Abram Joseph Ryan

“ Like stars that guard the skies,
Go watch each bed where rest the dead,
Brave songs, with sleepless eyes.
* * * * *
When falls the cause of Right,
The poet grasps his pen,
And in gleaming letters of living light
Transmits the truth to men.
Go, songs! he says who sings;
Go! tell the world this tale;
Bear it afar on your tireless wings:
The Right will yet prevail.
Songs! sound like the thunder's breath!
Boom o'er the world and say:
Brave men may die — Right has no death!
Truth never shall pass away!
Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs!
Go! sob thro' a people's tears! ”

“ 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 ”

“ My song may be forgot,
But Thou shalt not, in prayer.
Inevitable
What has been will be,
'Tis the under law of life;
'Tis the song of sky and sea,
To the key of calm and strife.
For guard we as we may,
What is to be will be,
The dark must fold each day —
The shore must gird each sea.
All things are ruled by law;
'Tis only in man's will
You meet a feeble flaw;
But fate is weaving still
The web and woof of life,
With hands that have no hearts,
Thro' calmness and thro' strife,
Despite all human arts.
For fate is master here,
He laughs at human wiles ”

“ 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 ”

“ In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will;
A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake,
He softly whispered, and the sea grew still.
It is a mystery: but He seems to sleep
As erst he slept in Peter's waved-rocked bark;
A storm is sweeping all across the deep,
While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark.
The sky is darkened, and the shore is far,
The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour:
Upon the howling deep there shines no star —
Why sleeps He still? Why does He hide His power?
Fear not! a holy hand is on the helm
That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath ”

“ It reaches the haven through tears.
Death
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. ”

“ That sobs on the loneliest shore;
And the key! never mind, it comes out of a grave;
And the chord! — 'tis a sad "nevermore".
And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach,
And, sighing, sinks back to the sea,
So my song — it just touches the rude shores of speech,
And its music melts back into me.
Yea, song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep,
Let others hear only thy moan —
But I — I forever shall hear the grand sweep
Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone.
Sweep on, mighty song! — sound down in my heart
As a storm sounding under a sea ”

“ Are moaning forever wherever they glide;
Ask them what ails them: they will not reply.
On — sad voiced — they flow, but they never tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea,
And the voices that sound in the sky;
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key,
And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody.
Ask them what ails them: they will not reply.
They sigh — sigh forever — but never tell why. ”

“ Beneath its Mother's smile —
Only to fall asleep!
Silence! be mother to me!
But — No! No! No!
The waves will ebb and flow.
I wonder is it best
To never, never rest
Down on the shores of this strange Below?
Only a Dream
Only a Dream!
It floated thro'
The sky of a lonely sleep
As floats a gleam
Athwart the Blue
Of a golden clouded Deep.
Only a Dream!
I calmly slept.
Meseems I called a name;
I woke; and, waking, I think I wept
And called — and called the same.
Only a Dream!
Graves have no ears;
They give not back the dead ”

“ Winds — wild waves, cease!
Be still!" The tempest fled — the ocean fell asleep.
And ah! when human hearts by storms are tossed,
When life's lone bark
Drifts through the dark
And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost,
He now, as then, with words of power and peace,
Murmurs: "Stormy deep,
Be still — still — and sleep!"
And lo! a great calm comes — the tempest's perils cease.
A "Thought-Flower"
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
Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. ”

“ And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore
Before to-morrow's light.
The clouds are hanging a death-pall
Over the sea to-night;
The stars are veiled — and the hearts that sailed
Away from harbors bright,
Shall sob their last for their quiet home —
And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam
Before the morning's light.
The waves are weaving a death-shroud
Out on the main to-night;
Alas! the last prayer whispered there
By lips with terror white!
Over the ridge of gloom,
Not a star will loom!
God help the souls that will meet their doom
Before the dawn of light! ”

“ A day may be an age,
The poet's pen may screen
Heart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them,
From eve back to morn,
Some find the gem,
Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes pass
Soft as flakes of snow,
Shadows o'er the grass
Could not swifter go.
Brief! but along
All the after-years
To-day will be a song
Of smiles or of tears.
"To-Morrows"
God knows all things — but we
In darkness walk our ways;
We wonder what will be,
We ask the nights and days.
Their lips are sealed; at times
The bards, like prophets, see,
And rays rush o'er their rhymes
From suns of "days to be". ”

“ And the birds and roses know
That the days that come and go
Are as peaceful as the flow
Of a prayer beneath a psalm.
De Profundis
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
O 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! ”

“ Would pray with me if they could pray.
Methinks that the flowers that were fading —
Sweet virgins that die with the Feast,
Like martyrs, upon her fair altar —
If they could, they would pray with the priest;
And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary",
Till they drooped on the altar in death,
And be glad in their dying for giving
To Mary their last sweetest breath.
Passed the day as a poem that passes
Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings;
Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses —
Did I hear a faint sound as of wings
Rustling over the aisles and the altars? ”

“ We have our God — and ye, your shore,
Whither ye rush in the storm to rest;
We have the havens of holy prayer —
And we have a hope — have ye despair?
For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore,
Adown the shores and along the years,
In the whitest foam of the saddest tears,
And we, as ye, O waves, gray waves!
Drift over a sea more deep and wide,
For we have sorrow and we have death;
And ye have only the tempest's breath;
But we have God when heart-oppressed,
As a calm and beautiful shore of rest.
O waves! sad waves! ”

“ Hearts that are great are always lone,
They never will manifest their best;
Their greatest greatness is unknown —
Earth knows a little — God, the rest.
"Yesterdays"
Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay,
And their memories throb through life;
The music that hushes or stirs to-day,
Is toned by their calm or strife.
Gone! and yet they never go!
We kneel at the shrine of time:
'Tis a mystery no man may know,
Nor tell in a poet's rhyme. ”

“ We look up the Infinite slope
In faith, and we walk on in hope;
But think ye from here to the "Holy
Of Holies" beyond yon still sky,
O'er the stars that forever move on,
I' the heavens beyond the bright Third,
In glory's ineffable light;
Where the Father, and Spirit, and Word
Reign circled by angels all bright —
Ah! think you 'tween Here and that Yonder
There is naught but the silence of death?
There's naught of love's wish or life's wonder,
And naught but an infinite night?
No! no! the great Father is fonder
Of breathing His life-giving breath
Into beings of numberless races. ”

“ As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow?
The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all,
For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath;
And sure as the race lives, no matter what fates may befall,
There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path.
Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line,
Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt,
With a sword in its grasp, if stronger, not truer than mine,
And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded hand felt ”

“ The dead priest hath won his faith's prize.
His children in sorrow will honor
His grave; every tear is a gem,
And their prayers round his brow in the heavens
Will brighten his fair diadem.
I kneel at his grave and remember,
In love, I am ~still~ one of them.
Tears
The tears that trickled down our eyes,
They do not touch the earth to-day;
But soar like angels to the skies,
And, like the angels, may not die;
For ah! our immortality
Flows thro' each tear — sounds in each sigh.
What waves of tears surge o'er the deep
Of sorrow in our restless souls! ”

“ And lulls my sorrow into holy calm.
It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings,
When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me!
When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings
Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane?
My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need;
Alas! their hearts have only place for tears!
Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed,
And every sin of those four bloody years;
And give them strength to bear their boundless loss,
And from their hearts take every thought of hate;
And while they climb their Calvary with their cross,
Oh! help them, Father, to endure its weight. ”

“ The face of day may flash with light in any morning hour,
But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven shroud.
There never was a river without its mists of gray,
There never was a forest without its fallen leaf;
And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our way,
When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the face of grief.
There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck,
There never was an ocean without its moaning wave;
And the golden gleams of glory the summer sky that fleck,
Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure-mantled grave. ”

“ Bearing the wings of the soul aloft
From earth and its shadows dim;
Soothing the breast with a sound as soft
As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;
Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears
From our being's higher part;
Dimming the eyes with radiant tears
That flow from a spell bound heart?
Do they want a song that is only a song,
With no mystical meanings rife?
Or a music that solemnly moves along —
The undertone of a life!
Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art,
Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules —
A melody moves through my aged heart
Not learned from the books or schools ”

“ And when — an older story hath —
Whate'er in life hath ever been
Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath,
Cometh back upon our path.
I was dreaming in my room,
'Mid the shadows, still as they;
Night, in veil of woven gloom,
Wept and trailed her tresses gray
O'er her fair, dead sister — Day.
To me from some far-away
Crept a voice — or seemed to creep —
As a wave-child of the deep,
Frightened by the wild storm's roar
Creeps low-sighing to the shore
Very low and very lone
Came the voice with song of moan,
This, weak-sung in weaker word,
Is the song that night I heard:
How long! ”

“ Of Freedom, that some day — ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies.
Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest;
They are living in us whose glorious race will not die —
Their brave buried hearts are still beating on in each breast
Of the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the infinite sky.
Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past,
Many voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by;
But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last,
And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die. ”

“ Sorrow:
A garland for a grave! Fair flowers that bloom,
And only bloom to fade as fast away,
We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb,
And with your dying beauty crown her clay.
Ye are the tender types of life's decay;
Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath,
From out the hand of June, or heart of May,
Fair flowers! tell less of life and more of death.
My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves,
All o'er the weary world for weary years;
I kneel there still, and still my anguish laves
The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears. ”

“ Ah! me! we were happy then; but now,
The sorrow has come, and saddest tears
Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow.
Who will watch o'er the dead young priest,
People and priests and all?
No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast;
When the evening shadows fall,
Let him rest alone — unwatched, alone,
Just beneath the altar's light,
The holy hosts on their humble throne
Will watch him all thro' the night.
The doors were closed — he was still and fair,
What sound moved up the aisles?
The dead priests come with soundless prayer,
Their faces wearing smiles. ”

“ Into our home — "Sweet Home".
What Ails the World?
"What ails the world?" the poet cried;
"And why does death walk everywhere?
And why do tears fall anywhere?
And skies have clouds, and souls have care?"
Thus the poet sang, and sighed.
For he would fain have all things glad,
All lives happy, all hearts bright;
Not a day would end in night,
Not a wrong would vex a right —
And so he sang — and he was sad.
Thro' his very grandest rhymes
Moved a mournful monotone —
Like a shadow eastward thrown
From a sunset — like a moan
Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes.
"What ails the world?" ”

“ Has flashed to the future the fame of the past;
Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays
That tell of the memories of long vanished days;
Yes, give me a land that hath story and song!
Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong!
Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot,
And names in the graves that shall not be forgot;
Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb;
There is grandeur in graves — there is glory in gloom;
For out of the gloom future brightness is born,
As after the night comes the sunrise of morn ”

“ Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom;
Youth's roses perfume not the fingers
Of age groping nigh to the tomb.
For "the memory of joy is a sadness" —
The dim twilight after the day;
And the grave where we bury a gladness
Sends a grief like a ghost, on our way.
No day shall return that has faded,
The dead come not back from the tomb;
The vale of each life must be shaded,
That we may see best from the gloom.
The height of the homes of our glory,
All radiant with splendors of light;
That we may read clearly life's story —
"The dark is the dawn of the bright." ”