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, If thou and Faith, upon the walls, Rest now! In sleep thy veins shall swell 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 What matter if its fall be sure? The pilgrim soul thy walls immure, 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 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, Out through the darkness. "Saviour and Friend of Man," "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 Ended his praying— And from the floor he saw Groping along the wall, Her words were borne in To the priest heark'ning there, "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? 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 Like yonder mist, his doubts and dull delays O soul, wherein the half-sought light hath found 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, Proudly thy breakers roll in from the deep, Oh, the sea, the treacherous sea, Those that once loved, have ceased to love thee; 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; Oh, the sea, the storm-lashed sea, Oh, the sea, the source of our woe, 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 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! |