Chapter I: See His Blood Upon the Rose (1)

BY JOSEPH MARY PLUNKETT

I see His blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of His eyes,
His Body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see His face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but His voice--and carven by His power
Rocks are His written words.

All pathways by His feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

THE STARS SANG IN GOD’S GARDEN

BY JOSEPH MARY PLUNKETT

The stars sang in God’s garden;
The stars are the birds of God;
The night-time is God’s harvest,
Its fruits are the words of God.

God ploughed His fields at morning,
God sowed His seed at noon,
God reaped and gathered in His corn
With the rising of the moon.

The sun rose up at midnight,
The sun rose red as blood,
It showed the Reaper, the dead Christ,
Upon His cross of wood.

For many live that one may die,
And one must die that many live--
The stars are silent in the sky
Lest my poor songs be fugitive.

“IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?”

BY MAY PROBYN

We were playing on the green together,
My sweetheart and I--
Oh, so heedless in the gay June weather,
When the word went forth that we must die.
Oh, so merrily the balls of amber
And of ivory tossed we to the sky,
While the word went forth in the King’s chamber,
That we both must die.

Oh, so idly, straying through the pleasaunce,
Plucked we here and there
Fruit and bud, while in the royal presence
The King’s son was casting from his hair
Glory of the wreathen gold that crowned it,
And, ungirding all his garment fair,
Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it,
With his feet made bare,

Down the myrtled stairway of the palace,
Ashes on his head,
Came he, through the rose and citron alleys,
In the rough sark of sackcloth habited,
And in a hempen halter--oh! we jested,
Lightly, and we laughed as he was led
To the torture, while the bloom we breasted
Where the grapes grew red.

Oh, so sweet the birds, when he was dying,
Piped to her and me--
Is no room this glad June day for sighing--
He is dead, and she and I go free!
When the sun shall set on all our pleasure
We will mourn him--What, so you decree
We are heartless?--Nay, but in what measure
Do you more than we?

THE BEES OF MYDDLETON MANOR

17th Century

BY MAY PROBYN

Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my golden-belted bees:
My little son was seven years old--the mint-flower touched his
knees;
Yellow were his curly locks;
Yellow were his stocking-clocks;
His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt;
Where the garden beds lay sunny,
And the bees were making honey,
“For God and the king--to arms! to arms!” the day long would he
lilt.
Smock’d in lace and flowered brocade, my pretty son of seven
Wept sore because the kitten died, and left the charge uneven.
“I head one battalion, mother--
Kitty,” sobbed he, “led the other!
And when we reach’d the bee-hive bench
We used to halt and storm the trench:
If we could plant our standard here,
With all the bees a-buzzing near,
And fly the colors safe from sting,
The town was taken for the king!”
Flirting flitting over the thyme, by bees with yellow band--
My little son of seven came close, and clipp’d me by the hand;
A wreath of mourning cloth was wound
His small left arm and sword-hilt round,
And on the thatch of every hive a whisp of black was bound.
“Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or they will swarm away:
Ye little bees!” he called, “draw nigh, and hark to what I say,
And make us golden honey still for our white wheaten bread,
Though never more
We rush on war
With Kitty at our head:
Who’ll give the toast
When swords are cross’d,
Now Kitty lieth dead?”
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my bees of yellow girth:
My son of seven changed his mood, and clasp’d me in his mirth.
“Sweet mother, when I grow a man and fall on battlefield,”
He cried, and down in the daisied grass upon one knee he kneel’d,
“I charge thee, come and tell the bees how I for the king lie dead;
And thou shalt never lack fine honey for thy wheaten bread!”

* * * * *

Flitting, flitting, flitting, my busy bees, alas!
No footsteps of my soldier son came clinking through the grass.
Thrice he kiss’d me for farewell;
And far on the stone his shadow fell;
He buckled spurs and sword-belt on, as the sun began to stoop,
Set foot in stirrup, and sprang to horse, and rode to join his
troop.
To the west he rode, where the winds were at play,
And Monmouth’s army mustering lay;
Where Bridgewater flew her banner high,
And gave up her keys, when the Duke came by;
And the maids of Taunton paid him court
With colors their own white hands had wrought;
And red as a field, where blood doth run,
Sedgemoor blazed in the setting sun.

Broider’d sash and clasp of gold, my soldier son, alas!
The mint was all in flower, and the clover in the grass:
“With every bed
In bloom,” I said,
“What further lack the bees,
That they buzz so loud,
Like a restless cloud,
Among the orchard trees?”
No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor field,
Moan’d out how Grey and the horse had reel’d;
Met me no ghost, with haunting eyes,
That westward pointed ’mid its sighs,
And pull’d apart a bloody vest,
And show’d the sword-gash in his breast.

Empty hives, and flitting bees, and sunny morning hours;
I snipp’d the blossom’d lavender, and the pinks, and the
gillyflowers;
No petal trembled in my hold--
I saw not the dead stretched stark and cold
On the trampled turf at the shepherd’s door,
In the cloak and the doublet Monmouth wore,
With Monmouth’s scarf and headgear on,
And the eyes, not clos’d, of my soldier son;
I knew not how, ere the cocks did crow, the fight was fought in the
dark,
With naught for guide but the enemy’s guns, when the flint flash’d
out a spark,
Till, routed at first sound of fire, the cavalry broke and fled,
And the hoofs struck dumb, where they spurn’d the slain, and the
meadow stream ran red;
I saw not the handful of horsemen spur through the dusk, and out of
sight,
My soldier son at the Duke’s left hand, and Grey that rode on his
right.
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my honey-making bees,
They left the musk, and the marigolds and the scented faint sweet
peas;
They gather’d in a darkening cloud, and sway’d, and rose to fly;
A blackness on the summer blue, they swept across the sky.
Gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds--(my soldier son, alas!)
Footsore and faint, the messenger came halting through the grass.
The wind went by and shook the leaves--the mint-stalk shed its
flower--
And I miss’d the murmuring round the hives, and my boding heart beat
slower.
His soul we cheer’d with meat and wine;
With woman’s craft and balsam fine
We bathed his hurts, and bound them soft,
While west the wind played through the croft,
And the low sun dyed the pinks blood red,
And, straying near the mint-flower shed,
A wild bee wantoned o’er the bed.

He told how my son, at the shepherd’s door, kept watch in Monmouth’s
clothes,
While Monmouth donned the shepherd’s frock, in hope to cheat his
foes.
A couple of troopers spied him stand,
And bade him yield to the king’s command:
“Surrender, thou rebel as good as dead,
A price is set on thy traitor head!”
My soldier son, with secret smile,
Held both at bay for a little while,
Dealt them such death blow as he fell,
Neither was left the tale to tell;
With dying eyes that asked no grace,
They stared on him for a minute’s space,
And felt that it was not Monmouth’s face.
Crimsoned through was Monmouth’s cloak, when the soldier dropped at
their side--
“Those knaves will carry no word,” he said, and he smiled in his
pain, and died.
“Two days,” told the messenger, “did we lie
Hid in the fields of peas and rye,
Hid in the ditch of brake and sedge,
With the enemy’s scouts down every hedge,
Till Grey was seized, and Monmouth seized, that under the fern did
crouch,
Starved and haggard, and all unshaved, with a few raw peas in his
pouch.”

* * * * *

No music soundeth in my ears, but a passing bell that tolls
For gallant lords with head on block--sweet Heaven receive their
souls!
And a mound, unnamed, in Sedgemoor grass,
That laps my soldier son, alas!
The bloom is shed--
The bees are fled--
Middleton luck it’s done and dead.

A LEGEND

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

I

The Monk was preaching: strong his earnest word,
From the abundance of his heart he spoke,
And the flame spread,--in every soul that heard
Sorrow and love and good resolve awoke:--
The poor lay Brother, ignorant and old,
Thanked God that he had heard such words of gold.

II

“Still let the glory, Lord, be thine alone,”--
So prayed the Monk, his heart absorbed in praise:
“Thine be the glory: if my hands have sown
The harvest ripened in Thy mercy’s rays,
It was Thy blessing, Lord, that made my word
Bring light and love to every soul that heard.”

III

“O Lord, I thank Thee that my feeble strength
Has been so blest; that sinful hearts and cold
Were melted at my pleading,--knew at length
How sweet Thy service and how safe Thy fold:
While souls that loved Thee saw before them rise
Still holier heights of loving sacrifice.”

IV

So prayed the Monk: when suddenly he heard
An Angel speaking thus: “Know, O my Son,
The words had all been vain, but hearts were stirred,
And saints were edified, and sinners won,
By his, the poor lay Brother’s humble aid
Who sat upon the pulpit stair and prayed.”

THE SACRED HEART

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

What wouldst thou have, O soul,
Thou weary soul?
Lo! I have sought for rest
On the Earth’s heaving breast,
From pole to pole.
Sleep--I have been with her,
But she gave dreams;
Death--nay, the rest he gives
Rest only seems.
Fair nature knows it not--
The grass is growing;
The blue air knows it not--
The winds are blowing:
Not in the changing sky,
The stormy sea,
Yet somewhere in God’s wide world
Rest there must be.
Within thy Saviour’s Heart
Place all thy care,
And learn, O weary soul,
Thy Rest is there.

What wouldst thou, trembling soul?
Strength for the strife,--
Strength for this fiery war
That we call Life.
Fears gather thickly round;
Shadowy foes,
Like unto armed men,
Around me close.
What am I, frail and poor,
When griefs arise?
No help from the weak earth,
Or the cold skies.
Lo! I can find no guards,
No weapons borrow;
Shrinking, alone I stand,
With mighty sorrow.
Courage, thou trembling soul,
Grief thou must bear,
Yet thou canst find a strength
Will match despair;
Within thy Saviour’s Heart--
Seek for it there.

What wouldst thou have, sad soul,
Oppressed with grief?--
Comfort: I seek in vain,
Nor find relief.
Nature, all pitiless,
Smiles on my pain;
I ask my fellow-men,
They give disdain.
I asked the babbling streams,
But they flowed on;
I asked the wise and good,
But they gave none.
Though I have asked the stars,
Coldly they shine.
They are too bright to know
Grief such as mine.
I asked for comfort still,
And I found tears,
And I have sought in vain
Long, weary years.
Listen, thou mournful soul,
Thy pain shall cease;
Deep in His sacred Heart
Dwells joy and peace.

Yes, in that Heart divine
The Angels bright
Find, through eternal years,
Still new delight.
From thence his constancy
The martyr drew,
And there the virgin band
Their refuge knew.
There, racked by pain without,
And dread within,
How many souls have found
Heaven’s bliss begin.
Then leave thy vain attempts
To seek for peace;
The world can never give
One soul release;
But in thy Saviour’s Heart
Securely dwell,
No pain can harm thee, hid
In that sweet cell.
Then fly, O coward soul,
Delay no more:
What words can speak the joy
For thee in store?
What smiles of earth can tell
Of peace like thine?
Silence and tears are best
For things divine.

THE ANNUNCIATION

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

How pure, and frail, and white,
The snowdrops shine!
Gather a garland bright
For Mary’s shrine.

For, born of winter snows,
These fragile flowers
Are gifts to our fair Queen
From Spring’s first hours.

For on this blessèd day
She knelt at prayer;
When, lo! before her shone
An Angel fair.

“Hail, Mary!” thus he cried,
With reverent fear:
She, with sweet wondering eyes,
Marvelled to hear.

Be still, ye clouds of Heaven!
Be silent, Earth!
And hear an Angel tell
Of Jesus’ birth,

While she, whom Gabriel hails
As full of grace,
Listens with humble faith
In her sweet face.

Be still,--Pride, War, and Pomp,
Vain Hopes, vain Fears,
For now an Angel speaks,
And Mary hears.

“Hail, Mary!” lo, it rings
Through ages on;
“Hail Mary!” it shall sound,
Till Time is done

“Hail, Mary!” infant lips
Lisp it to-day;
“Hail, Mary!” with faint smile
The dying say.

“Hail, Mary!” many a heart
Broken with grief,
In that angelic prayer
Has found relief.

And many a half-lost soul,
When turned at bay,
With those triumphant words
Has won the day.

“Hail, Mary, Queen of Heaven!”
Let us repeat,
And place our snowdrop wreath
Here at her feet.

OUR DAILY BREAD

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

Give us our daily Bread,
O God, the bread of strength!
For we have learnt to know
How weak we are at length.
As children we are weak,
As children must be fed;--
Give us Thy Grace, O Lord,
To be our daily Bread.

Give us our daily Bread:--
The bitter bread of grief.
We sought earth’s poisoned feasts
For pleasure and relief;
We sought her deadly fruits,
But now, O God, instead,
We ask thy healing grief
To be our daily Bread.

Give us our daily Bread
To cheer our fainting soul;
The feast of comfort, Lord,
And peace, to make us whole:
For we are sick of tears,
The useless tears we shed;--
Now give us comfort, Lord,
To be our daily Bread.

Give us our daily Bread,
The Bread of Angels, Lord,
For us, so many times,
Broken, betrayed, adored:
His Body and His Blood;--
The feast that Jesus spread:
Give Him--our life, our all--
To be our daily Bread!

MY MARYLAND

BY JAMES RYDER RANDALL

The despot’s heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,
Maryland!
My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,--
“_Sic semper!_” ’tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line’s bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come!
Maryland, my Maryland!

MAGDALEN

BY JAMES RYDER RANDALL

The Hebrew girl, with flaming brow,
The banner-blush of shame,
Sinks at the sinless Saviour’s Knees
And dares to breathe His name.
From the full fountain of her eyes
The lava-globes are roll’d--
They wash His feet; she spurns them off
With her ringlet-scarf of gold.

The Meek One feels the eloquence
Of agonizing prayer,
The burning tears, the suppliant face,
The penitential hair;
And when, to crown her brimming woe,
The ointment box is riven--
“Rise, daughter, rise! Much hast thou loved,
Be all thy sins forgiven!”

Dear God! The prayer of good and pure,
The canticles of light,
Enrobe Thy throne with gorgeous skies,
As incense in Thy sight;
May the shivered vase of Magdalen
Soothe many an outcast’s smart,
Teaching what fragrant pleas may spring
From out a _broken heart_!

WHY THE ROBIN’S BREAST WAS RED

BY JAMES RYDER RANDALL

The Saviour, bowed beneath His Cross, climbed up the dreary hill,
And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;
The cruel Roman thrust Him on with unrelenting hand,
Till, staggering slowly ’mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.

A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day,
Flitted around and strove to wrench one single thorn away;
The cruel spike impaled his breast,--and thus ’tis sweetly said,
The robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red.

Ah, Jesu! Jesu! Son of man! my dolor and my sighs
Reveal the lesson taught by this winged Ishmael of the skies.
I, in the palace of delight or cavern of despair,
Have plucked no thorns from Thy dear brow, but planted thousands
there!

LE REPOS IN EGYPTE: THE SPHINX

BY AGNES REPPLIER

All day I watch the stretch of burning sand;
All night I brood beneath the golden stars;
Amid the silence of a desolate land,
No touch of bitterness my reverie mars.
Built by the proudest of a kingly line,
Over my head the centuries fly fast;
The secrets of the mighty dead are mine;
I hold the key of a forgotten past.
Yet, ever hushed into a rapturous dream,
I see again that night. A halo mild
Shone from the liquid moon. Beneath her beam
Traveled a tired young Mother and the Child.
Within mine arms she slumbered, and alone
I watched the Infant. At my feet her guide
Lay stretched o’er-wearied. On my breast of stone
Rested the Crucified.

ANDROMEDA

BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

They chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone;
The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own;
The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone.
Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her,
Ye left her there alone!
My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain;
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main:
But, lo! a light is breaking of hope for thee again;
’T is Perseus’s sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming
Across the western main.
O Ireland! O my country! he comes to break thy chain!

NATURE THE FALSE GODDESS

BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

The vilest work of vilest man,
The cup that drugs, the sword that slays,
The purchased kiss of courtesan,
The lying tongue of blame of praise,

The cobra’s fang, the tiger’s tongue,
The python’s murderous embrace--
The wrath of any living thing
A man may fear but bravely face.

But thou, cold Mother, knowest naught
Of love, of hate, or joy, or woe;
Thy bounties come to man unsought,
Thy curses fall on friend and foe.

Thou bearest balm upon thy breath,
Or sowest poison in the air;
And if man reapeth life or death,
Thou dost not know, thou dost not care.

Thou art God’s instrument of fate,
Obedient, mighty, soulless, blind,
No demon to propitiate,
No deity in love enshrined.

Let him who turns from God away
To Bel or Moloch bend the knee;
Defile his soul to wood or clay,
Or thrill with Voodoo’s ecstasy.

Seek any fetich undivine,
Be any superstition’s thrall,
From Heaven or Hell will come a sign;
But thou alone art deaf to all.

THREE DOVES

BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free;
At eve they circled back to me.
The first was Faith; the second, Hope;
The third, the whitest, Charity.

Above the plunging surges play
Dream-like they hovered, day by day.
At last they turned, and bore to me
Green signs of peace thro’ nightfall gray,

No shore forlorn, no loveliest land
Their gentle eye had left unscanned,
’Mid hues of twilight-heliotrope
Or daybreak fires by heaven-breath fanned

Quick visions of celestial grace,--
Hither they waft, from earth’s broad space,
Kind thoughts for all humanity,
They shine with radiance from God’s face.

Ah, since my heart they choose for home,
Why loose them,--forth again to roam?
Yet look; they rise with loftier scope
They wheel in flight toward Heaven’s pure dome.

Fly, messengers that find no rest
Save in such toil as makes man blest!
Your home is God’s immensity;
We hold you but at His behest.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

The hands of the King are soft and fair
They never knew labor’s strain
The hands of the Robber redly wear
The bloody brand of Cain.
But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred
With the scars of toil and pain.

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands
As white as a kings might be.
Barrabas with wrists unfettered stands
For the world has made him free.
But Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,
O Christ, on Calvary.

AVE MARIA

BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY

Lady, thy soldier I would be,
This day I choose thy shield,
And go, thrice-armored for the fight,
Forth to the world’s wide field.

There I shall meet the dark allies,
The Flesh, the Fiend, the World,
And fiercely shall their darts of fire
Upon my heart be hurled.

But I will raise my buckler strong
Betwixt me and the foe,
And, with the spirit’s flaming sword,
Shall give them blow for blow.

Lady, thy sailor I would be,
This day I sign my name
To sail the high seas of the earth
For glory of thy fame.

The tempest may besiege my bark,
The pirate lie in wait:
The perils of the monstrous deep
May tempt o’erwhelming fate:

Yet, wheresoe’er my ship may steer
Upon the waters wide,
Thy name shall be my compass sure,
Thy star my midnight guide.

Thy poet, Lady, I would be
To sing thy peerless praise;
Thy loyal bard, I’d bring to thee
Heart-music from all lays.

Soft melody, outpoured in June
By God’s dear feathered throng,
Would mingle with the organ’s roll
To glorify my song;

And Dante’s voice and Petrarch’s strain
And Milton’s matchless line
Would lend to my poor minstrel note
A harmony divine.

Lady, I choose to be thy son;
For Mother thee I choose;
O, for thy sweet and holy Child,
Do not my claim refuse!

Alone and motherless am I:
Tho’ strong, I long for rest--
The thunder of the world’s applause
Is not a mother’s breast.

Ave Maria! Shield us all.
Thy sons we choose to be.
Mother of grace, we raise our hearts,
Our hearts, our love to thee!

REVELATION

“_And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away_.”--Revelation XXI:1

BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY

The Lord God said to His angel: “Let the old things pass away.
They have heaped the earth with slaughter their sin obscures the
day.
Roll up the night on a curtain: let the stars fade one by one:
Out of the face of the heavens my anger shall blot the sun.
For the man I made and breathed on, filled with my breath of breath,
Hath sown the seas with hatred, his skies are dark with death.
The babe is slain at the bosom, the babe who beholds my face;
A welter of woe he leaves it,--the dream of my love and grace.

“Love was the dower I gave him, love the light of his days,
Love the core of his being, love, and the upward gaze.
Hate is the meat he feeds on, hate is his daily bread:
His drink is the blood of his brother, whom Cain hath stricken dead.
I said to the man in the Garden: ‘Where is thy brother, Cain?’
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ now comes the answer again.”
The Lord God said to His angel: “This Thing is accursed and a lie:
It hath sinned from the Law I gave it, and surely it shall die.”

“The Beasts of the field are patient, the birds rejoice in song,--
But what is this Thing of blood-lust, and where does it belong?
Lo, I shall establish a judgment: Let the old things pass away:
They have heaped the fields with slaughter: their sin defiles the
day.
They have laid on the weak sore burdens, on the just, their whips
and ban:
For a handful of crimsoned silver they have kissed the Son of Man.
Roll back the scroll of the heavens; from out of the womb of birth
Come forth new heavens untainted; come forth, renewed, the Earth!”

MARQUETTE ON THE SHORES OF THE MISSISSIPPI

On seeing the original manuscript map of the Mississippi River by its discoverer, Father Marquette

BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY

Here, in the midnight of the solemn wood,
He heard a roar as of a mighty wind,--
The onward rush of waters unconfined
Trampling in legions thro’ the solitude.
Then lo! before him swept the conquering flood,
Free as the freedom of the truth-strong mind
Which hills of Doubt could neither hide nor bind,
Which, all in vain, the valley mounds withstood!

With glowing eye he saw the prancing tide
With yellow mane rush onward thro’ the night
Into the vastness he had never trod:
Nor dreamt of conquest of that kingdom wide
As down the flood his spirit took its flight
Seeking the long-lost children of his God!

THE EMPIRE BUILDER

(On the death of a Catholic gentleman)

BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY

I

This is the song of the Empire Builder,
Who out of the ends of the earth,
Thro’ travail of war and of carnage
Brings strange, new realms to birth.

This is the boast of the Empire Builder:
Give heed to the deeds of his hands
And scorn thou not the glory he hath
In his gold and his wasted lands.

He hath counted his neighbors’ cattle
With the cold, gray eye of greed:
He hath marked for his own the fields of wheat
Where he never had sown the seed:

The vine-clad cot by the hillside,
Where the farmer’s children play,--
“This shall fit in my plan,” he said;
“What use for such as they?”

And so, in the dusk of evening,
He brought his arméd men,
And where had shone the clustering grapes
There stretched a waste again.

Homeless, the children wandered
Thro’ the fields their father won:
No more shall they feel his clasp and kiss--
Aye, never beneath the sun.

Vex, vex not the Empire Builder,
Nor babble of Mercy’s shield;
Hath he not his vaster issue--
The linking of field to field?

Hath he not noted the boundary
That lies ’twixt “mine and thine”?
Hath he not said, “’Twere better for thee
If thine henceforth be mine”?

And so doth the Empire Builder,
From out of the ends of the earth,
Thro’ travail of war and of carnage
Bring strange, new realms to birth--

Realms builded on broken hearthstones,
The triumph of Rapine’s hour--
That one may boast in the halls of Fame
And sit in the seats of Power!

II

This is the song of the Empire Builder,
Who built not of wasted lands,
But who builded a kingdom of golden deeds
And of things not made by hands!

The fields of the spirit were his to roam,
The paths where the love-flowers grew:
He felt the breath of the spirits’ spring
In every wind that blew:

It came not laden with dying groans
And homeless orphans’ cries:
It blew from the mountains of the Lord
And the fields of Paradise.

This is the boast of the Empire Builder
Who built not of mouldering clay:
That the kingdom He built, not made by hands,
Shall never pass away!

The mind cannot measure its boundaries,
All Space is its outer gate:
It is broader than ever a man conceived
And more durable than Fate.

This is the Empire our brother built,
In His little hour of Earth,
Thro’ the spirit’s travail of righteous deeds
And the spirit’s glad rebirth.

He had silenced the boast of the Empire Builder,
With his gold and wasted lands,
By his deathless kingdom of golden deeds
And of things not made by hands.

This is the kingdom our brother built:
It is good: it hath sufficed;--
For who can measure the glory he keeps
With our Elder Brother, Christ?

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore’s debt when the deeds of might are
told!
They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck when the great
shells roar and screech--
And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they
preach:
But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia’s true-blue
sons,
The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once
more,
When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start
for their leave-o’-shore;
And you’d think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along
the street
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce “mustache” to
eat--
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is
on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of
“Yank” and “Don,”
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,
You’ll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the
guns!

Oh, well they know the cyclones blow that they loose from their
cloud of death,
And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher
saith!
The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the
great recoil,
And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his
spoil--
But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs
Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the
guns!

A THOUGHT FROM CARDINAL NEWMAN[A]

BY MATTHEW RUSSELL, S. J.

The world shines bright for inexperienced eyes,
And death seems distant to the gay and strong,
And in the youthful heart proud fancies throng,
And only present good can nature prize.
How then shall youth o’er these low vapours rise,
And climb the upward path so steep and long?
And how, amid earth’s sights and sounds of wrong,
Walk with pure heart and face raised to the skies?

By gazing on the Infinitely Good,
Whose love must quell, or hallow every other--
By living in the shadow of the Rood,
For He that hangs there is our Elder Brother,
Who dying gave to us Himself as food,
And His own Mother as our nursing Mother.

[A] In the last of his “Discourses to Mixed Congregations,” Dr. Newman calls the Blessed Virgin the Mother of Emanuel, and says: “It is the boast of the Catholic religion that it has the gift of making the young heart chaste; and why is this, but that it gives us Jesus for our food and Mary for our nursing Mother?”

THE CONQUERED BANNER

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

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 a sword to save 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,
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 theirs entwined dissever
Till that flag should float forever
O’er their freedom or 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, they adore it,--
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And oh, wildly they deplore it.
Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory,
Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory,
And ’twill live in song and story
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down 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 forever,--
For its people’s hopes are fled!

A CHILD’S WISH

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

I wish I were the little key
That locks Love’s Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,
When every gleam lights holy prayer
Upon its way above.

I wish I were the little flower
So near the Host’s sweet face,
Or like the light that half an hour
Burns on the shrine of grace.

I wish I were the altar where,
As on His mother’s breast,
Christ nestles, like a child, fore’er
In Eucharistic rest.

But, oh, my God, I wish the most
That my poor heart may be
A home all holy for each Host
That comes in love to me.

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o’er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon bright,
Led us to Victory.

Out of its scabbard, where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle’s song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.

Forth from its scabbard, high in air
Beneath Virginia’s sky--
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow--and to die.

Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.

Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
’Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.

SONG OF THE MYSTIC

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

I walk down the Valley of Silence--
Down the dim voiceless Valley--alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God’s and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose magic my heart 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 through the world with the worldly;
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 wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”

And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the false with the true;
I sought ’mid the human for heaven,
And caught a mere glimpse of its blue;
And I wept when the clouds of the mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human;
And I moaned ’mid the mazes 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 above me a voice said: “Be mine!”
And there rose from the depths of my spirit
An echo--“My heart shall be thine.”

Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep--and I dream--and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayers, like a perfume from censers,
Ascendeth to God, night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence,
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to men, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A 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!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the Valley, like virgins
Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye 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,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

MARY, VIRGIN AND MOTHER

BY E. SETON

Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou,
In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng
On souls elect doth follow God with song:
Creation’s Queen, whose bright and holy brow
The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow
With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong:
The Maid unshadow’d by the primal wrong:
God’s Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow.

All these thy glories are, and still a grace
More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair,
Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest.
God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face
The tender likeness of thine own doth wear.
And thou art ours--we trust Him for the rest.

THE WIND ON THE HILLS

BY DORA SIGERSON

Go not to the hills of Erin
When the night winds are about;
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep the danger out.

For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull by the hand,
And they push you by the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.

And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years;

A year there is a lifetime,
And a second but a day;
And an older world will greet you
Each morn you come away.

Your wife grows old with weeping,
And your children one by one
Grow grey with nights of watching,
Before your dance is done.

And it will chance some morning
You will come home no more;
Your wife sees but a withered leaf
In the wind about the door.

And your children will inherit
The unrest of the wind;
They shall seek some face elusive,
And some land they never find.

When the wind is loud, they sighing
Go with hearts unsatisfied,
For some joy beyond remembrance,
For some memory denied.

And all your children’s children,
They cannot sleep or rest,
When the wind is out in Erin
And the sun is in the West.

BELIEVE AND TAKE HEART

BY JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING

What can console for a dead world?
We tread on dust which once was life;
To nothingness all things are hurled:
What meaning in a hopeless strife?
Time’s awful storm
Breaks but the form.

Whatever comes, whatever goes,
Still throbs the heart whereby we live;
The primal joys still lighten woes,
And time which steals doth also give.
Fear not, be brave:
God can thee save.

The essential truth of life remains,
Its goodness and its beauty too,
Pure love’s unutterable gains,
And hope which trills us through and through:
God has not fled,
Souls are not dead.

Not in most ancient Palestine,
Nor in the lightsome air of Greece,
Were human struggles more divine,
More blessed with guerdon of increase:
Take thou thy stand
In the workers’ band.

Hast then no faith? Thine is the fault:--
What prophets, heroes, sages, saints,
Have loved, on thee still makes assault,
Thee with immortal things acquaints.
On life then seize:
Doubt is disease.

AVE MARIA BELLS

BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

At dawn, the joyful choir of bells,
In consecrated citadels,
Flings on the sweet and drowsy air
A brief, melodious call to prayer;
For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly,
Conceived of the Spirit Holy,
As the Lord’s angel did declare.

At noon, above the fretful street,
Our souls are lifted to repeat
The prayer, with low and wistful voice:
“According to thy word and choice,
Though sorrowful and heavy laden,
So be it done to thy Handmaiden”;
Then all the sacred bells rejoice.

At eve with roses in the west,
The daylight’s withering bequest,
Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright
The stars, the lilies of the night:
Of all the songs the years have sung us,
“The Word made Flesh had dwelt among us,”
Is still our ever-new delight.

STIGMATA

BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

In the wrath of the lips that assail us,
In the scorn of the lips that are dumb,
The symbols of sorrow avail us,
The joy of the people is come.
They parted Thy garments for barter,
They follow Thy steps with complaint;
Let them know that the pyre of the martyr
But purges the blood of the saint!

They have crucified Thee for a token,
For a token Thy flesh crucified
Shall bleed in a heart that is broken
For love of the wound in Thy side;
In pity for palms that were pleading,
For feet that were grievously used,
There is blood on the brow that is bleeding
And torn, as Thy brow that was bruised!

By Thee have we life, breath, and being;
Thou hast knowledge of us and our kind;
Thou hast pleasure of eyes that are seeing,
And sorrow of eyes that are blind;
By the seal of the mystery shown us--
The wound that with Thy wounds accord--
O Lord, have mercy upon us!
Have mercy upon us, O Lord!

THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL

BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

(The Mission of San Gabriel Archangel, near Los Angeles, founded in 1771, was, for a time, the most flourishing mission in California)

Thine was the corn and the wine,
The blood of the grape that nourished;
The blossom and fruit of the vine
That was heralded far away.
When the wine and fig-tree flourished,
The promise of peace and of glad increase
Forever and ever and aye.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me, O, I pray!

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Oil of the olive was thine;
Flood of the wine-press flowing,
Blood of the Christ was the wine--
Blood of the Lamb that was slain.
Thy gifts were fat of the kine
Forever coming and going
Far over the hills, the thousand hills--
Their lowing a soft refrain.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me once again!

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Seed of the corn was thine--
Body of Him thus broken
And mingled with blood of the vine--
The bread and the wine of life.
Out of the good sunshine
They were given to thee as a token--
The body of Him, and the blood of Him,
When the gifts of God were rife.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
After the weary strife?

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel the Archangel.

Where are they now, O bells?
Where are the fruits of the Mission?
Garnered, where no one dwells,
Shepherd and flock are fled.
O’er the Lord’s vineyard swells
The tide that with fell perdition
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb
And buried them with the dead.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
The answer is still unsaid.

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

Where are they now, O tower!
The locusts and wild honey?
Where is the sacred dower
That the bride of Christ was given?
Gone to the wielders of power,
The misers and minters of money;
Gone for the greed that is their creed--
And these in the land have thriven.
What then wert thou, and what art now,
And wherefore hast thou striven?

And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.

THE POOR

BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.

The poor I saw at the cloister gate
Mutely beg with their patient eyes
An alms, for the love of Him who sate
And supped with the poor in human guise.

And there were monks saw the nails’ deep scars
In the shrunken hands that reached for bread,
Who heard a Voice from beyond the stars
In the broken thanks of them they fed.

I, too, at the gates of God each day
Seek for an alms of strength and grace,
Beggar am I that wait and pray
To feast my soul on His beauteous Face.

THE PROMISED COUNTRY

BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.

Fair must that promised country be
Whose streams rise from eternity
And One doth lead upon that way
Whose footfalls are the paths of day.

Nor lurking fear pursues them there,
As forward in the morning air
With Him the blessed ransomed go,
Their garments washen white as snow.

Alas! my days are very dim
That look up to the Seraphim.
Ah, Lord, some dawning may I be
One of that shining company!

HOLY COMMUNION

BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.

Disguised He stands without in the street;
Far come is He on heavy feet.
O heart of mine, open thy gate;
For darkness falls, and it is late!

Lord of the heaven’s fairest height,
Homeless in the traveler’s night,
Begging my hearth, my board, my cup,
That I, not He, may richly sup.

O soul of mine, the board begin,
And let this wondrous Beggar in!

STARS OF CHEER

BY CAROLINE D. SWAN

The silent Christmas stars shine cool and clear
Above a world of mingled joy and woe;
On peaceful cottage homes, with thanks aglow
For royal bounty of the grape-crowned year;
And on red fields of blood, where many a tear
Is wiped away by Death, a gentle foe,
More merciful than they who bade it flow.
Shine, silver stars, rain down your blessed cheer!

Comfort the mourner with your Angel song!
The Christ-Child reigns. Behold His tiny hand
Upraised in benediction warm and sweet!
O’er every joy and every bitter wrong
The Babe of Bethlehem hath supreme command;
Come, worship, kings and peoples, at His feet!

CHRIST AND THE PAGAN

BY JOHN B. TABB

I had no God but these,
The sacerdotal Trees,
And they uplifted me.
“_I hung upon a tree._”

The sun and moon I saw,
And reverential awe
Subdued me day and night.
“_I am the perfect light._”

Within a lifeless Stone--
All other gods unknown--
I sought Divinity.
“_The Corner-Stone am I._”

For sacrificial feast
I slaughtered man and beast,
Red recompense to gain.
“_So I, a Lamb, was slain._

_Yea; such My hungering Grace
That where ev’r My face
Is hidden, none may grope
Beyond eternal Hope._”

OUT OF BOUNDS

BY JOHN B. TABB

A little Boy of heavenly birth,
But far from home to-day,
Comes down to find His ball, the Earth,
That Sin has cast away.
O comrades, let us one and all
Join in to get Him back His ball!

FATHER DAMIEN

BY JOHN B. TABB

O God, the cleanest offering
Of tainted earth below,
Unblushing to Thy feet we bring--
“_A leper white as snow_!”

RECOGNITION

BY JOHN B. TABB

When Christ went up to Calvary,
His crown upon His head,
Each tree unto its fellow-tree
In awful silence said:
“Behold the Gardener is He
Of Eden and Gethsemane!”

“IS THY SERVANT A DOG?”

BY JOHN B. TABB

So _must_ he be, who in the crowded street,
Where shameless Sin and flaunting Pleasure meet,
Amid the noisome footprints finds the sweet
Faint vestige of Thy feet.

LILIUM REGIS

BY FRANCIS THOMPSON

O Lily of the King, low lies thy silver wing,
And long has been the hour of thine unqueening;
And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spends its sighs,
Nor any take the secrets of its meaning.
O Lily of the King, I speak a heavy thing,
O patience, most sorrowful of daughters!
Lo, the hour is at hand for the troubling of the land,
And red shall be the breaking of the waters.

Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk,
With the mercies of the King for thine awning,
And the Just understand that thine hour is at hand,
Thine hour at hand with power in the dawning.
When the nations lie in blood, and their kings a broken brood,
Look up, O most sorrowful of daughters!
Lift up thy head and hark what sounds are in the dark,
For His feet are coming to thee on the waters.

O Lily of the King, I shall not see that sing,
I shall not see the hour of thy queening!
But my Song shall see, and wake like a flower that dawn-winds shake,
And sigh with joy the odours of its meaning.
O Lily of the King, remember then the thing
That this dead mouth sang; and thy daughters,
As they dance before His way; sing there on the Day
What I sang when night was on the waters!

TO THE ENGLISH MARTYRS

BY FRANCIS THOMPSON

Rain, rain on Tyburn tree,
Red rain a-falling;
Dew, dew on Tyburn tree,
Red dew on Tyburn tree,
And the swart bird a-calling.
The shadow lies on England now
Of the deathly-fruited bough:
Cold and black with malison
Lies between the land and sun;
Putting out the sun, the bough
Shades England now!