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Irish Jesuit Province
The BaptistAuthor(s): Mary CorbettSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 34, No. 400 (Oct., 1906), pp. 581-582Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20501033 .
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THE BAPTIST 58I were not so keen to see them, then. You ran before them, not
after them." Here, on the " Mountain," was fought the Battle
of the Three Rocks, in '98. No man ever knew the number of
the yeomen that fell in the fight; but there is the green field, nurtured with the bones of the English soldiery. It is the vast
grave of the oppressors whom the oppressed rose up against, and
slew : a very Field of Blood, the burying-place for strangers. I turned my back upon it, and let the sea-voice win me to
happier remembrance. How pleasant was the land in its ripe ness of harvest ! The sun was over Cameross, and brightening the " lofty Hill of Bree." Far-off, amid the buming southern
blue, there was a sweep of fretted cloud dappling the sky as with
flakes of snow. " Sweet is the voice in the Land of Gold," I
said. The sand-dunes were glinting like yellow ore. The fields
were golden. The foam of the waves was flecked with gold. And we came down the " Mountain," silent, like the silent land
that listened to the lulling, alluring murmur of the sea.
ALICE FURLONG.
THE BAPTIST
SOFT garments are not thine to wear, Nor robes of regal Tyrian dye;
Poor fragments of rough camels' hair
Clothe thy bronzed shoulders scantily.
Up from the desert comest thou, Thy silent life is o'er for aye.
High is thine office, thou wilt now
Proclaim the Christ, prepare His way.
O great, strong man ! I see thee stand Amidst the crowd by Jordan's stream;
I mark the right uplifted hand Amid the orient sunlight gleam.
And oh ! the rapt look on thy face When cometh o'er the verdant sod
A Man with more than mortal grace
Behold, 'tis He, the Lamb of God !
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582 THE IRISH MONTHLY
This is the Bridegroom, thou His friend. While myriad ages come and go,
This friendship shall not have an end, No end this wedding-feast shall know.
For thee the desert's heat no more, The hunger pang, the parching thirst;
No more the wild beasts' fearsome roar At midnight on thine ear shall burst.
More than a prophet ! Saint austere!
What songs of triumph greet thine ears!
Short was thy life of suffering here, But who shall count th' eternal years ?
MARY CORBETr.
A LOWLY SHRINE
A SIMPLE song I'll sing you of a humble wayside shrine A theme already treated by a worthier pen than mine. Our Lady of the Tolka, who guards with tender care. A little group of cottages, all lowly, poor, and bare.
They stand beside the river, whose treacherous waters deep In floodtime would rise swiftly up and o'er the houses sweep;
But since they brought Our Lady there, and built for her a shrine, The angry floods are driven away as by command Divine.
Dearly they love Our Lady, these grateful cottiers poor, The Queen of Heaven whose gentle hands keep sorrow from thei
door. Her shrine through all the year is decked with blossoms dewy
sweet, Flowers of the forest and the field, poor simple offerings meet.
And revellers returning from midnight ball or rout, Will stand before the statue where the little lamp shines out, To think awhile of Heaven, not earth; and breathe a prayer of
thanks To her who guards the lowly poor upon the river-banks.
NORA TYNAN OMARONY.
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