USA > California > Alameda County > Oakland > Silver jubilee memorial Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal., 1868-1893 > Part 6
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God is eternal harmony, and the works of His hand are har- monious, and His great precept to man is that they live in har- mony. Did not Christ come into the world amid the choral songs of the angels? We can never banish music from His church; it seems to enter there like some gentle spirit, whispering the peace of another world into our souls, next bearing them away on its quivering strains to the throne of the Infinite.
Whoever has enjoyed the rare privilege of being present in the Sistine chapel during the Holy Week when the Miserere is
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sung, has felt the immense power of religious music. Do you know of aught more wonderful than the masses of Palestrina, the " Stabat " of Rossini, the " Crucifixus" of Bellini? As music de- velops religious sentiment, so Religion gives to music its highest themes. To her Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, owe their divinest inspirations.
This age of materialism can give but little to the other arts whose inspiration is faith; but music brushes away the dust of everyday life and frees our souls for at least a few moments, from the sordid cares that disturb it. It lifts our hearts to God, re- minding us that we will one day behold a vision of beauty and hear a Celestial music, such as eye hath not seen, and ear hath not heard.
POETRY.
And now we have come to the last and the finest of all the fine arts-to Poetry, the outpouring of an inspired soul. Mighty is the soul of the architect and the sculptor, beautiful and sensitive is that of the painter and the musician, but the soul of the Poet far sur- passes them all. In one line he erects a temple so grand that well might he exclaim with Justinian: "I have surpassed thee Solo- mon !" He sees beauties in nature of which even Claude Lorraine formed no conception. Poetry and music are one; music is poetry of sound, and poetry is music in word. But poetry, though less sympathetic, has a stronger, more definite power than music. It appeals more to the mind than to the feelings. It is the music of the intellect, a music played upon the harp-strings of thought, whose notes are beauty, harmony and truth, whose ringing strain is God. And what sublime music that word " God " is to the mind ! In its melody it could dwell forever. It could contemplate for a life-time that most poetic of words, without exhausting the thought, the knowledge, the power, the immensity, the sublimity there con- tained. It is from that word that Poetry springs; she claims a
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divine origin, and like a true child ever tends to it. In seeking God, Poetry winged her flight to the skies, and when in that quest she naturally soared farthest from earth and nearest to Heaven. Do you wonder now that Poetry, too, wishes to find a place in the temple of Religion ?
In the world of books is there one grander, more sublimely poetic than that book dedicated by the inspiration of God-the Bible? There, where God is apprehended in all His majesty, are heard the voices of David, the poet king, of Jeremiah, and of Isaiah, ringing with sublimest strains of prophecy, and pouring forth in poetry the messages of God upon a listening world.
Has even Poetic Greece in her glory give us poems half so grand as those of the Hebrew Scriptures? What other muse than Religion inspired the triumphal hymns of Miriam and Deborah! Of what else did Job write in that bold imagery, that vividness of expres- sion, combined with master-touches of dramatic art, that stamps this poem as the greatest in Oriental literature? But though the spirit of song has fled from Jerusalem it has not departed from the praise of God. Generation after generation has taken up the refrain, and through the misty ages of the past-aye, even through the dimmer ages of the future, do I hear the hymn rising in thanks -. giving to God.
And the Angel of the Schools deserved from the lips of Christ himself these words: "Thou hast well written of me."
Did not the privileged mind of Dante and Milton also receive their highest inspiration from Religion?
And how often in the silence of his heart and when alone with his own great thoughts did not the "Poet Priest " of the South listen to her holy promptings."
Before Religion lent her muse to Poetry, the art lay fettered, except, indeed, among God's chosen people. Sappho sang of love to the sounds of her Grecian lyre ; Alceus, of war, infusing patriot- ism in the breast of his listeners ; but the Christian poet chants sublimest melodies to the Creator of song, and lays his choicest
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gems at the feet of Religion. It was she who whispered to him his theme, and he told her his gratitude when he placed on her brow his nobly earned laurels.
ELOQUENCE.
Climbing the heights of Parnassus let us greet on our way the golden-tongued Polyhymnia. Of her power who can relate the wonders? She sways the multitude as the mighty wind sweeps over the face of the waters, as it gives a voice to the leaves of the forest, or as it commands homage from the undulating prairie.
True eloquence is always artistic, and we must concede that it holds a high place in the Church of Christ. The Master blessed eloquence and bade it convert the world in the memorable words: " Go ye therefore and teach all nations." Eloquence must be spoken; take from it its voice and you take from it its soul. It is the cry of an impassioned nature, in which love, faith and deep- abiding conviction are enthroned.
In all ages eloquence has played a powerful part in the affairs of man. Demosthenes did more to stay the fall of Greece than all the Athenian valor or Spartan courage. "Let us march against Philip!" was the unanimous response of the people of Athens, after listening to one of Demosthenes' eloquent harangues. Cicero's patriotic eloquence saved Rome from the conspiracy of Cataline. And what has this great gift not accomplished in the arena of modern politics and for the public weal? What if Grattan, Cur- ran, O'Connell had never raised their voices in behalf of the down- stricken Ireland! What if Pitt had not poured forth the eloquent and honest convictions of his mind in behalf of American inde- pendence! What of our sympathy for Ireland's Home Rule, had not the Grand Old Man stunned the world with his telling oratory !
If human eloquence can so move the multitudes, what a power must it not have, if we add thereto the purity and holiness where-,
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with it is accompanied when working in the service of Religion! The church has given to the world the noblest examples of elo- quence. With pride she points to the names of Augustine, Ambrose and Chrysostom-Augustine whose mighty wisdom confounded the heretic-Ambrose profoundly and logically eloquent held even the great Augustine spell-bound-Chrysostom of golden eloquence, con- quering millions of hearts.
Savonarola with his crucifix held at bay the army of Charles VIII. And what jewels were too precious for the grand dames of Florence to sacrifice at the sound of his inspiring voice!
When luxury reigned supreme at the French Court, the stern, grave oration of Bourdaloue and of Massillon caused the wicked king and courtiers to tremble. Boussuet's masterpieces, grand and majestic, poured forth midst the shadows of the tomb, fell upon the ear of the same pleasure loving Court, sad and solemn as the death- knell warning it of the final dissolution.
Aesthetic France returns to her God at the feet of the great or- ators of Notre Dame-Lacordaire, De Ravignan, Didon and Mon- sabré.
And in our own Catholic hierarchy are there not names that shine like stars in the firmament of the church-voices which are the outpourings of faith and love and holy ambition that the world may become better and purer?
If the East is proud of her Bossuet, is not our archieopiscopal city equally gifted ?
Oh, for the power to sway the soul, to move it in the paths of righteousness, to raise it from the mire of sin into the high, pure regions of virtue. Oh! for a soul on fire to enkindle a flame in the hearts of others!
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CONCLUSION.
Thus every art, Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Music, Poetry and Eloquence, has felt and known the sweet inspiration of
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Religion, and responded to her in purer tones than it had ever known before. She has substituted for the ideal myths of Pagan days the purer vision that Heaven alone can inspire; and instead of restricting and degrading, as some have ignorantly asserted, she has elevated and purified every branch of art. Christian art could not be more perfect than it is-blending all that is fairest and grandest in nature, with all that is purest and noblest in Religion.
Class of '92
Iner Tibblee Nellie Dimond Constance Makeand. Julia Reed. Emma Leibert
Only a glance from stranger eve ; A low, soft tone as we pass by- A curve perhaps, an instant taken By lips that we to none can liken-
Resemblance, then, with instant touch, Gives to us thoughts and visions such As fill our souls for one brief space, While the heart and its love are face to face.
For other eyes beam then on us, Too well are known the tones heard thus, And lips that wore that curve of old, Words of sweet love to us have told.
K. K.
Seven years After.
Hath time dealt hardly with thee, Child of sorrow, child of tears; Is the weight of many burdens Added to the weight of years?
Have the dreams of school days faded, Leaving only memory vain; All the hope and high ambition Given place to weary pain ?
Have the weeks and months in passing Left but heart throbs in their flight, Has the dread death angel entered Taking all that made life bright?
Has the world been harsh and cruel In its coldness and disdain, Going on its way in gladness, Leaving to thy heart the pain ?
Have thy shoulders felt the burden Of the cross these seven years? What thy answer to my queries, What, my child, tears, only tears!
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In the language of the Poet, " Tears, the life-blood of the heart," Silence only tells the story, Words but feebly do their part.
Know you not that all these crosses, Are but shadows of the sun, Whose bright ray will fall upon us, When the long day's work is done.
Sink not by the wayside sadly. Learn the lesson sorrow brings, Raise thy heart from earthly honors Thou wert made for better things.
Let thy girlhood's high ambition To a nobler zeal give place; All for love, and God's dear glory, Till we see Him face to face.
" Whom He loves, He chastens sorely," 'T is enough for us to know, And the word gives sweetest comfort, In our pilgrimage of woe.
Courage, for the cross that presses, Cometh to thee from above, And thy Father in His wisdom, Sendeth all these things in love.
LAURA J. BRENHAM. -
Convent of the Holy Names, San Francisco, Cal.
NIGHT is the dream hour of the day .- Kate Keaney.
ON THE CONVENT GROUNDS CONVENT OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART, OAKLAND, CAL.
When is the Time to Die?
Life's slowly rising sun purples the eastern sky and tinges with a rosy glow the fleecy, floating clouds. The air is alive with the joyous twittering of the feathered choir; the very brooklets with their sweet babble, seem to laugh and sing, as the sparkling waters ripple along their pebbly beds.
Along the broad and dewy path dances the laughing child. Upon her soft, dimpled cheeks the tints of morning glow. Tripping along she sings sweet snatches of some bright lay. Almost akin to the chirping birds is the blithesomeness of her innocent heart; her light footsteps press the dainty flowers strewn across her sunny way.
I approach the laughing little one with slow and weary tread, and breaking in upon her happy pastime, I cry, "Sweet child, when is the time to die?" The dewy, bright eyes are raised to mine in startled wonder, she seems not to know my meaning. "To die, little one," I repeat. "Is this, do you think, the time to die?" Then her silvery laugh rings out wild and free upon the morning . air: " Not yet, not yet! " she cries, and has bounded on again.
The tints of morning have grown more vivid; Aurora has left a kiss upon the maiden's cheek; her soft eyes shine with a loving light; the red lips murmur some loved one's name, to whose memory she is most dear. With the whispered words a flush dyes to crimson her pure white brow. In answer to my solemn question I seem to hear her spirit sigh, as I listen to the words she breathes: "Savior! Oh, not now! not now! Youth is no time to die!"
The soughing wind fans my fevered cheek, and on its wings are borne to me faint echoes of some sweet lullaby. In a little haven
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by the wayside, sheltered from the storms which ofttimes sweep in all their fury along this path of life, sits a young mother softly crowing to her babe. All her loving heart shines in her eyes as they 'rest fondly upon the tiny, sleeping face of her cherished first- born. It is with a strange reluctance that I put to her the oft- repeated question-" When is the time to die?" She lifts her eyes, filled with love not unmixed with agony, to my face as she answers-"Surely, not now! God will not call me yet, I have this little life to guide, so that in the end there may be added yet another soul to the numberless saints above." Ah, sweet, unselfish mothers, how you redeem this world! Surely yours is such a noble cause, God will spare you to fulfill your task.
The bright noonday sun is shining steadily in the far, still zenith, whilst along the path with joyous steps and earnest mien, quickly passes a young man in all the fire and zeal of his prime. In answer to the all-absorbing question, he faces me with a look of scorn in his eyes. "Time to die?" he says, while his lip curls in disdain. " Ask that not of me. I have the greater part of my life yet to live! Speak not to me of death, go to age, he can tell you the time to die!"
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" Ah, thoughtless one!" say I, as I turn away unsatisfied. The dusk of evening slowly settles over hill and valley. The parting rays of the setting sun gild the distant hills with a mellow splendor ; the tall trees cast long shadows aslant the path. In the distance, with his face toward the fading beams, wearily plods an aged man. The tender after-glow touches his flowing locks with a golden glint as he leans on his staff for a moment's rest. He is still standing thus as I draw near. "Tired one," say I, "surely you will tell me now is the time to die." He stands silent for a moment more, then all the ashes of his dead dreams and hopes seem to rekindle in his brightening face; clasping his trembling hands, he cries, "No, no, I cannot die. I love life too well to leave it yet." Poor deluded one! the words have scarcely left the withered lips, when the hand of God silently touches him; a groan, a gasp, and he lies still and cold in the twilight.
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Filled with sad foreboding, I continue on my way. Forgetful of all outward things, I speak my thoughts aloud. "Ah me!" I sigh, " why are we all so unwilling to die?" The sound of my own voice in the stillness startles me out of my despondency, and I become aware of a presence near me. Looking up, I see beside me one with a serene countenance and kindly, patient eyes which bespeak the calmness of the heart within. In gentle accents he asks if I am a-weary. What is that light which shines in his face? It is as if a lamp were gleaming with steady light through the win- dows of his soul. A small, bright hope warms my chilled heart once more. "Thou of the serene countenance," I softly ask, " tell me when is the time to die?" A soft smile passes over his lips and eyes, as if an angel noiselessly floating by, had brushed his face with the shadow of its wings. He lifts his eyes to the pur- pling west; the mellow light seems to throw a golden halo about his brow as the smiling lips answer: " My Savior's time is mine ! "
ZOE CHADWICK.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
NATURE is the poem of God's love ; the stanzas are sound, color and motion .- K. K.
An Arak Tradition
In the midst of the Garden of Eden,
By the hands of the bright Angels built Rose a temple of radiant splendor,
Made of jewels, and sunshine, and gilt.
And the walls were all studded with emeralds, In the dome, gleamed the ruby's rich hue; O'er the cloisters of Peace fell the soft light, Through the windows of topaz and blue.
'T was a wonderful structure! this temple, As it gleamed in the day's glaring light; As an emblem of " Peace " -- and no Sin- It shone like a star in the night.
When the sun o'er that Valley of Eden, In the West, at the close of each day, Sank from sight,-hand in hand our first parents To this Temple, came ever-to pray-
And when finished their lowly orisons, They would walk through the bright temple hall, Never dreaming in their sinless beauty, That so soon, they would both of them fall.
Adam fell! So the old story tells us. Then-this glorious temple of worth Had its walls rent in millions of pieces, Which were scattered broadcast, o'er the earth.
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And thus we, from that day have been sinful Yet we think that with time, and with care, We may gather a few of those jewels, That were torn from that temple so fair.
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All ye lovers of gold and of Mammon, Who have thought that these jewels so bright Are for naught but your show, and your pleasure, Or to charm you and dazzle your sight-
Let me tell you a secret, I know of- That these jewels so rich and so rare,
Are but tokens left here to remind us, We've a temple in Eden somewhere.
ADELAIDE C. SPAFFORD.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
A hidden act of charity sends an irresistible appeal to the Celestial Court of Benevolence .- K. K.
God's Music
Like a glorious Te Deum of thanksgiving rose the hymn of Nature to the throne of God; rose in strains of divine melody on that first day, when all things were made good, and a newly created world stretched itself out, decked in its rich robes so fresh from the Maker's hand. A perfection of beauty existed in all things, from , the profusion of grasses and gay flowers that carpeted the fertile soil, to the towering mountains, or the billows of the main. And while loveliness smiled its thanks on the face of all created things, a thousand sounds blended into one harmonious whole, and ascended to Heaven. On they chimed, and still they chimed in triumphant chorus, ever praising, ever glorifying the Almighty Power that called them into being.
For if God's name is imprinted in tints of indelible beauty on all the works of the universe, then of whom do their voices sing, and whose music could they call it, if not God's ? All sound, every ripple and wavelet of air, every tiny vibration, is God's music.
The universe is filled with His voice. To each of His creations He has given one of His divine notes; and they repeat it so often that, could we but listen as the angels do, we would hear the music of His name in the rushing torrent, and in the peaceful lake, in the mournful winds and in the whispering breeze.
But hush! Everything is so still that the Earth seems to be holding her breath to hear some far distant sound. Ahl 'tis the twinkling of the little star-lanterns as they swing to and fro in the sapphire tent, which they almost hide beneath the maze of their beauty.
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We hear God's music also, when the air is filled with the rejoicing hum of insects, that are drinking in the sunbeams, and blowing their tiny horns, as they weave and unweave their mystic dance.
Even the gentle rustle of the leaves, when caressed by the soft breezes, and the sweet notes caroled from hearts hidden beneath pretty feathered coats, are songs of thanksgiving to be wafted to Heaven.
The ocean, the grand and solemn deep! How musical is its calm and steady roar; or again, how harmonious the sounds of its restless and dashing billows! List also to the raging voice of the cataract, as in awful fury it leaps over rocky cliffs, while in its onward rush the waters writhe and foam. How weird, how grand the song of the mighty stream! No power of man ever produced such sounds as these. Onward rides the meadow brook, its laughing waters telling of the harmony of nature, as it vies with the inmates of the forest in singing its sweet " Hallelujah." Ocean, cataract, stream and brook, each fills the air with its music; and now come their offspring, the rain drops. They left us unawares, these fair daughters of the Sea; but now we hear their musical sounds as one by one they repentingly return to the arms of their common mother.
Yes; Nature is all harmony, for it is all love. The songs of the beautiful water, and the winds, with their minor chords mingle in sweetest tones.
Joyfully these psalms of Earth rise to the Eternal Throne, and He who sits thereon, though listening to the songs of the angels can still bend towards Earth; can still receive these humble prayers.
But O my God, there are other strains that rise to Heaven, still more delightful to thine ear! They come from the heart of man; they are the broken prayers he is ever breathing to his Maker; and these strains, up-borne on angel wings, soar above the things of Earth and enter Heaven. Such heavenly music they are that we almost think the angels must have ceased playing on their harps and let their own melody waft to us from above.
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This is the music that the Master loves best, whether it [be the strong, reliant prayer of man, the patient appeal of woman, or the dulcet lisping of the infant. Rising from the earnest and loving heart, it finds an answer in God's own great Heart.
Class of '91
Pianchita Dibblee Mabel Reed Isabel O' Brien Agatha Sabichi Lillie Reed Janny White Kate White Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
My Sister ?
. The golden beams of the morning sun Like gladsome creatures on fairy wing Lit up with a halo the face of one Who knelt in rapture before her King.
I gazed ; my thoughts like a meteor sped To scenes of my youth on a distant shore,
Where a sister's love had a brightness shed O'er my budding life in the days of yore.
Ah ! yes ; from the eyes of her who knelt, My sister looked as when she smiled With all the love that a sister felt, On me, a happy, thoughtless child.
Again can I see my sister's look- Nor call it Fancy's ardent glow- She gazes, she speaks, from a precious book, As she was wont in the long ago.
VIGILAUS.
Venite Adogemus
It was a perfect night. Not a murmur stirred the starlit still- ness, and the pale December moon shrouded in a cold embrace the sleeping vale of Bethlehem. Upon a distant height rude figures might be descried stretched upon the cold earth keeping their mid- night vigils. Clad in coarse garments and wearing low sandals, these simple-minded men were types of the Judean shepherd. The hours dragged on and still they slept, one solitary figure only, pacing the mountain side, and keeping faithful watch. Suddenly, a soft light fell upon the heights, slowly and gently, like a loving benediction it closed around them, awakening the sleeping herds- men. They were not terrified-they were awed. The crescent moon had dipped her silver horn a full hour since beneath the western horizon-the stars were blotted out in the dazzling bril- liancy.
They looked at each other in speechless surprise, a gentle peace falling upon them, as in breathless wonder they waited for some new revelation.
At length a voice sweeter than music broke the stillness, say- ing: "Fear not," and then was made known to the humble shep- herds the " tidings of great joy." The vision vanished. Far up in the sky they heard the glad refrain, " Gloria in Excelsis Deo," and long it echoed in their inmost hearts. When the golden harmony had "trembled away into silence" and the gray dawn was just breaking in the east, they arose from their knees, each heart be- neath the rude sheep-skin mantles yearning to see the new-born
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King. "Venite Adoremus!" they exclaimed, and left the moun- tain side for the manger.
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What are those long shadows darkening the desert? Three strangers, seemingly kings, traverse the plain, borne reach by a huge camel. The first bears the unmistakable physiognomy of a son of the Nile, his dark eyes flashing with expectancy and hope, even through the dimness of three score years; there is in their depths an undefinable longing and yet a holy calm. The second bears the stamp of Hindoo parentage, his great folded turban and white linen garments confirm what his features attest. In the third we see a face in strong contrast with its companions-a face beauti- ful in mold, and beautiful in the expression of wonderful sweetness and faith. The features are pure Grecian, and unstamped by age or care.
In their hearts these men had long felt a yearning for God, and when the star of Bethlehem shed its pure gleams on their souls they felt an assurance that their longing was soon to be sat- isfied. A golden chain led from their hearts to the Savior's feet; they felt it irresistibly attracting them nearer and yielding to its sweet influence, they drew nigh unto the Crib. How gladly they responded to the "Venite" that echoed deep in their souls! It was like a bell of untold sweetness rung by angel wardens. The harmony was as a promise of peace and light to their troubled hearts groping in the darkness.
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