Part 14 (1/2)

Self-sentenced Babel's strife of tongues!

Loud rings the arena. Athletes, peace!

Nor drown the wild-dove's Song of Songs.

Alas, the wanderers feel their loss: With tears they seek--ah, seldom found-- That peace whose volume is the Cross; That peace which leaves not holy ground.

Mary, who loves true peace loves thee!

A happy child, not taught of Scribes, He stands beside the Church's knee; From her the lore of Christ imbibes.

Hourly he drinks it from her face: For there his eyes, he knows not how, The face of Him she loves can trace, And, crowned with thorns, the sovereign brow.

”Behold! all colours blend in white!

Behold! all Truths have root in Love!”

So sings, half lost in light of light, Her Song of Songs the mystic Dove.

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_Sedes Sapientiae._

V.

”Wisdom hath built herself a House, And hewn her out her pillars seven.” [Footnote 4]

Her wine is mixed. Her guests are those Who share the harvest-home of heaven.

[Footnote 4: Proverbs ix. 1.]

Who guards the gates? The flaming sword Of Penance. Every way it turns: But healing from on high is poured On each that fire seraphic burns.

The fruits upon her table piled Are gathered from the Tree of Life.

Around are ranged the undefiled, And those that conquered in the strife.

Who tends the guests? Who smiles away Sad memories? bids misgiving cease?

A crowned one countenanced like the day-- The Mother of the Prince of Peace.

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VI.

Here, in this paradise of light, Superfluous were both tree and gra.s.s: Enough to watch the sunbeams smite Yon white flower sole in the mora.s.s.

From his cold nest the skylark springs; Sings, pauses, sings; shoots up anew; Attains his topmost height, and sings Quiescent in his vault of blue.

With eyes half-closed I watch that lake Flashed from whose plane the sun-sparks fly, Like souls new-born that shoot and break From thy deep sea, Eternity!

Ripplings of sunlight from the wave Ascend the white rock, high and higher; Soft gurglings fill the satiate cave; Soft airs amid the reeds expire.