Part 45

"Children, come!" the words were cruel -- 'Twas the death sigh of the feast; And they came, still merry! merry! At the bidding of the priest, Who had heard the joy-bells ringing Round him all the summer day. "Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!" Did he hear an angel say?

"Happy! happy! still more happy! Yea, the happiest are they. I was moving 'mid the children By the borders of the bay, And I bring to God no record Of a single sin this day.

"Happy! Happy! Happy!" When your life seems lone and long, You will hear that feast's bells ringing Far and faintly thro' my song.

Lines ["The death of men is not the death"]

The death of men is not the death Of rights that urged them to the fray; For men may yield On battle-field A noble life with stainless shield, And swords may rust Above their dust, But still, and still The touch and thrill Of freedom's vivifying breath Will nerve a heart and rouse a will In some hour, in the days to be, To win back triumphs from defeat; And those who blame us then will greet Right's glorious eternity.

For right lives in a thousand things; Its cradle is its martyr's grave, Wherein it rests awhile until The life that heroisms gave Will rise again, at God's own will, And right the wrong, Which long and long Did reign above the true and just; And thro' the songs the poet sings, Right's vivifying spirit rings; Each simple rhyme Keeps step and time With those who marched away and fell, And all his lines Are humble shrines Where love of right will love to dwell.

Death of the Prince Imperial

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" A breaking heart in a broken breath, A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death! Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail, When love's last lily lies dead in the vale! Let her alone, Under the rod With the infinite moan Of her soul for God. Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain, But you never may shrine, In verse or line, The pang of the heart that breaks in twain.

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache, Why do your passionate pulses throb? No lips that speak -- have ye souls that sob? We carry the cross -- ye wear the crest, We have our God -- and ye, your shore, Whither ye rush in the storm to rest; We have the havens of holy prayer -- And we have a hope -- have ye despair? For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore, Adown the shores and along the years, In the whitest foam of the saddest tears, And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves! Drift over a sea more deep and wide, For we have sorrow and we have death; And ye have only the tempest's breath; But we have God when heart-oppressed, As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.

O waves! sad waves! how you flowed between The crownless Prince and the exiled Queen!

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed, For the love of her love is cold and dead, The joy of her joy hath forever fled; A starless and pitiless night hath rushed On the light of her life -- and far away In Afric wild lies her poor dead child, Lies the heart of her heart -- let her alone Under the rod With her infinite moan, O my God! He was beautiful, pure, and brave, The brightest grace Of a royal race; Only his throne is but a grave; Is there fate in fame? Is there doom in names? Ah! what did the cruel Zulu spears Care for the prince or his mother's tears? What did the Zulu's ruthless lance Care for the hope of the future France?

Crieth the Empress, "O my son!" He was her own and her only one, She had nothing to give him but her love. 'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- above She gave him an infinite faith in God; Let her cry her cry Over her own and only one, All the glory is gone -- is gone, Into her broken-hearted sigh.

Moaneth a mother, "O my child!" And who can sound that depth of woe? Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now She bows her sorrow-wreathed brow -- (So fame and all its grandeurs go) Let her alone Beneath the rod With her infinite moan, "O my God!"

In Memoriam (Father Keeler)

Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala. Inscribed to his sister.

"Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life, And woe to us if he goes! Oh! his life is beautiful, sweet, and fair, Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer; Let him linger to help us in the strife On earth, with our sins and woes."

'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so, The Angel of Death said: "No! oh! no!" He was passing away -- and none might save The virgin priest from a spotless grave.

"O God! spare his life, we plead and pray, He taught us to love You so -- So, so much -- his life is so sweet and fair -- A still, still song -- and a holy prayer; He is our Father; oh! let him stay -- He gone, to whom shall we go?"

'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so, But the Angel of Death murmured low: "No, no;" And the voice of his angel from far away, Sang to Christ in heav'n: "He must not stay."

"O Mary! kneel at the great white throne, And pray with your children there -- Our hearts need his heart -- 'tis sweet and fair, Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer, Goeth he now -- we are lone -- so lone, And who is there left to care?"

'Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so -- But the Angel of Death sang: "Children, no!" And a voice like Christ's from the far away, Sounded sweet and low: "He may not stay."

From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan: "O God let my brother stay -- I need him the most -- oh! me! how lone, If he passes from earth away -- O beautiful Christ, for my poor sake Let him live for me, else my heart will break."

But the Angel of Death wept: "Poor child! no," And Christ sang: "Child, I will soothe thy woe."

"O Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard, Let her look on his face once more! Ah! that prayer was a wail -- without a word -- She will look on him nevermore!"

The long gray distances unmoved swept 'Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept.

He was dying fast, and the hours went by, Ah! desolate hours were they! His mind had hidden away somewhere Back of a fretted and wearied brow, Ere he passed from life away. And one who loved him (at dead of night), Crept up to an altar, where the light That guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep, Shone strangely down on his vow: "Spare him! O God! -- O God! for me, Take me, beautiful Christ, instead; Let me taste of death and come to Thee, I will sleep for him with the dead."

The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No! You must suffer and live, but he must go." And a voice like Christ's sang far away: "He will come to me, but you must stay."

We leaned on hope that was all in vain, 'Till the terrible word at last Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain, And his beautiful life had passed.