Brother Ferome seated in the cloister

O to have wandered in the days that were,
Through the sweet groves of green Academè-
Or, shrouded in a night of olive boughs,
Have watched their starry clusters overhead
Twinkle and quiver in the perfumed breeze-
That breeze which softly wafted from afar,
Mingled with rustling leaves and fountain's splash,
The boyish laughter and the pæan songs;
Or, couched among the beds of pale-pink thyme
That fringe Cephissus with his purple pools,
Have idly listened while low voices sang
Of all those ancient victories of love,
That never weary and that never die,-
Of Sappho's leap, Leander's nightly swim,
Of wandering Echo, and the Trojan maid
For whom all ages shed their pitying tears;-
Or that fair legend, dearest of them all,
That tells us how the hyacinth was born;
Or to have mingled in the eager crowd
That questioning circled some philosopher,
Young eyes that glistened and young cheeks that glowed
For love of Truth, the great, Indefinite-
Truth beautiful as are the distant hills
Veiled in soft purple, crags whereon is found
No tender plant in the uncreviced rock,
But clinging lichen, and black shrivelled moss;-
So should day pass, till, from the western skies,
Behind the marble shrines and palaces,
The big sun sunk, reddening the Aegean Sea.
So should life pass, as flows the clear-brown stream
And scarcely moves the water-lilv's leaves.
This sluggish life is like some dead canal,
Dull, measured, muddy, washing flowerless banks.
O sunny Athens, home of life and love,
Free joyous life that I may never live,
Warm glowing love that I may never know,-
Home of Apollo, god of poetry.
Dear bright-haired god, in whom I half believe,
Come to me as thou cam'st to Semele,
Trailing across the hills thy saffron robe,
And catch me heavenward, wrapt in golden mists.
I weary of this squalid holiness,
I weary of these hot black draperies,
I weary of the incensè-thickened air,
The chiming of the inevitable bells.
My boyhood-hurried over, but once gone
For ever mourned,-return for one short hour;
Friends of past days, light up these cloister walls
With your bright presences and starry eyes,
And make the cold grey vaulting ring again
With tinkling laughter.-Ah! they come, they come:
I shut my eyes and fancy that I hear
The sun-lit ripples kiss the willow-boughs….
So soon forgotten that all lovely things
Which this vile earth affords-trees, mountains, streams,
The regal faces, and the godlike eyes
We see,-the tender voices that we hear,
Are but mere shadows?-the reality
A cloud-veiled Face, a voice that's lost in air,
Or drowned in music more intelligible?
From every carven niche the stony Saints
Stretch out their wasted hands in mute reproach,
And from the Crucifix the great wan Christ
Shows me His thorny Crown and gaping Wounds.
Then hark! I hear from many a lonely grave,
From blood-stained sands of amphitheatres,
From loathsome dungeon, and from blackened stake
They cry, the Martyrs cry, 'Behold the Man!'
Is there no place in all the universe
To hide me in? no little island girt
With waves, to drown the echo of that cry:
'Behold the Man, the Man of Calvary!'

Brother Francis, crossing the cloister, sings

As pants the hart for forest-streams
When wandering wearily
Across the burning desert sand,
So pant I, Lord, for Thee!
Sweetest Jesu! Thou art He
To whom my soul aspires;
Sweetest Jesu, Thou art He,
Whom my whole heart desires.
To love Thee, Oh the ecstasy,
The rapture, and the joy!
All earthly loves shall pass away,
All earthly pleasures cloy;
But whoso loves the Son of God
Of Love shall never tire;
But through and through shall burn and glow
With Love's undying Fire.

He enters the chapel.