Part Fourth--Angels and Saints



In pulses deep of threefold Love,
Self-hushed and self-possessed,

The mighty, unbeginning God
Had lived in silent rest.


With His own greatness all alone

The sight of Self had been Beauty of beauties, joy of joys,

Before His eye serene.


He lay before Himself, and gazed

As ravished with the sight, Brooding on His own attributes

With dread untold delight.


No ties were on His bliss, for He

Had neither end nor cause:
For His own glory 'twas enough

That He was what He was.
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His glory was full grown; His light
Had owned no dawning dim;

His love did not outgrow Himself,
For nought could grow in Him.


He stirred—and yet we know not how
Nor wherefore He should move;

In our poor human words, it was
An overflow of love.


It was the first outspoken word
That broke that peace sublime,

An outflow of eternal love
Into the lap of time.


He stirred; and beauty all at once
Forth from His Being broke;

Spirit and Strength, and living life,
Created things, awoke.


Order and multitude and light

In beauteous showers outstreamed;

And realms of newly-fashioned space With radiant angels beamed.


How wonderful is life in heaven

Amid the angelic choirs,
Where uncreated Love has crowned

His first created fires!


But, see! new marvels gather there!

The wisdom of the Son
With heaven's completest wonder ends

The work so well begun,


The Throne is set: the blessed Three
Crowning Their work are seen—

The Mother of the First-Born Son,
The first-born creatures' Queen I



Hail, bright Archangel! Prince of heaven!

Spirit divinely strong!
To whose rare merit hath been given

To head the angelic throng!


Thine the first worship was, when gloom
Through heaven's thinned ranks did move,

Thus giving unto God the bloom
Of young creation's love.


Thy zeal, with holiest awe inspired,

All other zeals outran,
With love of Mary's honor fired,

And of the Word made Man.


For God to thee, O vision glad!

The Virgin-Mother showed, And, in His lower nature clad,

The Eternal Word of God.


Then, worshipping the splendor sent,

From out those counsels dim, In meekest adoration bent,

Thou sangst thy voiceless hymn:


And the stars answered to thy song,

The Morning Stars of heaven;
And His first praise the angelic throng

To their Queen's Son had given.


Zealot of Jesus! from thy sword

Fling drops of gleamy fire,
To make our worship of the Word

More keenly burn and higher.


Our vile world-frozen hearts bedew

With thy celestial flame, And burn our spirits through and through

With zeal for Jesus' Name.


O Trumpet-tongued! O Beautiful 1

O Force of the Most High! The blessed of the earth look dull

Beside thy majesty.


First servant of the Ineffable,

The first created eye,
That ever, proved and perfect, fell \

On the dread Trinity!


The strength, wherewith thy spirit dared

To love that Blissful Sight, That mystery to thee first bared

After eternal night—


That strength, O Prince! is strength to us,

Comfort and deepest joy,
That our clear God is worshipped thus

Without our base alloy.


O Michael! worship Him this night,
The Father, Word, and Dove,

Renewing with strong act the might
Of thy first marvellous love.


Glory to Him, the Eternal Dove,

Whose boundless mercy fed His glory from thine acts of love

With condescension dread.


Praise to the Three, whose love designed

Thee champion of the Lord,
Who first conceived thee in His mind,

And made thee with His Word.


Who stooped from nothingness to raise

A life like thine so high,
Beauty and being that should praise

His love eternally!



Hail, Gabriel! hail! a thousand Haila
For thine whose music still prevails

In the world's listening ear! Angelic Word! sent forth to tell How the Eternal Word should dwell

Amid His creatures here!


Familiar of the Eternal Word!
To thee the Wisdom of thy Lord

By special grace was shown;
And in the secrets of His will,
Thy love for sinners drank its fill,

And made our lot thine own.


In the dear Word thou didst behold More even than thy words have told,

More than thou couldst impart; Decrees of God before thine eye Passed in procession silently,

And made thee what thou art,—


Counsels of mercy, oceans bright
Of grace to overflow the night

Of man's most hapless fall;
Predestination's secret might,
The Passion's depth, our Lady's height,

The Vision crowning all!


God's Confidant! fair task was thine,
Depths within depths of Love Divine,

To fathom and adore,
Till e'en thy marvellous mind was lost,
In worship blind upon that coast

Of endless More and More I


Angel of Jesus! days gone by
Bore burdens of kind prophecy

To quicken hope delayed;
Then, preluding with John's sweet name,
At length thy choicest music came

Unto the Mother-Maid.


Voice of heaven's sweetness, uttered low,
Thy words like strains of music grow

Upon the stilly night,
Clear echoes from the Mind of God,
Stealing through Mary's blest abode

In pulses of delight.


O Voice! dear Voice! the ages hear
That Hail of thine still lingering near,

An unexhausted song;
And still thou com'st with balmy wing,
Yea, and thou seemest still to sing,

Thine Ave to prolong.


O meditative Spirit! bright
With beauty and abounding light,

Life of surpassing bliss,
Brooding, profound, most calm in power,
What joy for thee to feel each hour

How deep thy beiDg is!


Pure as the sunrise, fair as light,
Lovely as visions of the night

Where saintly souls find food;
Angel of worship! skilled and wise,
Thou hauntest prayer and sacrifice,

Because they fit thy mood.


Zeal burns thee like a quiet fire,
All self-possessed in chaste desire,

As Daniel's was of old;
And thou hast caught from God's n<iar Throne
His love of creatures, and His tone

Of charity untold.


O blessed Gabriel! Tongue of God! Sweet-spoken Spirit! thou hast showed

To us the Word made Man; He bade thee break His silence here; The tale thou told'st in Mary's ear

His coming scarce fore-ran.


Jesus is nigh where Gabriel is;
His presence too was Mary's bliss,

And Daniel loved him near;
Angel of grace! oh prophecy
To us of God's forgiving Eye,

Which thou canst see all clear.


Joseph and John were like to thee,
Chosen for Mary's custody

In her retired abode;
Ah Gabriel! get us love like theirs,
For her whose unremitting prayers

Have gained us love of God!


Take up in heaven for us thy part,
And, singing to the Sacred Heart,

Thy strains of rapture raise;
And tune with endless Ave still
The voices of the Blest, and fill

The ear of God with praise!



By the spring of God's Compassions,

Where the light is hard to bear,
Oh who is that golden Spirit

So intently gazing there?
By the sealed and secret fountain

In the midst of the Abyss,
Where God's love of human nature

Springs in life and light and bliss:—


That mysterious choice and liking

For our race above the rest, Which is something more than mercy

In the Eternal Father's breast:— O'er that fountain ever leaning,

As if listening to the sound, A majestic Spirit watches,

In adoring rapture bound.


He hath watched there countless ages;

It hath been his special grace; He hath learned a thousand secrets

From the spirit of the place.

He beholds all God's perfections;

Yet he chiefly loves to scan That nameless leaning in the Godhead,

Which is special love of man.


He is glorious midst the angels,

Midst the highest there in heaven, Standing almost in the furnace,

One of God's selected Seven! He is special in his beauty;

Like unto him there is none; Tender, patient, and pathetic,

Dear Saint Raphael stands alone.


He hath drunk of that one fountain

In the Godhead's placid breast, Till his beautiful broad spirit

Is with love of man possessed. Oh look, look upon his beauty,

E'en in heaven how passing fair! God Himself, O grand Archangel!

Deems thee bright beyond compare.


Thou art special in thy longings,
Thou art special in thy crown;

Heaven wonders at thy beauty,—
'Tis a beauty of thy own.

Thou art Raphael the Healer,
Thou art Raphael the Guide,

Thou art Raphael the Comrade
Aye at human sorrow's side.


Thou hast loved us like the Father,

With an unboughl love and free; Like the Father's pensive sweetness

Is the love of man in thee. Thou hast loved us with that longing

Which so wrought upon the Word, That He took our flesh upon Him,

And our race to thine preferred.


Yet the Person of the Spirit

Is reflected most in thee,
With thy fires, and consolations,

And man-loving jubilee:
For thy proper gift is gladness;

And thy nature is so sweet
Thou art made to be the shadow

Of the Unmade Paraclete.


It is God's exceeding pathos,

Which has tuned thy spirit thus;

It is God's exceeding sweetness,
Which inclines thee so to us.

Like the Human Heart of Jesus,
Thou art loving man all day:

Like the character of Mary'
Is thy fashion and thy way.


There's scarce a joy thou wouldst not forfeit

The sweet joy of priests to win, Scarce a gift thou wouldst not barter

For the power to pardon sin. O Archangel of Compassion!

Unto thee God's Heart is given; For thou lov'st the gift of healing

Most of all the gifts of heaven.


Art thou angel, blessed Raphael!

Or a man in angel's guise?
Or His likeness, who took on Him

Fallen man's infirmities?
Thou wouldst long to be incarnate

So to share the Saviour's part;
For the angels' spirit in thee

Beateth strangely like a heart!


O thou human-hearted Seraph!

How I long to see thy face, Where in silver showers of beauty

God bedews thee with His grace!

But I see thee now in spirit

Mid the Godhead's silent springs,

With a soft eternal sunset
Sleeping ever on thy wings.




Dear Angel! ever at my side,
How loving must thou be,

To leave thy home in heaven to guard
A guilty wretch like me.


Thy beautiful and shining face

I see not, though so near;
The sweetness of thy soft low voice

I am too deaf to hear.


I cannot feel thee touch my hand
With pressure light and mild,

To check me, as my mother did
When I was but a child.


But I have felt thee in my thoughts

Fightiug with sin for me; And when my heart loves God, I know

The sweetness is from thee.


And when, dear Spirit! I kneel down
Morning and night to prayer,

Something there is within my heart
Which tells me thuo art there.


Yes! when I pray thou prayest too,

Thy prayer is all for me;
But when I sleep, thou sleepest not,

But watchest patiently.


But most of all I feel thee near,
When, from the good priest's feet,

I go absolved, in fearless love,
Fresh toils and cares to meet.


And thou in life's last hour wilt bring

A fresh supply of grace,
And afterwards wilt let me kiss

Thy beautiful bright face.


Ah me! how lovely they must be

Whom God has glorified; Yet one of them, O sweetest thought I

Is ever at my side.


Then, for thy sake, dear Angel! now

More humble will I be:
But I am weak, and when I fall,

Oh weary not of me:


O weary not, but love me still,
For Mary's sake, thy Queen;

She never tired of me, though I
Her worst of sons have been.


She will reward thee with a smile;

Thou know'st what it is worth! For Mary's smiles each day convert

The hardest hearts on earth.


Then love me, love me, Angel dear!'

And I will love thee more;
And help me when my soul is cast

Upon the eternal shore.



It is no earthly summer's ray

That sheds this golden brightness round, Crowning with heavenly light the day

The Princes of the Church were crowned.


The blessed seer to whom was given
The hearts of men to teach and school,

And he who keeps the keys of heaven
For those on earth that own his rule,—


Fathers of mighty Rome, whose word
Shall pass the doom of life or death,

By humble cross and bleeding sword
Well have they won their laurel wreath.


O happy Rome, made holy now

By these two martyrs' glorious blood,

Earth's best and fairest cities bow,
By thy superior claims subdued.


For ihou alone art worth them all,
City of martyrs! thou alone

Canst cheer our pilgrim hearts, and call
The Saviour's sheep to Peter's throne.


All honor, power, and praise be given
To Him who reigns in bliss on high,

For endless, endless years in heaven,
One only God in Trinity I


From the Breviary, "Decora lux seternitatis auream."



Saint of the Sacred Heart,
Sweet teacher of the Word,

Partner of Mary's woes,
And favorite of thy Lord!


Thou to whom grace was given
To stand when Peter fell;

Whose heart could brook the Cross
Of Him it loved so well!


We know not all thy gifts;

But this Christ bids us see, That He who so loved all

Found more to love in thee.


When the last evening came,
Thy head was on His breast,

Pillowed on earth, where now
In heaven the saints find rest.


Thy long fair hair hung down, His glance spoke love to thine,

While love's meek freedom owned The human and divine.


His Heart, with quickened love, Because His hour drew near,

Now throbbed against thy head, Now beat into thine ear.


He nursed thee in His lap,
He loved thee to make free;

What Mary was to Him,
He made Himself to thee.


God and His friend, so free
To touch, to rest, to move !|

The angels wondering gazed,
And envied human love.


Dear Saint! I stand far off,
With vilest sins oppressed;

Oh may I dare, like thee,
To lean upon His breast?


His touch could heal the sick,
His voice could raise the dead I

Oh that my soul might be
Where He allows thy head.


The gifts He gave to thee
He gave thee to impart;

And I, too, claim with thee
His Mother and His Heart.


Ah teach me, then, dear Saint!

The secrets Christ taught thee, The beatings of His Heart,

And how it beat for me.



0 Anne! thou hadst lived through those long dreary years,

When childlessness hung o'er thy home like a blight;

But angels, dear mother! were counting thy tears, And thy patience, like Job's, had been dear in God's sight.


Thou wert meek when they scorned thee; thy rest was in prayer! Thy sorrow was sharp, yet its sharpness was sweet;

When those that were round thee gave way to despair,

Thy faith was more certain, thy trust more complete.


Oh the vision of thee in thy lone mountain home, With thy calm broken heart so heart-breaking to see,

In those dark after-years to thy Daughter might come,

And the great Queen of sorrows learn something from thee.


But joy comes at length to all hearts that believed, And the sighs of the saints must at last end in song;

The best gifts of God fall to those who have grieved, And His love is the stronger for waiting so long.


Oh blest be the day when old earth bore its fruit, The fairest of daughters it ever had seen,

In the village that lies at the white mountain foot, And the angels sang songs to the young Nazarene!


Mid the carols of shepherds, the bleating of sheep, The joy of that birth, blessed Anne! came to thee,

When the fruits were grown golden, the grapes blushing deep, In the fields and the orchards of green Galilee.


Since creation, was ever such gladness as thine, To whom God's chosen Mother as Daughter was given?

O her beautiful eyes, dearest Anne, how they shine, And the sound of her voice is like music from heaven!


Why was it thy heart did not break with excess
Of a joy that was harder than sorrow to bear?

Perchance had thine earlier sorrows been less,

Thou couldst not have lived with a vision so fair.


Like a presence of God in thy home's hallowed bound,

Like a pageant of heaven all day was she seen; And didst thou not see how the angels thronged round,

All amazed at the sight of their infantine Queen? 10.

She was crown'd even then, like a creature apart,

The child God had called to be Mother and Maid; Didst thou watch how the fountains of blood in her heart,

Like the fountains in Sion, incessantly played? 11.

O Anne! from that blood the Creator will take
The Flesh that shall save the lost tribes of our race;

And His wonderful love the Eternal will slake
At thy child's sinless heart, at those fountains of


O Anne! joyous Saint! what a life didst thou live, What an unbroken brightness of innocent bliss!

Every touch of thy child a fresh rapture could give, .And yet didst thou not kneel ere thou daredst to


And we too, glad mother! are gay with thy mirth, For he who loves Mary in mirth ever lives;

There is brightness and goodness all over the earth, For the souls Mary welcomes and Jesus forgives.


Yes! gladness makes holy the poor heart of man;

It lightens life's sorrows, it softens its smarts; Oh be with thy children, then, dearest Saint Anne,

For Mary thy child is the joy of our hearts.



From the highest heights of glory,

Mid the sweets of endless calm,
Mary's spirit in its rapture,

On the earth is dropping balm.
On the bosom of the Saviour,

Like a flower of stainless white,
Lies the trophy of His mercy,

In a blaze of heavenly light.


Pardoned Sinner! wondrous Convert!

Was there ever home like thine?
Midst the splendors of the angels

How thy fervent graces shine!

Ever leaning, ever resting

Upon Him thou lov'dst so much,

What ecstatic joys burn in thee,
From the sweetness of His touch!


And yet thou too once wert wandering,

Once wert soiled with darkest stains, Who art now the fairest blossom

In the land where Jesus reigns. Thou wert wretched, thou wert drooping,

Thou wert crushed upon the earth, Who art greater now and grander

Than an angel in his mirth.


Thou didst fly unto thy Saviour,

And thine eyes were fixed on His, While thy guilty lips were printing

On His feet full many a kiss: And then, wonder of compassion!

In one moment thou wert free, And a gift of love unequalled

From His Heart came into thee.

Like the rising of the ocean
Was the tide of glorious grace;

Like the beauty of the morning
Grew the beauty of thy face;

Like the glory of an angel

Was the purity within, Like the whiteness of thy namesake,

Of the Mary without Sin!

Blessed swiftness of a pardon

Which thy guilt could not delay! Happy penance of a moment

Burning life-long sins away! O those gentle Eyes of Jesus,

And those tender Words He said! O the value that he places

On the tears that sinners shed I


The sweet fragrance of thine ointment

All the earth is filling now; And thy tears are turned to jewels

For a crown upon thy brow: There are thousands in all ages

Come to Christ because of thee, Oh then, Mary, with thy converts

In thy kindness number me I


Queen of Penance! Queen of fervor!

Thou art martyr too of love, And thy likeness to thy Saviour

Makes the angels glad above.

O how wisely hast thou chosen
For thyself the better part,

To be braided like a jewel

On thy Saviour's Sacred Heart!



O dear Saint Martha! busy Saint!

By love's keen fervor ever pressed! Oh get us fervor not to faint

Until we reach our heavenly rest.


We too, like thee, since we have known How sweet our blessed Lord could be,

Mourn o'er the years too quickly flown, And fain would hurry on like thee.


Alas! how much there is to do,
And how much more to be undone

What obstacles to struggle through,
Yet what a glory to be won!


So, Martha! we have chosen thee
To be our own peculiar saint;

We want thy secret grace,—to be
Always at work, yet not to faint.


Saint of the Busy Hand and Heart!

We for thy spirit humbly cry;
O Martha! get us Martha's part,—

Not feet to walk but wings to fly.


Yet even love can hinder love,

As thou wert hindered on thy way;

Get our love prudence from above, While at its work to watch and pray.


The will to work, the heart to pray—
Let it by these to us be given,

Swiftly, yet peaceably, all day

To wing our happy flight to heavem


Christ looked with love into thy face,
His looks were spurs to spur thee on;

How swiftly didst thou run thy race,
How gloriously thy race was won!


Saint of our choice! ouv Saviour's eyes
With tenderness beam on us now;

For thy sake He will stoop to prize
The love our lowuess can bestow.


Peace, patience, courage, mother dear!

And uttermost humility,
That safest grace of holy fear,—

These are the gifts we beg of thee.


O Martha! make our hearts like thine,—;

Always on fire, always in haste, And yet like peaceful stars to shine

Untroubled o'er life's weary waste.


O dearest Jesus! in our need

Give to us Martha's burning heart;

They, who on earth have Martha's speed, In heaven shall meet with Mary's part.



Father of many children! in the gloom
Of the long past how beautiful thou art!

And still, dear Saint! the weary nations come
To drink from out thine unexhausted heart.


There are sweet waters in thy fountains still;

In every changeful age they have been flowing; While faithful sons thy destinies fulfil

Through the wide world, like rivers in their going.


Kings, with thy wisdom in their hearts, dear Saint!

Have grown more royal 'neath thy Christlike rule; And, when the earth with ignorance was faint,

Learning found shelter in thy tranquil school.

Deserts have blossomed, where thy feet have trod;

Thy homes have been safe shelters for the weary; And in dark times the glory of our God

Fled to thy houses to find sanctuary.


O Benedict! thy special gifts are peace,
Freedom of heart, and sweet simplicity;

They fail not with the ages, but increase,
As thine ovvn graces grew of old in thee.


Give us great hearts, dear Father! hearts as wide As thine that was far wider than the world;

Hearts by incessant labor sanctified,

Yet with the peace of prayer within them furled.

Thou art the Christian Abraham; to thee,
Saint of insatiate love! thy God hath given

For thy grand faith a saintly family,

Countless as are the crowded stars in heaven.


Kind Shepherd! tend us with thy pastoral love
Across the mountains to our heavenly rest;

Father! we see thee beckoning from above;

We come! we come! to bless thee, and be blest!





Dear little Saint! sweet Innocence!

Thy throne in heaven we see:
Jesus, thy love, the Eternal King,

Hath done great things for thee.


In days of darkness when the world

Despised our Saviour's Name,
Thy childish heart, by grace grown old,

Gloried in such dear shame.


The Roman children knew thee well,

Lighthearted in thy play,
Filling the vineyards with thy songs,

The gayest of the gay.


They saw thee at thy daily tasks,

Obedient, gentle, still:
They learned from thee how softly love

Its duties can fulfil.


They wondered at thy modesty,
Thy soul's most sweet defence;

It made thee like a queen to them,
Dear little Innocence!


And now thou art a real queen
Up in the land of heaven:

Jesus to thee a jewelled crown
And fadeless palm hath given.


In grand old Rome thy love was set

On our dear Lord alone:
He saw the secret of thy heart,

And took thee for His own.


He loved thee midst the orange trees And flower-beds of thy home,

And amongst the Sunday worshippers In the close catacomb.


He loved to hear thee sing the songs, The Christian songs that tell

Of the Good Shepherd, and the sheep That Shepherd loved so well.


He made thee grave, and all the while

He made thee grow more gay;
Thy heart grew lighter through the weight

Of love that on it lay.


He gave thee faith that made thy heart

Strong as the walls of Rome; He gave thee love and purity,

And then He called thee home.


Dear Martyr-Child! they tore thy flesh;

With fire they scorched each limb; But games midst orange gardens seemed

Less sweet than death for Him.


And now thou art with Him, fair Child!

Nestling at His dear feet: Thou knew'st that heaven was bright, but not

That it was half so sweet.


Our own dear Saint! make us like thee;

Be thou our kind defence; Give us thy gift of modesty,

Sweet Sister Innocence!



All praise to Saint Patrick who brought to our mountains

The gift of God's faith, the sweet light of His love!

All praise to the Shepherd who showed us the fountains

That rise in the Heart of the Saviour above! For hundreds of years, In smiles and in tears, Our saint hath been with us, our shield and our stay;

All else may have gone, Saint Patrick alone, He hath been to us light when earth's lights were all set,

Por the glories of faith they can never decay; And the best of our glories is bright with us yet, In the faith and the feast of Saint Patrick's Day.


There is not a saint in the bright courts of heaven
More faithful than he to the land of his choice;

Oh, well may the nation to whom he was given,
In the feast of their sire and apostle rejoice!

In glory above, True to his love, He keeps the false faith from his children away; The dark false faith, That is worse than death, Oh he drives it far off from the green sunny shore, Like the reptiles which fled from his curse in dismay;

And Erin, when error's proud triumph is o'er, Will still be found keeping Saint Patrick's Day.


Then what shall we do for thee, heaven-sent Father?

What shall the proof of our loyalty be? By all that is dear to our hearts, we would rather

Be martyred, sweet Saint! than bring shame upon thee!

But oh! he will take The promise we make, So to live that our lives by God's help may display The light that he bore To Erin's shore: Yes! Father of Ireland! no child wilt thou own,

Whose life is not lighted by grace on its way; For they are true Irish, Oh yes! they alone,

Whose hearts are all true on Saint Patrick's Day.


Saint Wilfrid;



Hail, holy Wilfrid, hail!

Kindest of patrons, hail!
Whose loving help doth ne'er

Thy trusting children fail!

Saint of the cheerful heart,
Quick step and beaming eye!

Give light unto our lives,
And at our death be nigh.

To Mary's lovers thou,

Sweet Saint! hast shewn the road
Oh teach us how to love

The Mother of our God.

Give us thy love of work,
Thy spirit's manly powers,

And teach us how to save
This Saxon land of ours.


Teach us, dear Saint! to make
The Church our only home,

To love the faith, the rites,
And all the ways of Rome.


Thy life was one long voyage

Of unabated hope, Winning the truant hearts

Of England to the Pope.


We have the same to do,

A labor hard but sweet; And we have but to trace

The pathway of thy feet.


For England's sake make us
Humble and gay and pure;

For so the heart works best,
And makes the blessing sure.


Ah! we have need of thee,

To knit us all in one, The mischief to undo

Which our cold hearts have done. 10.

To Ireland's sons of faith

Hard measures have we dealt;

One faith would breed one heart
In Saxon and in Celt.


Thou hadst no idle hour;

Thy gains with toil were bought; Saint Wilfrid! make us love

Our country as we ought.


Wilfrid! by thy sweet name

Our little ones we call; Oh then on them and lis

Let thy rich blessing fall.


Lover of youth! do thou
Our E isjlish children bless;

Their joyo is hearts' first love
For Mary's service press.


Into our souls, dear Saint!

With thy blithe courage come, And make us missioners

Of Mary and of Rome!


Hail, holy Wilfrid, hail!

Saint of the free and gay!
Look how we follow thee,

And bless us in our way!



Dear Father Philip! holy Sire!

We are poor sons of thine, Thy last and least,—then to our prayers

A father's ear incline.

We wandered weeping heretofore

For many a long, long day;
But thou hast taught us how to mourn

In thy more tender way;


To mourn that God of all His sons

So little loved should be; To mourn that mid the world's cold hearts

None were more cold than we;


To mourn, and yet to joy and love,

With overflowing heart,
And in thy school of Christian mirth

To bear our humble part.


Gay as the lark at morning's door,

Singing its fearless song;
Yet plaintive as the dove that mourns

In secret all day long;


Busy and blithe in hidden cell,

Or crowded street no less,
We use thy modest wiles to save

The world by cheerfulness.


Mid strife and change, cold hearts and tongues,

How much we owe to thee!
This sunny service! who could dream

Earth had such liberty.


Look at the crowds of this sweet land,

Dear Father Philip! See
How shepherdless they wander on,

How lone, how hopelessly!


Then make us sons of thine indeed,

Fill us with thy true mirth, Thy strength of prayer, thy might of love,

To change these hearts of earth.


By thee for Mary's household hired,

May burning heart and word
So preach her, that her name may be

In England like a sword.


And oft above our shrines be seen,
In humblest garments swathed,

Our God and King, while every eye
In speechless tears is bathed.


May crowds, like reeds before the wind,

In utter love bow down,
In utter love and faith before

His sacramental throne;


While from His known and kingly eye
Bright streams of blessing part,

And rain like sunbeams far within
The rapt and trembling heart.


In Philip's name, in Philip's way,

To God and Mary true,
In this our own dear native land

Good work we fain would do.


To this our own dear native land

We welcome thee to-day;
Dread Father! come and toil with us

In thine own trustful way.


Jesus and Mary be the stars

That shine for us on high:
God and Saint Philip! brothers! be

Our gentle battle cry.


By haughty word, cold force of mind,

We seek not hearts to rule; Hearts win the hearts they seek! Behold

The secret of our school!


By winning way, by playful love,

Our wonders will we do,
The playfulness of such as know

Their faith alone is true.


By touch and tone, by voice and eye,

By many a little wile,
May cold and sin-bound spirits own

In us our Father's guile!


Dear Father Philip! give to us

Thy manners gay and free,
Thy patient trust, thy plaint of prayer,

Thy deep simplicity.



Saint Philip came from the sunny South,
From the streets of holy Rome;

His heart was hot with the love of souls,
And England gave him a home.


He had never slept outside the town

More than half his quiet life; But his heart so burned, in heaven he turned

A pilgrim, and man of strife.


Through many a land and o'er many a sea
With his staff and beads he came;

Men saw him not, but their hearts grew hot,
As though they were near a flame.


In France and Spain, and in Polish towns,

He planted his School of Mirth, In Mexico, and in rich Peru,

Nay, in every nook of earth.


He came himself, that travelling Saint!

Felt, if not heard or seen;
It was not enough his sons should be

Like what Philip himself had been.


Dear England he saw, its cold, cold hearts;

Quoth he, What a burning shame
That hearts so bold should be still so cold;

Good truth! they have need of my flame!


He came with his staff, he came with his beads,
You would know the old man by sight,

If he were not a saint who hides his face
And his virgin eyes so bright.


Tell me if ever your heart of late

Hath been strangely set on fire;
Have you been hardly patient with life,

And looked on death with desire?


Hath earth seemed dull, or your soul been full

Until you were fain to cry?
Or have holy Names burnt you like flames,

And you knew not how or why?


Hath sin seemed the easiest thing in the world To put at arm's length from yourself?

Hath Mary, sweet Mary, grown precious to you, Like a miser's hidden pelf?


If it so be, oh listen to me!

Rejoice, for Saint Philip is nigh; At Jesu's Name he hath lit his flame,

And you felt him passing by.


He is out on earth to spread Mary's mirth.

And that is—saving poor souls;
And happy are those on whom he throws

But one of his burning coals.


This Is the way that Saint Philip works!

He comes in the midst of your cares, He passes by, turns back on the sly,

And catches you unawares.


Light to your eyes, and song to your ears,

A touch that pricks like a dart,
'Tis Philip alone works in hearts of stone,

And Mary taught him his art.


Now down on your knees, good neighbors, please j

Thank our dear Lady for this,—
That Philip has come to an English home

With those winning ways of his.


Ask him to stay full many a day,

A hard-working saint is he!
And is it not true there is much to do

In this land of liberty?


Now read me aright, good people, pray!

'Tis Philip himself is here;
'Tis Philip's flame, more than Philip's name

That you all should prize so dear.


For Philip's sons are but Philip's staff,
A staff that he wieldeth still;

Good father he is to those sons of his,
But a sire with a right strong will.


He is not content his sons should be
Like what their father had been;

He works himself; he trusts no one else;
He is here to-day I ween.


Bid him God speed, since the Roman saint
An Englishman fain would be;

Long may he bide by his new fireside,
For a right merry saint is he!



Sweet Saint Philip! thou hast won us,

Though our hearts were hard as stone: Sin had once well-nigh undone us, Now we live for God alone. Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us; We are Philip's gift to God.

Sweet Saint Philip! we are weeping

Not for sorrow, but for glee; Bless thy converts bravely keeping To the bargain made with thee. Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us; We are Philip's gift to God.

Sweet Saint Philip! old friends want us

To be with them as before; And old times, old habits haunt us, Old temptations press us sore. Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us; We are Philip's gift to God.


Sweet Saint Philip! do not fear us;

Get us firmness, get us grace; Only thou, dear* Saint! be near us, We shall safely run the race! Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us; We are Philip's gift to God.

Sweet Saint Philip! make us wary;

Sin and death are all around; Bring us Jesus! Bring us Mary!

We shall conquer and be crowned.

Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus!
Sin and Self no more shall please us,
We are Philip's gift to God.


Sweet Saint Philip! keep us humble,

Make us pure as thou wert pure; Strongest purposes will crumble, If we boast and make too sure. Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us; We are Philip's gift to God.

Sweet Saint Philip! come and ease us

Of the weary load we bear; Put us in the Heart of Jesus, Dearest Saint, and leave us there. Help in Mary! Joy in Jesus! Sin and Self no more shall please us We are Philip's gift to God.



Saint Philip! I have never known

A saint as I know thee; For none have made their wills and ways

So plain for men to see!

I live with thee; and in my toil

All day thou hast thy part,
And then I come at night to learn

Thy picture off by heart.


Oh what a prayer thy picture is!

Was Jesus like to thee? Whence hast thou caught that lovely look

That preaches so to me?
Sermon and prayer thy picture is,

And music to the eye,
Song to the soul, a song that sings

Of whitest purity!


A blessing on thy name, dear Saint

Blessing from young and old,
Whom thou in Mary's gallant band

Hast winningly enrolled!
If ever there were poor man's saint,

That very saint art thou;
If ever time were fit for thee,

Dear Saint! that time is now.


Philip! strange missioner thou art,

Biding so still at home, Content if with the evening star

Souls to thy nets will come.

If ever spell could make hard word

Profit and pastime be,
That spell is in thy coaxing ways,

That magic is in thee.


Sweet faced old Man; for so I dare,

Saint though thou be on high,
To name thee, for thou temptest love

By thy humility,—
Sweet-faced old Man! what are thy wilea

With which thou winnest men? Art thou all saints within thyself?

If not, what art thou then?


John's love of Mary thou hast got;

Thy house is Mary's home;
And then thou hast Paul's love of souls,

With Peter's love of Rome.
Thy heart that was so large and strong

It could not quiet bide,
Oh was it not like His that beats

Within a Wounded Side!


Saint of the over-worked and poor J

Saint of the sad and gay! Jesus and Mary be with those

Who keep to thy true way I

Oh bless us, Philip! Saint most dear!

Thine Oratory bless,
And gain for those who seek thee there

The gift of holiness!



All ye who love the ways of sin,

Come to Saint Philip's feet and learn
The baits that Jesus hath to win
His truant children to return.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity!


That saint could do such things for you

As your poor hearts would never dream For he can make the false world true, And penance life's best pleasure seem. All praise and thanks to Jesus be For sweet Saint Philip's charity 1


His words like gentlest dew distil,
His face is calm as summer eve;
His look can tame the wildest will,
And make the stoutest heart to grieve.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity!


He smiles; and evil habit fails
To bind its victim as before;
Old sins drop off the soul like scales,
Old wounds are healed and leave no sore.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity!


His hand, with virgin fragrance fraught,

The heart with painless pleasure strains, And with one touch all evil thought, All worldly longing from it drains. All praise and thanks to Jesus be For sweet Saint Philip's charity!


He breathes on us; the spicy gale

Of Araby is not more sweet;
He breathes new life in hearts that fail,
New vigor into weary feet.

All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity I


His voice can raise the dead to life,

So wonderful its accents are;
He speaks,—there is an end of strife,
And of the soul's internal war.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity!



Come, sinners! ye need not forego

Your portion of light-hearted mirth;
He came unthought-of roads to show,
And plant a'paradise on earth.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity!


Come, try the saint: his words are true,

Give him your hearts, he gives you heaven;
He sets light penance, and will do
The penance he himself hath given.
All praise and thanks to Jesus be
For sweet Saint Philip's charity I



Pining for old poetic times,

Young hearts have oft unwisely grieved,
As though there were no days like those

When men loved less than they believed.


Yet are they sure, if on those days
Their span of trial had been cast,

They would have well, in penance drear,
The long-sustained ordeal passed?



Teasing hair-shirt and prickly chain,
Rude discipline and bed of earth,—

Would they have tamed by these rough ways
Their love of ease and pride of birth?


God's poor, God's Church,—are these to-day Welcomed and nourished at their cost,

Yea, to the brink of poverty?

If not, how sounds their idle boast?


Ah no! it is not jewelled cope,

Brave pomps nor incense-laden air,

Can lull the pains of aching hearts,
Or bring the Saviour's pardon there.


No! to be safe, these outward things
Interior strictness must control;

To play with beauty and with art

Saves no., nor heals, the wounded soul.


No! dear Saint Philip! we must learn
Our wisdom in thy heavenly school,

Love thy restraints, and wear thy yoke,
And persevere beneath thy rule.


Love is to us, in these late days,

What faith in those old times might be; He that hath love lacks not of faith,

And hath beside love's liberty.



How gently flow the silent years,

The seasons one by one;
How sweet to feel, each month that goes,

That life must soon be done!


O weary ways of earth and men!

O self more weary still!
How vainly do you vex the heart

That none but God can fill!


It is not weariness of life

That makes us wish to die;
But we are drawn by cords which come

From out eternity.


Eye has not seen, ear lias not heard,

No heart of man can tell,
The store of joys God has prepared

For those who love Him well.


Oh may those joys one day be ours,

Upon that happy shore!
And yet those joys are not enough—

We crave for something more.


The world's unkindness grows with life,

And troubles never cease; 'Twere lawful then to wish to die,

Simply to be at peace.


Yes! peace is something more than joy,

Even the joys above;
For peace, of all created things,

Is likest Him we love.


But not for joy, nor yet for peace,

Dare we desire to die;
God's will on earth is always joy,

Always tranquillity.


To die, that we might sin no more,
Were scarce a hero's prayer;

And glory grows as grace matures,
And patience loves to bear.


And yet we long and long to die,

We covet to be free, Not for Thy great rewards, O God I

Not for Thy peace—but Thee!


But call not this a selfish love,

A turning from the fight;
And tell us not, for others' sakes,

To doubt if this be right.


If he were wanted for his Lord,
Saint Martin prayed to stay:

'Twas well; and yet it was a prayer
Saint Philip would not pray.


Ah, leave us, then, at peace, to greet Each waxing, waning moon,

Whose silver light seems aye to say— Soon, exile spirit! soon!



Day set on Rome; its golden morn
Had seen the world's Creator borne

Around Saint Peter's square;
Trembling and weeping all the way,
God's Vicar with his God that day

Made pageant brave and rare.


Night came; through Rome in place and street,
Was hushed the tread of pilgrim's feet;

The dew fell soft as balm;
The summer moon's unsteady beam
Quivered on Tyber's huirying stream;

All buL his wave was calm.


The city slept as though 'twere spent
With love of that dear Sacrament,

As hearts o'erjoyed will sleep;
The night was lovely as a spell;
Its beautiful repose so well

Rome's Festa seemed to keep.


Saint Mary's glistening roofs were seen
Clear marked in moonlight soft and keen

Against the cloudless sky;
And round the Vallicella flew
Angels as thick as stars that strew

The azure fields on high.


Oh come to Father Philip's cell;

Rome's rank and youth, they know it well;

Come ere the moment flies!
The feast hath been too much for him;
His heart is full, his eye is dim,

And Rome's Apostle dies.


One of God's mightiest saints is he;
Mark well his acts, none light can be;

All are on God intent;
'Twas Philip's craft; and we may dare
Our father with his Lord compare

In wile and blandishment.


The smile, the jest, the sportive blow
Served but to hide the depths below

Of supernatural power;
And never strove he to control
The hidden beauty of his soul

More than in that last hour.


An old man's carefulness that day,
With fond caress and childlike play,

Beyond his wont was blent;
Thoughtful of little things, he gave
Counsel perhaps a shade more grave

Than common to the saint.


None deemed those hours of talk and mirth Were his foreseen farewell to earth;

'Twas only Philip's way; Yet when he went, his children yearned For the strange fire unmarked that burned

Within their hearts that day.


He gazed on Peter's martyr hill;
Some glowing vision seemed to fill

His calmly raptured eye;
His Mass, half said, half sung, was o'er
None had e'er heard such strains before,

Nor dared to ask him why.


Thou art not yet mid angel choirs;
Wherefore this burst of song, these fires

From harps of seraphs riven?
Thou canst not wait; but wilt with them
Sing as they sang at Bethlehem,

Glory in Highest Heaven.


Hours passed, and Philip's cheerful cell
Heard the light laugh, the gay farewell;

'Twas Philip stdl to all:
Confessions heard, his Office said,
The old man sat upon his bed,

Waiting the Bridegroom's call.


"How wanes the night, my sons?" he said: He heard, and straight his reckoning made; Time's lagging foot went slow: "Aye, three and two, and three and three, "And then the captive will be free, "At the sixth hour I go I"


Come, O Creator Spirit! come,
Take Thine elect unto his home,

Thy chosen one, sweet Dove!
"Come to thy rest," he hears Thee say;
He waits not—he hath passed away

In mortal trance of love.


When Rome in deepest slumber slept,
Our father's children knelt and wept

Around his little bed;
He raised his eyes, then let them fall
With marked expression upon all;

He blessed them and was dead.


One half from earth, one half from heaven,
Was that mysterious blessing given,

Just as his life had been
One half in heaven, one half on earth,
Of earthly toil and heavenly mirth

A wondrous woven scene.


The Son of Man, the Eternal God,
Toiling a pilgrim on earth's road,

Ceased not in heaven to be;
That gift He gave to thee in part,
Apostle of the Fiery Heart!

For His great love of thee.


O Jesus! wondrous holyday
Rome's children kept; and littJe they

Its end and fruit foresaw,
When bells rang out and cannon roared,
And Rome fell prostrate and adored,

Speechless with love and awe.


Those joyous bells, these cannon near,
They smote this morn on Philip's car,

And thrilled him through and through:
Love fell on him as on its prey,
And stirred and shook his heart all day,

As love alone can do.


It was enough; the inward strife

No more could last twixt love and life,

His heart, it broke with bliss. Since Joseph died on Jesu's knee, Since Mary's spirit was set free,

Was never death like this.


Rome's joy admonished him, that earth Caught but poor shadows of the mirth

Around the Eternal Throne. Sweet Sacrament! the love of Thee Snapped the last chain, and he was free

Faith was by love undone.


That joyous peal was Philip's knell, That triumph was the saint's farewell

To his beloved Rome; Worn out with love, he could not stay From his dear Lord one other day,

So pined he for his home.


Master of self, with placid eye,
As though 'twere easy work to die,

Nor need to fear his doom,
With calmest dignity, and slow,
As one who at his will can go

Gently from room to room,—


Saint Philip passed into the blaze

Of that dread throne whose light can daze

The seraph's glorious ken;
As Mary died, so died her son;
Love got its prey, and Jesus won

His chosen among men.


O Jesus, Mary, Joseph, hide,

With kind Saint Raphael, by my side,

When death shall come for me;
And, Philip! leave me not that day,
But let my spirit pass away,

Leaning, dear Sire, on thee.



Recordare, Virgo Mater, in conapectu Dei, ut loquaris pro nobis bona.

Mis sale Momanurru


O Mary! Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast, For mighty Rome, Saint Philip's home, is desolate and waste;

There are wild beasts in her palaces far fiercer and more bold

Than those that licked the martyrs' feet in heathen days of old.


O Maiy! Mother Mary! that dear City was thine own,

And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;

At the corners of the streets thy Child's sweet Face and thine

Charmed evil out of many hearts, and darkness out of mine.


By Peter's Cross and Paul's sharp sword, dear Mother Mary! pray;

By the dungeon deep where thy Saint Luke in weary durance lay,

And by the Church thou know'st so well beside the Latin Gate,

For the love of John, dear Mother! stay the hapless City's fate.


For the exiled Pontiff's sake, our Father and our Lord,

O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;

For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be, Is busied with thine honor now by that sweet southern sea.


Oh by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and square

Burned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,

And by that throbbing heart of his which thou didst

keep at Rome, Let not the lawless spoiler waste dear Father Philip's



Oh by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim's gates to heaven,

By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,

By the countless Ave-Maries that have rung from out its towers,

By Peter's threshold, Mother I save this pilgrimplace of ours!


By all the words of peace and power, that from

Saint Peter's Chair Have stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious

City spare:

By the lowliness of him whose gentle-hearted sway A thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary! pray.


By the pageants bright whose golden light hath

flashed through street and square, And by the long processions that have borne thy

Jesus there,

By the glories of the saints, by the honors that were thine,

By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine,—


By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen,

By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee

for their queen, By all the glory God hath gained from out that

wondrous place, O Mary! Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer

for grace!


O Mary! Mother Mary! thou wilt plead for Philip's home;

Thou wilt turn the heart of Him who turned Saint

Peter back to Rome; Yes! thou wilt pray thy prayer; and the battle will

be won,

And the Saviour's sinless Mother save the City of her Son.



Sweet Saviour! bless us ere we go;

Thy word into our minds instil;
And make our lukewarm hearts to glow

With lowly love and fervent will.
Through life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus! be our light.



The day is done; its hours have run;

And Thou hast taken count of all, The scanty triumphs grace hath won,

The broken vow, the frequent fall. Through life's long day and death's dark night, O gentle Jesus! be our light.


Grant us, dear Lord! from evil ways

True absolution and release;
And bless us more than in past days

With purity and inward peace.
Through life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus! be our light.


Do more than pardon; give us joy,

Sweet fear and sober liberty, And loving hearts without alloy,

That only long to be like Thee. Through life's long day and death's dark night, O gentle Jesus I be our light.


Labor is sweet, for Thou hast toiled,
And care is light, for Thou hast cared;

Let not our works with self be soiled,
Nor in unsimple ways ensnared,

Through life's long day and death's dark night,

O gentle Jesus! be our light.


For all we love, the poor, the sad,

The sinful,—unto Thee we call; Oh let Thy mercy make us glad;

Thou art our Jesus and our All. Through life's long day and death's dark night, O gentle Jesus! be our light.


Sweet Saviour! bless us; night is come;

Mary and Philip near us be! Good angels watch about our home,

And we are one day nearer Thee. Through life's long day and death's dark night, O gentle Jesus! be our light.



O blessed Father! sent by God,

His mercy to dispense,
Thy hand is out o'er all the earth,

Like God's own providence.


There is no grief nor care of men,
Thou dost not own for thine,

No broken heart thou dost not fill
With mercy's oil and wine.


Thy miracles are works of love;

Thy greatest is to make
Room in a day for toils that weeks

In other men would take.


All cries of suffering through the earth

Upon thy mercy call, As though thou wert, like God Himself,

A Father unto all.


Dear Saint! not in the 'wilderness
Thy fragrant virtues bloom,

But in the city's crowded haunts,
The alley's cheerless gloom.


Where hunger hid itself to die,
Where guilt in darkness dwelt,

Thy pleasant sunshine came by stealth,
Thy hand and heart were felt.


All industries of love wert thou,
So thoughtful yet so quick,—

The angel of the shame-faced poor.
God's shadow on the sick.


Son wert thou to the childless old,
The lonesome widow's stay,

The gladness of the orphan groups
Out in the streets at play.


Yet not to towns didst thou confine
The gifts thy mercy gave,—

The Gospel to the villager,
His freedom to the slave.


So for the sake of timid souls,
And love of winning ways,

Thou didst against hard-hearted schools
Thy gentle protest raise.


For charity anointed thee

O'er want and woe, and pain;

And she hath crowned thee emperor
Of all her wide domain.


Vincent! like Mother Mary, thou
Art no one's patron saint;

Eyes to the blind, health to the sick,
And life to those who faint.


Of body and of soul alike

Thou art physician wise,
And full of joy as if thou wcrt

Raphael in mortal guise.


The poor thou savest by such charms
As hardest hearts can move,

The rich by teaching them to do
The saving works of love.


Saint of wide-open arms, and heart

Capacious as a sea,
In dead of night a thousand lips

Are sweetly blessing thee,—


In orphanage, in hospital,

The sick on garret bed, The dying, and the desolate

Who weep beside the dead.


Thou seem'st to have a thousand hands,

And in each hand a heart;
And all the hearts a precious balm

Like dew from God impart.


While love so overwhelmed thy days

With toils beyond compare,
Thy life mid all thy countless works

Was one unbroken prayer.


'Twas prayer that multiplied thy hands, Prayer was thy power to bless;

'Twas prayer that made thy time for thee, 'Twas prayer was thy success.


So thou belongest unto all,

And all belong to thee;
And we in him Thy pity piaise,

Most Holy Trinity!