Part 17

And lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep; The sky grew dark: The little bark Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep.

The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat; The bark was tossed: Shall all be lost? But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet.

The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath, The winds howled on, All hope seemed gone, And darker waves surged round the bark's lone path.

The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep; He whispered: "Peace! Winds -- wild waves, cease! Be still!" The tempest fled -- the ocean fell asleep.

And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed, When life's lone bark Drifts through the dark And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost,

He now, as then, with words of power and peace, Murmurs: "Stormy deep, Be still -- still -- and sleep!" And lo! a great calm comes -- the tempest's perils cease.

A "Thought-Flower"

Silently -- shadowly -- some lives go, And the sound of their voices is all unheard; Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. Deep lives these As the pearl-strewn seas.

Softly and noiselessly some feet tread Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark; They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead, As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark. Sweet lives those In their strange repose.

Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, And none may know that they beat at all; They muffle their music whenever they meet A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall. Great hearts those -- God only knows!

Soundlessly -- shadowly -- such move on, Dim as the dream of a child asleep; And no one knoweth 'till they are gone How lofty their souls -- their hearts how deep. Bright souls these -- God only sees.

Lonely and hiddenly in the world -- Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay -- The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled Until they fly from the world away, And find their rest On "Our Father's" breast, Where earth's unknown shall be known the best, And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest.

A Death

Crushed with a burden of woe, Wrecked in the tempest of sin: Death came, and two lips murmured low, "Ah! once I was white as the snow, In the happy and pure long ago; But they say God is sweet -- is it so? Will He let a poor wayward one in -- In where the innocent are? Ah! justice stands guard at the gate; Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate? Alas! I have fallen so far! Oh, God! Oh, my God! 'tis too late! I have fallen as falls a lost star:

"The sky does not miss the gone gleam, But my heart, like the lost star, can dream Of the sky it has fall'n from. Nay! I have wandered too far -- far away. Oh! would that my mother were here; Is God like a mother? Has He Any love for a sinner like me?"

Her face wore the wildness of woe -- Her words, the wild tones of despair; Ah! how can a heart sink so low? How a face that was once bright and so fair, Can be furrowed and darkened with care? Wild rushed the hot tears from her eyes, From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, Her poor heart was broken; but then Her God was far gentler than men.

A voice whispered low at her side, "Child! God is more gentle than men, He watches by passion's dark tide, He sees a wreck drifting -- and then He beckons with hand and with voice, And he sees the poor wreck floating in To the haven on Mercy's bright shore; And He whispers the whisper of yore: `The angels of heaven rejoice O'er the sinner repenting of sin.'"

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And a silence came down for a while, And her lips they were moving in prayer, And her face it wore just such a smile As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear, Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, Ere the soul of the girl knew the wile, That had led her to passion's despair.

Death's shadows crept over her face, And softened the hard marks of care; Repentance had won a last grace, And the Angel of Mercy stood there.

The Rosary of My Tears

Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art; But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth, of years, Few or many they come, few or many they go, But time is best measured by tears.

Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps thro' the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by the furrows the fingers of care

On forehead and face have made. Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brows be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold -- O'er them the spring -- but winter is there.

And the old are ofttimes young, When their hair is thin and white; And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But bead, by bead, I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well, And they're blest with a blessing of tears.