Irish Jesuit Province

Borrowed PlumesSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 37, No. 428 (Feb., 1909), pp. 114-119Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20502572 .

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I 14 THE IRISH MONTHLY

when he perceived that the end was approaching of his exile of earth and of his other exile which had only just begun. The devoted brother in whose arms he died, and who secured for him all the consolations of our holy religion-the solitary

mourner who claims our deepest sympathy in his bereavement would no doubt have desired to lay the beloved remains beside father and mother in our own Glasnevin; and he may have echoed St. Augustine's wish in Matthew Arnold's sonnet which begins well and ends badly:

Ah! could thy grave at home in Carthage be!

But his dying mother, St. Monica, answered wisely:

Care not for that, and lay me where I fall, Everywhere heard will be the judgment call But at God's altar, oh! remember me.

Such again would surely be the tribute of affection which would now be most desired by the friend whom, with kind thoughts and humble prayers, we commend to the loving mercy of Him

Qui vitam sine termino Nobis donet in patria.

BORROWED PLUMES

THERE seems to be no Catholic writer in the United States who has won such recognition from the general public for her literary accomplishments as Miss Agnes Repplier. Her refined and ingenious essays are welcomed by the best secular magazines. I do not know how far she illustrates the remark that the art of writing musical and delicate prose is rarely acquired without plenty of verse-making; but I do not remember any poem from Miss Repplier's pen till the I908 Christmas number of the Sacred Heart Review of Boston gave these triplets on the

text, " There was no room for them in the inn."

Footsore and weary, Mary tried Some rest to find; but was denied, " There is no room," the blind ones cried.

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BORROWED PLUMES II5

Meekly the Virgin turned away, No voice entreating her to stay; There was no room for God, that day.

No room for her, round whose tired feet Angels are bowed in transports sweet The Mother of their Lord to greet;

NNo room for Him, in Whose small hand The troubled sea and mighty land Lie cradled like a grain of sand.

No room, 0 Babe Divine, for Thee, That Christmas night; and even we Dare shut our hearts and turn the kev.

In vain Thy pleading baby-cry Strikes our deaf souls; we pass Thee by, Unsheltered 'neath the wintrv sky.

No room for God: 0 Christ, that we Should bar our doors, nor ever see The Saviour waiting patiently.

Fling wide the doors. Dear Christ, turn back; The ashes on my hearth lie black, Of light and warmth a total lack.

How can I bid Thee enter here, Amid the desolation drear Of lukewarm love and craven fear

Vhat bleaker shelter can there be Than my poor heart's tepidity, Chilled, wind-tossed as the winter sea r

Pear Lord, I shrink from Thy pure eye: No home to offer Thee have I: Yet, in Thy mercy pass not by!

And here is the way in which the pious muse of Emily Hickey makes a little child speak to the same Lord and Saviour under another disguise of His omnipotent love. Here is " A Little Child before the Tabernacle"

Sweetest Jesus, kind and dear, For my sake abiding here, Not in glory bright and greaz, But in poor and mean estate: Look on me, who kneel before This Your little curtained door. Through that door, if I could see, You would look like bread to me; But Yourself is there I know; For Yourself has told me so. Humbly here I kneel and pray: Help me, Jesus, day by day, Till the time when I shall see You in all Your majesty.

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I I 6 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Help me, Jesus, to refrain From all naughty words and vain, And from every naughty deed Like the things that made You bleed. By the wounding of Your side, Keep me from the sin of pride; By the wounding of Your hands, Break the power of Satan's bands; By the wounding of Your feet, Teach me your obedience sweet.

Bless my dear ones, dearest Lord, In their thought and deed and word'

Bless, dear Jesus, every one Jesus sweet, my time is done.

Now good-bye ! And yet I know How Your love will with me go, Though within the Church You stay All the night and all the day.

* * * *

The Religious of the Holy Child Jesus give the 'name of "The Breadth of My Love'" to a pretty picture which represents our Divine Redeemer as a boy of some ten or twelve years, with His arms spread out to their uttermost extent and with a wistful look on the grave young face. It expresses the anxiety of our Divine Redeemer to include all within His embrace, and it thus offers a contrast to what has been called the Jansenist crucifix, which represents the arms of the Crucified drawn up straightly and narrowly above the thorn-crowned head. One of these religious of the Holy Child, for instance a novice in their beautiful convent at Mayfield, in Sussex, may be supposed to address such words as the following to our Blessed Lord under this winning disguise:

Dear Jesus, Holy Child! With arms outstretched so wide,

I yearn within Thine arms My head (like John) to hide.

Stretch out Thine arms, and smuLe, And sweetly name my name,

And with Thy purest love My coward heart inflame.

I love Thee; but, 0 God I Compel me, I implore,

To love Thee, God of love ! Far more, and evermore.

Father Bearne gives a much fuller development in more musical stanzas:

All the day long, 0 Child most sweet, most gracious, Thou'rt standing on the steep with outspread Hands,

With open Arms so small yet so capacious They may enfold the friendless of all lands.

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BORROWED PLUMES 117

All the day long the thorn-tree blossoms o'er Thee, Upon the earth drear emblems of the dead,

The cypress shadows stretch themselves before Thee, Hovers the prickly crown above Thy Head.

All the day long, as though the iron held them, Thy little Feet upon the mount abide,

All the day long, as if the nails compelled them Thy tender Hands and Arms are open wide.

All the day long Thy love can never fail Thee, Dear Lamb, without a blemish, spot, or stain:

Sweet Christ, what need unto the Cross to nail Thee, Since all Thy hfe is sacrifice and pain ?

All the day long to souls of every nation Thou callest, " Come, ye hopeless ones, to Me

Come and receive a free and full salvation My love is broad as My Eternity !"

* * * *

Our next borrowing shall be from the Mangalore AMagazine. We laid aside the June number for this special purpose. It is the organ of the Jesuit College of St. Aloysius,

Mangalore, and was founded by the late Father John Moore of Clondalkin. It is another edifying proof of the self-denying devotion and vigour with which the great work of Christian education is carried on in every corner of the world, often in the midst of difficulties and discouragements. Passing over

many solid contributions to this June number, we are frivolous enough to choose what might have been entitled " A Polyglot Cigar," for it gives in six languages a couplet that represents a cigar as a symbol of human life. The languages are Italian, Latin, English, Konkani (the local Indian language), French and German. The Mangalore Mission is confided to the Fathers of the Turin province of the Society of Jesus, helped by some English-speaking members of the Society. This makes it probable that the Italian lines, which are placed first, are the original and the others are translations.

Fumo che passa e cenere che resta La vera imagin della vita e questa.

Fumus vanescens cineresque manentes Tristis sed verax vitae mortalis imago.

Smoke that disappears, and ashes that remain Image true of life, how fleeting and how vain!

Duvor napaints zata, gobor illo vurta Am(ea jinietso vho rupkar zaun vortvata.

De fumee un vain nuage, D'un peu de cendre un vil tas,

Helas! c'est bien IA l'image De notre vie ici bas.

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nl8 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Dauernde Asche, Schwindender Rauch,

Irdischen Lebens Diess ist der Brauch.

The smoke hath vanish'd in the wind, Mere ashes now are left behind,

The weed is done E'en so Life's fleeting show we find,

When to the dust that waits mankind Our days have run

The first of the two English versions is the best, because shorter and more literal. The following is too literal

Smoke that fades away, Ashes that stay This Life's true image is.

Or. to make it a couplet like the original

Smoke that passes, ashes that stay: Behold the true image of Life's brief day.

* * * *

The following rondels were written by Sister Mary Stanis laus, O.S.D., the poet-daughter of Denis Florence MacCarthy:

We little know, when friends are gay And pleasant jests pass to and fro

What !nad upon each heart may weigh We little know.

Deep waters wear a surface glow, Though all their depths be cold and grev;

And God's brave creatures often throw A gleam of sunshine on our way,

While their own path is dark with woe. How many such we meet each day

We little know.

'Tis strange to think what little things Can make our spirits rise or sink

Drops drown, and feathers lend us wings 'Tis strange to think.

A sunbeam, and the rose's pink, The artless song the linnet sings,

A look, a smile, are each a link To joy, while sorrow's bitter sprin

Can enter at so mere a chink As fogs or frown or verbal stings-.

'Tis strange to think!

I sought afar, and they were near; Mine eves were on a distant star,

Mine eyes were strained those sounds to hear I sought afar.

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BALLADE II9

Meanwhile joy's portals stood ajar, Unnoticed close beside me here.

Ah, why should aimless yearnings bar My entrance where in home's sweet sphere

Within my reach those treasures are So priceless and so passing dear,

I sought afar.

THE BALLADE OF THE SHORTEST DAY

THOUGH pool and lake and river freeze, Though snow-flakes whirl, and falls the rain,

Though not a leaf is on the trees, And not a blossom on the plain, Our hearts are glad and gay again;

'Tis true the skies are low and grey, But mist and fog we now disdain:

At last we've passed the shortest day!

Of whispering woods, of summer seas, Serenely blue, to dream we're fain,

We hear the blackbird's merry glees In spite of storm and hurricane

And rain drops dashing on the pane, Soon shall the lights and shadows play

O'er the green blades of growing grain. At last we've passed the shortest day.

And soon the hum of busy bees Shall mingle with the skylark's strain,

Daisies shall deck the new-grassed leas And violets each country lane. In gorgeous dyes the day shall wane

And come again in rare array, And flowers shall lie where snows have lain.

At last we've passed the shortest dav.

ENVOY.

King Winter, though you yet retain O'er land and sea your power and sway,

We reck but little of your reign: At last we've passed the shortest day!

MAGDALEN ROCK.

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