Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently--it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not--unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,-- For its people’s hopes are fled! A CHILD’S WISH BY ABRAM J. RYAN I wish I were the little key That locks Love’s Captive in, And lets Him out to go and free A sinful heart from sin. I wish I were the little bell That tinkles for the Host, When God comes down each day to dwell With hearts He loves the most. I wish I were the chalice fair, That holds the Blood of Love, When every gleam lights holy prayer Upon its way above. I wish I were the little flower So near the Host’s sweet face, Or like the light that half an hour Burns on the shrine of grace. I wish I were the altar where, As on His mother’s breast, Christ nestles, like a child, fore’er In Eucharistic rest. But, oh, my God, I wish the most That my poor heart may be A home all holy for each Host That comes in love to me. THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE BY ABRAM J. RYAN Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o’er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon bright, Led us to Victory. Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle’s song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee. Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia’s sky-- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow--and to die. Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee! Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee. Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; ’Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. SONG OF THE MYSTIC BY ABRAM J. RYAN I walk down the Valley of Silence-- Down the dim voiceless Valley--alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God’s and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown!