BALLADS OF PEACE IN WAR

    Gray mist on the sea,
    And the night coming down,
    She stays with sorrow
    In a far town.

    He goes the sea-ways
    By channel lights dim,
    Her love, a true light,
    Watches for him.

    They would be wedded
    On a fair yesterday,
    But the quick regiment
    Saw him away.

    Gray mist in her eyes
    And the night coming down:
    He feels a prayer
    From a far town.

    He goes the sea-ways,
    The land lights are dim;
    She and an altar light
    Keep watch for him.

    Along Virginia's wondering roads
    While armies hastened on,
    To Beauregard's great Southern host,
    Manassas fields upon,
    Came Colonel Smith's good regiment,
    Eager for Washington.

    But Colonel Smith must halt his men
    In a dangerous delay,
    Though well he knows the countryside
    To the distant host of grey.
    He cannot join with Beauregard
    For Bull Run's bloody fray.

    And does he halt for storm or ford,
    Or does he stay to dine?
    Say, No! but death will meet his men,
    Onward if moves the line:
    He dares not hurry to Beauregard,
    Not knowing the countersign.

    Flashed in the sun his waving sword;
    "Who rides for me?" he cried,
    "And ask of the Chief the countersign,
    Upon a daring ride;
    Though never the lad come back again
    With the good that will betide.

    "I will send a letter to Beauregard,"
    The Colonel slowly said;
    "The bearer dies at the pickets' line,
    But the letter shall be read
    When the pickets find it for the Chief,
    In the brave hand of the dead."

    "Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign,"
    Said little Dan O'Shea,
    "Though never I come from the picket's line,
    But a faded suit of grey:
    Yet over my death will the road be safe,
    And the regiment march away."

    "In a mother's name, I bless thee, lad,"
    The Colonel drew him near:
    "But first in the name of God," said Dan,
    "And then is my mother's dear—
    Her own good lips that taught me well,
    With the Cross of Christ no fear."

    Quickly he rode by valley and hill,
    On to the outpost line,
    Till the pickets arise by wall and mound,
    And the levelled muskets shine;
    "Halt!" they cried, "count three to death,
    Or give us the countersign."

    Lightly the lad leaped from his steed,
    No fear was in his sigh,
    But a mother's face and a home he loved
    Under an Irish sky:
    He made the Sign of the Cross and stood,
    Bravely he stood to die.

    Lips in a prayer at the blessed Sign,
    And calmly he looked around,
    And wonder seized his waiting soul
    To hear no musket sound,
    But only the pickets calling to him,
    Heartily up the mound.

    For this was the order of Beauregard
    Around his camp that day—
    The Sign of the Cross was countersign,
    (And a blessing to Dan O'Shea)
    And the word came quick to Colonel Smith
    For the muster of the grey.

    Turn from Kerry crossroads and leave the wooded dells,
    Take the mountain path and find where Tip O'Leary dwells;
    Tip O'Leary is the name, I sing it all day long,
    And every bird whose heart is wise will have it for a song.

    Tip O'Leary keeps the lights of many lamps aglow,
    Little matters it to him the seasons come or go,
    Sure if spring is in the air his hedges are abloom,
    And fairy buds like candles shine across his garden room.

    Roses in the June days are light the miles around,
    Tapers of the fuchsias move along the August ground,
    Sumachs light the flaming torches by October's grave
    And like the campfires on the hills the oaks and maples wave.

    All the lights but only one die out when summer goes,
    One that Tip O'Leary keeps is brighter than the rose,
    Through the window comes the bloom on any winter night,
    And every sense goes wild to it, soft and sweet and bright.

    Lamps are fair that have the light from flowers all day long,
    When the birds are here and sing the Tip O'Leary song,
    But a winter window is the fairest rose of all,
    When Tip O'Leary's hearth is lit and lamps upon the wall.

    (For Jack)

    In a little ship and down the bay,
    Out to the calling sea,
    A young brave lad sailed off today,
    To the one great war went he:
    The one long war all men must know
    Greater than land or gold,
    Soul is the prince and flesh the foe
    Of a kingdom Christ will hold.

    With arms of faith and hope well-wrought
    The brave lad went away,
    And the voice of Christ fills all his thought,
    Under two hands that pray:
    The tender love of a mother's hands
    That guarded all his years,
    Fitted the armor, plate and bands,
    And blessed them with her tears.

    Older than Rhodes and Ascalon
    And the farthest forts of sea,
    Is the Master voice that calls him on
    From the hills in Galilee:
    From hills where Christ in gentle guise
    Called, as He calls again,
    With His heart of love and His love-lit eyes
    Unto His warrior men.

    Christ with the brave young lad to-day
    Who goes to the sweet command,
    Strengthen his heart wherever the way,
    Whether he march or stand:
    And whether he die in a peaceful cell,
    Or alone in the lonely night,
    The Cross of Christ shall keep him well,
    And be his death's delight.

    (For W. M. Letts)

    The roads look up to Holy Cross,
    The sturdy towers look down,
    And show a kindly word to all
    Who pass by Worcester Town;
    And once you'd see the boys at play,
    Or marching cap and gown.

    The gallant towers at Holy Cross
    Are silent night and day,
    A few young lads are left behind
    Who still may take their play;
    The Cross and Flag look out afar
    For them that went away.

    And mine are gone, says Beaven Hall,
    To camps by hill and plain,
    And mine along by Newport Sea,
    Says the high tower of O'Kane;
    I follow mine, Alumni calls,
    Across the watery main.

    Their sires were in the old Brigade
    That won at Fontenoy,
    Stood true at Washington's right hand,
    that were his faith and joy:
    From Holy Cross to Fredericksburg
    Is many a gallant boy.

    Then God be with you, says the Cross,
    And the brave towers looking down;
    I'll be your cloth, sings out the Flag,
    For other cap and gown,
    And may we see you safe again,
    On the hills of Worcester Town.

       (for  Gerry)

    When May has spent its little song,
    And richer comes the June,
    Through former eyes the heart will long
    For May again in tune;
    Though large with promise hope may be,
    By future visions cast,
    Our memoried thoughts will yearn to see
    The happy little past.

    And you, my loyal little friend,
    (From May to June you go),
    What years of loyalty attend
    Great comradeship we know;
    Yet joy have me in place of tears
    To see your road depart,
    For whether east or west your years,
    A friend stays home at heart.

    Then gladly let the Springtime pass
    And Summer in its wake;
    Ahead are fields of flower and grass
    All fragrant for your sake:
    With hearts of joy we say farewell,
    With laughter, wave and nod,
    It's always May for us who dwell
    In seasons close to God.

    Tim of the Tales they call me,
    With a welcome heart and hand;
    But little they hold my brother
    For all his cattle and land.

    If I be walking the high road
    From Clare that goes to the sea,
    A troop of the young run leaping
    To gather a story from me.

    Tim of the Tales, the folk say,
    Is known the world around,
    For children by taking his stories
    To their homes in foreign ground.

    I pity my brother his fortunes,
    And how he sits alone,
    With the money that keeps his body,
    But leaves his heart a stone.

    And sometimes do I be feeling
    A dream of death in my ear,
    And a heaven of children calling,
    "Tim of the Tales is here."

    My father had the gay good tunes, the like you'd seldom hear,
    A whole day could he whistle them, an' thin he'd up an' sing,
    The merry tunes an' twists o'them that suited all the year,
    An' you wouldn't ask but listen if yourself stood there a king.
    Early of a mornin' would he give "The Barefoot Boy" to us,
    An' later on "The Rocky Road" or maybe "Mountain Lark,"
    "Trottin' to the Fair" was a liltin' heart of joy to us,
    An' whin we heard "The Coulin" sure the night was never dark.

    An' what's the good o' foolish tunes, the moilin' folks 'ud say,
    It's better teach the children work an' get the crock o' gold;
    Thin sorra take their wisdom whin it makes them sad an' gray,—
    A man is fitter have a song that never lets him old.
    A stave of "Gillan's Apples" or a snatch of "Come Along With Me"
    Will warm the cockles o' your heart, an' life will keep its prime.
    Yarra, gold is all the richer whin it's "Danny, sing a song for me"
    Or what's the good o' money if you're dead afore your time.

    It's sense to do your turn o' work, it's healthy to be wise,
    An' have the little crock o' gold agin the day o' rain;
    But whin the ground is heaviest, your heart will feel the skies,
    If you know a little Irish song to lift the road o' pain.
    The learnin' an' the wealth we have are never sad an' gray with us,
    The dullest times in all the year are merry as the June:
    For we've the heart to up an' sing "Arise, an' come away with us,"
    The way my father gave it, an' we laughin' in the tune.

    (For John McCormack)

    June of the trees in glory,
    June of the meadows gay!
    O, and it works a story
    To tell an October day.

    Blooms of the apple and cherry
    Toil for the far-off hours;
    Never is idleness merry,
    In song of the garden bowers.

    Brooks to the sea from mountains,
    Yea, and from field and vine:
    Rain and the sun are fountains
    That gather for wheat and wine.

    Cellar and loft shall glory,
    Table and hearth shall praise,
    Hearing October's story
    Of June and the merry days.

    Ye who heed a nation's call
    And speed to arms therefor,
    Ye who fear your children's march
    To perils of the war,—
    Soldiers of the deck and camp
    And mothers of our men,
    Hearken to a tale of France
    And tell it oft again.

          *     *     *

    In the east of France by the roads of war,
    (God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!)
    Up and down the fair land iron armies came,
    (Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name).

    Pleasant all the fields were round every town,
    Garden airs went sweetly up, heaven smiled down;
    Till under leaden hail with flaming breath,
    Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death.

    One little town stood, white on a hill,
    Chapel and hostel gates, farms and windmill,
    Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path,
    Till no blade of kindly grass hid from his wrath.

    Lo! When the terrain cleared out of murky air,
    When mid the ruins stalked death and despair,
    One figure stood erect, bright with day,—
    Christ the Crucified, though His Cross was shot away.

    Flame and shot tore away all the tender wood,
    Yet with arms uplifted Christ His Figure stood;
    Out reached the blessing hands, meek bowed the head,
    Christ! The saving solace o'er the waste of dead.

    France tells the story, make our hearts know well,
    Christ His Figure stands against the gates of hell:
    Flame and shot may rive the fortress walls apart,
    Christ the Crucified will heal the breaking heart.

    Wear Him day and night, wherever be the war,
    (God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!)
    Flag and heart that keep Him fear not shot and flame,
    (Strengthen, Jesu, all who stand, calling Thy name).

         *     *     *

    Ye who guard a nation's call
    And speed to arms therefor,
    Ye who pray for brave lads gone
    To perils of the war;
    Soldiers of the fleet and fort
    And mothers of our men,
    In the shadow of the Cross
    Shall we find peace again.

    A world's new faces greet you,
    Ten thousand quick with praise,
    But truer stay to meet you
    Old friends and other days:
    Let fickle changes hurt you,
    (The new go quick apart)
    One fame shall ne'er desert you
    In true hearts like this heart.

    Still goes the strife; the anguish does not die.
    Stronger the flesh is grown from earthy years,
    In siege about my soul that upward peers
    To see and hold its Good.  The spirit's eye
    Approves the better things; but senses spy
    The passing sweets, spurning the present fears,
    And take their moment's prize.  Ah, then hot tears
    Deluge my soul, and contrite moans my cry!

    Courage, my heart: bright patience to the end!
    Few years remain; then goes the warring wall
    Of sensely flesh, that men will throw to earth.
    So be it; so the contrite soul shall wend
    A homeward way unto the Captain's call,
    Eternally to know contrition's worth.

     HOLY CROSS: MAY, 1917

    (For Major Joseph W. O'Connor, '03)

    Birds are merry and the buds
    Come along with May:
    Lonely is the linden land
    For lads that went today.

    What calls the May of song
    But the fair young spring?
    Heard our boys another tune
    Sterner voices sing.

    Bugles blew by land and sea,
    And the tocsin drum;
    See, brave hearts go down the hill,
    Shouting, "Hail, we come."

    From the towers that show the Cross,
    Staunch the Flag waved out,
    And the royal Purple shook
    Joyous with the shout.

    Heigh-ho! And a lusty cheer,
    Down the linden lane:
    The pine grove looked but cannot tell
    If they'll come home again.

    Few may take the homeward road
    When the war is done:
    Where they fall or when they come,
    Hail, to the cause they won.

    Till the buds and the merry birds
    Come another May,
    Cross and Flag aloft shall bless
    Brave lads who went today.

    Along the north a mountain crest,
    A row of trees runs towards the west;
    The south is all a field for play,
    For work the east has marked a way;
    The night shows all the stars above,
    And the long, long day, a mother's love.

    Let me go back again.  There is the road,
    O memory! The humble garden lane
    So young with me.  Let me rebuild again
    The start of faith and hope by that abode;
    Amend with morning freshness all the code
    Of youth's desire; remap my chart's demesne
    With tuneful joy, and plan a far campaign
    For better marches in ambition's mode.

    Ah, no, my heart! More certain now the skies
    For joy abide: the cage of tree and sod,
    Horizons firm that faith and hope attain,
    Far realms of innocence in children's eyes,
    And hearts harmonious with the will of God:—
    These might I miss if I were back again.

    The best of true philosophers
    Are the children, after all,—
    The children with laughing hearts
    And the serious field and ball:
    They have a bowl and bubbles,
    And hours where rainbows are;
    They find, if ever the sun is hid,
    In every dark a star.

    But, O, the sorry men that make
    The wise books of our day!
    They cannot smile athwart a cloud,
    When black thoughts lead astray;
    They cannot add a simple sum,
    But talk like drunken men,
    And shut their eyes to keep out God
    When spring comes in again.

    Far simpler than the Rule of Three
    Are the laws of earth and sky;
    Yet fools will muddle all true thought,
    And pride will have its cry;
    The banners with their deadly words
    Go reeling on unfurled,
    And sin and sadness march along
    To the heartbreak of the world.

    But the children are the wise men,
    With the clearest heart and mind;
    If two and one are three, they say,
    Then truth is near to find;
    If this be now that once was not,
    If things must have a cause,
    Then very simple is the sum
    That God is in His laws.

    The world's men that are fools enough,
    They will not speak that way,
    But with a cloud of muddled thought
    They hide the light of day;
    Yet laughing words and candid truth
    Abide by field and hall,
    Where the best of true philosophers
    Are the children, after all.

    You never know when war may come,
    And that is why I keep a drum:
          For if all sudden in the night
          From east or west came battle fright,
          And you were sound asleep in bed,
          And very soon to join the dead,
          You then would gladly wish my drum
          Would warn you that the war had come.

    So that is why on afternoons
    I tell the neighborhood my tunes:
          Sometimes behind a fortress bench,
          Or where the hedges make a trench,
          I beat the drum with all my might,
          While people look with awful fright,
          Just as they would if war had come,
          And heard the warning of my drum.

          They must be thankful, I am sure,
          Because they now may feel secure,
          And rest so safe and sound in bed,
          Without wild dreams of fearful dread;
          For now they hear me all the day,
          As round the yard I march and play,
          To let them know if war should come
          They'll get the warning of my drum.

    A sailor that rides the ocean wave,
    And I in my room at home:
          Where are the seas I fear to brave,
          Or the lands I may not roam?
          At the attic window I take my stand,
          And tighten the curtain sail,
          Then, ahoy!  I ride the leagues of land,
          Whether in calm or gale.

    Tree at anchor along the road
    Bow as I speed along;
          At sunny brooks in the valley I load
          Cargoes of blossom and song;
          Stories I take on the passing wind
          From the plains and forest seas,
          And the Golden Fleece I yet will find,
          And the fruit of Hesperides.

          Steady I keep my watchful eyes,
          As I range the thousand miles,
          Till evening tides in western skies
          Turn gold the cloudland isles;
          Then fast is the hatch and dark the screen,
          And I bring my cabin light;
          With a wink I change to a submarine
          And drop in the sea of Night.

    Not from Mars and not from Thor
    Comes the war, the welcome war,
    Many months we waited for
    To free us from the bondage
    Of Winter's gloomy reign:
    Valor to our hope is bound,
    Songs of courage loud resound,
    Vowed is Spring to win her ground
    Through all our northern country,
    From Oregon to Maine.

    All our loyal brave allies
    In the Southlands mobilize,
    Faith is sworn to our emprise,
    The scouting breezes whisper
    That help is sure today:
    Vanguards of the springtime rains
    Cannonade the hills and plains,
    Freeing them from Winter's chains,
    So birds and buds may flourish
    Around the throne of May.

    Hark! and hear the clarion call
    Bluebirds give by fence and wall!
    Look!  The darts of sunlight fall,
    And red shields of the robins
    Ride boldly down the leas;
    Hail!  The cherry banners shine,
    Onward comes the battle line,—
    On!  White dogwood waves the sign,
    And exile troops of blossoms
    Are sailing meadow seas.

    Winter's tyrant king retires;
    Spring leads on her legion choirs
    Where the hedges sound their lyres;
    The victor hills and valleys
    Ring merrily the tune:
    April cohorts guard the way
    For the great enthroning day,
    When the Princess of May
    Shall wed within our northlands
    The charming Prince of June.

    Two gloomy scenes may be,
    Or count you three:
          A building hope all crushed at morn,
          A bridal day in clouds of rain,
          And night that keeps a mother's pain
          For tidings of a child forlorn.

    Of happy times count more,
    Admit these four:
          A flower of promise rich with day,
          A son with victories that wear
          A halo on his mother's way:
          And friends whose hearts ring like a chime
          Across the world at Christmas time.

    Two young lads from childhood up
    Drank together friendship's cup:
    Joe was glad with Bill at play,
    Bill was home to Joe alway.

    On their friendship came the blight
    Of a little thoughtless fight;
    Then, alas! each passing day
    Farther bore these friends away.

    There was grief in either heart,
    Bleeding deep from sorrow's dart,
    When in thoughtfulness again
    Each beheld the other's pain.

    But the shades of night are furled
    When the morning takes the world,
    And the Christmas days of peace
    Make our little quarrels cease.

    Bill and Joe on Christmas Day
    Met as in the olden way;
    Bill put out his hand to Joe,—
    It was Christmas Day, you know.

    Bill and Joe are friends again,
    And to them long years remain;
    Time may take them far away,
    They keep Christmas every day.

    O ye who sail Potomac's even tide
    To Vernon's shades, our Chieftain's hallowed mound;
    Or who at distant shrines high paeans sound
    In Alfred's cult, old England's morning pride;
    Or seek Versailles, conceited as a bride,
    With garish memories of kins strewn round;
    Or lay your spirit's cheek on Forum ground,
    For here a mighty Caesar lived and died:
    To these and other stones, O ye who speed,
    Since there, forsooth, a prince was passing great,
    More zealous let your heart's adoring heed
    The Child most Royal in a crib's estate.
    No poor so poor, no king more king than He:
    Come, better pilgrims, to this mystery.

    (POVERTY, CHASTITY, OBEDIENCE)

    Three little leaves like shamrock,
    And the trefoil's love-lit eyes,
    Whether it takes the sunshine
    Or the shadows from the skies.

    And richer than rose or lily
    Is the flower he wears today,
    With triune bloom and fragrance
    From earth to heaven alway.

    Poverty is the low leaf,
    And one is chastely white,
    And the red love of obedience
    Goes up to God a light.

    Grow, good flower, and keep him
    Who wears your bloom today,
    Shadow and sunshine bless him,
    And the trefoil's heavenward way.

    (For T. A. Daly)

    America, Ireland and Italy,
    All have known this poor old tree.

         *     *     *

    A rickety fence goes round the yard
    And the noisy streets stand high:
    The grassless ground is brown and hard,
    And the cinder pathways, lined with shard,
    Sees but a bit of sky.

    Once the yard was fertile and fair,
    And lilac bushes near:
    And a Yankee counted with fretful care,
    Under the solacing shadows there,
    The gain of every year.

    The crowded walls of trade arose
    And gloomed the avenue:
    But a Munster man at each day's close
    Built in the tree his hope's rainbows,
    And saw his dreams come true.

    The years have thickened the darkened air,
    But the tree is still on guard:
    It comforts the young Italian there,
    Who sees the future blossoming fair
    From the tree in the tenement yard.

         *     *     *

    America, Ireland and Italy
    All have loved this poor old tree.

    (For Joyce Kilmer)

    When the dreamy night is on, up the Hudson river,
    And the sheen of modern taste is dim and far away,
    Ghostly men on phantom rafts make the waters shiver,
    Laughing in the sibilance of the silver spray.
    Yea, and up the woodlands, staunch in moonlit weather,
    Go the ghostly horsemen, adventuresome to ride,
    White as mist the doublet-braize, bandolier and feather,
    Fleet as gallant Robin Hood in an eventide.

    Times are gone that knew the craft in the role of rovers,
    Fellows of the open, care could never load:
    Unalarmed for bed or board, they were leisure's lovers,
    Summer bloomed in story on the Hyde Park Road.
    Summer was a blossom, but the fruit was autumn,
    Fragrant haylofts for a bed, cider-cakes in store,
    Warmer was a cup they know, when the north wind caught 'em
    Down at Benny Havens' by the West Point shore.

    Idlers now-and loafers pass, joy is out of fashion,
    Honest fun that fooled a dog or knew a friendly gate,
    Now the craft are vagabonds, sick with modern passion,
    Riding up and down the shore, on an aching freight;
    Sullen are the battered looks, cheerless talk or tipsy,
    Sickly in the smoky air, starving in the day,
    Pining for a city's noise at Kingston or Po'keepsie,
    Eager more for Gotham and a great White Way.

    Rich is all the countryside, but glory has departed,
    What if yachts and mansions be, by the river's marge!
    Dim though was a hillside, lamps were happy-hearted,
    Near the cove of Rondout in a hut or barge.
    Silken styles are tyrants, fashion kills the playtime,
    Robs the heart of largess that is kindly to the poor,
    Richer were the freemen, welcome as the Maytime,
    Glad was boy or maiden, seeing Brennan of the moor.

    Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em,
    Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore,
    Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em,
    But old Benny Havens by the West Point Shore.
    Off with lazy vagabonds, social ghosts that shiver,
    Give to worthy road-men the great green way,
    And we'll hear a song again up the Hudson river,
    Ringing from a drifting raft, set in silver spray.

    (For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell)

    The interlacing trees
    Arise in Gothic traceries,
    As if a vast cathedral deep and dim;
    And through the solemn atmosphere
    The low winds hymn
    Such thoughts as solitude will hear.
    To lead your way across
    Gray carpet aisles of moss
    Unto the chantry stalls,
    The sumach candelabra are alight;
    Along the cloister walls,
    Like chorister and acolyte,
    The shrubs are vested white;
    The dutiful monastic oak
    In his gray-friar cloak
    Keeps penitential ways
    And solemn orisons of praise;
    For beads upon the cincture-vine
    Red berries warm with color shine,
    And to their constant rosary
    The bedesmen firs incline;
    And fair as frescoes be
    Among the shrines of Italy,
    These lights and shadows are,
    Impalpable in gray and green
    Upon the hills afar
    And the gold westering sun between.
    The music!  Hark!
    Oh, an it be no rapturous lark,
    Yet has the lesser chant
    The blessedness of song.
    The snowbird mendicant
    Intones the antiphon—
    Et laboremus nos;

    And all the grottoed aisles along,
    Where servitors rejoice,
    The chorused echoes run—

    Oremus nos.

    The inspiration of the breeze
    Gives every reed a voice
    From tenebrae and silences;
    Over the valleys borne,
    Come organ harmonies;
    And when the low winds call,
    The pines with miserere mourn
    A requiem musical,
    Softer than moonbeams fall
    Across the starry oriels of night,
    Flooding the azure round
    With hushed delight
    And sanctity of sound.