O pulsing heart with voice attuned To all the soul builds high, Framing in notes of love divine A drama of the sky, Across the Arno’s flowing tide The notes chime on the air, Deep as the mysteries of God And tender as a prayer. Here, where the Poet of Sorrows dwelt, Whose altar Love had built, And framed his morn in dreams so pure That knew not stain nor guilt: O _Vita Nuova_! Earthly Love Then changed to love Divine; Transfigured at the wedding-feast, Earth’s grapes are heavenly wine. Where cowled monk with soul of fire Struck vice athwart the face, With God’s anointed sword of truth That flashed with beams of grace. O bitter days of war and strife! Heaven’s ardor was too great; The Empire of the earth held sway And sealed with saddest fate. Methinks I hear from thy strong lips, O century-dowered bell! The story of the Whites and Blacks, As banners rose or fell; Methinks I hear an epic voice, Full of God’s love and power, With accent of an Exile sad Speaking from out thy tower! NAME OF MARY BY JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY Dear, honored name, beloved for human ties, But loved and honored first that One was given In living proof, to erring mortal eyes, That our poor flesh is near akin to heaven. Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace, And born of our kind Advocate above; And one, by mercy linked to that dear face That blessed my childhood with its mother-love, And taught me first the simple prayer: “To thee, Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries.” Through mist of years, those words recall to me A childish face upturned to loving eyes. And yet, to some the name of Mary bears No special meaning and no gracious power; In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. But faithful hearts can see, o’er doubts and fears, The Virgin-link that binds the Lord to earth; Which, to the upturned trusting face, appears Greater than angel, though of human birth. The sweet-faced moon reflects, on cheerless night, The rays of hidden sun that rise to-morrow; So, unseen God still lets his promised light, Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. A CHRISTMAS CAROL BY MARY A. O’REILLY Night in the far Judean land, The pregnant air is still, The sky one blue unclouded band, Seems drooping o’er each hill. The hills then toward each other bend, Some mighty secret to portend. Gloria in excelsis Deo. The sheep in near-by pastures browse, Some bleat as if in pain; The youthful shepherds watch and drowse, Then drowse and watch again; When lo! a light from Heaven appears Which makes them huddle in their fears. Gloria in excelsis Deo.