Poems: Patriotic, Religious, Miscellaneous

by Abram Joseph Ryan

"At last the cloister's angel disappeared;
Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed —
Her words were missed where every day we met
In recreation's hour. And those who passed
The angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe
A prayer that death might pass the angel by
And let her longer stay, for she lay ill —
Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away.
Ah! many were the orisons that rose
From all our hearts that God might spare her still;
At Benediction and at holy Mass
Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went
To heaven for her; we did love her so —
Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps
Our love was far too human. Slow and slow
She faded like a flower. And slow and slow
Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow
Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim.
Hope died on all our faces; but on her's
Another and a different hope did shine,
And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose
That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end.
Never such silence o'er the cloister hung —
We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke,
Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound
Might jar upon her ear. The sisters watched
In turns beside her couch; to each she gave
A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look.
At times her mind did wander; no wild words
Escaped her lips — she seemed to float away
To far-gone days, and live again in scenes
Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep
She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words
About her mother; and sometimes she sang
The fragments of sweet olden songs — and when
She woke again, she timidly would ask
If she had spoken in her sleep, and what
She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear
That sleep might open there some long-closed gate
She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud,
A golden cloud upon a summer's day,
Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea,
So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve,
The fourteenth day of August, when the sun
Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud
Around him on descending day's bright throne,
She sent for me and bade me come in haste.
I went into her cell. There was a light
Upon her face, unearthly; and it shone
Like gleam of star upon a dying rose.
I sat beside her couch, and took her hand
In mine — a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd
Of flesh — so wasted, white and wan it was.
Her great, brown, wond'ring eyes had sunk away
Deep in their sockets — and their light shone dim
As tapers dying on an altar. Soft
As a dream of beauty on me fell low,
Last words.
`Mother, the tide is ebbing fast;
But ere it leaves this shore to cross the deep
And seek another, calmer, I would say
A few last words — and, Mother, I would ask
One favor more, which thou wilt not refuse.
Thou wert a mother to the orphan girl,
Thou gav'st her heart a home, her love a vase,
Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine —
And thou didst love me, Mother, as she loved
Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away —
But no, it is not far — that other heaven
Touches this, Mother; I have felt its touch,
And now I feel its clasp upon my soul.
I'm going from this heaven into that,
To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all.
It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast.
My soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds
To sing the second Vespers of the day
With all the angels. Mother, ere I go,
Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words,
Which, like all last words, tell whate'er was first
In life or tenderest in heart. I came
Unto my convent cell and virgin veil,
Sent by a spirit that had touched my own
As wings of angels touch — to fly apart
Upon their missions — till they meet again
In heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing.
The "Angel of the Cloister" you called me —
Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name —
My mission's over — and your angel goes
To-morrow home. This earthly part which stays
You'll lay away within a simple grave —
But, Mother, on its slab thou'lt grave this name,
"Ullainee!" (she spelt the letters out),
Nor ask me why — tho' if thou wilt I'll tell;
It is my soul name, given long ago
By one who found it in some Eastern book,
Or dreamt it in a dream, and gave it me —
Nor ever told the meaning of the name;
And, Mother, should he ever come and read
That name upon my grave, and come to thee
And ask the tidings of "Ullainee",
Thou'lt tell him all — and watch him if he weeps,
Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved —
Show him the picture in the chapel choir —
And watch him if he weeps; and then
There are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer;'
(She pointed to the table in her room);
`Some words of mine and words of his are there.
And keep these simple scrolls until he comes,
And put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch —
Watch him if he weeps; and tell him this:
I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice,
I kissed my cross a thousand times a day,
I hung and bled upon it in my dreams,
I lived on it — I loved it to the last.' And then
A low, soft sigh crept thro' the virgin's cell;
I looked upon her face, and death was there."
There was a pause — and in the pause one wave
Of shining tears swept thro' the Mother's eyes.
"And thus," she said, "our angel passed away.
We buried her, and at her last request
We wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee'.
And I — (for she asked me one day thus,
The day she hung her picture in the choir) —
I planted o'er her grave a white rose tree.
The roses crept around the slab and hid
The graven name — and still we sometimes cull
Her sweet, white roses, and we place them on
Our Chapel-Altar."
Then the Mother rose,
Without another word, and led him thro'
A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs
Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge
Noiselessly — then into a Chapel dim,
On gospel side of which there was a gate
From ceiling down to floor, and back of that
A long and narrow choir, with many stalls,
Brown-oaken; all along the walls were hung
Saint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon
The faces of the Sisters in their prayers.
Beside a "Mater Dolorosa" hung
The picture of the "Angel of the Choir".
He sees it now thro' vista of the years,
Which stretch between him and that long-gone day,
It hangs within his memory as fresh
In tint and touch and look as long ago.
There was a power in it, as if the soul
Of her who painted it had shrined in it
Its very self; there was a spell in it
That fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes,
And made him dream of God's own holy heart.
The shadow of the picture, in weak words,
Was this, or something very like to this:
—— A wild, weird wold,
Just like the desolation of a heart,
Stretched far away into infinity;
Above it low, gray skies drooped sadly down,
As if they fain would weep, and all was bare
As bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stood
All mantled with the glory of a light
That flashed from out the heavens, and a cross
With such a pale Christ hanging in its arms
Did crown the mount; and either side the cross
There were two crosses lying on the rocks —
One of the whitest roses — ULLAINEE
Was woven into it with buds of Red;
And one of reddest roses — Merlin's name
Was woven into it with buds of white.
Below the cross and crosses and the mount
The earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear;
Above, a golden glory seemed to hang
Like God's own benediction o'er the names.
I saw the picture once; it moved me so
I ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth;
But words as weak as mine can never paint
That Crucifixion's picture.
Merlin said to me:
"Some day — some far-off day — when I am dead,
You have the simple rhymings of two hearts,
And if you think it best, the world may know
A love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE."

Night After the Picnic

And "Happy! Happy! Happy!"
Rang the bells of all the hours;
"Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!"
Looked and listened all the flowers;
They were wakened from their slumbers,
By the footsteps of the fair;
And they smiled in their awaking
On the faces gathered there.

"Brightly! Brightly! Brightly!"
Looked the overhanging trees,
For beneath their bending branches
Floated tresses in the breeze.
And they wondered who had wandered
With such voices and so gay;
And their leaflets seemed to whisper
To each other: "Who are they?"

They were just like little children,
Not a sorrow's shade was there;
And "Merry! Merry! Merry!"
Rang their laughter thro' the air.
There was not a brow grief-darkened,
Was there there a heart in pain?
But "Happy! Happy! Happy!"
Came the happy bells' refrain.

When the stately trees were bending
O'er a simple, quiet home,
That looked humble as an altar,
Nestling 'neath a lofty dome;
Thither went they gaily! gaily!
Where their coming was a joy,
Just to pass away together
One long day without alloy.

"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!"
Melted morning's mist away,
Till the sun, in all its splendor,
Lit the borders of the bay.
"Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!"
Glanced the waters that were gray,
While the wavelets whispered "Welcome!"
To us all that happy day.

And "Happy! Happy! Happy!"
Rang the bell in every heart,
And it chimed, "All day let no one
Think that ye shall ever part.
Go and sip from every moment
Sweets to perfume many years;
Keep your feast, and be too happy
To have thought of any tears."

There was song with one's soul in it,
And the happy hearts grew still
While they leaned upon the music
Like fair lilies o'er the rill;
Till the notes had softly floated
Into silent seas away
O'er the wavelets, where they listened
While they rocked upon the bay.

And —— "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!"
When the song's sweet life was o'er,
Drooped the eyes that will remember
All its echoes evermore.
And "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!"
Beat the hearts of some, I ween,
That can see the unseen mystery
Which a song may strive to screen.