And I know, when I enter softly
And pause at that shrine to pray,
That the fret and the strife and the burden
Will be softened and laid away.
And the Prayer and the Vow that sealed it
Have bound my soul to that shrine,
For the Mother of Sorrows remembers
Her promise, and waits for mine.
It is one long chaplet of memories,
Tender and true and sweet,
That gleam in the Past and the distance
Like lamps that burn at her feet.
Like stars that will shine for ever,
For time cannot touch or stir
The graces that Mary has given,
Or the trust that we give to her.
Past griefs are perished and over,
Past joys have vanished and died,
Past loves are fled and forgotten,
Past hopes have been laid aside,
Past fears have faded in daylight,
Past sins have melted in tears;
One love and remembrance only
Seems alive in those dead old years.
So wherever I look in the distance,
And whenever I turn to the Past,
There is always a shrine of Mary
Each brighter still than the last.
I will ask for one grace, O Mother,
And will leave the rest to thy will:
From one shrine of thine to another,
Let my life be a Pilgrimage still!
At each one, O Mother of Mercy!
Let still more of thy love be given,
Till I kneel at the last and brightest,—
The Throne of the Queen of Heaven!
By A. A. PROCTER.
ARE we not Nobles? we who trace
Our pedigree so high
That God for us and for our race
Created Earth and Sky,
And Light and Air and Time and Space
To serve us and then die.
Are we not Princes ? we who stand
As heirs beside the Throne;
We who can call the promised Land
Our heritage, our own;
And answer to no less command
Than God's and His alone.
Are we not Kings? both night and day From early until late,
About our beds, about our way
A guard of Angels wait;
And so we watch and work and pray
In more than royal state.
Are we not holy? Do not start:
It is God's sacred Will
To call us Temples set apart
His Holy Ghost may fill:
Our very food. . . . O hush, my heart, Adore It and be still!
Are we not more? our life shall be
Immortal and divine,
The nature Mary gave to Thee,
Dear Jesus, still is Thine; Adoring in Thy Heart I see
Such blood as beats in mine.
O God, that we can dare to fail,
And dare to say we must!
O God, that we can ever trail
Such banners in the dust,
Can let such starry honours pale,
And such a blazon rust!
Shall we upon such titles bring
The taint of sin and shame ?
Shall we, the children of the King
Who hold so grand a claim,
Tarnish by any meaner thing
The glory of our name?
LET me count my treasures,
All my soul holds dear,
Given me by dark spirits
Whom I used to fear.
Through long days of anguish,
And sad nights, did Pain
Forge my shield, Endurance,
Bright and free from stain!
Doubt, in misty caverns,
'Mid dark horrors sought,
Till my peerless jewel,
Faith, to me she brought.
Sorrow, that I wearied
Should remain so long,
Wreathed my starry glory,
The bright Crown of Song.
Strife, that racked my spirit
Without hope or rest,
Left the blooming flower,
Patience, on my breast.
Suffering, that I dreaded,
Ignorant of her charms,
Laid the fair child, Pity,
Smiling in my arms.
So I count my treasures,
Stored in days long past,-
And I thank the givers,
Whom I know at last!
JUDGE not; the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,
In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sight,
May be a token, that below,
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe,
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The fall thou darest to despise-
May be the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that
may raise
This soul to God in after days!
A LEGEND.
By A. A. PROCTER.
THE Monk was preaching; strong his earnest word;
From the abundance of his heart he spoke,
And the flame spread,-in every soul that heard,
Sorrow and love and good resolve awoke :-
The poor lay Brother, ignorant and old,
Thanked God that he had heard such words of gold.
"Still let the glory, Lord, be Thine alone,'
So prayed the Monk, his heart absorbed in praise; "Thine be the glory: if my hands have sown
The harvest ripened in Thy mercy's rays,
It was Thy blessing, Lord, that made my word
Bring light and love to every soul that heard.
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