Freedom, Truth And Beauty Part 15

THE PROFITEERS

Now and in life--not Virgil--breaks a storm Of Harpies, harsh to ear and foul to smell.

It sweeps War's lengthening coast, where each sea-swell Is Humans, gasping. Hope drags each cold form From hearth to hearth, to find no ember warm; Then, their eyes glitter frost, who hear hope yell As up she climbs the rocks and falls pell-mell Back from small herbs, where monsters swoop and swarm.

Oh, could the b.e.s.t.i.a.l birds, in Virgil's verse, See Hope's hands redden, as she rends her hair, They would grow human--would not glut, but share; Nor, then, shed human semblance for man's curse-- As ye do, who from want, hold warmth and fair, And gorge your bulks to sleep, as want writhes worse!

WHY THE STARS LAUGH

Hark! 'tis the laughter of the stars at Earth, And Nature's, too, with every pitch of voice.

Earth's carnival of sheer grotesque and noise, Where, gagged and manacled, walk Peace and Mirth, Shows Britain now, a beast of broadening girth, Set out to crush World Freedom. He destroys, And thinks his bear-like rearing, planet poise That is to influence the world's new birth.

The stars are kind, as all the ages know; The sense of humor twinkles in their eyes, At Earth's strange follies; but this beast would try To thrust aside the planets, and make woe, The fortune of World Freedom! That is why The stars laugh, and all nature jeers the show.

PRAYER FOR WORLD PEACE

Lord, not Thy work, the World's calamities, But Man's. If Human Will revolt from Thine, It flees Thy region, where the stars all s.h.i.+ne With longing to let down the Azure's Peace-- To dash its hosts from summits into seas, Where Empires are the breakers. There the brine Is anguish, and there Triumph leaves no sign, Save wreck on rock, and Plague, adrift on breeze.

When Nations turn from Light, in thought, or life, Their speed is brink-ward, save Thy Mercy stay; For all is precipice, except Thy way.

Help, Lord, for here is heightening surge of strife; Here, clouds turn floods, coasts are wind-whirled, like spray, And lightenings, hurling back thy light, are rife.

RELIGION

Religion is Ascension. 'Tis the flights Of souls to summits of the true and wise.

One, witnessing the generations rise, Sees them a s.h.i.+ne at countless, different heights, Where they, responding to their inner lights, Glow, like the clouds at morn, with graded dyes.

If summits, there are depths; if virtue, vice; Hence, 'tis life's rise from falls, that judgment sights.

Witnessed, or not, there is no age, nor climb, But souls arise as bloom, where earth is treed; As warm, red rays, where cold from mountaining need; As burst and spread of planets, where dark crime; Nay, rise to poise above the star's top speed To G.o.d, like larks, in praise for life and time.

THE GOLDEN JUBILEE OF SISTERS OF CHARITY

I

How thy Half Century s.h.i.+nes over head!

'Tis an unfading rain-bow, one whose dyes Are richer and more numerous to the eyes Of Angels, than to ours. Its rays, if spread Above a flood of sin and world of dead, Give to the drowned, new life, new earth, new skies.

Night counts her stars, but falters, when souls rise Bright with the Grace which G.o.d's annointed shed.

Belov'd Irene, how great our joy to see Thine arch, aglow with virtue's every hue!

Oh, how much more must they rejoice, who view From inner Heaven, the arch that is for thee, Triumphal! for than vows like thine, lived true, No grander arch from earth to heaven could be.

II

The "Church Triumphant" s.h.i.+nes in lives like thine, Calista! 'Tis the Saints' procession, shown In Dante's vision, near Lord Jesus' throne, In greatening splendor, never to decline.

Ah, if our minds grow dark, our hearts repine, How, from sweet lives, dear Sister, like thine own, Be-Mothering with mercy all who moan, A light comes, and a warmth is in its s.h.i.+ne.

We shade our eyes, as when we face the Sun On level with the earth, at lives all love-- The Church Triumphant, as in Heaven above!

Aye, lives all love for Christ, in every one Who suffers wrong, or any pain thereof, As on His Throne--such lives as thine, dear Nun.

WINIFRED HOLT, THE LIFESAVER OF THE BLIND

Once, blindness was a burning s.h.i.+p at sea, With panic-stricken souls on every deck.

The flame blew inward on that awful wreck, Burning the hopes that make life glad and free.

Ah! then, through thee, it was, Philanthropy, Who trains her searchlight on the smallest speck And Speed out boats, like horses, neck to neck, Reached the dark hulk and thrilled its crew with glee.

The flame is quenched, that burned out heart and brain.

The s.h.i.+p where woe was mute, is loud with joy.

Hark! hear the cheer on board, and cry, "Ahoy!"

As fast the sails are hoisted, and the main Tides back toward hope for every girl and boy, Who, else, might reach no star of night's whole train.

A CHOICE

Above and under life, eternally, A subtle light and dark run parallel.

One prompts men to build Beauty, cell by cell, In Home, Religion, State, Society; The other, to destroy the fair they see.

Like Spring, wilt thou roof Earth with bloom and dwell Thereunder? or, with Scalping Winter's yell, Scour grove and bush? Choose--how else art thou free?

If Freedom is the gift of the all-wise, It is because he will not have a slave To serve Him. Which wilt thou be, base or brave?

With Morn, climb, or, with Night, skulk down the skies To grope in caverns, or beneath the wave, Creep, till aghast at monsters that arise?