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.
Passing Away
Life’s Vesper-bells are ringing
In the temple of my heart,
And yon sunset, sure, is singing
“Nunc dimittis — Now depart!”
Ah! the eve is golden-clouded,
But to-morrow’s sun shall shine
On this weary body shrouded;
But my soul doth not repine.
“Let me see the sun descending,
I will see his light no more,
For my life, this eve, is ending;
And to-morrow on the shore
That is fair, and white, and golden,
I will meet my God; and ye
Will forget not all the olden,
Happy hours ye spent with me.
“I am glad that I am going;
What a strange and sweet delight
Is thro’ all my being flowing
When I know that, sure, to-night
I will pass from earth and meet Him
Whom I loved thro’ all the years,
Who will crown me when I greet Him,
And will kiss away my tears.
“My last sun! haste! hurry westward!
In the dark of this to-night
My poor soul that hastens rest-ward
‘With the Lamb’ will find the light;
Death is coming — and I hear him,
Soft and stealthy cometh he;
But I do not believe I fear him,
God is now so close to me.”
Fell the daylight’s fading glimmer
On a face so wan and white;
Brighter was his soul, while dimmer
Grew the shadows of the night;
And he died — and God was near him;
I knelt by him to forgive;
And I sometimes seem to hear him
Whisper — “Live as I did live.”
The Pilgrim (A Christmas Legend for Children)
The shades of night were brooding
O’er the sea, the earth, the sky;
The passing winds were wailing
In a low, unearthly sigh;
The darkness gathered deeper,
For no starry light was shed,
And silence reigned unbroken,
As the silence of the dead.
The wintry clouds were hanging
From the starless sky so low,
While ’neath them earth lay folded
In a winding shroud of snow.
’Twas cold, ’twas dark, ’twas dreary,
And the blast that swept along
The mountains hoarsely murmured
A fierce, discordant song.
And mortal men were resting
From the turmoil of the day,
And broken hearts were dreaming
Of the friends long passed away;
And saintly men were keeping
Their vigils through the night,
While angel spirits hovered near
Around their lonely light.
And wicked men were sinning
In the midnight banquet halls,
Forgetful of that sentence traced
On proud Belshazzar’s walls.
On that night, so dark and dismal,
Unillumed by faintest ray,
Might be seen the lonely pilgrim
Wending on his darksome way.
Slow his steps, for he was weary,
And betimes he paused to rest;
Then he rose, and, pressing onward,
Murmured lowly: “I must haste.”
In his hand he held a chaplet,
And his lips were moved in prayer,
For the darkness and the silence
Seemed to whisper God was there.
On the lonely pilgrim journeyed,
Nought disturbed him on his way,
And his prayers he softly murmured
As the midnight stole away.
Hark! amid the stillness rises
On his ears a distant strain
Softly sounding — now it ceases —
Sweetly now it comes again.
In his path he paused to wonder
While he listened to the sound:
On it came, so sweet, so pensive,
’Mid the blast that howled around;
And the restless winds seemed soothed
By that music, gentle, mild,
And they slept, as when a mother
Rocks to rest her cradled child.
Strange and sweet the calm that followed,
Stealing through the midnight air;
Strange and sweet the sounds that floated
Like an angel breathing there.
From the sky the clouds were drifting
Swiftly one by one away,
And the sinless stars were shedding
Here and there a silver ray.
“Why this change?” the pilgrim whispered —
“Whence that music? whence its power?
Earthly sounds are not so lovely!
Angels love the midnight hour!”
Bending o’er his staff, he wondered,
Loath to leave that sacred place:
“I must hasten,” said he, sadly —
On he pressed with quickened pace.
Just before him rose a mountain,
Dark its outline, steep its side —
Down its slopes that midnight music
Seemed so soothingly to glide.
“I will find it,” said the pilgrim,
“Though this mountain I must scale” —
Scarcely said, when on his vision
Shone a distant light, and pale.
Glad he was; and now he hastened —
Brighter, brighter grew the ray —
Stronger, stronger swelled the music
As he struggled on his way.
Soon he gained the mountain summit,
Lo! a church bursts on his view:
From the church that light was flowing,
And that gentle music, too.
Near he came — its door stood open —
Still he stood in awe and fear;
“Shall I enter spot so holy?
Am I unforbidden here?
I will enter — something bids me —
Saintly men are praying here;
Vigils sacred they are keeping,
’Tis their Matin song I hear.”
Softly, noiselessly, he glided
Through the portal; on his sight
Shone a vision, bright, strange, thrilling;
Down he knelt — ’twas Christmas night —
Down, in deepest adoration,
Knelt the lonely pilgrim there;
Joy unearthly, rapture holy,
Blended with his whispered prayer.
Wrapped his senses were in wonder,
On his soul an awe profound,
As the vision burst upon him,
’Mid sweet light and sweeter sound.
“Is it real? is it earthly?
Is it all a fleeting dream?
Hark! those choral voices ringing,
Lo! those forms like angels seem.”
On his view there rose an altar,
Glittering ’mid a thousand beams,
Flowing from the burning tapers
In bright, sparkling, silver streams.
From unnumbered crystal vases,
Rose and bloomed the fairest flowers,
Shedding ’round their balmy fragrance
’Mid the lights in sweetest showers.
Rich and gorgeous was the altar,
Decked it was in purest white.
Mortal hands had not arrayed it
Thus, upon that Christmas night.
Amid its lights and lovely flowers,
The little tabernacle stood;
Around it all was rich and golden,
It alone was poor and rude.
Hark! Venite Adoremus!
Round the golden altar sounds —
See that band of angels kneeling
Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns!
And the pilgrim looked and listened,
And he saw the angels there,
And their snow-white wings were folded,
As they bent in silent prayer.
Twelve they were; bright rays of glory
Round their brows effulgent shone;
But a wreath of nobler beauty
Seemed to grace and circle one;
And he, beauteous, rose and opened
Wide the tabernacle door:
Hark! Venite Adoremus
Rises — bending, they adore.
Lo! a sound of censers swinging!
Clouds of incense weave around
The altar rich a silver mantle,
As the angels’ hymns resound.
List! Venite Adoremus
Swells aloud in stronger strain,
And the angels swing the censers,
And they prostrate bend again.
Rising now, with voice of rapture,
Bursts aloud, in thrilling tone,
“Gloria in Excelsis Deo”
Round the sacramental throne.
Oh! ’twas sweet, ’twas sweet and charming
As the notes triumphant flowed!
Oh! ’twas sweet, while wreathes of incense
Curled, and countless tapers glowed.
Oh! ’twas grand! that hymn of glory
Earthly sounds cannot compare;
Oh! ’twas grand! it breath’d of heaven,
As the angels sung it there.
Ravished by the strains ecstatic,
Raptured by the vision grand,
Gazed the pilgrim on the altar,
Gazed upon the angel band.
All was hushed! the floating echoes
Of the hymn had died away;
Vanished were the clouds of incense,
And the censers ceased to sway.
Lo! their wings are gently waving,
And the angels softly rise,
Bending towards the tabernacle,
Worship beaming from their eyes.
One last, lowly genuflection!
From their brows love burning shone —
Ah! they’re going, they’ve departed,
All but one, the brightest one.
“Why remains he?” thought the pilgrim,
Ah! he rises beauteously —
“Listen!” and the angel murmured
Sweetly: “Pilgrim, hail to thee!”
“Come unto the golden altar,
I’m an angel — banish fear —
Come, unite in adoration
With me, for our God is here.
Come thy Jesus here reposes,
Come! He’ll bless thy mortal sight —
Come! adore the Infant Saviour
With me — for ’tis Christmas night.”
Now approached the pilgrim, trembling,
Now beside the angel bent,
And the deepest, blissful gladness,
With his fervent worship blent.
“Pilgrim,” said the spirit, softly,
“Thou hast seen bright angels here,
And hast heard our sacred anthems,
Filled with rapture, filled with fear.
“We are twelve — ’twas we who chanted
First the Saviour’s lowly birth,
We who brought the joyful tidings
Of His coming, to the earth;
We who sung unto the shepherds,
Watching on the mountain height,
That the Word was made Incarnate
For them on that blessed night.
“And since then we love to linger
On that festal night on earth;
And we leave our thrones of glory
Here to keep the Saviour’s birth.
Happy mortals! happy mortals!
To-night the angels would be men;
And they leave their thrones in heaven,
For the Crib of Bethlehem.”
And the angel led the pilgrim
To the tabernacle door;
Lo! an Infant there was sleeping,
And the angel said: “Adore!
He is sleeping, yet he watches,
See that beam of love divine;
Pilgrim! pay your worship holy
To your Infant God and mine.”
And the spirit slowly, slowly,
Closed the tabernacle door,
While the pilgrim lowly, lowly,
Bent in rapture to adore.
“Pilgrim,” spoke the angel sweetly,
“I must bid thee my adieu;
Love! oh! love the Infant Jesus! —”
And he vanished from his view.
All was silent — silent — silent —
Faded was the vision bright —
But the pilgrim long remembered
In his heart that Christmas night.
A Reverie [“Those Hearts of Ours — How Strange! How Strange!”]
Those hearts of ours — how strange! how strange!
How they yearn to ramble and love to range
Down through the vales of the years long gone,
Up through the future that fast rolls on.
To-days are dull — so they wend their ways
Back to their beautiful yesterdays;
The present is blank — so they wing their flight
To future to-morrows where all seems bright.
Build them a bright and beautiful home,
They’ll soon grow weary and want to roam;
Find them a spot without sorrow or pain,
They may stay a day, but they’re off again.
Those hearts of ours — how wild! how wild!
They’re as hard to tame as an Indian child;
They’re as restless as waves on the sounding sea,
Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free.
Those hearts of ours — how lone! how lone!
Ever, forever, they mourn and moan;
Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer;
The revelry o’er, they’re all the more drear.
Those hearts of ours — how warm! how warm!
Like the sun’s bright rays, like the Summer’s charm;
How they beam and burn! how they gleam and glow
Their flash and flame hide but ashes below.
Those hearts of ours — how cold! how cold!
Like December’s snow on the waste or wold;
And though our Decembers melt soon into May,
Hearts know Decembers that pass not away.
Those hearts of ours — how deep! how deep!
You may sound the sea where the corals sleep,
Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled —
Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold.
Where the wild storm’s tramp hath ne’er been known
The wrecks of the sea lie low and lone;
Thus the heart’s surface may sparkle and glow,
There are wrecks far down — there are graves below.
Those hearts of ours — but, after all,
How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small;
Like scantiest streamlet or Summer’s least rill,
They’re as easy to empty — as easy to fill.
One hour of storm and how the streams pour! One hour of sun and the streams are no more; One little grief — how the tears gush and glide! One smile — flow they ever so fast, they are dried.
Those hearts of ours — how wise! how wise!
They can lift their thoughts till they touch the skies;
They can sink their shafts, like a miner bold,
Where wisdom’s mines hide their pearls and gold.
Aloft they soar with undazzled gaze,
Where the halls of the Day-King burn and blaze;
Or they fly with a wing that will never fail,
O’er the sky’s dark sea where the star-ships sail.
Those hearts of ours — what fools! what fools! How they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules! How they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieve For what they have squandered, but cannot retrieve.
Those hearts of ours — how strong! how strong!
Let a thousand sorrows around them throng,
They can bear them all, and a thousand more,
And they’re stronger then than they were before.
Those hearts of ours — how weak! how weak!
But a single word of unkindness speak,
Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper’s fang,
That one slight word leaves a life-long pang.
Those hearts of ours — but I’ve said enough,
As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough;
I’ll rest me now, but I’ll come again
Some other day, to resume my strain.