Textarchiv - Abram Joseph Ryan

Dreaming

mrbot — Sun, 17 Feb 2019 21:10:10 +0000

The moan of a wintry soul
Melted into a summer-song,
And the words, like the wavelet's roll,
Moved murmuringly along.

And the song flowed far and away,
Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill —
Each wave of it lit by a ray —
But the sound was so soft and so still,

And the tone was so gentle and low,
None heard the song till it had passed;
Till the echo that followed its flow
Came dreamingly back from the past.

'Twas too late! — a song never returns
That passes our pathway unheard;
As dust lying dreaming in urns
Is the song lying dead in a word.

For the birds of the skies have a nest,
And the winds have a home where they sleep,
And songs, like our souls, need a rest,
Where they murmur the while we may weep.

But songs — like the birds o'er the foam,
Where the storm wind is beating their breast,
Fly shoreward — and oft find a home
In the shelter of words where they rest.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

Feast of the sacred heart

mrbot — Sun, 17 Feb 2019 21:10:10 +0000

Two lights on a lowly altar;
Two snowy cloths for a Feast;
Two vases of dying roses,
The morning comes from the east,
With a gleam for the folds of the vestments
And a grace for the face of the priest.

The sound of a low, sweet whisper
Floats over a little bread,
And trembles around a chalice,
And the priest bows down his head!
O'er a sign of white on the altar —
In the cup — o'er a sign of red.

As red as the red of roses,
As white as the white of snows!
But the red is a red of a surface
Beneath which a God's blood flows;
And the white is the white of a sunlight
Wthin which a God's flesh glows.

Ah! words of the olden Thursday!
Ye come from the far-away!
Ye bring us the Friday's victim
In His own love's olden way;
In the hand of the priest at the altar
His Heart finds a home each day.

The sight of a Host uplifted!
The silver-sound of a bell!
The gleam of a golden chalice.
Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well;
He made, and He keeps love's promise,
With thee all days to dwell.

From his hand to his lips that tremble,
From his lips to his heart a thrill,
Goes the little Host on its love-path,
Still doing the Father's will;
And over the rim of the chalice
The blood flows forth to fill

The heart of the man anointed
With the waves of a wondrous grace;
A silence falls on the altar —
An awe on each bended face —
For the Heart that bled on Calvary
Still eats in the holy place.

The priest comes down to the railing
Where brows are bowed in prayer;
In the tender clasp of his fingers
A Host lies pure and fair,
And the hearts of Christ and the Christian
Meet there — and only there!

Oh! love that is deep and deathless!
Oh! faith that is strong and grand!
Oh! hope that will shine forever,
O'er the wastes of a weary land!
Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven
In the palm of the priest's pure hand.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

C.S.A.

mrbot — Thu, 14 Feb 2019 21:10:10 +0000

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;
The Martyr-band
That hallowed our land
With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us
They stood in front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us;
And tears should fall
Fore'er o'er all
Who fell while wearing the Gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us,
How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us
If their memories part
From our land and heart,
And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us,
And bright were the lives they gave for us;
The land they struggled to save for us
Will not forget
Its warriors yet
Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us
Their blood poured down all in vain for us,
Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;
They bleed — we weep,
We live — they sleep,
"Al lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us,
And their names, bright names, without stain for us:
The glory they won shall not wane for us,
In legend and lay
Our heroes in Gray
Shall forever live over again for us.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

Death

mrbot — Thu, 14 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Out of the shadows of sadness,
Into the sunshine of gladness,
Into the light of the blest;
Out of a land very dreary,
Out of a world very weary,
Into the rapture of rest.

Out of to-day's sin and sorrow,
Into a blissful to-morrow,
Into a day without gloom;
Out of a land filled with sighing,
Land of the dead and the dying,
Into a land without tomb.

Out of a life of commotion,
Tempest-swept oft as the ocean,
Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er,
Into a land calm and quiet,
Never a storm cometh nigh it,
Never a wreck on its shore.

Out of a land in whose bowers
Perish and fade all the flowers:
Out of the land of decay,
Into the Eden where fairest
Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest,
Never shall wither away.

Out of the world of the wailing
Thronged with the anguished and ailing;
Out of the world of the sad,
Into the world that rejoices —
World of bright visions and voices —
Into the world of the glad.

Out of a life ever mournful,
Out of a land very lornful,
Where in bleak exile we roam,
Into a joy-land above us,
Where there's a Father to love us —
Into our home — "Sweet Home."

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

God in the night

mrbot — Wed, 13 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

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 —
Within it benedictions for each one —
Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets
A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad.
(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?)
He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow —
But more than that, He leaves His very breath
Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this,
He stays for holy hours where watchers pray;
And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils
That hide the visions of the world unseen.
The brightest sanctities of highest souls
Have blossomed into beauty in the dark.
How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes
That blight the souls of men are strangely born
Beneath the shadows of the holy night.

Deep in the dark I hear His holy feet —
Around Him rustle archangelic wings;
He lingers by the temple where His Christ
Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep;
And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest,
He lingers there to soothe their weariness.
Where mothers weep above the dying child,
He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears,
And consecrates the cradle of her child,
Which is to her her spirit's awful cross.
He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leaves
E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts.
Still as a shadow through the night He moves,
With hands all full of blessings, and with heart
All full of everlasting love; ah, me!
How God does love this poor and sinful world!

The stars behold Him as He passes on,
And arch His path of mercy with their rays;
The stars are grateful — He gave them their light,
And now they give Him back the light He gave.
The shadows tremble in adoring awe;
They feel His presence, and they know His face.
The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray,
How they would flower all His way with prayers!
The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams —
Were their leaves lips, ah! me, how they would sing
A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang.
The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers
Watch their Creator as He passes on,
And mourn they have no hearts to love their God,
And sigh they have no souls to be beloved.
Man — only man — the image of his God —
Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

At Night

mrbot — Tue, 12 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

Dreary! weary!
Weary! dreary!
Sighs my soul this lonely night.
Farewell gladness!
Welcome sadness!
Vanished are my visions bright.

Stars are shining!
Winds are pining!
In the sky and o'er the sea;
Shine forever
Stars! but never
Can the starlight gladden me.

Stars! you nightly
Sparkle brightly,
Scattered o'er your azure dome;
While earth's turning,
There you're burning,
Beacons of a better home.

Stars! you brighten
And you lighten
Many a heart-grief here below;
But your gleaming
And your beaming
Cannot chase away my woe.

Stars! you're shining,
I am pining —
I am dark, but you are bright;
Hanging o'er me
And before me
Is a night you cannot light.

Night of sorrow,
Whose to-morrow
I may never, never see,
Till upon me
And around me
Dawns a bright eternity.

Winds! you're sighing,
And you're crying,
Like a mourner o'er a tomb;
Whither go ye,
Whither blow ye,
Wailing through the midnight gloom?

Chanting lowly,
Softly, lowly,
Like the voice of one in woe;
Winds so lonely,
Why thus moan ye?
Say, what makes you sorrow so?

Are you grieving
For your leaving
Scenes where all is fair and gay?
For the flowers
In their bowers,
You have met with on your way?

For fond faces,
For dear places,
That you've seen as on you swept?
Are you sighing,
Are you crying,
O'er the memories they have left?

Earth is sleeping
While you're sweeping
Through night's solemn silence by;
On forever,
Pausing never —
How I love to hear you sigh!

Men are dreaming,
Stars are gleaming
In the far-off heaven's blue;
Bosom aching,
Musing, waking,
Midnight winds, I sigh with you!

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

Feast of the assumption

mrbot — Tue, 12 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead:
Thy Feast has fled;
My eyes are wet with tears unshed;
I bow my head;
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway
I bend my knee,
And, like a homesick child, I pray,
Mary, to thee.

Dark! Dark! Dark!
And, all the day — since white-robed priest
In farthest East,
In dawn's first ray — began the Feast,
I — I the least —
Thy least, and last, and lowest child,
I called on thee!
Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild;
Didst think of me?

Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! The angels bright,
With wings as white
As a dream of snow in love and light,
Flashed on thy sight;
They shone like stars around thee! Queen!
I knelt afar —
A shadow only dims the scene
Where shines a star!

Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, beyond the sky,
Sweet, pure, and high,
The angel's song swept sounding by
Triumphantly;
And when such music filled thy ear,
Rose round thy throne,
How could I hope that thou wouldst hear
My far, faint moan?

Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, where altars stand,
Or poor or grand,
A countless throng from every land,
With lifted hand,
Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale
In glad acclaim;
How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail
Thy sweet, pure name?

Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear
Nor bend thy ear,
To prayer of woe as mine so drear;
For hearts more dear
Hid me from hearing and from sight
This bright Feast-day;
Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night
I kneel and pray?

Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set, the day is dead;
Thy Feast hath fled;
My eyes are wet with the tears I shed;
I bow my head;
Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen,
All day; ah! be
To-night what thou hast ever been —
A mother to me!

Dark! Dark! Dark!
Thy queenly crown in angels' sight
Is fair and bright;
Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night
Its jeweled light
Shines not as the tender love-light shines,
O Mary! mild,
In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines
For poor, lost child!

Dark! Dark! Dark!
Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway
Fore'er and aye
In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray
Lay it away.
Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above
Where angels are;
But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love
Thy child afar!

Dark! Dark! Dark!
Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer
My poor lips dare?
Yea! be to all a Queen most fair,
Crown, sceptre, bear!
But look on me with a mother's eyes
From heaven's bliss;
And waft to me from the starry skies
A mother's kiss!

Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead;
Her Feast has fled;
Can she forget the sweet blood shed,
The last words said
That evening — "Woman! behold thy Son!
Oh! priceless right,
Of all His children! The last, least one,
Is heard to-night.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

Dreamland

mrbot — Mon, 11 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

Over the silent sea of sleep,
Far away! far away!
Over a strange and starlit deep,
Where the beautiful shadows sway;
Dim in the dark,
Glideth a bark,
Where never the waves of a tempest roll —
Bearing the very "soul of a soul,"
Alone, all alone —
Far away — far away,
To shores all unknown
In the wakings of the day;
To the lovely land of dreams,
Where what is meets with what seems
Brightly dim; dimly bright,
Where the suns meet stars at night,
Where the darkness meets the light
Heart to heart, face to face,
In an infinite embrace.

Mornings break,
And we wake,
And we wonder where we went
In the bark
Thro' the dark,
But our wonder is misspent;
For no day can cast a light
On the dreamings of the night.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

Death of the Flower

mrbot — Sat, 09 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

I love my mother, the wildwood,
I sleep upon her breast;
A day or two of childhood,
And then I sink to rest.

I had once a lovely sister —
She was cradled by my side;
But one Summer day I missed her —
She had gone to deck a bride.

And I had another sister,
With cheeks all bright with bloom;
And another morn I missed her —
She had gone to wreathe a tomb.

And they told me they had withered,
On the bride's brow and the grave;
Half an hour, and all their fragrance
Died away, which heaven gave.

Two sweet-faced girls came walking
Thro' my lonely home one day,
And I overheard them talking
Of an altar on their way.

They were culling flowers around me,
And I said a little prayer
To go with them — and they found me —
And upon an altar fair,

Where the Eucharist was lying
On its mystical death-bed,
I felt myself a-dying,
While the Mass was being said.

But I lived a little longer,
And I prayed there all the day,
Till the evening Benediction,
When my poor life passed away.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884

De Profundis

mrbot — Fri, 08 Feb 2019 21:10:10 +0000

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse!
Woe are we! woe are we!
And the nights are ages long!
From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips
Oh! my God! woe are we!
Trembleth the mourner's song;
A blight is falling on the fair,
And hope is dying in despair,
And terror walketh everywhere.

All the hours are full of tears —
O my God! woe are we!
Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes —
Every heart is strung with fears,
Woe are we! woe are we!
All the light hath left the skies,
And the living awe struck crowds
See above them only clouds,
And around them only shrouds.

Ah! the terrible farewells!
Woe are they! woe are they!
When last words sink into moans,
While life's trembling vesper bells —
O my God! woe are we!
Ring the awful undertones!
Not a sun in any day!
In the night-time not a ray,
And the dying pass away!

Dark! so dark! above — below —
Oh! my God! woe are we!
Cowereth every human life.
Wild the wailing; to and fro!
Woe are all! woe are we!
Death is victor in the strife:
In the hut and in the hall
He is writing on the wall
Dooms for many — fears for all.

Thro' the cities burns a breath,
Woe are they! woe are we!
Hot with dread and deadly wrath;
Life and love lock arms in death,
Woe are they! woe are all!
Victims strew the spectre's path;
Shy-eyed children softly creep
Where their mothers wail and weep —
In the grave their fathers sleep.

Mothers waft their prayers on high,
Oh! my God! woe are we!
With their dead child on their breast.
And the altars ask the sky —
Oh! my Christ! woe are we!
"Give the dead, O Father, rest!
Spare thy people! mercy! spare!"
Answer will not come to prayer —
Horror moveth everywhere.

And the temples miss the priest —
Oh! my God! woe are we!
And the cradle mourns the child.
Husband at your bridal feast —
Woe are you! woe are you!
Think how those poor dead eyes smiled;
They will never smile again —
Every tie is cut in twain,
All the strength of love is vain.

Weep? but tears are weak as foam —
Woe are ye! woe are we!
They but break upon the shore
Winding between here and home —
Woe are ye! woe are we!
Wailing never! nevermore!
Ah! the dead! they are so lone,
Just a grave, and just a stone,
And the memory of a moan.

Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet —
Oh! my God! woe are we!
Tears will trickle into prayers
When we kneel down at His feet —
Woe are we! woe are we!
With our crosses and our cares.
He will calm the tortured breast,
He will give the troubled rest —
And the dead He watcheth best.

Abram Joseph Ryan

1884