THE OLD VIOLIN BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust, Like some great thought on a forgotten page; The soul of music cannot fade or rust,-- The voice within it stronger grows with age; Its strings and bow are only triffling things-- A master-touch!--its sweet soul wakes and sings. MAURICE DE GUERIN BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN The old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair Unseen by others; to him maidenhair And waxen lilacs, and those birds that rise A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise, Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth everywhere He, like sad Jaques, found a music rare As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed, Till earth and heaven met within his breast; As if Theocritus in Sicily Had come upon the Figure crucified And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. HE MADE US FREE BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN As flame streams upward, so my longing thought Flies up with Thee, Thou God and Saviour who hast truly wrought Life out of death, and to us, loving, brought A fresh, new world; and in Thy sweet chains caught, And made us free! As hyacinths make way from out the dark, My soul awakes, At thought of Thee, like sap beneath the bark; As little violets in field and park Rise to the trilling thrush and meadow-lark, New hope it takes. As thou goest upward through the nameless space We call the sky, Like jonquil perfume softly falls Thy grace; It seems to touch and brighten every place; Fresh flowers crown our wan and weary race, O Thou on high. Hadst Thou not risen, there would be no more joy Upon earth’s sod; Life would still be with us a wound or toy, A cloud without the sun,--O Babe, O Boy, A Man of Mother pure, with no alloy, O risen God! Thou, God and King, didst “mingle in the game,” (Cease, all fears; cease!) For love of us,--not to give Virgil’s fame Or Croesus’ wealth, not to make well the lame, Or save the sinner from deserved shame, But for sweet Peace! For peace, for joy,--not that the slave might lie In luxury, Not that all woe from us should always fly, Or golden crops with Syrian roses vie In every field; but in Thy peace to die And rise,--be free! THE GRANDEURS OF MARY BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D.D. What is this grandeur I see up in heaven, A splendour that looks like a splendour divine? What creature so near the Creator is throned? O Mary, those marvellous glories are thine.