Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous

by Abram Joseph Ryan

"She was a child
Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave,
And who has filled it long — and yet it seems
To me but one short hour ago we laid
Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around
Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet.
We often look for her in places where
Her face was wont to be: among the flowers,
In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years
Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet
It seems to hover here and haunt us all.
I cannot tell you all. It is enough
To see one ray of light for us to judge
The glory of the sun; it is enough
To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue
For us to know the beauty of the sky.
It is enough to tell a little part
Of her most holy life, that you may know
The hidden grace and splendor of the whole."

"Nay, nay," he interrupted her; "all! all!
Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother."

She went on,
Unheeding his abruptness:
"One sweet day —
A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month
Of May, at early morn, ere yet the dew
Had passed from off the flowers and grass — ere yet
Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came,
With summons quick, unto our convent gate
A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew —
Another dew was moist within her eyes —
Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me
And as I went she rushed into my arms —
Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch
That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed
Until I thought her very soul would rush
From her frail body, in a sob, to God.
I let her sob her sorrow all away.
My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs
Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died
In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat
In this same room — and gently spoke to her,
And held her hand in mine — and soothed her
With words of sympathy, until she seemed
As tranquil as myself.

"And then I asked:
`What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?'
`Mother!' she said, `wilt let me wear the veil?
Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve
Him in this cloistered place? I pray to be —
Unworthy tho' I be — to be His spouse.
Nay, Mother — say not nay — 'twill break a heart
Already broken;' and she looked on me
With those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more,
More strongly and more sadly than her lips
That I might grant her sudden, strange request.
`Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. `I had,'
She said, `but heaven has her now; and thou
Wilt be my mother — and the orphan girl
Will make her life her thanks.'
`Thy father, child?'
`Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.'
`And hast nor sister nor brother?' `No,' she said,
`God gave my mother only me; one year
This very day He parted us.' `Poor child,'
I murmured. `Nay, kind Sister,' she replied,
`I have much wealth — they left me ample means —
I have true friends who love me and protect.
I was a minor until yesterday;
But yesterday all guardianship did cease,
And I am mistress of myself and all
My worldly means — and, Sister, they are thine
If thou but take myself — nay — don't refuse.'
`Nay — nay — my child!' I said; `the only wealth
We wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace.
Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate,
Or buy a single thread of Virgin's veil.
Not all the coins in coffers of a king
Could bribe an entrance here for any one.
God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil,
For any one He sends.
Who sent you here,
My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one
Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief?
Or, mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps,
A sickly weariness of that bright world
Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.'
`Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke.
`Who sent you, then?'
`A youthful Christ,' she said,
`Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ,
Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure —
Would have been His own gentle John; and would
Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast,
And stood on Friday eve beneath His cross
To take His Mother from Him when He died.
He sent me here — he said the word last night
In my own garden; this the word he said —
Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear!
Your heart was born with veil of virgin on;
I hear it rustle every time we meet,
In all your words and smiles; and when you weep
I hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil —
And outward be what inwardly thou art,
And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list:
My heart was born with priestly vestments on,
And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood,
And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep —
And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host,
A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt,
Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel say —
Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart
Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine.
My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night
To climb our Calvary and to meet in God;
And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane —
And He is here, who, in that other, bled;
And they are here who came to comfort Him —
His angels and our own; and His great prayer,
Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then:
Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil
And I my vestments." He did send me here.'

"She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upon
Her closing words and softened them to sighs.
I listened, inward moved, but outward calm and cold
To the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said:
`I see it is a love-tale after all,
With much of folly and some of fact in it;
It is a heart affair, and in such things
There's little logic, and there's less of sense.
You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head
Outside the gates; nay, go, and find the head
You lost last night — and then, I am quite sure,
You'll not be anxious to confine your heart
Within this cloistered place.'
She seemed to wince
Beneath my words one moment — then replied:
`If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here,
Dost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more?
If merely warmth of feelings urged me here,
Dost thou do well to chill them into ice?
And were I disappointed in yon world,
Should that debar me from a purer place?
You say it is a love-tale — so it is;
The vase was human — but the flower divine;
And if I break the vase with my own hands,
Will you forbid that I should humbly ask
The heart of God to be my lily's vase?
I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth
Save his who yesternight did send me here
To dip it in the very blood of Christ,
And plant it here.'
And then she sobbed outright
A long, deep sob.
I gently said to her:
`Nay, child, I spoke to test thee — do not weep.
If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come
And find e'en here a home. But God is slow
In all His works and ways, and slower still
When He would deck a bride to grace His court.
Go, now, and in one year — if thou dost come
Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee;
Nay — urge me not — it is our holy rule —
A year of trial! I must to choir, and thou
Into the world to watch and wait and pray
Until the Bridegroom comes.'
She rose and went
Without a word.

"And twelvemonth after came,
True to the very day and hour, and said:
`Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago?
Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil?
Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again?
I came once with my wealth and was refused:
And now I come as poor as Holy Christ
Who had no place to rest His weary head —
My wealth is gone; I offered it to him
Who sent me here; he sent me speedy word
"Give all unto the poor in quiet way —
And hide the giving — ere you give yourself
To God!" `Wilt take me now for my own sake?
I bring my soul — 'tis little worth I ween,
And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.'

"`My child,' I said, `thrice welcome — enter here;
A few short days of silence and of prayer,
And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'

"Her novice days went on; much sickness fell
Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks
In awful agonies, and no one heard
A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile
A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide
Her sufferings from us all. When she was well
She was the first to meet the hour of prayer —
The last to leave it — and they named her well:
The `Angel of the Cloister'. Once I heard
The Father of our souls say when she passed
`Beneath that veil of sacrificial black
She wears the white robe of her innocence.'
And we — we believed it. There are sisters here
Of three-score years of service who would say:
`Within our memory never moved a veil
That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.'
And we — we felt it, and we loved her so,
We treated her as angel and as child.
I never heard her speak about the past,
I never heard her mention e'en a name
Of any in the world. She little spake;
She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew
Absent-minded, and would come and ask me
To walk alone and say her Rosary
Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine;
And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed
The very heart of song was breaking on her lips.
The dower of her mind as of her heart,
Was of the richest, and she mastered art
By instinct more than study. Her weak hands
Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful.
There is a picture hanging in our choir
She painted. I remember well the morn
She came to me and told me she had dreamt
A dream; then asked me would I let her paint
Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks
Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day
She kept her cell all busy with her work.
At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth —
A picture my poor words may not portray.
But you must gaze on it with your own eyes,
And drink its magic and its meanings in;
I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.

"In every May for two whole days she kept
Her cell. We humored her in that; but when
The days had passed, and she came forth again,
Her face was tender as a lily's leaf,
With God's smile on it; and for days and days
Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips
Save when in prayer, and then her every look
Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God
Strange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did.

"I half forgot — on yonder mantlepiece
You see that wondrous crucifix; one year
She spent on it, and begged to put beneath
That most mysterious word — `Ullainee'.