Each day these two would wander out alone;
And by the well, or in a quiet glade
Seated, would hold their talk, with none to hear.
Yet converse scarce it was; with ears intent,
Fidus did always listen, while the Boy
Poured out a tale of Kings and Prophets old;
Of marvels that they worked to testify
Unto a King whom yet the earth would see,
A King of all Judea and the world;
Whose glory, mounting even to the stars
Would dim with rich effulgence, their great light.
The Sun of Justice He, the Moon of night
That had for ages settled o’er the earth.
He told of wonders that the King would do
Before He mounted to His mighty throne.
He told of love surpassing every love
That earth had seen, and of His Kingdom wide;
Till all on fire Fidus hung’red to see
The King Himself, and worship at His throne.
“A Roman though I am,” he oft would cry,
“Thy King I’d welcome and for Him I’d serve.”
“Yet thou art craftsman and no soldier thou.”
“A craftsman too can serve his loyal due.”
“How wouldst thou serve?” the Boy inquiring spoke.
“When Joseph bids me go, that I can learn no more,
This I can do--to build for Him His throne.”
The Shadow swept across the boyish face--
The Shadow Fidus once had seen before;
And he was silent, for in awe he stood
When that mysterious shade shut off the light
That shone out from the radiant brow.
The Shadow was not fear, nor dread of death;
But dread of something worse than death could bring.
It was as if a lily, broken, bent,
But yet unsullied, now was stained with filth
By impious hand; more cruel far than death
The marring of the whiteness death had spared:
Or like a stream, that through its mountain bed
Had raced unfettered, toward the amber sea,
And o’er the rapids and the pebbles dashed
Clear, cold and placid when the mouth is reached;
Then, death unfeared before it, ready now
To give back to the ocean all it gave,
Into its pureness poured a stream so dark
That tainted all its life, when life was lost.
’Twas thus the Shadow seemed; but soon it passed,
And smiling boyhood turned a happy face
The while he said: “So thou wouldst build His throne?
But dost thou know the form that throne will take?”
“’T will be a throne,” Fidus replied, “so high
That all may see Him, while from it He reigns,
And know that He has come unto His own.”
“Aye,” quick the Boy made answer, “it shall be
Uplifted high that every man may see;
Not Jews alone but even ye of Rome;
And men from Britain too, on farthest shore
Of Rome’s great Empire: they shall see and know
The King who reigns upon that living throne;
And in the Islands of unchartered seas
The King shall lifted be, that all may know;
And worlds still undiscovered shall bow down
To do Him homage, yet shall hate His name.
For homage goes with hate, and hate will be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around the royal throne.”
Fidus looked wond’ring at the Boy Who spoke,
As if the right to build the throne were His
And He could give it to the friend who asked
This only boon, as pledge of love untold.
“And I would build it strong so it could go
O’er sea and land, and last for aye and aye.”
“So thou wouldst build the throne?” again the Boy
Half musing spoke. Across His face once more
The Shadow fell; and, as he stood, His hands
He lifted up and out, as if in prayer.
Another Shadow fell upon the ground,
The arms and body strangely like a Cross.
Fidus was silent till the prayer was done.
The sun now set, and all the shadows passed.
They, arm in arm, ran fast to Joseph’s house.
But, at the door they paused and, said the Boy:
“Thou must remember ever this thy day
When I the promise gave that I can keep,
For thou shalt build His throne!”
The years passed on,
And Fidus to the Roman hosts returned
Where, welcomed as a soldier’s clever son,
He wrought in wood for all the legions there
In Jaffa, where his father had been killed.
For eighteen years he stayed beside the sea
And, working at the trade that Joseph taught,
He never once forgot the precious pledge
The Boy had made. But never saw nor heard
Aught of his friend. Then he was sent away
By Pilate’s call, unto Jerusalem.
The evening of the day when he arrived
Great turmoil swept along the Jaffa road,
And near the Gate of Gardens, where the hill
Called Calvary lifted up its rocky head.
He heard the crowds discuss a Wonder-Man
The priests had taken, and was on His way
To judgment. “Out on such a King,” cried one,
“Himself He can not save from shameful death.
To-morrow’s sun will see Him lifted up
Above the hill, and throw the Shadow of
A Cross upon you fools who thought Him King.”
And on the faces dark of all around,
Fidus saw Hate he could not understand.
Then up a vision rose of Nazareth
When evening fell; a Boy of beauty rare,
With a strange Shadow on His lovely face,
Standing with arms outstretched in prayer,
The glory of the setting sun upon His head.
But long and grim the shadow of a Cross
Before Him as He stood. Then to his mind
Came swift the stories of the mighty King,
And then the promise: “Thou shalt build His throne.”
Alas! the long and wav’ring years had swept
The dreams of youth away; but still remained
The love, that hungered now to feel the hand
Within his own of Mary’s Son. The day
Rose brightly in the East. At Pilate’s door
He met by chance a captain he had known
In Jaffa, who bade him attentive wait
Within the hall, amongst the soldiers there.
But soon a tumult rose without the doors;
The Wonder-Man was coming to be judged.
Then, as the cries increased, his friend came in.
“Make thou a Cross,” he said, “We have but two
And, if I judge aright, three shall be sent
Beyond the wall this day to Calvary.”
No more of shouting Fidus heard, for he
Alone made ready a great Cross of wood;
And, that his craftsman skill should be confessed,
He made it well, both strong and workmanlike.
“’Tis fit,” he said, “to serve a King,” and smiled
At his grim jest; then went he on his way.
Out in the streets the crowd was surging on
Along the way that leads to Calvary’s hill.
And o’er it Fidus saw his Cross; and then,
Sometimes, a thorn-crowned head with waving hair
Blood-clotted now, and stained a deeper hue;
And Hate seemed in the air vibrating round.
When sudden, like a bell that sweetly rings
Above a storm, and seems a messenger
Of Peace and Love, there woke upon his soul
From out the sleeping past, some prophet words:
“For homage goes with hate, and hate shall be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around the royal throne.”
The surging crowd hid from his eyes the things
He did not care to see, but faint he heard
The hammer strokes, that seemed to drive the nails
Deep in his heart. Then turned he to a man
Who silent stood beside him, and he said:
“A stranger I, from Jaffa, yesternight
I came. This man? What evil hath He done?”
“I know not any wrong that He hath done,”
Came answer fast. “I only know the good
That He had wrought. Behold my eyes that see!
Once they were dark. He passed me by one day
And loud I cried: ‘O Son of David, mercy show
That I may see.’ He touched me and I saw.”
Another silent man near Fidus stood,
To him he spoke, “And friend, what knowest thou?”
“I know that now I live though I was dead;
For I had gone into the ending tomb
All spiced for rest and bound with linen bands;
And He did come, and He did call me forth.
I heard His voice that sounded far away,
As if I stood within a valley deep,
And some one, from the mountain crest,
Kept calling me. Then clearer was the Voice;
As if on wings, I soared aloft to Him,
Who had the Power to bid me come or stay.
Again my heart did beat and vital blood
Surged through my wid’ning veins. I lived again.”
Then Fidus quick recalled a wondrous thing:
He saw the Boy in Joseph’s little shop,
A sick lamb refuged in His tender arms.
He gently stroked the lamb and then the pain
Was gone from out its piteous pleading eyes.
And, lo, the man felt hot tears on his cheeks.
The Cross was raised, and faint the outline stood
’Twixt Fidus and the lurid, murky sky
That threatened from afar a terror dark.
Then swift it came, for all of darkness dread
That air could hold, fell down upon the earth.
The stumbling crowd in panic slunk away;
But Fidus groped through darkness to the Cross.
He heard a moan of sorrow. Well he knew
The voice of Mary, she of Joseph’s house.
His heart stood still; the Vision came again:
That evening fair--the Boy--the distant hills--
The Shadow of the Cross upon the earth
As He stood silent all absorbed in prayer--
The promise that himself should build a throne.
“Aye,” so the Boy had said, “for it shall be
Raised up on high that every man may see,
Not Jews alone, but even ye of Rome;
And men from Britain too, on farthest shore
Of Rome’s great Empire: they shall see and know
The King Who reigns upon that living throne;
And, in the Islands of uncharted seas
The King shall lifted be that all may know;
And worlds still undiscovered shall bow down
To do Him homage, yet shall hate His name.
For homage goes with hate, and hate will be
The measure of the homage that shall swell
In pæans great around His royal throne.”
A lightning flash! The rocks asunder rent,
The tombs burst open and the dead arose.
One moment Fidus saw the Crucified
Ere darkness fell again around the Cross.
But in that moment a new vision rose;
He saw the hill rise high, and higher still,
Till over all the mountains of the world
It towering stood; and nations, worshipping
Gazed on a mighty throne that bore a King!
Blood red the jewels in His crown of thorns,
With ermined pain that wrapped Him all about,
Deep in His hands the orb and sceptre nails,
Quite gone the Shadow of the primal sin
And, on His brow, fulfilled the ancient pledge
Of Earth’s Redemption.
THE CHILD’S WISH GRANTED
BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,
How in the soft June days forever done
You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;
And, when I lifted you, soft came your cry,--
“Put me ’way up,--’way up in blue sky”?
I laughed and said I could not,--set you down
Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown
Of bright hair gladdening me as your raced by,
Another Father now, more strong than I,
Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.
CHARITY
BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
Unarmed she goeth, yet her hands
Strike deeper awe than steel-caparisoned bands,
No fatal hurt of foe she fears,--
Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.
’Gainst her thou canst not bar the door;
Like air she enters; where none dared before.
Even to the rich she can forgive
Their regal selfishness,--and let them live!
A SONG BEFORE GRIEF
BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP
Sorrow, my friend,
When shall you come again?
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send
Their silvery motions wearily down the plain.
The bird is dead
That sang this morning through the summer rain!
Sorrow, my friend,
I owe my soul to you.
And if my life with any glory end
Of tenderness for others, and the words are true,
Said, honoring, when I’m dead,--
Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.
And yet, my friend,
When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend
With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,
“Away!” I shriek, “nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!”
Still, you are near:
Who can your care withstand?
When deep eternity shall look most clear,
Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling land,
My joy shall disappear,--
A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea by your pale hand.
THE CLOCK’S SONG
BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP
Eileen of four,
Eileen of smiles;
Eileen of five,
Eileen of tears;
Eileen of ten, of fifteen years,
Eileen of youth
And woman’s wiles;
Eileen of twenty,
In love’s land,
Eileen all tender
In her bliss,
Untouched by sorrow’s treacherous kiss,
And the sly weapons in life’s hand,--
Eileen aroused to share all fate,
Eileen a wife,
Pale, beautiful,
Eileen most grave and dutiful,
Mourning her dreams in queenly state.
Eileen! Eileen!...
IRELAND
BY EDMUND LEAMY (Senior)
I loved a love--a royal love--
In the golden long ago;
And she was fair as fair could be.
The foam upon the broken sea,
The sheen of sun, or moon, or star,
The sparkle from the diamond spar,
Not half so rare and radiant are
As my own love--my royal love--
In the golden long ago.
And she had stately palace halls--
In the golden long ago;
And warriors, men of stainless swords,
Were seated at her festive boards,
Fierce champions of her lightest words,
While hymned the bard the chieftain’s praise,
And sang their deed of battle days,
To cheer my love, my royal love,
In the golden long ago.
She wore a stately diadem--
In the golden long ago;
Wrought by a cunning craftsman’s hand,
And fashioned from a battle brand,
Full fit for the queen of a soldier land;
Her sceptre was a sabre keen,
Her robe a robe of radiant green,
My queenly love, my royal love,
In the golden long ago.
Alas for my love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago!
For gone are all her warrior bands,
And rusted are her battle brands,
And broken her sabre bright and keen,
And torn her robe of radiant green,
A slave where she was a stainless queen,
My own love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago.
But there is hope for my royal love
Of the golden long ago;
Beyond the broad and shining sea
Gathers a stubborn chivalry,
That yet will come to make her free,
And hedge her round with gleaming spears,
And crown her queen of all the years,
My own love, my royal love,
Of the golden long ago.
MUSIC MAGIC
BY EDMUND LEAMY
_Perhaps there is no magic in this dull old world of ours;
Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours;
Perhaps there is no beauty, and perhaps all things are wrong;
But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_
A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Stood in the street of the city, there, in the heat of the noon;
Banging of roses and sunshine, thrilling of lands far away,
Whispering songs of my childhood,--sorrowful, simple and gay;
I was a child for a moment, filled with a child’s petty fears,
Dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming, never a thought of the tears.
Then as the music softened, singing of love and of life,
Brought it back thought of the old days, far from the toil and the
strife,
Glimmer of gold in the star-light, shimmer of silk by the sea;
Words that were whispered, half-spoken, dreams that were never to
be.
Sweet intermingled with sadness, what is as dear as the past?
Is there a day in the future that is as fair as the last?
Music, oh, music the master, there in the heat of the noon,
A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Carried me back in my dreaming, far, to the long, long ago;
Feeling, ’way down in my heart-chords, hope I thought never could
glow;
Brought to me, who was a failure, beaten and crossed in the fight,
Help in the hour of the darkness--pointed the way to the light.
_Perhaps there is no magic in this dull, old world of ours;
Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours;
Perhaps there is no beauty and perhaps all things are wrong;
But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_
GETHSEMANE
BY EDMUND LEAMY
Breathes there a man who claimeth not
One lonely spot,
His own Gethsemane,
Whither with his inmost pain
He fain
Would weary plod,
Find the surcease that is known
In wind a-moan
And sobbing sea,
Cry his sorrow hid of men,
And then--
Touch hands with God.
MY LIPS WOULD SING----
BY EDMUND LEAMY
My lips would sing a song for you, a soulful little song for you,
A plaintive little song for you, upon a summer’s day;
But for the very life of me, the merry, merry life of me,
The laughter-loving life of me, I cannot but be gay.
For oh, the sun is shining, Dear, and who could be repining, Dear,
And who would be unhappy, Dear, when all the world is young?
So I will hum a melody, a mirthful little melody,
A joyous little melody that never yet was sung.
And you shall hear of Fairyland, of Kings and Queens of Fairyland,
Of men and maids of Fairyland, and Love shall be the theme,
And straight before your brimming eyes, a golden glint of Paradise
Shall steal, My Dear, to still your sighs, and give you back your
dream.
And you will taste of happiness, a tiny bit of happiness,
A wistful bit of happiness, upon a summer’s day;
And just a little smile from you, a sunny little smile from you,
A trembly little smile from you shall be a poet’s pay!
MY SHIP
BY EDMUND LEAMY
My ship is an old ship and her sails are grey and torn,
And in the dim and misty night she seems a thing forlorn;
Her battered sides are beetle black, her decks are scarred and old,
And heavy rise the musty scents from out her crumbling hold.
The young ships in the tide-way with a sneering smile sail by,
And fair they flash their white sails against a sun-drenched sky,
And fleet they run before the clouds that usher in a blow,
But could a storm coerce my ship whene’er she wished to go!
My ship is an old ship and her sails are torn and grey,
And she’s not white and beautiful, nor fragile such as they,
But she has sailed o’er every sea to every land a-gleam,
And on her decks make merry now the wraiths of youthful dream!
VISIONS
BY EDMUND LEAMY
_I never watch the sun set a-down the Western skies
But that within its wonderness I see my mother’s eyes;
I never hear the West wind sob softly in the trees
But that there comes her broken call far o’er the distant seas;
And never shine the dim stars but that my heart would go
Away and back to olden lands and dreams of long ago._
A rover of the wide world, when yet my heart was young
The sea came whispering to me in well-beloved tongue,
And oh! the promises she held of golden lands a-gleam
That clung about my boy-heart and filled mine eyes with dream,
And Wanderlust came luring me till ’neath the stars I swore
That I would be a wanderer for ever, ever more.
A-rover of the wide world, I’ve seen the Northern lights
A-flashing countless colours in the knife-cold wintry nights;
I’ve watched the Southern Cross ablaze o’er smiling, sunny lands,
And seen the lazy sea caress palm-sheltered, silvery sands;
Still wild unrest is scouring me, the Wanderlust of yore,
And I must be a wanderer for ever, ever more.
_And yet, I see the sun set a-down the Western skies
And glimpse within the wonderness my mother’s pleading eyes;
And yet I hear the West wind sob softly in the trees,
That vainly cloaks her broken call far o’er the distant seas;
And still when shine the dim stars my wander heart would go
Away and back to her side, and dreams of long ago._
IRELAND, MOTHER OF PRIESTS
BY SHANE LESLIE
The fishwife sits by the side
Of her childing bed,
Her fire is deserted and sad,
Her beads are long said;
Her tears ebb and flow with the sea,
Her grief on the years,
But little she looks to the tide,
And little she hears:
For children in springtime play round
Her sorrowing heart,
To win them their feeding she loves
To hunger apart;
Her children in summer she counts
Awhile for her own;
But winter is ever the same,
The loved ones are flown.
Far over the sea they are gone,
Far out of her ken
They travel the furthest of seas
As fishers of men.
Yet never a word to her sons
To keep them at home,
And never a motherly cry
Goes over the foam;
She sits with her head in her hands,
Her eyes on the flame,
And thinks of the others that played,
Yet left her the same,
With vesture she wove on the loom
Four-coloured to be,
And lanterns she trimmed with her hair
To light them to sea.
Oh, far have the living ones gone,
And further the dead,
For spirits come never to watch
The fisherwife’s bed;
And sonless she sits at the hearth,
And peers in the flame,
She knows that their fishing must come
As ever it came--
A fishing that never set home,
But seaways it led,
For God who has taken her sons
Has buried her dead.
THE HUNTERS
BY RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY
“The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may
devour.”
The Lion, he prowleth far and near.
Nor swerves for pain or rue;
He heedeth nought of sloth nor fear,
He prowleth--prowleth through
The silent glade and the weary street,
In the empty dark and the full noon heat;
And a little Lamb with aching feet--
He prowleth too.
The Lion croucheth alert, apart--
With patience doth he woo;
He waiteth long by this shuttered heart,
And the Lamb--He waiteth too.
Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill,
Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue,
The Lion followeth the fainting will--
And the Lamb--He followeth too.
From the tickets dim of the hidden way
Where the debts of Hell accrue,
The Lion leapeth upon his prey:
But the Lamb--He leapeth too.
Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn,
Mark Devil and God as goals,
In the panting love of a famished Lamb,
Gone mad with the need of souls.
The Lion, he strayeth near and far;
What heights hath he left untrod?
He crawleth nigh to the purest star,
On the trail of the saints of God.
And throughout the darkness of things unclean,
In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood,
There prowleth ever with yearning mien--
A lamb as white as Blood!
IN CHERRY LANE
BY REV. WILLIAM LIVINGSTON
In Cherry Lane the blossoms blow
In wreaths of white around the trees,
And spread their petals wide, as though
They longed for nectar-seeking bees.
O’erhead, the arching boughs that spring
From pillar trunks look down and smile
On lowly currant shrubs that cling
Around their feet along the aisle.
In Cherry Lane the sunbeams steal
Through many a leaf and branch above,
And tender shoots come forth to feel
The touches of a wondrous love.
And life grows warmer with the hours,
Unmoved, unchilled by human pang,
Till from the stems now robed in flowers
The great red drops in clusters hang.
Ah, Mother mine! white blossoms came
And filled my soul with thoughts of thee,
Who art to those that love thy name
What honeyed buds are to the bee.
Thou art the floweret white and fair,
A virgin from thy stainless birth,
The fruitful stem designed to bear
A Saviour to our sinful earth.
And when the cherries, ripe and red,
Come forth upon the breast of June,
They’ll tell me of a heart that bled,
By men forgotten all too soon.
Ah, precious drops! through future days
Preserve my soul from spot or stain,
With tender thoughts of love and praise
That once were mine in Cherry Lane.
SURRENDER
BY S. M. M.
If thou art merely conscious clay--ah, well,
Tire not such stuff with futile, tread-mill climb
Which lifts to leave thee level with the slime;
Nor think that death can break thy earth-born spell;
Clay hath no heel Achillean, vulnerable.
Be animate till some deliberate time
Shall choke and crunch thee to potential grime,
For thou art fit for neither heaven nor hell.
But He Who made thee cousin to the clod
First plunged thee in the Spirit Which is He,
Whence thou hast risen, divinely armed and shod
To scale the ramparts of eternity.
Already stricken with the shafts of God,
Thou fallest prisoner to the Deity.
HYMN FOR PENTECOST
BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Pure Spirit of the always-faithful God,
Kindler of Heaven’s true light within the soul!
From the lorn land our sainted fathers trod,
Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole.
Thee, Thee we praise;
To Thee we raise
Our choral hymn in these awakening days:
O send us down anew that fire
Which of old lived in David’s and Isaiah’s lyre.
Centuries had rolled, and earth lay tombed in sleep,
The nightmare-sleep of nations beneath kings;
And far abroad o’er liberty’s great deep
Death’s angel waved his black and stilling wings.
Then struck Thine hour!
Thou, in Thy power,
But breathedst, and the free stood up, a tower;
And tyranny’s thrones and strongholds fell,
And men made jubilee for an abolished hell.
And she, our mother-home, the famed, the fair,
The golden house of light and intellect,
Must she still groan in her intense despair?
Shall she lie prone while Europe stands erect?
Forfend this, Thou
To whom we vow
Souls even our giant wrongs shall never bow:
Thou wilt not leave our green flag furled,
Nor bear that we abide the byword of the world.
Like the last lamp that burned in Tullia’s tomb
Through ages, vainly, with unwaning ray;
Our star of hope lights but a path of gloom
Whose false track leads us round and round alway.
But Thou canst open
A gate from hope
To victory! Thou canst nerve our arms to cope
With looming storm and danger still,
And lend a thunder-voice to the land’s lightning will.
Descend, then, Spirit of the Eternal King!
To Thee, to Him, to His avenging Son,
The Triune of God, in boundless trust we cling;
His help once ours, our nationhood is won.
We watch the time
Till that sublime
Event shall thrill the free of every clime.
Speed, mighty Spirit! speed its march,
And thus complete for earth mankind’s triumphal arch.
DARK ROSALEEN
BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green,
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
Over hills and through dales
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed the sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning through my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!