Part 40

But, live or die, their words leave their impress Fore'er or for an hour, And mark men's souls -- some more and some the less -- With good's or evil's power.

A Legend

He walked alone beside the lonely sea, The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face, His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair! Brown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast, As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns. His face looked like His Mother's -- only hers Had not those strange serenities and stirs That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow. He wore the seamless robe His Mother made -- And as He gathered it about His breast, The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" -- the white sands felt The touch of tender tears He wept the while. He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave -- For He had walked across the desert sands All day long -- and as He bathed His feet He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years! And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave All weary feet on all their thorny ways." "Three years! three years!" He murmured still again, "Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will -- My Father's will -- biddeth Me bide that time." A little fisher-boy came up the shore And saw Him -- and, nor bold, nor shy, Approached, but when he saw the weary face, Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired." He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow Caressingly and blessingly -- and said: "I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm That had been sweeping on the farther shore, Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell At His feet and died; and then the boy said: "Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone; He took the bird and laid it in His hand, And breathed on it -- when to his amaze The little fisher-boy beheld the bird Flutter a moment and then fly aloft -- Its little life returned; and then he gazed With look intensest on the wondrous face (Ah! it was beautiful and fair) -- and said: "Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God." He leaned down towards the boy and softly said: "I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him, With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock That little boy knelt down, and there adored, While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.

Thoughts

By sound of name, and touch of hand, Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, We know each other in this land, How little must that knowledge be?

How souls are all the time alone, No spirit can another reach; They hide away in realms unknown, Like waves that never touch a beach.

We never know each other here, No soul can here another see -- To know, we need a light as clear As that which fills eternity.

For here we walk by human light, But there the light of God is ours, Each day, on earth, is but a night; Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.

I call you thus -- you call me thus -- Our mortal is the very bar That parts forever each of us, As skies, on high, part star from star.

A name is nothing but a name For that which, else, would nameless be; Until our souls, in rapture, claim Full knowledge in eternity.

Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"]

The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, And joy aboundeth everywhere, The glorious stars crown every night, And thro' the dark of ev'ry care Above us shineth heaven's light.

If from the cradle to the grave We reckon all our days and hours We sure will find they give and gave Much less of thorns and more of flowers; And tho' some tears must ever lave

The path we tread, upon them all The light of smiles forever lies, As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall, The sun shines sweeter in the skies. Life holdeth more of sweet than gall

For ev'ry one: no matter who -- Or what their lot -- or high or low; All hearts have clouds -- but heaven's blue Wraps robes of bright around each woe; And this is truest of the true:

That joy is stronger here than grief, Fills more of life, far more of years, And makes the reign of sorrow brief; Gives more of smiles for less of tears. Joy is life's tree -- grief but its leaf.

C.S.A.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The Martyr-band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us They stood in front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er o'er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed -- we weep, We live -- they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us: The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in Gray Shall forever live over again for us.

The Seen and The Unseen

Nature is but the outward vestibule Which God has placed before an unseen shrine, The Visible is but a fair, bright vale That winds around the great Invisible; The Finite -- it is nothing but a smile That flashes from the face of Infinite; A smile with shadows on it -- and 'tis sad Men bask beneath the smile, but oft forget The loving Face that very smile conceals. The Changeable is but the broidered robe Enwrapped about the great Unchangeable; The Audible is but an echo, faint, Low whispered from the far Inaudible; This earth is but an humble acolyte A-kneeling on the lowest altar-step Of this creation's temple, at the Mass Of Supernature, just to ring the bell At Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! while the world Prepares its heart for consecration's hour. Nature is but the ever-rustling veil Which God is wearing, like the Carmelite Who hides her face behind her virgin veil To keep it all unseen from mortal eyes, Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers, And ceaseless sacrifices night and day, Shields souls from sin -- and many hearts from harm.

God hides in nature as a thought doth hide In humbly-sounding words; and as the thought Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart That giveth life and keepeth life alive, So God, thro' nature, works on ev'ry soul; For nature is His word so strangely writ In heav'n, in all the letters of the stars, Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds, And on the seas in syllables of waves, And in the earth, on all the leaves of flowers, And on the grasses and the stately trees, And on the rivers and the mournful rocks The word is clearly written; blest are they Who read the word aright -- and understand.

For God is everywhere -- and He doth find In every atom which His hand hath made A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal His name, love, power, to those who kneel In holy faith upon this bright below And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, To catch the vision of the great beyond.

Yea! nature is His shadow, and how bright Must that face be which such a shadow casts? We walk within it, for "we live and move And have our being" in His ev'rywhere. Why is God shy? Why doth He hide Himself? The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore Entemples Him; the fragrance of the rose Folds Him around as blessed incense folds The altars of His Christ: yet some will walk Along the temple's wondrous vestibule And look on and admire -- yet enter not To find within the Presence, and the Light Which sheds its rays on all that is without. And nature is His voice; who list may hear His name low-murmured every -- everywhere. In songs of birds, in rustle of the flowers, In swaying of the trees, and on the seas The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships That come and go, His holy, holy name. The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same; And some have ears and yet they will not hear The soundless voice re-echoed everywhere; And some have hearts that never are enthrilled By all the grand Hosannahs nature sings. List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! without pause Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, That hearts with power to love may echo back Their Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus! to the hymn.