TWO CHANTS.
"Te Deum Laudamus!" through green river meadows,
Where noon, pacing slow, holds in leash the fleet shadows,
Blown like a cloud from St. Agatha's altar,
Drifts down the south wind the loud chanted psalter;
Under the light of the tapers lies sleeping
One whose fair soul was not whitened by weeping.
Where noon, pacing slow, holds in leash the fleet shadows,
Blown like a cloud from St. Agatha's altar,
Drifts down the south wind the loud chanted psalter;
Under the light of the tapers lies sleeping
One whose fair soul was not whitened by weeping.
Sorrow stood far from her—love, in mute reverence,
Knelt to the shrine of her starry intelligence—
Charmed by her music of being, dull cavil
Lay coiled in her presence; and lion-like evil,
Lying in wait for her soul frail and tender,
Crouched at the blaze of its virginal splendour.
Knelt to the shrine of her starry intelligence—
Charmed by her music of being, dull cavil
Lay coiled in her presence; and lion-like evil,
Lying in wait for her soul frail and tender,
Crouched at the blaze of its virginal splendour.
Over her calm face a radiance immortal
Flows from the smile at her mouth's silent portal—
They who kneel round her from matins till even,
As they kneel at the tombs of the blessed in Heaven,
Think not to question that presence resplendent
Where fled the soul that is shining ascendant.
Flows from the smile at her mouth's silent portal—
They who kneel round her from matins till even,
As they kneel at the tombs of the blessed in Heaven,
Think not to question that presence resplendent
Where fled the soul that is shining ascendant.
Down from the gray clouds the March winds are swooping,
Out of the low soil pale phantoms are trooping;
Lift on the wings of St. Agatha's choir
The great "De Profundis" rolls solemnly higher—
Under the light of the tapers is lying
One whom keen anguish made ready for dying.
Out of the low soil pale phantoms are trooping;
Lift on the wings of St. Agatha's choir
The great "De Profundis" rolls solemnly higher—
Under the light of the tapers is lying
One whom keen anguish made ready for dying.
Sorrow, that writes with the pen of an angel
God's burning thoughts through her mystic evangel;
Passion, that, laden with memories tender,
Crowns himself king with their tropical splendour;
Weeping repentance with hands lifted palely—
These were the spirits that walked with her daily.
God's burning thoughts through her mystic evangel;
Passion, that, laden with memories tender,
Crowns himself king with their tropical splendour;
Weeping repentance with hands lifted palely—
These were the spirits that walked with her daily.
Death, creeping near while she knelt in devotion,
Froze on her features their mournful emotion.
They, who reluctant draw nearer to falter
"Ave" or vow at the steps of the altar,
Marking it thence, ask, in fear, if the sorrow
Lying slain on her lips will not quicken to-morrow?
Froze on her features their mournful emotion.
They, who reluctant draw nearer to falter
"Ave" or vow at the steps of the altar,
Marking it thence, ask, in fear, if the sorrow
Lying slain on her lips will not quicken to-morrow?