Love the core of his being, love, and the upward gaze.
Hate is the meat he feeds on, hate is his daily bread:
His drink is the blood of his brother, whom Cain hath stricken dead.
I said to the man in the Garden: ‘Where is thy brother, Cain?’
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ now comes the answer again.”
The Lord God said to His angel: “This Thing is accursed and a lie:
It hath sinned from the Law I gave it, and surely it shall die.”
“The Beasts of the field are patient, the birds rejoice in song,--
But what is this Thing of blood-lust, and where does it belong?
Lo, I shall establish a judgment: Let the old things pass away:
They have heaped the fields with slaughter: their sin defiles the
day.
They have laid on the weak sore burdens, on the just, their whips
and ban:
For a handful of crimsoned silver they have kissed the Son of Man.
Roll back the scroll of the heavens; from out of the womb of birth
Come forth new heavens untainted; come forth, renewed, the Earth!”
MARQUETTE ON THE SHORES OF THE MISSISSIPPI
On seeing the original manuscript map of the Mississippi River by its
discoverer, Father Marquette
BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY
Here, in the midnight of the solemn wood,
He heard a roar as of a mighty wind,--
The onward rush of waters unconfined
Trampling in legions thro’ the solitude.
Then lo! before him swept the conquering flood,
Free as the freedom of the truth-strong mind
Which hills of Doubt could neither hide nor bind,
Which, all in vain, the valley mounds withstood!
With glowing eye he saw the prancing tide
With yellow mane rush onward thro’ the night
Into the vastness he had never trod:
Nor dreamt of conquest of that kingdom wide
As down the flood his spirit took its flight
Seeking the long-lost children of his God!
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
(On the death of a Catholic gentleman)
BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY
I
This is the song of the Empire Builder,
Who out of the ends of the earth,
Thro’ travail of war and of carnage
Brings strange, new realms to birth.
This is the boast of the Empire Builder:
Give heed to the deeds of his hands
And scorn thou not the glory he hath
In his gold and his wasted lands.
He hath counted his neighbors’ cattle
With the cold, gray eye of greed:
He hath marked for his own the fields of wheat
Where he never had sown the seed:
The vine-clad cot by the hillside,
Where the farmer’s children play,--
“This shall fit in my plan,” he said;
“What use for such as they?”
And so, in the dusk of evening,
He brought his arméd men,
And where had shone the clustering grapes
There stretched a waste again.
Homeless, the children wandered
Thro’ the fields their father won:
No more shall they feel his clasp and kiss--
Aye, never beneath the sun.
Vex, vex not the Empire Builder,
Nor babble of Mercy’s shield;
Hath he not his vaster issue--
The linking of field to field?
Hath he not noted the boundary
That lies ’twixt “mine and thine”?
Hath he not said, “’Twere better for thee
If thine henceforth be mine”?
And so doth the Empire Builder,
From out of the ends of the earth,
Thro’ travail of war and of carnage
Bring strange, new realms to birth--
Realms builded on broken hearthstones,
The triumph of Rapine’s hour--
That one may boast in the halls of Fame
And sit in the seats of Power!
II
This is the song of the Empire Builder,
Who built not of wasted lands,
But who builded a kingdom of golden deeds
And of things not made by hands!
The fields of the spirit were his to roam,
The paths where the love-flowers grew:
He felt the breath of the spirits’ spring
In every wind that blew:
It came not laden with dying groans
And homeless orphans’ cries:
It blew from the mountains of the Lord
And the fields of Paradise.
This is the boast of the Empire Builder
Who built not of mouldering clay:
That the kingdom He built, not made by hands,
Shall never pass away!
The mind cannot measure its boundaries,
All Space is its outer gate:
It is broader than ever a man conceived
And more durable than Fate.
This is the Empire our brother built,
In His little hour of Earth,
Thro’ the spirit’s travail of righteous deeds
And the spirit’s glad rebirth.
He had silenced the boast of the Empire Builder,
With his gold and wasted lands,
By his deathless kingdom of golden deeds
And of things not made by hands.
This is the kingdom our brother built:
It is good: it hath sufficed;--
For who can measure the glory he keeps
With our Elder Brother, Christ?
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore’s debt when the deeds of might are
told!
They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck when the great
shells roar and screech--
And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they
preach:
But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia’s true-blue
sons,
The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!
Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once
more,
When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start
for their leave-o’-shore;
And you’d think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along
the street
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce “mustache” to
eat--
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is
on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of
“Yank” and “Don,”
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,
You’ll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the
guns!
Oh, well they know the cyclones blow that they loose from their
cloud of death,
And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher
saith!
The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the
great recoil,
And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his
spoil--
But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs
Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the
guns!
A THOUGHT FROM CARDINAL NEWMAN[A]
BY MATTHEW RUSSELL, S. J.
The world shines bright for inexperienced eyes,
And death seems distant to the gay and strong,
And in the youthful heart proud fancies throng,
And only present good can nature prize.
How then shall youth o’er these low vapours rise,
And climb the upward path so steep and long?
And how, amid earth’s sights and sounds of wrong,
Walk with pure heart and face raised to the skies?
By gazing on the Infinitely Good,
Whose love must quell, or hallow every other--
By living in the shadow of the Rood,
For He that hangs there is our Elder Brother,
Who dying gave to us Himself as food,
And His own Mother as our nursing Mother.
[A] In the last of his “Discourses to Mixed Congregations,” Dr. Newman
calls the Blessed Virgin the Mother of Emanuel, and says: “It is the
boast of the Catholic religion that it has the gift of making the young
heart chaste; and why is this, but that it gives us Jesus for our food
and Mary for our nursing Mother?”
THE CONQUERED BANNER
BY ABRAM J. RYAN
Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary;
Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary:
Furl it, fold it,--it is best;
For there’s not a man to wave it,
And there’s not a sword to save it,
And there’s not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it,
And its foes now scorn and brave it:
Furl it, hide it,--let it rest!
Take that Banner down! ’tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
Over whom it floated high.
Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it,
Hard to think there’s none to hold it,
Now must furl it with a sigh!
Furl that Banner!--furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman’s sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever
Till that flag should float forever
O’er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner--it is trailing
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it,--
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And oh, wildly they deplore it.
Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory,
Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory,
And ’twill live in song and story
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages--
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently--it is holy,
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not--unfold it never;
Let it droop there, furled forever,--
For its people’s hopes are fled!
A CHILD’S WISH
BY ABRAM J. RYAN
I wish I were the little key
That locks Love’s Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.
I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.
I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,
When every gleam lights holy prayer
Upon its way above.
I wish I were the little flower
So near the Host’s sweet face,
Or like the light that half an hour
Burns on the shrine of grace.
I wish I were the altar where,
As on His mother’s breast,
Christ nestles, like a child, fore’er
In Eucharistic rest.
But, oh, my God, I wish the most
That my poor heart may be
A home all holy for each Host
That comes in love to me.
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE
BY ABRAM J. RYAN
Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o’er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon bright,
Led us to Victory.
Out of its scabbard, where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle’s song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.
Forth from its scabbard, high in air
Beneath Virginia’s sky--
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow--and to die.
Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.
Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
’Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.
SONG OF THE MYSTIC
BY ABRAM J. RYAN
I walk down the Valley of Silence--
Down the dim voiceless Valley--alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God’s and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown!
Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose magic my heart could not win;
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human--and sin.
I walked through the world with the worldly;
I craved what the world never gave;
And I said: “In the world, each Ideal
That shines like a star on life’s wave,
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”
And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the false with the true;
I sought ’mid the human for heaven,
And caught a mere glimpse of its blue;
And I wept when the clouds of the mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.
And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human;
And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men;
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar
And heard a voice call me. Since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond human ken.
Do you ask what I found in the Valley?
’Tis my trysting-place with the Divine;
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And above me a voice said: “Be mine!”
And there rose from the depths of my spirit
An echo--“My heart shall be thine.”
Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep--and I dream--and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayers, like a perfume from censers,
Ascendeth to God, night and day.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence,
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to men, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A message of Peace they may bring.
But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley
Too lofty for language to reach.
And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley--
Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the Valley, like virgins
Too pure for the touch of a word!
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar, between mountains,
And God and His angels are there;
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer.
MARY, VIRGIN AND MOTHER
BY E. SETON
Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou,
In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng
On souls elect doth follow God with song:
Creation’s Queen, whose bright and holy brow
The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow
With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong:
The Maid unshadow’d by the primal wrong:
God’s Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow.
All these thy glories are, and still a grace
More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair,
Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest.
God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face
The tender likeness of thine own doth wear.
And thou art ours--we trust Him for the rest.
THE WIND ON THE HILLS
BY DORA SIGERSON
Go not to the hills of Erin
When the night winds are about;
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep the danger out.
For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull by the hand,
And they push you by the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.
And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years;
A year there is a lifetime,
And a second but a day;
And an older world will greet you
Each morn you come away.
Your wife grows old with weeping,
And your children one by one
Grow grey with nights of watching,
Before your dance is done.
And it will chance some morning
You will come home no more;
Your wife sees but a withered leaf
In the wind about the door.
And your children will inherit
The unrest of the wind;
They shall seek some face elusive,
And some land they never find.
When the wind is loud, they sighing
Go with hearts unsatisfied,
For some joy beyond remembrance,
For some memory denied.
And all your children’s children,
They cannot sleep or rest,
When the wind is out in Erin
And the sun is in the West.
BELIEVE AND TAKE HEART
BY JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING
What can console for a dead world?
We tread on dust which once was life;
To nothingness all things are hurled:
What meaning in a hopeless strife?
Time’s awful storm
Breaks but the form.
Whatever comes, whatever goes,
Still throbs the heart whereby we live;
The primal joys still lighten woes,
And time which steals doth also give.
Fear not, be brave:
God can thee save.
The essential truth of life remains,
Its goodness and its beauty too,
Pure love’s unutterable gains,
And hope which trills us through and through:
God has not fled,
Souls are not dead.
Not in most ancient Palestine,
Nor in the lightsome air of Greece,
Were human struggles more divine,
More blessed with guerdon of increase:
Take thou thy stand
In the workers’ band.
Hast then no faith? Thine is the fault:--
What prophets, heroes, sages, saints,
Have loved, on thee still makes assault,
Thee with immortal things acquaints.
On life then seize:
Doubt is disease.
AVE MARIA BELLS
BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD
At dawn, the joyful choir of bells,
In consecrated citadels,
Flings on the sweet and drowsy air
A brief, melodious call to prayer;
For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly,
Conceived of the Spirit Holy,
As the Lord’s angel did declare.
At noon, above the fretful street,
Our souls are lifted to repeat
The prayer, with low and wistful voice:
“According to thy word and choice,
Though sorrowful and heavy laden,
So be it done to thy Handmaiden”;
Then all the sacred bells rejoice.
At eve with roses in the west,
The daylight’s withering bequest,
Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright
The stars, the lilies of the night:
Of all the songs the years have sung us,
“The Word made Flesh had dwelt among us,”
Is still our ever-new delight.
STIGMATA
BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD
In the wrath of the lips that assail us,
In the scorn of the lips that are dumb,
The symbols of sorrow avail us,
The joy of the people is come.
They parted Thy garments for barter,
They follow Thy steps with complaint;
Let them know that the pyre of the martyr
But purges the blood of the saint!
They have crucified Thee for a token,
For a token Thy flesh crucified
Shall bleed in a heart that is broken
For love of the wound in Thy side;
In pity for palms that were pleading,
For feet that were grievously used,
There is blood on the brow that is bleeding
And torn, as Thy brow that was bruised!
By Thee have we life, breath, and being;
Thou hast knowledge of us and our kind;
Thou hast pleasure of eyes that are seeing,
And sorrow of eyes that are blind;
By the seal of the mystery shown us--
The wound that with Thy wounds accord--
O Lord, have mercy upon us!
Have mercy upon us, O Lord!
THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL
BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD
(The Mission of San Gabriel Archangel, near Los Angeles, founded in
1771, was, for a time, the most flourishing mission in California)
Thine was the corn and the wine,
The blood of the grape that nourished;
The blossom and fruit of the vine
That was heralded far away.
When the wine and fig-tree flourished,
The promise of peace and of glad increase
Forever and ever and aye.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me, O, I pray!
And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Oil of the olive was thine;
Flood of the wine-press flowing,
Blood of the Christ was the wine--
Blood of the Lamb that was slain.
Thy gifts were fat of the kine
Forever coming and going
Far over the hills, the thousand hills--
Their lowing a soft refrain.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
Answer me once again!
And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Seed of the corn was thine--
Body of Him thus broken
And mingled with blood of the vine--
The bread and the wine of life.
Out of the good sunshine
They were given to thee as a token--
The body of Him, and the blood of Him,
When the gifts of God were rife.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
After the weary strife?
And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel the Archangel.
Where are they now, O bells?
Where are the fruits of the Mission?
Garnered, where no one dwells,
Shepherd and flock are fled.
O’er the Lord’s vineyard swells
The tide that with fell perdition
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb
And buried them with the dead.
What then wert thou, and what art now?
The answer is still unsaid.
And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
Where are they now, O tower!
The locusts and wild honey?
Where is the sacred dower
That the bride of Christ was given?
Gone to the wielders of power,
The misers and minters of money;
Gone for the greed that is their creed--
And these in the land have thriven.
What then wert thou, and what art now,
And wherefore hast thou striven?
And every note of every bell
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel!
In the tower that is left the tale to tell
Of Gabriel, the Archangel.
THE POOR
BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.
The poor I saw at the cloister gate
Mutely beg with their patient eyes
An alms, for the love of Him who sate
And supped with the poor in human guise.
And there were monks saw the nails’ deep scars
In the shrunken hands that reached for bread,
Who heard a Voice from beyond the stars
In the broken thanks of them they fed.
I, too, at the gates of God each day
Seek for an alms of strength and grace,
Beggar am I that wait and pray
To feast my soul on His beauteous Face.
THE PROMISED COUNTRY
BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.
Fair must that promised country be
Whose streams rise from eternity
And One doth lead upon that way
Whose footfalls are the paths of day.
Nor lurking fear pursues them there,
As forward in the morning air
With Him the blessed ransomed go,
Their garments washen white as snow.
Alas! my days are very dim
That look up to the Seraphim.
Ah, Lord, some dawning may I be
One of that shining company!
HOLY COMMUNION
BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.
Disguised He stands without in the street;
Far come is He on heavy feet.
O heart of mine, open thy gate;
For darkness falls, and it is late!
Lord of the heaven’s fairest height,
Homeless in the traveler’s night,
Begging my hearth, my board, my cup,
That I, not He, may richly sup.
O soul of mine, the board begin,
And let this wondrous Beggar in!
STARS OF CHEER
BY CAROLINE D. SWAN
The silent Christmas stars shine cool and clear
Above a world of mingled joy and woe;
On peaceful cottage homes, with thanks aglow
For royal bounty of the grape-crowned year;
And on red fields of blood, where many a tear
Is wiped away by Death, a gentle foe,
More merciful than they who bade it flow.
Shine, silver stars, rain down your blessed cheer!
Comfort the mourner with your Angel song!
The Christ-Child reigns. Behold His tiny hand
Upraised in benediction warm and sweet!
O’er every joy and every bitter wrong
The Babe of Bethlehem hath supreme command;
Come, worship, kings and peoples, at His feet!
CHRIST AND THE PAGAN
BY JOHN B. TABB
I had no God but these,
The sacerdotal Trees,
And they uplifted me.
“_I hung upon a tree._”
The sun and moon I saw,
And reverential awe
Subdued me day and night.
“_I am the perfect light._”
Within a lifeless Stone--
All other gods unknown--
I sought Divinity.
“_The Corner-Stone am I._”
For sacrificial feast
I slaughtered man and beast,
Red recompense to gain.
“_So I, a Lamb, was slain._
_Yea; such My hungering Grace
That where ev’r My face
Is hidden, none may grope
Beyond eternal Hope._”
OUT OF BOUNDS
BY JOHN B. TABB
A little Boy of heavenly birth,
But far from home to-day,
Comes down to find His ball, the Earth,
That Sin has cast away.
O comrades, let us one and all
Join in to get Him back His ball!
FATHER DAMIEN
BY JOHN B. TABB
O God, the cleanest offering
Of tainted earth below,
Unblushing to Thy feet we bring--
“_A leper white as snow_!”
RECOGNITION
BY JOHN B. TABB
When Christ went up to Calvary,
His crown upon His head,
Each tree unto its fellow-tree
In awful silence said:
“Behold the Gardener is He
Of Eden and Gethsemane!”
“IS THY SERVANT A DOG?”
BY JOHN B. TABB
So _must_ he be, who in the crowded street,
Where shameless Sin and flaunting Pleasure meet,
Amid the noisome footprints finds the sweet
Faint vestige of Thy feet.
LILIUM REGIS
BY FRANCIS THOMPSON
O Lily of the King, low lies thy silver wing,
And long has been the hour of thine unqueening;
And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spends its sighs,
Nor any take the secrets of its meaning.
O Lily of the King, I speak a heavy thing,
O patience, most sorrowful of daughters!
Lo, the hour is at hand for the troubling of the land,
And red shall be the breaking of the waters.
Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk,
With the mercies of the King for thine awning,
And the Just understand that thine hour is at hand,
Thine hour at hand with power in the dawning.
When the nations lie in blood, and their kings a broken brood,
Look up, O most sorrowful of daughters!
Lift up thy head and hark what sounds are in the dark,
For His feet are coming to thee on the waters.