Part 51

Passed the morning, the noon: came the even -- The temple of Christ was aflame With the halo of lights on three altars, And one wore His own Mother's name.

Her statue stood there, and around it Shone the symbolic stars. Was their gleam, And the flowerets that fragranced her altar, Were they only the dream of a dream?

Or were they sweet signs to my vision Of a truth far beyond mortal ken, That the Mother had rights in the temple Of Him she had given to men?

Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder, For the Christian to honor her so? Ought her statue pass out of His temple? Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow.

Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices, I know what their white lips would say; And I know that the lights on her altar Would pray with me if they could pray.

Methinks that the flowers that were fading -- Sweet virgins that die with the Feast, Like martyrs, upon her fair altar -- If they could, they would pray with the priest;

And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary", Till they drooped on the altar in death, And be glad in their dying for giving To Mary their last sweetest breath.

Passed the day as a poem that passes Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings; Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses -- Did I hear a faint sound as of wings

Rustling over the aisles and the altars? Did they go to her altar and pray? Or was my heart only a-dreaming At the close of the Festival day?

Quiet throngs came into the temple, As still as the flowers at her feet, And wherever they knelt, they were gazing Where the statue looked smiling and sweet.

"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blended In a pure and a perfect accord, And passed by the beautiful Mother To fall at the feet of our Lord.

Low toned from the hearts of a thousand "Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" swept on To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder Did they wrong the great name of her Son.

Her Son and our Saviour -- I wonder How He heard our "Hail Marys" that night? Were the words to Him sweet as the music They once were, and did we pray right?

Or was it all wrong? Will he punish Our lips if we make them the home Of the words of the great, high Archangel That won Him to sinners to come.

Ah, me! does He blame my own mother, Who taught me, a child, at her knee, To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"? If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me.

Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless; Let me suffer for her if You blame. Her pure mother's heart knew no better When she taught me to love the pure name.

O Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother Must I hide her name down in my heart? But, ah! even there you will see it -- With Thy Mother's name how can I part?

On Thy name all divine have I rested In the days when my heart-trials came; Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human, And I need Mary's pure human name.

Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? I heard -- or I sure seemed to hear -- "Who blames you for loving My Mother Is wronging my heart -- do not fear.

"I am human, e'en here in My heavens, What I was I am still all the same; And I still love My beautiful Mother -- And thou, priest of Mine, do the same."

I was happy -- because I am human -- And Christ in the silences heard "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father", Murmured faithfully word after word.

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Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~ Down the aisles -- did the starred statue stir? Or was my heart only a-dreaming When it turned from her statue and her?

The door of a white tabernacle Felt the touch of the hand of the priest -- Did he waken the Host from its slumbers To come forth and crown the high Feast?

To come forth so strangely and silent, And just for a sweet little while, And then to go back to its prison. Thro' the stars -- did the sweet statue smile?

I knew not; but Mary, the Mother, I think, almost envied the priest -- He was taking her place at the altar -- Did she dream of the days in the East?

When her hands, and hers only, held Him, Her Child, in His waking and rest, Who had strayed in a love that seemed wayward This eve to shrine in the West.

Did she dream of the straw of the manger When she gazed on the altar's pure white? Did she fear for her Son any danger In the little Host, helpless, that night?