Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

For while the Resurrection waves its signs august, Like morning's dew-bright banners on a cloudless sky,

My weak feet cling enamored to the parching dust, And the vain sands' poor pebbles lure my roving

eye.

By loneliness or hunger turn and re-create me! Ordain whatever masters in Thy saving school. Let the whole prosperous host of Fashion's flatterers hate me,

So Thou wilt henceforth bless me with Thy gracious rule.

I pray not to be saved, O risen Lord, from sorrow; Redeem me only from my fond and mean selflove.

Let each long night of wrestling bring a mourning morrow,

If thus my heart ascend and dwell with Thee above!

Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high Desire; Seven times seven suffering years gain the Sabbatic Rest;

Earth's fickle, cruel lap, alternate frost and fire, Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast.

Our work lies wide; men ache and doubt and die; Thy Ark

Shakes in our hands; Reason and Faith, God's

son

And daughter, fight their futile battle in the dark. Our sluggish eyelids slumber with our task half done.

Oh, bleeding Priest of silent, sad Gethsemane,— That second Eden where up springs the Healing Vine,

Press from our careless foreheads drops of sweat for Thee!

Fill us with sacrificial love for souls, like Thine.

Thou who didst promise cheer along with tribulation,

Hold up our trust and keep it firm by much enduring;

Feed fainting hearts with patient hopes of Thy salvation;

Make glorious service, more than luxury's bed, alluring.

Hallow our wit with prayer; our mastery steep in meekness;

Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light;

Hew out for Thy dear Church a Future without weakness,

Quarried from Thine eternal Order, Beauty,Might!

Met there mankind's great Brotherhood of souls and powers,

Raise Thou full praises from its farthest corners dim:

Pour down, O steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its towers!

Roll through its worldwide space Faith's Eucharistic Hymn!

O Way for all that live, win us by pain and loss! Fill all our years with toil-and comfort with

Thy rod!

Through Thy Ascension cloud, beyond the Cross, Looms on our sight, in peace, the City of our God! FREDERIC DAN HUNTINGTON.

THE NINETY AND NINE.

THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold,

But one was out on the hills away,

Far off from the gates of goldAway on the mountains wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"Lord, thou has here thy ninety and nine;
Are they not enough for thee?"

But the Shepherd made answer: "Tis of mine
Has wandered away from me;
And although the road be rough and steep
I go to the desert to find my sheep."

But none of the ransomed ever knew
How deep were the waters crossed,

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through

Ere he found his sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert he heard its cry,
Sick and helpless, and ready to die.

“Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way

That mark out the mountain's track?" "They were shed for one who had gone astray Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." "Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?"

"They are pierced to-night by many a thorn."

But all through the mountains, thunder-riven, And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, "Rejoice! I have found my sheep!" And the angels echoed around the throne, "Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!" ELIZABETH CLEPHANE.

[blocks in formation]

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead—
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed:

She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I thinkThe shutters are shut, no light may pass, Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Pehaps she had scarely heard my name-
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir-
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew—
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be toid?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed, for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the loveI claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few— Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come-at last it will-
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay;
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's

red

And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me-
And I want to find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? Let us see:

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could holdThere was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's

young gold.

So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.
There, that is our secret; go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and under-
stand.
ROBERT BROWNING.

A CHILD'S LAUGH.

THE merry laugh of the laughing child,
'T is music sweet to hear,
Delights the soul from morn till night,
In accents loud and clear.

[blocks in formation]

ASUNDER.

ONCE, when the sun, in slowly dying splendor,
Sank, sending crimson smiles across the sea;
When, in the twilight, eyes looked true and tender—
"Tell me," you said, "how great your love for
me."

Darker and darker grew the sea before us:
Turning, I saw a shadow at your side;
Mist filled the sky and hid the pale stars o'er us.
As those who speak in dreams my lips replied:
"Some measure love by gold,

By endless time, by soundless sea;

But I-I love you well enough

To leave you, love, if needs must be."

Words, thoughtless words! but breathing doubt

forbidden;

Fears, foolish fears! that love must lull to restNot you or I knew then the meaning hidden,

Veiled in those words you deemed an idle jest; Now, love! with paths divided, hands asunder, Now we have learned the meaning, you and I, Hid in the misty sky, the dark sea under,

Hid in those words I spoke, and knew not why"Some measure love by gold,

By endless time, by soundless sea;

But I-I love you well enough

To leave you, love, if needs must be."
HUGH CONWAY.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

(Read at the opening banquet of the American Catholic University, Washington, November 10, 1889.)

"COME to me for wisdom," said the mountain; "In the valley and the plain

There is Knowledge dimmed with sorrow in
the gain;

There is Effort, with its hope like a fountain;
There, the chainéd rebel, Passion,
Laboring Strength and fleeting Fashion;
There, Ambition's leaping flame,
And the iris-crown of Fame;
But those gains are dear forever
Won from loss and pain and fever.
Nature's gospel never changes;
Every sudden force deranges;
Blind endeavor is not wise;
Wisdom enters through the eyes;
And the seer is the knower,
Is the doer and the sower."

"Come to me for riches," said the peak; "I am leafless, cold and calm ;

But the treasures of the lily and the palm, They are mine to bestow on those who seek. I am gift and I am giver

To the verdured fields below,
As the motherhood of snow
Daily gives the new-born river;
As a watcher on a tower,
Listening to the evening hour,
Sees the roads diverge and blend-
Sees the wandering currents end
Where the moveless waters shine
On the far horizon line.
All the storied Past is mine,

All its strange beliefs still clinging,
All its singers and their singing;

All the paths that led astray,
All the meteors once called day,
All the stars that rose to shine,
Come to me; for all are mine!"

"Come to me for safety," said the height;
"In the future as the past,

Road and river end at last
Like a raindrop in the ever-circling sea.
Who shall know by lessened sight
Where the gain and where the loss
In the desert they must cross?
Guides who lead their charge from ills,
Passing soon from town to town,
Through the forest and the down,
Take direction from the hills;
Those who range a wider land,
Higher climb until they stand
Where the past and future swing
Like a far blue ocean-ring;
Those who sail from land afar

Leap from mountain-top to star.
Higher still, from star to God,
Have the spirit-pilots trod,
Setting lights for mind and soul
That the ships may reach the goal.
They shall safely steer who see:
Sight is wisdom. Come to me!"

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

-The Pilot, November 16, 1889.

STRIKE, STRIKE THY HARP. STRIKE, strike thy harp and wake to life again The long-lost songs that I have loved so well, Whose sweet-linked numbers in my mem'ry dwell Like ling ring echoes of some soft refrain. Some thrill of pleasure, or perchance of pain, Will wake responsive to thy potent spell, And some mute chord within my heart will tell, That thy rich harp-string hath not stirred in vain. Sing, if thou wilt, a strain that shall inspire

The smouldering embers, burning in my breast, To glow once more with all their wonted fire. Or, if some gentle mood should please thee best, Then let thy fingers touch the tuneful lyre, To some sweet song to soothe my soul to rest. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

"I AM THE BEGINNING AND THE END,
THE FIRST AND THE LAST."
THE tide ran low, ran very low, ran out;
Autumn had settled down upon the land,
And Winter's face, the face of death, was sweet,
For there was calm, an end of strife and doubt.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »