Summary

Various The Catholic World, Vol. 01, April to September…

ANGELS OF THE SACRED STAIR. Father, whose goodness none can know, but they Who see thee face to face, By man hath come the infinite display Of thine all-loving grace; But fallen man—the creature of a day— Skills not that love to trace. It needs, to tell the triumph thou hast wrought, An angel's deathless fire, an angel's reach of thought. It needs that very angel, who with awe Amid the garden shade, The great Creator in his sickness saw, Soothed by a creature's aid, And agonized, as victim of the law Which he himself had made
Source: Gutenberg

Various The Catholic World, Vol. 01, April to September…

No poet of Young Ireland has like him seized and breathed the spirit of his country's Catholic nationality, its virginal purity of faith, its invincible patience of hope, and all the gentle sweetness of its charity. Young Ireland rather studied the martial muse, and that with an avowed purpose. "The Irish harp," said Davis, "too much loves to weep. Let us, while our strength is great and our hopes high, cultivate its bolder strains, its raging and rejoicing; or if we weep, let it be like men whose eyes are lifted though their tears fall."
Source: Gutenberg

Various The Catholic World, Vol. 01, April to September…

Maurice, art thou far from me? hearest thou me? Sometimes I shed torrents of tears; then the soul is dried up. All my life will be a mourning one; my heart is desolate." Then, reproaching herself, she turns to her only consolation: "Do I not love thee, my God? only true and Eternal Love! It seems to me that I love thee as the fearful Peter, but not like John, who rested on thy heart—divine repose which I so need. What do I seek in creatures? To make a pillow of a human breast? Alas! I have seen how death can take that from us. Better to lean, Jesus, on thy crown of thorns.
Source: Gutenberg

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