Chapter IV: Part 4

Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave -- The strength a great soul wore -- And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?

And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar! I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore!

* * * * *

"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place -- The shadows of the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The marble floor memorials of their tears."

And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad.

When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild, Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!

But he would pass His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, And then the olden gentleness, like light Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, Would tremble on his face, and he would look More gentle then than ever, and his tone Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.

I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved And darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, And all the smiles arose as from the dead, And wore the glory of an Easter morn; And passed beneath the sceptre of a hope Which came from some far region of his heart, Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. I marveled much; he answered to my look With all his own, and wafted me these words:

"There are transitions in the lives of all. There are transcendent moments when we stand In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, And weak with very strength of human love We fain would build our tabernacles there; And, Peter-like, for very human joy We cry aloud: `'Tis good that we are here;' Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, Which glorifies a shadow and is gone.

"And then we stand upon another mount -- Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there For awful hours, to make us there His own In Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. We wish to cling to Thabor; He says: `No.' And what He says is best because most true. We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: `No.' And it is true because it is the best. And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same.

"They lie apart, distinct and separate, And yet -- strange mystery! -- they are the same. For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, And Thabor is a Calvary in the light. It is the mystery of Holy Christ! It is the mystery of you and me! Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, And, like the shadows of a dial, we Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours The sun tells brightly in the sinless skies. Dost understand?" I did not understand -- Or only half; his face was very sad. "Dost thou not understand me? Then your life Is shallow as a brook that brawls along Between two narrow shores; you never wept -- You never wore great clouds upon your brow As mountains wear them; and you never wore Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies Oft wear them; and your lips -- they never sighed Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul; You never reached your arms a-broad -- a-high -- To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. Life, only life, can understand a life; Depth, only depth, can understand the deep. The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face Can never learn the story of the sea."

* * * * *

One day we strolled together to the sea. Gray evening and the night had almost met, We walked between them, silent, to the shore. The feet of weird faced waves ran up the beach Like children in mad play, then back again As if the spirit of the land pursued; Then up again -- and farther -- and they flung White, foamy arms around each other's neck; Then back again with sudden rush and shout, As if the sea, their mother, called them home; Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed Away, and farther up the beach, and fell For utter weariness; and loudly sobbed For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. But all in vain, for other waves swept on And trampled them; the sea cried out in grief, The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands. It was the flood-tide and the even-tide -- Between the evening and the night we walked -- We walked between the billows and the beach, We walked between the future and the past, Down to the sea we twain had strolled -- to part.

The shore was low, with just the faintest rise Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells, Until about a stone's far throw they met A fringe of faded grass, with here and there A pale-green shrub; and farther into land -- Another stone's throw farther -- there were trees -- Tall, dark, wild trees, with intertwining arms, Each almost touching each, as if they feared To stand alone and look upon the sea. The night was in the trees -- the evening on the shore. We walked between the evening and the night -- Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. There lies between man's silence and his speech A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass Are never silent, tho' they may not speak; And yet they more than breathe. It is the vale Of wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard. It is the vale of the unutterable. We walked between our silence and our speech, And sighed between the sunset and the stars, One hour beside the sea.

There was a cloud Far o'er the reach of waters, hanging low 'Tween sea and sky -- the banner of the storm, Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays That fled far down the West had rested there And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. Its inner folds were dark -- its central, more. It did not flutter; there it hung, as calm As banner in a temple o'er a shrine. Its shadow only fell upon the sea, Above the shore the heavens bended blue. We walked between the cloudless and the cloud, That hour, beside the sea.

But, quick as thought, There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light -- Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, Its scabbard in the darkness -- and it tore The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, Then quivered far away, and bent and broke In flashing fragments;

And there came a peal That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach; Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung Clouds darker gathered -- and they proudly waved Like flags before a battle.

We twain walked -- We walked between the lightning's parted gleams, We walked between the thunders of the skies, We walked between the wavings of the clouds, We walked between the tremblings of the sea, We walked between the stillnesses and roars Of frightened billows; and we walked between The coming tempest and the dying calm -- Between the tranquil and the terrible -- That hour beside the sea.

There was a rock Far up the winding beach that jutted in The sea, and broke the heart of every wave That struck its breast; not steep enough nor high To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock; Yet not so low as that its brow was laved By highest tide, yet not sufficient high To rise beyond the reach of silver spray That rained up from the waves -- their tears that fell Upon its face, when they died at its feet. Around its sides damp seaweed hung in long, Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. A tuft or two of grass did green the rock, A patch or so of moss; the rest was bare.

Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; But when we reached the rock the eve and night Had met; light died; we sat down in the dark Upon the rock.

Meantime a thousand clouds Careered and clashed in air -- a thousand waves Whirled wildly on in wrath -- a thousand winds Howled hoarsely on the main, and down the skies Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath; And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, And all the horror shrank in horror back Before the maddest peals that ever leaped Out from the thunder's throat.

Within the dark We silent sat. No rain fell on the rock, Nor in on land, nor shore; only on sea The upper and the lower waters met In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts Far parted -- parted long -- which meet to break, Which rush into each other's arms and break In terror and in tempests wild of tears. No rain fell on the rock; but flakes of foam Swept cold against our faces, where we sat Between the hush and howling of the winds, Between the swells and sinking of the waves, Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, Between the rushings of the maddened rains, Between the dark beneath and dark above.

We sat within the dread heart of the night: One, pale with terror; one, as calm and still And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock.

* * * * *

Lake Como

Winter on the mountains Summer on the shore, The robes of sun-gleams woven, The lake's blue wavelets wore.

Cold, white, against the heavens, Flashed winter's crown of snow, And the blossoms of the spring-tide Waved brightly far below.

The mountain's head was dreary, The cold and cloud were there, But the mountain's feet were sandaled With flowers of beauty rare.

And winding thro' the mountains The lake's calm wavelets rolled, And a cloudless sun was gilding Their ripples with its gold.

Adown the lake we glided Thro' all the sunlit day; The cold snows gleamed above us, But fair flowers fringed our way

The snows crept down the mountain, The flowers crept up the slope, Till they seemed to meet and mingle, Like human fear and hope.

But the same rich, golden sunlight Fell on the flowers and snow, Like the smile of God that flashes On hearts in joy or woe.

And on the lake's low margin The trees wore stoles of green, While here and there, amid them, A convent cross was seen.

Anon a ruined castle, Moss-mantled, loomed in view, And cast its solemn shadow Across the water's blue.

And chapel, cot, and villa, Met here and there our gaze, And many a crumbling tower That told of other days.

And scattered o'er the waters The fishing boats lay still, And sound of song so softly Came echoed from the hill.

At times the mountain's shadow Fell dark across the scene, And veiled with veil of purple The wavelets' silver sheen.

But for a moment only The lake would wind, and lo! The waves would near the glory Of the sunlight's brightest glow.

At times there fell a silence Unbroken by a tone, As if no sound of voices Had ever there been known.

Through strange and lonely places We glided thus for hours; We saw no other faces But the faces of the flowers.

The shores were sad and lonely As hearts without a love, While darker and more dreary The mountains rose above.

But sudden round a headland The lake would sweep again, And voices from a village Would meet us with their strain.

Thus all the day we glided, Until the Vesper bell Gave to the day, at sunset, Its sweet and soft farewell.

Then back again we glided Upon our homeward way, When twilight wrapped the waters And the mountains with its gray.

But brief the reign of twilight, The night came quickly on; The dark brow o'er the mountains, Star-wreathed, brightly shone.

And down thro' all the shadows The star-gleams softly crept, And kissed, with lips all shining, The wavelets ere they slept.

The lake lay in a slumber, The shadows for its screen, While silence waved her sceptre Above the sleeping scene.

The spirit of the darkness Moved, ghost-like, everywhere; Wherever starlight glimmered, Its shadow, sure, fell there.

The lone place grew more lonely, And all along our way The mysteries of the night-time Held undisputed sway.

Thro' silence and thro' darkness We glided down the tide That wound around the mountains That rose on either side.

No eyes would close in slumber Within our little bark; What charmed us so in daylight So awed us in the dark.

Upon the deck we lingered, A whisper scarce was heard; When hearts are stirred profoundest, Lips are without a word.

"Let's say the Chaplet," softly A voice beside me spake. "Christ walked once in the darkness Across an Eastern lake,

"And to-night we know the secret That will charm Him to our side: If we call upon His Mother, He will meet us on the tide."

So we said the beads together, Up and down the little bark; And I believe that Jesus met us, With His Mother, in the dark.

And our prayers were scarcely ended When, on mountain-top afar, We beheld the morning meeting With the night's last fading star.

And I left the lake; but never Shall the years to come efface From my heart the dream and vision Of that strange and lonely place.

____ February 1, 1873.

"Peace! Be Still"

Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light, And when they close wild waves rush on His bark, And toss it through the dead hours of the night.

So He slept once upon an eastern lake, In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will; A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake, He softly whispered, and the sea grew still.

It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark; A storm is sweeping all across the deep, While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark.

The sky is darkened, and the shore is far, The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour: Upon the howling deep there shines no star -- Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power?

Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath; Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm The ship of faith upon its homeward path.

The Master sleeps -- His pilot guards the bark; He soon will wake, and at His mighty will The light will shine where all before was dark -- The wild waves still remember: "Peace! be still."

____ Rome, 1873.

Good Friday

O Heart of Three-in-the evening, You nestled the thorn-crowned head; He leaned on you in His sorrow, And rested on you when dead.

Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening He gave you His richest dower; He met you afar on Calvary, And made you "His own last hour".

O Brow of Three-in-the evening, Thou wearest a crimson crown; Thou art Priest of the hours forever, And thy voice, as thou goest down

The cycles of time, still murmurs The story of love each day: "I held in death the Eternal, In the long and the far-away."

O Heart of Three-in-the evening, Mine beats with thine to-day; Thou tellest the olden story, I kneel -- and I weep and pray.

____ Boulogne, sur mer.

My Beads

Sweet, blessed beads! I would not part With one of you for richest gem That gleams in kingly diadem; Ye know the history of my heart.

For I have told you every grief In all the days of twenty years, And I have moistened you with tears, And in your decades found relief.

Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed And joys have died; but in my needs Ye were my friends, my blessed beads! And ye consoled me when I wailed.

For many and many a time, in grief, My weary fingers wandered round Thy circled chain, and always found In some Hail Mary sweet relief.

How many a story you might tell Of inner life, to all unknown; I trusted you and you alone, But ah! ye keep my secrets well.

Ye are the only chain I wear -- A sign that I am but the slave, In life, in death, beyond the grave, Of Jesus and His Mother fair.

At Night

Dreary! weary!
Weary! dreary!
Sighs my soul this lonely night.
Farewell gladness!
Welcome sadness!
Vanished are my visions bright.

Stars are shining!
Winds are pining!
In the sky and o'er the sea;
Shine forever
Stars! but never
Can the starlight gladden me.

Stars! you nightly
Sparkle brightly,
Scattered o'er your azure dome;
While earth's turning,
There you're burning,
Beacons of a better home.

Stars! you brighten
And you lighten
Many a heart-grief here below;
But your gleaming
And your beaming
Cannot chase away my woe.

Stars! you're shining,
I am pining --
I am dark, but you are bright;
Hanging o'er me
And before me
Is a night you cannot light.

Night of sorrow,
Whose to-morrow
I may never, never see,
Till upon me
And around me
Dawns a bright eternity.

Winds! you're sighing,
And you're crying,
Like a mourner o'er a tomb;
Whither go ye,
Whither blow ye,
Wailing through the midnight gloom?

Chanting lowly,
Softly, lowly,
Like the voice of one in woe;
Winds so lonely,
Why thus moan ye?
Say, what makes you sorrow so?

Are you grieving
For your leaving
Scenes where all is fair and gay?
For the flowers
In their bowers,
You have met with on your way?

For fond faces,
For dear places,
That you've seen as on you swept?
Are you sighing,
Are you crying,
O'er the memories they have left?

Earth is sleeping
While you're sweeping
Through night's solemn silence by;
On forever,
Pausing never --
How I love to hear you sigh!

Men are dreaming,
Stars are gleaming
In the far-off heaven's blue;
Bosom aching,
Musing, waking,
Midnight winds, I sigh with you!

Nocturne ["Betimes, I seem to see in dreams"]

Betimes, I seem to see in dreams What when awake I may not see; Can night be God's more than the day? Do stars, not suns, best light his way? Who knoweth? Blended lights and shades Arch aisles down which He walks to me.

I hear him coming in the night Afar, and yet I know not how; His steps make music low and sweet; Sometimes the nails are in his feet; Does darkness give God better light Than day, to find a weary brow?

Does darkness give man brighter rays To find the God, in sunshine lost? Must shadows wrap the trysting-place Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace? Who knoweth it? God hath His ways For every soul here sorrow-tossed.

The hours of day are like the waves That fret against the shores of sin: They touch the human everywhere, The Bright-Divine fades in their glare; And God's sweet voice the spirit craves Is heard too faintly in the din.

When all the senses are awake, The mortal presses overmuch Upon the great immortal part -- And God seems further from the heart. Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, Lose star by star at sunlight's touch?

But when the sun kneels in the west, And grandly sinks as great hearts sink; And in his sinking flings adown Bright blessings from his fading crown, The stars begin their song of rest, And shadows make the thoughtless think.

The human seems to fade away; And down the starred and shadowed skies The heavenly comes -- as memories come Of home to hearts afar from home; And thro' the darkness after day Many a winged angel flies.

And somehow, tho' the eyes see less, Our spirits seem to see the more; When we look thro' night's shadow-bars The soul sees more than shining stars, Yea -- sees the very loveliness That rests upon the "Golden Shore".

Strange reveries steal o'er us then, Like keyless chords of instruments, With music's soul without the notes; And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats A melody not made by men, Nor ever heard by outer sense.

And "what has been", and "what will be", And "what is not", but "might have been", The dim "to be", the "mournful gone", The little things life rested on In "Long-ago's", give tone, not key, To reveries beyond our ken.

Sunless Days

They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days, With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; And thro' the dark we grope along our ways With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.

What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence? Why does it banish all the bright away? How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense? Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?

Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know How oft and suddenly the shadows roll From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, To wrap their darkness round the human soul.

Those days are darker than the very night; For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams; But these days bring unto the spirit-sight The mysteries of gloom, until it seems

The light is gone forever, and the dark Hangs like a pall of death above the soul, Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.

____ Winter on the Atlantic.

A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?"]

Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Why ask when the night only knoweth? The night -- and the angel of sleep! But ever since then a music deep, Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth Under each thought of my spirit that groweth Into the blossom and bloom of speech -- Under each fancy that cometh and goeth -- Wayward, as waves when evening breeze bloweth Out of the sunset and into the beach. And is it a wonder I wept to-day? For I mused and thought, but I cannot say If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night; And now -- even now -- 'neath the words I write, The flush of the dream or the flow of the song -- I cannot tell which -- moves strangely along. But why write more? I am puzzled sore: Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; The words of earth are a darksome veil, The poet weaves it with artful grace; Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, Lets it rustle along his rhymes, But gathers it close, covering the face Of ev'ry thought that must not part From out the keeping of his heart.

St. Mary's

Back to where the roses rest Round a shrine of holy name, (Yes -- they knew me when I came) More of peace and less of fame Suit my restless heart the best.

Back to where long quiets brood, Where the calm is never stirred By the harshness of a word, But instead the singing bird Sweetens all my solitude.

With the birds and with the flowers Songs and silences unite, From the morning unto night; And somehow a clearer light Shines along the quiet hours.

God comes closer to me here -- Back of ev'ry rose leaf there He is hiding -- and the air Thrills with calls to holy prayer; Earth grows far, and heaven near.

Every single flower is fraught With the very sweetest dreams, Under clouds or under gleams Changeful ever -- yet meseems On each leaf I read God's thought.

Still, at times, as place of death, Not a sound to vex the ear, Yet withal it is not drear; Better for the heart to hear, Far from men -- God's gentle breath.

Where men clash, God always clings: When the human passes by, Like a cloud from summer sky, God so gently draweth nigh, And the brightest blessings brings.

List! e'en now a wild bird sings, And the roses seem to hear Every note that thrills my ear, Rising to the heavens clear, And my soul soars on its wings

Up into the silent skies Where the sunbeams veil the star, Up -- beyond the clouds afar, Where no discords ever mar, Where rests peace that never dies.

So I live within the calm, And the birds and roses know That the days that come and go Are as peaceful as the flow Of a prayer beneath a psalm.

De Profundis

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse!
Woe are we! woe are we!
And the nights are ages long!
From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips
O my God! woe are we!
Trembleth the mourner's song;
A blight is falling on the fair,
And hope is dying in despair,
And terror walketh everywhere.

All the hours are full of tears --
O my God! woe are we!
Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes --
Every heart is strung with fears,
Woe are we! woe are we!
All the light hath left the skies,
And the living awe struck crowds
See above them only clouds,
And around them only shrouds.

Ah! the terrible farewells!
Woe are they! woe are they!
When last words sink into moans,
While life's trembling vesper bells --
O my God! woe are we!
Ring the awful undertones!
Not a sun in any day!
In the night-time not a ray,
And the dying pass away!

Dark! so dark! above -- below --
O my God! woe are we!
Cowereth every human life.
Wild the wailing; to and fro!
Woe are all! woe are we!
Death is victor in the strife:
In the hut and in the hall
He is writing on the wall
Dooms for many -- fears for all.

Thro' the cities burns a breath,
Woe are they! woe are we!
Hot with dread and deadly wrath;
Life and love lock arms in death,
Woe are they! woe are all!
Victims strew the spectre's path;
Shy-eyed children softly creep
Where their mothers wail and weep --
In the grave their fathers sleep.

Mothers waft their prayers on high,
O my God! woe are we!
With their dead child on their breast.
And the altars ask the sky --
O my Christ! woe are we!
"Give the dead, O Father, rest!
Spare thy people! mercy! spare!"
Answer will not come to prayer --
Horror moveth everywhere.

And the temples miss the priest --
O my God! woe are we!
And the cradle mourns the child.
Husband at your bridal feast --
Woe are you! woe are you!
Think how those poor dead eyes smiled;
They will never smile again --
Every tie is cut in twain,
All the strength of love is vain.

Weep? but tears are weak as foam --
Woe are ye! woe are we!
They but break upon the shore
Winding between here and home --
Woe are ye! woe are we!
Wailing never! nevermore!
Ah! the dead! they are so lone,
Just a grave, and just a stone,
And the memory of a moan.

Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet --
O my God! woe are we!
Tears will trickle into prayers
When we kneel down at His feet --
Woe are we! woe are we!
With our crosses and our cares.
He will calm the tortured breast,
He will give the troubled rest --
And the dead He watcheth best.

When? (Death)

Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds sing, And fewest hearts are sad -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know it will be sweet To leave the homes of men And rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In Thy home, O my God!

Some Summer morn Of splendors and of songs, When roses hide the thorn And smile -- the spirit's wrongs -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know I will rejoice To leave the haunts of men And lie beneath the sod, To hear Thy tender voice In Thy home, O my God!

Some Autumn eve, When chill clouds drape the sky, When bright things grieve Because all fair things die -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when, I know I shall be glad, Away from the homes of men, Adown beneath the sod, My heart will not be sad In Thy home, O my God!

Some Wintry day, When all skies wear a gloom, And beauteous May Sleeps in December's tomb, Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; My soul shall throb with joy To leave the haunts of men And sleep beneath the sod. Ah! there is no alloy In Thy joys, O my God!

Haste, death! be fleet; I know it will be sweet To rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In heaven, O my God!

The Conquered Banner

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not 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; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like 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! But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who 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 dead!

A Christmas Chant

They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng Will care for the words I sing?

Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, Their voices and hearts are glad; But I -- I am old, and my locks are gray, And they tell me my voice is sad.

Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm With hopes, bright as life's first spring; But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm Hath gone from the songs I sing.

I have lost the spell that my verse could weave O'er the souls of the old and young, And never again -- how it makes me grieve -- Shall I sing as once I sung.

Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, Since my days are so nearly past, That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve Is the old man's best and last.

Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? Art's sweet but meaningless notes? Or the music of thought, that, like the chime Of a grand cathedral, floats

Out of each word, and along each line, Into the spirit's ear, Lifting it up and making it pine For a something far from here;

Bearing the wings of the soul aloft From earth and its shadows dim; Soothing the breast with a sound as soft As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;

Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears From our being's higher part; Dimming the eyes with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart?

Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along -- The undertone of a life!

Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules -- A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools:

A music I learned in the days long gone -- I cannot tell where or how -- But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow.

And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells.

But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song?

The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there;

That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few?

They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so?

That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd.

They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above;

That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath.

And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true?

No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song.

And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels.

Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve Are haunting the lonely man, Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, He'll sing them as best he can.

Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke This holiest night of the year, Who knows how its melody may wake A Christmas smile or a tear?

So on with the mystic song,
With its meaning manifold --
Two tones in every word,
Two thoughts in every tone;
In the measured words that move along
One meaning shall be heard,
One thought to all be told;
But under it all, to be alone --
And under it all, to all unknown --
As safe as under a coffin-lid,
Deep meanings shall be hid.
Find them out who can!
The thoughts concealed and unrevealed
In the song of the lonely man.

* * * * *

I'm sitting alone in my silent room
This long December night,
Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom
With many a picture bright.
Ah! how the fire can paint!
Its magic skill, how strange!
How every spark
On the canvas dark
Draws figures and forms so quaint!
And how the pictures change!
One moment how they smile!
And in less than a little while,
In the twinkling of an eye,
Like the gleam of a summer sky,
The beaming smiles all die.

From gay to grave -- from grave to gay --
The faces change in the shadows gray;
And just as I wonder who they are,
Over them all,
Like a funeral pall,
The folds of the shadows droop and fall,
And the charm is gone,
And every one
Of the pictures fade away.

Ah! the fire within my grate Hath more than Raphael's power, Is more than Raphael's peer; It paints for me in a little hour More than he in a year; And the pictures hanging 'round me here This holy Christmas eve No artist's pencil could create -- No painter's art conceive;

Ah! those cheerful faces,
Wearing youthful graces!
I gaze on them until I seem
Half awake and half in dream.
There are brows without a mark,
Features bright without a shade;
There are eyes without a tear;
There are lips unused to sigh.
Ah! never mind -- you soon shall die!
All those faces soon shall fade,
Fade into the dreary dark
Like their pictures hanging here.
-- Lo! those tearful faces,
Bearing age's traces!

I gaze on them, and they on me,
Until I feel a sorrow steal
Through my heart so drearily;
There are faces furrowed deep;
There are eyes that used to weep;
There are brows beneath a cloud;
There are hearts that want to sleep;
Never mind! the shadows creep
From the death-land; and a shroud,
Tenderly as mother's arm,
Soon shall shield the old from harm,
Soon shall wrap its robe of rest
Round each sorrow-haunted breast
Ah! that face of mother's,
Sister's, too, and brother's --
And so many others,
Dear is every name --
And Ethel! Thou art there,
With thy child-face sweet and fair,
And thy heart so bright
In its shroud so white;
Just as I saw you last
In the golden, happy past;
And you seem to wear
Upon your hair --
Your waving, golden hair --
The smile of the setting sun.
Ah! me, how years will run!
But all the years cannot efface
Your purest name, your sweetest grace,
From the heart that still is true
Of all the world to you;
The other faces shine,
But none so fair as thine;
And wherever they are to-night, I know
They look the very same
As in their pictures hanging here
This night, to memory dear,
And painted by the flames,
With tombstones in the background,
And shadows for their frames.

And thus with my pictures only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.
I'm sitting alone in my pictured room --
But, no! they have vanished all --
I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom,
I'm watching the ashes fall.
And far away back of the cheerful blaze
The beautiful visions of by-gone days
Are rising before my raptured gaze.
Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm,
Hast thou a wizard's magic charm
To bring those far-off scenes so near
And make my past days meet me here?

Tell me -- tell me -- how is it?
The past is past, and here I sit,
And there, lo! there before me rise,
Beyond yon glowing flame,
The summer suns of childhood's skies,
Yes -- yes -- the very same!
I saw them rise long, long ago;
I played beneath their golden glow;
And I remember yet,
I often cried with strange regret
When in the west I saw them set
And there they are again;
The suns, the skies, the very days
Of childhood, just beyond that blaze!
But, ah! such visions almost craze
The old man's puzzled brain!
I thought the past was past!
But, no! it cannot be;
'Tis here to-night with me!

How is it, then? the past of men Is part of one eternity -- The days of yore we so deplore, They are not dead -- they are not fled, They live and live for evermore. And thus my past comes back to me With all its visions fair.

O past! could I go back to thee,
And live forever there!
But, no! there's frost upon my hair;
My feet have trod a path of care;
And worn and wearied here I sit
I am too tired to go to it.

And thus with visions only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.

I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room;
But, no! the fire is dying,
And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom,
Are sad, and I hear them sighing.
The wind hath a voice to pine --
Plaintive, and pensive and low;
Hath it a heart like mine or thine?
Knoweth it weal or woe?
How it wails in a ghost-like strain,
Just against that window pane!
As if it were tired of its long, cold flight,
And wanted to rest with me to-night.
Cease! night-winds, cease!
Why should you be sad?
This is a night of joy and peace,
And heaven and earth are glad!
But still the wind's voice grieves!
Perchance o'er the fallen leaves,
Which, in their summer bloom,
Danced to the music of bird and breeze,
But, torn from the arms of their parent trees,
Lie now in their wintry tomb --
Mute types of man's own doom.

And thus with the night winds only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.

How long have I been dreaming here? Or have I dreamed at all? My fire is dead -- my pictures fled -- There's nothing left but shadows drear -- Shadows on the wall:

Shifting, flitting,
Round me sitting
In my old arm chair --
Rising, sinking
Round me, thinking,
Till, in the maze of many a dream,
I'm not myself; and I almost seem
Like one of the shadows there.
Well, let the shadows stay!
I wonder who are they?
I cannot say; but I almost believe
They know to-night is Christmas eve,
And to-morrow Christmas day.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To change life's bitter gall to sweet, And change the sweet to gall again; To take the thorns from out our feet -- The thorns and all their dreary pain, Only to put them back again.

To take old stings from out our heart -- Old stings that made them bleed and smart -- Only to sharpen them the more, And press them back to the heart's own core.

Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, Bright and dark, and dark and bright. All these mingle, all these meet, In this great and solemn night.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To melt, with kindly glowing heat, From off our souls the snow and sleet, The dreary drift of wintry years, Only to make the cold winds blow, Only to make a colder snow; And make it drift, and drift, and drift, In flakes so icy-cold and swift, Until the heart that lies below Is cold and colder than the snow.

And thus with the shadows only,
And the dreamings they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.

'Tis passing fast!
My fireless, lampless room
Is a mass of moveless gloom;
And without -- a darkness vast,
Solemn -- starless -- still!
Heaven and earth doth fill.

But list! there soundeth a bell,
With a mystical ding, dong, dell!
Is it, say, is it a funeral knell?
Solemn and slow,
Now loud -- now low;
Pealing the notes of human woe
Over the graves lying under the snow!
Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell!
Trembling along the gale,
Under the stars and over the snow.
Why is it? whence is it sounding so?
Is it a toll of a burial bell?

Or is it a spirit's wail?
Solemnly, mournfully,
Sad -- and how lornfully!
Ding, dong, dell!
Whence is it? who can tell?
And the marvelous notes they sink and swell,
Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still!
How the sounds tremble! how they thrill!
Every tone
So like a moan;
As if the strange bell's stranger clang
Throbbed with a terrible human pang.

Ding, dong, dell!
Dismally, drearily,
Ever so wearily.
Far off and faint as a requiem plaint
Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell
Piercingly -- thrillingly,
Icily -- chillingly,
Near -- and more near,
Drearer -- and more drear,
Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!

Now sinking lower,
It tolleth slower!
I list, and I hear its sound no more.
And now, methinks, I know that bell,
Know it well -- know its knell --
For I often heard it sound before.

It is a bell -- yet not a bell Whose sound may reach the ear! It tolls a knell -- yet not a knell Which earthly sense may hear. In every soul a bell of dole Hangs ready to be tolled; And from that bell a funeral knell Is often outward rolled; And memory is the sexton gray Who tolls the dreary knell; And nights like this he loves to sway And swing his mystic bell. 'Twas that I heard and nothing more, This lonely Christmas eve; Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, At Christmas let me grieve.

Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on And murmur a holy prayer Over each grave, and for every one Lying down lifeless there!

And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, Robed in his shadowy stole; And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, To respond to his prayer of dole.

And list! he begins That psalm for sins, The first of the mournful seven; Plaintive and soft It rises aloft, Begging the mercy of Heaven To pity and forgive, For the sake of those who live, The dead who have died unshriven. Miserere! Miserere! Still your heart and hush your breath! The voices of despair and death Are shuddering through the psalm! Miserere! Miserere! Lift your hearts! the terror dies! Up in yonder sinless skies The psalms sound sweet and calm! Miserere! Miserere! Very low, in tender tones, The music pleads, the music moans, "I forgive and have forgiven, The dead whose hearts were shriven." De profundis! De profundis! Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! Thou hast sounded through a thousand years, And pealed above ten thousand biers; And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate Of sinners and of just, When their souls are going up to God, Their bodies down to dust. Dread hymn! you wring the saddest tears From mortal eyes that fall, And your notes evoke the darkest fears That human hearts appall! You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, And ever your music is sad, so sad, We seem to hear murmured in every tone, For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. Psalm, sad psalm! you must pray and grieve Over our dead on this Christmas eve. De profundis! De profundis! And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, And the spirits immortal from far away, To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay.

You think of the dead on Christmas eve, Wherever the dead are sleeping, And we from a land where we may not grieve Look tenderly down on your weeping. You think us far, we are very near, From you and the earth, though parted; We sing to-night to console and cheer The hearts of the broken-hearted. The earth watches over the lifeless clay Of each of its countless sleepers, And the sleepless spirits that passed away Watch over all earth's weepers. We shall meet again in a brighter land, Where farewell is never spoken; We shall clasp each other in hand, And the clasp shall not be broken; We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clime, Where we'll never know a sadness, And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, With rapture and with gladness. The snows shall pass from our graves away, And you from the earth, remember; And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, Shall follow earth's December. When you think of us think not of the tomb Where you laid us down in sorrow; But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, And wait for the great to-morrow. And the pontiff, Night, with his star-stole on, Whispereth soft and low: Requiescat! Requiescat!

Peace! Peace! to every one For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, In their graves beneath the snow.

The stars in the far-off heaven Have long since struck eleven! And hark! from temple and from tower, Soundeth time's grandest midnight hour, Blessed by the Saviour's birth, And night putteth off the sable stole, Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, For one with many a starry gem, To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, Who comes to men the King of them, Yet comes without robe or diadem, And all turn towards the holy east, To hear the song of the Christmas feast.

Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed, Four thousand years the nations sighed, That their King so long delayed.

The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed, And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died.

Their faces towards the future, They longed to hail the light That in the after centuries Would rise on Christmas night.

But still the Saviour tarried, Within His father's home And the nations wept and wondered why The promised had not come.

At last earth's hope was granted, And God was a child of earth; And a thousand angels chanted The lowly midnight birth.

Ah! Bethlehem was grander That hour than Paradise; And the light of earth that night eclipsed The splendors of the skies.

Then let us sing the anthem The angels once did sing; Until the music of love and praise, O'er whole wide world will ring.

Gloria in excelsis!
Sound the thrilling song;
In excelsis Deo!
Roll the hymn along.
Gloria in excelsis!
Let the heavens ring;
In excelsis Deo!
Welcome, new-born King
Gloria in excelsis!
Over the sea and land,
In excelsis Deo!
Chant the anthem grand.
Gloria in excelsis!
Let us all rejoice;
In excelsis Deo!
Lift each heart and voice.
Gloria in excelsis!
Swell the hymn on high;
In excelsis Deo!
Sound it to the sky.
Gloria in excelsis!
Sing it, sinful earth,
In excelsis Deo!
For the Saviour's birth.

Thus joyfully and victoriously, Glad and ever so gloriously, High as the heavens, wide as the earth, Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth.

Lo! the day is waking
In the east afar;
Dawn is faintly breaking,
Sunk in every star.

Christmas eve has vanished
With its shadows gray;
All its griefs are banished
By bright Christmas day.

Joyful chimes are ringing
O'er the land and seas,
And there comes glad singing,
Borne on every breeze.

Little ones so merry
Bed-clothes coyly lift,
And, in such a hurry,
Prattle "Christmas gift!"

Little heads so curly,
Knowing Christmas laws,
Peep out very early
For old "Santa Claus".

Little eyes are laughing
O'er their Christmas toys,
Older ones are quaffing
Cups of Christmas joys.

Hearts are joyous, cheerful,
Faces all are gay;
None are sad and tearful
On bright Christmas day.