NCE I stood to count my blessings—
Blessings on my path of life,
But was lost in mystic figures,
Shadowy numbers—no relief.
MEMORY'S ROSARY.
NCE I stood to count my blessings—Blessings on my path of life,
But was lost in mystic figures,
Shadowy numbers—no relief.
Then I tried another process,
Bid the leaves to count for me;
Courted e'en the murmuring billows,
To number them by sands of sea.
Bid the leaves to count for me;
Courted e'en the murmuring billows,
To number them by sands of sea.
Last, I sought an unseen altar,
Sacred shrine within the soul,
Where a rosary was hanging
Close beside a graven scroll.
Sacred shrine within the soul,
Where a rosary was hanging
Close beside a graven scroll.
On this scroll of pearly lustre,
Intertwined with ivy spray,
Were mystic words and flowers, with
Lily, rose, magnolia.
Intertwined with ivy spray,
Were mystic words and flowers, with
Lily, rose, magnolia.
Sweetly breathed their wedded odours,
Faintest mist around the scroll
That concealed this string of amber;
Love's rosary within my soul.
Faintest mist around the scroll
That concealed this string of amber;
Love's rosary within my soul.
Thus I stood, to count my blessings
On my chaplet, rich and rare;
Priceless were those beads of memory,
Strung on golden threads of prayer.
On my chaplet, rich and rare;
Priceless were those beads of memory,
Strung on golden threads of prayer.
Not of scented wood of Persia,
Nor of Olive's sacred tree,
Neither pearl nor heaven-lit sapphire,
Were those beads of memory.
Nor of Olive's sacred tree,
Neither pearl nor heaven-lit sapphire,
Were those beads of memory.
But of clear, translucent amber,
Upward washed from distant sea,
Whose crystal waves for ever murmur—
Murmur, Immortality!
Upward washed from distant sea,
Whose crystal waves for ever murmur—
Murmur, Immortality!
Safe within this buried cloister,
Lowly there on bended knee,
Sought I to unthread my treasures;
Count them on my rosary.
Lowly there on bended knee,
Sought I to unthread my treasures;
Count them on my rosary.
Long I lingered, till the Avé
Roused me with a silver bell,
And a white-robed spirit led me
From the door where closed the spell.
Roused me with a silver bell,
And a white-robed spirit led me
From the door where closed the spell.
And the Spirit led me onward,
Softly whispering, "Thou shalt pass—
Baby feet have been before thee,
Footprints lost in dewy grass"—
Softly whispering, "Thou shalt pass—
Baby feet have been before thee,
Footprints lost in dewy grass"—
To a garden rich in glory,
Flowers whose immortal breath
Almost choked these mortal senses,
For they breathed no dirge of death.
Flowers whose immortal breath
Almost choked these mortal senses,
For they breathed no dirge of death.
Softly said the angel to me,
"Count these flowers, now, and see,
Which best tell thy life-long blessings,
They, or Memory's Rosary.
"Count these flowers, now, and see,
Which best tell thy life-long blessings,
They, or Memory's Rosary.
"Look adown life's changeful pathway,
See the flowers round thee sown,
They are human loves and friendships,
God has given thee for thine own.
See the flowers round thee sown,
They are human loves and friendships,
God has given thee for thine own.
One magnolia's 'whelming sweetness,
One white rose of magic light,
One sweet lily of the valley,
Hiding 'neath her broad leaves' weight.
One white rose of magic light,
One sweet lily of the valley,
Hiding 'neath her broad leaves' weight.
And a scarlet rose of splendour,
Brilliant in its ardent glow,
Born and nursed in mountain breezes,
Nor had died in drift of snow.
Brilliant in its ardent glow,
Born and nursed in mountain breezes,
Nor had died in drift of snow.
Close it clung like Alpine flowret,
Thornless, brilliant evermore,
Wafting Tuscan recollections
Of a church, a ring, a prayer.
Thornless, brilliant evermore,
Wafting Tuscan recollections
Of a church, a ring, a prayer.
Last, not least, a spray whose freshness,
Deathless through the rifts of time,
Shading faults, and hiding follies,
Ivy, green in every clime.
Deathless through the rifts of time,
Shading faults, and hiding follies,
Ivy, green in every clime.
Rich I was that morning's ramble;
With my treasures in my hand,
Then returned to life's steep pathway,
Treading lightly life's grey sand.
With my treasures in my hand,
Then returned to life's steep pathway,
Treading lightly life's grey sand.
With the rosary in my bosom,
With the flowers in my hand,
Thus I wander through life's journey,
Onward to the happier land.
With the flowers in my hand,
Thus I wander through life's journey,
Onward to the happier land.
Ever count my love-sent blessings—
Blessings strung on threads of prayer;
Count them in my joys and sorrows,
On my rosary rich and rare.
Blessings strung on threads of prayer;
Count them in my joys and sorrows,
On my rosary rich and rare.
Lake Como; July, 1861.