Poets of the South Part 22

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee!

Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to victory.

Out of its scabbard, where full long It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, s.h.i.+elding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee.

Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky-- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow--and to die.

Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free; Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee![11]

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of n.o.ble Robert Lee.

Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our n.o.ble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully.

DEATH [12]

Out of the shadows of sadness, Into the suns.h.i.+ne of gladness, Into the light of the blest; Out of a land very dreary, Out of the 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 sh.o.r.e.

Out of a land in whose bowers Perish and fade all the flowers; Out of the land of decay, Into the Eden where fairest Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest, Never shall wither away.

Out of the world of the wailing Thronged with the anguished and ailing; Out of the world of the sad, Into the world that rejoices-- World of bright visions and voices-- Into the world of the glad.

Out of a life ever mournful, Out of a land very lornful, Where in bleak exile we roam,[13]

Into a joy-land above us, Where there's a Father to love us-- Into our home--"Sweet Home."

PRESENTIMENT [14]

Cometh a voice from a far-land, Beautiful, sad, and low; s.h.i.+neth a light from the star-land Down on the night of my woe; And a white hand, with a garland, Biddeth my spirit to go.

Away and afar from the night-land, Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, To the splendors and skies of the light-land, Where reigneth eternity's day,-- To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, Whose sun never pa.s.seth away.

And I knew the voice; not a sweeter On earth or in Heaven can be; And never did shadow pa.s.s fleeter Than it, and its strange melody; And I know I must hasten to meet her, "Yea, _Sister!_ Thou callest to me!"

And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, It flashed from the crown that she wore, And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, My lips had kissed often of yore!

And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, Had smiled on me sweetly before.

And I saw the hand with the garland, Ethel's hand--holy and fair; Who went long ago to the far-land To weave me the wreath I shall wear; And to-night I look up to the star-land And pray that I soon may be there.[15]

NIGHT THOUGHTS [16]

Some reckon their age by years, Some measure their life by art,-- But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their life, by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show The length--not the depth of years; Few or many they come, few or many they go, But our time is best measured by tears.

Ah! not by the silver gray That creeps through the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pa.s.s on our way, And not by the furrows the fingers of care,

On forehead and face, have made: Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are oft-times old, Though their brow be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm, their heart lies cold-- O'er them the springtime, but winter is there.

And the old are oft-times young, When their hair is thin and white; And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But bead by bead I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead,--'tis well!

And they're blest with a blessing of tears.

Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a long stream of life, The tempests and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never the foam brings the brave [17] heart home-- It reaches the haven through tears.

For a general introduction to Father Ryan's poetry, see Chapter VI.

[Footnote 1: As stated in the sketch of Father Ryan, this poem strikes the keynote to his verse. It therefore properly opens his volume of poems. It became popular on its first publication, and was copied in various papers. It is here taken from the _Religious Herald_, Richmond, Virginia.]

[Footnote 2: The location of _The Valley of Silence_ is given in the last stanza.]

[Footnote 3: This poem may be taken, in a measure, as autobiographic. In this stanza, and the two following ones, the poet refers to that period of his life before he resolved to consecrate himself to the priesthood.]

[Footnote 4: This indicates the general character of his poetry. Inspired in _The Valley of Silence_, it is sad, meditative, mystical, religious.]

[Footnote 5: Perhaps every poet has this experience. There come to him elusive glimpses of truth and beauty which are beyond the grasp of speech. As some one has sung:--

"Sometimes there rise, from deeps unknown, Before my inmost gaze, Far brighter scenes than earth has shown In morning's orient blaze; I try to paint the visions bright, But, oh, their glories turn to night!"]

[Footnote 6: This poem was first published in Father Ryan's paper, the _Banner of the South_, March 21, 1868, from which it is here taken. Coming so soon after the close of the Civil War, it touched the Southern heart.]

[Footnote 7: For a criticism of the versification of this stanza, see the chapter on Father Ryan.]

[Footnote 8: This note of pardon, in keeping with the poet's priestly character, is found in several of his lyrics referring to the war. In spite of his strong Southern feeling, there is no unrelenting bitterness.

Thus, in _The Prayer of the South_, which appeared a week later, we read:--

"Father, I kneel 'mid ruin, wreck, and grave,-- A desert waste, where all was erst so fair,-- And for my children and my foes I crave Pity and pardon. Father, hear my prayer!"]

[Footnote 9: This was the poet's feeling in 1868. In a similar strain we read in _The Prayer of the South_:--

"My heart is filled with anguish deep and vast!

My hopes are buried with my children's dust!

My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast!

In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust?"

Happily the poet lived to see a new order of things--an era in which vain regrets gave place to energetic courage, hope, and endeavor.]