Chapter M: H. Nickerson

A RECOLLECTION

O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable
We climbed the sedgy dune,
Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable
Basked at the feet of June.

Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered
Around in glancing flocks,
And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered
The foam-bells on the rocks.

Deep peace was in the air and on the billows,
That in smooth slumber lay,
Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows
As infants wake to play.

The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing,
But such the fisher hails
With joy when, after weary hours of rowing,
It swells his spritted sails.

The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles,
Far outward we could trace;
The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles
From out old Ocean's face.

No envious shadow on the flood descended;
Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep
In silent grandeur with the horizon blended,
Deep calling unto deep.

And every shadow, from my life retreating,
Left free the placid mind;
The finite with the infinite was meeting
Undimmed and unconfined.

How many times my eager gaze had rested
Upon that sea and shore;
But never, never had they been invested
With such a charm before.

They wear it still in calm ideal perfection,
Though years since then have flown;
That summer day's unclouded recollection
Shall ever be my own.

CORNELIUS O'BRIEN

ST CECILIA

A shell lies silent on a lonely shore;
High rocks and barren stand with frowning brow;
Hither no freighted ships e'er turn their prow
Their treasures on the fated sand to pour;
Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar;
But, pure as victim for a nation's vow,
A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now
Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more.
Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts
For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre,
Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell,
Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts,
Attuned its music to the heavenly choir,
And gave a Christian voice to Clio's shell.

THOMAS O'HAGAN

RIPENED FRUIT

I know not what my heart has lost,
I cannot strike the chords of old;
The breath that charmed my morning life
Hath chilled each leaf within the wold.

The swallows twitter in the sky,
But bare the nest beneath the eaves;
The fledglings of my care are gone,
And left me but the rustling leaves.

And yet, I know my life hath strength,
And firmer hope and sweeter prayer,
For leaves that murmur on the ground
Have now for me a double care.

I see in them the hope of spring,
That erst did plan the autumn day;
I see in them each gift of man
Grow strong in years, then turn to clay.

Not all is lost--the fruit remains
That ripened through the summer's ray;
The nurslings of the nest are gone,
Yet hear we still their warbling lay.

The glory of the summer sky
May change to tints of autumn hue;
But faith that sheds its amber light
Will lend our heaven a tender blue.

O altar of eternal youth!
O faith that beckons from afar!
Give to our lives a blossomed fruit--
Give to our morns an evening star!

THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS

O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings
As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!
Every note is charged with memory--every memory bright with rays
Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.
The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,
And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;
While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings
All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.

I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,
As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with
mist;
I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's
power,
As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;
And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime
That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;
But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,
Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.

It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,
It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of
prayer;
It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,
And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;
It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,
And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.
O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,
As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!

GILBERT PARKER