Chapter M: S. M (3)

These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,
Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:
They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,
They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.

Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:
White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!
They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,
White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: forever He!

CHRISTMAS AND IRELAND

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

The golden stars give warmthless fire,
As weary Mary goes through night:
Her feet are torn by stone and briar;
She hath no rest, no strength, no light:
O Mary, weary in the snow,
Remember Ireland’s woe!

O Joseph, sad for Mary’s sake!
Look on our earthly Mother too:
Let not the heart of Ireland break
With agony the ages through:
For Mary’s love, love also thou
Ireland, and save her now!

Harsh were the folk, and bitter stern,
At Bethlehem, that night of nights.
_For you no cheering hearth shall burn:
We have no room here, you no rights._
O Mary and Joseph; hath not she,
Ireland, been even as ye?

The ancient David’s royal house
Was thine, Saint Joseph! wherefore she,
Mary, thine Ever Virgin Spouse,
To thine own city went with thee.
Behold! thy citizens disown
The heir of David’s throne!

Nay, more! The very King of Kings
Was with you, coming to His own:
They thrust Him forth to lowliest things;
The poor, meek beasts of toil alone
Stood by, when came to piteous birth
The God of all the earth.

And she, our Mother Ireland, knows
Insult, and infamies of wrong:
Her innocent children clad with woes,
Her weakness trampled by the strong:
And still upon her Holy Land
Her pitiless foemen stand.

From Manger unto Cross and Crown
Went Christ: and Mother Mary passed
Through Seven Sorrows, and sat down
Upon the Angel Throne at last.
Thence, Mary! to thine own Child pray,
For Ireland’s hope this day!

She wanders amid winter still,
The dew of tears is on her face:
Her wounded heart takes yet its fill
Of desolation and disgrace.
God still is God! And through God she
Foreknows her joy to be.

The snows shall perish at the spring,
The flowers pour fragrance round her feet:
Ah, Jesus! Mary! Joseph! bring
This mercy from the Mercy Seat!
Send it, sweet King of Glory, born
Humbly on Christmas Morn!

TO MY PATRONS

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

Thy spear rent Christ, when dead for me He lay:
My sin rends Christ, though never one save He
Perfectly loves me, comforts me. Then pray,
Longinus Saint! the Crucified, for me.

Hard is the holy war, and hard the way:
At rest with ancient victors would I be.
O faith’s first glory from our England! pray,
St. Alban! to the Lord of Hosts, for me.

Fain would I watch with thee, till morning gray,
Beneath the stars austere: so might I see
Sunrise, and light, and joy, at last. Then pray,
John Baptist Saint! unto the Christ, for me.

Remembering God’s coronation day;
Thorns for His crown; His throne, a Cross: to thee
Heaven’s kingdom dearer was than earth’s. Then pray
Saint Louis! to the King of kings, for me.

Thy love loved all things: thy love knew no stay,
But drew the very wild beasts round thy knee.
O lover of the least and lowest! pray,
Saint Francis! to the Son of Man, for me.

Bishop of souls in servitude astray,
Who didst for holy service set them free:
Use still thy discipline of love, and pray.
Saint Charles! unto the world’s High Priest, for me.

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS

(Upon reading the poem of that name in the Underwoods of Mr. Stevenson)

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

Far from the world, far from delight,
Distinguishing not day from night;
Vowed to one sacrifice of all
The happy things, that men befall;
Pleading one sacrifice, before
Whom sun and sea and wind adore;
Far from earth’s comfort, far away,
We cry to God, we cry and pray
For men, who have the common day.
Dance, merry world! and sing: but we,
Hearing, remember Calvary:
Get gold, and thrive you! but the sun
Once paled; and the centurion
Said: _This dead man was God’s own Son_.
Think you, we shrink from common toil,
Works of the mart, works of the soil;
That, prisoners of strong despair,
We breathe this melancholy air;
Forgetting the dear calls of race,
And bonds of house, and ties of place;
That, cowards, from the field we turn,
And heavenward, in our weakness, yearn?
Unjust! unjust! while you despise
Our lonely years, our mournful cries:
You are the happier for our prayer;
The guerdon of our souls, you share.
Not in such feebleness of heart,
We play our solitary part;
Not fugitives of battle, we
Hide from the world, and let things be:
But rather, looking over earth,
Between the bounds of death and birth;
And sad at heart, for sorrow and sin,
We wondered, where might help begin.
And on our wonder came God’s choice,
A sudden light, a clarion voice,
Clearing the dark, and sounding clear:
And we obeyed: behold us, here!
In prison bound, but with your chains:
Sufferers, but of alien pains.
Merry the world, and thrives apace,
Each in his customary place:
Sailors upon the carrying sea,
Shepherds upon the pasture lea,
And merchants of the town; and they,
Who march to death, the fighting way;
And there are lovers in the spring,
With those, who dance, and those, who sing:
The commonwealth of every day,
Eastward and westward, far away,
Once the sun paled; once cried aloud
The Roman, from beneath the cloud:
_This day the Son of God is dead_!
Yet heed men, what the Roman said?
They heed not: we then heed for them,
The mindless of Jerusalem;
Careless, they live and die: but we
Care, in their stead, for Calvary.
O joyous men and women! strong,
To urge the wheel of life along,
With strenuous arm, and cheerful strain,
And wisdom of laborous brain:
We give our life, our heart, our breath,
That you may live to conquer death;
That, past your tomb, with souls in health,
Joy may be yours, and blessed wealth;
Through vigils of the painful night,
Our spirits with your tempters fight:
For you, for you, we live alone,
Where no joy comes, where cold winds moan:
Nor friends have we, nor have we foes;
Our Queen is of the lonely Snows.
Ah! and sometimes, our prayers between,
Come sudden thoughts of what hath been:
Dreams! And from dreams, once more we fall
To prayer: _God save, Christ keep, them all_.
And thou, who knowest not these things,
Hearken, what news our message brings!
Our toils, thy joy of life forgot:
Our lives of prayer forget thee not.

CADGWITH

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

My windows open to the autumn night,
In vain I watched for sleep to visit me:
How should sleep dull mine ears, and dim my sight,
Who saw the stars, and listened to the sea?

Ah, how the City of our God is fair!
If, without sea and starless though it be,
For joy of the majestic beauty there,
Men shall not miss the stars, nor mourn the sea.

A FRIEND

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

All, that he came to give,
He gave, and went again:
I have seen one man live,
I have seen one man reign,
With all the graces in his train.

As one of us, he wrought
Things of the common hour:
Whence was the charmed soul brought,
That gave each act such power;
The natural beauty of a flower?

Magnificence and grace,
Excellent courtesy:
A brightness on the face,
Airs of high memory:
Whence came all these, to such as he?

Like young Shakespearian kings,
He won the adoring throng:
And, as Apollo sings,
He triumphed with a song:
Triumphed, and sang, and passed along.

With a light word he took
The hearts of men in thrall:
And, with a golden look,
Welcomed them, at his call
Giving their love, their strength, their all.

No man less proud than he,
Nor cared for homage less;
Only, he could not be
Far off from happiness:
Nature was bound to his success.

Weary, the cares, the jars
The lets, of every day:
But the heavens filled with stars,
Chanced he upon the way:
And where he stayed, all joy would stay.

Now, when sad night draws down,
When the austere stars burn:
Roaming the vast stars burn:
My thoughts and memories yearn
Toward him, who never will return.

Yet I have seen him live,
And owned my friend, a king:
And that he came to give,
He gave, and I, who sing
His praise, bring all I have to bring.

BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS

BY LIONEL JOHNSON

Sombre and rich, the skies;
Great glooms and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs;
Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings
Around me: and around
The saddest of all kings
Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides
Hard by his own Whitehall:
Only the night wind glides:
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court: and yet,
The stars his courtiers are;
Stars in their stations set;
And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone,
The fair and fatal king:
Dark night is all his own,
That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate:
The stars; or those sad eyes?
Which are more still and great:
Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn
In passionate tragedy:
Never was face so stern
With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death
By beauty made amends:
The passing of his breath
Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay:
Through death, life grew sublime.
_Speak after sentence?_ Yea:
And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head
Bare to the stars of doom:
He triumphs now, the dead,
Beholding London’s gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,
Vexed in the world’s employ:
His soul was of the saints;
And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe!
Men hunger for thy grace:
And through the night I go,
Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps;
When all the cries are still:
The stars and heavenly deeps
Work out a perfect will.

THE HOUSEWIFE’S PRAYER

BY BLANCHE MARY KELLY

Lady, who with tender word
Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord,
Who didst set forth the bread and wine
Before the Living Wheat and Vine,
Reverently didst make the bed
Whereon was laid the holy Head
That such a cruel pillow prest
For our behoof, on Calvary’s crest;
Be beside me while I go
About my labors to and fro.
Speed the wheel and speed the loom,
Guide the needle and the broom,
Make my bread rise sweet and light,
Make my cheese come foamy white,
Yellow may my butter be
As cowslips blowing on the lea.
Homely though my tasks and small,
Be beside me at them all.
Then when I shall stand to face
Jesu in the judgment place,
To me thy gracious help afford,
Who art the Handmaid of the Lord.

BROTHER JUNIPER

BY BLANCHE MARY KELLY

As unto Francis Poverty,
So Folly was a bride to thee.
Not the jade that fashions quips
For the smiles of mocking lips,
And in the face of stony Death
Capers till she’s out of breath,
But the maid that moves and sings
About divinely foolish things,
She that gives her substance all
For love, and laughs to find it small,
She that drew God’s Son to be
A butt, a jest on Calvary,
And ’neath the leper’s guise doth know
The King in his incognito.

The world is grown too wise, and we
Go our sad ways sensibly.
O, would that our lean souls might win
Some grace of thine, God’s harlequin,
Whose days were lavished like fool’s gold
Upon His pleasures manifold.
“Would God,” cried Francis, on his knees,
“I had a forest of such trees!”

THE THRONE OF THE KING

BY FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY

The sun was setting, and its golden glow
Deepened the shadows on the village street,
And reverent touched the beauty of the head
Of Him who sat, in thought, beside the well
Of Nazareth. Two women came to fill
Their earthen jars; and sent their burdens down
To where the water lay; then drew them up.
But still the Boy, unmoved, gazed steadily
Upon the distant hills, that girded round
Jerusalem, the City of the Soul.

His eyes were deep as some unfathomed sea,
That tosses wreckage on its billowed crest;
But hides its treasures ever in the caves,
That men shall never touch, or touching die.
“How strange the Boy,” one woman softly said
As back they went, their burdens on their heads.
“Yet He is Joseph’s Son,” the other spoke,
“And Joseph is my neighbor, a just man;
But not more lettered than the other men,
Your own and mine. He is not priest nor scribe
That he could teach such wisdom to his Son.
And it doth sometimes seem the Boy is wise
Beyond His years, with knowledge overmuch.”
“His mother, whom I know,” her friend replied,
“As Mary, sweeps the shavings from the floor,
Cooks the poor fare for Joseph and her Son,
Cares for the water, and her jar brings here
As we do every day, who know not much
Beyond the things we hear from holy men.
Yet strange is Mary too; I know not where
To match the peace that’s on her tranquil brow;
Though, through it all, I’ve seen the Shadow there
The dread of days to come, though all resigned.
So like His mother is this only Son
In beauty, in the peace that’s on His face;
But sometimes, deeper still, the Shadow falls
Across His features. Look! behold it now.
For it doth speak the dread of awful things,
More awful than the ruin of a world!”

A-down the street there rang a clatter loud
Of horses dashing in a maddened run,
And sounds of wheels swift rolling on the pave.
The women shrank affrighted to the wall,
And cowered there in trembling, mortal fear.
In view the charging horses passed along
Straight to the well, no driver grasped the reins,
For he had fallen to the stony street.
Yet never moved the Boy, nor turned His eyes
From off the hills that held them so intent.
But from a doorway rushed a stranger lad
Who grasped the bit of one, and held him fast.
The others, panting, stopped so near the Boy
That, on His face He must have felt the heat
Which steaming rose from their perspiring flanks,
As now they stood, foam-flecked and trembling by.
The driver came and meekly murmured thanks,
Before he led his charges back again
To where his master waited for the steeds.
“He gave me naught but words, and I did save
The steeds. The chariot, too, would have been dashed
All broken on the stones, had I not come.”
The lad was angered, but the Boy moved not,
Though from the distant hills His gaze was drawn.
“Dost thou not know,” the lad said, wonderingly,
“How near was Death to thee a moment since?”

The Boy, now fully aroused, smiled at the lad
All kindly, as a loving father smiles
Upon his child that waked him unaware,
Whose sleep nor storm nor clatter could affect,
Yet at the touch of little baby hands
Opens wide his eyes, that twinkle joyfully.
“No nearer to grim Death,” the Boy replied,
“Was I than thou, my friend, art near it now.
Thou seekest Joseph and hast wandered far
From distant Jaffa, where thy father died.
Thou’rt Fidus named. From Joseph thou wouldst learn
The craftsman’s art, and how to handle tools
To work with wood, that thou thyself may’st be
Like him, a craftsman skilled in his own trade.”
“A prophet Thou!” the lad in wonder cried.
“Come with me,” made He answer. “I am known
As Joseph’s Son; so I will speak for thee.”

As evening fell on Nazareth’s burning street
Each day these two would wander out alone;
And by the well, or in a quiet glade
Seated, would hold their talk, with none to hear.
Yet converse scarce it was; with ears intent,
Fidus did always listen, while the Boy
Poured out a tale of Kings and Prophets old;
Of marvels that they worked to testify
Unto a King whom yet the earth would see,
A King of all Judea and the world;
Whose glory, mounting even to the stars
Would dim with rich effulgence, their great light.
The Sun of Justice He, the Moon of night
That had for ages settled o’er the earth.
He told of wonders that the King would do
Before He mounted to His mighty throne.
He told of love surpassing every love
That earth had seen, and of His Kingdom wide;
Till all on fire Fidus hung’red to see
The King Himself, and worship at His throne.
“A Roman though I am,” he oft would cry,
“Thy King I’d welcome and for Him I’d serve.”
“Yet thou art craftsman and no soldier thou.”
“A craftsman too can serve his loyal due.”
“How wouldst thou serve?” the Boy inquiring spoke.
“When Joseph bids me go, that I can learn no more,
This I can do--to build for Him His throne.”
The Shadow swept across the boyish face--
The Shadow Fidus once had seen before;
And he was silent, for in awe he stood
When that mysterious shade shut off the light
That shone out from the radiant brow.
The Shadow was not fear, nor dread of death;
But dread of something worse than death could bring.
It was as if a lily, broken, bent,
But yet unsullied, now was stained with filth
By impious hand; more cruel far than death
The marring of the whiteness death had spared:
Or like a stream, that through its mountain bed
Had raced unfettered, toward the amber sea,
And o’er the rapids and the pebbles dashed
Clear, cold and placid when the mouth is reached;
Then, death unfeared before it, ready now
To give back to the ocean all it gave,
Into its pureness poured a stream so dark
That tainted all its life, when life was lost.
’Twas thus the Shadow seemed; but soon it passed,
And smiling boyhood turned a happy face
The while he said: “So thou wouldst build His throne?
But dost thou know the form that throne will take?”

“’T will be a throne,” Fidus replied, “so high
That all may see Him, while from it He reigns,
And know that He has come unto His own.”

“Aye,” quick the Boy made answer, “it shall be
Uplifted high that every man may see;
Not Jews alone but even ye of Rome;
And men from Britain too, on farthest shore
Of Rome’s great Empire: they shall see and know
The King who reigns upon that living throne;
And in the Islands of unchartered seas
The King shall lifted be, that all may know;
And worlds still undiscovered shall bow down
To do Him homage, yet shall hate His name.
For homage goes with hate, and hate will be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around the royal throne.”

Fidus looked wond’ring at the Boy Who spoke,
As if the right to build the throne were His
And He could give it to the friend who asked
This only boon, as pledge of love untold.

“And I would build it strong so it could go
O’er sea and land, and last for aye and aye.”

“So thou wouldst build the throne?” again the Boy
Half musing spoke. Across His face once more
The Shadow fell; and, as he stood, His hands
He lifted up and out, as if in prayer.
Another Shadow fell upon the ground,
The arms and body strangely like a Cross.
Fidus was silent till the prayer was done.
The sun now set, and all the shadows passed.
They, arm in arm, ran fast to Joseph’s house.
But, at the door they paused and, said the Boy:
“Thou must remember ever this thy day
When I the promise gave that I can keep,
For thou shalt build His throne!”

The years passed on,
And Fidus to the Roman hosts returned
Where, welcomed as a soldier’s clever son,
He wrought in wood for all the legions there
In Jaffa, where his father had been killed.
For eighteen years he stayed beside the sea
And, working at the trade that Joseph taught,
He never once forgot the precious pledge
The Boy had made. But never saw nor heard
Aught of his friend. Then he was sent away
By Pilate’s call, unto Jerusalem.

The evening of the day when he arrived
Great turmoil swept along the Jaffa road,
And near the Gate of Gardens, where the hill
Called Calvary lifted up its rocky head.
He heard the crowds discuss a Wonder-Man
The priests had taken, and was on His way
To judgment. “Out on such a King,” cried one,
“Himself He can not save from shameful death.
To-morrow’s sun will see Him lifted up
Above the hill, and throw the Shadow of
A Cross upon you fools who thought Him King.”

And on the faces dark of all around,
Fidus saw Hate he could not understand.
Then up a vision rose of Nazareth
When evening fell; a Boy of beauty rare,
With a strange Shadow on His lovely face,
Standing with arms outstretched in prayer,
The glory of the setting sun upon His head.
But long and grim the shadow of a Cross
Before Him as He stood. Then to his mind
Came swift the stories of the mighty King,
And then the promise: “Thou shalt build His throne.”
Alas! the long and wav’ring years had swept
The dreams of youth away; but still remained
The love, that hungered now to feel the hand
Within his own of Mary’s Son. The day
Rose brightly in the East. At Pilate’s door
He met by chance a captain he had known
In Jaffa, who bade him attentive wait
Within the hall, amongst the soldiers there.
But soon a tumult rose without the doors;
The Wonder-Man was coming to be judged.
Then, as the cries increased, his friend came in.
“Make thou a Cross,” he said, “We have but two
And, if I judge aright, three shall be sent
Beyond the wall this day to Calvary.”

No more of shouting Fidus heard, for he
Alone made ready a great Cross of wood;
And, that his craftsman skill should be confessed,
He made it well, both strong and workmanlike.
“’Tis fit,” he said, “to serve a King,” and smiled
At his grim jest; then went he on his way.

Out in the streets the crowd was surging on
Along the way that leads to Calvary’s hill.
And o’er it Fidus saw his Cross; and then,
Sometimes, a thorn-crowned head with waving hair
Blood-clotted now, and stained a deeper hue;
And Hate seemed in the air vibrating round.
When sudden, like a bell that sweetly rings
Above a storm, and seems a messenger
Of Peace and Love, there woke upon his soul
From out the sleeping past, some prophet words:
“For homage goes with hate, and hate shall be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around the royal throne.”

The surging crowd hid from his eyes the things
He did not care to see, but faint he heard
The hammer strokes, that seemed to drive the nails
Deep in his heart. Then turned he to a man
Who silent stood beside him, and he said:
“A stranger I, from Jaffa, yesternight
I came. This man? What evil hath He done?”
“I know not any wrong that He hath done,”

Came answer fast. “I only know the good
That He had wrought. Behold my eyes that see!
Once they were dark. He passed me by one day
And loud I cried: ‘O Son of David, mercy show
That I may see.’ He touched me and I saw.”
Another silent man near Fidus stood,
To him he spoke, “And friend, what knowest thou?”
“I know that now I live though I was dead;
For I had gone into the ending tomb
All spiced for rest and bound with linen bands;
And He did come, and He did call me forth.
I heard His voice that sounded far away,
As if I stood within a valley deep,
And some one, from the mountain crest,
Kept calling me. Then clearer was the Voice;
As if on wings, I soared aloft to Him,
Who had the Power to bid me come or stay.
Again my heart did beat and vital blood
Surged through my wid’ning veins. I lived again.”

Then Fidus quick recalled a wondrous thing:
He saw the Boy in Joseph’s little shop,
A sick lamb refuged in His tender arms.
He gently stroked the lamb and then the pain
Was gone from out its piteous pleading eyes.
And, lo, the man felt hot tears on his cheeks.

The Cross was raised, and faint the outline stood
’Twixt Fidus and the lurid, murky sky
That threatened from afar a terror dark.
Then swift it came, for all of darkness dread
That air could hold, fell down upon the earth.
The stumbling crowd in panic slunk away;
But Fidus groped through darkness to the Cross.

He heard a moan of sorrow. Well he knew
The voice of Mary, she of Joseph’s house.
His heart stood still; the Vision came again:
That evening fair--the Boy--the distant hills--
The Shadow of the Cross upon the earth
As He stood silent all absorbed in prayer--
The promise that himself should build a throne.
“Aye,” so the Boy had said, “for it shall be
Raised up on high that every man may see,
Not Jews alone, but even ye of Rome;
And men from Britain too, on farthest shore
Of Rome’s great Empire: they shall see and know
The King Who reigns upon that living throne;
And, in the Islands of uncharted seas
The King shall lifted be that all may know;
And worlds still undiscovered shall bow down
To do Him homage, yet shall hate His name.
For homage goes with hate, and hate will be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around His royal throne.”
A lightning flash! The rocks asunder rent,
The tombs burst open and the dead arose.
One moment Fidus saw the Crucified
Ere darkness fell again around the Cross.
But in that moment a new vision rose;
He saw the hill rise high, and higher still,
Till over all the mountains of the world
It towering stood; and nations, worshipping
Gazed on a mighty throne that bore a King!
Blood red the jewels in His crown of thorns,
With ermined pain that wrapped Him all about,
Deep in His hands the orb and sceptre nails,
Quite gone the Shadow of the primal sin
And, on His brow, fulfilled the ancient pledge
Of Earth’s Redemption.

THE CHILD’S WISH GRANTED

BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,
How in the soft June days forever done
You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;
And, when I lifted you, soft came your cry,--
“Put me ’way up,--’way up in blue sky”?

I laughed and said I could not,--set you down
Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown
Of bright hair gladdening me as your raced by,
Another Father now, more strong than I,
Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.

CHARITY

BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

Unarmed she goeth, yet her hands
Strike deeper awe than steel-caparisoned bands,
No fatal hurt of foe she fears,--
Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.

’Gainst her thou canst not bar the door;
Like air she enters; where none dared before.
Even to the rich she can forgive
Their regal selfishness,--and let them live!

A SONG BEFORE GRIEF

BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP

Sorrow, my friend,
When shall you come again?
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send
Their silvery motions wearily down the plain.
The bird is dead
That sang this morning through the summer rain!

Sorrow, my friend,
I owe my soul to you.
And if my life with any glory end
Of tenderness for others, and the words are true,
Said, honoring, when I’m dead,--
Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.

And yet, my friend,
When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend
With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,
“Away!” I shriek, “nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!”

Still, you are near:
Who can your care withstand?
When deep eternity shall look most clear,
Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling land,
My joy shall disappear,--
A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea by your pale hand.

THE CLOCK’S SONG

BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP

Eileen of four,
Eileen of smiles;
Eileen of five,
Eileen of tears;
Eileen of ten, of fifteen years,
Eileen of youth
And woman’s wiles;
Eileen of twenty,
In love’s land,
Eileen all tender
In her bliss,
Untouched by sorrow’s treacherous kiss,
And the sly weapons in life’s hand,--
Eileen aroused to share all fate,
Eileen a wife,
Pale, beautiful,
Eileen most grave and dutiful,
Mourning her dreams in queenly state.
Eileen! Eileen!...

IRELAND

BY EDMUND LEAMY (Senior)

I loved a love--a royal love--
In the golden long ago;
And she was fair as fair could be.
The foam upon the broken sea,
The sheen of sun, or moon, or star,
The sparkle from the diamond spar,
Not half so rare and radiant are
As my own love--my royal love--
In the golden long ago.

And she had stately palace halls--
In the golden long ago;
And warriors, men of stainless swords,
Were seated at her festive boards,
Fierce champions of her lightest words,
While hymned the bard the chieftain’s praise,
And sang their deed of battle days,
To cheer my love, my royal love,
In the golden long ago.

She wore a stately diadem--
In the golden long ago;
Wrought by a cunning craftsman’s hand,
And fashioned from a battle brand,
Full fit for the queen of a soldier land;
Her sceptre was a sabre keen,
Her robe a robe of radiant green,
My queenly love, my royal love,
In the golden long ago.

Alas for my love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago!
For gone are all her warrior bands,
And rusted are her battle brands,
And broken her sabre bright and keen,
And torn her robe of radiant green,
A slave where she was a stainless queen,
My own love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago.

But there is hope for my royal love
Of the golden long ago;
Beyond the broad and shining sea
Gathers a stubborn chivalry,
That yet will come to make her free,
And hedge her round with gleaming spears,
And crown her queen of all the years,
My own love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago.

MUSIC MAGIC

BY EDMUND LEAMY

_Perhaps there is no magic in this dull old world of ours;
Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours;
Perhaps there is no beauty, and perhaps all things are wrong;
But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_

A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Stood in the street of the city, there, in the heat of the noon;
Banging of roses and sunshine, thrilling of lands far away,
Whispering songs of my childhood,--sorrowful, simple and gay;
I was a child for a moment, filled with a child’s petty fears,
Dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming, never a thought of the tears.
Then as the music softened, singing of love and of life,
Brought it back thought of the old days, far from the toil and the
strife,
Glimmer of gold in the star-light, shimmer of silk by the sea;
Words that were whispered, half-spoken, dreams that were never to
be.

Sweet intermingled with sadness, what is as dear as the past?
Is there a day in the future that is as fair as the last?
Music, oh, music the master, there in the heat of the noon,
A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Carried me back in my dreaming, far, to the long, long ago;
Feeling, ’way down in my heart-chords, hope I thought never could
glow;
Brought to me, who was a failure, beaten and crossed in the fight,
Help in the hour of the darkness--pointed the way to the light.

_Perhaps there is no magic in this dull, old world of ours;
Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours;
Perhaps there is no beauty and perhaps all things are wrong;
But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_

GETHSEMANE

BY EDMUND LEAMY

Breathes there a man who claimeth not
One lonely spot,
His own Gethsemane,
Whither with his inmost pain
He fain
Would weary plod,
Find the surcease that is known
In wind a-moan
And sobbing sea,
Cry his sorrow hid of men,
And then--
Touch hands with God.

MY LIPS WOULD SING----

BY EDMUND LEAMY

My lips would sing a song for you, a soulful little song for you,
A plaintive little song for you, upon a summer’s day;
But for the very life of me, the merry, merry life of me,
The laughter-loving life of me, I cannot but be gay.

For oh, the sun is shining, Dear, and who could be repining, Dear,
And who would be unhappy, Dear, when all the world is young?
So I will hum a melody, a mirthful little melody,
A joyous little melody that never yet was sung.

And you shall hear of Fairyland, of Kings and Queens of Fairyland,
Of men and maids of Fairyland, and Love shall be the theme,
And straight before your brimming eyes, a golden glint of Paradise
Shall steal, My Dear, to still your sighs, and give you back your
dream.

And you will taste of happiness, a tiny bit of happiness,
A wistful bit of happiness, upon a summer’s day;
And just a little smile from you, a sunny little smile from you,
A trembly little smile from you shall be a poet’s pay!

MY SHIP

BY EDMUND LEAMY

My ship is an old ship and her sails are grey and torn,
And in the dim and misty night she seems a thing forlorn;
Her battered sides are beetle black, her decks are scarred and old,
And heavy rise the musty scents from out her crumbling hold.

The young ships in the tide-way with a sneering smile sail by,
And fair they flash their white sails against a sun-drenched sky,
And fleet they run before the clouds that usher in a blow,
But could a storm coerce my ship whene’er she wished to go!

My ship is an old ship and her sails are torn and grey,
And she’s not white and beautiful, nor fragile such as they,
But she has sailed o’er every sea to every land a-gleam,
And on her decks make merry now the wraiths of youthful dream!

VISIONS

BY EDMUND LEAMY

_I never watch the sun set a-down the Western skies
But that within its wonderness I see my mother’s eyes;
I never hear the West wind sob softly in the trees
But that there comes her broken call far o’er the distant seas;
And never shine the dim stars but that my heart would go
Away and back to olden lands and dreams of long ago._

A rover of the wide world, when yet my heart was young
The sea came whispering to me in well-beloved tongue,
And oh! the promises she held of golden lands a-gleam
That clung about my boy-heart and filled mine eyes with dream,
And Wanderlust came luring me till ’neath the stars I swore
That I would be a wanderer for ever, ever more.

A-rover of the wide world, I’ve seen the Northern lights
A-flashing countless colours in the knife-cold wintry nights;
I’ve watched the Southern Cross ablaze o’er smiling, sunny lands,
And seen the lazy sea caress palm-sheltered, silvery sands;
Still wild unrest is scouring me, the Wanderlust of yore,
And I must be a wanderer for ever, ever more.

_And yet, I see the sun set a-down the Western skies
And glimpse within the wonderness my mother’s pleading eyes;
And yet I hear the West wind sob softly in the trees,
That vainly cloaks her broken call far o’er the distant seas;
And still when shine the dim stars my wander heart would go
Away and back to her side, and dreams of long ago._

IRELAND, MOTHER OF PRIESTS

BY SHANE LESLIE

The fishwife sits by the side
Of her childing bed,
Her fire is deserted and sad,
Her beads are long said;
Her tears ebb and flow with the sea,
Her grief on the years,
But little she looks to the tide,
And little she hears:
For children in springtime play round
Her sorrowing heart,
To win them their feeding she loves
To hunger apart;
Her children in summer she counts
Awhile for her own;
But winter is ever the same,
The loved ones are flown.
Far over the sea they are gone,
Far out of her ken
They travel the furthest of seas
As fishers of men.
Yet never a word to her sons
To keep them at home,
And never a motherly cry
Goes over the foam;
She sits with her head in her hands,
Her eyes on the flame,
And thinks of the others that played,
Yet left her the same,
With vesture she wove on the loom
Four-coloured to be,
And lanterns she trimmed with her hair
To light them to sea.
Oh, far have the living ones gone,
And further the dead,
For spirits come never to watch
The fisherwife’s bed;
And sonless she sits at the hearth,
And peers in the flame,
She knows that their fishing must come
As ever it came--
A fishing that never set home,
But seaways it led,
For God who has taken her sons
Has buried her dead.

THE HUNTERS

BY RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY

“The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may
devour.”

The Lion, he prowleth far and near.
Nor swerves for pain or rue;
He heedeth nought of sloth nor fear,
He prowleth--prowleth through
The silent glade and the weary street,
In the empty dark and the full noon heat;
And a little Lamb with aching feet--
He prowleth too.

The Lion croucheth alert, apart--
With patience doth he woo;
He waiteth long by this shuttered heart,
And the Lamb--He waiteth too.
Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill,
Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue,
The Lion followeth the fainting will--
And the Lamb--He followeth too.

From the tickets dim of the hidden way
Where the debts of Hell accrue,
The Lion leapeth upon his prey:
But the Lamb--He leapeth too.
Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn,
Mark Devil and God as goals,
In the panting love of a famished Lamb,
Gone mad with the need of souls.

The Lion, he strayeth near and far;
What heights hath he left untrod?
He crawleth nigh to the purest star,
On the trail of the saints of God.
And throughout the darkness of things unclean,
In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood,
There prowleth ever with yearning mien--
A lamb as white as Blood!

IN CHERRY LANE

BY REV. WILLIAM LIVINGSTON

In Cherry Lane the blossoms blow
In wreaths of white around the trees,
And spread their petals wide, as though
They longed for nectar-seeking bees.

O’erhead, the arching boughs that spring
From pillar trunks look down and smile
On lowly currant shrubs that cling
Around their feet along the aisle.

In Cherry Lane the sunbeams steal
Through many a leaf and branch above,
And tender shoots come forth to feel
The touches of a wondrous love.

And life grows warmer with the hours,
Unmoved, unchilled by human pang,
Till from the stems now robed in flowers
The great red drops in clusters hang.

Ah, Mother mine! white blossoms came
And filled my soul with thoughts of thee,
Who art to those that love thy name
What honeyed buds are to the bee.

Thou art the floweret white and fair,
A virgin from thy stainless birth,
The fruitful stem designed to bear
A Saviour to our sinful earth.

And when the cherries, ripe and red,
Come forth upon the breast of June,
They’ll tell me of a heart that bled,
By men forgotten all too soon.

Ah, precious drops! through future days
Preserve my soul from spot or stain,
With tender thoughts of love and praise
That once were mine in Cherry Lane.

SURRENDER

BY S. M. M.

If thou art merely conscious clay--ah, well,
Tire not such stuff with futile, tread-mill climb
Which lifts to leave thee level with the slime;
Nor think that death can break thy earth-born spell;
Clay hath no heel Achillean, vulnerable.
Be animate till some deliberate time
Shall choke and crunch thee to potential grime,
For thou art fit for neither heaven nor hell.

But He Who made thee cousin to the clod
First plunged thee in the Spirit Which is He,
Whence thou hast risen, divinely armed and shod
To scale the ramparts of eternity.
Already stricken with the shafts of God,
Thou fallest prisoner to the Deity.

HYMN FOR PENTECOST

BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN

Pure Spirit of the always-faithful God,
Kindler of Heaven’s true light within the soul!
From the lorn land our sainted fathers trod,
Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole.
Thee, Thee we praise;
To Thee we raise
Our choral hymn in these awakening days:
O send us down anew that fire
Which of old lived in David’s and Isaiah’s lyre.

Centuries had rolled, and earth lay tombed in sleep,
The nightmare-sleep of nations beneath kings;
And far abroad o’er liberty’s great deep
Death’s angel waved his black and stilling wings.
Then struck Thine hour!
Thou, in Thy power,
But breathedst, and the free stood up, a tower;
And tyranny’s thrones and strongholds fell,
And men made jubilee for an abolished hell.

And she, our mother-home, the famed, the fair,
The golden house of light and intellect,
Must she still groan in her intense despair?
Shall she lie prone while Europe stands erect?
Forfend this, Thou
To whom we vow
Souls even our giant wrongs shall never bow:
Thou wilt not leave our green flag furled,
Nor bear that we abide the byword of the world.

Like the last lamp that burned in Tullia’s tomb
Through ages, vainly, with unwaning ray;
Our star of hope lights but a path of gloom
Whose false track leads us round and round alway.
But Thou canst open
A gate from hope
To victory! Thou canst nerve our arms to cope
With looming storm and danger still,
And lend a thunder-voice to the land’s lightning will.

Descend, then, Spirit of the Eternal King!
To Thee, to Him, to His avenging Son,
The Triune of God, in boundless trust we cling;
His help once ours, our nationhood is won.
We watch the time
Till that sublime
Event shall thrill the free of every clime.
Speed, mighty Spirit! speed its march,
And thus complete for earth mankind’s triumphal arch.

DARK ROSALEEN

BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN

O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green,
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My dark Rosaleen!

Over hills and through dales
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed the sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning through my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!

All day long, in unrest,
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal:
Your holy, delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home in your emerald bowers,
From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My dark Rosaleen!

Oh! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,
My dark Rosaleen!

WHAT IS WHITE?

BY THOMAS MACDONAGH

What is white?
The soul of the sage, faith-lit,
The trust of Age,
The infant’s untaught wit.
What more white?
The face of Truth made known,
The Voice of Youth
Singing before her throne.

WISHES FOR MY SON

Born on St. Cecilia’s Day, 1912

BY THOMAS MACDONAGH

Now, my son, is life for you--
And I wish you joy of it,--
Joy of power in all you do,
Deeper passion, better wit
Than I had who had enough,
Quicker life and length thereof,
More of every gift but love.

Love I have beyond all men,
Love that now you share with me--
What have I to wish you then
But that you be good and free,
And that God to you may give
Grace in stronger days to live?

For I wish you more than I
Ever knew of glorious deed,
Though no rapture passed me by
That an eager heart could heed,
Though I followed heights and sought
Things the sequel never brought.

Wild and perilous holy things
Flaming with a martyr’s blood,
And the joy that laughs and sings
Where a foe must be withstood,
Joy of headlong happy chance
Leading on the battle dance.

But I found no enemy,
No man in a world of wrong,
That Christ’s word of Charity
Did not render clean and strong--
Who was I to judge my kind,
Blindest groper of the blind?

God to you may give the sight
And the clear undoubting strength
Wars to knit for single right,
Freedom’s war to knit at length,
And to win, through wrath and strife,
To the sequel of my life.

But for you, so small and young,
Born on Saint Cecilia’s Day,
I in more harmonious song
Now for nearer joys should pray--
Simple joys: the natural growth
Of your childhood and your youth,
Courage, innocence and truth:

These for you, so small and young,
In your hand and heart and tongue.

RESIGNATION

BY SEUMAS MACMANUS

Be still, sad soul, be still,
Bend you to Heaven’s high will.
When the toilsome race is run,
And the summit strove for won--
When secrets are unsealed,
All hidden things revealed,
All mysteries made known,
The good we doubted shown,
Vexed questionings at rest,
I’ll say, “Well, God knew best.”

* * * * *

Me thought you went full soon,
In the rapture of the noon,
In the glory of the sun,
Your noble work begun--
In your grasp the magic wand
That would raise a stricken land--
A while you fain would stay;
But the call brooked no delay:
You sighed, and bowed your head,
And they put you with the dead.

Our God is kind, and He
Will blunt the shaft to me;
Will stay the dripping woe
Ere the chalice overflow;
May let me end the race
With the high sun on my face,
And the hot blood bounding free,
Through the beating veins of me.
At most but some sad hours
And He’ll call me when Night lowers.

Oh, at the Trysting Gate,
With radiant face you’ll wait!
With arms in love outspread
To take a weary head,
And clasp it to your breast
Where always it found rest.
You’ll speak no word for joy,
But, crooning o’er your boy,
Draw him into the Light,
Where nevermore comes Night.

IN DARK HOUR

BY SEUMAS MACMANUS

I Turn my steps where the Lonely Road
Winds far as the eye can see,
And I bend my back for the burden sore
That God has reached down to me.

I have said farewell to the sun-kissed plains,
To joy I gave good-bye;
Now the bleak wide wastes of the world are mine,
And the winds that wail in the sky.

No bright flower blooms, no sweet bird calls,
Nor hermit ever abode,
Not a green thing lifts one lowly leaf,
O God, on the Lonely Road!

The thick dank mists come stealing down,
And press me on every side.
With never a voice to cheer me on,
And never a hand to guide.

I shall cry in my need for a Voice and Hand,
And the solace of love-wet eyes--
And an icy clutch will close on my heart,
When Echo, the mocker, replies.

I know my good soul will fail me not,
When Forms from the Dark round me creep,
And whisper ’twere sweet to journey no more,
But lay down the burden and sleep.

(_Look onward and up, O Heart of my Heart,
Where the road strikes the skies afar!
To cheer you, and guide, thro’ your darkest hour,
Behold yon beckoning Star!_)

I set my face to the grey wild wastes,
I bend my back to the load--
Dear God be kind with the heart-sick child
Who steps on the Lonely Road.

A SONG OF COLOURS

BY THEODORE MAYNARD

Gold for the crown of Mary,
Blue for the sea and sky,
Green for the woods and the meadows
Where small white daisies lie,
And red for the colour of Christ’s blood
When He came to the cross to die.

These things the high God gave us
And left in the world He made--
Gold for the hilt’s enrichment,
And blue for the sword’s good blade,
And red for the roses a youth may set
On the white brows of a maid.

Green for the cool, sweet gardens
Which stretch about the house,
And the delicate new frondage
The winds of spring arouse,
And red for the wine which a man may drink
With his fellows in carouse.

Blue and green for the comfort
Of tired hearts and eyes,
And red for that sudden hour which comes
With danger and great surprise,
And white for the honour of God’s throne
When the dead shall all arise.

Gold for the cope and chalice,
For kingly pomp and pride,
And red for the feathers men wear in their caps
When they win a war or a bride,
And red for the robe which they dressed God in
On the bitter day He died.

THE WORLD’S MISER

BY THEODORE MAYNARD

I

A miser with an eager face
Sees that each roseleaf is in place.

He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars
The piercing beauty of the stars.

The colours of the dying day
He hoards as treasure--well He may!--

And saves with care (lest they be lost)
The dainty diagrams of frost.

He counts the hairs of every head,
And grieves to see a sparrow dead.

II

Among the yellow primroses
He holds His Summer palaces,

And sets the grass about them all
To guard them as His spearmen small.

He fixes on each wayside stone
A mark to show it as His own,

And knows when raindrops fall through air
Whether each single one be there,

That gathered into ponds and brooks.
They may become His picture books,

To show in every spot and place
The living glory of His face.

CECIDIT, CECIDIT BABYLON MAGNA!

BY THEODORE MAYNARD

The aimless business of your feet,
Your swinging wheels and piston rods,
The smoke of every sullen street
Have passed away with all your Gods.

For in a meadow far from these
A hodman treads across the loam,
Bearing his solid sanctities
To that strange altar called his home.