There are sounds of joy from the years gone by, There's a pale red light in the forward sky, And a star looks down through the mist on high. Hush! for the light falls clear from that star, Hush! for the gate of the sky is ajar. What is the voice of the boundless sea As it clasps the lands excitedly? Not the voice of the dead, but of what shall be— Of what shall be when the world shall cease, And oceans die in the reign of peace, O sweetest taste of Jesus' Blood! A low wind moaneth evermore, She lifts the sacred emblem up: Beneath its arms she bows her head, Those arms so rudely fashionèd, Which Jesus made His dying bed. She bends beneath the cross's weight, But now no longer desolate, She stands before the convent gate. Sweeter and sweeter the sisters sing, From arch and roof the echoes ring, "Ave Maria, Virgin blest, Help the sin-stained and distrest, The altar-lights are shining fair, In silent bliss the spirit kneels, For mortal utterance half conceals She bears her burden day by day; She bears it through the length of years; Through daily round of deed and psalm, She bears it round from door to door, So in the present, people say, COGGESHALL, ESSEX, November 12, 1886. JUSTIN. “ Θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος . . . καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο.” DEDICATION. O POOR, sad hearts that struggle on and wait, These humble musings, praying that from above, Take, then, these thoughts, in loving memory Down by the sea, in infinite solitude And wrapt in darkness, save when gleams of light Weary of all the littleness of men, And the dark riddle that he could not solve Why men should be, why pain and sin and death, And where were hid the lineaments of God. No voice was near. Behind, a lofty cape, Whose iron face was scarred by many a storm, Loomed threatening in the dark, and cleft the main, And laid its giant hand upon the deep. One grizzled oak tree crowned it, and the surf Broke ever at its base, with ceaseless voice |