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BORROWED PLUMES

T is now more than a year since this old-established department was represented in our magazine. The last instalment appeared in September, 1913, and was itself one of the last items prepared by the hand of Father Russell. There is a cheerful, courageous spirit in the following lines by T. A. Daly which would have surely appealed to him; they were quoted in the San Francisco Monitor with the heading "All's Well."

How fared the fight with thee to-day?

Not well? Ah, nay,

Thou hast not lost; thou canst not lose,
However much they tear and bruise
The panting breast, the straining thews
Which are thy spirit's citadel,

If thou and Faith, upon the walls,
Are comrades still when darkness falls.

Rest now! In sleep thy veins shall swell
With Hope's new wine; and like a bell
From valleys deep heard on the height,
Thy 'leagured soul, throughout the night,
Shall call to thee: "All's well!"'

It is thyself alone that may

Thyself betray.

Arise again! Arise and fight!

God's smile is in the morning light;

Lift thou thy banner brave and bright
Above thy spirit's citadel !

What matter if its fall be sure?

The pilgrim soul thy walls immure,
Clinging the wings of Azrael,

In face of all the hordes of hell,

Shall take, full-armed, its homeward flight,

And o'er thy ruins, from the height,

Shall call to thee: "All's well!"

The next is from the same author's pleasant and playful

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The Holy Cross Purple is a fine example of the College magazine. It appears every month of the year except the three summer months; and it is genuinely written by the students. Moreover it sets forth boldly in the beginning of each issue that "Its aim is to cultivate a high literary spirit among the students," and from all one can see, it succeeds in attaining its purpose; story, essay and editorial combine the literary touch with the freshness which is the enviable gift of youth, and most of all, its poetry bears the sign of skilled training in craftsmanship. The following poem from its December number for 1914 is by John J. Crowley who is the present Editor; he calls it "Lonely at Killaroe."

In his bare sacristy,

Praying where none could see,

Knelt Father Harkness.

Eyes on his Master's throne,
By the small light that shone

Out through the darkness.

"Saviour and Friend of Man,"
Thoughts of the soggarth ran,

"Still You're a stranger,

Lonely at Killaroe

Even as long ago

Lying in the manger."

Sadly he bowed his head,

Hoary with sorrows dead,

White with the aging,

Whiter than clouds that ride,

When over Carrib's side,

Storms wild are raging.

Sounds floating through the gloom
Entered the little room,

Ended his praying—

And from the floor he saw
Poor, feeble Peg McGrath
Rising and swaying.

Groping along the wall,
Whispering in her shawl,

Her words were borne in

To the priest heark'ning there,
O, what a parting prayer,

"Good night, Mavourneen."

Closed the door, she was gone,

Once more he knelt alone

Near to his Master,

Murmuring o'er and o'er,

"Lord, who could love Thee more?
Nay, not her pastor."

Soft fell the Christmas snow

Over green Killaroe,

Peacefully sleeping.

But in his sacristy,

Hidden where none could see,

A soggarth was weeping.

*

Miss Caroline D. Swan had long been known for her refined and spiritual poetry, so Catholic in thought that much of it had appeared in Catholic magazines, before her reception into the Church which took place in New York early in 1914 and on the occasion of which she wrote this sonnet, entitled "A Sunburst,"

Quick sunshine flies adown the golden vales;

The orange maples in autumnal blaze

Flash out resplendent, as the veiling haze
Yields to its touch. So he whom Heaven assails
With its great might, crushed and defeated, trails
His broken standard on the dusty ways.

Like yonder mist, his doubts and dull delays
Disperse, at last.-God's mercy never fails.

O soul, wherein the half-sought light hath found
Such golden entrance, sing thou and rejoice!
Thy glad defeat should let no sullen sound

Into its splendour. Thy great Victor's voice

Is only love, its tenor passing sweet :

Come closer now, and kiss His Wounded feet!

The devastation wrought by the sea on the city of Galveston was so overwhelming that it can scarcely yet be forgotten even after fifteen years-even by us to whom the Texas city is so remote. This poem appeared in a publication of the Jesuit College of Galveston commemorating the disaster; the author, Father James J. O'Brien, S.J., was at the time, we think, resident in the College and so a witness of the event.

Oh, the sea, the frolicsome sea,

Rippling and swirling and plunging in glee,
Shelving the shingle and shifting the sand,
Lipping in friendliness Galveston strand,
'Trancing the eyes that look out upon thee,
Harmless, beautiful, lamb-like sea!

Proudly thy breakers roll in from the deep,
Pluming themselves in the pride of their sweep;
Short does thy sounding surf swash on the shore,
Booming its soughing retreat evermore,
Lone in thy loud roaring all the year long,
Galveston Sea! in thee is no wrong.

Oh, the sea, the treacherous sea,

Those that once loved, have ceased to love thee;
Those that erst gazed on thy waves with delight

Shudder to think of that terrible night

When thy mad waters rushed in on our town

Breaking God's temples and crushing men down.

Thou hadst no ruth in thee, O cruel sea!

None for the child on the fond mother's knee;

None for the halt that were pinned to the chair;
None for the groans and the shrieks of despair ;
None for wee orphan and God-loving nun;
Ruthless thy rushing and dire the deed done!

Oh, the sea, the storm-lashed sea,
Like to a caged lion one moment free,
Tearing and mangling and battering down
All that was fair in our beautiful town;
Turning the streets into wide rivers deep,
Making them beds for our lost ones to sleep;
Bursting the union twixt husband and wife;
Robbing the new-born babe of its life;
Leaving a wrecked city where thou didst tread;
Rifling the tombs of the time-honored dead;
Making us homeless, despondent and lone ;
Changing our mirth from a laugh to a groan !

Oh, the sea, the source of our woe,
Gorged like a vulture, back thou dost go,
Back to the bounds sacrilegiously trod,-
Back to the goal that was set thee by God,—
Back goest thou with unsatisfied air,
Heedless alike of our loss and despair,-
Bearing the hopes of the years that are sped;
Bearing the corpses of thousands of dead;
Bearing upon thee the stays of our lives-
Bearing our fathers, our mothers, our wives-
Bearing our sisters, our brothers, our all

Forever away in thy watery thrall.

Merciful Trinity! hark to our pray'r,

Keep Thou the sea 'neath Thy all-seeing care.

Oh, the sea, with harrowing roar,

Dinning our loss in our ears evermore;

Daily we hark to thy weird-sounding waves
Droning a dirge for our dead in thy caves;
Swishing and sobbing and soughing alway,
Voicing our gamut of grief well-a-day!
Sadly we list to thy lap and thy swell
Jarring our hearts like a funeral bell

Tolling, sad tolling! for orphan and nun,

Ringing the changes on what thou hast done;

Goading us on till our souls are distraught,

Madly to scourge thee for what thou hast wrought; Turning our love into hatred for thee

Love that we loved thee with, Galveston Sea!

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