And, one by one, adown the aisles, Adown the long, lone aisles, Their faces bright with holy smiles That follow after prayer, The worshipers in silence passed, In silence slowly passed away; The woman knelt until the last Had left her lonely there. A holy hush came o'er the place, O'er the holy place, The shadows kissed her woe-worn face, Her forehead touched the floor; The wreck that drifted thro' the years -- Sin-driven thro' the years -- Was floating o'er the tide of tears, To Mercy's golden shore. Her lips were sealed, they could not pray, They sighed, but could not pray, All words of prayer had died away From them long years ago; But ah! from out her eyes there rose -- Sad from her eyes there rose -- The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes To Heaven -- winged with woe. With weary tears, her weary eyes, Her joyless, weary eyes, Wailed forth a rosary; and her sighs And sobs strung all the beads; The while before her spirit's gaze -- Her contrite spirit's gaze -- Moved all the mysteries of her days, And histories of her deeds. Still as a shadow, while she wept, So desolately wept, Up thro' the long, lone aisle she crept Unto an altar fair; "Mother!" -- her pale lips said no more -- Could say no more -- The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore, For Mary's shrine was there. A Land without Ruins "A land without ruins is a land without memories -- a land without memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade -- crowns of thorns endure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity -- the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are forgotten -- the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations." Yes give me the land where the ruins are spread, And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead; Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just. Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast Has flashed to the future the fame of the past; Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays That tell of the memories of long vanished days; Yes, give me a land that hath story and song! Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot, And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb; There is grandeur in graves -- there is glory in gloom; For out of the gloom future brightness is born, As after the night comes the sunrise of morn; And the graves of the dead with the grass overgrown May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, And each single wreck in the war path of might Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right.