Part 19

The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means the grave; The mother's song scarce hides the ~De Profundis~ of the priest; You may cull the fairest roses any May-day ever gave, But they wither while you wear them ere the ending of your feast.

So this dreary life is passing -- and we move amid its maze, And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light; And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of our ways, Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly bright.

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide, And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key; And a cross gleams o'er our pathway -- on it hangs the Crucified, And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, "Follow Me." Life is a burden; bear it; Life is a duty; dare it; Life is a thorn-crown; wear it, Though it break your heart in twain; Though the burden crush you down; Close your lips, and hide your pain, First the Cross, and then, the Crown.

In Rome

At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The sunshine of the home of truth Falls tremulously o'er me.

And tower, and spire, and lofty dome In brightest skies are gleaming; Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, Or am I only dreaming?

No, 'tis no dream; my very eyes Gaze on the hill-tops seven; Where crosses rise and kiss the skies, And grandly point to Heaven.

Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side, Each stone an age's story; They seem the very ghosts of pride That watch the grave of glory.

There senates sat, whose sceptre sought An empire without limit; There grandeur dreamed its dream and thought That death would never dim it.

There rulers reigned; yon heap of stones Was once their gorgeous palace; Beside them now, on altar-thrones, The priests lift up the chalice.

There legions marched with bucklers bright, And lances lifted o'er them; While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, Unfurled their wings before them.

There poets sang, whose deathless name Is linked to deathless verses; There heroes hushed with shouts of fame Their trampled victim's curses.

There marched the warriors back to home, Beneath yon crumbling portal, And placed upon the brow of Rome The proud crown of immortal.

There soldiers stood with armor on, In steel-clad ranks and serried, The while their red swords flashed upon The slaves whose rights they buried.

Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, And fame would not forsake it, Until a simple cross of wood Came from the East to break it.

That Rome is dead -- here is the grave -- Dead glory rises never; And countless crosses o'er it wave, And will wave on forever.

Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome Above the hill-tops seven; It arches o'er the world from Rome, And leads the world to Heaven.

____ December 6, 1872.

After Sickness

I nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever and no more; I think I heard the awful hinges grate, Hour after hour, while I did weary wait Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain: The door half-opened and then closed again.

What were my thoughts? I had but one regret -- That I was doomed to live and linger yet In this dark valley where the stream of tears Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. My lips spake not -- my eyes were dull and dim, But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn -- A triumph song of many chords and keys, Transcending language -- as the summer breeze, Which, through the forest mystically floats, Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes. A song of victory -- a chant of bliss: Wedded to words, it might have been like this:

"Come, death! but I am fearless, I shrink not from your frown; The eyes you close are tearless; Haste! strike this frail form down. Come! there is no dissembling In this last, solemn hour, But you'll find my heart untrembling Before your awful power. My lips grow pale and paler, My eyes are strangely dim, I wail not as a wailer, I sing a victor's hymn. My limbs grow cold and colder, My room is all in gloom; Bold death! -- but I am bolder -- Come! lead me to my tomb! 'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary, 'Tis still, and lone, and deep; Haste, death! my eyes are weary, I want to fall asleep.

`Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry? Of time why such a loss? Dost fear the sign I carry? 'Tis but a simple cross. Thou wilt not strike? Then hear me: Come! strike in any hour, My heart shall never fear thee Nor flinch before thy power. I'll meet thee -- time's dread lictor -- And my wasted lips shall sing: `Dread death! I am the victor! Strong death! where is thy sting?'"

____ Milan, January, 1873.

Old Trees

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom There's many a warrior laid, And many a nameless and lonely tomb Is sheltered beneath your shade. Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer We buried the brave and the true, We fired a volley and left them there To rest, old trees, with you.

Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward Over each grass-grown bed; 'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard Over the Southern dead; Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away Like the leaves you yearly shed, But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay, Old trees, to guard "our dead".

After Seeing Pius IX