All these thy glories are, and still a grace More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair, Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest. God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face The tender likeness of thine own doth wear. And thou art ours--we trust Him for the rest. THE WIND ON THE HILLS BY DORA SIGERSON Go not to the hills of Erin When the night winds are about; Put up your bar and shutter, And so keep the danger out. For the good-folk whirl within it, And they pull by the hand, And they push you by the shoulder, Till you move to their command. And lo! you have forgotten What you have known of tears, And you will not remember That the world goes full of years; A year there is a lifetime, And a second but a day; And an older world will greet you Each morn you come away. Your wife grows old with weeping, And your children one by one Grow grey with nights of watching, Before your dance is done. And it will chance some morning You will come home no more; Your wife sees but a withered leaf In the wind about the door. And your children will inherit The unrest of the wind; They shall seek some face elusive, And some land they never find. When the wind is loud, they sighing Go with hearts unsatisfied, For some joy beyond remembrance, For some memory denied. And all your children’s children, They cannot sleep or rest, When the wind is out in Erin And the sun is in the West. BELIEVE AND TAKE HEART BY JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING What can console for a dead world? We tread on dust which once was life; To nothingness all things are hurled: What meaning in a hopeless strife? Time’s awful storm Breaks but the form. Whatever comes, whatever goes, Still throbs the heart whereby we live; The primal joys still lighten woes, And time which steals doth also give. Fear not, be brave: God can thee save. The essential truth of life remains, Its goodness and its beauty too, Pure love’s unutterable gains, And hope which trills us through and through: God has not fled, Souls are not dead. Not in most ancient Palestine, Nor in the lightsome air of Greece, Were human struggles more divine, More blessed with guerdon of increase: Take thou thy stand In the workers’ band. Hast then no faith? Thine is the fault:-- What prophets, heroes, sages, saints, Have loved, on thee still makes assault, Thee with immortal things acquaints. On life then seize: Doubt is disease. AVE MARIA BELLS BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD