The moon had early sought her bed of brine,
But we discours’d till now each starry sign
Had sunk: our theme was one and one alone:
“Two minds supreme,” he said, “our earth has known;
One sang in science; one served God in song;
Aquinas--Dante.” Slowly in me grew strong
A thought, “These two great minds in him are one;
‘Lord, what shall this man do?’” Later at Rome
Beside the dust of Peter and of Paul
Eight hundred mitred sires of Christendom
In Council sat. I mark’d him ’mid them all;
I thought of that long night in years gone by
And cried, “At last my question meets reply.”
SONG
BY AUBREY DE VERE
Seek not the tree of silkiest bark
And balmiest bud,
To carve her name while yet ’tis dark
Upon the wood!
The world is full of noble tasks
And wreaths hard won:
Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,
Till day is done.
Sing not that violet-veined skin,
That cheek’s pale roses,
The lily of that form wherein
Her soul reposes!
Forth to the fight, true man! true knight!
The clash of arms
Shall more prevail than whisper’d tale,
To win her charms.
The Warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love’s name;
The love that lures thee from that flight
Lures thee to shame:
That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves
The spirit free,--
That love, or none, is fit for one
Man-shap’d like thee.
THE SONS OF PATRICK
BY JAMES B. DOLLARD
Into the mists of the Pagan island
Bearing God’s message great Patrick came;
The Druid altars on plain and highland
Fell at the sound of his mighty name!
Swift was the conquest--with hearts upswelling
The Faith they took, and to God they swore:
That precious spark from their bosoms’ dwelling,
Man’s guile or torture should snatch no more.
And ever since, while the wide world wonders
This steadfast people their strength reveal,
As Time Earth’s kingdoms and empires sunders,
They stand by Patrick in ranks of steel!
The nations mock them, like Christ’s tormentors;
“Descend,” they cry, “from your cross of shame;
Abjure the Faith--see the road that enters
The groves of pleasure and wealth and fame!”
Like those that passed where the Cross rose dimly
Their wise beards wagging--“What fools!” they say;
But the Sons of Patrick make answer grimly:
“Our God we’ve chosen--the price we’ll pay.
“Ever about us the foes’ commotion,
The anguish sweat on our brows ne’er dry;
Our martyr’s bones strew the land and ocean,
Lone deserts echo our exiles’ cry.
“Unto our hearts is earth’s pride forbidden,
Unto our hands is its gold denied;
We do not question the Purpose hidden--
Let Him who fashioned our souls decide!
“Yet though once more to us choice were given,
And the long aeons were backward rolled,
We’d walk again before Earth and Heaven
The blood-stained pathway we walked of old!”
SONG OF THE LITTLE VILLAGES
BY JAMES B. DOLLARD
The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish glynns
Down among the wheatfields--up amid the whins,
The little white-walled villages crowding close together,
Clinging to the Old Sod in spite of wind and weather:
Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle,
Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the Banks of Foyle,
Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballysadare,
Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare.
The cozy little villages that shelter from the mist,
Where the great West Walls by ocean spray are kissed;
The happy little villages that cuddle in the sun
When blackberries ripen and the harvest work is done.
Corrymeela, Croaghnakeela, Clogher, Cahirciveen,
Cappaharoe, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Coosheen,
Castlefinn, Carrigtohill, Crumlin, Clara, Clane,
Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Cloghjordan and Coolrain.
The dreamy little villages, where by the fires at night,
Old Sanachies with ghostly tale the boldest hearts affright;
The crooning of the wind-blast is the wailing Banshee’s cry,
And when the silver hazels stir they say the fairies sigh,
Kilfenora, Kilfinnane, Kinnity, Killylea,
Kilmoganny, Kiltamagh, Kilronan and Kilrea,
Killashandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Killashee,
Killenaule, Killmyshall, Killorglin and Killeagh.
Leave the little villages, o’er the black sea go,
Learn the stranger’s welcome, learn the exile’s woe,
Leave the little villages, but think not to forget,
Afar they’ll rise before your eyes to rack your bosoms yet.
Moneymore, Moneygall, Monivea and Moyne,
Mullinahone, Mullinavatt, Mullagh and Mooncoin,
Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar and Slane,
Toberaheena, Toomyvara, Tempo and Strabane.
On the Southern Llanos,--north where strange light gleams,
Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams;
Dying voices murmur (passed all pain and care),
“Lo, the little villages, God has heard our prayer.”
Lisdoonvarna, Lissadil, Lisdargan, Lisnaskea,
Portglenone, Portarlington, Portumna, Portmagee,
Clondalkin and Clongowan, Cloondara and Clonae,
God bless the little villages and guard them night and day!
THE SOUL OF KARNAGHAN BUIDHE
BY JAMES B. DOLLARD
It was the soul of Karnaghan Buidhe
Left his lips with a groan.
Like arrowy lightning bolt released
It sprang to the Judgment throne.
Spoke the Judge: “For as many years
As the numbered drops of the sea
I grant you heaven--but thenceforth hell,
Your bitter lot shall be.”
Prayed the soul of Karnaghan Buidhe
(_The trembling soul of Karnaghan Buidhe_)
“Dear Lord, who died on Calvary,
Too brief that span of heaven for me.”
Then spoke the Lord: “For as many years
As numbered sands on the shore,
The joys of heaven I give--but thence
You’ll see my face no more.”
Pleaded the soul of Karnaghan Buidhe
(_The shuddering soul of Karnaghan Buidhe_)
“Blessed Lord who died on the shameful tree,
Too brief that span of heaven for me.”
Once more the Judge: “The blades of grass
That earth-winds ever blew
A year of heaven I’ll count for each
Till hell shall yawn for you.”
Prayed the soul of Karnaghan Buidhe
(_The anguished soul of Karnaghan Buidhe_)
“Kind Lord, who died in agony,
Too brief that spell of heaven for me.
But this I ask, O Christ--a year
Of hell for each of these:
The blades of grass, the grains of sand,
The drops that make the seas!
And after this, sweet Lord, with Thee
In heaven for all eternity!”
Spoke the Judge, and His smile of love
Gladdened the waiting choir above:
“Sin and sorrow forever past,
Heaven I grant you, first and last!”
THE ANGELIC CHORUS
BY D. J. DONAHOE
At midnight from the zenith burst a light
More radiant and more beautiful than dawn,
And the meek shepherds on the shadowy lawn
Gazed upward in mute wonder on the sight;
The stars sank back in pallor, and the skies
Trembled responsive to rich harmonies.
And lo! an angel spake, “Be not afraid!
I bear glad tidings; for this happy morn
A Saviour and a King to man is born;
He sleepeth in a manger lowly laid.”
Then rolled along the heavens the glad refrain;
“Glory to God on high and peace to men!”
Soon from the skies the streaming light was gone,
And Night and Silence rested on the hill;
But the mute shepherds, looking upward still,
Could hear the heavenly echoes rolling on.
So evermore the listening world can hear
The Angelic Chorus ringing sweet and clear.
LADYE CHAPEL AT EDEN HALL
BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY
Close to the Sacred Heart, it nestles fair--
A marble poem; an aesthetic dream
Of sculptured beauty, fit to be the theme
Of angel fancies; a Madonna-prayer
Uttered in stone. Round columns light as air,
And fretted cornice, Sharon’s Rose is wreathed--
The passion-flower, the thorn-girt lily rare,
The palm, the wheat, the grapes in vine-leaves sheathed.
Tenderly bright, from mullioned windows glow
Our Lady’s chaplet-mysteries. Behold,
Her maiden statue in that shrine of snow,
Looks upward to the skies of blue and gold;
Content that in the crypt, beneath her shining feet,
The holy ones repose in dreamless slumber sweet.
MARY IMMACULATE
BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY
“Pure as the snow,” we say. Ah! never flake
Fell through the air
One-tenth as fair
As Mary’s soul was made for Christ’s dear sake.
Virgin Immaculate,
The whitest whiteness of the Alpine snows,
Beside thy stainless spirit, dusky grows.
“Pure as the stars.” Ah! never lovely night
Wore in its diadem
So pure a gem
As that which fills the ages with its light.
Virgin Immaculate,
The peerless splendors of thy soul by far
Outshine the glow of heaven’s serenest star.
THE PILGRIM
BY ELEANOR DOWNING
Behind me lies the mistress of the East,
Golden in evening, fairy dome on dome
Poised and irised like the far-flung foam
Lashed on the ribs of some forsaken coast.
Wicked and lovely temptress, fruitless boast
Of all that man may build and little be,
Mart of the world’s base passions, where thy feast
Of shame was spread, thy sin encompassed me,
Where all desires and all dreams were rife
With lust of flesh and eye and pride of life,
Lo! I have reft thy carnal mastery--
I have gone forth and shut the gates of thee.
Before me lies the desert and the night,
White star and gold above a pathless waste,
Blue shade and gray to where the world effaced
Flings loose its shadows on the lap of God.
Briars and dust upon my brow, unshod,
In pilgrim weeds athwart a vineless land,
My feet shall pass and mark the path aright,
For lo! Thy staff and rod are in my hand;
And with the light Thy city shall unfurl
Its golden oriflames and tents of pearl--
Dead Babylon, thy gilden clasp I flee;
Jerusalem, lift up thy gates to me!
ON THE FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION
BY ELEANOR DOWNING
“Mary, uplifted to our sight
In cloudy vesture stainless-white,
Why are thine eyes like stars alight,
Twin flames of charity?”
“Mine eyes are on His glorious face
That shone not on earth’s darkened place,
But clothed and crowned me with grace--
The God who fathered me!”
“Mary, against the sinless glow
Of angel pinions white as snow,
Why are thy fair lips parted so
In ecstasy of love?”
“My lips are parted to His breath
Who breathed on me in Nazareth
And gave me life to live in death--
My Spouse, the spotless Dove!”
“Mary, whose eager feet would spurn
The very clouds, whose pale hands yearn
Toward rifted Heaven that fires burn
Where once was fixed the sword?”
“The fires I felt when His child head
Lay on this mother’s heart that bled,
And when it lay there stark and dead--
My little Child, my Lord!”
MARY
BY ELEANOR DOWNING
A garden like a chalice-cup,
With bloom of almond white and pink,
And starred hibiscus to the brink,
From which sweet waters bubble up.
A garden walled with ilex-trees
And topped with blue, white clouds between
Save where the glossed leaves’ twinkling green
Is stirred by some soft-footed breeze
A place apart, a watered glade,
Where sin and sorrow have not been,
And earth’s complaint grows hushed within
Its greening aisles of sacred shade.
The circling arms, the flower face,
Such were they to the Child soft-pressed,
Who drew all sweetness from the breast
Of her whom angels crowned with grace.
A night of storm and wailing stress,
A coast that cradles to the shock
Of waves that lap the pitted rock,
And winds that shriek their wrathfulness;
A night of all wild things unpent,
Strange voices and strange shapes that beat
To chill the heart and snare the feet.
And through the tempest, beacon-bent
To shelter from the driving damp
Bespeaking warmth and sweet repose
Within its sanctuary close,
The welcome of a red shrine-lamp.
So unto Him Who, weary, pressed
Through the fierce storm of wrath and hate,
Shone Mary’s love, a chapel-gate
Where He might enter Him and rest.
A desert filled with shining sand,
And still as death the skies that bend
Where to horizon without end
The rounding distances expand.
A desert white with burning heat
And parched silence without stir,
And at its heart a voyager,
Where Death and daggered noonday meet;
And Thirst that grips him by the throat;
When from the distance wreathing blue,
No mirage, but a dream come true,
Crowned palm-tree and pale waters float.
To Christ upon the rood, when dim
Fell on His brow the Shade accurst,
So Mary slaked His burning thirst
With her white soul held up to Him.
EXTREME UNCTION
BY ERNEST DOWSON
Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet,
On all the passages of sense,
The atoning oil is spread with sweet
Renewal of lost innocence.
The feet, that lately ran so fast
To meet desire, are soothly sealed;
The eyes, that were so often cast
On vanity, are touched and healed.
From troublous sights and sounds set free
In such a twilight hour of breath,
Shall one retrace his life, or see,
Through shadows, the true face of death?
Vials of mercy! Sacring oils!
I know not where nor when I come,
Nor through what wanderings and toils,
To crave of you Viaticum.
Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak,
In such an hour, it well may be,
Through mist and darkness, light will break,
And each anointed sense will see.
BENEDICTIO DOMINI
BY ERNEST DOWSON
Without, the sullen noises of the street!
The voice of London, inarticulate,
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet
The silent blessing of the Immaculate.
Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers,
Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell,
While through the incense-laden air there stirs
The admonition of a silver bell.
Dark is the church, save where the altar stands,
Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light,
Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands
The one true solace of man’s fallen plight.
Strange silence here: without, the sounding street
Heralds the world’s swift passage to the fire;
O Benediction, perfect and complete!
When shall men cease to suffer and desire?
CARTHUSIANS
BY ERNEST DOWSON
Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire,
Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace,
Despising the world’s wisdom and the world’s desire,
Which from the body of this death bring no release?
Within their austere walls no voices penetrate;
A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains;
Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate;
This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pain.
From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways;
Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys;
And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with bays,
And each was tired at last of the world’s foolish noise.
It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God’s holy wrath,
They were too stern to bear sweet Francis’ gentle sway;
Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path,
To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray.
A cloistered company, they are companionless,
None knoweth here the secret of his brother’s heart:
They are but come together for more loneliness,
Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part.
O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay,
Your great refusal’s victory, your little loss,
Deserting vanity for the more perfect way,
The sweetest service of the most dolorous Cross.
Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail!
Your silence and your austerity shall win at last:
Desire and Mirth, the world’s ephemeral lights shall fail,
The sweet star of your queen is never overcast.
We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine;
With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art;
Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine:
None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart.
Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed!
Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail:
Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ!
Though the world fall apart, surely ye shall prevail.
MARIS STELLA
BY AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE
Mary, beautiful and bright
“Velut Maris Stella,”
Brighter than the morning light,
“Parens et Puella,”
I cry to thee, look down on me;
Ladye, pray thy Son for me,
“Tam pia,”
That thy child may come to thee,
“Maria.”
Sad the earth was and forlorn,
“Eva peccatrice,”
Until Christ our Lord was born
“De te Genitrice”;
Gabriel’s “Ave” chased away
Darksome night, and brought the day
“Salutis”;
Thou the Fount whence waters play
“Virtutis.”
Ladye, Flower of living thing,
“Rosa sine spina”;
Mother of Jesus, heaven’s King,
“Gratia divinia”;
’Tis thou in all dost bear the prize,
Ladye, Queen of Paradise,
“Electa,”
Maiden meek and Mother wise,
“Effecta.”
In care thou counsellest the best,
“Felix fecundata”;
To the weary thou are rest,
“Mater honorata”;
Plead in thy love to Him who gave
His precious Blood the world to save
“In cruce,”
That we our home with Him may have
“In luce.”
Well knows he, that he is thy Son,
“Ventre quem portasti”;
All thou dost ask Him, then, is won,
“Partum quem lactasti”;
So pitiful He is and kind,
By Him the road to bliss we find
“Superni”;
He doth the gates of darkness bind
“Inferni.”
AN AUTUMN ROSE-TREE
BY MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.
It seemed too late for roses
When I walked abroad to-day,
October stood in silence,
By the hedges all the way:
Yet did I hear a singing,
And I saw a red rose-tree:--
In fields so gray with autumn
How could song or roses be?
Oh, it was never maple
Nor the dogwood’s coat afire,
No sage with scarlet banners,
Nor the poppy’s vested choir:
The breeze that may be music
When the summer lawns are fair
Will have no heart for singing
In the autumn’s mournful air.
As I went up the roadway,
Under cold and lonely skies,
A song I heard, a rose-tree
Waved to me in glad surprise:--
A red cloak and a ribbon,
(Round the braided hair of jet)
And redder cheeks than roses
Of a little Margaret.
Now God is good in autumn,
He can name the birds that sing,
He loves the hearts of children
More than flowery fields of spring:
And when the years of winter
Gray with Margaret will be,
God will find her love still blossom
Like a red rose-tree.
TO A CARMELITE POSTULANT
(San Francisco, May, 1910)
BY MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.
Oh, the banks of May are fair,
Charm of sound and sight,
Breath of heaven fills the air,
To the world’s delight.
Far more wondrous is a bower,
Fairer than the May,
Love-of-God it wears in flower,
Blooming night and day.
Love-of-God within the heart
Multicolored grows,
Now a lily’s counterpart,
Now the blood-red rose.
Come the sun or chilling rain,
Come the drought or dew,
Crocus health or violet pain,
Love-of-God is true.
Hard may be the mountain-side,
Soft the valley sod,
Yet will fragrance sure abide
With the Love-of-God.
Where the grace of Heaven leads,
There it makes a home,
Hills a hundred and the meads
Will its pathway roam.
Carmel by the western sea
Holds your blessed bower:
Love-of-God eternally
Keep your heart a-flower.
A PURPOSE OF AMENDMENT
BY HELEN PARRY EDEN
He who mangold-patch doth hoe,
Sweating beneath a sturdy sun,
Clearing each weed-disguised row
Till day-light and the task be done,
Standeth to view his labour’s scene--
Where now, within the hedge-row’s girth,
The little plants untrammeled green
Stripes the brown fabric of the earth.
So when the absolution’s said
Behind the grille, and I may go,
And all the flowers of sin are dead,
And all the stems of sin laid low,
And I am come to Mary’s shrine
To lay my hopes within her hand--
Ah, in how fair and green a line
The seedling resolutions stand.
THE CONFESSIONAL
BY HELEN PARRY EDEN
My Sorrow diligent would sweep
That dingy room infest
With dust (thereby I mean my soul)
Because she hath a Guest
Who doth require that self-same room
Be garnished for His rest.
And Sorrow (who had washed His feet
Where He before had been)
Took the long broom of Memory
And swept the corners clean,
Till in the midst of the fair floor
The sum of dust was seen.
It lay there, settled by her tears,
That fell the while she swept--
Light fluffs of grey and earthly dregs;
And over these she wept,
For all were come since last her Guest
Within the room had slept.
And, for nor broom nor tears had power
To lift the clods of ill,
She called one servant of her Guest
Who came with right good will,
For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he
Waiteth on Sorrow still;
So, seeing she had done her part
As far as in her lay
And had intent to keep the place
More cleanly from that day,
Did with his Master’s dust-pan come
And take the dust away.
She thanked him, and Him who sent
Such succor, and she spread
Fair sheets of Thankfulness and Love
Upon her Master’s bed,
Then on the new-scoured threshold stood
And listened for His tread.
AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS,
GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST
“Et pastores erant in regione eadem vigilantes”
BY HELEN PARRY EDEN
You to whose soul a death propitious brings
Its Heaven, who attain a windless bourne
Of sanctity beyond all sufferings,
It is not ours to mourn;
For you, to whom the earth could nothing give,
Who knew no hint of our inspired pride,
You could not very well be said to live
Until the day you died.
’Tis upon us--father and kindly friend,
Holy and cheerful host--the unbidden guest
You welcomed and the souls you would amend,
The weight of sorrow rests.
From Sarum in the mesh of her five streams,
Her idle belfries and her glittering vanes,
We are clomb to where the cloud-race dusks and gleams
On turf of upland plains.
Southward the road through juniper and briar
Clambers the down, untrodden and unworn
Save where some flock pitted the chalky mire
With little feet at dawn.
Twice in a week the hooded carrier’s lamp,
Flashing on wayside flints and grasses, spills
Its misty radiance where the dews lie damp
Among the untended hills;
Here lies the hamlet ringed with grassy mound
And brambled barrow where, superbly dead,
The dust of pagans turned to holy ground
Beneath your humble tread.
Here we descend at drooping dusk the side
Of the stony down beneath the planted ring
Of beeches where you showed with pastoral pride
The folded lambs in spring;
Here pull at eve the self-same bell that hastened
Your rough-shod feet behind the hollow door--
Yet never see you stand, the chain unfastened,
Your lantern on the floor.
Others will spread the board now you are gone
Here where you smiled and gave your guests to eat,
Learning your menial kingliness from One
Who washed His servant’s feet;
Along the slumbering corridors betimes
Others will knock and other footsteps pass
Down the wet lane e’er the thin shivering chimes
Toll for the early mass.
Yet in the chapel’s self no sorrows sing
In the strange priest’s voice, nor any dolour grips
The heart because it is not you who bring
Your Master to its lips.
Here let us leave the things you would not have--
Vain grief and sorrow useless to be shown--
“God’s gift and the Community’s I gave
And nothing of my own,”
You would have said, self-deemed of no more worth
That then green hands that guard a poppy’s grace--
Blows the eternal flower and back to earth
Tumbles the withered case.
Nay, but Our Lord hath made renouncement vain,
Himself into those humble hands let fall,
Guerdon of willing poverty and pain,
The greatest gift of all;
To you and all who in that life austere
Mid fields remote your harsher labours ply
Singing His praise, girt round from year to year
With sheep-bells and the sky--
This, that to you is larger audience given
Where prayer and praise with sighing pinions shod
Piercing the starry ante-rooms of Heaven
Sway the designs of God:
And now yourself, standing where late hath stood
The echo of your voice, are prayer and praise--
O sweet reward and unsurpassing good
For that small gift of days.
Yourself, who now have heard such summoning
And seen such burning clarities alight
As broke the vigilant shepherds’ drowsy ring
On the predestined night,
Who made such haste as theirs who rose and trod
To Bethlehem the dew-encumbered grass,
Trustful to see the showing forth of God
And the Word come to pass;
With how much more than home-spun Israelites’
Poor hungry glimpse of Godhead are you blest
Whom Mary shows for more than mortal nights
The Jewel on her breast.
Yet, as one kneeling churl might chance to think
Of the wan herd behind their wattled bars,
Moving unshepherded with bells that clink
And stir beneath the stars,
And, for the thought’s space wishing he were back,
Pray, to that Sum of Sweetness for his sheep--
“Take them, O Thou that dost supply our lack,
Into Thy hands to keep.”
So you who in His presence move and live
Recall amid your glad celestial cares,
Your chosen office, to your children give
The charity of prayers.
SORROW
BY HELEN PARRY EDEN
Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said--
That his ill-savoured lamp shall shed
A light to Heaven, when, blown about
By the world’s vain and windy rout,
The candles of delight burn out.