Part 16

Out of the stillness in your heart -- A thousand songs are sleeping there -- Wake me a song, thou child of art! The song of a hope in a last despair: Dark and low, A chant of woe; Out of the stillness, tone by tone, Cold as a snowflake, low as a moan.

Out of the darkness flash me a song, Brightly dark and darkly bright; Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along The mystical shadows of the night: Sing it sweet; Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim, And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn.

In Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping In thy lonely battle grave; Shadows o'er the past are creeping, Death, the reaper, still is reaping, Years have swept, and years are sweeping Many a memory from my keeping, But I'm waiting still, and weeping For my beautiful and brave.

When the battle songs were chanted, And war's stirring tocsin pealed, By those songs thy heart was haunted, And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, Clamored wildly -- wildly panted: "Mother! let my wish be granted; I will ne'er be mocked and taunted That I fear to meet our vaunted Foemen on the bloody field.

"They are thronging, mother! thronging, To a thousand fields of fame; Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging God and thee to crush this longing; On the muster-roll of glory, In my country's future story, On the field of battle gory I must consecrate my name.

"Mother! gird my sword around me, Kiss thy soldier-boy `good-bye.'" In her arms she wildly wound thee, To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee, With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee, If you fall, I'll know they found thee Where the bravest love to die."

At the altar of their nation, Stood that mother and her son, He, the victim of oblation, Panting for his immolation; She, in priestess' holy station, Weeping words of consecration, While God smiled his approbation, Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, Cheered the mother's desolation, When the sacrifice was done.

Forth, like many a noble other, Went he, whispering soft and low: "Good-bye -- pray for me, my mother; Sister! kiss me -- farewell, brother;" And he strove his grief to smother. Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, And his parting gaze was tearless Though his heart was lone and cheerless, Thus from all he loved to go.

Lo! yon flag of freedom flashing In the sunny Southern sky: On, to death and glory dashing, On, where swords are clanging, clashing, On, where balls are crushing, crashing, On, 'mid perils dread, appalling, On, they're falling, falling, falling. On, they're growing fewer, fewer, On, their hearts beat all the truer, On, on, on, no fear, no falter, On, though round the battle-altar There were wounded victims moaning, There were dying soldiers groaning; On, right on, death's danger braving, Warring where their flag was waving, While Baptismal blood was laving All that field of death and slaughter; On, still on; that bloody lava Made them braver and made them braver, On, with never a halt or waver, On in battle -- bleeding -- bounding, While the glorious shout swept sounding, "We will win the day or die!"

And they won it; routed -- riven -- Reeled the foemen's proud array: They had struggled hard, and striven, Blood in torrents they had given, But their ranks, dispersed and driven, Fled, in sullenness, away.

Many a heart was lonely lying That would never throb again; Some were dead, and some were dying; Those were silent, these were sighing; Thus to die alone, unattended, Unbewept and unbefriended, On that bloody battle-plain.

When the twilight sadly, slowly Wrapped its mantle o'er them all, Thousands, thousands lying lowly, Hushed in silence deep and holy, There was one, his blood was flowing And his last of life was going,

And his pulse faint, fainter beating Told his hours were few and fleeting; And his brow grew white and whiter, While his eyes grew strangely brighter; There he lay -- like infant dreaming, With his sword beside him gleaming, For the hand in life that grasped it, True in death still fondly clasped it; There his comrades found him lying 'Mid the heaps of dead and dying, And the sternest bent down weeping O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping: 'Twas the midnight; stars shone round him, And they told us how they found him Where the bravest love to fall.

Where the woods, like banners bending, Drooped in starlight and in gloom, There, when that sad night was ending, And the faint, far dawn was blending With the stars now fast descending; There they mute and mournful bore him, With the stars and shadows o'er him, And they laid him down -- so tender -- And the next day's sun, in splendor, Flashed above my brother's tomb.

What? (To Ethel)

At the golden gates of the visions I knelt me adown one day; But sudden my prayer was a silence, For I heard from the "Far away" The murmur of many voices And a silvery censer's sway.

I bowed in awe, and I listened -- The deeps of my soul were stirred, But deepest of all was the meaning Of the far-off music I heard, And yet it was stiller than silence, Its notes were the "Dream of a Word".

A word that is whispered in heaven, But cannot be heard below; It lives on the lips of the angels Where'er their pure wings glow; Yet only the "Dream of its Echo" Ever reaches this valley of woe.

But I know the word and its meaning; I reached to its height that day, When prayer sank into a silence And my heart was so far away; But I may not murmur the music, Nor the word may my lips yet say.

But some day far in the future, And up from the dust of the dead, And out of my lips when speechless The mystical word shall be said, 'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, When the soul of the bard has fled.

The Master's Voice

The waves were weary, and they went to sleep; The winds were hushed; The starlight flushed The furrowed face of all the mighty deep.

The billows yester eve so dark and wild, Wore strangely now A calm upon their brow, Like that which rests upon a cradled child.

The sky was bright, and every single star, With gleaming face, Was in its place, And looked upon the sea -- so fair and far.

And all was still -- still as a temple dim, When low and faint, As murmurs plaint, Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn.

A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark Slept Mary's Son -- The only One Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.

His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair He dreamed of me On that still sea -- The stars He made were gleaming through His hair.