The world shines bright for inexperienced eyes, And death seems distant to the gay and strong, And in the youthful heart proud fancies throng, And only present good can nature prize. How then shall youth o’er these low vapours rise, And climb the upward path so steep and long? And how, amid earth’s sights and sounds of wrong, Walk with pure heart and face raised to the skies? By gazing on the Infinitely Good, Whose love must quell, or hallow every other-- By living in the shadow of the Rood, For He that hangs there is our Elder Brother, Who dying gave to us Himself as food, And His own Mother as our nursing Mother. [A] In the last of his “Discourses to Mixed Congregations,” Dr. Newman calls the Blessed Virgin the Mother of Emanuel, and says: “It is the boast of the Catholic religion that it has the gift of making the young heart chaste; and why is this, but that it gives us Jesus for our food and Mary for our nursing Mother?” THE CONQUERED BANNER BY ABRAM J. RYAN Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary; Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary: Furl it, fold it,--it is best; For there’s not a man to wave it, And there’s not a sword to save it, And there’s not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, And its foes now scorn and brave it: Furl it, hide it,--let it rest! Take that Banner down! ’tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered, Over whom it floated high. Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there’s none to hold it, Now must furl it with a sigh! Furl that Banner!--furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman’s sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever Till that flag should float forever O’er their freedom or their grave! Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner--it is trailing While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, they adore it,-- Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it; And oh, wildly they deplore it. Now to furl and fold it so! Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory, Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory, And ’twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages-- Furl its folds though now we must.