Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]

—— THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS.

Two little children played among the flowers, Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; The children's ages were the very same E'en to an hour — and Ethel was her name, A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes That seemed to listen just as if they held The gift of hearing with the power of sight.

Six summers slept upon her low white brow, And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks. Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke Her words were music; and her laughter rang So like an altar-bell that, had you heard Its silvery sound a-ringing, you would think Of kneeling down and worshipping the pure.

They played among the roses — it was May — And "hide and seek," and "seek and hide," all eve They played together till the sun went down. Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day: And tired at last she plucked a crimson rose And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin; And he went thro' the garden till he found The whitest rose of all the roses there, And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair. "I give you red — and you — you give me white: What is the meaning?" said she, while a smile, As radiant as the light of angels' wings, Swept bright across her face; the while her eyes Seemed infinite purities half asleep In sweetest pearls; and he did make reply, "Sweet Ethel! white dies first — you know, the snow, (And it is not as white as thy pure face)

Melts soon away — but roses red as mine Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away."

She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, And hand in hand they walked the winding ways Of that fair garden till they reached her home. A good-bye and a kiss — and he was gone.

She leaned her head upon her mother's breast, And ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called, "Does white die first? my mother! and does red Live longer?" And her mother wondered much At such strange speech. She fell asleep With murmurs on her lips of red and white. Those children loved as only children can, With nothing in their love save their whole selves. When in their cradles they had been betroth'd. They knew it in a manner vague and dim — Unconscious yet of what betrothal meant.

The boy — she called him Merlin — a love name — (And he — he called her always Ullainee, No matter why) — the boy was full of moods. Upon his soul and face the dark and bright Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass Rippling with his bright prattle — and then, hours

Would come and go; and never hear a word Fall from his lips, and never see a smile Upon his face. He was so like a cloud With ever-changeful hues, as she was like A golden sunbeam shining on its face.

******

Ten years passed on. They parted and they met Not often in each year; yet as they grew In years, a consciousness unto them came Of human love. But it was sweet and pure. There was no passion in it. Reverence, Like Guardian-Angel, watched o'er Innocence. One night in mid of May their faces met As pure as all the stars that gazed on them. They met to part from themselves and the world. Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed, Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears Fell down, like rain, upon the cheeks of each: They were to meet no more. Their hands were clasped To tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars Looked proudly down on them, while shadows knelt,

Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. And in the heart of that last, parting hour Eternity was beating. And he said, "We part to go to Calvary and to God — This is our garden of Gethsemane; And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: Not my will, Father! but Thine own be done."

Raptures meet agonies in such heart-hours; Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms Around the cold, white neck of grief — and thus The while they parted — sorrow swept their hearts Like a great, dark stormy sea — but sudden A joy, like sunshine — did it come from God? Flung over every wave that swept o'er them A more than golden glory. Merlin said: "Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine, The human satisfies nor you nor me, (No human love shall ever satisfy — Or ever did — the hearts that lean on it); You sigh for something higher as do I, So let our spirits be espoused in God,

And let our wedlock be as soul to soul; And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring, And God will bless us both." She sweetly said: "Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts; Let God's own heart be our own holy home, And let us live as only angels live; And let us love as our own angels love. 'Tis hard to part — but it is better so, God's will is ours, and — Merlin! let us go."

And then she sobbed as if her heart would break — Perhaps it did — an awful minute passed, Long as an age and briefer than a flash Of lightning in the skies. No word was said; Only a look which never was forgot. Between them fell the shadows of the night.

Their faces went away into the dark, And never met again; and yet their souls Were twined together in the heart of Christ.

And Ethel went from earthland long ago, But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross. He would not move a nail that nails him there, He would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there.

He hung himself upon the blessed cross With Ethel; she has gone to wear the crown That wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept Their bodies with their souls from earthly taint.

And years and years, and weary years passed on Into the past; one Autumn afternoon, When flowers were in their agony of death, And winds sang "De Profundis" over them, And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet, The dead were lying down; the Autumn sun Was half way down the west — the hour was three, The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died. He walked alone amid the virgins' graves, Where virgins slept — a convent stood near by, And from the solitary cells of nuns Unto the cells of death the way was short.

Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew, Entwining grave and grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name

A cross was graven on the lowly stone. He passed each grave with reverential awe, As if he passed an altar, where the Host Had left a memory of its sacrifice. And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dust He walked as prayerfully as tho' he trod The holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine. He passed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into names Of sacrifice known only to their God; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names. The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they passed there, would know no more than he Or any stranger where their playmates slept. And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears. He wondered at the stories that were hid Forever down within those simple graves.

In a lone corner of that resting-place Uprose a low white slab that marked a grave, Apart from all the others — long, sad grass Drooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it

With veil of purest green — around the slab The whitest of white roses 'twined their arms, Roses cold as the snows and pure as songs Of angels — and the pale leaflets and thorns Hid e'en the very name of her who slept Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when He reached its side a spell fell on his heart So suddenly — he knew not why — and tears Went up into his eyes and trickled down Upon the grass — he was as strangely moved As if he met a long-gone face he loved. I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leaves That hid the name; but as he did, the thorns Did pierce his hand, and lo! amazed, he read The very word — the very, very name He gave the girl in golden days before — "ULLAINEE." He sat beside that lonely grave for long, He took its grasses in his trembling hand, He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, He read the name again and still again, He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought It all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyes And read the name again to be more sure;

Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself: "What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave? I dreamed her soul had fled. Was she the white dove that I saw in dream Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?"

The convent bell Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him His question. And he rose and went his way Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked One hour before the sunset, and the birds Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. As silent as a star-gleam came a nun In answer to his summons at the gate; Her face was like the picture of a saint, Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke, And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone As only voices own which day and night Sing hymns to God. She locked the massive gate. He followed her along a flower-fringed walk That, gently rising, led up to the home

Of virgin-hearts. The very flowers that bloomed Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes— (For they had fashioned them with holy care, Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross, And sacred hearts — and many saintly names, That when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign) — Were fairer far within the convent walls, And purer in their fragrance and their bloom Than all their sisters in the outer world.

He went into a wide and humble room — The floor was painted, and upon the walls, In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke: "I'll call the mother," and she bowed and went.

He waited in the wide and humble room, The only room in that unworldly place This world could enter; and the pictures looked Upon his face and down into his soul, And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood A crucifix, the figured Christ of which Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look

More nearly on it; but he shrank in awe When he beheld a something in its face Like his own face. But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot Of that strange crucifix he read the name — "ULLAINEE." A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul — When to the door he heard a footstep come, And then a voice — the mother of the nuns Had entered — and in calmest tone began: "Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song Had not yet ended when you came; our rule Forbids our leaving choir; this my excuse." She bent her head — the rustle of her veil Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to him And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look What brought him there, and waited his reply. "I am a stranger, Sister, hither come," He said, "upon an errand still more strange; But thou wilt pardon me and bid me go If what I crave you cannot rightly grant, I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time, Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strong Aslife, has brought me to this holy place."

He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave Him no reply, save that her very look Encouraged him to speak, and he went on: He told her Ethel's story from the first, He told her of the day amid the flowers, When they were only six sweet summers old; He told her of the night when all the flowers, A-listning, heard the words of sacrifice — He told her all; then said: "I saw a stone In yonder graveyard where your sisters sleep, And writ on it, all hid by roses white, I saw a name I never ought forget."

She wore a startled look, but soon repressed The wonder that had come into her face. "Whose name?" she calmly spoke. But when he said "ULLAINEE," She forward bent her face and pierced his own With look intensest; and he thought he heard The trembling of her veil, as if the brow It mantled, throbbed with many thrilling thoughts. But quickly rose she, and in hurried tone, Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn.

Return to-morrow, then, if so God wills, I'll see you." He gave many thanks, passed out From that unworldly place into the world. Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps, Swift to the "White-Rose-Grave," his heart: he knelt Upon its grass and prayed that God might will The mystery's solution; then he took, Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose, The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam Of summer waves upon a summer sea.

Then thro' the night he went And reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave, And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears That shone like jewels on a diadem, And two great angels with such shining wings; All these and more were in most curious way Blended in one dream or many dreams. Then He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept Again and had another dream.

His dream ran thus (He told me all of it many years ago, But I forgot the most. I remember this): A dove, whiter than whiteness' very self, Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream, Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It Flew away across great, long distances, Thro' forests where the trees were all in dream, And over wastes where silences held reign, And down pure valleys, till it reached a shore By which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; The dove rested there awhile, rose again And flew across the sea into the sun; And then from near or far (he could not say) Came sound as faint as echo's own echo — A low sweet hymn it seemed — and now And then he heard, or else he thought he heard, As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words: "White dies first!" "White dies first."

The sun had passed his noon and Westward sloped; He hurried to the cloister and was told The Mother waited him. He entered in, Into the wide and pictured room, and there The mother sat and gave him welcome twice.

"I prayed last night," she spoke; "to know God's will, I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints That they might pray for me, and I might know My conduct in the matter; now, kind sir, What would'st thou? Tell thy errand." He replied: "It was not idle curiosity That brought me hither or that prompts my lips To ask the story of the White-Rose-Grave, To seek the story of the sleeper there Whose name I knew so long and far away. Who was she pray? Dost deem it right to tell?" There was a pause before the answer came, As if there was a comfort in her heart, There was a tremor in her voice when she Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone Of whisper more than word: "She was a child Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave, And who has filled it long — and yet it seems To me but one short hour ago we laid Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. We often look for her in places where Her face was wont to be: among the flowers, In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years

Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet It seems to hover here and haunt us all. I can not tell you all. It is enough To see one ray of light for us to judge The glory of the sun; it is enough To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue For us to know the beauty of the sky. It is enough to tell a little part Of her most holy life, that you may know The hidden grace and splendor of the whole. " "Nay, nay" He interrupted her: "all! all! Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother."

She went on, Unheeding his abruptness: "One sweet day — A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month Of May, at early morn, e're yet the dew Had passed from off the flowers and grass — e're yet Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came, With summons quick unto our convent gate A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew — Another dew was moist within her eyes — Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me, And as I went she rushed into my arms

Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed Until I thought her very soul would rush From her frail body, in a sob, to God. I let her sob her sorrow all away. My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat In this same room — and gently spoke to her, And held her hand in mine — and soothed her With words of sympathy, until she seemed As tranquil as myself.

And then I asked: 'What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou? 'Mother!' she said, 'Wilt let me wear the veil? Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve Him in this cloistered place? I pray to be — Unworthy tho' I be — to be His spouse. Nay, mother — say not nay —'twill break a heart Already broken' — and she looked on me With those brown, wond'ring eyes which pleaded more, More strongly and more sadly than her lips That I might grant her sudden, strange request. 'Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. 'I had,'

She said,—'but heaven has her now; — and thou Wilt be my mother, — and the orphan girl Will make her life her thanks.' 'Thy father, child?' 'Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.' 'And hast nor sister nor brother?' 'No,' she said, 'God gave my mother only me; — one year This very day He parted us.' 'Poor child' — I murmured. 'Nay — kind Sister —' she replied. 'I have much wealth — they left me ample means — I have true friends who love me and protect. I was a minor until yesterday; But yesterday all guardianship did cease, And I am mistress of myself and all My worldly means — and, Sister, they are thine If thou but take myself — nay — don't refuse.' 'Nay — nay — my child!' I said — 'the only wealth We wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace. Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, Or buy a single thread of virgin's veil. Not all the coins in coffers of a king Could bribe an entrance here for any one. God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil, For any one He sends. Who sent you here,

My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? Or mayhap, disappointment? Or perhaps, A sickly weariness of that bright world Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.' 'Neither,' she quickly, almost proudly spoke. 'Who sent you, then?' 'A youthful Christ' — she said— 'Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure, Would have been His own gentle John; and would Have leaned, on Thursday night, upon His breast, And stood, on Friday eve, beneath His cross To take His Mother from Him when He died. He sent me here — he said the word last night In my own garden, — this the word he said: Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear! Your heart was born with veil of virgin on— I hear it rustle every time we meet, In all your words and smiles; — and when you weep I hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil — And outward be what inwardly thou art, And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: My heart was born with priestly vestments on, And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood,

And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep — And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host, A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt, Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel, say — Thou would'st not take the vestments from my heart Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night To climb our Calvary and to meet in God— And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane — And He is here, Who, in that other, bled — And they are here who came to comfort Him — His angels and our own; and His great prayer, Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then: Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil And I my vestments" — He did send me here.'

'She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upon Her closing words and softened them to sighs. I listened, inward moved — but outward calm and cold, To the girl's strange story. Then smiling said: 'I see it is a love-tale after all, With much of folly and some of fact in it — It is a heart affair, and in such things There's little logic, and there's less of sense. You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head

Outside the gates — nay, go, and find the head You lost last night — and then, I am quite sure, You'll not be anxious to confine your heart Within this cloistered place.' She seemed to wince Beneath my words one moment; — then replied: 'If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, Dost thou do, Sister, well to wound it more? If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, Dost thou do well to chill them into ice? And were I disappointed in yon world, Should that debar me from a purer place? You say it is a love-tale — so it is; The vase was human — but the flower divine, And if I break the vase with my own hands, Will you forbid that I should humbly ask The heart of God to be my lily's vase? I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth Save his who yesternight did send me here To dip it in the very blood of Christ, And plant it here.' And then she sobbed outright A long, deep sob. I gently said to her: 'Nay— child — I spoke to test thee — do not weep.

If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come And find e'en here a home. But God is slow In all His works and ways, and slower still When He would deck a bride to grace His court. Go, now, and in one year — if thou dost come Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee — Nay — urge me not — it is our holy rule — A year of trial! I must to choir, and thou Into the world to watch and wait and pray Until the Bridegroom comes.' She rose and went Without a word.

And twelvemonth after came, True to the very day and hour; and said: 'Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil? Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again? I came once with my wealth and was refused, And now I come as poor as Holy Christ Who had no place to rest His weary head — My wealth is gone; I offered it to him Who sent me here; he sent me speedy word: 'Give all unto the poor in quiet way — And hide the giving — ere you give yourself

To God!' Wilt take me now for my own sake? I bring my soul —'tis little worth I ween, And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.'

'My child,' I said, 'thrice welcome — enter here; A few short days of silence and of prayer, And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.'

Her novice days went on; much sickness fell Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks In awful agonies, and no one heard A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide Her sufferings from us all. When she was well She was the first to meet the hour of prayer — The last to leave it — and they named her well, The angel of the cloister. Once I heard The Father of our souls say when she passed — 'Beneath that veil of sacrificial black She wears the white robe of her innocence.' And we — we believed it. There are Sisters here Of three score years of service, who would say: 'Within our memory never moved a veil That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.' And we — we felt it, and we loved her so,

We treated her as angel and as child. I never heard her speak about the past, I never heard her mention e'en a name Of any in the world. She little spake; She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew Absent-minded, and would come and ask me To walk alone and say her Rosary Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine, And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed The very heart of song was breaking on her lips. The dower of her mind, as of her heart, Was of the richest, and she mastered art By instinct more than study. Her weak hands Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful. There is a picture hanging in our choir She painted. I remember well the morn She came to me and told me she had dreamt A dream; then asked me would I let her paint Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day She kept her cell all busy with her work. At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth — A picture my poor words may not portray. But you must gaze on it with your own eyes,

And drink its magic and its meanings in; I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.

In every May for two whole days she kept Her cell. We humored her in that, but when The days had passed, and she came forth again, Her face was tender as a lily's leaf, With God's smile on it; and for days and days Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips Save when in prayer, and then her every look Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God Strange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did.

"I half forgot — on yonder mantlepiece You see that wondrous crucifix; one year She spent on it, and begged to put beneath That most mysterious word —'Ullainee.'

"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 heav'n 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 mine 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."