At dawn, the joyful choir of bells, In consecrated citadels, Flings on the sweet and drowsy air A brief, melodious call to prayer; For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly, Conceived of the Spirit Holy, As the Lord’s angel did declare. At noon, above the fretful street, Our souls are lifted to repeat The prayer, with low and wistful voice: “According to thy word and choice, Though sorrowful and heavy laden, So be it done to thy Handmaiden”; Then all the sacred bells rejoice. At eve with roses in the west, The daylight’s withering bequest, Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright The stars, the lilies of the night: Of all the songs the years have sung us, “The Word made Flesh had dwelt among us,” Is still our ever-new delight. STIGMATA BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD In the wrath of the lips that assail us, In the scorn of the lips that are dumb, The symbols of sorrow avail us, The joy of the people is come. They parted Thy garments for barter, They follow Thy steps with complaint; Let them know that the pyre of the martyr But purges the blood of the saint! They have crucified Thee for a token, For a token Thy flesh crucified Shall bleed in a heart that is broken For love of the wound in Thy side; In pity for palms that were pleading, For feet that were grievously used, There is blood on the brow that is bleeding And torn, as Thy brow that was bruised! By Thee have we life, breath, and being; Thou hast knowledge of us and our kind; Thou hast pleasure of eyes that are seeing, And sorrow of eyes that are blind; By the seal of the mystery shown us-- The wound that with Thy wounds accord-- O Lord, have mercy upon us! Have mercy upon us, O Lord! THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD (The Mission of San Gabriel Archangel, near Los Angeles, founded in 1771, was, for a time, the most flourishing mission in California) Thine was the corn and the wine, The blood of the grape that nourished; The blossom and fruit of the vine That was heralded far away. When the wine and fig-tree flourished, The promise of peace and of glad increase Forever and ever and aye. What then wert thou, and what art now? Answer me, O, I pray! And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Oil of the olive was thine; Flood of the wine-press flowing, Blood of the Christ was the wine-- Blood of the Lamb that was slain. Thy gifts were fat of the kine Forever coming and going Far over the hills, the thousand hills-- Their lowing a soft refrain. What then wert thou, and what art now? Answer me once again!