Abram Joseph Ryan

Silently -- shadowly -- some lives go, And the sound of their voices is all unheard; Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow

Be you near, or be you far, Let my blessing, like a star, Shine upon you everywhere!

Before an Altar I wish I were the little key That locks Love's Captive in,

They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng

Crushed with a burden of woe, Wrecked in the tempest of sin: Death came, and two lips murmured low,

Star! Star, why dost thou shine Each night upon my brow? Why dost thou make me dream the dreams

"A land without ruins is a land without memories -- a land without memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see;

The brook that down the valley So musically drips, Flowed never half so brightly

He walked alone beside the lonely sea, The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face, His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands

One bright memory shines like a star In the sky of my spirit forever; And over my pathway it flashes afar

Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream

His face was sad; some shadow must have hung Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark,

Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Why ask when the night only knoweth? The night -- and the angel of sleep!

Those hearts of ours -- how strange! how strange! How they yearn to ramble and love to range Down through the vales of the years long gone,

"O Songs!" I said: "Stop sounding in my soul Just for a little while and let me sleep,

Pure faced page! waiting so long To welcome my muse and me; Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song

Hearts that are great beat never loud, They muffle their music when they come; They hurry away from the thronging crowd

The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory may be sweet; 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed

I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief Who fears not human rage, nor human guile; Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief,

I nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever and no more; I think I heard the awful hinges grate,

Into a temple vast and dim, Solemn and vast and dim, Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn

Dreary! weary! Weary! dreary! Sighs my soul this lonely night.

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousand fold, Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us;

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! Woe are we! woe are we! And the nights are ages long!

Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the sunshine of gladness, Into the light of the blest;

I love my mother, the wildwood, I sleep upon her breast; A day or two of childhood,

Waileth a woman, "O my God!" A breaking heart in a broken breath, A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death!

The moan of a wintry soul Melted into a summer song, And the words, like the wavelet's roll,

Over the silent sea of sleep, Far away! far away! Over a strange and starlit deep

Go, words of mine! and if you live Only for one brief, little day; If peace, or joy, or calm you give

Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! Lift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore,

"Far Away!" what does it mean? A change of heart with a change of place? When footsteps pass from scene to scene,

They are so sad to say: no poem tells The agony of hearts that dwells In lone and last farewells.

Dark!    Dark!    Dark! The sun is set; the day is dead: Thy Feast has fled;

The priests stood waiting in the holy place, Impatient of delay (Isaiah had been read),

Two lights on a lowly altar; Two snowy cloths for a Feast; Two vases of dying roses;

"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore; next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination." To-day -- fifty years at the altar -- Thou art, as of old, at thy post!

The Master's voice was sweet: "I gave My life for thee; Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss,

Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: He walks the world; He puts His holy hand On every sleeper -- only puts His hand --

S. M. A. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into far away;

O Heart of Three-in-the evening, You nestled the thorn-crowned head; He leaned on you in His sorrow,

Thine eyes are dim: A mist hath gathered there; Around their rim

Some find work where some find rest, And so the weary world goes on: I sometimes wonder which is best;

Go! heart of mine! the way is long -- The night is dark -- the place is far; Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song,

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping In thy lonely battle grave; Shadows o'er the past are creeping,

Father Keeler died February 28, 1880, in Mobile, Ala. Inscribed to his sister. "Sweet Christ! let him live, ah! we need his life,

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest that wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away,

Superior General of the Congregation of the Mission and of the Sisters of Charity. A shadow slept folded in vestments, The dream of a smile on its face,

In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry "O God! give more of rest and less of night," My words may rest you; and mayhap a light

At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The sunshine of the home of truth

What has been will be, 'Tis the under law of life; 'Tis the song of sky and sea,

Between two pillared clouds of gold The beautiful gates of evening swung -- And far and wide from flashing fold

Winter on the mountains Summer on the shore, The robes of sun-gleams woven,

To the Children of Mary of the Cathedral of Mobile In the mystical dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the day,

A baby played with the surplice sleeve Of a gentle priest; while in accents low, The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe,"

Two loves came up a long, wide aisle, And knelt at a low, white gate; One -- tender and true, with the shyest smile,

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, And ask of them why do they sigh? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er,

Sometimes, from the far-away, Wing a little thought to me; In the night or in the day,

The death of men is not the death Of rights that urged them to the fray; For men may yield

The world is sweet, and fair, and bright, And joy aboundeth everywhere, The glorious stars crown every night,

We borrow, In our sorrow, From the sun of some to-morrow

When I am dead, and all will soon forget My words, and face, and ways -- I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet

Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust

They come, as the breeze comes over the foam, Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep -- The fairest of memories from far-away home,

The olden golden stories of the world, That stirred the past, And now are dim as dreams,

Oft within our little cottage, As the shadows gently fall, While the sunlight touches softly

Sweet, blessed beads! I would not part With one of you for richest gem That gleams in kingly diadem;

Each year cometh with all his days, Some are shadowed and some are bright; He beckons us on until he stays

And "Happy! Happy! Happy!" Rang the bells of all the hours; "Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!"

Betimes, I seem to see in dreams What when awake I may not see; Can night be God's more than the day?

I sit to-night by the firelight, And I look at the glowing flame, And I see in the bright red flashes

Sometimes a single hour Rings thro' a long life-time, As from a temple tower

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom There's many a warrior laid, And many a nameless and lonely tomb

Only a Dream! It floated thro' The sky of a lonely sleep

Lost!    Lost!    Lost! The cry went up from a sea -- The waves were wild with an awful wrath,

Farewell! that word has broken hearts And blinded eyes with tears; Farewell! one stays, and one departs;

Life's Vesper-bells are ringing In the temple of my heart, And yon sunset, sure, is singing

Sometimes the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark; For, oh! His eyes are this world's only light, And when they close wild waves rush on His bark,

Poets are strange -- not always understood By many is their gift, Which is for evil or for mighty good --

"My Sister" Cometh a voice from a far-land! Beautiful, sad, and low;

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed -- And I desire, what I have long desired --

[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.] Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountains' height;

Only a few more years! Weary years! Only a few more tears!

We laugh when our souls are the saddest, We shroud all our griefs in a smile; Our voices may warble their gladdest,

One idle day -- A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore -- In a breezeless bay,

To-day a bird on wings as white as foam That crests the blue-gray wave, With the vesper light upon its breast, flew home

Far from "where the roses rest", Round the altar and the aisle, Which I loved, of all, the best --

Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest? And tell me why you never go to sleep? Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed --

When falls the soldier brave, Dead at the feet of wrong, The poet sings and guards his grave

In the valley of my life Sings a "Singing-Bird", And its voice thro' calm and strife

'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en -- Hour of fairy and of wraith, When in many a dim-lit green,

I walk down the Valley of Silence -- Down the dim, voiceless valley -- alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep

A river went singing adown to the sea, A-singing -- low -- singing -- And the dim rippling river said softly to me,

Sorrow: A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom, And only bloom to fade as fast away,

Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art now a golden wave

Sweet heaven's smile Gleamed o'er the isle, That gems the dreamy sea.

Back to where the roses rest Round a shrine of holy name, (Yes -- they knew me when I came)

First champion of the Crucified! Who, when the fight began Between the Church and worldly pride

They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days, With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; And thro' the dark we grope along our ways

Weary hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of life oppressed, Ye are wand'ring in the shadows -- ye are sighing for a rest: There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below,

The tears that trickled down our eyes, They do not touch the earth to-day; But soar like angels to the skies,

The sunshine of thy Father's fame Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes, And flashes sometimes when his name

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best;

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil And surpliced the city in white; I wonder who wove the pure flakelets?

Land of the gentle and brave! Our love is as wide as thy woe; It deepens beside every grave

The waves were weary, and they went to sleep; The winds were hushed; The starlight flushed

How swift they go, Life's many years, With their winds of woe

The shades of night were brooding O'er the sea, the earth, the sky; The passing winds were wailing

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives; Ah me! God makes him so -- The sea hath its ebb and flow,

Not as of one whom multitudes admire, I believe they call him great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire;

Lines addressed to the daughter of Richard Dalton Williams. Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song! The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins;

My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! My face is wan and white with many woes! But I will lift my poor chained hands to God,

Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art; But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,

Nature is but the outward vestibule Which God has placed before an unseen shrine, The Visible is but a fair, bright vale

Flower! Flower, why repine? God knows each creature's place; He hides within me when I shine,

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight,

Two little children played among the flowers, Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; The children's ages were the very same

By sound of name, and touch of hand, Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, We know each other in this land,

Just when the gentle hand of spring Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf, And when the blades the warm suns bring

Your past is past and never to return, The long bright yesterday of life's first years, Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn.

Brief while they last, Long when they are gone; They catch from the past

God knows all things -- but we In darkness walk our ways; We wonder what will be,

Out of the silences wake me a song, Beautiful, sad, and soft, and low; Let the loveliest music sound along,

"What ails the world?" the poet cried; "And why does death walk everywhere? And why do tears fall anywhere?

At the golden gates of the visions I knelt me adown one day; But sudden my prayer was a silence,

Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds sing,

Wilt pray for me? They tell me I have Fame; I plead with thee,

The winds are singing a death-knell Out on the main to-night; The sky droops low -- and many a bark

Gone! and they return no more, But they leave a light in the heart; The murmur of waves that kiss a shore

From the mystic sidereal spaces, In the noon of a night 'mid of May, Came a spirit that murmured to me --