc- LEOD. 1821— 1865. Rev. Father McLeod was a native of New York, and was for some years an Episcopal minister. He became a Cath- olic and entered the priesthood. He was killed by a railroad train while attending a sick call. Father McLeod has written several volumes of prose, and not a few poems. His writings are brilliant and imaginative. THE SAGA OF VIKING TORQUIL. Where the snow clouds thickest darken, Where the tumbling, foaming seas Tharsh the rugged Hebrides ; Where the dark mist chillest gathers. Lived my fierce old pagan fathers, And their children keep those tracts, Living there, 'mid rock and heather, Lulled by howl of stormy weather And the roar of cataracts I Listen to a legend brief Of one island-ruling chiet Ruthless he in fray or duel, Curbless in his angry mood ; Ne'er was gaunt were- wolf so cruel, Never hawk so crazed for blood. Pillager of town and city, Sacker, without fear or pity, 68 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Headstrong talker, quarrel-seeker, Hatred- nurser, veiigeance-wreaker, Quick oEEended, prompt in striking, Dreadest pirate, roughest horseman, Was that grim old stormy viking, TOBQUIL ViCH Leodh, the Norseman. For his lust of cruel glory Lives he still in Lowland story ; Lowland nurses ne'er forget him,— Telling when the Southron met him, How he stormed throughout the foray 1 Recked not how the foes environ. But, through thrillhig din and rattle, Ever where the need was sorest. With his ponderous mace of iron. Swung he, crashing through the battle, Like tornadoes through the forest. Yet one trait could claim exemption From the iron of his nature ; Though so reckless, grim a creature, And as jungle-panther wild, He had one point of redemption — Never had he harmed a child. When his fiercest mood was o'er him. Place a little one before him, He would stoop to smooth its tresses ; Never could it fail to calm him With its bright smile, nor to charm him Into peace with its caresses. Even in fighting - it was curious — When the battle raged most furious, And an hundred blows were hailing On his casque and on his shield. Though to him all fear was stranger, He would shrink from those assailing. Would turn back, nay, almost yield. But to save a child from danger. When at length the Valkyr calleri him With their weird and triple wail, Think you that the sound appalled him ? That his cheek grew pale ? No ! he dashed his robe away, Shouted for i is mace and mail, And went out to die in fray. On Clanorgan's heath a hundred Steel-clad Southrons ro nd him closed. Once again his broadsword sundered Turge and lance to him opposed ; Once again his fearful frown Overawed tlie Celtic clamor ; And his mighty mace came down Like Thor's awful thunder-hammer, — Heaviest fell it on the greatest ; And for hours he swung it hght As a birch wand, for the fight Was his keenest and his latest. Hot they pressed him ; all attacks Sought him only ; on his shattered Armor, mace and glaive and ax, Hacked and pierced and clove and bat- tered ; Blow on blow come fiercely pealing. Till he reeled, but smote in reeling 1 And the purple gore ran proneward, fill his armor grew all ruddy ; And the foe pressed on and onward ; And his casque yawned wide and bloody Where the trenchant steel had bitten. Till he tottered and crashed down- ward, Like a great oak thunder-smitten. Then the victors and the flying, Borne upon the battle's tide, Surged off to another quarter. Leaving Torquil crushed and dying, Mutterinsr : "Oh! before I died, Would I had a draught of water ! " Then small fingers, soft and tender. Wiped the red clots from his eyes ; Put aside the matted hair. And a mild and starry splendor. Like the light of eastern skies. Showed the infant Jesus there. On the rough old sea- wolf smiled The Divine, Eternal Child ! " Torquil I fierce and wild and gory Have thy days been : little good Sheds its luster on thy story, Which is written out in blood. Damning, hopeless and bewildering Were the crimes against thee shown ; But the angels of young children Plead for thee before the throne. OF CATHOLIC POETS. For thy grace and shrift they sought. Now I bring that grace to thee : What for children thou hast wrought Thou liast wrought for Me ! And thy God withholds His curses ; And, however men esteem thee, I, for those, thy tender mercies, Do baptize thee and redeem thee ! " Then, o'er Torquil's fevered brow Poured a cool and limpid flow ; And his soul, though fohl with slaughter, And with guilt and crime o'erladen, Knew that it was living water From the very wells of Eden. When the clansmen came again Seeking there amid the slain For the grim and fierce old Norseman, Where the dead were thickest piieii. And the heath most torn and bloody, On a heap of slaughtered horsemen, Found they Torquil's shattered body ; But his shrived soul slept and smiled On tie bosom of the child. RICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 1822 — 1S62. Bichard Dal ton Williams was born in County Tipperary, Ireland, in 1823. He was educated at the Catholic college of Carlow, where he gave early promise of his genius and power as a poet. He came to America in 1850, and was professor in various Catholic Colleges until his death, which occurred at Thibidoux, La., in 1862. THE DYING GIRL. From a Munster vale they brought her. From the pure and balmy air. An Orraond peasant's daughter, With blue eyes and golden hair. They brought her to the city, And she faded slowly tliere ; Consumption has no pity For blue eyes and golden hair. When 1 saw her first reclining. Her lips were moved in prayei', And the setting sun was shining On her loosened golden hair. When our kindly glances met her. Deadly brilliant was her eye ; And she said that slie was better, While we knew that she must die. She speaks of Munster valleys, The patron, dance and fair. And her thin hand feebly dallies - With her scattered golden hair. When silently we listen'd To her breath, with quiet care, Her eyes with wonder glisten'd. And she ask'd us what was there. The poor thing smiled to ask it. And her pretty mouth laid bare, Like gems within a casket, A string of pearlets rare. We said that we were trying By the gushing of her blood, And the time she took in sighing To know if she were good. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly, Though we saw, in mute despair. The hectic brighter daily. And the death-dew on her hair And oft, her wasted fingers Beating time upen the bed, O'er some old tune she lingers. And she bows her golden head. At length the harp is broken, And the spirit in its strings, As the last decree is spoken, To its source, exulting, springs. Descending swiftly from the skie.s, Her guardian angel came ; He struck God's lightning from her eyes. And bore him back the flame. Before the sun had risen Through the lark-loved morning air. Her young soul left its prison,. Undefiled by sin or care. I stood beside the couch in tears. Where, pale and calm, she slept. And thougli I've gazed on death for years, I blush not that I wept. 70 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY I check'd with effort pity's sighs, And left the matron there. To close the curtains of her eyes, And bind her golden hair. REV. JEREMIAH WILLIAM CUMMINGS. 1822— 1866. Father Cummings was born in Wash- ington, D. C, in 1822, and received his ecclesiastical education at the College of the Propaganda, in Rome. He was the founder of St. Stephen's Church, New York, and continued as its pastor until his death, on January 5, 1866. He was an exceedingly learned man, an earnest pastor and a wariu friend. LIGHT, THE KING OF COLORS. I beheld in a dream this fantastical king. Holding court 'mid the flowers and the sunshine of Sprintr, Where birds of gay plumage are rocked by the breeze, As they perch on the blossoming boughs of the trees. He sits on a canopied throne, qu?.int of mould, Bepowdered with diamonds, and span- gled with gold ; And the gaudiest butterfly e'er honey sipped, Ig the emblem wherewith his tall sceptre is tipped. When the wind and the tempest from ether are driven, He buildeth the arch of his triumph in heaven ; He swings from the water-fall's margin in play, And his mantle of motley is washed by the spray. He lives in the sunbeams ; when night is at hand, When the gray steeds of Winter career o'er the land, He shuns their encounter and speeds him away, Where the sun never sets and the flowers ne'er decay. He is fond of mankind— it is he lends a grace To the maiden when modesty purples her face. He beams on the lip, in the eye of the child. Whom the cold breath of malice has not yet defiled. Yes, he loves us— and oft when the sun's going down. Ere darkness advance in her mantle of brown. To salute us he hangs out his banners on high. With bright hues adorning the sea and the sky. It was he that to Italy's fortunate sage* Appeared for the weal of a studious age ; A smile lit his features, majestic, yet bland, And a wonderful diamond blazed in bis hand. "Take this gift" (thus he spoke), "and no talisman's spell With magical craft could endow thee so well — Lift it up to the sun, and the proud king of day Must resign to thy power e'en his crown's brightest ray. " Henceforth to thine eye 'tis permitted to scan A mystery never laid open to man. An amusement this day to ihe sage has been given. Reserved hitherto for young cherubs in heaven." The philosopher tested his mystical sway Where his lattice was pierced by an ar- rowy ray. * Grlmaldl, an Itallaa philosopher, who, about the year 1672, made some valuable discoveries in opiics. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 71 He held up the prism, and the sunbeams unrolled ■ The treasures of tint wliich their bosoms enfold. A. broad rainbow amazed the philoso- pher's view, Arabesquing his cell in red, green, gold and blue ; And LIGHT, that heard none save its Maker's command. Became subject that day to a mortal's frail hand. MISS R. V. ROBERTS. 182.^ . Miss Rebecca Veronica Roberts was born in Philadelpliia, January 14, 1823. Her parents belonged to the Society of Friends, but in 1825 Miss Roberts and two of her sisters embraced the Catholic faith. She has written much, and acceptably, for religious and secular journals. She now resides in Washington, D. C. THE THREE-FOLD WEDDING DAY. On a ripe October morning, just after a crisp, clear frost, When the trees, like gorgeous banners, by the Autunui winds were tossed, When the nuts were dropping in the woods, for the squirrels to hide away. And all the country gardens, with "Queen Margarets " were gay. When the harvesting was over, in all the country side. We kept three joyous weddings, and did honor to each fair bride. The first was our eldest sister, a " Marga- ret" flower too— No fresher, sweeter blossom, e'er in gar- den border grew, And no braver, blither spirit, ever laughed at frost and storm, And we gave her to the keeping of a heart as true and warm; With a store of liop^sand blessings, show- ered on lier bi iglit young head. Her marriage-vows, " for t)etter, or for worse," were dul^ said. Tiien we saw, in stalwart manhood, our father take his stand. Holding, in firm and tender clasp, our gentle mother's liand, While slie, in her matron beauty, could scarce have looked more fair. When first she gave her maiden heart to his protecting care ; With deeper trust in well-tried love, they their marriage vows renew, For they are keeping a wedding day — their silver wedding, too. But sure, in her beautiful honored age, the dearest, sweetest " bride," Was grandmamma,in her high-back chair, with grandpapa by her side — The snow-white curls of her soft tliin hair peeping out beneath her cap. And the flush on lier cheek almost as pure, as the baby girl's, on her lap. As grandpapa bent— leaning on his cane — his hoary, tremulous head, To kiss her feeble wrinkled hand, with its wedding rhig worn to a thread. This was their golden wedding day— full fifty years had sped, Since their marriage vows, so truly kept, had in fervent love been said; — Wliile "our eldest" and her bridegroom talked of their life, but just begun,— They spoke of tlie trials and cares of a long, long life, now almost done, And I heard dear grandmamma wliisper: " May they dwell, like us, in love, And the good Lord grant we all may meet, at the marriage feast above." COVENTRY PATMORB. 1823 . Coventry Patmore was born in 1823, and is one of the favorite poets of the present day. His chief work is "The Angel in the House," pronounced by Ruskin " a most finished piece of writing, and the sweetest analysis we pc ssess of quiet, modern, domestic feeling." He has written many other beautiful poems. 73 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY For a number of years past he has been Assistant in the Library of the British Museum. He is also a frequent contrib utor to the reviews, Mr. Patmore is a convert to the Catholic faith. PARTING. If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, But for one night though that farewell may be, Press thou this hand in thine. How canst thou tell how far from thee Fate or caprice may lead lus steps ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street. And days have grown to months, And months to lagging years, ere they have looked in loving eyes again. Parting, at best, is underlaid With tears and pain. Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, Or time, or distance— clasp with pressure firm the hand Of liim who goeth forth. Unseen, Fate goelh too. Yea, find thou always time to say some earnest word Between the idle talk, lest, with thee henceforth, Night and day, regret should walk. THE WISE. They live by law; not like the fool, But like the bard, who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule. And finds in them not bonds, but wings. They shine like Moses in the face. And teach our hearts, witliout the rod. That God's grace is the only grace. And all grace is the grace of God. She must be glad as well as good, And must not only be, but seem. Beauty and joy are hers by right; And, knowing this, I wonder less That she's so scorned when falsely dight In misery and ugliness. HONORIA. She was all mildness, yet 'twas writ Upon her beauty, legibly, "He that's for heaven itself unfit. Let him not hope to merit Me." And such a challenge, quite apart From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus To sweet repentance moved my heart. And made me more magnanimous. And led me to review my life Inquiring where in aught the least, If question were of her for wife, 111 might be mended, hope increased; Sot, that I soared so far above Myself, as this great hope to dare; And yet I half foresaw that love Might hope, where reason would despair. LET WISDOM BE GLAD AND FAIR. Would Wisdom for herself be wooed. And wake the foolish from his dream, THE TOYS, My little son, who look'd from thought- ful eyes. And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise. Having my law the seventh time diso- bey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With harsh words and unkiss'd. His mother, who was patient, being dead. T.ien, fearing lest his grief siiould hinder sleep, I visited his bed. But found him slumbering deep. With darkened eyelids, and iheir lashes yet. From ills late sobbing wet. And L with moan. Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, OF CATHOLIC POi^JTB. 73 He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, wlien at last we lie with tranced breath. Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou reraemberesl of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good. Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Tliou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, ■' I will be sorry for their childishness." GEORGE HENRY MILES. 1824— 1871. George Henry Miles was born in Balti- more, in 1824, and was for many years a Professor at Mount St. Mary's College, Emmittsburg, Md. He wrote "Christine: a Tragedy," and numerous other poems, and is, by manj, considered to be the best of the American Catholic poets. SAID THE ROSE. I am weary of the garden, Said the Rose ; For the Winter winds are sighing. All my playmates round me dying, And my leaves will soon be lying 'Neath the snows. But I hear my mistress coming. Said tlie Rose; She will talve me to her chamber, Where the honeysuckles clamber. And I'll bloom there ah December, Spite the snows. Sweeter fell her lily finger Than the bee! Ah, how feebly I resisted, Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted As all blushing I was twisted Off my tree. And she fixed me in her bosom Like a star; And I flashed there all tiie morning, Jasmine, honeysuckle scorning, Parasites forever fawning, That they are. And when evening came she set me In a vase All of rare and radiant metal. And I felt her red lips settle On my leaves, till each proud petal Touched her face. And I stione about her slumbers Like a light; And, I said, instead of weeping, In the garden vigil keeping, Here I'll watch my mistress sleeping Every night. But wlien morning with its sunbeams Softly shone. In the mirror, as she braided Her brown hair, I saw how jaded, Old, and colorless, and faded, I had grown. Not a drop of dew was on me. Never one ; From my leaves no odors started, All my perfume had departed, I lay, pale and broken-hearted. In the sun. Still, I said, her smile is better Than the vain ; Though my fragrance may forsake me. To her bosom she will take me, And with crimson kisses make me Young again. » So she took me * * gazed a second * * » Half a sigh * * * Then, alas, can hearts so harden? 74 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Without ever asking pardon, Threw me back into the garden, There to die. How the jealous garden gloried In my fall ! How the honeysuckles chid me, How the sneering jasmines bid me Light the long, gray grass that hid me, Like a pall. There I lay, beneath her window, In a swoon, Till the earthworm o'er me trailing. Woke me just at twilight's failing. As the whippoorwill was wailing To the moon. But I hear tlie s'orm-winds stirring In their lair; And I know they soon will lift me In their giant arms and sift me Into ashes as they drift me Through the air. So I pray them in their mercy Just to take From my heart of hearts, or near it. The last living leaf and bear it To her feet, and bid her wear it For my sake. ELIZA ALLAN STARR. 1824 . Miss Eliza Allan Starr was born in Deer- field, Mass., August 29, 1824, She was educated in her native town. Her time and studies liave been given to literature and art. In 1856 she located in Chicago. She published a volume of poems in 1867, and a volume entitled "Patron Saints," in 1871. Miss Starr is a convert, and was re- ceived into the Catholic communion in December, 1854. Her poems possess re- markable merit, and entitle her to far greater and wider recognition than has been accorded her. IN THE TIMBER. The woods, so strangely solemn and ma- jestic, The awful noon-tide twilight 'neath grand trees. The hush like that of holy haunts mo- nastic. While mighty branches, lifting with the breeze, Give glimpses of high heaven's cerulean sheen, The Autumn-tinted leaves and boughs between. Thus stands the picture. Prom the home- stead door, Close in the timber's edge I strayed one day To yonder knoll, where— as to some calm shoie A well worn bark might drift in its de- cay— A great man lies in pulseless, dreamless sleep, O'er which two oaks untiring sentry keep. A few fresh flowers, with reverent hand, I placed Upon the grave— he loved fair nature's lore— And with a quickened memory retraced Our dear old village history once more; Made up of all the close, familiar ties Of common country, lot and families. Then from the knoll, a greensward path I took Between the sunny cornfields and the wood With sunny aspect and a fair ofiE-look; Till, suddenly, with pulses hushed, I stood Beneath a fretted vault, where branches high Wove their bright tufts of crimson with blue sky. The sombrous twilight with a breathless awe Fell on my heart; the last year's rotting leaves Strewed thickly the soft turf, on which I saw OF CATHOLIC POETS. 75 Shy stalks of dark-stemmed maiden-hair in threes; While round me rose hugh oaks, whose giant forms Had wrestled with a century's wind and storms. For life was there, strong life and strug- gle; sears Seamed the firm bark closed over many a wound Borne 'neath the tranquil eye of heaven's far stars; For in their woe the oaks stood, never swooned— The great trunks writhed and twisted, groaned; then rose To nobler height and loftier repose. Faint heart, weak faitli! How oft in weary pain. In life-long strife with hell's deceitful power, I turn me to the brave old wooas amiin, Their leafy coronals exultant tost On the wild wiud, like some victorious host. THE FRINGED GENTIAN. October's loveliest flower, so wondrous blue, Whose eyelids, softly fringed, still hold the dew Of frosty Autumn nights, Yet smiles anew When morn the hill-top light8. Thou mindest me, by thy celestial dye, Of our most Virgin Lady's heavenly eye; So meekly hid Beneath its fringed lid; With pity wet For man, witii ills beset. For love of her I lay tbee on her shrine; Make my sweet duty to her, flow'ret mine ; And beg that eye, for Jesus's sake, to turn On all who sigh and mourn In frosty vales and drear: Lady dear, accept and hearl OCCULTATION OF VENUS. [Al'RIL 21, i860.] Tlie virgin moon, with one clear star Poised liglitly on its shining horn; A vestal lamp, whose beauteous flame Was for an evening's wonder born. Thus Venus paused with kindling beams O'er lovely Dian's crescent white; A moment quivered, flashed anew. Then slowly passed from eager sight. grandest star of matin hours ! loveliest star of tranquil even ! What doom has quenched thy peerless ray. And robbed the azure dome of heaven? pain of loss, how sharp thy bladel How keen thy search, bereaved eyes! While svvift as thought our glances range The glittering spaces of the skies. In vain for me red Saturn's rings. Or Jupiter's revolving moons; Tlieir light, like thine, can never cham The silent evening's pensive glooms. Love's faithful eye will miss thy gleam. As twilight steals o'er lake and shore; And weep to think those joyous waves Reflect thy beauties never more. One twinkling gleam, and lo! the star Now mourned as lost, fair Dian, glides Beside thee, loved companion still. On thy calm orbits' tranquil tides. Unshorn its ray, undiinmed its light, But hidden, not withdrawn, from view; Again tlie star of love and joy Gleams, softly, from the vaulted blue. friend, whose genius, like a star. Once o'er my life as fairly shone, In vain I wait thy swift return In death's long occultation gonel Suns, systems, cycles, duly turn On thy short axle, finite time, And only man still grandly claims Eternal spaces, God's sublime Infinitude of place, beyond Thy blue and vasty firmament; 76 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY From whence, to time, none e'er return, Though hearts may break iu sharp lament. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 182S— 1867. Thomas D'Arcy McGee was born in Ireland, April 13, 1825, and was assassin- ated in- Montreal April 7, 1867. He has published a volume of poems and other works. His poems are full of vigor, and abound with pathos and delicate fancy. JACQUES CARTIER. I. In the seaport of Saint Malo, 'twas a smil- ing morn in May, When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away ; In the crowded old cathedral, all the town were on their knees, For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas ; And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier. Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts with fear. n, A year pass'd o'er Saint Malo— again came round the day When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away ; But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went, And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent; And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear, When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. III. But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side, And the captain of Saint Malo was re- joicing in his pride. In the forests of the North— while his townsmen mourn'd his loss. He was rearing on Mount Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross; And when two months were over and added to the year. Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer. IV. He told them of a region, hard, iron- bound and cold, Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold, Where the wind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip. And the ice in Spring comes sailing athwart the early ship. He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear. And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer. V. But when he changed the strain — he toiii them how soon is cast In early Spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; How the winter causeway broken, is drifted out to sea. And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free; How the magic wand of Summer clad the landscape, to his eyes. Like the dry bones of the just when they wake in Paradise. VI. He told them of the Algonquin braves— the hunters of the wild. Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child; Of how, poor souls ! they fancy in every living thing A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshiping; Of how they brought their sick an 1 maim'd for him to breatlie upon, And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St. John. VII. He told them of the river, whose mighty current gave OF CATHOLIC POETS. Its freshness, for a hundred leagues, to ocean's briny wave; He told them of the glorious scene pre- sented to his sight, What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height, And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key, l.nd they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils o'er the sea. RETURN. I have a sea-going spirit, It haunts my sleep, Not a sad spirit, wearisome to follow: Less like a tenant of the mystic deep Than the good fairy of the hazel hol- low: And often at the midwatch of the night I see departins in his silver barque This spirit, steering toward an eastern light. Calling me to him from the western dark. "Spirit!" I ask, "say whither bound away ?" "Unto the old Hesperides !" he cries; "0, spirit, take me in thy barque, 1 pray." "For ihee I came," he joyfully re- plies ; "Exile, no longer shalt thou absent mourn. For I the spirit am, men call — Re- turn ! " THE PRIEST OF PERTH.* ( Requiescat in pace. Amen.) A PRAYER FOR THE SOUL OF THE PRIEST OF We who sat at the cheerfui hearth, Knew the wisdom rare, of priceless worth He bears away from the face of earth; Peace to the soul of the Priest of Pertli ! * The Very Reverend .John H. McDonagh, of Perth, Quebec, Vicar-Geneval of the Diocese of Kingston. n. Dead ! and his sun of life so high ! Dead ! Willi no cloud in all his sky ! Dead ! and it seems but yesterday When happy and hopeful he sail'd away, As Priest and Celt to his double home— For Westport bay and Eternal Rome. Ashes to ashes ! earlli to earth ! God rest tlie soul of the Priest of Perth ! III. Yet there was a sign in ills gracious sky. Up where the Cross he lifted high, Glow'd in the morn and evening light, Kiss'd by the reverent moon at niglit — Glow'd through the vista'd northern pines, " That's Perth, where the Cross so bright- ly shines." Many will say, as many have said, Bearing true tribute to the dead- Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth I Rest to the soul of the Priest of Perth I IV. And there was the home he loved to make So dear, for friend and kinsman's sake ; Oh, many a day and many a year Will come for his mourners, far and near, But never a friend more true or dear. 5I:iny a wreatli of Canadian snow Will hide the gardens and gates we know. And many a Spring will deck again His trees, in all their leafy glory. But none shall ever bring back, for men. The smile, the song, the sinless story— The holy zeal that still presided, Which none encountered and derided— That yielded not one fast or feast, One right or rubric of the priest ; Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! V. A golden Pries i, of the good old school, Fearless and prompt to lead and rule ; Free from every taint of pride, But ready, aye, ready, to chide or guide ; Tenderly binding the bruised heart, Sparing no sin its penal smart ; 78 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY His will was as the granite rock To the prowler, menacing his flock ; But never lichen or wild-flower grew On rocky ground more fair to view, Than his charity was to all he knew ; Laying the outlines deep and broad, Df an infant church, he daily trod His path in the visible sight of God ; Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! VI. Saints of God ! je who await Your beloved by the beautiful gate ! Ye Saints who people his native shore- Beloved Saint John, whose name he bore— And ye. Apostles ! unto whom He prayed, a pilgrim, by your tomb— And thou ! Queen of Heaven and Earth ! Receive— receive the Priest of Perth I ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 1825 — 1864. Adelaide Anne Procter, daughter of the poet Procter, was herself a poet by divine right. Charles Dickens was the first to discover her genius. Miss Procter's first considerable publi- cation was in 1858, a volume entitled "Le- gends and Lyrics, a Book of Verses." It met with immediate success, and passed through a larg« number of editions. A second series of "Legends and Lyrics" appeared in 1860, and in 1862 "A Chaplet of Verses." "Seldom," says a writer in the Athe- ncBum, "do we meet a collection of fugitive pnems so pleasantly fulfilling friendly desire, and so able to bear the brunt of criticism as this. There is real- ity in it. It is full of a thoughtful seri- ousness, a grave tenderness, a fancy tem- perate but not frigid, which will recom- mend themselves to every one who has a touch of the artist in his composition. The manner (and this is much to say) is not borrowed. "Without any startling originality, it is Miss Procter's own, and not her father's ; not Wordsworth's ; not the Laureate's ; not referable to the Brownings." A DOUBTING HEART. Where are the swallows fled ? Frozen and dead. Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. doubting heart I Far over purple seas They wait in sunny ease The balmy southern breeze, To bring them to the northern home once more. Why must the flowers die ? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. doubting heart I They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow, While Winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days ; Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? doubting heart ! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky, That soon (for Spring is nigh) Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of de- spair ? doubting heart I Thy sky is overcast. Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air. A PARTING. Without one bitter feeling let us part— And for the years in which your love has shed A radiance like a glory round my head, I thank you, yes, I thank you from my heart. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 79 I thank you for the cherished hopes of yenrs, A s'.airy luture, dim and yet divine, "Win.?ing its way from heaven to be mine, Laden with joy, and ignorant of tears. I thank you, yes, I thank you even more That my heart learnt not without love to live, But gave and gave, and still had more to give, From an abundant and exhaustless store I thank you, yes, I thank you even more— I thank you, not in bitterness, but truth, For the fair vision that adorned my youth And glorified so many happy years. Yet how much more I thank you tliat you tore At length the veil your hand had woven away. Which hid my idol was a thing of clay And wasted all the purpose of my youth. I thank you that your hand dashed down the shrine, Wherein my idol worship I had paid, Else had I never known a soul was made To serve and worship' only the Divine. I thank you that the heart I cast away On such as you, though broken, bruised and crushed. Now that its fiery throbbing is all hushed. Upon a worthier altar I can lay. 1 thank you for the lesson that such love Is a perverting of God's royal right, Tliat it is made but for the Infinite, And all too great to live except above. \ thank you for a terrible awaking, And if reproach seemed hidden in my pain. And sorrow seemed to cry on your dis- dain. Know that my blessing lay in your for- saking. Farewell forever now— in peace we part ; And should an idle vision of my tears Arise before your soul in aft'T years, Remember that I thank you from my heart I OUR DEAD. Nothing is our own: we hold our pleas- ures Just a little while ere they are fled; One by one life robs us of our treasures; Nothing is our own except our dead. Tiiey are ours, and hold in faithful keep- hig, Safe forever, all they took away; Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, Cruel time can never seize that prey. Justice pales, truth fades, stars fall from Heaven; Human are the great whom we revere; No true crown of honor can be given Till the wreath lies on a funeral bier. How the children leave us ! and no traces Linger of that smiling angel band; Gone, forever gone— and in their places Weary men and anxious women stand. Yet we have some little ones, still ours; They have kept the baby smile we know, Which we kissed one day, and hid with flowers, On their dead white faces long ago. When our joy is lost — and life will take it- Then no memory of the past remains, Save with some strange, cruel stings, that make it Bitterness beyond all present pains. Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sor- row Still the radiant shadow— fond regret; We shall find, in some far, bright to-mor- row, Joy that he has taken, living yet. Is love ours, and do we dream we know it? Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own? 80 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Any cold and cruel dawn may show it Shattered, desecrated, overthrown. Only the dead hearts forsake us never; Love, that to Death's loyal care has fled, Is thus consecrated ours forever. And no change can rob us of our dead. So, when fate comes to besiege our city, Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall. Death, the ange', comes in love and pity. And, to save our treasures, claims them alL MAXIMUS. [ hold him great, who, for Iovb's sake. Can give with generous, earnest will; 5fet he who takes for love's sweet sake I think I hold more generous still. I bow before the noble mind That freely some great wrong forgives; Yet nobler is the one forgiven Who bears the burden well, and lives. It may be hard to gain, and still To keep, a lowly, steadfast heart: Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part. Glorious it is to wear the crown Of a deserved and pure success: He who knows how to fail has won A crown whose luster is not less, Grreat may be he who can command And rule with just and tender sway; Yet is diviner wisdom taught ' Better by him who can obey. Blessed are they who die for God, And earn the martyr's crown of light; Yet he who lives for God may be A greater conqueror in his sight. DANTE GxiBRIEL ROSSETTI. 1828 . Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born in Lon- don, in 1828, and is a sou of Mr. Gabriel Rossetti, Professor of Italian at Kiug's College, London who died in 185i. Mr. Rossetti is an artist, and is one of the ori':jinators of what is termed the Pre- Rap'iaelite style of art. Ho is also known as a poet and translator. Some of his poems are exceedingly beautiful. MY SISTER'S SLEEP. She fell asleep on Christmas eve: At length, the long ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweighed The pain naught else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day Over, the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. H sr little table near was spread With work to fluisli. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up. Of Winter radiance, sheer and thia: The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy, crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. I had been sitting up some nights. And ray tired mind felt weak and blank ; Like a sharp, strengthening wine, it drank The stillness and the broken lights. Twelve struck. That sound, by dwind- ling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruQled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled; no other noise than that. " Glory unto the Newly Born ! " So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till morn. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 81 Just then, in the room over us, There was a pushing back of chairs. As some who had sat unawares Si) late, now heai'd the hour, and rose. With anxious, softly-stepping haste. Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should tiiey Have brolien her long watched-for rest. She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain Wiih woe,and her eyes gazed and yearned. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word ; There was none spoken ; but I heard The silence for a little space. Our mother bowed herself and wept; And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all whitei, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn, A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, ' Christ's blessing on the newly born ! " JOSEPH BRENAN". 1828—1857. Joseph Brenan was born November 17, 1828, in Cork, Ireland. In boyhood he exhibited singular gifts of fancy; and, at an early age, wrote in prose^ and verse with facility and taste, and spoke with eloqueiice at debating societies. " Young Ii'eland " inflamed iiis enthusiasm, and he removed to Dublin in 1848, just in time to prove himself acceptable as a contrib- utor to the leading revolutionary organs. The United [rishman, The Irish Tribune, and The Irish Felon, before their seizure by the government. On the suspension of the habeas corpus, Mr. Brenan was ar- rested in the west of Ireland, and held in prison, without trial, tor some nine months. During and after his incarcera- tion he wrote for the Irishman; but fur- ther revolutionary efforts proving useless, he left Ireland, and arrived in New York in October, 1849. In the United States he pursued the career of a journalist, lec- tured, contributed a paper on "Theo- ries of Evil," and some poems to the American Whig Review, and having mar- ried Miss Mary Savage, in August, 1851, removed to New Orleans on an engage- ment with the Delta of that city. Hav- ing been prostrated, and rendered tem- porarily blind by yellow fever, he spent some months of 1851 in New York, during which he contributed, in prose and verse, to the Citizen; also a bitter article on the foreign vote during the "Know Nothing" excitement, to the United States Ueview. Resuming his position in New Orleans, where his brilliant abilities were highly appreciated, he died, highly regretted, on the 17th of May, 1857. DIRGE FOR DEVIN REILLY. "When the day has come, darling, that your darling must go From the scene of his struggles, of his pride and his woe,— Lay him on a liillside, with his feet to the dew, Where the soul of the verdure is faintly stealing through— On the slope of a hill, with his face to the light. Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- fies the night; For the grand old mother Nature is might- ier than death. The subtle Irish soul, of which the beau- tiful is breath; Which nestles and dreams in the solemn sounding trees. And flings out its locks to tlie rapture of the breeze. And 'twill crave for God's wonders, from the daisy star close by, To the golden scroll which sparkles with His scripture in the sky." 82 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY God rest you, Deviii Reilly, in the place of your choice, Where the bless ed dew is falling, and the flowers have a voice; Where the conscious trees are bending in homage to the dead, And the earth is swelling upward, like a pillow for your head; And His rest wUl be with you, for the lonely seeming grave, Though a dungeon to the coward, is a palace to the brave- Though a black Inferno circle, where the recreant are bound, Is a brave Valhalla pleasure dome where heroes are crowned; Oh ! His rest will be with you, in the con- gress of the great. Who are purified by sorrow, and are vic- tors over fate; Oh, God's rest will be with you, in the corridors of Fame. Which were jubilant with welcome, when Death called out your name. Way among the heroes, for another hero soul ! Boom for a spirit which has struggled to its goal I Rise, for in life he was faithful to his faith, And entered without stain 'neath the por- tico of death ; And his fearless deeds around, like attend- ing angels stand, Claiming recognition from the noble and the grand; Claiming to his meed— who from fresh and bounding youth, To the days of manly trial, was truthful to the truth — The welcome of the hero, whose foot would not give way, Till his trenchant sword was shivered in the fury of the fray; And grand will be that welcome, if the Devin gods above Can love with but a tithe of an humble mortal love 1 " Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to the dew, Where the lite of the verdure is faintly stealing through; On the slope of a hill, with my face to the light Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- fies the night;" Would it were a hillside in the land of the Gael, Where the dew falls like teardrops, and the wind is a wail; Where the winged superstitions are gleam- ing through the gloom, Like a iiost of frighted Fairies, to beautify the tomb, On the slope of a hill, with your face to the sky Which clasped you, like a blessing, in the days gone by; When your hopes were as radiant as the stars of the night. And the reaches of the future throbbed with constellated light. Have you seen the mighty tempest, in its war cloak of cloud, When it stalks through the midnight, so defiant and proud ; When 'tis shouldering the ocean, till the croucliing waters fly From the thunder of its voice, and the lightning of its eye; And the waves, in timid multitudes, are rushing to the strand, In a vain appeal for succor from the buf- fets of its hand; Then you saw the soul of Reilly, when, abroad in its might. It dashed aside, with loathing, all the creatures of the night; Till the plumed hosts were humbled, and their crests, white no more, Were soiled with the sand, and strewn upon the shore; For the volumed swell of thunder was concentrated in his form. And his tread was a conquest, and his blow was like a storm. Have you seen a weary tempest, when a harbor is near. OF CATHOLIC POETS. And Its giant Dreast i8 heaving from tlie speed of its career; How it puts off its terrors, and is timor- ous and weal^, And it stoops totlie waters, witli its cheek to their cheel^; As it broods, like a lover, over all the quiet place. Till the dimpling smiles of pleasure are eddying in its trace? Then you saw the soul of Reilly, when, ceasing to roam It flung away the clouds, and nestled to its home; When the heave and swell were ended, and the spirit was at rest. And gentle thoughts, like white-winged birds, were dreaming on its breast; And the tremulous sheets of sunset, around its couch were rolled, [n voluptuous festooning of purple lined with gold. Oil ! sorrow on the day when our young apostle died. When the lonely grave was opened for our darling and our pride; When the passion of a people was follow- ing the dead, Like a solitary mourner, with a bowed uncovered head; When a nation's aspirations were .-toop- ing o'er the dust; When the golden bowl was broken, and the trenchant sword was rust; When the brave tempestuous spirit, with an upward wing had passed. And the love of the wife was a widow's love at last; Oh! God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the shadow of that love. And God bless you with His bliss, in the pleasure-dome above, When the heroes are assembled, and the very angels bow To the glory of eternity, which glimmers on each brow. "Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to the dew. Where the life of the verdure is faintly stealing through; On the slope of a hill, with my face to the light. Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- fies the night:" Would it were a hillside in the land of the Gael. Where the dew falls like teardrops, and the wind is a wail — Where the winged superstitions are gleaming through the gloom. Like a host of frighted fairies, to beautify the tomb I On the slope of a hill, with your face to the sky. Which clasped you like a blessing in the days gone by ; When your hopes were as radiant as the stars of the night. And the reaches of the future throbbed with constellated light. COME TO ME, DEAREST. Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee. Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming about thee. Night-time and day-time in dreams I be- hold thee. Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee; Come to me, dearest, my sorrow to lighten. Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten. Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. Telling of Spring and its joyous renew- ing; And thoughts of thy love and its mani- fest treasure Are circling my heart with the primrose of pleasure. 84 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Oh, spring of my spirit ! Oh, May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom ; Tlie waste of my life has a rare root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunliglit can win it. Figure which moves like a song through the even, Features lit up with a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of sweet Erin, our mother, Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple. And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple; Oh I thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dream- ing. You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened : Dear, are you sad to know I am sad- dened ? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. As octave to octave or rhyme unto rhyme, love. I can not smile, but your cheeks will be glowing; You can not weep, but my tears will be flowing; You will not linger when I shall have died, love; And I could not live without you by my side, love. Come to me, dearest, ere I die of my sor- row; Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- morrow; Strong, swift and true as the works which I speak, love; With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love; Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary; Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary; Come to my arnjs which alone shall caress thee; Come to the lieart that is throbbing to press thee. JOHN SAVAGE. 1828 . John Savage was born December 18, 18'38, in the city of Dublin. He was edu- cated at a leading academy, with a view of entering Trinity College; but, having displayed a taste for the fine arts, entered instead the Schools of Art of the Royal Dublin Society, with the intention of be- coming an artist. In this sphere he suc- ceeded well, but the Revolution of '48 coming on, he espoused his country's cause. This cause being lost, he came to America, and followed journalism until his appointment to the clerkship of the Marine Court in New York City. His writings are voluminous, and cover a variety of subjects. His finest work is generally thought to be " Sybil : a Drama." GAME LAWS. As through the crouching underwood the wild boar madly came. With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, stiff mane and eye of flame. Through golden crops, through tangled copse, he fiercely plunging tore. All seemed but withered fibres to the rage-expanding boar. Through leafy screen and rough ravine, through lane and plain the brute Makes head, and in the cotter's field at last eludes pursuit. "Ho ! Hans, be quick; take in the child- bring out my trusty gun." Hans fled and came, the cotter fired — the wild boar's race was run. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 85 But woe ! alas, what came to pass, the Throbs like a student's where no greed or forest-ranger saw malice is— The deed, and shot the cotter down— to Youth has no danger its Truth can not make him "keep the law." dare. Herr GraflE and staff, feast, laugh, and Music's ineffable power, in mild throb- quaff that night with beakers red: bings, The cotter's home is desolate— its head, Lures my lay-loving heart till I beseech its heart lies dead. Silence— to eagerly voice my soul's wild 'Tis royal sport for king and court to hunt sobbings- the grizzly boar ; Love has no fantasy youth dare not But woe unto the poor man who dares reach. to hunt him at his door. Blending the radiance is one that I pine after ! Vision ! for which bardic cavaliers A REVERY IN REVELRY. I. bleed ! How joyously their steps keep time See her dark bright eyes— they tearfully To music in the dance. shine— after Like happy words to bounding rhyme Asking her heart if it will not be freed. That sound and sense enhance: How gloriously the young blood flows, Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful And eyes the hearts unfold ! heart ! The mirth that in their being glows Oh ! how I love thee lives not on my Tells me I'm growing old. tongue. IL The scene recalls my merry youth, Its innocence and bliss. Life of my loneliness— death of my youth- ful heart, Ethel the maidenly, modest and young ! The song, the dance, the gushing truth. Oh, let me, love, be thy life's hardy mar- The magic touch and kiss ! inere, Oh, who'd not give the wealth of years Guiding thy fragile bark o'er its wild For youth's uncounted gold ! sea, Their laughing eyes fill mme with tears— Cresting the breakers that foam in wrath I feel I'm growing old. far and near. IIL Crowning the prow that's a shelter for I love to see them blend their days, thee. With joys— that fade too soon, While they, alas ! but count delays Oh ! let me, love, be thy life's hardy for- From opening May to June: ester. December quickly comes— and then, Clearing the jungles that tangle earth's Like me, they'll feel it cold. way— And wish youth's radiant robes again. And conquering peace be thy minstrel As they are growing old. and chorister. Chanting in homage our love's endless day. YOUTH'S RHAPSODY. Wildly I wander through love-builded Pathless I tread like an islanded cast- palaces. away. Where my heart, stranger to temples so Strong with the promptings of Hope fair. on my breath, 86 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Chasing the future, and hurling the past away, Wooing what one word may make life or death. Oh 1 let me worship thee — oh ! let me cling to thee, Like some idolatrous child of the wood ! Let ray youth's sacrifice, dear Ethel, bring to thee All the wild truth that now maddens ray blood. Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful heart ! Oh ! how I love thee my voice can not sing- Life of my longing eyes— death of my youthful heart, Ethel, the symbol of promise and Spring 1 Will you not love me ? Love with joy- ance tender as Thouglits that stir echoes in this heart of mine ? Will you not cling to me, graceful and slender, as Bound its strong staple the juice-laden vine ? Will you not temper ray brain's frenzied madness, love ? Will you not spiritize Thought's subtle fire— Coax me from sadness, love — kiss me to gladness, love- Bless me, and twine thy rich love witli my lyre ? Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful heart ! How I adore thee my harp can not sing. Pulse of my aching breast— death of my youthful heart, Ethel, my symbol of promise and Spring I MIND— A LABOR CHANT. fNearly twenty years ago, the Democratic Review hailed the followinfr Labor Chant as a powerful poem, In which Mr. Savage's sympa- thy with the cause of the down-trodden millions was nobly expressed. It Is very applicable at the present time, when the labor movement la attracting such attention.] Ringers on the chiming anvil, Tillers of the soil. Men of nerve and sweated brows, Men of truth and toil, Levelers of primeval forests. Craftsmen of the city, Here's a chant— a labor chant! Chorus now ray ditty. Brothers, here's my heart, and hand, too : Ev'ry vein is for my kind ; What is wealth if it should part you. With its whisperings so golden, (As deceitful as 'tis olden) From that only God-found palace. Where, from Learning's crystal chalice, Draughts ye mighty stoups of Mind. Men of brawny bone and sinew. Honest toil and craft ; Men whose homely brows are sun- dyed. Toiling on life's raft, Down the wild sea of existence, Truthful more than witty ; Here's a chant of sweet resistance ; Cliorus now ray ditty : Brothers, if you mean to lift your Trusty heads among your kind, Aid the giant. Thought, to shift your Lives upon the way of Knowledge- Learning's road is free of tollage — And with shouts an hundred hundred Has the Age's spirit thundered. Rulers can not chain the Mind. Men whose only mace and sabre Are the scythe and sledge ; Men whose corded sinews labor At the wheel or wedge ; Men who love the earned prize, Who scorn the rich man's pity ; Here's a chant ! come, chorus rise And swell aloud my ditty : Brothers, earth would be a dismal. Barren, wretched place designed. If it had not Nature's prismal Sunlight, light'uin;' as it dallies O'er the hillsides and the valleys ; OF CATHOLIC POETS. 87 But more barren, gloomy, scopeless. Is the heart whose vales lie hopeless, Unlit by the Sun of Mind ! CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 1830 . Christina Gr. Rossetti was born In Lon- don in 1830, and still resides in that city. She is the author of "Goblin Market and Other Poems," and "The Prhice's Pro gress and Other Poems," both collections being comprised in the volume of her poems published in this country. She has also written a volume of prose stories for children, called " Commonplace and Other Stories," and a book of nursery rhymes, called " Sing-Song." WHEN I AM DEAD. When I am dead, my dearest. Sing no sad songs for me ; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree. Be tlie green grass above me, With showers and dewdrops wet ; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain ; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on as if in pain. And, dreaming through the twilight. That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember. Haply I may forget. HUSBAND AND WIFE. "Oh, kiss me once before I go, To make amends for sorrow, Oh, kiss me once before we part. Who will not meet to-morrow. "And I was wrong to urge your will» And wrong to mar your life ; But kiss me once before we part, Because you are my wife." She turned away and tossed her head And puckered up her brow ; "I never kissed you yet," she said, " And I'll not kiss you now. "Tho' I'm your wife by might and right And forsworn marriage vow, I never loved you yet," said she, " And I don't love you now." So he went sailing on the sea. And she sat crossed and dumb, Willie he went sailing on the sea. Where the wild storm- winds come. He'd been away a month and a day, Conning from morn to morn : And m my buds had turned to leaves, And many lambs were born. And many buds had turned to flowers, I For Spring was in a glow. When slie was laid upon her bed. As wnite and cold as snow. " Oh, let me kiss my baby once ; Just once before I die ; And bring it sometimes to my grave To teach it where I lie. " And tell my husband, when he comes S;.fe home from o'er the sea. To love the baby that I leave, If ever he loved me. "And tell him, not for might or right Or forsworn marriage vow, But for the helpless baby's sake, I would have kissed him now." WEARY IN WELL DOING. I would have gone ; God bade me stay ; I would have worked ; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed, And said them nay. Now I would stay ; God bids me go ; Now I would rest ; God bids me work. He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro. My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk, And vex it so. 88 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY I go, Lord, where thou sendest me ; Day after day I plod and moil : But Christ ray God, wlien will it be That I may let alone my toil, And rest with Thee ? WILLIAM SETON. 1836 . William Seton was born in New York City in 1836, and is a grandson of the cel- ebrated Mother Seton. He studied lor some years at Mt. St. Mary's College, Em- mittsburg, and completed his education at Bonn, Germany. He had been admit- ted to the bar when the war broke out, and he at once enlisted as a private, but soon rose to the rank of captain. He was twice severely wounded. He now resides in New York. The following is an extract from his poem, "The Pioneer:" AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. In the loveliest valley of New Hampshire, Hard by a stream whose fountain home is hid Among the laurel crags of Mount Kear- sarge, A cabin stood. Upon its sloping roof Old Time had spread the moss; its chim- ney leaned A little to the south, bent by the blasts. Which in the Winter months, with scarce a pause, Blew down with fury from the cold nor'- west. Under its eaves the martin's nest was hung; Tiie woodchuck had his den beneath the floor. Where generations of them came and went— Blessing a spot which was the haunt of peace. Around the acres which the axe had cleared The melancholy pines a circle formed. And in the clearing, 'iweea the stumps and stones, Josiah Willey raised his scanty crop Of corn and pumpkins, blunting many a hoe, And often wondering how he ever came To settle in the sh'adow of tlae hill. Yet was Josiah, in his faithful spouse. Blest with a treasure such as few men find. Her temper kindly, and her willing hand Was never idle from a lack of health; Broom, churn and spinning-wheel, the live-long day. Kept steady chorus to her tuneful voice; And in the evenings, when his work was done. She'd placed her "specs" upon her droop- ing nose. And read him off to sleep with Holy Writ; Then rouse him from his dream with some sweet hymn, Which would recall the day when first they met — A Sabbath in the choir at Intervale. And as a cherished flower grows more fair. And blooms each season with a sweeter breath. So, with the passing years Josiah thought His mate more beautiful than in her teen's; For when a soul to soul is truly wed. There is no ending of the honey-moon. DANIEL CONNOLLY. 1836 — . Daniel Connolly was born in Belleek, County Fermanagh, Ireland, in 1836. At the age of fifteen he came to the United States, and he has since been a resident of New York. His first newspaper work was done during the late war, when he furnished the New York Daily News with correspondence from Washington and Virginia. After the war, he became asso- ciate editor of the Metropolitan Record, which had been established several years before as a Catholic paper, with the sanc- 1 tion of Archbishop Hughes. In 1872 he OF CATHOLIC POETS. 89 gave up journalism as a regular calling, in order to engage in business, but did not abandon it wholly. His poems, written at leisure times, would make a goodly volume, but they have not been collected. TROUT FISHING. By winding paths and mossy lanes, All fringed with clover, flower and berry. We pass, nor pause to note the sirains Of woodland warblers, blithe and merry ; Our thoughts are bent on cast and play, We hardly heed the splendors o'er us, But haste with quickening steps away To reach the glorious sport before us. With lisping, low-voiced monotone The brook flows by in curves and sal- lies. And bears its rippling music down To daisied slopes and verdant valleys. The favorite spot we seek is found, A sheltered nook where elves might gambol, Or joyous sprites move merrily round In moonlit dance or midnight ramble. Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove, Where balsam boughs are gently sway- ing, And round a silvery beech above. Two heedless squirrels are briskly play- ing. Through branching pines the sunlight falls Like grains of gold on emerald sifted, And near the cleft and towering walls Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. charmed spot, so cool and calm, sweet retreat from strife's pulsation, Where sound is one perpetual psalm. And every note an inspiration ! What seek we here of harrowing care. Of toil or trade, or mart or manners, Wbile round us in the soft, sweet air Peace dreams on Nature's leafy ban- ners? But now, to work with rod and line. And dainty flies on trusty leader; We'll take the first au8i)icious sign And cast below yon slanting cedar. Again with feathery touch the flies Dance lightly over pool and shallow, And, darting through reflected skies, The wary trout retreat or follow. Along the grassy marge we go, Now listening to the tall pines moan- ing, Now catching from a glade below A drowsy mill's perpetual droning; Still on; the miller's brown faced boy Stands knee deep in the shming water, And near, with startled glance and coy. The miller's comely, dark-eyed daugh- ter. So, through the long, bright balmy day, In varying shade and sunshine rang- ing. We speed the hastening hours away Where sound and scene are ever chang- ing, Till all the hills are dashed with gold That pales and dims eve's dawning crescent. And twilight falls on field and wold Like veihng gauze o'er forms quiescent. Soft, soothing calm of Summer woods, Of streams that chant in rythmic num- bers. Of fragrant, flowery solitudes. Where rest alternate sings and slum- bers, Full oft to thee doth fancy take Her airy flight from burdened high- ways. To roam again by brook and lake. Or dream in leafy paths and byways. THREE SONNETS. I.- Goldsmith. As beams a perfect, restful, mellow day, Bipe in the golden harvest of the year, 90 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY While all the mystic, dreamy atmos- phere Breathes spices from bright garden places, gay With rarest flowers; and fragrant scents of hay. New-mown in misty meadows; and anear Are orchard fruits, and grain that droops in ear O'erburdened, and o'er all soft zephyrs play;— So spreads the charm of thy pure thought and song. Kind, gentle, simple friend of all man- kind. O'er every heart that loves the true and good; And as we fondly follow thee along Through ways of tuneful tenderness, we find Mild, balmy peace, where care does not intrude. TL— Mangan. Once in the Summer time, while wander- ing Through spaces of dim solitude, I strayed Upon a broolJ that murmured in the shade Of sighing pines, and hastened on to sing Through glades where sunshine never came, then fling Its wounded breast against rude rocks, emfrayed By all the turmoil that the poor brook made, And heedless of its plaintive suffering. And then I thought of thee, sad poet soul, Wandering in sorrowful and gloomy ways. But singing still, because thy heart was full Of melody and rich with tuneful dole. In sunless glades of hfe were spent thy days, And only asphodel 'twas thine to cull. III.— MOORB. Of all sweet singers in our ranks of song. Rarest and brightest and most dear thou art, Glad, glowing, gentle minstrel of the Iieart, To whom joy's warmest attributes belong. Around thee at the shrine of hymen throng The loves and graces feeling each the smart That follows wounds by Cupid's cun- ning dart. Yet bold thou wert as well, when Erin's wrong Touched the keen chords that trembled in thy breast; Then could the master hand that softly swept The harp to tender lays strike strains of fire. Thine was the voice melodious that ad- dressed The greatest and the lowliest, and kept Hope breathing still in love's and free- dom's lyre. THE LEAP FOR LIFE, AN EPISODE IN THE CARKER OF MARSHAL MAC- MAHON. In Algeria, with Bugeaud, Harassed by a crafty foe. Where the French, in eighteen hun- dred thirty-one; Swarthy Arabs prowled about Camp and outpost and redoubt. Crouching here, and crawling there, Lurking, gliding every-where. Tiger-hearted, under stars and under sun. Seeking by some stealthy chance Vengeance on the troops of France- Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate Savage rage and savage hate For the deeds of desolation harshly done. On a rugged plateau, Forty miles from liead-quarterB of Mar- shal Bugeaud, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 91 Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe. Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew, Round the hard-beset French. To dash out and flash through. Like a wind-driven flame, they would dare, thougii a host Hot from Hades stood there. But aban- don the post? Nay, they dare not do that : they were sol- diers of France, And dishonor shall stain neither sabre nor lance; They could bravely meet death, though like Hydra it came. Horror-headed and dh-e, but no shadow of shame For a trust left to perish when danger drew nigh Should e'er dim the flag waving free to the sky. But soon came a terror more dread to the soul Than war's wild thunder-crash, when its b.ittle-clouds roll. And the heavens are shrouded from sight while a glare. As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on the air ! It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt, To the camp most appalling of fues— Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure As the swift headsman's deadliest blows, O'er the ramparts it sullenly strode. Glided darkly by tent and by wall, Spreading awe whersoever it went, And the gloom of dismay over all; Bligiiting valor that ne'er in war's red front had quailed, Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife e'er had paled. Then a council was held, and the coqi- mandant said Direst peril was near: they must summon swift aid From the Marshal, or all would be lost ere the suu Of to-morrow went down in the west. Was there one Who, to save the command and the honor of France, Would ride forth with despatches? He ceased, and a glance At the bronzed faces near showed that spirits to dare Any desperate deed under heaven were there. But the first to arise and respond was a youth Whose brow bore nature's signet of cour- age and truth. In whose eye valor shone calm and clear as a star When the winds were at rest, and the clouds fade afar. Who was he that stood forth with such resolute air? Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold, free deionnaire. Never knight looked more gallant with shield and with spear. Never war-nurtured chieftain less con- scious of fear. In his mien was the heroic flash of the Gaul, With the hre of the Celt giving grandeur to all: And he said, head erect, face with ardor aglow, '•I will ride with dispatches to Marshal Bugeaud ! " It is night, and a stillness profound Folds the camp; Arabs stealthily creep Here and there in the moonlight be- yond, With ears eagerly bent for a sound From the garrison, watchful and weak; O'er the ten s welcome night breezes sweep. Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek Of men, scorched by a [lililess sun To a hue almost swartiiy and deep As the hue of the foe they would shun. Stretching dimly afar. Between slopes that are rugged and bare, 93 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Half obscure under moonbeam and star, Half revealed in the soft, misty air, Runs a rude, broken way that will lead Gallant rider and sure-footed steed Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud, Forty miles over high land and low; But the steed must be trusty and fleet. And the bridle hand steady and keen That shall guide him by rock and ravine, Where each stride of the galloping feet Must span dangers that slumber unseen ; And beyond, scarce a league to the west, Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and deep, Where death lurks like a serpent asleep, And the rider must ride at his best, And his steed take the terrible leap Like a winged creature cleaving the air, Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there, With perchance a steed stark on its breast, And the moon shall look down with a stare Where they lie in perpetual rest. Now the silence is broken by neigh and by champ And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the camp Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light and as free As the bridegroom who goes to his mar- riage may be. With prance and with gallop and gay caracole His steed bounds along, as if spurning control ; But the bridle-hand guides him unerring and true. And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answering thew. Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly from sight, Till both rider and steed sink away in the night. But they go not unheard, and they speed not unseen; Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fierce- ly and keen From dim ambush around; then like spectres arise White-robed figures that follow: the rider descries Them on slope and in hollow, and knows they pursue. But he fears not their craft or the deeds they may do, For his brave steed is eager and strong, and the pace Growing faster and faster each stride of ihe chase. Now the slopes right and left seem alive with the foe Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy and low. As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; they think To entrap him when back from the ter- rible brink Of the chasm he returns, for his steed can not leap The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when its steep Rugged walls ope before him, with death lying deep In the darkness below; they will seize him and take From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and stake Every secret he holds; then his life-blood may flow. But he never shall ride to the camp of Bugeaud. Still unflinching and free through the moonlight he goes, And each pulse with the hot flush of eagerness glows. Now a glance at the path where his gal- lant steed flies. Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms that arise On the dim, rugged slopes, then still on- ward and on, Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping jaws yawn On his sight; but the rider well knows it is there, OF CATHOLIC POETS. And his speed is soon cautiously checlted to prepare For tlie desperate leap; he must now put to proof The true mettle beneatli, for the slip of a hoof, Or a swerve on the brinlf, will dash both into doom. Where the sad stars shall watch over a cavernous tomb. Girth and bridle and stirrup are felt, to be sure That no flaw shall bring peril— and all is secure ; Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent to the wind, And one thought of the foe and his com- rades behind, And a low, earnest prayer that all Heaven must heed, He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to his steed. With a bound it responds, ears set back, nostrils wide, And the rush of a thunder-bred storm in its stride 1 Now the brink ! now the leap ! they are over ! Hurrah 1 Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly away; Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as the flight Of an eagle in mid-air, they sweep through the night, While the baffled foe glare in bewildered amaze At the fast-flying prey speeding far from their gaze; And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn's early glow Wlien MacMahon rides into the camp of Bugeaud. TIMOTHY E. HOWARD. 1837 ■ Timothy E. Howard was born near Ann Arbor, Mich., January 27, 1837. He studied at the public schools and at the University of Michigan, completing his college course at the University of Notre Dame. He enlisted in 1862, in the 12lh Michigan Volunteers, and soon after was so severely wounded as to necessitate his discharge. Upon graduating at Notre Dame, he was engaged as a member of the faculty, and continued in that capac- ity until the Fall of 1880, when he was elected Clerk of the St. Joseph County Circuit Court. He resides in South Bend, Ind. THE INDIAN SUMMER. With just the faintest chill of death, The full fair Indian Summer comes; By morning draped in hoary breath, Her noonday robes of strange perfumes. At even trailing weird-like shades, O'er midnight still her beauty looms, As ever, through fields and opening glades. She drives the dark November glooms. Not yet, she cries to the Winter wind. Not yet, to the frosty starlight clear. Not yet, to the north.ern snows that blind. Not yet, not yet, while I linger near ! How vain the cold, cold phantoms surge, Wliile the Queen of Autumn shakes her spear. And smiles despite their mournful dirge- Last, lovely smile of the dying year ! Fair image of life's departing hour, When days well spent have brought the soul To smile supreme at the utmost power That fiend or phantom can control ! Then smile, thou trusting soul, erect, Though death's dark shades begin to roll, Tliat fading hour for thee is flecked With flashes from the spirit's goal 1 FINE DAYS IN MARCH. How soon we glide to Summer's balmy prime To-day is redolent of airs of June, 94 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY We've bounded o'er the Spring days' chilly time, And passed from bracing frosts to drowsy noon. 'Tis but a few short days I walked the lake, And now the waters ripple on the shore. Save, here and there, their dashings nunbly break Along the icy shoals in crumbling roar. The enamored sun sends down his hazy beams To kiss the new-born waves and glass his form Where bright they roll, and the dimpled blue but seems His loved ethereal from heaven warm. The awkward woods are hushed in strange suspense, As though their wildered forms had roused too late; And the silent birds slow hop from branch to fence, And peering wonder why this Summer state ! And e'en tiie curious eye of reason turns To seek (he fragrance-breathing mead- ow lands, The glittering streams, the hills where noonday burns, And forests, swelling green in giant bands,— The yellow-turning fields of waving wlieat, The dark green maize, now silvered by the breeze. Now drinking deep the sun's enriching heat — The clover wading herds, the shady trees,— The white-rowed mowers down the swelt- ering vale. The hay-load moving stately to the barn,— The pleasure-boat, with drowsy flapping sail,— All floating on as dreams of Summer's morn I But soon thebreatii of lion-hearted March Dispels the glowing vision, and a cliill Forebodes black days ere Summer's sun will parch. For the prince of bitter winds is with us still! REV. PATRICK CRONIN. 1837 • Rev. Patrick Cronin was born near the vihage of Adare, Ireland, March 1, 1837. He came to the United States in 1^50; received his classical education at St. Louis University, and made his theolog leal and philosophical studies at St. Vin- cent's Seminary, Cape Girardeau, Mo. He was ordained in 1863, and has been stationed at St. Joseph's Cathedral, Buf- falo, since 1873, and since that time has edited the Catholic Union, a journal of large circulation and wide influence. In addition to his other duties, he frequently lectures. He has written many beautiful poems. PERE MARQUETTE. [Read at the Second Annual Meeting of the Marquette Monument Association at Mackinac, Michigan, August 8, 1879.] To this scene of sylvan glory. Rich in gray and dreamful story, Gather we, this August morning, 'Mid the Summer's bright adorning ; While the woods, in fragrant leaf. Wave o'er fields of golden sheaf. And the wild flowers' rich perfume Mingles with the laurel's bloom, Wiiere the fresh'ning island breeze Sweeps along the dew-lit heather ; And the honey laden bees, From the sighing forest trees. By these blue and limpid waters,- Weird, as their once dusky daughters,- Sing a dreamy song together. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 95 A devoted pilgrim lesion Come we to this gorgeous region, — To tliis greeu and lovely island, Sleeping sweetly 'mid the wild-land ; From our homes in distant tracts, Over lake and stream and river, Where the dark pines groan and pjiiver ; And the wrathful tempest, sweeping. Sends the torrent madly leaping Down the foaming cataracts. Hasten we from eastern city, With its tearful cries for pity. And its restless heart all throbbing. And its laugh and sigh and sobbing, And the Attic wit that flashes. And the pungent pen that lashes. There beside the Summer sea, While the rapid ringing hammer, And the whir of flying spindles. Wake a music that enkindles (While the turbulent grow calmer) Health and wealth and jubilee. From the land of rushing waters, Sturdy sons and bloomful daugliters ; Where the swelling western breeze Woos the fragrant forest trees, And the purple mountains rise. Over vales of golden plenty ; And the eagle from his eyrie Scans the broad and pathless prairie ; Come we with the joyous chorus Of the teeming West that bore us, For the grateful task before us. On which smile pi'opitious skies. And the Southron, tho' not here. Hath a generous emotion In our work of deep devotion ; For above the livid fear And the pallid consternation At the yellow desolation. South winds bear the tender tone That sweet sympathy discloses. And joy mingles with his moan In his sunny home of roses. But why do we gather thus proudly to- day. What grand thought awakes all this brill- iant display ? To honor a hero come we from afar. Whose brow is enwreathed with laurels of war ? Or come we to kneel round a sanctified shrine, Where angels keep watch with the stars as they shine ? Or rear the proud marble full high on this shore. And fling to the breeze a loved name ever- more ? Ah, yes ! 'tis a hero, all glorious, I trow. Whose cheek never blanched 'mid the darts of the foe ; Whose heart was as pure as the foam on the wave That chants his sad dirge round his yon- der lone grave. And throbbed but to lessen life's poor human woes. And make the dark wilderness bright as the rose. In him saint and scholar, explorer, com- bined— Whose deeds shall be blazoned on every wind ; The first who spoke peace on this land red with slaughters, And sang Christian songs o'er the Father of Waters— 'Tis a name at whose sound swartliy cheeks have grown wet — "The Ottawa Angel," the sainted Mar- quette. — His fame shall endure, the proud boast of the West, To epic his story, our svpeetest behest. At old Laon, beside a mountain stream, In far, fair France, he dreamt his youth- ful dream ; Slender his lorm, and pale his beauteous face, His high-souled honor spoke a noble race. Young genius sparkles in those starry eyes. And deep devotion in their dark depths lies; Row fair is all, how sweet the world ap- pears. 96 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And bright the promise of the coming years ! Oh, great, grand soul ! e'en in life's fes- tive hours, Toljlist the Master's voice 'mid pleasure's bowers ; To see His beauty in awakening day, And view His mercy hi the moon's sweet ray ; To feel His power and vastness o'er the deep, And His dread wrath when fierce torna- does sweep ; Thy fresh young virgin heart He sought to gain ; Early He knocked, nor did He knock in vain. But thine own France— the fair land of the vine — Whose ev'ry glory swells that heart of thine — Shall ne'er be witness to thy deeds afar, Which dim the luster of those feats of war In which her Christian knight bore Mos- lem down, And rode triumphant thro' each crescent town. Oh, pale, pure priest ! from far beyond tlie wave, Tlie pitying angels beckon thee to save ; For there, amid a smiling paradise Of flowers and fruits and streams and sun-lit skies, The swarthy Indian broods in darkness lone, And demons rear their undisputed throne; And while the virgin vales in beauty sleep The guardian spirits of the wild- woods weep. Sure tbey will bear thee safely o'er the foam, And sooth thy heart, mid starlight dreams of home ; There the grand epic of thy life's young story Shall woo the muse and crown thy name in glory. Nor Spaniards sought the fabled Fount of Youth, Nor minstrel knight e'er sang his lady's ruth, Nor hungry miser in his greed for gold, Nor dreamy alchemist in days of old. E'er sought the prize on which his sou) was set. With half thine eager heart, oh, brave Marquette ! 'Mid wild Canadian woods and snowy wastes, He taught him barbarous tongues and savage tastes ; In lone canoe along these stormy lakes He bears the Cross, and their wild echo wakes With Christian song, which, oft more swift than speech. Can the rude children of the forest reach. His memory greets us wheresoe'er we go, 'Mid Summer flowers or Winter's frozen snow ! What recks he of the perils round his puth, From beast and flood and wood and sav- age wrath ? What matters that his scanty food alone Is oft but moss plucked from the wild- wood stone ? Jesu is near, the Virgin guards his sleep, And sweet his slumbers o'er the billows deep ; He has his cross, his breviary and beads : These be his weapons— he no other needs. white-stoled priest ! in all thy wan- d'rings lone. O'er lake and wild and river, then un- known ; Thro' all those toilsome days and nights of pain While thou wert reaping the ripe Gospel grain. Didst ever dream, or kindly Heaven un- fold. The wondrous story that has since been told Of this great land ? how its vast power should rise OF CATHOLIC POETS. 97 And. woo young Freedom from propi- tious skies ; How to its outstretched arms and fond embrace Sliould haste tlie children of each suf- f ring race, And find by Eastern sea and Western streams Tlie Eldorado of their wistful dreams, Till its free flag should proudly be un- furled And wake or love or fear o'er all the world. The birch canoe is gone, which erst awoke The lonely waters by the wigwam's smoke ; And in its slead the white sail cleaves the tide Or plows the steamer thro' the waters wide. Bearing a world of wealth far o'er the deep, From Northern blasts to where soft South winds sleep, Where forests waved, and roamed the bounding game, And quiver-laden the swart, hunter came. The fierce hot breathing of the iron horse, With fiery nostrils, wakes the echoes hoarse. Till far and far the frightened deer re- bounds O'er the long track and through the wild- wood grounds. The Reel Man's here no more, and by each brave The blood-stained tomahawk rusts in its grave ; And where the savage war-dance wildly rose. And rudely broke lone Nature's sweet repose. The busy hum of cities wakes the day, And festive Pleasure holds higli holiday ; And o'er the sward once red with horrid sight Of human sacrifice and Demon rite, The cross of Jesu rises high in air. And sobs the soul away in tearful prayer; The Christian Sacrifice is here renoweti. And pours again the rich red stream from Holy Rood. Oh, brave young Christian herald ! from afar Comes thy bright story as a guiding star : Neglectful centuries could not hide thy fame. Or dim the luster of thy glorious name- That name the Red Man knows, and his swart face Reveres the angel of his vanished race ; Wiiile the lone mariner, o'er waters dark, When the fierce tempest crowds his trembling barque. The same invokes as guardian of those lakes, Nor dreads the danger, that the wild wind wakes. They dig him a grave in the wild, wet sand, On the banks of the lonely river, And lay him to rest With the cross on his breast, Far, far away from his own sunny land, While the night dew falls, and the sad winds sigh, And none but the angels and two are nigh. But his faithful braves will not let him sleep So far from his own loved mission ; So in decked canoe. When soft winds woo, They bear him away, 'Mid blossoms of May, Point St. Ignace, while they pray and weep ; But though centuries pass, yet the wild winds rave Round the unlettered stone of Mar- quette's grave I 98 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY REV. THOMAS AMBROSE BUT- LER. 1837 . Rev. Thomas Ambrose Butler was born in Dublin, Ireland, March 21, 1837. He began his classical studies at St. Law- rence's Seminary, then presided over by the present Catholic bishop of Brisbane, Australia, and entered the Catholic Uni- versity of Ireland as under-graduate on the day of the inauguration of Dr. (now Cardinal) Newman. In 1856 went to Maynooth College, obtaining first pre- mium in belles-lettres in two successive years. During eight years of college life he frequently contributed to the Nation and other Irish journals. He was or- dained priest in May, 1864, and was ap- pointed curate in County Wicklow. In 1867, by permission of Cardinal Cullen, he went to the Vicariate of Kansas, and remained there until the resignation of Bishop Meige, in 1875. During his residence in Kansas he frequently con- tributed to American Catholic journals. In 1874, he brought out his book, entitled "The Irish on the Prairies, and other Poems," also a prose work, "Kansas and Irish Immigration." Father Butler's poetical contributions appear frequently in American journals. He is now pastor of St. James' Church, St. Louis, Missouri. THE LOST HOME. L Come, sit, my son, beneath the shade where Autumn winds are sighing; The shadows, creeping down the woods, announce that day is dying; And far the murky clouds outspread the floating flags of warning — Where Alleghauies' giant hills were seen at early morning. n. Behold ! my son, the fertile fields, where golden grain is swelling: And far away the crested pines thy broth- ers' axe is felling; And yonder see our cheerful cot beside the mountain river — Thy fattier knows no master here but God, the mighty Giver. IIL In other days, when life was young, and hope was beaming o'er me, I lov'd my father's natal cot — I lov'd the isle that bore me. And love it still — the dear old land — though ocean's waves divide us; The thoughts of old and fancy's spell shall bring its shores beside us. IV. Oh ! land of sorrows, Innisfail I the sad- dest, still the fairest ! Though ever-fruitful are thy breasts — though green the garb thou wear- est, In vain thy children seek thy gifts, and fondly gather round thee; They live as strangers midst thy vales since dark oppression bound thee. My natal home beside the glen ! how could I cease to love thee ? The yellow thatch was o'er thy walls,— the beeches wav'd above thee; Thy skies were like the sea gull's wings— of purest snowy brightness; They woo'd the Sun, till round thy porch he flung his silv'ry brightness. VI. Methinks I now behold thy smoke ascend from yonder thicket — Methinks I see my aged sire beside thy open wicket. And hear my brothers' notes of mirth along the valleys ringing. Where maidens o'er the milking-pails the rural songs are singing. VIL Around thy hearth, at day's decline, arose the voice of gladness — The fleeting years, as on they sped, flung in no seeds of sadness; OF CATHOLIC POETS. 99 And though the swelling tide of care ott ] roll'd its waves beside ns, We clung in hope around our home — no perils could divide us. VIII. But ah ! on sudden, Famine's breath brought direful desolation; Whilst tyrants cast their cruel laws around the dying nation, And spurn'd the wasted, wither'd poor, for help, for mercy crying,— The Saxons smil'd with joy to hear that Celtic sons were dying. IX. My God, it came ! — the fearful gale — against our happy dwelling; We stood the fearful shock awhile, though waves of care were swelling; Whilst, like a monster 'midst the deep, which loves the tempest's thunder. The lord who own'd our lands desir'd to see us sinking under. In vain we fed the hopes awhile I in vain each dear endeavor ! My father's fathers' natal home was lost to us forever; And cozy roof and porch and walls were cast to earth together. And we, in woe, were forced to face the Winter's direful weather. XI. Alanna ! 'neath their native soil my parents' hearts are sleeping — Across their lonely, grassy graves the shamrock leaves are creeping ; And we are here amidst those wilds, where tyrants ne'er can bind us. With lands as fertile — not so fair — as those we've left behind us. XII. Yes; true, my son ! thy father dear has drunk the bitter potion; Yet often 'midst those lonely woods he thinks with fond emotion, That yonder billows seek our isle — that gentle zephyrs fan her: Oh ! may her exiles seek her, too, to raise her drooping banner ! JOHN R. BENSON. 1837 . John R. Benson was born in Manches- ter, England, June 5, 1837, and came to this country in his infancy. His life has been passed mainly in Michigan, and he is now a farmer at Mt.Morris in that State. He served in the war for three years, with great credit. He has wi itten a number of poems, which are above the average merit. BIRTHDAY LINES. How swift has been the flight Of these long years, Now beautifully bright. Now dimmed with tears! But ever glowed with hope Their horoscope. If it be true that we Must act the part That God decreed should be, The feeble heart In vain may strive with Fate To change its state. But on this natal day My soul aspires To tear the thrall away And let the fires Of Truth and Virtue rise Up to the skies. ! grant that when again A year has fled. And 'mid the haunts of men My time has sped, My retrospective look May not rebuke. Thus when the days are spent To me allowed 1 may look back content. Nor fear the shroud: Loved by the good and wise The rest despise. 100 THE riOUSEHOLD LIBRARY REV. HENRY A. BRANN, D.D. 1837 . The Rev. Henry A. Brann, D.D., was born Au2;ust 16,1837, in Parkstown, Coun- ty Meath, Ireland, and emigrated to this country in 1849. He studied in St. Mary's College, Wilmington, Del., and afterwards in St. Francis Xavier's College, New York, where he graduated in 1857. His ecclesi- astical studies were made in St. Salfice Seminary, Paris, wliere he spent three years; and in the American College, Rome, where he was ordained its first priest and its first D.D., in 1862. Dr. Brann was vice-president of Seton Hall College, New Jersey, from 1862 10 1864. He has been pastor of St. Elizabeth's Church, New York, for the last ten years. He is the author of several well known works. THE PROGRESS OF THE FAITH. [Tlie following extract is from a poem bear- ing this title, written for, and published during the Fair in aid of the New York Cathedral. It was written as an illustration of the growth of the Church in New York City.] Historic Muse ! my joyous voice inspire. To sing Faith's wonders, with celestial fire, Tiiat in one age by valiant sous were wrought Of Christian sires who first Manhattan sought. Too oft thy record is of deeds of blood. Of war and rapine, not of truth and good; Then, to a tale in which both virtues strong And burning zeal and piety belong. Propitious lend thy aid, and briefly rest Thy ceaseless pinions on this temple's crest ! The Muse invoked, behold ! now quick appears From out the gloom that hides a hundred years; On outward wall of temple takes her stand. Evoking facts with memory's magic wand, And thus the crowds in trumpet tones addressed, Their bowed heads list'ned and the truth confessed : "From distant East your faithful fathers came. At first but few, some not unknown to fame; From vine-clad France, by revolution driven. Some sought in western lands a friendlier haven, A few from Spain, and from Italia's shores, Impelled by faith, which unknown seas explores; Of Teuton race, that erst so tierce and bold Withstood Rome's legions in the forests cold. Full thousands came, now docile to her laws. As leal to Christ as once to Hermann's cause.* But from lone Erin came the larger flock To plant the faith that rests on Peter's rock. I see them now as from that isle they sailed The church to spread that never yet has failed, By hate expelled and Albion's cruel laws From native land and for religion's cause. These and their deeds of faith thy worthy theme Of praise immortal should this city deem. How oft, the scene recalled, with anguish cleaves The mind that thinks on what the exile leaves ! Mark how he wanders down the winding lane. Each step a sting and ev'ry look a pain; The cloistering elms that saw bis young- est years. His father's cot which 'mid their shade appears. The old churchyard where his ancestors lie, *The savage warrior known to the Romaus at Armiuiua. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 101 The church, the priest, all bid a sad good- bye ! His youthful wife hangs weeping on his arm, The cowering child looks on in strange alarm. Perched on the cart where their scant stores are spread Now cries, now laughs, now hides his coyish head; Unconscious yet of all his parents' woes, Half pleased he looks, and chirrups as he goes. The patient beast that all this burden bears. The common sorrow by demeanor shares; His steps are slow, his eye betrays his fear To part; and shows his sorrow in his pendant ear. The bay at length attained, where stately towers The lordly ship that dares old Neptune's powers, The peasants' mount, a sorrow-stricken train. The keel that bears them o'er the Western main, A home of freedom and of faith to find, To weakness gentle and to exiles kind. Lies like a lake begirt with verdant ground. With houses glistening on tlie islands round ; Or silver punch-bowl for the banquet set. Wreathed round the rim with floral coro- net. With wondering eyes the exiles fondly gazed Till lovely landscapes their dim visions dazed. At islets floating in the water clear, At haughty masts in dock, and steeples near. The great metropolis before them lay. Queen of our Commerce, empress of the Bay. Not Naples, gorgeous under southern sun, Nor English Channel, where fierce billows run. Nor Bantry, famed for clifE and sounding shore. Nor all the harbors named in ancient lore— Not e'en the charms of Erin's fairest Cork Can equal thee, thou Bay of great New York! The pilgrims land and, reverent, kiss the sod, Impelled by faith and gratitude to God, With joyous mien they bless the grateful shore, Discourse of future plans, since perils past are o'er." THE STOLEN FLOWER POTS. A culprit fay, in haste one day, Took all a peri's flowers: Nor recked she then her prayers to say, Nor sought devotion's bowers. The peri grieved, her heart bereaved Of all her fragrant treasures; And sought the King, who she believed Would take the proper measures. The satyrs brave, of each the slave, Took up the fairies' wrangle; In blood they swore their swords they'd lave. And each the other mangle. The King, in pain, that thus his reign Should be by fairies troubled; Commanded peace unto the twain Whose breasts with battle bubbled. " Good herald, run ! "—a truce is won, Appeased the adverse forces; The flowers go back before the sun Has run his autumn courses. And now do all, both great and small, In freshness greater never; The blossoms bloom in peri's hall, In beauty growing ever. For fairy smiles and peri tears The faded rose will nourish; And serve in lieu of liglit and dew To make the dry buds flourish. 102 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY WILLIAM LOUIS KELLY. 1837 . William Louis Kelly, a son of Col. Charles C. Kelly, was born in Springfield^ Ky., August 27, 1837. In 1855 Mr. Kelly was made assistant postmaster at Louis- ville. He read law at niglif, and gradu- ated at the University of Louisvil'e in 1860. In 1864 he left Louisville for the army as a special agent of the Post-ofBce Department. He continued in the postal service until 1867, when he went to Min- nesota. He was at one time editor of the Northwestern Chronicle, and is now prac- ticing law in St. Paul, ASH WEDNESDAY. [In the marble flo ^r of an old Italian church, beneath which many dead have been buried, there is one slab bearing this simple inscrip- tion : " Palvis — Cinis — Nihil " — Dust, ashes, nothing.] Only this and nothing more. Graven on the marble floor. Where the sunlight, soft, subdued, Breaks upon the solitude Of that vast church, through windows high Stained in Christian imagery; — Lighting up with glory quaint As halo, head of sculptured saint, Or Holy Mother to men given. Peerless of all blest of Heaven: Besting on the Altar grand When rested priest uplifts the hand, And incense lingers on the air, A seeming of the Christian's prayer: But altar, lamp and sunlight smiles Through all those dim cathedral aisles Reveal to every passer-by Saint and sinner — low or high — These three words— these, no more, Graven on the marble floor: PuVois— Cinis— Nihil. Who rests beneath ? No man knows, Nor Summer's suns, nor Winter's snows, As on the changing seasons go, Will tell the tale, all we know Stands here revealed. Nor name, nor age- Maid or matron, poet, sage. Warrior mailed, whose flaming sword Flashed brightest, lor the living word O'er Infidel, when blood as wine Stained the sands of Palestine; Or holy hermit, bishop, priest, Or Dives at his royal feast. Or th' beggar at the gate, who calls For crumb that from that table falls: This we know, that 'neath that stone For ages slept some one, unknown. Still as man's restless pulse shall beat Through coming years, and thousand feet Shall tread these aisles, as they have trod. Where rests tK unknown to all save God ; Nor time, nor travel shall efface The lessons which these three words trace On every heart— this, nothing more, Graven on the marble floor, Pulvls— Cinis— Nihil. MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 1837— 1862. Michael O'Connor was born in Orange County, New York, in 1837. At the usual age he began to learn a trade, at which he worked in various places until he en- listed in the national service in the Sum- mer of 1862. He was then in Rochester, N. Y., and became a sergeant in Company K. of the liOth Regiment. He died of typhoid fever, in an army hospital at Potomac Station, Virginia, after having been only three months in the field. REVEILLE. The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, And the sleepy mist on the river lies, Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. Awake ! awake ! awake ! O'er field and wood and brake, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 103 With glories newly born. Comes on tlie blushing morn. Awake! awake 1 You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night ; You have basked in your sweetheart's smiles so bright ; Come, part with them all for a while again,— Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men. Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! You have dream'd full long, I know, Turn out ! turn out ! turn out I The east is all aglow. Turn out ! turn out ! From every valley and hill there come The clamoring voices of fife and drum : And out in the fresh, cool morning air The soldiers are swarming every- where. Fall in I fall in I fall in ! Every man in his place. Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! Each with a cheerful face. Fall in I fall in ! THE BEAUTY. Be it my most pleasing duty To describe a little beauty ; Though I never saw her face But within a picture case, 'Tvvould look better in a bonnet. With a wreath of flowers upon it. And a living smile to sun it. But even round that picture cover Love and Memory ever hover, Like the bees round tops of clover. It is the daguerreotype Of all that's rich and rare and ripe I Let me count the rosary Of her charms, and bend the knee Of unpretending poesy Before the leather- covered shrine Of this patron saint of thine. Who, combining every grace. Reigns a female Bonny-face : Hair in deep, dark currents flowing. Whose smooth waves with light are glow- ing. As in countless drifts and whorls It breaks upon her neck in curls. Flashing eyes, with azure tinged, Jetty, arched and silken fringed ; Blest he'll be whom their warm glances Coax along to love's advances ; Happy he who shall behold Love's first buds in them unfold. Her dainty nose I'll not define As either Greek or aquiliiie, Nor it with ostentation call "The noblest Roman of them all" — But all their beauties blent in one^ Could only match this paragon ; For in it mingle all the graces Seen in those of classic faces. Cheeks on which, though peace reposes, War again the jealous roses. A dainty mouth enwreathed with smiles But free from all coquettish wiles, Whose curved lips, vermilion hued. Are love's own sweet similitude ; While through them oft are seen beneath Flashing pearl-enameled teeth. Throat that like a marble column, Curtained by her tresses' volume, Stands revealed as in a niche. Splendidly adorned and rich. Moulded to artistic lines, And polished till it fairly shines. There you see, all rare and bright, A face of which I dream at night. If her charms I've rightly told, 'Tis an angel you behold. Who will win and wear the beauty ? Some old fellow, grim and sooty. You smile, and doubtless think it funny ; Let me add, he'll have the money— A sour and mouldy hard old crust, Round whom Dame Fortune drifts her dust — Some brute, who may abuse and thump her, Or some sleek young counter-jumper — A shrewd, adulterating grocer— Methinks I hear you mutter "No, sir ! " 104 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Ah ! my boy, you slionld Iniow better ; One of tlieni is sure to t^et her. Depend upon it, she'll be won By Jones, or Brown or Robinson. If she fishes for a mate Willi youth and beauty as her bait, The chances are she'll catch a Tartar, And die a matrimonial martyr ; Or, after years of angling, marry Tom— ay, even Dick or Harry ! If her heart is not as true As her features fair to view, For you to strive to rival Mammon Is worse, my friend, far worse than gam- mon. Most beauties are, you should consider. Knocked down to the highest bidder. Every one has some sweet face Prisoned in a picture case. Or by memory's magic art Photographed upon the heart ; And we all. In gloomy days. Steal apart and on them gaze. Some bring thoughts of hope and glad- ness ; Some of by-gone days and sadness ; As old eyes, by longing kindled. Fondly to past pleasures travel. And weird fingers, lean and dwindled. All their web of life unravel. For the threads of golden slieen That far apart are dimly seen. ARTHUR J. STAGE. 1838 . Arthur J. Stace was born in Berwick, England, January 28, 1«38. His family came to Canada in 1852, and Mr. Stace went to Marshall, Mich., where he taught a Catholic school for some time, after which he entered the University of Notre Dame as a student. He graduated in 1864, and was engaged as a professor, continuing in that position for some years. He has a keen sense of the humor- ous, and a graceful faculty of expres- sion. THE STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL. [Tliis is La Fete anx Fraise.i. of the Abb^ Tin'houchon. Its peculiar cliarm lies In the faet that It not only rtescrihos the functions of alimentation with a charming simplicity, but it serves also as a warning to the superfluously enthusiastic student not to display his newly acquired erudition at an unseasonable time. Observe that the paronomasia in the seventh stanza is one of those rare examples of this kind of wit which happen to be translatable.l I. A physiological student one day Of strawberries went to jiartake. And finding himself in a company gay, He took the occasion a little display Of his favorite science to make. n. "How few do we find," he began, "that will pause, When luxuries luscious surround. To reflect on the great alimentative laws. Which determine the course of what passes the jaws; But let ws, at least, be profound ! III. " These berries, conveyed to the mouth, are designed By the teeth triturated to be. And then they will pass, with saliva com- bined. Through the pharynx and down the oesophagus, mind ! To the stomach, as all will agree. IV. "Now, let us examine what passes below, Wlien the juices called gastric secreted Therein"— (Here the ladies all got up to go; But he didn't observe it, because he was so Absorbed, till his task was completed). V. "These juices convert it to chyme, and it goes Through an aperture called the pylorus, Excepting the peptone, which soaks out and flows OF CATHOLIC POETS. 105 Right into the veins, we are led to sup- pose, For the walls ol the vessels are porous. VI. "Now, the chyme passing through the pylorus, to wind Through the long duodenum begins. Where the bile and the juice pancreatic we find. Make chyle of the chyme to their work- ings consigned. And this chyle through the lacteals spins. VII. "Though a pun is offensive in many re- spects — An offense at which no one should smile — Yet we scarcely can censure a mind that reflects That a change in the liquids is that wliich effects The conversion of chywe into chyle." VIII. But here, looking up for the laugh with surprise He found himself left quite alone, And he sighed as he added : "Alas! how unwise Are the multitude ! Gossip, and fashions, and lies Tliey relish; but if to instruct them one tries. He might as well talk to a stone," JOHN F. SCANLAN. ,839 . John F. Scanlan was born in Castlema- hon. County Limerick, Ireland, December 29, lSo9. He emigrated to the United States in 1849, lived in Boston, Mass., un- til 1851, and moved to Chicago, III., in that year, where he has since made his home. He took an active part in the Fe- nian Rising in 1865-6, and has ever worked zealously in every movement for the advancement of liis fellow country- men. He has been e'ected to several positions of trust in Chicago. Mr. Scan- lan is the author of several books, and a contributor to various magazines. All his literary productions show much abil- ity. THE ANGELS IN GRAY. L Jim, you've asked me, "why I doff my hat To that ere wf man dressed in gray." Woman ! Heaven's best gift on earth, But she's an Angel in robes of clay; I'll tell you why I doff my hat To that garb that moves in its Heavenly way When the Spirit of Charity smiled on our strife: The handmaid of love was the Angel in Gray. IL 'Tis now seven years gone and past Since the word was whispered around; The eve of the struggle was near at last When the camp would be the battle- ground. In silence we watched the red setting sun And thought of the morrow, with its ter- rible fray, OF our boyhood's dream and manhood's gleams, To many 'twas the eve of eternal day. IIL In the dark hour of night, just before day, In the rear of the camp, 'twas marcliins my beat. When a gentle voice murmured, "Forgive them, I pray. For this, my Lord ! I bow at thy feet." To the tent of the penitent I moved on tiptoe, I thought some mortal was stricken with grief. 'Tvvas a Slstef of Charity, face all aglow, Fraying for us and our country's relief. 106 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY IV. With a fervent Amen, I dropped on my knee; For the first in years I uttered a prayer. My soul back to chikihood flew happy and free, I knelt to my mother by her old arm- chair, My head, as of old, on lier bosom 1 pressed, Her silver wliite hair I fondled, as often I'd done, 'Twas only a dream in youthful dress, For the long roll was sounding— the bat- tle begun. The battle, it lasted from morning till eve. And, Jim— you know it was a terrible day, In the dawn of success I got this empty sleeve, And learned to bless the Angel in Gray. 1 bless them, for in battle field or fever tent. When mothers and sisters were far away, They gave life to the living and light to the dying, That glorious band— the Angels in Gray. VI. I've tested my friends the world round, In fever-wards, in camp, and battle fray. No mother could, no human would Face death for man like Angels in Gray. I love that garb, Jim, with a holy love. And salute it, as all soldiers should do. Who were blest by the care of the Angels in Gray When fighting for freedom 'neath red, white and blue. REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. 1840 . Rev. Abram J. Ryan was born in Vir- ginia, in 1840. He was educated at St. Vhicent's College, Cape Girardeau, Mo. He was located for some years in Knox- ville, Tenn. Durmg the Spring of 1868 he undertook the editorial management of a Democratic paper in Augusta, Ga., called the Banner of tTie South. Father Ryan is now pastor of St. Mary's Church, in Mobile, Ala. His poems are all on the same key — fiery and devout. His "Conquered Banner" is the best "Con- federate" poem written during the late war. THE CONQUERED BANNER. Furl that banner, for 'tis weary. Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it. And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it^ Furl it, hide it, let it rest. Take that banner down; 'tis tattered ! Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered. Over whom it floated high. Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it- Hard to think there's none to hold it — Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that banner, furl it sadly, Once ten thousands hailed it gladly. And ten thousands, wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave: Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like tlieirs entwined dissever. Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom, o'er their grave. Furl it ! For the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it. Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner, it is trailing. While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, tliey adore it, Love the cold dead hands that bore it. Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it; But oh ! wildly they deplore it Now, who furl and fold it so I r OF CATHOLIC POETS. 107 Furl that banner— true, 'tis pory, ' Yet, 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in aong and story. Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding tlirough the ages, Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that banner, softly, slowly, Treat it gently, it is holy— For it droops above the dead; Touch it not, unfold it never. Let it droop there, furled for ever, For its people's hopes are dead. THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS. Some reckon their age by years. Some measure their life by art— But some tell their days by the flow of their tears. And their life by the moans of their lieart. The dials of earth may shovr The length, not the depth, of years. Few or many they come- few or many they go— But our time is best measured by tears. Ah ! not by the silver gray That creeps through the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way— And not by the furrows the finger of care. On forehead and face have made; Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth — but the shade Of our souls— and the fall of our tears. For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brow be bright and fair; While their blooJ beats warm, their heart lies cold— O'er them the Spring-time — but Winter is there. And the old are ofttimes young. When the hair is thin and white; And they sing in age as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light. But bead by bead I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead — 'tis well! And they're blest with a blessing of tears. Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a long stream of life. The tempest and tears of the deep. A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never the foam brings the brave bark home- It reaches the haven through tears. THE SONG OF THE MYSTIC. I walk down the Valley of Silence, Down the dim, voiceless valley alone. And I hear not the sound of a footstep Around me, but God's and my own; And the hush of my heart as holy As hovers where angels have flown. Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my soul could not win. Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din. Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human and sin. I walked in the world with the worldly. Yet I craved what the world never gave; And I said, in the world each ideal That shines like a star on life's wave Is toned on the shores of the real And sleeps like a dream in the grave. And still did I pine for the perfect, And still I found the false with the true: I sought 'mid the Human of Heaven, And caught a mere glimpse of its blue; And I sighed when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view 108 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And I toiled on, heart- tired of the Human, And groaned 'mid tlie masses of men, Till I knelt long ago at an altar, And heard a voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond human ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley? Tis my trysting-place with the Divine, And I fell at the feet of the Holy And around nie a voice said: "Be mine!" And then rose from the depths of my soul An echo, "My heart shall be thine." Do j'ou ask how I live in the Valley? I weep and 1 dream and I jiray. But ray tears are as sweet as the dew- drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from cen- sor, Ascendeth to God, night and day. In tlie hush of the Valley of Silence I hear all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Val- ley Till each finds a word for a whig; Tliat to men, like the doves of the deluge, The message of peace they may bring. But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach, And I have heard songs in the silence That never shall float into speech. And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen thoughts in the Valley, Ah, me ! How my spirit was stirred ! Tliey wear holy veils on their faces; Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass down the Valley like virgins. Too pure for the touch of a word. Do you ask me the place of this Valley, To hearts that are harrowed by care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and his angels are there: And one is the dark mount of sorrow, Auil ..ne the brigiit mountain of prayer. REV. JAMES KENT STONE. 1840 . Father Stone, best known as a zealous priest under the name of Father Fidehs, was born in Boston in 1840. He gradu- ated at Harvard, and, in course of time, became president of Kenyon College, Ohio, an Episcopal institution. Upon reading the invitation of Plus IX. ad- dressed to all non-Catholics, he iccepted the faith. Some years later he joined the Congregation of St. Paul, but after- wards entered the order of ihe P-Assion- ists. He has written but few poems, yet these few show poetic talent of a 'ligh order. He is now a missionary in South America. ITA TENEBR^ SICUT LUX. [This poem, beautiful and simple as one ot Ihe old breviary hymns, was written in Latin, In a student's album at Kenyon College. The author was then president of that institution, and of course not yet a Catholic. The following translation, from the original Latin, appeared some years ago in the Ave Maria, published at Notre Dame, Indiana.] Eve is now her shades extending, Night, obscure and dread, descending, Darkness shrouds the earth and skies; Glorious from Thy bright dominions. Bearing health upon Thy pinions, Rise, O Sun of Justice, rise ! Care and grief have long oppressed me. Sin made weary and distressed me, Wliile sweet hope dwells far apart; Come, and shed on me Thy gladness. Lift, dear Lord, this cloud of sadness, Thou who God and goodness art ! Wings, O ! quickly might I borrow. Rising, dove-like, care and sorrow. Fault, affliction leaving far, Swift to Thee my fliglit were given; Safe at length in that dear haven. Peace in full my soul should share. Thou who rulest high in glory. Turning yet to our poor story, With a Father's tenderness. Help Tiiy child, so spent, so needy, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 109 And his thirsting heart witli speecl^' Bounteous peace, Father, bless ! Thou each hidden pathway kiiowest; And the guardian care Thou showest Day and night wiiii us remains: Prove me, search my inmost spirit; Aided by Tliy supreme merit, "Who sliail rashly cause me pains ! Wiien mine eyes have l^nown tiie vision Of Tiiy strength, those choirs Elysian Hovering near shall safety bring; Nought in night shall more be fearful, Resting in Thy light all cheerful. Savior, Lord, and Heavenly King ! REV. MICHAEL B. BROWN. 1S40 . Rrv. Father Brown was born near Plattsburg, Neb., September 20, 1840. He was ordained priest in 1867, and is now stationed at Youngstown, Ohio. He was for some years a valued professor of phil- osophy at the University of Notre Dame, and has been a popular and prolific writer. THE HARP. When the soft breath of evening, with loving caresses, Rejoices the sweet sunny vale of the West; When the day-star retiring, imprints golden kis«es On rosy-cheeked Nature, 'ere sinking to rest; Come then, sister, and sit on the knoll by the willow. And join thy sweet voice to the harp's trembling chord; Let the rich notes of music, on wings of the zephyr. Bear joy to a heart witli tliin« own in accord. When the cricket peeps out from his secret day-chamber, To welcome the mild silvery light of the moon; When the stars from behind the blue cur- tains of heaven Lean breathlessly forward, entranced by thy tune; (), then, let thy magical fingers glide liglilly. The slumbering strings rouse to melody true. And thy own gentle voice chime with every vibration. As on fragrant flow'rs falls the soft, soothing dew. When the gay world is breathless with sport and excitement. And nectarine goblets the epicure sips: When silence reigns over the meadows and woodlands, 0, then, let sweet melody flow from thy lips. Touch, tlien, lightly the chords of thy hnrp, sister dearest, For music is charming wherever 'tis found, But flowing all pure from the chaste touch of beauty, A new charm is added to harmony's sound. ANNIE A. FITZGERALD. 1842 . Miss Fitzgerald was born in Canada, October 23, 1842. She is a sister of Mar- cella A. Fitzgerald, and in 1865 entered the order of the Sisters of Notre Dame, in San Jose, Cal., taking the name of Sis- ter Anna Raphael. She is a valued con- tributor to various publications. SANTA CRUZ IN OCTOBER. What beautiful pictures have gladdened my vision ! Whac garners of thought I have gathered to-day ! What records for memory with faithful incision, To carve on iniperishing tablets for ;'.ye ! no THE HOUSEPIOLD LIBRARY What landscapes embalmed in such mild- ness and brightness, As only our golden October can bring ! What wind clouds that fleck with their tresses' soft whiteness, The clear, azure dyes of the Heaven's dewy wing! What redwood crowned heights, with their serrate peaks cleaving The rain baptized ether of North and of East! What garden-girt homes, sober hill-sides relieving ! What city crowned slopes, a perpetual feast Of light and of color, where pleased eyes may linger And, wandering from hill-top to hill-top may find New traces each moment of God's glorious finger, New gladness and food for the heart and themindl What blending of maple and locust and laurel. What grand eucalypti, pine, cypress, and lo! What poplars majestic that "pointing a moral," Fire all the calm air with their rich torch- light glow! What home-Altars tended with loving emotion! What fanes reared to Justice and Beauty and Use! What temples to Charity, Learning, Devo- tion- Bright pledge of thy future, fair Santa Cruz ! Wliat gleams thro' its stretches of shad- owy willows Of the clear San Lorenzo! but what shall I say Of their beauty majestic, the organ voiced billows. And the glitter and glisten of iris hued spray? Of the leagues upon leagues of the far stretching ocean. With its six score and six million miles, craving more. With its merciless phalanxes ever in mo- tion, And steadily gaining on eartli's crumb- ling shore? Oh ! the marvelous swell cf its foam- crested ridges! Oh ! the wealth of its plant-world's red, olive and green! Oh! the wonderful arch of its wave-sculp- tured bridges And the rock-haunting sea-birds enliven- ing the scene. Rude cliffs where the hoar eriogonum lingers, And the wild rose braids wreaths for their weather-stained brow, Where the mesembryanthemum's stiff, fleshy fingers Trail massive festoons; I can see it all now. Not in fragments, or gleams, but beyond overpraising, A picture unpeered, as when first to my eyes Revealed, from the tower of the light- house out-gazing. From the foam-furrowed sea to the cloud- crested skies, "Deep answering to deep," blue to azure replying, A kinship of pearliness, cirri and spray. And a soft, fleecy haze. Autumn's bride- veil o'erlying The brow of the mountain, the breast of the bay. Monterey and Salinas and Watsonvilie hiding In mists from our vision, and faint thro' the haze To the south lovely .ipios, in calm peace abiding And Soquel's jutting headland outgleam as we gaze, OF CATHOLIC POETS. Ill While eastward proud Lonia Prieta looms graudly, His darlf forest mantle wrapped close round his breast, Yet with reverent brow bared, as the noon airs woo blandly Tlie glance of our monarcli of mountains to rest On the realms at his feet, like submissive serfs lying. On the home-dotted plateaus and pictur- esque sight Of the city liill throned, and with eartli's fairest vying, Now bathed in the splendors of raid-day's warm light. Santa Cruz ! Santa Cruz ! Blest Ely- doric ! In clear, mellow colors, how oft to my view, With tintings warm, genial, grand, gen- tle, historic, Will memory, the artist, still limn thee anew ! Willi thy hills, homes and hearts that with grateful emotion Will thrill me, and fill me, till life's latest hours, With thy grand, glorious anthems of mountain and ocean, And the sweet minstrel strains of thy shells and thy flowers. Like the countless doves haunting the the hallowed and hoary Old Mission where Christian laith first gave thee name, What thoughts cluster round thee of song and of story. What joy-pinioned thanks for thy health- giving fame. And yet there are thoughts that no lan- guage discloses When reverence and woisliip, in rapt silence lie. And speech, like the broken bell* under the roses, To the hand of the ringer can yield no reply. Farewell ! lovely scene, but no space can dissever The bonds of remembrance that never can cease; God grant that thy name be thy Labarum forever Queen of the hills by the ocean of Peace ! JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 1844 . John Boyle O'Reilly was born at Dowth Castle, County Meath, Ireland, June 28, 1844. He received a thorough pri.ctical education, and learned the printer's trade ill the office of the Droglieda Argus. For political reasons he was exiled to Austra- lia in 1866, but remained in England some time afterward, and it was not until Jan- uary, 1868, that he reached Australia. He was so fortunate as to escape February 18, 1869, and make his way to Boston, where he has since been connected with The Pilot, a Citholic journal of which he is now the principal owner. He is a grace- ful and forcible poet, an accomplished scholar and a true gentleman and friend. Mr. O'Reilly received the degree of LL.D. "from the University of Notre Dame, at the annual commencement in 18S1, WESTERN AUSTRALIA. O beauteous Southland I land of yellow air, That hangeth o'er the slumbering, and doth hold The moveless foliage of the valleys fair And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. *An allusion to one of the choir of nine old mission bells, which now lies broken and silent under the Castiliau roses in the ancient garden, an object of interest to the tourist and antiqua- rian. 112 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY thou, discovered ere the fitting time. Ere Nature, iu completion, turned thee forth ! Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clinie. Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. land ! God made thee wond'rous to the eye. But His sweet singers thou hast never heard : He left thee, meaning to come by and by, And give rich voice to every bright- winged bird. He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers, But left them scentless ; ah, their woe- ful dole. Like sad reproach of their Creator's pow- ers, To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ; But, midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit. He looked, but said not that his work was good, Wlien leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. He blessed thy flowers with honey— everj bell Looks earthward, suuward, with a win- ning wist ; But no bee lover ever notes the swell Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kissed. strange land ! thou art virgin ; thou art more Than fig-tree barren. Would that I could paint, For others' eyes, the glory of the shore Where last I saw thee ! but the senses faint In soft, delicious dreaming when they drain Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art. All sweetly fruitful, waiting vvitli soft pain The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart. GOLU. Once I had a little sweetheart In the land of the Malay, — Such a little yellow sweetheart ! Warm and peerless as the day Of her own dear sunny island, Keiinah, in the far, far East, Where the mango and banana Made us many a merry feast. Such a little copper sweetheart Was my Golu, plump and round. With her liair, all blue- black, stream! n;. O'er her to the very ground ; Soft and clear as dewdrop clinging To a grass- blade was her eye. Fur the heart below was purer Than the hill stream whispering by. Costly robes were not for Golu ; No more raiment did she need Than the milky budding breadfruit, Or the lily of the mead ; And she was my little sweetheart Many a sunny Summer day When we ate the fragrant guavas, In the land of the Malay, Life was laughing then. Ah ! Golu, Do you think of that 8 Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, While the lover is walking in Paradise! God strengthen her heart as the days go by, And the long, drear nights of her vigils follow. Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind May breathe the tale of the hollow ! Alas ! alas ! The secret is safe with the woodland grass. HENRY O'MEARA. 1849 . Henry O'Meara was born in 1849. He was for twelve years connected with the Boston Pilot, and has been a frequent contributor to the Boston press. He is now attached to the staff of the Boston Daily Journal. THE LAST DAY OF POMPEII. Full eighteen hundred years, like cinders down Vesuvius' side, Have passed o'er dead Pompeii since her awful, fated tide Of flame and livid lava fell, engulfing deep in gloom Her homes, her pomp, her very site, in one vast living tomb. Festive the day broke over broad Cam- pania's plain and town. And even grim Vesuvius' brow for once forgot to frown. While all encircling hills exulted in the morning breatli, When doomed Pompeii's people thronged to glut their eyes on death. The gaudy villas smiled above the mist and valley then, Her red-tiled roofs and time-worn towers rose young and gay again: Forum and stately arcli of triumph spoke tlie coming strife — Porial and crowning statue \»elco»ned each new stream of life. But through th' inspiring scene tiie Eider Pliny, wise as brave, Foreboding sees the trembling shore re- pel the tardy wave, And, listening, hears with trembling heart a murmur hoarse and deep, Along the beauteous river's bank and laughing valley creep — "The gods protect the guiltless! venge- ful Orcus bursts with ire " — Swift the velaria tent reveals the moun- tain's frightful fire ! The gladiator, quivering low, is left to rise or die; The lion, roaring fiercely, turns like all the rest to fly. Night to the realms of Noon with rushing darkness comes on all — Vesuvius' vapor, shaped like monstrous pine trees,* spreads a pall. In vain the priest of Isis strives to light the sacred flame, In vain the guard of mighty Rome proves worthy of the name; The late Goniiorrah, as the old, in ashes smiles at last. Her day is come, her doom is sealed, her pride and life are past And yet exhumed Pompeii lives again to tell her story- Clearer than Pliny's classic page, to show her age and glory. Thus oft o'erpowering fate, that seems to leave the heart forlorn, Serves but to save men's thought and worth for ages yet unborn. As still in fame survives, above her ashes and her woe, The city burned and buried eighteen hun- dred years ago. THE SISTER OF NOTRE DAME. sister parted, yet a sister stdl. Though claiming now a name we little knew. Why take a trustful heart with steadfast will From those life's very tendons bind to you ? 124 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Vocation sweet allures you to your Lord, To find content in cloistered Notre Dame, Ah heart and bein^ all in grand accord, Clioose Ad majorem Dei Gloriam. His greater glory now ensiirines our pain, His mercy mitigation soft insures, His love can well your life and death en- ciiaiii^ Whose hallowed natal day is haply yours. Then as you yield to him a soul sincere. Oft may your patron yet the gift re- new, And by some grace of transmigration here, Your virgin-patron live again in you. Religion's gains now more our loss de- crease — This choice of lot is but a happy taste; Ours— sand e'er swept by Passions swift caprice. Yours— cool oasis 'mid a worldly waste. doubly sister, that such chains entwine, What faithful light through doubtful years and dim, To look toward one who yearns for Spouse Divine, And calmly leaves us evermore to cleave to Him ! ELIZABETH CARMEL HENDRY. 1849 • Elizabeth Carmel Hendry was born in St. Louis, Mo., May 5, 1849, and removed with her family to Philadelphia in 1855. Hiss Hendry is best known by her prose writings, her poems having, in nearly every case, been published anonymouslj'. She wrote the first original stories that appeared in the Philadelphia Catholic Standard and Guardian Angel, to both of which papers she has been for many years an occasional contributor. She has also published several small volumes of tales for children and many translations from the French and Italian. LENORE'S CHOICE. I asked, on the day of her nuptials, Of my beautiful niece Lenore, "Which of tile flowers, my darlfng. Will you cull from my garden store? Here are fair orange blossoms. Befitting a bride so well. With the words of gracious greeting. The poets say they tell; And here are bridal roses That breathe of Happy Love; True emblems of your future, sweet, God send that they may prove !" Lenore's fair face grew pensive. And slie raised her eyes to mine, "Over life's path, dear aunt," she said, "The sun does not always shine. And for me in that liidden future. Though its promises brightly glow, May be many an hour of sadness. And many a cause for woe. So give me the flowers of Devotion, And of Patience, these teachers sweet. Whose golden blossoms are shining So brightly at our feet: That, learning their holy lessons, 1 may treasure them in my heart, And go forth bravely, strengthened To fulfill my allotted part." VINTON AUGUSTINE GOD- DARD. 1850—1876. Vinton Augustine Goddard, son of the late Hon. Daniel Converse Goddard, was born in Washington, D. C, February 16, 1850, and died March 2, 187t5. He entered the West Point Military Academy in 1867, and graduated in June, 1871. He was placed on the staff of General' Pope, and served on the frontier and elsewhere. In 1S73 he applied for duty at Alaska, and while serving there contracted an illness whicii resulted in his death. He was a ready and graceful writer, and had he devoted his attention to literature, would have doubtless lived to render his name famous. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 12.J THE CROSS OF CALVARY. COMPOSED AT TEN YEARS OF AGE, BY VINTON A. GODDARD. While wandering up tlie mountain sid*', Before me I a cross espied, On wliicli I lie bleeding Jesus liung, His soul with grief and anguish wrung, Upon the Cross of Calvary. Beneath the Cross His Mother stood, And bathed with tears the blood-stained wood, For how could Mother see her son , By Jewish hands, thus rudely hung, Upon the Cross of Calvary ? Tlie cruel spear pierced through His side By wicked men for whom He died; His Mother's heart with anguish thrilled, While o'er Her form, His blood dis'illed, From the rude Cross of Calvary ! Oh, loved and holy Cross of yore, Thy sacred wood we ail adore; On thy rough bed my Lord reclined. Which makes thee blest to all mankind — The Saving Cross of Calvary. REV. WILLIAM T. TKEACY, S. J . 1850 . Rev. Father Ti'eacy was born in 1850, and at an early age entered the novitiate of the Society of Jesus. He is now sta- tioned at Gonzaga College, Washington, D. C. He has written many lyrical poems, which are sweet and tender. TO THE REV. ABRAM J. RYAN, ON THE OCCASION OF HIS VISIT TO WOODSTOCli COLLEGE, CHRISTMAS T]DE, l88o. Loved Priest, loved Bard, how like my native isle. My heart hath found tliose sweet, sad songs of thine; Bright beaming through their mist of tears— the smile Of holy Faith is seen, a peace-lit, rain- bow sign. ' n. Like pure and holy wells to light, they spring From sacred cells, deep, deep, within thy breast; To darkened hearts bright cups of joy they bring. To wearied souls they waft the balm of rest. IIL The stars of hope sleep on their floods of woe. And on their waves forever floats a prayer; The Cross is shining in their depths below. And o'er them glows the arch of heavens fair. IV. Along their shores is lieard the surge of war, A Nation's soul is in their sorrowed tone, A people's wail they carry near and far; "The tield is lost, though with our deaci 'tis strewn." V. "The field is lost ! " no, not lost. Not lost, Since one great master hand was found to thrill The earth with pity for the blood it cost, And love for generous hearts forever still. VL •'Tlie Conquered Banner," shall forever wave In pride above the dark, green towers of time. And bright shall gleam the stainless Southern glave, Now glorified in deathless songs sub- lime. VIL The Lost, Lost Cause in noble song is wou Its Dead still live led on by Robert Lee, As long as mountains stand or rivers run, Thy songs will give the sliout of —'Vic- tory I" 126 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY WILLIAM D. KELLY. 1846 . William D. Kelly was born in Ireland, May 25, 1846, and has resided in the Unit- ed States since 1850. He graduated from the Boston Latin School in 1864, and from Holy Gross College, Worcester, Mass., in 1866 ; was ordained at Grand Seminary, Montreal, January 30, 1870, and is at pres- ent living in Boston. JUNE. Wilh tardy feet, as Spring recedes In all the grace her days have brought her, Lo, in her stead, across the meads, Comes June — the Summer's fairest daughter ; With roses in her tresses caught. Her lightsome tread the greensward presses, While balmy winds, with odors fraught. Infold her form in their caresses. At sight of her Apollo mends His courses through the blue expanses, From closer range on earth descends The ardor of his burning glances ; At earlier hour day's portals ope Beneath the pressure of his fingers. And when he nears the western slope. On slower march his chariot lingers. Now from the overcrowded streets. Whose torrid heat the city parches. The multitudes seek cool retreats By breezy shores or woodland arches ; Winged vessels skim the foamy tide. Strong steamers plow the briny billows, And Venus walks the shore beside, Wiiile Cupid lurks beneath the willows. I know a spot where seaward dips A circling beach from fields of clover, Where twice each day, with eager lips. The ocean, like a giant lover. Comes in to kiss the sands that pout Beneath his stalwart, fierce embraces. And twine his amorous arms about The beauties of their dimpled faces. Thither, when Summer days grow hot, I fly the city's close environs, And seek the quiet of that spot. Where, sweeter than the songs ol syrens. The echoes of the rolling surf Float over clover-covered meadows, And in broad lines across the turf The willows fling their grateful shad- ows. H. W. I. GARLAND. 1851 . Henry Wollaston Ignatius Garland was born at King's Lynn, in the county of Norfolk, England, April 3, 1851, Mr. Garland came to the United States in May, 1879, and was for a time assistant editor of the Catholic Union. In April, 1880, he was made editor of the Catholic Telegraph, which position he still holds. AS THE BOATS COME UP TO LYNN. They stand on the bank an eager group Of anxious, rough clad fishers' wive?, And near them sports a motley troop Of comely urchins, making dives At times into the turbid tide, To bring out sticks and bits of wood, That float upon its bosom wide, While women watch in pensive mood As the boats come up to Lynn. The boats they enter, one by one. Those storied, stony, beaconed banks, And the golden light of the setting sun Falls softly on their tarry planks — Sheds glories on their sails, bark-tanned. Painting them all of a blood-red hue — Right proper craft, and each well manned With an honest, sturdy fisher crew, As tlie boats come up to Lynn. They wave their hands and hoarsely shout, " Haul in the slack of the sheet ! Down with the helm and come about ! To run for the Fisher's Fleet ! " The "Nonpareil," the "Arrow" bold. The " BuUreut," too, is here, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 127 The winklers young, in the Bitter " old, Ring out a merry cheer, As the boats come up to Lynn. The sun has set, 'tis growhig dark, As alone on the bank 1 stand. The full Hood-tide hath left its mark. And the night is nigh at hand ; Shimmer's the pale moon's beauteous beam, And the silvern stars, o'er the silent sea, And I wake to find 'twas but a dream, To wonder if ever they'll think of me. As the boats come up to Lynn. PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY. T851— — . Patrick Sarsfield Cassidy was born in Dunkeneely, County Donegal, Ireland, October 31, 1851. His parents belonged to good old Celtic families. He came to the United States in 1869. Soon after his arrival in New York he was employed by the Associated Press, with which he is still connected. Mr. Cassidy has written "Gleveigh, or the Victims of Vengeance," which was a very successful novel, and which has been dramatized. He has also written frequently for various literary journals, in prose and verse. WHERE I MET MY LOVE. I. Sweet is the month of honey and roses. Dewy eyes and Jove-liquid moons ; Happy the bird on the bough reposes, Mingling its notes with the stream's soft croons — Croon of the stream that strays through the meadows, Wandtrs along in the woodland's shade. Mirroring life in its lights and shadows. Bending, graceful, fair as a maid. II. I met my love in that month all joyant ; Fair as a fresh-blown flower was she. With step and spirit sunlit and buoyant. Tripping along on the upland lea. Lightly she pressed the carpet of clover - Blossoms bending to kiss her feet ; "I marvel much if she hath a lover?" T.ius said my heart with a new-fell beat. IIL Month of honey and cheeks of roses. Blue- veined temples of Psyche sweep ; Eyes as bright as the heaven discloses, When, through its portals, angels peep I Breath like the scent of the clover blos- soms, Lips with the virgin dew still wet ; > Earth that month from her pregnant bosoms Distilled all sweets, and she was their pet! IV. The incarnation of all the sweetness Nature had lavished on luscious June : My heart went out with a spirit's fleet- ness— Out to her, for it read love's rune- Read it in every graceful motion. Line and curve of her lissome form ; 1 loved her then with a life's devotion — Love, will love her through shine and storm ! SE.4-SIDE SONG. I. The pure, pale star of the Autumn eve Beams from the blue like an angel's eye. And softly the wayward wavelets heave And sink on the strand with a weary sigh! Oh, I love the ocean's strange unrest, And its voice to my fancy evermore Says, " Come, come out on my bounding breast, Out, far out from that dull, dead shore !" Then step in my boat, tenderest love. Let's out on the throbbing sea ; With the waves beneath and the stars above. Right merry, I trow, we'll be ! Right merry, I know, we'll be ! 128 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY n. There's breeze sufficient to swell the sheet, A playful ripple the waters o'er ; What blissful hour for a sweet retreat, Away from this dull and depressing shore I Like a cavalier's crest shall the white spray flash, As careers our white - winged boat along, With a surging sweep, a sonorous dash. Like the rushing surge of a rolling song ! Then step in my boat, daintiest love, Let's out on the pulsing sea ; With no one to watch save the stars above. Right loving, I trow, we'll be ! Right loving, I know, we'll be ! IIL I'll steer our boat for the glowing west. Where the golden cloudlets kiss the sea— Tiie heavens are pillowed on the ocean's breast. And nymphs and angels mingle free ! Our chart be yon roundly-rising moon. Whose bean)s are soft as thine eyes' deep glance ; As true to the ocean's deep-toned tune. In measures swift shall our fleet boat (tance ! Then step in my boat, O teuderest dear, Let's out on the throbbing sea ; As away o'er its yielding breast we steer. Right happy, I trow, we'll be, Right happy, I know, we'll be ! IV. Ah, now we are out on the wandering waves. Though trodden oft, yet pathless still ! Behind are the shore's receding caves. And the darkening crown of each dis- tant bill. Around us soft, mystic voices float ; The dulcet notes of the mermaid's song From tlie waves arise to hail our boat, As liglit o'er the deep we dance along How bless'd to sweep o'er the sea's blue breast, Alone with ourselves and love, While the listening stars our vows attest In the eternal courts above. In the bowers of bliss above I MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 1852 . Maurice Francis Egan was born in Phil- adelphia May 24, 1853. He studied at La Salle College, and taught some time at Georgetown. He served a journalistic apprenticeship on the secular press. He has written much for the magazines, besides several anonymous society novels. He published "Preludes," a volume of poems. Mr. Egan is now the associate editor of the New York Freeman's Jour- nal. Both as a poet and prose writer he occupies a front rank. DANGEROUS FRANKNESS. Inconstant ? And why not, O fair Hel- fene? — You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen, — Blue as the violets in that season when The flelds and hills are tinged with faintest green ; But you have not fair Marie's tender voice. Or Constance' smile, in which all hearts rejoice. Inconstant ? Why ? I love the good in all The good in one, and, like the roving bee (Are you bas bleu, fair Heltsne? will you call My " roving bee" a threadbare simile ?), I go Irom flower to fruit, and I love each. The faint- tinged rosebud and the car- mine peach. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 129 I love yon for your eyes, fair Hel^ne, Your blue, blue eyes, so deep and lim- pid-clear. In whose deep depths are drowned many men— And for their hearts have you not shed a tear. And yet I love dear Rosalind's shy grace. And— can I help it ?— httle Celia's face. I love the good in all, the good in one ; Too frank am I ? Can't help it ! 'tis my way. If you'll be Clytie, I will be the sun, And you can follow me about all day. And yet I'll smile on all, and that will be Love universal, not inconstancy. Conceited ? How you wrong me, fair Hel^ne! I'm not Apollo, and I know that well ; But you're not Clytie ; if you were, why then I'd follow yo '. Good gracious! who could tell The girl would get so mad ? A temper, too! I'll never trust in meekest eyes of blue I THE OLD VIOLIN. Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust. Like some great thought on a forgotten page, The soul of music can not fade or rust — The voice within it stronger grows with age; The strings and bow are only trifling things— A master-touch !— its great soul wakes and sings. THEOCRITUS. Paphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, And mourning mingles with their fountains' song ; 9 Shepherds contend no more as all day long They watch their sheep on the wide, si- lent plain. The master-voice is silent, songs are vain; Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong. Done by the gods when gods and men were strong. Chanted to waxM pipes, no prize can gain. sweetest singer of the olden days, In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead: The gods are gone, but poets never die ; Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, Sicilian nightingales, enraptured. Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. "LIKE A LILAC." Like a lilac in the Spring Is my love, my lady-love. Purple-white the lilacs fling Scented blossoms from above: So my love, my lady-love, Throws sweet glances on my heart; Ah, my dainty lady-love. Every glance is Cupid's dart Like a pansy in the Spring Is ray love, my lady-love, For her velvet eyes oft bring Golden fancies from above; Ah, my heart is pansy-bound By those eyes so tender-true. Balmy heart's-ease have I found, Dainty lady-love, in you I Like the changeful months of Spring Is my love, my lady-love, Sunshine comes, and glad birds sing; Then a rain-cloud floats above: So your moods change with the wind, April-tempered lady-love ! All the sweeter to my mind. You're a riddle, lady-love I 130 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY MAURICE DE GUERIN. The old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes Anoint of nature, fauns and dryads fair Unseen by others: to him maidenhair And waxen lilacs and those birds tiiat rise A sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth everywhere He, hke sad Jaques, found unheard music rare As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. A pagan heart, a Christian soul, had he : He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed. Till earth and heaven met within his breast: As if Theocritus in Sicily Had come upon the Figure crucified, And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. KATHERINE ELEANOR CON- WAY. 1852 . Katherine Eleanor Conway was born of Irish Catholic parents, in Rochester, N. Y., September 6, 1852, Since 1868 she has contributed, in prose and verse, to various publications. She is now employed in writing for the Catholic Union, imblished at Buffalo, N. Y. A SONG IN MAY-TIME. A song for the joyful May-time, A song like the song of a bird, A song of the heart in its play-time. With never a sorrowful word ! A song — but whence shall I win it? Winged like the butterflies. With the fresh-leaved woods' breath in it, And the glow of the glad sunrise ! This is the song you ask, dear, — Would I could do your will ! But set we a song as a task, dear, — A test of the singer's skill? A dweller in cities ever, A toiler within the walls, — 'Mid the tumult of man's endeavor, Where the unseen fetter galls;— Liitle I know of the tender Blithe songs that the free birds sing, Little I know of the splendor Of the wild wood's blossoming; And less of the heart's sweet play-time — So brief was mine, you know; And the flowers of my beautiful May- time Died under a strange, late snow. Out of my hfe the cheery Sweet spirit of youth is fled; My songs are the sighs of the weary. Or plaints for my dear ones dead. Yet you've loved this sad song-voice, dear. You would give it a nobler range; And because of your honor and choice, dear, 'Twere fain to ring out and rejoice, dear, With the mirth of tlie May-lime change; Oh, joy to be your joy-bringer — When 'tis joy, dear, even to pray That a fairer and gladder singer Will sing your song of the May 1 AGNES VIVIEN MACLEAN PHE- LAN. 1852 . Agnes Vivien MacLean was born in London, Ontario, Canada, November 27, 1852. She was educated at Cedar Grove, Cincinnati, and at Nazareth Academy, Kentucky, and, in 1880, was married to J. Bruce Phelan, A.M., M.D., a physician of Chicago. Some of her poems are much admired. KING HENRY TO HIS QUEEN (MAR- GARET OF ANJOU). Down the fair turrets fall the rubied rays. Death drops of dying day. Dost see my queen? OF CATHOLIC POETS. 131 They dye my missal-page; the prayer and praise Seem with Christ's saving Gore incarna- dine Ah may our souls be thus ensanguined- dyed In Thy most precious Blood— Cnicified ! Art thou impatient — Margaret my queen? That my poor tlioughts tend ever Heaven- ward ? They luiger not on earthly themes, I ween — On kingly pomp, or stateacraft, or the sword. More sweet to me one hour with God alone Than all the splendors of my kingly throne. Ah me ! This jewelled crown doth cliafe my brow. (His was of Thorns !) I'll lay it down awhile. Nay frown not, sweet ; tiiat pure, proud face wears now An anxious frown more frequent than a smile; Those beauteous eyes methinks are often wet; What aileth thee— my fair pear],Margaret? Say the proud earls. King Henry's hand hath grown Too weak to hold the sceptre? {His— a reed!) My warrior queen 1 Then clasp it with thine own. For thou a monarch art in every deed. King Rene's war-like spirit liveth yet Within thy breast, my peerless Margaret. For me— I'm weary the troublous strife. Warring, ambitious pride and greed of gain; Too brief the moments of this tristful life To waste on things so valueless and vain: Fadeth the golden west to ghastly gray. So fade in death man's fairest hopes away. From thee, my Rose of Lancaster i how fain With my heart's shield I'd ward the com- ing woe! How little dreamed we of the grief and pain, Tlie traitor-friend — far worse than armed foe— When England's chivalry with glad ac- claim Donned the sweet, snowy flower that wears thy name; Let us go hence, my queen ; for faint and far I hear the holy sound of vesper hymn. See, Margaret ! How yonder silver star Hath risen in beauty o'er the vapors dim: So may our wearied souls, from earth set free, Fmd peace at last in Heaven's Eternity. THOMAS O'HAGAN. i8S3 . Thomas O'Hagan was born in Canada, Marcii 6, 1853. He was educated at St. Michael's College, Toronto. Having com- pleted a course of four years in that in- stitution he entered the profession of teaching, and has, during the past few years, lent much assistance to the advance- ment of separate schools in his native province. He is at present Head Master of the separate schools in the city of Belleville, Ont. Mr. O'Hagan's special characteristics as a writer of both prose and poetry are beauty of diction, energy and pathos. ANOTHER YEAR. Another year pass'd over— gone, Hope beaming with the new; Thus move we on— forever on, The many and the few; The many— of our childhood days, Growing fewer— one by one, Till death, in duel with each hfe, Proclaims the last is gone. 132 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Another year— the buried past Lies in its silent grave; The stream of life flows ever fast, As v?ave leaps into wave. Another year— ah ! who can tell What memories it may bring Of lonely lieart and tearful eye, And Hope bereft of wing? Another year— the curfew rings; Fast cover up each coal. The old year dies, the old year dies, The bells its requiem toll. A pilgrim year has reached its shrine, The air with incense glows; The spirit of another year Comes forth from long repose. Another year— with tears and joys To form an arch of love; Another year to toil with hope, Ajid seek for rest above; Another year wing'd on its way, Eternity the goal ; Another year— peace in its train, Peace to each parting soul. REVERIE. At eve, as the sun sinks low in the west. And its streamlets are kissing each hill, 'Tis sweet to recline 'neath a bright Au- tumn tree, That is brooding in silence so still. To watch the dark mantle of night fall down And wrap the cold shoulders of day; O golden hour in the Autumn of life. Stay, linger with Hope's bright ray. Stay, linger awhile in thy sapphire hues. And paint me a vision so bright, That the past and the future shall blend into one. Like a day and a star-cheering night. O paint me those sweet-lipp'd hours long past. When my heart puls'd free from all care; When the bright, bright flowers of a rosy morn Were breathing the incense of prayer. Far back, far back in the morning of life. Glad memory beckons me on To a garden of hope bedash'd with dew, Where visions of infancy throng. Ah ! yes, I am treading once more the path. See, here are the lilacs in bloom. And the fancy I wove in a wreath one day To cover some nameless tomb. vision of Youth, altar of Trjth, golden censer on high, 1 would that my soul might float, like thee. In fragrant balm to the sky. JOHN CURRAN KEEGAN i8s4 . John Curran Keegan was born May 13, 1854, in Stranadara, Ballinamore, Coun'y Leitrim, Ireland. He graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, and, in the ca- pacity of newspaper correspondent, vis- ited France, Switzerland and Spain. He afterwards declined a position of trust under the British government, and came to this country, settling in Lowell, Mass., where he remained some years. He is now engaged in journalism in Chicago. "BEAUTY'S VISION." It dawned on my soul like a picture of light. Or a star that illumines the azure of night. Sparkling and beautiful, winsome and fair— The pink of perfection of all that were there. Ah ! Nature was kind to the work of her hand. Her model was peerless, accomplished and grand ; In form a Venus, angelic in face. Each movement the queenly expression of grace. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 133 A voice in whose music the magical tone Leads hearts to embarrassment, and makes them its own; And eyes where the fire and luster sub- lime Glow forth like the lights in the northern clime. A mind richly stored with the treasures of thought- Bright gems in the school of intelhgence brought, A heart where true kindness and virtue reside, And sense that despises the folly of pride. I looked on the vision, 1 turned away. Like mortal in dreamland, jet wishing to stay. I've roamed far away through the world since then. And shared in the cares and amusements of men. But that fair vision haunts mo like the spirit of light, In the heart of noon-day, in the darkness of night. In moments of sorrow it comes with re- lief To chase with its brightness the shadow of grief. ANNA T. SADLIER. 1855 . Miss Anna T. Sadlier was born in Mon- treal, Canada, in 1855, and for many years resided in New York. She is now living in Montreal. She has published several excellent translations from the French, <5erman and Italian, and has written many stories and poems. "FAIR." Fair, ladye fair, beneath whose gentle sway Have bowed the jyreux chevaliers of the past. And sung the troubadour his soul away. Too blest if smiled she on his minstrelsy. Low at her feet has tourney's victor knelt, Where sword and lance in mimic fray flashed high. And low, outpoured with more than min- strel skill. The knight's sweet tale and tender lover's sigh. And Fare, to fare on life's stern battle field. Fare well or ill, and meet whate'er betide. In love or war, with glory or with shame, When friendly lips applaud, or foes deride, Fare, aye to press still onward in the race, And see beyond the heav'nly domes o'er- past, Or watch their golden summits fade away. And see the leaves of hope strewn in the blast. Fair, costly fair, where nature and where art Alike appeal to every human sense. Where wit and wealth and beauty all combine Mankind to dazzle in its impotence. A labyrinth wherein the wand'rer finds Rare marvels of the artificer's skill, Wherein he strays unmindful of the hour, Each winding maze new marvels showing still. Where beauty smiles upon his awe-struck sight. Till, half forgetting Charity's mild face. He feels his bounty still a new delight. And wealth invested with a subtle grace. So fares the wand'rer at this magic fair, Enthralled by wit or beauty's potent spell. Forgetting half the purpose of the Fair, Yet loath to bid the brilliant scene fare- well. E'en so, as gazing on the treasures rare. Surpassing "Ormuzor the Ind" in cost. Can he regret that lured by beauty's smile, He staked in many lotteries— and lost? 134 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY A PARTING. It was a silent parting, tliough the stars Gazed down upon us with their wistful eyes, But looking up to them our speech was lost, For sense of past companionship would rise. Wherefore we could not choose but word- less be ; We had no speech to utter our farewell, Out in the starshme, with the voice of Nature Hushed into twilight silence, like a knelL The knowledge fell upon our hearts, that we Should for the last, last time together staud, As even now, in love or friendship, which It were, each clasping thus the other's hand. For that was our farewell, we knew, and felt it, And turned our faces upward to the sky. As though in yon bright stars, straight, straight above us, Some wording of our destiny might lie. But there was not, though they, in their bright zenith, — In vain, astrology, we wooed your arts ; The question, yet unuttered with our lips, Came straightway from the fullness of our hearts. And slow as if some destiny had bade. Sadly we turned to earth once more our eyes, And looked into each other's, as if to read Some wording of our fate, without dis- guise. We saw there sadness and unconscious pain And love, but Uttle hope, and so once more Essayed to speak the words that brolce each bond And bade us be as strangers. Hereto- fore We had been something more, and yet not friends, A strange companionship had jinked eacli heart. 'Twas over now, we wrung each other's hand. And in the stars' cold silence stood apart. ELIOT RYDER. 1856 . Eliot Ryder is the son of the late Rev, Almanza S. Ryder, a Unitarian clergy- man, and was born in Hubbardston, Mass., January 30, 1856. He has been employed as a journalist in New York and Boston, since 1870. His poems have been con- tributed principally to the New York Sw/i. He became a Catholic some years ago. THE PENITENT AT PRAYER. Beneath the grand cathedral's lofty dome The penitent kneels on the marble floor. With eyes uplifted to the heavenly home. Which never seemed so far away be- fore. Slowly and reverently he tells his beads. And meditates upon the love of Christ ; For him once more his dying Saviour bleeds ! Once more the Lamb of God is sacri- ficed ! Peace comes to cheer his heart, and while he prays. Through the high windows of the dome there steals A flood of golden sunlight, and the rays Fall like a benediction where he kneels. And through his tears he fancies he can trace A smile upon the Virgin's pictured luce. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 135 DOLCE FAR NIENTE. The round, full moon sheds forth its mel- low light : The peaceful river glides in calm re- pose ; The tropic, odor-laden air of night Against my boat's white bulwark gen- tly blows. Far from the uproar of the noisy town I drift upon the tranquil stream at ease; My meerschaum slowly colors cloudy brown ; The Spanish weed perfumes the gentle breeze ; The lazy motion of my drifting boat, The balmy sweetness of the tropic air, With every care from this fair scene re- mote, Combine to form a joy divine and rare, 'Tis hours like these which light life's devious ways, And cast a glory o'er the coming days. THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY. This is my attic room ; the walls and floor Are bare of all the luxuries of art, Yet here are treasures 'which I value more. And which are always dearer to my heart. In rare confusion scattered round, on shelves And chairs, and filling all convenient nooks. Are the delights of one who fondly delves For learning in a glorious host of books. True friends are they, whose dear love never goes And, holding them, why should I wisli for more ? Since through their trusty channfls al- ways flows The storied wine which thrilled the gods of yore ; And, drinking deep, in enviable dreams 1 walk with them beside their mystic streams. i THE SORROW OF LOVING AND LOS- ING. There is many a grief for our hearts to bear, As we drift o'er life's broad ocean. And we mutter a curse or breathe a prayer As we struggle with bitter emotion ; But the deepest sorrow that man may know. Which we all of us flee from, yet can not forego, Is the sorrow of loving and losing. You have had your trials, my friend, I know ; They have lined your brow with wrin- kles ; Yet still in your eyes, with a merry glow, A radiant love-light twinkles, For a true, fond heart has been your throne ; You never have dreamed of, never have known, The sorrow of loving and losing. You can not know how the cross has weighed So heavily on my slioulders ; Of the fond devotion, unrepaid, Of the fire which faintly smoulders ; Of hopes raised high but to be o'erthrown, Which leave in the heart the tiiought alone Of the sorrow of loving and losing. JOSEPH K. FORAK ,857 . Joseph K. Foran was born September 5, 1857, at Aylmer, Ontario. He studied at the College of Ottawa, under the Ob- late Fathers, and at Laval University, from which institution he took the degree of LL.B. in January, 1881. He was admitted to the profession of barrister for the pro- vince of Quebec, during the same month. He is now practicing law in his native town. Mr. Foran is a graceful writer, and has contributed to the Harp and other papers. 136 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC. Scarce draw a breath, but rush to death !— 13tU September, 1759. L Calm was the night ! On Levis' height Hark to the warriors cheering 1 VI. As billows' shock against the rock- The haloed moon was gleaming ; As lightning's flash at even- In airy flight the signals bright As tempest loud, in misty shroud Along the sky were streaming. Across the space of heaven— In camp beside St. Charles' tide, As torrents roar from mountain hoar — Brave Montcalm's men are sleeping. As avalanche descending— The pickets tread— the stars o'erhead The sons of France, in battle's glance, From deepmost shades are peeping 1 n. From Levis' shore the stealthy oar The British lines are rending I VIL As raountaiH hoar or craggy shore With silent stroke is plying ; "With ocean's spray is blending— Along the heights the beacon-lights As stately pine, the English line In fitful blaze are dying ! Before the blast is bending ! The arm^d band in silence land, They pause a space— advance a pace They stay a moment's breathing ; From rolling volumes under— The mountain's brow they're climbing " Fire ! Charge and fire ! " The words now, expire- Their flags with glories weaving. Loud peals the battle thunder ! in. vin. 'Tis morning bright 1 O'er Levis' height The live-day long saw armies strong The gorgeous sun is beaming. For glory's crown contending ; Above the crag, the olden flag The smoky shrouds with heaven's clouds lis lily folds is streaming. In darksome maze are blending ! From dark repose the orb arose. The sabres clash -the muskets flash— His crimson pride displaying ; The war-horse neighs and prances- The breezes fann'd an army grand 'Till close of day in deadly fray On Abr'haoi's plains arraying. The British host advances I IV. IX. An hour is o'er ! The cannon's roar The glowing sun his course has run. Has broke the soldier's slumber. The English hero lying The English host at duty's post Upon the field, beside his shield- Twelve thousand heroes number ! Immortal Wolfe is dying ! Down in the glen the Montcalm men In death's repose his eye did close ; Have heard the musket's rattle ; Hark to the warrior shouting I Each warning loud, each trumpet proud Exultant cry—" They fly ! They fly I " Proclaims the day of battle. V. In phalanx strong they rush along Oh, what an awful routing ! X. Cried Wolfe, " Who fly ?" The men reply , To join their fellows' danger ! " The French— vain their decision." Tiie hills resound with bugle sound His high brow bent— "Idle content !"— Of Frenchmen and of stranger. His spirit left its prison ! 0!i, nation's fault ! without a halt And Montcalm, too, midst warriors true, The Montcalm men, appearing, From France— may God defend her I - OF CATHOLIC POETS. 137 His latest word— his hand on sword— " I see not this surrender ! " XL The FUur de lis no longer free Is fanned by breeze of heaven ; The British flae; above the crag Was planted in the even ! The day is done— the Autumn sun In fiery blaze is sinking ; Laurentine's brow is gorgeous now With hundred beauties linking ! XII. In lofty pride along the side Of Stadacona frowning, Your city grand— our native land— A raonumeut is crowning ! It tells sublime thro' waning time Of deeds of vanished glory, When heroes fought, the works they wrought With blades in crimson, gory I XIII. Oh, England's fame ! Ob, glorious name ! And one, that France most cherished, On marble bare are written there— Their names and how they perished I Its summit high against the sky. Like sentinel defending. Points from the sod to where, with God, Their spirits now are blending ! XIV. Sons of a land so great and grand, Bethink you of the story Now shedding bright its hving light On Stadacona hoary ! Think of the day when in the fray A nation's hopes were blighted ; And in the end these peop'es blend In firmest bonds united I ELIZABETH WAYLEN. 1857 . Elizabeth Waylen (Ethel Tane) was born in London, England, in 1857. She has contributed to the Limny Aye, and other publications. Many of her poeraa are really exquisite. She now resides in Philadelphia. A CYNIC. I. And so your life has been a dreary story Of treachery against you, leal and true; And little of our nature's tender glory is yet revealed to you. II. You think that you are wise and I am dreaming The dream of youth— a& beautiful as vain — Tliat friendship is another name for scheming. And love is— love of gain. ni. My friend, not long ago my dull existence Passed slowly by within a city drear, I watched the endless roofs, the smoky distance, The sparrows, prating near. IV. At length a footstep mounted to my attic: One entered in and reached to me his hands, And now I go witli him — joy ecstatic I Across the meadow lands. V. The saucy robin trills his carol near us, The lark arises at our very feet. While speckled thrush and blackbird often cheer us With mellow notes and sweet. VI. And he — my guide— has promised me that yonder Are built the nests of doves and night- ingales, In secret woods where we alone shall wander, In more sequestered vales. 138 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY VII. But you — you look for doves in city alleys, For niglitliiKales among tlie sparrow crew- Then marvel that the music of our val- leys) Is still unheard by you. A YOUNG POET. I saw the poets in a mighty hall, Each singing out of his o'erflowing heart; One sang to rich and poor, to great and small : One t) a group that stood with him apart ; One warbled lays to move a maiden's soul, Of truth, and trust, and love that will not fail ; While other bards sang of the cannon's roll, In tones that made their gentle listen- ers quail. But one there was — a youthful singer he— Who only gave sweet echoes of the rest. Who only reproduced the melody That had its birth-place in some older breast. And many scoffed and called him "mock- ing bird," While others harmed him more with lavish praise ; But when that voice (»f passion I had heard, And gazed my fill upon the glowing face, I paused in doubt and hope— for surely he. With ears so true for every singer's tone, Shall one day wake to Nature's harmony. And make her thrilling language all his own ; Rise in tlie ether on his own strong wings, Sing the star's music— not man's render- ings. JOHN ACTON. 1S58 . John Acton was born in Philadelphia, July 25, 1858. and still resides in that city. He has written several very pretty poems. MIDSUMMER. Marguerite April and Ophelia May- April had jewels made of flawless rain. May laughed 'mid pansy wreaths to hide death pain- Are dead, and Earth mourns not in black or gray. June-Juliet watches her sun knight all day From her green pillared arbor in the grass. And birds and winds fly downward as they pass. To teach young hearts a song, strayed ships their way. Tlie corded dust of the sweet four- o'clocks In curdled leaves makes richest per- fume gifts For dew and night, for which the gar- dens yearn; The satin-fingered grass winds round the phlox. The jasmine sheaves thin honey in white drifts. And rosebuds all to perfect scent-curves turn. E. J. McPHELIM, 1861 . E. J. McPhelim, a young Irish-Cana- dian, was born in Bouctouche, New Brunswick, in 1861. He passed seven years in St. Joseph's College, Memram cook, N. B., graduating in June, 1879. Mr. McPhelim has contributed prose arti- cles and sketches to various magazines and periodicals. He is at presont a re- porter on the Chicago Times, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 189 HER MAJESTY. Slie wears a royal golden crown, Our little, laughing, shy-faced queen; The clust'ring curls o'er eyes of brown Are bright as Summer starlight's sheen. She sways a sceptre o'er us all, And we obey each proud command; For we are held in slavery's thrall By that imperial, dimpled hand. Her robes of state are puie as snow, In every heart she finds a throne. In all the land she has no foe; The name of rebel is unknown. Her loyal subjects, low and high. Full many a costly tribute bring; The glories of her kingdom, I, Her humble poet laureate sing. Around my neck her soft arms twine. My song is smothered in her curls; Her sweet, fresh lips are pressed to mine. Oh, Baby— little queen of girls ! WILLIAM J. KELLY. 1862 . William J.Kelly was born in Colches-ter, New London County, Conn. Since 1878,he has been pursuing his studies at the Col- lege of St. Laurent, uear Montreal. His home is at TaflvUIe, Conn, Mr, Kelly's poems show great delicacy of feeling, and a considerable degree of thought. CHILDHOOD. As murmur gently through the balmy air The breezy winds of sweet and fragrant May, They bear upon their willing wings a lay Which tells of joy, with neither grief nor care. Thus passes childhood, short and sweet and fair, With ne'er a care to mar life's pleasant way, And ne'er a hand its pleasures sweet to stay; And thus with joy 'tis wont its course to bear To manhood ranks. Oh ! would the jo. of men Were all as fair as those of childhood" days ! For sweeter far are they than all the bliss Thai's treasured deep in an Elysian glen. Where birds in happy notes sing forth their lays, And brooklets give to mossy banks their kiss. APPENDIX. We give, in this appendix, selections from authors whose work entitles them to recognition, yet who have not responded to calls for information concerning themselves. We trust that, in the near future, the defect which tlieir reticence has caused may be repaired. The Editor. APPEjSTDIX. MRS MAEY E. BLAKE. Mrs. Blake is the wife of a distinguished piiysician of- Boston. She was for years a valued contributor to the Pilot. Her poems show much thought, and are very sweet and graceful. TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE. Glad with the perfect light of sea and sky, And sweet June blossoms bending on their stalks, And roses tangled near fair garden walks. And tuneful wild birds singing as they fly- Glad too with each sweet promised hope that dwells Wltliiu the fruitful bosom of the year, So dawns the golden day on which we hear The liappy music of thy wedding bells ! O Friend ! whose steps so lightly turn aside To enter on the new and chosen way, IViay each glad type that Heaven hath strewn to-day. Of joy and love before the white robed bride. Bloom m the fuller sunshine of thy life, And crown with bliss the future of the wife. TILL TO-MORROW. Be kind, dear Love, and never say, "Good- bye !" But always when we're parting— "Till to-morrow;" 80 shall ray lips forget to frame a sigh. And Hope smile fondly in the face of Sorrow I 143 For if. indeed, it be but little space Before our parted steps again are meet- ing, 'Twill cheat tlie hours to haste their lag- ging pace. If memory lingers still on thought of greeting. Or, should our feet diverge through weary days And dreary nights, the changing sea- sons bringing, The flinty sharpness of our lonely ways Will somewhat smooth. While thus the heart is singing. And if— saddest chance !— God's pitying hands Should wide as life and death our paths dissever, What dearer thought could mend the broken strands. Than thus to wait, until we meet— for- ever ! So dearest Love, be kind,— say not "Good- bye," But ever when we're parting — "Till to-morrow;" So shall my lips forget to breathe a sigh. And Hope smile fondly in the face of Sorrow ! JOHN BOYLE. John Boyle is a native of Kings County, Ireland, and came to this country quite young. He is now principal of one of the public schools of New York City. He has written many lyrics and essays, chiefly for the Nation and other Irish journals, and a History of the Irish Civil War of 1(589-92, entitled "The Battle Fields of Ireland." He has also written 144 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY largely for the pre8s of New York,but liis signature rarely appears in connection with his work. THE ROBIN REDBREAST. Wiien balmy eve and roseate dawn Announce the floral goddess near, And over swelling mead and lawn The wild flowers, one by one, appear; From privot copse or hawthorn bush The linnet pours her dulcet strain, And the wild solo of the thrush Leads captive all the warbling train, Then round our doors the redbreast pours Her ever plaintive minstrelsy; Soft, sweet, and low, as if to show How true a little friend should be. Touched by the Summer's fervid breath. The flowers, unfolding, woo the bees: While droop the feathered tribes beneath The arches of the forest trees; Then noonday silence reigns o'er all. The drooping leaves are hushed, antil Tlie rail rings out his martial call Defiant to the skylark's thrill, Then from her trance, witii eye askance, The redbreast lists their rivalry. And pours her note from swelling throat To show how true a friend should be. Brown, whistling Autumn tramps among The fruitful trees and golden fields. His jocund days are all a song. For rich the offering Ceres yields — While preens the finch her gorgeous coat Among the swaths of new-mown hay; The blackbird sounds his bugle note Secluded from the glare of day. But still before the cottage door The little redbreast we may see; Near, and more near her song we hear, To show how true a friend should be. The sparrows seek the sheltering eaves. For Winter's sigh is on the blast, And, with the quickly passing leaves. The birds of passage, too, have passed; When swoops the hawk, on treach'rous wing, Upon his weak unwary quest, With panting heart and trembling wing The robin seeks the gentlest breast. And there receives the crumb she gives, 'Till Spring revisits lawn and lea, Witli looks of love still sings to prove How true a little friend can be. Tlirice blest the maid whose look and word Awake to tenderest sympathies The instinct of this lonely bird ! By such unerring signs as these Her name is placed among the good, The cherished fav'rite of the plain, She bears to stately womanhood The household virtues in her train. And then her cares the redbreast shares, A neighbor in the alder tree. And pours iiis lay, the livelong day, To sliow how true a friend should be. SAN SALVADOR— (OR, COLUMBUS). I. A flowery waste, through ages gray, In ocean's lap Columbia lay, Save where its erring peoples trod As exiles from the face of God. While slowly moved from place to place The footsteps of his chosen race. Ere shone on earth th' empyrean gem, The star that led to Bethlehem, Still kept an angel watch and ward O'er this dominion of the Lord. Adoremus dominum ! II. Upon the mountains of the land The angel took his patient stand. And through the ages watched and wept, As human passions surged or slept; For well he knew how human will And pride retard God's mercy still: Yet well foresaw that even these Must yield at length to his decrees; The destined hour might be afar, But mercy steps from star to star. Adoremus dominum! OF CATHOLIC POETS. 145 m. The rolling plains and woodlands green Put on or doffed their sylvan sheen, Round bounteous hills the rivers rolled, Through silvery beds besprent with gold, From peak to peak the thunder spoke, The mountains felt the lightning's stroke; From out the days' or nights' repose, The ever-startling war-whoop rose, — But still the angel all alone. Sent this refrain to heaven's throne— Adoremus doniinuml IV. 'Twas Autumn; and the angel stood Looking afar o'er ocean's flood, While twilight died in purpling shades Along the tropic everglades: He saw the rainbow in the sky, And knew the destined hour was nigh,— There, as the wearied albatross. He saw afar the laboring Cross Arise or sink behind the wave. And sang to heaven this joyous stave; Adoremus dominum 1 V. Amid the gloom, far out at sea, A frail bark rode, alternately Her graceful mast and, trembling spars Went circling through the clouds and stars. Now flung athwart, engulfed from sight, Now standing on the waves aright ; But gazing steadfast from her prow, A sea- worn man, of solemn brow, God's holy cross in his right hand,— 'Twas thus Columbus sought the land. Adoremus dominum I VI. The wails of a desponding crew Pierce his heroic bosom through ; He points the way the sea-mew goes A sign the ocean wanderer knows. Still rings the wild rebellious cry ; He points the sea-drift floating by,— The land is near !— blessed sign ! He kneels unto the powers benign 1 10 Uplifts the cross upon his sword While rings from all to mercy's Lord, Adoremus dominum 1 VII. The morning dawned— O heavenly light ! What isles — what wonders crown his sight ! Pledging both north and southward coasts An offering to the Lord of Hosts ! He plants his banner on the shore And names the pla e San Salvador, For there Salvation's reign began, And there the angel blessed the man ! Thence bore to heaven on spreading wings Those tidings to the King of Kings— Adoremus dominum ! REV. THOMAS N. BURKE, O. P. The many friends of the distinguished Dominican orator will gladly peruse the following spirited poem from his pen : THE IRISH DOMINICANS. This land of ours was famous once — no land was ever more— For saintliness so pure, so bright, as well as learned lore ; And strangers from a sunny clime were wafted to our shore. In bearing meek, and quaintest garb as ne'er was seen before ; And these were the Dominicans, six hundred years ago. They came with vigil and with fast, men versed in pray'r and read In all the sacred books, and soon through- out the land they spread : The people bless' d them as they passed ; low bow'd each tonsured head, So meek, 'twas like the saints, as they shall raise them from the dead. For holy were the Guzman's sons, five hundred years ago. And soon their learned voice was heard in pulpit and in chair, Whilst thro' the glorious Gothic aisle re- sounds their midnight pray'r ; 146 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY The orphan found beneath their roof a parent's tender care ; "Whilst boldly in iheir country's cause they raised their voice, for there Was Irish blood in Dominic's sons four hundred years ago. When heresy swept o'er the land like a destroying flood, And tyrants washed their reeking hands in martyrs' holy blood, St. Dominic's children then, like men, embraced the stake, and stood Before the burning pile as 'twere the Saviour's Holy Blood, And kiss'd tlieir habits as they bled, three hundred years ago. And whilst the Altars fed the flame, and Christ was mocked again. Their faithful voices still were heard in mountain's cave and glen. And thus was saved our Country's Faith, and thus the Lamb was slain, And ne'er was Ireland's title more the " Isle of Saints " than when The Preacher found a martyr's grave, three hundred years ago. And thus for fall three centuries they fought the holy fight, In city and on mountain side from Cash- el's sacred height ; True to their Country and their God, each man a burning light, They kept a nation's lifeblood warm and saved the Crozier's might. For miters shone on preachers' brows one hundred years ago. Now, men of Ireland, raise your thoughts to that bright realm above, Where Christian Faith and Hope are lost in all-absorbing Love, And blend the serpent's prudence with the sweetness of the dove, And faithful to our land and creed, in their bright footsteps move, Who fought and bled and conquered, all these centuries ago I MRS. MARY C. BURKE. Mrs. Burke is the wife of Dr. Martin N. Burke, of New York City. She 'has written many poems, some of which have become quite popular. LITTLE SHOES. They're very pretty little things, With bow and buckle bright, And fitted to dear little feet, So soft and smooth and white. And all the children eager rush To tell the joyous news That " Our baby has short clothes And pretty little shoes." Why is it that my mother heart Is full of anxious fears. And all unconsciously my eyes Glisten with blinding tears ? It is that, up to this, my babe Lay on a loving breast, To which he ever eager turned For nourisiiment and rest- But little shoes, ye bid me think Tiiat from this very day I sen4 another pilgrim forth Upon life's weary way. Into the world's sin and care. Its struggling and its strife. Until, like Job, his heart may wish It never had known life ! 'Tis just two years ago I put On little Katie's feet Such shoes as these, with fond caress And kisses warm and sweet. They were such pretty little things — Aye, not a bit more stout- Yet she had joined the angel band Ere they were quite worn out ! Ah ! many a mother's bitter tears On little shoes are shed- Relics of household treasures gone — Idols amongst the dead. Whether this babe reach man's estate, Or soon his course be run, I only ask for grace to say Father, Thy will be done I OF CATHOLIC POETS. 147 BEV. RICHARD CASWALL. Rev. Richard Caswall, is a convert from Anglicanism, and a priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. His poetry is distin- guished for its peaceful serenity, and merits for him a high place among poets. ON AN ANCIENT STONE QUARRY. Know, visitor, that from this spot ob- scure, So hid from human gaze. Whither scarce once a year, across the moor, A lonely shepherd strays. In olden time, far off beyond the seas, A vast cathedral rose. Whose fame extends to earth's extrem- ities, And still with ages grows. The stones that here in darkness would have lain, Thei-e, piled in glorious state Up to the skies, the fretted roof sustain, Majestically great ; Or, carved in many a mystical device And forms of saints on high. In glory ever new, bring Paradise Before the astonished eye. Such power hath God for His eternal ends To human genius given ; — Genius sublime ! by which the mind ascends In Him from eartii to heaven I So, at Ills will and bountiful decree, From low, obscurest things, In everlasting truth and harmony. Celestial beauty springs, E'en as at first, from the rude formless mass Of earth's chaotic frame. This fair creation, at his word of grace, In perfect order came. EDITH W. COOK. Miss Cook is a resident of Hoboken, N. J. She has written many beautiful poems, which have appeared chiefly in the Catholic Woi'ld. A MOUNTAIN FRIEND. I.— Our Bond. I know not why with you, far, somber height, I hold so subtle friendship ; why my heart Keeps it in one dear corner set apart. No rarer glory clothes it day and night Than find I otherwhere, yet, wheresoe'er, Amid all wanderings wide, by road or nest. Mine eyes upon those simple outlines rest, My heart cries out as unto true friend near. Nor holds that half-forbidding strength of form Memories more dear than give so deep a grace To other heights ; yet e'er on yon dark face. Sun-lighted be it, or half veiled in storm, I longing ga7e with thoughts no words define. And feel the dumb rock-heart low an- swering mine. II.— Noon. I climb the rugged slopes that sweep with strength And lines scarce broken, from the wil- derness wide, Beneath whose shadow frailest flowers abide. And sweetest waters trip their murmur- ing length. I stand upon the crown— the autumn air Blows shivering out of scarcely cloud- flecked skies. While warm the sunshine on the grey moss lies 148 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And lights the crimson fires low leaves spread there. Beyond, hills mightier far are lifted stern With ancient forest where wild crags break through ; And, nobler still, far laid against the blue, Peaks, white with early snow, for heaven yearn — "Whose azure depths the quiet shadows wear — Crowning my mountain with their dis- tance fair. III.— Night. The strong uplifter of the wilderness, Holder of mighty silence, voiceful made With bird -song drifting from the spruce's shade, By quivering winds that murmur in dis- tress, Proud stands my mountain, clothed with loneliness That awesome grows when darkness veileth all And south wind shroudeth with a misty pall Of hurrying clouds that ever onward press. As something seeking that doth e'er elude. Flying like thing pursued that dare not rest. By some wild, haunting thought of fear possessed — Not drearness all, the cloud-swept soli- tude : — Through changing rifts the star-lit blue gives sign Of mountain nearness unto things divine. IV.— Dawn. Slow breaks the daily mystery of dawn- In far-ofif skies gleams faint the un- folding light, Anear the patient hills wait with the night, Whose shadow clings, nor hasteth to be gone. A passionate silence fiUeth all the earth- No wind-swept pines to solemn anthem stirred. No distant chirp from matin-keeping bird, Nor any pattering sound of leafy mirth. And seems that waiting silence to enfold All mystery of life, all doubt and fear, All patient trusting through the dark- ness here. All perfect promise that the heavens hold. Lo ! seems my mountain a high altar stair Whereon I rest, in thought half dream, half prayer. v.— On Fibe. Scarce dead the echo of our evening song That o'er the camp-fire's whirling blaze upsoared With wealth of hidden human sweet- ness stored — Life-thought that thronged the spoken words along; Scarce lost our lingering foot-steps on the moss When the slow embers, that we fancied slept, With purpose sure and step unfaltering crept The sheltering mountain's unsmirched brow across. Alas 1 for straining eyes that through long days Of strong breathed west wind saw the pale smoke drift Its threat'ning pennons in the distance lift. So setting discord in sweet notes of praise. Yet, hath the wounded mountain in each thought Won dearer love, for wrong, unwrithing wrought. JUNE. "June! dear June! Now God bo praised for June." —J. R. Lowell. "And yet In vain Poet, your verse: extol her as you will. One perfect rose her praises shall distil More than all song, though Sappho led the strain. Forbear, then, since, for any tribute fit, Her own rare lips alone can utter it." — Caroline A. Mason. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 149 Each year she comes whom poets call " Dear June," With face e'er young, and voice of grief- less tune, Bright'ning the wayside with her roses' glow, Pilling the woods with song where hides below Not any note of pain to trace sad line On her smooth brow, crowned with youth divine, Whence eyes look forth wherein no shadow lies Of any thought less glad than Paradise- Soft, trustful eyes that look in ours to give Wealth of pure soul that but in joy doth live. Each year she comes as one that grows not old. Whose unstained robes unchanging heart enfold. Upon her daisy fields that stretch to meet Tne glitter of blue bays, her strong, white feet Fall with the melody of western wind That no dark thunder clouds lurk low be- hind; While from her broidered raiment's every fold. The wild grape'a subtle incense is un- rolled. Wide open are her hands that gifts may fall With grace of one that, loving, giveth all, Fears not that any cloudy day shall come When sun shall shine not, or sweet birds grow dumb. She never hath known loss; how shall her heart Fear with its generous wealth in love to part? And we that list each year, her winning speech — Music ripples on low, sandy beach — That gaze into the depth of her clear eyes. Trusting each thought that in their shadow lies; We, unto whom her roses' wayside blush Seems witchery strange aa that quick- passing flush That, as day dieth, raelteth into air. Titanic strength of rocks high heaped and bare; To whom snow peaks scarce fairer vision seem Than her blue seas where her wind- pressed vessels gleam; To whom a world of stars naught richer yields Than the white radiance of her daisy fields — We seek in our fond hearts some ne'er- heard phrase, Wherewith to speak our dear queen's fitting praise. And lips grow dumb though heart be eloquent, Our little treasure of love's speech soon spent. Our murmuring lips but echoes old repeat Of some true poet's clinging accents sweet Whose mouth June kissed ere he had sung her grace. Left on his page the print of her young face. Guided his pen with her pink finger tips, So perfecting the blessing of her lips. And sweet June mocks us not that incom- plete And unto outward seeming, all unmeet The stammering homage of her words' poor praise; Her thoughtful eyes in ours, soft smiling gaze. Perchance for our joy's sorrow might she weep, Did any thought of tears her dear eyes keep. She reads, "We love her," written in her heart. So, pushing her white daisies wide apart. She places on our lips a red June rose. That unto none but her each heart dis- close. What she hath waked, lest idle words do wrong To love that lieth deeper e'en than song. 150 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY J. C. CURTIN. Mr. Cunin is a well-known Catholic writer. He was for some years editor of The Tablet. INMEMORIAM. 'Twas in the springtide, when its glorious bourgeon Of buds and blossoms, flowered shrub and tree, When the green earth's heart heaved with quick'ning motion, She gave her soul, O loving God, to thee; In womanhood's bright bloom, ere slow decay Had touched her heart, from earth she passed away — Passed from this world with sin and sor- row rife, A world unfitted for a soul like hers— Pure in each sphere — as sister, mother wife— To mingle with God's holiest worship- pers. And round his throne to join the myriad throng Who praise his holy name in ceaseless song. For she was one whose heart was never chilled By the cold touch of earth or its false gloss; But hoping, trusting — one whose soul was filled With love of her Redeemer and the Cross, She strove alway to reach the destined goal, The haven— haven of every Christian soul. Sweet be her joys in Paradise ! We know She lives and loves within that blest abode. Oh! that our hearts could feel the holy glow That burned in hers to bear the weary load Of life, with all its cares and all its woes. Its passing pleasures and its fleeting shows. Bright be her dole ! Oh ! may her radiant spirit Beam down on us with soul absorbing love, And grant that we, her followers, may in- herit The love and glory she enjoys above, And that our hearts, by sin's dark tem- pests driven, May find surcease and dwell for aye in Heaven. MADELINE VINTON DAHL- GREN. Mrs. Dahlgren was born in Galilpolis, Ohio, and was the only daughter of the Hon. Samuel F. Vinton. She was mar- ried at an early age to D. C. Goddard, and after his death, to the late Admiral Dahl- gren. She has published several original works and translations. Her home is in Washington, D. C. THE ARGO NAVIS. [Suggested on seeing a silver boat filled with flowers and resting on a silver mirror at the president's mansion.] What argent boat, flower-laden afloat, With argive grace, o'er glassy face. Of mirror'd seas, doth sail at ease? The Argo Navis ! A Cazique brave, on silvery wave. Unfurls the sail, of bark so frail. From treach'rous shore, bold bends the oar Of Argo Navis ! This seeming grace, of burnish'd face, Is but a snare, a vitreous glare. Where quicksands deep do shipwrecks reap. Oh, Argo Navis 1 Nor recks he then, with prescient ken, The potent spell that holds this shell— OP CATHOLIC POETS. 151 For taut and still, firm at his will, Is Argo Navis 1 'Midst icebergs slides, and safely glides 'Neath Southern skies, onward it flies. Its flag so fair, Union's stars bear, This Axgo Navis ! Who guides the bark, in time-^ so dark? A Higher Power, in supreme hour. At helm doth stand, and take command Of Argo Navis 1 SYMBOLS. Hidden in web that fair Arachne weaves Cradled in dew-drops quivering on the leaves, They flash in sunshine, caught in diamond drops. Or play in breezes, o'er the mountain tops. As flutt'ring insects in fair flowrets lave, Or sparkling foam fast topples o'er the wave. Faintly the moonlight shadows liquid pearls, Or weird and wan, fantastic vapor curls. As fairy web mirrors the plan of youth. Exhaled like dew-drops are these plans. forsooth, Yet darting sunbeams waken hopes anew, That swift as wanton winds spring forth from view. The fleeting insects show the morn of life. And rushing waters symbolize its strife; 'Neath scorching sua expires illusion hope. While all of Nature has an ideal scope. MRS. ANNA HANSON DORSEY. Mrs. Anna Hanson Dorsey has for many years been a valued contributor to the Catholic press of the country— notably to the Ave Maria, Irom tlie pages of which the following selection is taken. ' She has published a volume of poems which is now out of print. Her stories are read and admired wherever the English lougue is spoken. italian mariner's hymn to the blessed virgin. Chorus. The moon-lit billows lave our bark, As o'er their surges bright we ride ; Sancta Maria ! guide and mark Our glittering pathway o'er the tide. Ora pro nobis, And shine upon our life's wild sea. Then bid each cloud and tempest flee, That comes between our souls and thee. Single Voice. Rest, brothers, rest upon each oar, For the night breeze sighs And steals most sweetly from the shore ; Oh, we fall and rise As the blue billows round us curl. And balmy winds our sails unfurL Chorus. Begina Angeloi'um! smile Upon our labors and our toil. Save us from dreams of wreck the while , We draw our nets and count our spoil. Ora pro nobis. As thou in purest thoughts excel, Oh, guard our dark-eyed daughters well, Preserve them from the temptefd spell. Single Voice. Rest, brothers ! perils wild forget ; From the shore now steals The light notes of a castinet, And sweet laughter peals With dance of echoing feet along, Above the surges' whispering song. Chorus. Stella Matutina ! bless Our homes beneath the sunny vine ; Restore us to the loved caress Of those who kneel before thy shrine ; a pro nobis ! Preserve their beauty from decay, And gifts of gold and pearls we'll lay Upon thine altars when we pray. Single Voice. Hear, Mater Salvatoris, Hear our hymn to thee 1 152 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Spread thy glittering pinions o'er us— Scatter rays of love before us. From eternity ! Chorus. Furl the wiiite sails— lay by each oar— We're floating in — the bright sands yield ! Oh, soon, our bark, we'll gently moor On flow'ry shores thy sparkling keel ! Orawo nobis, Sancta Maria ! hear us when TBe mists of death on us descend ; Shield from its gloom our souls. Amen, P. HENRY DOYLE. Mr. Doyle is a Philadelphian, and is now editor of the Saturday Evening Post, of that city. TWO VISIONS. A youth kneels at a woman's feet, and seems Lost in the sweetest of lore's golden dreams While gazing in her eyes ; Whate'er he sees his tongue may hardly tell. For hope and fear have wrought a double spell, Beneath which language dies. Yet had his earnest face the soul of speech, 'Twere plain, tho' life were but a joyless reach. As barren deserts are- He were content to patient plod his way Unto the end, if guided by the ray Of such a longed-for star. * * * ♦ Through Summer sunshine and through Winter tears — The mist fall'n from the evening of long years, A man smiles at the boy ; The pride of age and knowledge — wis- dom's art — That flouts at all where hope plays well a part, Would mock his deep-rapt joy. But in his laugh— so worldly, sad and worn, A shadowed pain— a half regret is born That hope and love and truth— The hope that only dreams, and yet is blest. The soul's pure faith, its brightest and its best — So often die with youth. MRS. S. B. ELDER. Miss Susan Blanchard was born at an extensive Western frontier military post, where her father, then a captain in the United States army, afterwards Gen. A. G-. Blanchard, C. S. A., was stationed. While quite young she became the wife of Charles D. Elder, of New Orleans. She has written many occasional verses, some of which are distinguished for great po etic merit. She is the literary editor of the New Orleans Morning Star, whose literary department, under her manage- ment, is unexceptionable in its character. CLEOPATRA DYING. Glorious victim of my magic ! Ruined by my potent spell, From the world's imperial station I have dragged thee down to hell ! Fallen chieftain I unthroned monarch ! Lost through doting love for me. Fast on shades of night eternal Wings my soul its flight to thee I Caesar shall not grace his triumph With proud Egypt's captive queen ; Soothed to sleep by aspic kisses. Soon my heart on thine shall lean I Soon ray life, like loius blossoms. Swift sliall glide on Charon's stream ; Clasped once more in thy embraces, Love shall prove an endless dream ! Iras ! Charmian ! bind my tresses I Place the crown above my brow I OF CATHOLIC POETS. 153 Touch these hands and take these kisses ; Antony reproves not now ! Gods ! ray lips breathe poisoned vapors ! They have struck my Charraian dead ! Foohsh minion ! Durst precede me Where my spirit's lord has fled ? None shall meet his smile before me — None within his arms repose ! Be his heart's impassioned fires Quenched upon my bosom's snows ! None shall share his burning kisses Ere I haste me to his side ! Octavia's tears may prove her widowed- Cleopatra 's still his bride ! See ! my courage claims the title 1 Close I press the aspic fangs ! Memories of his quickening touches Sweeten now these deathly pangs ! Honor, manhood, glory's teachings, — All he bartered for my smile ! Twined his heartstrings round ray fingers, Vibrant to a touch the while; Followed fast my silver rudder, Fled from Caesar's scornful eye. Heeded not his bleeding honor, Glad upon my breast to lie ! Then I 'snared him in my meshes, Bound him with my wily art, From the head of conquering legions, Snatched him captive to my heart. Wild his soul at my caresses ! Weak his sword at my command ! Rome, with fury, saw her mightiest. Bowed beneath a woman's hand. Noblest of the noble Romans ! Greatest of the Emperor's three ! Thou didst fling away a kingdom,— Egypt gives herself to thee I Sweet as balm; mosb soft and gentle. Drains the asp ray failing breath ! Antony ! ray Lord ! ray Lover ! Stretch thine arms to rae in death! Guide me through deepening shadows! Faint my heart, and weak my knee ! Glorious victim ! Ruined hero I Cleopatra dies for thee ! SUSAN L. EMERY. Miss Emery is a convert to the Catholic faith, and has contributed to various Cath- olic publications. She resides in Boston, Mass. ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. [The first Sisters of the Order of the Visita- tion, founded by St. Francis de Sales and St. Jane Frances de Chantal, were professed in June, 1611. The Devotion to the Sacred Heart was revealed in June, 1675, to Blessed Margaret Mary, of the same Order.] Sweet Saint of God, and well-beloved of men ! On earth, with steadfast feet, the ways of God By thee in peace and love and joy were trod; And peace and love and joy like holy rain Gqd gave through thee to one great soul in pain. Who long had tliirsted to be led aright To serve God perfectly by day and night. Thy work for her a blessed work hath been; It raised a whole new Order in God's Name. Let it show us, by worldly love con- gealed, How with God's love thy soul was all on flame. But lol another sign shows what thou art: God to a daughter of thy heart revealed The dear devotion to the Sacred Heart. JAMES JOSEPH GAHAN. Mr. Gahan is a Canadian writer of much promise. He is a frequent coutributor to the Pilot and other papers. CANADIAN VESPER-BELLS. It is vesper-hour, and a stillness deep Doth fall with the evening dew, And the sunset gleam, with its golden beam. Is tingeing the mountains blue; 154 THE nOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And the mild moon's ray, o'er tlie dying day, On the silver cloudlet dwells— She Cometh amain with her starry train To list to the vesper-bells ! O'er the heathery slope, and the blue sea- bay, The harmony sweetly rings, To the flowery mead, and the forest fair, A mystical peace it brings; And the moss-grown oaks and the birches thrill. While the hquid measure tells The freshening balm, and the holy calm. Of Canada's vesper-bells ! They ring far away o'er the cavern-cliffs. And on tlie Atlantic fall, And fishermen bold, wliile they ply for gold. Await for the vesper-call ; O'er rapid and lake, through valley and brake— Tiirough all the Laurentian dells— Where the Sagueuay sweeps, and the Ot- tawa leaps Are heard our Canadian bells 1 O'er Red River's pass, Saskatchewan's vale, They blend on the evening air, And Assimboine hears, with straining ears, The voice of their chimings rare; And sweeping along, with the torrent strong. Through the Cascades' granite cells, They die on the breast of Pacific blest— Our rhythmical vesper-bells I REV. B. D. HILL, (FATHER ED- MUND) C. P. Father Edmund is a native of Shrews- bury, England, and a graduate of the Cambridge University. He is a convert to the Catholic faith, and is now a member of the Congregation of the Passion. He has published two volumes of poems. His poetry glows with ardent piety, and his contributions to literature are always valuable. THE BETTER CHRISTMAS. " 'Tis not the feast that changes with the ever-changing times, But those that lightly vote away the glories of the past— The joys that dreamlike haunt me with the merry matin chimes I loved so in my boyhood, and shall dote on to the last. "There will still be much of laughter, and a measure of old cheer : The ivy wreaths, if scanty, aie as ver- dant as of yore, And still the same kind greeting for the universal ear ; But to me, for all their wishing, 'tis a ' merry ' feast no more ! " I said ; and came an answer from the stars to which I sighed— Those stars which lit the vigil of the favored shepherd band— And t'was as if again the heavens opened deep and wide, And the carol of the angel choir new- flooded all the land. *' Good tidings still we bring to all who still have ears to hear — To all who love His coming— the elect that can not cease : And louder rings our anthem to these watchers, year by year, Its earnest of the perfect joy— the ever- lasting peace. "Art thou, then, of these watchers, if thou canst not read the sign ? The world was at its darkest when the blessed Day-Star shone ; Again 'tis blacker to Her beam ; and thou must needs repine And sicken so near sunrise, for the moonlight that is gone 1 " OF CATHOLIC POETS. 155 MRS. E. B. HOLLOWAY. Mrs. Holloway resides in Shelbyville, 111., and ha8 written many stories and poems. MARY. There's a mound on the prairie where tlowers are brightest, The roses are deepest, the lilies the whitest, And the footstep of Winter falls ever the lightest— The spirit of Mary Still hallows that prairie. Oh, knew ye the maiden so lovely and true ? In the wilds of the West like a flower she grew ; All wild flowers are lovely, but earth never knew One other like Mary, Tlie Pride of the Prairie. In tlie depth of her spirit were treasures untold. And the dew-drops that fell on her locks' sunny fold Would sparkle hke diamonds embedded in gold — Such bright hair had Mary, The Pride of the Prairie. Of these rare spirit treasures a glance would you win, Through her soul's azure windows, with curtains so thin, You'd a glimpse of the fountain that sparkled within- Such bright eyes had Mary, Tlie Pride of the Prairie. She loved the wild flowers, she sought them at dawn. But dearest of all Mary loved her white fawn ; I would you had seen them one brilliant May morn— The fawn, flowers and Mary, At play on the prairie. On her brow bloomed a wreath of the roses of May, And flowers fell down in her pathway so gay. As following the fawn that was going astray. As light as a fairy She tripped o'er the prairie. He seeks for his kindred— the beautiful fawn— ■ O'er the emerald billows he 's gone— he 'a gone Nor heeds he the blast of the wild hunt- er's horn. Nor the sweet call of Mary That floats o'er the prairie. Now sees he the hunters ; as shaft from the bow. Swift, swift bounds the fawn— the dan- ger is o'er ; For, ere it can reach him, the arrow must go Through the warm heart of Mary, The Pride of the Prairie I On press the bold hunters, so mad in their glee I In the pure robes of Mary the white fawn they see. List ! a cry of deep anguish is heard o'er the lea : "Hold, hold! it is Mary, The Pride of the Prairie I " Too late came the warning ; ah ! never again Shall her voice of gladness resound o'er the plain ; The bowl at the fountain is broken in twain— The life blood of Mary Flows out on the prairie. There's a mound on the prairie where flowers are brightest, The roses are sweetest, the lilies are whitest, 156 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And the footstep of Winter falls ever the lightest — The spirit of Mary Still hallows that prairie. EDWARD HYDE. The following poem was published In the Ave Maria in 1880. It has attracted wide attention by its beauty and fresh- ness. THE TYPES OF GOD. I worked in my harvest field, And cradled the yellow grain. I thought of the plenteous yield, And counted the fold of gain. In my palms I rubbed an ear. The chaff from the wheat I blew, There were thirty kernels clear, Which from one kernel grew. I threw them down at my feet, And thought, as I saw them lie, Except a kernel of wheat Fall into the earth and die, It abideth ever alone. But this one fell and died. And these thirty, from one seed sown. Were raised and glorified. Then I said if a kernel of wheat A thought so great enfolds. Oh ! what is that thought complete, Which all creation holds ? In the acorn hides the tree That shall lift its giant form : In the dew-drop hides the sea With the tumult of its storm. Thus Nature hides, in germ, Her glory, power, and grace. Oh ! where is that lowly term, Which hides God's holy face ? Then weary, I sat me down, In the shade of a maple tree. Where the bare field I had sown, Was a waving wheaten sea. Like seraph tongues, I heard The leaves their anthem pour. And the wheaten sea was stirred With the sound of a far-off shore. There the scales fell from my eyes, And the veil fell from my heart, And I saw, with glad surprise. The harvest's counterpart. The Son would not dwell alone, Therefore He fell and died: Himself a seed was sown. Then raised and glorified. He is that lowly term. Which hides God's holy face, The Eucharistic germ Of glory, power and grace. The miracle is great. Whenever our daily food. Of water and flour of wheat. Is changed to flesh and blood. Faith finds no greater test. When the offered bread and wine. To flesh and blood of Christ Are changed by power divine. Thus bone of His bone are they. And flesh of the flesh of Christ, Who eat, from day to day, The Holy Eucharist. And as He rose, so they, After their crucial strife. Shall rise and soar away In the power of an endless life. I took my scythe again. But hesitating trod, For it almost gave me pain, To cleave the types of God. I saw, not a field of grain. With its swaying, bearded mist, But a harvest white with men Made white by the Eucharist. I heard, not the wind's low song In the leaves above my head. But the voice of an angel throng, And of countless risen dead. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 157 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, M. D. Dr. Joyce is a resident of Boston, and became widely known through his poem, "Deirdre," published in that city some years ago. His poems are full of thought, and it is safe to predict that they will enjoy longer life than is vouchsafed most poetry produced in the present day. ODE TO POVERTY. kind acquaintance ! thou who, proverbs say. Dost make strange fellows meet in taw- dry bed,— Comrade of wistful mouth, keen eyes of gray, Rough world-be wrinkled face and hoary head They say a gulf's between us that no tread Of thine can cross, though loving me so well, Yet still I long to clasp Thy hand with friendly grasp For, spite of their predictions, who can ijell ? What days we had, old comrade, you and I, Bright years ago when I was gay and young ; With you I roamed the ferny mountains high. Heard nature's voice in streams, in winds that sung. And wood-birds warbling with melo- dious tongue ; With you and other just as quaint com- peers What days and nights we had Well mixed of gay and sad, What revels and what laughter and what tears. Ah I many a lord of power and high re- nown. Driven from his State, at last shook hands with thee, And many a queen and mighty king, whose frown Would shake the world, have kept thy company : Thee they derided, while I, reverently Call on thee, brother, with affection kind, That if misfortune's pain Should come to me again, Thou'lt leave nje still the heaven of heart and mind ! AUTUMN LEAVES, FROM "DEIRDRE." One stilly day, 'neath Autunui's amber beam. She sat with Lavarcam beside the stream, And looked upon the leaves that strewed the ground In fading pomp and glory all around. And said, — "O Lavarcam, and shall I be Like these poor castaways of bush and tree? I've seen them bloom on many a branch and stem, And I have bloomed, and why not die like them!" With scarlet berries laughed the rowan tree. The nuts in clusters from the hazel hung. And high and wide the stately oak-tree flung Its fretted branches, rich with acorns brown : While from a leafless spray, a-nigh its crown, A brown thrush sang his song with dul- cet throat, Betimes awakening the glad red-breast's note. Responsive from its thorny brake, whereon The blackberries, like living garnets, shone. By the borders of the widening stream, The bog-flax drooped its head of silvery snow, And the last iris shone with golden glow, And yellow sunflowers closed their drowsy hds. 158 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Calm Autumn died, The last flowers withered in the treach- erous air, The little stream with mournful mur- murs rolled. And the trees doffed their robes of bronze and gold, And fading blue and green, and glowing red. And all the outside lands lay damp and dead. . . Thethickrain would pour and swell the rills To rivers, and the rivers into seas. Till at once would rise a southern breeze, Born 'mid the bowers of some more genial clime, And make a mimic Summer for a time! MRS. ANNE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. Mrs. Ketchum is a Southern lady who has for many years contributed to Har- per's and other magazines. She has pub- lished a volume of poems called "Lotos Flowers." AT PARTING. Farewell— shall it be farewell ? Farewell, said lightly when the careless part; Farewell, said coldly by the estranged in heart, And serving but to tell The empty dearth of cold Convention 's shell. Nay ! not farewell. Good-bye— shall it be good-bye ? Good-bye, low whispered amidst bliniing tears ; Good-bye, presaging sad, long parted years. Telling, with sob and sigh. Of change, or thwarted plan, or broken tie. Nay ! not good-bye ! Good-night— shall it be good-night ? Good-night, which means to-morrow we may meet ; Good-night ! I fain my foolish heart must cheat, Though morning's golden light Shine on a lone ship leagues beyond thy sight. Yet still, good-night ! Thou best-beloved, good-night ! Good-Night, best Night, with all thy fair- est dreams, Good-Night, best Night, with all thy star- riest beams. Watch by her pillow white And tell her all my love, thou gentlest Night ! Good-night, good-night I MRS. MARY E MANNIX. Mrs. Mannix was born in New York City, of Irish Catholic parents, and went with them to Cincinnati, where she now resides. She has for some years been a miscellaneous contributor to the press. A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's silent hills ; Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er Judea's trembling rilis. In the Temple's court conversing, seven elders sat apart ; Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head and pure of heart. "What is rest ? " said Rabbi Judah, he of stern and steadfast gaze. "Answer, ye whose toils have burthened through the march of many days." "To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, "de- cent wealth and goodly store, Without sin, by honest labor — nothing less ancf nothing more." OF CATHOLIC POETS. 159 "To have found," said Rabbi Joseph, meekness in his gentle eyes, "A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in home's blessed paradise." "To have wealth and power and glory, crowned and brightened by the pride Of uprising children's children," Rabbi Benjamin replied. " To have won the praise of nations, to have worn the crown of fame," Rabbi Solomon responded, loyal to his kingly name. "To sit throned, the lord of millions, first and noblest in the land," Answered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest of the reverend band. " All in vain," said Rabbi Jarus, "if not faith and hope have traced In the soul Mosaic precepts, by sin's con- tact uneffaced." Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, gravest of them all : 'From the heights of fame and honor even valiant souls may fall ; •• Liive may fail us. Virtue's sapling grow a dry and thorny rod, It we bear not in our bosoms the unself- ish love of God." In the outer court sat playing a sad-feat- ured, fair-haired child ; His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow— they were godlike when he smiled. One by one he dropped the lilies, softly plucked with childish hand ; One by one he viewed the sages of that grave and hoary band. Step by step he neared them closer, till, encircled by the seven, Thus he spake, in tones untrembling, with a smile that seemed of Heaven : " Nay, nay, fathers ! Only he, within the measure of whose breast Dwells the human love with God-love, can have found life's truest rest ; " For where one is not, the other must grow stagnant at its spring. Changing good dQpds into phantoms— an unmeaning, soulless thing. '•Whoso holds this precept truly owns a jewel brighter far Than the joys of home and children— than wealth, fame and glory are ; " Fairer than old age thrice honored, far above tradition's law. Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient prophet saw. " Only he, within the measure— faith ap- portioned—of whose breast Throbs this brother-love with God-love, knows the depth of perfect rest." Wondering, gazed they at each other : " Praised be Israel evermore ; He has spoken words of wisdom no man ever spake before ! " Calmly passing from their presence to the fountain's rippling song. Stooped he to uplift the Hies strewn the scattered sprays among. Faintly stole the sounds of evening through the massive outer door ; Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on the Temple's marble floor. Where the elders lingered, silent since he spake, the Undefiled— Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid the flowers a child ! THOMAS J. McGEOGHEGAN. Thomas J. McGeoghegan is a native of Dublin, and came to New York several years ago. He is at present the associate editor of the New £ork Tablet. KNEELING AT KNOCK. Kneeling at Knock amid visions of glory, Humbled and penitent, bowing the head, 160 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY The young and athletic, the aged and hoary, Absorbed in those visions so pleasingly dread ! In no gorgeous and turreted temple, sur- roupded With pomp and display, doth Our Lady appear ; Not where the wealth of the worldling abounded, But away in a wilderness cheerless and drear. Not above Gothic and gold-girded altars Doth Bethlehem's star throb and trem- ble again ! Its light may grow dim, altho' cymbals and psalters Should swell with the grandest, sub- limest refrain ; Not there, oh ! not there, but in mountain recesses. Whither Cromwell had chased our loved sires of old. There, there by a poor lowly shrine Mary kisses The children of Connaught, who cling to the fold ! Ay, they lovingly cl^ung to the fold through the ages, Defying the blood-embrued sword of the foe. And unflinchingly still, while the black storm rages, They stand by the cross, tho' environ'd with woe ; And therefore, our sinless, immaculate Mother Thus deigns to come down from the realms above. With angels celestial, who smile on each other Beholding dear Erin so leal in her love; So leal in her love, even angels must love her, Knowing well how her children with- stood the rude shock When a tempest of sorrow swept fiercely above her— Now those children are comforted kneel- ing at Knock I Kneeling at Knock, while a nimbus of splendor. Brighter than calciums, piercing the tomb. Blazes above them, the young and the tender. The blind and the crippled enveloped in gloom I There our dear Lord is the blessed ex- horter. Inspiring the faithful with love and with awe, There hundreds are healed by the mar- velous mortar. Even skeptics proclaiming the wonders they saw ! The glacier gleaming away on the ocean. The hurricane dismally howling afar, Vesuvius quivering with turbid emotion, The storm-king riding the lightnings of war. The glare of the battle so dread and ap- palling, The blaze of the musketry flashing on high. The blast of the loud, thrilling trumpet recalling The wavering troops when they falter or fly — Oh ! Mars, with his fiery banner unfurled, Looks grand and sublime as the desert's sirroc ; But subUmer than all in this star-girdled world Is the faith of the worshipers kneel- ing at Knock ! JAMES McNAMARA. James McNamara resides at Dexter, Mich., and is a contributor to several Cath- olic journals. SANCTA MARIA. Mother Immaculate, we pray thee hear us! may our humble prayeis to thee arise! OF CATHOLIC POETS. 161 We pray, sweet Mother, that thou'lt be near us In death's dark hour— receive our part- ing sighs. Then lift in silent prayer our hearts to thee. As we are wafted to eternity. Oh, Queen of Heaven, thy sorrows should have tauglit us , To bear our cares with fortitude and love. By Precious Blood on Calvai'y He bought us, Christ, the Bedeemer, God of peace and love. Sancta Maria, star forever bright, Guard us and watch o'er us by day and night. KATHLEEN T. McPHELIM. Miss McPhelim is a young Chicago writer, whose work is full of promise. TWO WOMEN. Grandma sits in her great arm-chair, Balmily sweet is the soft Spring air. Through the latticed, lilac-shadowed pane She looks to the orchard beyond the lane. And she catches the gleam of a woman's dress As it flutters about in the wind's caress. " That child is glad as the day is long, Her lover is coming, her life's a song." Grandma sternly shakes her head, " Love is folly— that's all !" she said. Up from the orchard's flow'ry bloom, Floats perfume faint to the darkening room Where grandma dreams, till a tender grace And a softer light comes into her face. Once again she is young and fair. Twining red roses in her hair. 11 Again, as blithe as the lark above, She is only a girl and a girl in love. The last faint glimmers of daylight die, Stars tremble out in the purple sky- E'er Dora flits up the meadow path, Sadly afraid of Grandma's wrath. With rose-red cheeks and flying hair. She nestles down by the old arm-chair; "Grandma— Dick says,- may we— may I," The falt'ring lips grow strangely shy. But Grandma presses one little hand, "Yes, my dearie, I understand ! " She gently twists a shining curl, "Ah, me, the philosophy of a girl I " Take the world's treasures, its noblest, best, And love will outweigh all the rest. " He may have you, my darling ; " not all in vain, Did Grandma dream she was young again. And through the casement the moonlight cold, Streams on two heads, — one gray, one gold! REV. CHARLES MEEHAN. The Rev. Charles Meehan is a gifted Irish priest, who has contributed some valuable works to the literature of his country, notably, his "Confederation of Kilkenny," and "History of the Geral- dines." He has also written some fine poems. BOYHOOD'S YEARS. Ah I why should I recall them — the gay, the joyous years, Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimm'd by sorrow and by tears ? Or why should memory love to trace youth's glad and sunlit way. When those who made its charms so sweet are gather'd to decay 1 162 THE IIOUSEHOLP LIBRARY The Summer's sun shall come again to brighten hill and bower — The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy shower — But all in vain will memory strive, in vain we shed our tears — They're gone away and can't return — the friends of boyhood's years ! Ah ! why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count o'er The vanish'd friends so dearly prized — the days to come no more — The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms knew, Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with each moment flew. 'Tis all in vain to weep for them— the past a dream appears : And where are they— the loved, the young, the friends of boyhood's years ? Go seek them in the cold churchyard— they long have stol'n to rest; But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne'er oppress'd; Life's sun for them in splendor set — no cloud came o'er the ray That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous way. No tears about their graves be shed— but sweetest flowers be flung. The fittest offering thou canst make to hearts that perish young— To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and fears; For bless'd are they who pass away in boyhood's happy years ! MARION MUIR. Marion Muir is a native of Chicago, and a daughter of the Hon. W. T. Muir, of Colorado, who crossed the plains in i860, held ofliee under Miner's and United States laws, and forms a prominent figure in the history of the Stale. Miss Muir re- sides in Morrison, Col. She has written much for the periodical press. THE BURIAL OF CUSTER. Beneath the mountain's scowling shndp. With neither coffin, shroud nor pali, Tiie leader and his men they laid In the rest that levels alL No funeral pomp, no tolling bell. The warrior's desert burial knew. Yet, surely, through that echoing dell The wind his requiem blew. No martial music marked the hour When they parted— the irue and brave — But comrades gave a silent shower— Their tears— to the lonely grave. Far, far from home the Western wild Held the hero and his fellows. With mountain sods above them piled And mountain rocks for pillows. While ever through that fatal vale The wild dove's mourning note shall swell. And solemn pine trees grieve the gale For the time when Custer fell. Till sadder flows the tireless tide Of those dark hills sweeping river, And frontier homes for which he died. Will shield his name forever. REV. MICHAEL MULLEN, D.D. Dr. Mullen was a native of Ireland, and wrote much and learnedly on theological topics. He died in Chicago, some years ago. THE SONG OF SATURNUS. A hymn to Saturnus, a grateful hymn. With goblets festooned to the bead- crowned brim. On his festival we sing: Who once in the year Doth freedom and cheer To slave and to master bring. He taught unto men how to till the hard soil, To plant the green grape and to draw the fat oil OF CATHOLIC POETS. 163 Which flows in the olive's heart, To prune the vine And to tap the mine, And every useful art. He breathed on the earth ; and his breath is the spring Whicli flowers and fruits on its bosom doth fling. And sweetens the Summer breeze As it freshly blows Where the water flows Through the roots of the leaf-clad trees. He breathed on the sea; and the ripples came Like smiles o'er its face, and its amorous frame Kissed with its cooling hp The shore in the hours When the sky sends its showers For the thirsty earth to sip. He breathed on the air; ami its brow grew white With rays scarce concealed by the veil of night; And the sun from its blue looked down With a smile so bland As to free the land From the chill of his Winter frown. He breathed on the springs; and the streams rushed out From their mother's lap with a mirthful shout: "Oh ! come to the fields," they sang, " For the parched meads Need our limpid beads." And they laughed as they onward sprang. Then a hymn to Saturnus, a grateful hymn. With goblets festooned to the wine- crowned brim, On his festival we sing: Who once in the year Doth freedom and cheer To slave and to master bring 1 J. W. S. NORRIS. Joseph W. S. Norris resides in Bay City, Mich. He is not a prolific writer, but his poems are highly finished, and show much depth of thought and grace of ex- pression. THE ANSWERED "AVE." The dear Saint Bernard ere eve's shadows fell Throughout the cloister's fair and fra- grant shade, Paused as the golden sunbeams slowly fade, List'ning to the holy Angelus bell, Which thro' each happy hermit's peaceful cell Poured its full note, re-echoed, then de- cayed. 'Neath Mary's image ling'ring he de- layed To breathe his loving "Ave :" Legend tell Prom out the pure white marble lips there came A voice of wondrous sweetness, — thrill- ing power, — That Bernard's greeting answered gra- ciously : Mary ! kindle in my heart Love's . flame That I may greet thee thro' life's every hour Hopeful of welcome sweet, at death, from thee. THE GARNERED FLOWER. A violet, hid from rain and worldly eyes. That dews of heav'n had cherished as most dear. Soft- bloomed 'mid fragrance, feeling naught of fear, In beauty beaming, bright as heaven's skies. fmp^svunRMn* 164 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY For Him who deems the humble lieart full wise. "0, pure, pale violet, thou that oft didst cheer Thy loved companions in God's garden here, Lift upward thy pure heart in burning sighs ! " The sighs were spent. Ere yet the wind's low wail Swept mourning o'er the Summer's peaceful dead, The Master came and raised the mystic vail That sorrow had placed o'er the meek- bowed head, And sweetly whispered, "Come." Tlie Autumn gale Passed as a gentle spirit heavenward fled. INVOCATION. Blow from the South, ye balmy winds of May, Breathe all the freshness of the sweet Spring-time, While with fair garlands at Our Lady's shrine We cast cur hopes on this the blithe May- day : Pour forth thy love-song, bhdling, clear and gay ; Fragrance and song in God's own bright sunshine. Harmonious mingle. Memory's magic chime Wakes and resounds and echoing dies away. Madonna, Queen and Mother I sweeter strains Than thy inspiring never hath been sung— Thou art the poet's purest, brightest dream. Fairest! ah break the captive's cruel chains. Sweet are life's charms, yet sweeter far among Thy court to see thy glorious beauty beam. O. D. O'CALLAGHAN. Mr. O'Caliaghan is a frequent contrib- utor to New York journals. His " River of Time " is a fine poem, and has become very popular. THE RIVER OF TIME. River of Time ! the Jong ago thou wert but a rippling rill. And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow was sweet as wind-harp's trill ; That song of joy like a lullaby on the ah: rose soft and low. As thy ripples sped from their fountain- head and flashed in the morning glow; While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen, flower-crowned by angel hands, Thy beauteous grace of her mirror'd face oft scann'd in thy golden sands ; And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic noon, when her full, round orb shone bright. Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide, pale shimmering in her light. While the primal stars in their gilded cars rolled on through the azure hight— Fair, glittering gems, bright diadems high set on the brow of Night. River of Time ! thy stream has swelled thro' the centuried lapse of years — Has grown and swelled since of old it welled from its fount 'mid the starry spheres, Till now, broad and deep, with majestic sweep, like the roll of an inland sea. That stream, erst a rill, turns God's mighty mill on its course to eternity ! Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear on the ghostly midnight wind, The surge and the roar of thy waves ever- more and the rush of the flood be- hind. And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom tost, like wrecks on the ocean waves. Drifting out to sea, River, with thee, far away from the laud of graves I OF CATHOLIC POETS. 165 River of Time 1 from the days of yore flowing on to the billowy sea, Bring us back once more from the silent shore the friends who have flown with thee, The myriad host of the loved and lost— the hearts that were fond— ah, me !— The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark womb— the spirits tiiat wander free From sin's dark slime in that wondrous clime— bright land of the ransomed souls, Where Death's cold shadow never falls, nor death-bell sadly tolls. Ah 1 in vain we crave, for thy ebbless wave, when it passeth the grave's dark bourne, With its freight of souls, as it seaward rolls, never can or will return ! River of Time ! flowing solemnly on, with the wrecks of our hopes and dreams— On, evermore on, to the great Unknown, where the rapturing vision gleams, And the white souls float in space, as the mote on Summer's irradiant beams — Oh ! swollen thy flood with the priceless blood which ever and aye doth well From human souls slain on Life's battle- plain by the ambushed hosts of hell ; Sin's Juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls thick strewn on the field of strife. While thy mystic tide with their blood is dyed— red blood from the battle of life I River of Time ! in the dim, dark past, full many and many a year, Thou'st left thy fount on that sacred mount, long lost to both "sage" and " seer ; " No human eye, as the years sped by, has ever beheld, I ween , That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, all bright in its virgin sheen. S'nce the first twain fell, 'neath the tempt- er's spell, amid Eden's flowery bow- ers, When Earth was young, ere yetupsprung the thorns among the flowers ; When thy limpid stream in the morning gleam reflected the Heavenly towers. And Paradise rang with the silvery clang of the harps of seraphic powers ; For Earth at its birth, in its child-like mirth, flower-gemmed and green and fair. Careering through space, in emulous race with the stars and the spirits of air, Was nigher, I ween, to the angelic scene, than this Earth of ours to-day. With its deep, dark crime, oh, River of Time— in sorrow and sin grown grayl FRANK O'RYAN. Frank O'Ryan is employed as a special teacher by the Board of Education of New York City, He was born at Carri- galine, L'eland, where he studied. He obtained a classical education at Middle- ton College. Coming to America, he was employed by the present bishop of Roch- ester, to teach Latin at Seton Hall College. He contributes frequently to the periodi- cal press. HEARING THE CITY BY NIGHT. [Composed during a railroad journey.] Daylight was dying, and dimness was creeping ; Landscape and life were despoiled of their charm ; Swift on our straight iron path we were sweeping, Anxious and mute 'mid the solemn alarm ; Awful the shadows that round us were massing ! Huge and misshapen the things that were passing Farther, still farther from life and from light ! Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering. And so we went nearing the city by night ! 166 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Wayfarers, strangers, each other unknow- ing- Still more unknown was the goal that we sought ; Morn found us reckless of where we were going^ Night, on a sudden, brought gloom to our thought. Ah, this strange city ! how much we did tear it ! No one had seen it, or ever been near it— What did it keep for us, pain or deUght ? Thus we went fearing, aud thus went careering. And so we went nearing the city by night. Terrible tales has been told us about it. Can we be certain we there shall find rest? Are we so near it ? Ah, would we could doubt it ! Could we fly back from it, that would be best. One blessed hope then indeed hovered o'er us Of seeing the friends that had gone there before us ; But still with uncertainty blended affright As ihus we went fearing, and thus went careering. And so we went nearing the city by night. Stars glimmered out, but our care was unceasing ; Stars can be baleful no less than be- nign. Cavernous darkness and phantoms in- creasing— These were the objects our eyes could divine ; Shadows of vastness that ever kept loom- ing. And valleys of blackness that roared at our coming— Where was the wonder our souls were affright ? As thus we went fearing, and thus went careering, And 80 we went nearing the city by night ! Ah — but I dare not go on to the ending ! Language nor fancy can match with its tone The depth of the crisis sublime and tran- scending— The crisis when man goes to meet the unknown ! Whether these things are all true evi- dences. Or paris of a dream tiiat still hangs o'er my senses. Often I shudder and think with affright That ever there's somebody, somebody fearing And someftorf.v nearing the city by night. VERY REV. JOHN A. ROCH- FORD, O. P. The Rev. Father Rochford is a native of Virginia, and early in life entered the Order of St. Dominic, of which he is one of the most distinguislied members in this country. He has been president of St. Josepii's College, Perry County, 0., and also Provincial of his order. He is now pastor of St. Dominic's Church, Washington, D. C. SURSUM CORDA. [Written to assuage a poignant sorrow afflict- ing tlie heart of a friend who had lost a sister by death.] You ask me, friend, in mourning tears, To write the mind of aged seers, And tell, if there is after years, A Sursum Corda. Yes I see it on the Cliristian's grave ! 'Tis echoed from the surging wave ! 'Tis heard whilst angry tempests rave. The Sursum Corda. Whilst storms brood on the mountain's peak. And shake the gorge's snow-lit cheek, OF CATHOLIC POETS. 167 The wild winds to the faithful shriek The Sursum Corda. What if thy sky be dark to-day, Aftd sadness have no joyful ray, To-morrow's sun will soon portray The Sursura Corda. What though life's voyage stormy be. And perilled be tliy sanctity, If God points out beyond the sea Sursum Corda ? The mother sees her infant die, And weeps and prays imploringly. Until she sees revealed on high The Sursum Corda. Yes, martyrs, too, when rack'd with pain, And tortur'd by the tyrant's chain, Have triumph'd in tiie sweet refrain of Sursum Corda. E'en though thy sister calmly sleep In death, why shouldst thou weep ? God's angels o'er her slumbers keep The Sursum Corda There is no grief, nor loss of love, That is not gaug'd by God's sweet Dove, Who brings to earth from heaven above The Sursum Corda. Then sow not with those doleful tears Thy heart with dismal hopes and fears. For thou Shalt know, in after years, The Sursum Corda. And so, when fifty winters hoar Have brought thee to the sunset shore, Oil I niayst thou hear forever more The Sursum Corda, REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. The Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J., is lo- cated in Dublin, Ireland, at the church of St. Francis Xavier. He is also editor of the excellent Irish Montlily. Father Riissel has published several volumes of verse, and is a mosL industrious and popular writer. DIO AMORE. From the Italian of Silvio Pellico. I love, and 'gainst my heart has throbbed the Heart Of my Beloved; and His name — my tongue Dares scarce to name Him. But, God ! 'tis God, God who in glory radiant reigns in Heaven, Yet centers His delight in wretched man. In this dark vale a wanderer. Amazed, The Seraphim behold the King descend. Disguised, to this heir of crimes and woes. And heal with His own hands the man- gled worm, And tell to all the world His joy. His joy, If by that worm he be, perchance, be- loved. O'er gulfs profound I saw Him move toward me. And tenderly, "Ah, why so long," He cried, "From My embrace thou hidest ?" Near and yet More near He came, and bright and yet more bright Out flashed the luster of His eyes. I caught The flame, and in that flame shall burn forever. I love, and 'gainst my heart has throbbed the Heart Of My Beloved; and His name— yes, yes, Before the universe I cry, the Lord ! I saw, I knew !— I love Him, I am loved ! VENI, JESU. A Prayer P.h;fore Communion. Come, Lord, my God, my All 1 I have heard Thy loving call; Thou hast drawn me by Thy charms, Thou hast raised me in Thine arms. Draw me closer still, I pray, Veni, Jesu Domine, Venil vent/ 168 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Come, oh come, my Jesua come, Make this yearning heart Thy home. Come, but ere Thou come, prepare For Thyself a dwelling there. Come! no longer. Lord, delay, Veni, Jesu Doinine, Veni! veni/ Why is not my heart on fire With an angel's pure desire ? He whose smiles makes angels blessed Conies within my heart to rest; Soon, too soon ! Make straight His way, Veni, Jesu Domine, Veni! veni I Low, He comes, the Savior ! He From his glad eternity Looked with pity on our woe. Saying, Ecce venio. Pity still his heart doth sway — Veni, Jesu Domine, Veni J veni! Human heart can never know All the love Thou liere dost show; Angel's voice could never tell What the souls that love Thee well Taste, each sweet Communiou day. Veni, Jesu Domine, Veni J veni/ But CTA e'en Thy heart endure. One so selfish, mean, impure — So ungrateful. Lord, to Thee Who hast shed Thy blood for me ? How can I dare thus to say, Veni, Jesu Domine, Veni/ veni/ Leave me. Lord, depart, depart I Come not near so vile a heart. Nay, forgive this foolish cry. For without Thee, Lord, I die. Pity me, turn not away, Veni, Jesu Domine, Veni/ veni/ Come with every needed grace; Make my heart a holy place, Rich in faith and prayer and love. Pure as happy saints above. Cleanse all trace of sin away, Veni, Jesu Dom'ne, Veni! veni/ Veni ! Come, my Jesus, see How my heart doth yearn for Thee. Come, and place Thy heart as seal On whate'er I do or feel. Come to me, and with me stay. Mane tnecum, Domine, Veni/ veni/ MICHAEL SCANLAN". SISTER STELLA.* The Angel of the Hospital Ward. As from some roaring ocean, lo, the city Cast up its wrecks forever at her feet. Where, like some angels clothed in power and pity. She waits, where life and death in mercy meet. To heal the hearts crushed in each wild disaster Beneath the unpitying feet in soulless marts. Telling, the while, how Christ, her Lord and Master, Knows how the world will break its finest hearts; Until they marvel at His love alone, And thinking on His grief forget their own. Above life's sweet-voiced pleasure, subtly woeing,— The wild heart-longings which enervate all. She heard the heavenly voice of mercy suing, — And rose responsive to her Master's call; Turned from the flashing rounds of hol- low fashion, Youth's promised raptures and the lov- er's speech, •A Sister of Charity In the poor wards, Provi- dence Hospital, "Washington, h. C. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 1G9 The soul consuming fires of pride and fasliion, And set her heart above the world's low reach — Beyond the bristling rounds ot sin and strife, With Him whose love can light the waste of life ! How blest is she whose cirling years in- herit Life's high commission, sanctioned from above ! Who can portray the beauty of the spirit Which turns to pity thro' excess of love? Whose steps of peace fall soft in dark- some places. Whose voice rings sweet upon the ear of grief Whose gentle presence lights up sad, pale faces. Whose sympathetic touch commands relief, Who comes, like Hope all radiant, to proclaim Tiiat Christ is love, and woman is the same ! Oh ! ye who blindly bartered the eternal. To flaunt your brilliance in the garish world One maddening hour, — within life's witching vernal Lurk all the serpent passions, fanged and curled To strike and shrivel in the throes of pleasures,— Bear witness, 'mong the penitent or dead. How wise is she who took the world's full measure, And set her heel upon the serpent's head. Lo, all the unborn years of God are hers. And men and angels are her wor- shipers. In her fair presence, how we stand en- chanted By the sweet grace of perfect woman- hood ! By her chaste beauty how the soul is hauntea With dreams of worlds where all is pure and good ! As some old master's heaven-inspired creation Is fondly set in soft cathedral light, To woo the heart to deeper adoration. To catch the spirit thro' the raptured sight — So, set in sunlight, shall her fair face be A sacred picture in our memory ! Oh, Stab, love-lighted, whose magnetic beauty (Incomprehensive as the songs of birds) Transfigured by angelic grace and duty, Evades the harness of material words!— Could I but catch the raptures chaste and tender Which to the pure of heart alone be- long; That sin-subduing, soul-uplifting splen- dor Wliich bathes thy spirit in celestial song. — Tlien would I breathe along the thrilling lyre Words that would burn with high harmonic fire ! But grander lyres than mine shall hymn thy glory. When all the Heavenly choirs, thro' all the spheres Shall catch the penitent's sad whispered story !— Shall catch the eloquence of {grateful tears ! — Sliall catch thy name by feverish lips low spoken,— And the deep gratitude of dying eyes.— The prayer from hearts by sin and sorrow broken, — And weave them into song beyond the skies, 170 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY Which shall outlast the evanescent years, And sound thy praises thro' the roll- ing spheres. EMILY SETON. 1838 . Emily Seton, a sister of the Right Rev. Monsignor Robert Seton, D.D., was born in New York City, in 1838. Siie was a daugliter of Captain William Seton, U. S. N., who was the elder and only sur- viving son of the venerated Mother Seton, of Emmittsburg. The following lines are an extract from an unpublished voiume of poems written during a sojourn in Italy in the years 1860-61. TO A SLEEPING INFANT. My darling sleeps in liis pillowed cot. Nor dreams of other days and chang- ing lot, Nor knows, 0, happy child I If joyousness or grief be on life's water's wild. Those briglit locks clinging to that downy bed, Are no suggestion of a dying head ; The small hands clasped upon that bosom fair Speak not to me of anguish or of cold and dark despair. Yea, little one, how sweet thou art. And may thy years be spotless as thy heart. HARRIET M. SKIDMORE. Harriet M. Skidmore was born in New York City, and removed, at an early age, to Brockport, N. Y. In 1859 she went to California, where she has since resided. She has contributed to various Catliolic journals, and in 1877 published a volume of poems entitled "Beside the Western Sea." THE MIST. I watched the folding of a soft, white wing Above the city's heart — I saw the mist its silent shadow fling O'er thronged and busy mart— Softly it glided through the Golden Gate, And up the shining Bay, Calmly it lingered on the hills, to wait The dying of the day- Like the white ashes of the sunset fire, It lay within the West, Then onward crept, above the lofty spire In nimbus- wreaths to rest — It spread anon— its fleecy clouds unrolled And floated gently down — And thus I saw that silent wing enfold The Babel-throated town— A spell was laid on restless strife and din. That bade its tumult cease— A veil was flung o'er squalor, woe and sin. Of purity and peace — And dreaming hearts, so hallowed by the mist. So freed from grosser leaven, In the soft chime of vesper bells could list Sweet, echoed tones of Heaven- Could see, enraptured, when the starlight came, With lustre soft and pale, A sacred city, crowned with "ring of flame," Beneath her misty veil, SARA T. SMITH. Miss Smith resides in Philadelphia. She is a contributor to the Catholic World and other journals. " 5:30 A. M."— SHIPWRECKED.* " When will the day break ? Is there hope of dawn ? God ! this darkness in the mouth of hell!" *Stcamer Vera Cruz sank In th» Gulf of Mexico, at 5:30 a. m., August 29, 1880. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 171 ■ What is that ? Listen ! "— " Tliere's an- other gone ! " " Was it the Captain ? Who of you can tell?" '• Who is this near me ? Hold me— hold me close ! Pray for me— help I There is no hope, they say- Death is so near ! O Love ! must I die thus ! " "Oh, for one hour!" "See! yonder breaks the day ! " Yea ! All majesiic, slowly, and serene. The rounded glory of the morning rose. Beyond the awful waste's gray-pallid gleam, Beyond the drifting of those foaming snows. From every hollow of the unseen powers. The shrieking winds rushed maddened, drunk with doom, And Death, the Dauntless, veiled in briny showers Bent for his victims from the fleeing gloom. A night of sorrows mocked by cruel day ! The heavens pitiless, the dreadful waves ! A crushed, stripped hulk, tossed in their awful play— The ghastly dead, flung back from rest- less graves — And shrinking in the midst, alone with Him Whose Face the future is a veil to hide. Two score sad souls, who scan the level rim. Of their small world, where hopes no more abide. No more ! no more 1 A moment's breath- less pause — A shuddering throe from keel to sun- dered mast — Then, like a creature,— did they guess the cause ? The wreck reeled, quivering— and life's woe was past I The wide sea rolling under wide, gray sky,— A white, white face — a woman's float- ing hair— A man's strong arms outstretched, and raised on high — A silence — awful in its dead despair. IN SUIVIMER TIME. Are our hearts lighter forthe roses bloom? Or sad life fairer for their odorous breath ? Or tangled threads upon Fate's busy loom. More deftly straightened by the hamls of Death ? Because the sod is daisied, clover-flushed, Because the sunset lias an opal hue. Is there more hope for trembling "dust to dust," One shadow faintpr on our darkened view? It seems so, truly ! O'er the lovely earth We lookout, smiling, though with pain at heart. And half forget the Winter's desert dearth, And half believe our very selves a part Of changing radiance, morn, and noon, and night— Of living color, tingeing hill and stream, Of winds of blessing, sweeping soft and light. Across the current of our fevered dream. Is this a promise ? Surely, it may be The setting forth we now can grasp and hold Of some perfection deathless eyes shall see Beyond the ice rim of Death's Winter cold. CHARLES WARREN STODDARD Charles Warren Stoddard is a resident of San Francisco, Cal., and humorously says of himself, that he "is somewhere in the forties." He was born in Rochester, 173 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY N. Y. He has travelled extensively in tropical climates. His poems abound in rich coloring, and are very musical and thoughtful. He is the famous correspond- ent of the San Francisco Chronicle. Mr. Stoddard has published several volumes. A GOSPEL OF AUTUMN. Across these leaves of gold, Under the Autumn sun, What solemn gospels are unrolled! I read them one by one. Behold, how small a bud. Tender, and frail, and brief. But nourished by the trees sweet blood, Is brought to perfect leaf 1 Behold, how frail a bough, Its pliable, slim frame Quite stiffened with the frost, is nov/ In leafage, all a-flame ! Lo ! as the prophet heard Of old, I clearly hear From every burning bush God's word Outspoken to mine ear. IN A CONVENT. A fair white tower, where doves as white as snow Flutter, the while three bells swing, to and fro ; A garden and a cloister hid below. A Summer garden full of calm delight ; A cloister, wreathed with roses red and white ; A row of lilies meek, that hold their breath. As pale and mute and passionless as death ; Curtained beyond a leafy screen, the bees Drone their monotonous, sweet litanies. A fountain lisping the responses, caught On tiie still air with heavy incense fraught; And all within an island in the wide And wild lagoon ; an island sanctified- Wailed by the golden flood, the glowing amber tide. MERIDIAN. The sea is blazing all around; An idle bark is inward bound; The ripples lap upon the reef; The gulls' dull flight is low and brief; The low beach-grass begins to fade; The land-crabs sidle to a shade; The cocoa hangs its nutted head. And nothing siirs— the wind is dead. The peopled plain is still as death; No cricket cliirps, for lack of breath; A scorching dust is in the air; The glitter blinds me every-where; The hills are limned in colors fleet, And quiver in the noon-day heat; Tiie liz'irds pant upon the wall— An empty sky is over all. MRS. MARGARET P. SULLIVAN. Margaret Frances Buchanan is a native of Longfield, Tyrone, Ireland. Her father, James Buchanan, a descendant of Scotch immigrants who entered Ulster in the middle of the seventeentii century, was profitably engaged in the flax industry, and was a man of sterling character, refined in his tastes and thrifty in his occupation. Her mother, whose strong characteristics were a deep religious feel- ing and entire devotion to her children, was of the old Irish O'Gormans. The death of her father, while Margaret was an infant, made it prudent for the family to seek a new home ; and they settled in Detroit, Michigan, where she was given excellent educational advantages, learn- ing the classical and modern languages, mathematics and music. Her literary in- clinations were shown before she was fourteen in metrical translations from the jEneid, which were found worthy of pub- lication although the writer was un- OF CATHOLIC POETS. 173 known. The rewards of journulisiu attracted her to Chicago where she had ihe exceptional fortune of taking at once a high position. She has been for some lime literary editor and editorial writer on the Chicago Times ; and being a stu- dent by habit, and a ready composer, has devoted most of her leisure to contribu- tions, chiefly in prose, to the Catholic World and other periodicals. She has also been one of the writers for the American Catholic Quarterly Review. In 18T4: Miss Buchanan was married to Alexander Sullivan, Esq., an able young lawyer of Chicago, and, in presiding over the domestic affairs of a profoundly happy home, she finds a higher enjoy- ment than any which even the delights of literature afford. A REVISION. I read a legend, sweet and quaint. The other day, amid the faint. Calm light of early dusk ; The story, odorous of musk. Smiled in a dusk-bound, silent book, Neglected in a lover's nook. Of course you know it — how he strove To shape the marble like his love- That ancient sculptor ; how his hand. Guiding the chisel, like a wand. So perfect made the beauteous whole, Jove breathed in it his lady's soul. The dainty myth in modern time Will serve to tell in careless rhyme. Our sculptor sneers there is no Jove ; Science has made a myth of love ; So practical the love has grown, 'Tis only beauty's heart in stone. THE IRISH FAMINE OF 1880. [This poem was first made public on an historical occasion — when Charles Stewart ParnelT and John Dillon were received ai the representatives of Ireland, in Chicago, by thirty tliuusaud persons, In the Exposition building. It was recited by Miss Emily Gavin ; her voice, according to one of the daily journals, being " not only full of feeling, but of such remarkable strength as to reach all in the vast audience. The poem prevoked in turn the wildest enthu- siasm and copious tears."] Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale! The rosy dawn is blushing behind her hazy veil ; The brooklet prattles on the sward, the linnet's early notes Are answered from tiie foliage by count- less tuneful tliroats ; The zephyrs tease the tassels of the nod- ding, drowsy grain That soon will be awakened to be tossed into the wain ;— Now o'er the gentle landscape the sun's broad rays are broke. And from the cottage chimneys ascends the cheery smoke ! The morning mist has disappeared— the vision is still clearer,— What terror-stricken band is that whose feet are hurrying nearer ? God of justice ! God of mercy ! They are weeping, they arc shrieking ! There is frenzy on their faces, and some with wounds are reeking I The bailiff horde behind them in cruel fury comes, For the smoke we saw ascending was the burning of their homea I miracle of miracles ! wondrous cause of wonder I Proclaim the story to mankind with trum- pet of the thunder ! A fertile, generous, joyous land, forbid to feed its people By laws enacted 'iieath the shade of con- secrated steeple I Starvation made by statute — famine a legal code For subjects of a Government with an " established " God ! Eook^Tint into their genial-sml for hun- ger's helpless cause — 174 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY The Irish people famish— to obey their Eiiglisii laws ! Tliey plow and plant, they sow and reap, they spin and weave all day. The English fleet is at their wharves to bear it all away ! Their fathers' land the alien owns ; the landlords own their labor ; Their mortgaged lives have been fore- closed to glut their English neighbor ! This is Irish famine and this is English law ! And this the saddest sight on earth that Sorrow ever saw ! Nature's heart is touched with pity, Na- ture's eyes with tears are filled. While the people die of hunger in the fields that they have tilled ! From the pastures low the cattle : "For the slranger is our flesh ; " Moans the wind into the harvest: "For the stranger you must tiiresh ;" And the sheep bleat sadly seaward from green gorges in the rocks : " The stranger wears our wool, and the stranger eats our flocks ;" And the horses paw in fury, as they neigh from out the manger : "Oh, we would fight for Ireland — but our backs are for the stranger 1 " In this band of homeless outcasts limps a cripple whose deep scars Tell of service as a soldier, perhaps in foreign wars ; An arm is gone ; he totters ; in youth his hair is white ; Is it Imnger makes you tremble who shrank not in the fight ? The coat he wears is tattered— the color- yes, 'tis blue ! Were you ever in America ? pale friend, oh, tell me true I The ashen lips grow livid, the face be- comes less wan— "Aye, was I," proudly answers he, "I fought with Sheridan I " Before the War was over, my aged father died ; The only daughter, fair and young, lies buried at his side ; The dear old mother lingered still,— to shelter her from harm I came across the water, and worked the little farm ; 'Twas taken from us yeserday — " "And she ? " " She died last night - Of hunger, hunger— oh, great God ! that son should see such sight ! In battle 1 ne'er trembled— in the whirr of shot, and shell I rushed with demon recklessness with- in the living hell ! To-day I shake with palsy, unmanned by hunger's pangs ; I feel about my breaking heart a slimy creature's fangs ; And all are gone who loved me, the last one of my kin ; Patrick drove the serpents out to let En- glish reptiles in I " Tell my comrades in America who wore the loyal blue That Erin was the stanchest of all the friends they knew ; Her heart was theirs, her strength was theirs, she was proud to fight To make liberty and manhood the same for black and white ! On every field your standard won, Irish blood like water ran : Remember Shields and Meagher, remem- ber Mulligan I 1 gave my arm to strike the chain from off your black slave's hand ; And now I die of hunger, white slave, in my native land ! The debt your great Republic owes to those who for her bled, Oh, comrades, hasten to repay ! Send starving Ireland bread ! *' Lo, here a mother hurries, in her fleshless arms a child, Her limbs begin to fail her, her face is white and wild ; Full forty miles she walked to-day to reach a poor-house door. OF CATHOLIC POETS. 175 And keep the feeble flickering light in eyes — that ope no more ! Dead the babe upon her bosom 1 Oli, mother's mighty sorrow, Bewail in vain your journey's length ! bewail your awful morrow ! "Dear turf," she faintly murmurs, "take the life I could not save ! 01), land that dare not give her bread, give thou my child a grave ! " She falls— she dies -but not until her voice has stirred the tombs : "Victoria, with my milkless breasts, I curse your English wombs ! " Philanthropist and missioner lives on St. George's Channel- Sends Bibles— to the Pope of Rome, and to the tropics— flannel ! Prays godly prayers iovforelfftism before her holy altar. The while her hands twist at her back for Ireland's neck a halter ! In foreign lands protects the weak, with treaties— or with cannon ! And thrusts the dagger to the heart of her sister on the Shannon ! So generous to her foreign foes they praise her to the sky — And leaves her Irish subjects one privilege —to die ! Come, nations of both continents, behold a Land of Graves I Come, Russia, with Siberia ! France, bring your galley slaves ! Come, leering Turk, witli dripping knife, refreshed in Christian gore ! Bashi-bazouk, hold up your head ! Be ye ashamed no more ! empires of a modern world ! beiiold this Christian nation, That makes her people paupers, and grants them then— starvation I When eight years of age, she went to the Rev. Father White, at St. Matthew's Church, Washington, D. C, and was bap- tized. Having no CaMiolic friends or sur- roundings, her religious education was neglected for some years, and although she cherished the germ of Faith, it was not till she became a pupil of St. Simeon's School, New Orleans, that she made her first coiimiunion. During the past six or seven years she has been a con- iributor to the daily press of New Orleans and the Southern, Quarterly Review, ed- ited by her father. In the Spring of 1S77 she had the happiness of seeing her mother baptized in the same little chap- el where she had made her first com- munion, and one year later, her venerable father, who had been a Unitarian min- ister, received the sacrament in the same iioly place. In the Winter of 1880 she published her first volume, entitled " Do- nata and other Poems," which has been highly praised, and from which we select the poem given below. LILY C. WHITAKEll. Miss Lily C. Whitaker (Adidnac) was born in Charleston, S. C, and is a daughter of Dr. D. K. and Mrs. M. S. Whitaker. THE LILY. Dark and damp was the narrow cell, Where my heart began its throbbing— Close and cold Was the earthly mould, That held me down in its clammy fold, And the winds above were sobbing. Then came the days of the early Spring— The month of smiles and weeping — April the fair, With tender care. Who wove of sunbeams her shining hair. Awoke the seedlings sleeping. Soft and warm glowed the genial sun. As a beam to my heart he darted; The amber ray Of the joyous day On the bosom of earth, as it trembling lay, New life to u)y soul imparted. Bright and clear in their silvery ppray, Fell the soothing, balmy, showers; 176 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY And entered the earth, Waking to birth, With a touch of joy and a ripple of mirth, All the lovely, fairy flowers. I throbbed and swelled and swellin;^ burst Through ihe wall of my bulbous prison, Tiirough ihe yielding clay, I found my way To a spot where the early sunbeams lay. Just as the day had risen. Freshly green, through the moistened sod I peeped with trembling wonder, From the lowly sod, To the face of God Who made me spring from the mouldy clod. And broke my bonds asunder. Firm and tall grew my graceful stalk. To the breath of the breezes swaying, In the rosy dawn Of the early morn, When dew drops cover the jeweled lawn, And when evening winds are playing. Strong and swift through my floral veins I felt the sweet sap flowing, As it mounted up To the waxen cup. To form the nectar that honey bees sup, And aid the petals growing. Leaf after leaf sprang out of my stem, Arrow-like, graceful, declining ; All dripping with dew, Neath the beautiful blue Where the eye of God keeps looking through , And the stars at eve are shining. Soft and young rose an oval bud. At the top of the green leaves bending. On a lovely day, In the month of May, I opened my heart to tne warm sun ray Around me perfume seildiug. Six petals fair unfolded then, In their snowy waxen beauty, And the pistil tall, With the stamens all. Sprang into being at nature's call. To beautify life, their duty. The golden dust, like a yellow veil. On ray stamens soft was lying, And the wine of dew Through my fibers flew. And deep in my bosom hid from view, While zephyrs were gently sighing. I grow in almost every land, I bloom by every fountain • On Nile's broad breast My floating crest Is hailed with joy— an omen blest ; And I deck the shady mountain. They pluck me for the bridal day, When all is joy and gladness. And I yield my breath In the house of death. And I bloom o'er graves on the lonely heath, Where all is dreary sadness. In the dim and shadowy days of old The time of fabled story, In the olden days When the golden lays Of the Master Minstrel spoke my praise. And clothed me with spotless glory. I neither sow, nor reap, nor spin. Nor gather at the gleaming, But a Mighty Hand In the deathless land. My being and beauty and sweetness planned. And gave me a heavenly meaning. I love to dress the God-made earth, To smile in hall and bower; But a sweeter place, Where I veil my face. Is the altar door whence flows all grace. Where the Mighty hides his power. INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Across tlR' leaves of gold, _ . - _ A culprit, fay, in haste one day, - A day when Summer supersedes the Spring-, A fair wliite bower, where doves as white as situw, A faithful friend I fain would lind, - A flowery waste, through ages si'ay. After giving I speak of taking. Ah, freedom is a noble thing, - - - All ! my heart is weary waiting. Ah! why should I recall them, the gay, the joyous yc A hymn to Satumus ! a grateful hymn, Alas, what am I, and in what estate ! All day the low-hung clouds have dropped, - All is divine, . . . _ _ And lusty Flora did her bloomes sprede, And so your life has been a dreary story, Another year passed over— gone, A physiological student one day, - A place in thy memory, dearest. Are our hearts lighter for the roses bloom V As beams a perfect, restful, mellow day, As from some roaring ocean, lo! the city, As murmur gently through the balmy air, - A song for the joyful Maytime, - A song, Yeh-sa-go-wah, I measure for tliec, As through the crouching underwood the wild 1 madly came, _ - - - At eve, as the sun sinks low in the west, A violet, hid from rain and worldly eyes, A youth kneels at a woman's feet, and seems. Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale, Be kind, dear love, and never say good-bye. Be It my most pleasing duty, - Beneath the grand cathedral's lofty dome, Beneath the mountain's scowling shade, Bewailing in my chamber thus alone, Blow from the south, ye balmy winds of May, Calm was the night, on Levi's height. Choose the darkest part of the grove, Come, O Lord, my God, my all, Come, sit, my son, beneath the shade where Auti winds are lying, . - - - Come to me, dearest; I'm lonely without thee! Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, - Dark and damp was the narrow cell, - Diaphenia, like the daffydowndilly, lir CttAELES "WaEKEX STODDAUD, - 172 liEv. He>'EY A. Bra: