This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit Until in death his patient eye grew dim, And his Redeemer called him to inherit The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. So, if I ever win the home in heaven In the great company of the forgiven BABYHOOD WHAT is the little one thinking about? Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Our little nephew will lose two years; Where the summers go; Presses his hand and buries his face Though she murmur the words Words she has learned to murmur well? There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth. Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. In the light of that star Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King. We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request. Peace dwells not here, - this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, Dread scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time. O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou; His words are parcel of mankind, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. DIRGE FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE ROOM for a soldier ! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: Where the rain may rain upon it, Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches, Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches: Make his mound with sunshine on it. Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over: Where the rain may rain upon it, Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep; And that mysterious tie a mother bears. She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed; Set her down gently at the iron door! Eyes look on that loved image for the last: Now cover it in earth, her earth no more. HER EPITAPH THE handful here, that once was Mary's earth, Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul, That, when she died, all recognized her birth, And had their sorrow in serene control. "Not here! not here !" to every mourner's heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; |