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Last of May

by Abram Joseph Ryan

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,

The sunlight spoke soft to the shadows,

And said: "With my gold and your gray,

Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin,

And ere her fair feast pass away,

Let us weave there a mantle of glory,

To deck the last evening of May."

The tapers were lit on the altar,

With garlands of lilies between;

And the steps leading up to the statue

Flashed bright with the roses' red sheen;

The sun-gleams came down from the heavens

Like angels, to hallow the scene,

And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows

That crept to the shrine of the Queen.

The singers, their hearts in their voices,

Had chanted the anthems of old,

And the last trembling wave of the Vespers

On the far shores of silence had rolled.

And there -- at the Queen-Virgin's altar --

The sun wove the mantle of gold

While the hands of the twilight were weaving

A fringe for the flash of each fold.

And wavelessly, in the deep silence,

Three banners hung peaceful and low --

They bore the bright blue of the heavens,

They wore the pure white of the snow

And beneath them fair children were kneeling,

Whose faces, with graces aglow,

Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful,

And woeless, in life full of woe.

Their heads wore the veil of the lily,

Their brows wore the wreath of the rose,

And their hearts like their flutterless banners,

Were stilled in a holy repose.

Their shadowless eyes were uplifted,

Whose glad gaze would never disclose

That from eyes that are most like the heavens

The dark rain of tears soonest flows.

The banners were borne to the railing,

Beneath them, a group from each band;

And they bent their bright folds for the blessing

That fell from the priest's lifted hand.

And he signed the three fair, silken standards,

With a sign never foe could withstand.

What stirred them? The breeze of the evening?

Or a breath from the far angel-land?

Then came, two by two, to the altar,

The young, and the pure, and the fair,

Their faces the mirror of Heaven,

Their hands folded meekly in prayer;

They came for a simple blue ribbon,

For love of Christ's Mother to wear;

And I believe, with the Children of Mary,

The Angels of Mary were there.

Ah, faith! simple faith of the children!

You still shame the faith of the old!

Ah, love! simple love of the little,

You still warm the love of the cold!

And the beautiful God who is wandering

Far out in the world's dreary wold,

Finds a home in the hearts of the children

And a rest with the lambs of the fold.

Swept a voice: was it wafted from Heaven?

Heard you ever the sea when it sings

Where it sleeps on the shore in the night time?

Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings

From the hearts of a thousand bright summers?

Heard you ever the bird, when she springs

To the clouds, till she seems to be only

A song of a shadow on wings?

Came a voice: and an "Ave Maria"

Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled;

And in the embrace of its music

The souls of a thousand lay stilled.

A voice with the tones of an angel,

Never flower such a sweetness distilled;

It faded away -- but the temple

With its perfume of worship was filled.

Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar

The white veils swept on, two by two;

And the holiest halo of heaven

Flashed out from the ribbons of blue;

And they laid down the wreaths of the roses

Whose hearts were as pure as their hue;

Ah! they to the Christ are the truest,

Whose loves to the Mother are true!

And thus, in the dim of the temple,

In the dream-haunted dim of the day,

The Angels and Children of Mary

Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away,

Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows

And wove with their gold and their gray

A mantle of grace and of glory

For the last lovely evening of May.