"I plucked it in an idle hour,
And placed it in my book of prayer;
'Tis not the only passion flower
That hath been crushed and hidden there.
And now through floods of burning tears
My withered bloom once more I see,
And I lament the long, long years,
The wasted years afar from Thee."
From a poem entitled "Gethsemane" we cull this most beautiful and truly sublime thought.
"'Tis said that every earthly sound
Goes trembling through the voiceless spheres,
Bearing its endless echoes round
The pathway of eternal years.
Ah! surely, then, the sighs that He
That midnight breathed, the zephyrs bore
From thy dim shades, Gethsemane,
To thrill the world for evermore!"
And who can read the following without emotion?
My Soldier Comes No More
"Yes, many a heart is light to-day,
And bright is many a home,
And children dance along the way
The soldier heroes come:
And bands beneath the floral arch
The gladdest music pour;
While beats my heart a funeral march—
My soldier comes no more.
One morn from him glad tidings came,
Joy to my heart they gave;
At night I read my hero's name
Amid the fallen brave.
I know not where he met the foe,
Nor where he sleeps in gore;
Enough of woe for me to know,
My soldier comes no more.
Now here they come with heavy tramp,
And flags and pennons gay,
Who were his comrades in the camp,
His friends for many a day.
The music ceases as they pass
Before my cottage door;
The flags are lowered; they know, alas!
My soldier comes no more.
What care I for the seasons now?
The world has lost its light:
No spring can clothe my leafless bough,
No morn dispel my night;
No longer may I hopeful wait
For summer to restore:
My heart and home are desolate—
My soldier comes no more.
Judging from such poems as "The Tress of Golden Hair," "Adrift," "The Stranger's Grave," and other pieces suggested by some ordinary accident in life, Mrs. Howarth possesses one of those finely strung natures which, like the AEolian harp, are moved to give forth harmony at the slightest breath that passes. The former title of her book, "The Wind Harp," was, to our thinking, singularly appropriate. The present volume is published in first-class style.
An Epistle Of Jesus Christ To The Faithful Soul.
Written in Latin
by Joannes Lanspergius, a Charter-House Monk, and translated into English by Lord Philip, XIXth Earl of Arundel.
New York: Catholic Publication Society.
This little book will be hailed by the faithful soul who desires to increase very much in the love of God, as if it were, what its title expresses, a letter written by the Saviour of the world himself, and addressed to him personally. It embodies the very, spirit and life of his instructions, and teaches us practically how to carry out in a systematic way the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount. It is easy to read that divine sermon in a sentimental way, to feel somewhat good while reading it, but without gathering much of its meaning, or with any desire to practise it any more than may be convenient. This book will not be very palatable to such persons. It contains the strong meat for vigorous and earnest souls, rather than the light and unsubstantial froth which merely nourishes a sickly sentimentalism. We do not doubt there are thousands of devout persons in this country who would find in this little work an invaluable treasure, and, once possessing it, they would on no account be willing to part with it. They would find its directions plain and simple, and eminently fitted to lift them up out of a low spirituality to the highest state of religious peace and perfection. Would to God this notice may meet their eye, so that they may not be without it. We need just such books now in this country, to serve to make a number of saints and saintly persons, who shall draw down from heaven a benediction on not only themselves, but on the church of God and all our fellow-citizens. May more of them be drawn out of the storehouse of old true Catholic piety and devotion, for our spiritual joy and edification.