USA > California > Alameda County > Oakland > Silver jubilee memorial Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal., 1868-1893 > Part 7
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Let us stop to listen for a moment, and through the vaults of twenty buried centuries we may hear sweet voices chiming " Venite Adoremus," the song has not yet died away. In every age, in every Christian country are these sweet words hallowed and sung. Every year as the Christian festival dawns, the Bethlehem star of faith sheds dazzling lustre on each loyal heart, as it once did on the shepherds of Judea, and they, too, re-echo " Venite Adoremus."
Ah! if we would always gladly respond to the " Venite!" but, alas, too often we close our obdurate hearts to the blessed
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entreaty, and worship not at the Crib of Him who came to seek and to save sinners.
" Venite Adoremus!" in how many care-burdened souls do these words find a responsive chord, which vibrates in exquisite sensitiveness to the awakening touch! For how many hearts be- numbed with pain has not this pean of gladness opened the flood- gates of tears, relieving sorrow and pointing out a new and higher motive for which to live and to suffer.
" As long as the heart has passions, as long as life has woes,"
will this " Venite Adoremus" bear the same sweet meaning as it breathed to the Judean shepherds on the heights of Bethlehem Christmas night, two thousand years ago.
LUCILE EDWARDS.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
There are lives that bless and are blessed where'er they go. They are like fertilizing streams that flow through the arid desert clothing its dreary sands with a mantle of softest verdure and gem- ming it with starry flowers .- Laura Glenn.
There are sunbeams that owe their light, not to the sun, but to some golden hearts that cast their fragrance o'er our pathway. When our lives seem cold and dreary, they drive away the gloom. A word, a look, a smile from those we hold dear, brings happiness to many a weary heart.
At the Turning
Just as Time turns to bid farewell to Summer, To catch the last perfume she breathes ; Snatching stray bits of her radiance and color He paints gray October's sere leaves.
Thus tenderly leaving a seal for a memory Of beauty we would not forget. Blends us a promise in Autumn's own colors Of radiance more rare for us yet.
True ! but for Thee all had been cold and dreary, Thou hast a mysterious chain, Which links the beauties of ne'er forgot Summer, And in thy gray shadows we live it again.
Just at Time's Turning, we linger a moment, To catch the last breath of our flowers. Take a long look into our fleeting Summers, Where Memory and Promise are ours.
There, in the meadows, Forget-me-not faces That bloomed in the sweet olden days, Lovingly peep into ours, and are smiling In just the same olden ways.
Then " at the Turning" the birds are all singing Sweet snatches of song we once knew. Looking just back of the Clouds of October The Gray melts away into Blue.
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AT THE TURNING
Thus, at the Turning of Summer to Autumn We look at a picture of Spring, So, at the Turning of years doth our Memory Sweet pictures of childhood then bring.
What of the promise that comes of the blending Of Autumn's deep red and rich gold? 'Tis of a Summer where never is fading Nor Songs, nor its faces grow old.
For into its meadows, Time never may trespass To snatch away Beauty and Light All the day long we may dwell in the Sunshine For there-never cometh the Night.
Memorial pictures of all our past Summers, We love Thee ! and most would delay : But at the Turning of years we're reminded Of Summer :- Just over the Way.
And as our years grow more numbered They draw us, so gently but surely away From Memory's Pictures so faded and misty To one that is brighter than they.
Nearer and nearer we grow to that Summer We oft hear its music, it seems; And we look through the beautiful blue of its Heaven To faces of light in our dreams.
Till at Life's Turning, we pause for a moment, Scarce knowing a change is made Loving and trusting we turn,-and awaken In Summer that never doth fade.
ADELAIDE C. SPAFFORD.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
The Sky
How strange it is that man fails to see in the sky, that ever broadens above him, proofs of the beneficent love of God! Is it not that part of Nature that speaks most eloquently to his soul, that responds best to his heart's noblest thoughts ? It is a book con- stantly open for his meditation ; yet, page after page is turned, glory after glory fades unheeded. But let an angry cloud steal over the azure of the heavens and shroud from his gaze the genial rays of the sun, then man is troubled. Perhaps it will mar some pleasure, blast some hope, or even sway the tide of fortune ; his mind is full of thoughts darker than the overhanging canopy. Ah ! fickle man, who but an hour ago allowed to pass unadmired the glory of a sun- set, now watches every movement, every fold that is gathered in the heavy drapery above. But soon the sun-beams find a rift, and as the clouds melt away in the mist of blue rain, man's gloom disap- pears, and he smiles. A hasty prayer, and again the sky is forgotten.
We are ever awake to the beauty of the hills, to the changing moods of the sea ; we trace the delicate beauty of every vein in the hare-bell's cup, and strolling along the sea-shore our eye is ever quick to catch the gleam of some pretty shell. But every one can- not feel the breezy spray from the sea upon his cheek ; to some a breath from the ocean's lips would restore new life and strength. Alas ! for them, they are far distant from the sound of its mysterious voice. To many, the dainty hare-bells nestling 'mid waving grasses, is a tiny bit of beauty still unknown ; but the sky-infinite in its ex- panse-where will we not find it ? Where does it not smile down upon us ? It matters not how poor or rich the surroundings, be it
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hovel or palace, we have but to uplift the eye to meet its gentle downcast glance. There is a charm in its brightness, yet it is not " too bright and good for human Nature's daily food." Ye students of Nature, who love to note each changing aspect of the whispering woods, ye know not what beauties unfold themselves above your heads ! Look into the deep blue chasm of the air, study each pass- ing mood ! Is not its soft. Summer tenderness as beautiful as a mother's smile ? Sometimes capricious, sometimes fearful, some- times gentle-is it not almost human in its passions ? Is it not almost divine in its infinity ? Yet how seldom do we heed its moods, how seldom do we read the lesson of the sky ! We turn not our thoughts thither, and when we so speak of it it is only when a lull in our conversation causes us to complain of the sunless day, or perhaps praise the warmth and brightness of the morning. Who among the group could tell of the great white chain of mountains that girded the horizon at noon, or the little sun-beam that, stealing out, smote upon the melting crest ? Yet every cloud that sweeps across the blue above has a lesson to convey, for has not God set His bow in their folds ; does He not hide His kindness in their very depths ? Each bright ray that leaves the sun bound on its gentle mission is shivered into myriad beams in the misty ether of the sky. Those airy mists that veil yon mountain crest will soon turn to hurrying clouds that skim across the evening sky ; and when the parched earth looks lovingly up to the serene heavens they will join their hands across the sky, 'and 'mid the wail of tempests and crashing of thunder they will drop their " garnered fullness" down upon the thirsty earth. Oh ! how appalling is the majesty of the sky in its sterner moods ! But as the sun smiles again through a rift in yonder cloud, these cheering words come to the mind : " He shall set his promise in the bow." See it arching its many hues across the heavens : is it not a fit messenger to recall to us God's undying promise ? Again, clouds are the ministers of God, for to their care has he entrusted the glorious sun. They spread at morn the golden pavement for His chariot wheels ; for
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Him they build a temple of dazzling whiteness at noon ; and they draw at evening the purple veil about the sanctuary of His rest. Dancing before the radiant orb of day, they scatter everywhere the sparkling gems He pours from His vast urn ; or, heaped in a snow mass upon the vapory blue, they suggest to us the truth that God, in His wish to be nearer to us, has set His throne in their midst.
But if we have failed to notice the sky and its beauties, others have not. To them the fleecy forms of the clouds tell of Him " who giveth snow-like wool, and scattereth hoar-frost like ashes." Some never watch the evening sky without remembering that those ambi- ent folds of clouds are like the same that enveloped the sacred form of our Saviour, and hid Him from the sight of His loving disciples. How consoling to think that heaven is directly over my head : at night it seems especially near, and when I look up I. imagine that the starry veil of the sky is all that is between heaven and me ! But full well do I know that something darker, deeper than the sky, hides from my vision the great White Throne.
Ah ! how many beauties have passed us unseen, unregretted, be- cause unknown ! Let us not leave them unnoticed, but know them every one, for there is a lesson in every leaf, and each phase of Nature is the autograph of God.
ZOE CHADWICK.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
God alone knows the value of a kind word .- K. K.
ON THE CONVENT GROUNDS CONVENT OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART, OAKLAND, CAL.
Apart
What a mysterious little word Apart is !
It holds within its small compass a power which awakens the deepest emotions of a loving heart, and yet, strange to say, it also contains a depth of meaning which brings joy, peace and happiness to the soul.
If we consider it as one word, what may Apart mean ?
These five little letters may tell us that five hundred miles lie between us and the smiles of loved faces !
What may apart mean ? That perhaps five minutes' distance only, separates us from those whom duty keeps from our side !
Apart ! Apart ! It whispers that an idle word, a weighty trifle has severed hearts and liyes that should have flowed on as one. Apart ! That word which affection dreads even more than death, that word which friendship is loath to pronounce !
But let me transform its letters into a word of life " A part." What care I " though leagues of land divide us and oceans roll between," if I am confident that within my own breast I bear with me a part of my friend's heart, that I have left with my loved one a part of my own !
What care I though I roam 'neath a foreign sky "a stranger in a strange land," if my soul whispers to me that I have a part in the thoughts of the friend I have left behind ? What care I if sorrow, trials, misfortune assail me when I am certain that there are some who will bear a part of my weighty charge, and lighten by daily prayers a part of my weary burden ?
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My soul is cheered on while still in the " Valley of Tears," when I think that though I may be apart from those my heart cherishes a day will come when we will share together a part of Heaven on that bright shore where "sorrow is no more, and parting is unknown."
FLORENCE HYDE.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
Such is life, first, a greeting to earth and its joys, then, a parting, a sad farewell, leaving behind naught but a fleeting memory. -May French.
O, Lone Mountain ! City of Tombs ! Well hast thou been named. Densely populated as is thy area, thou still art lone, thou resting-place of the dear departed. Thou art a great book in which . we may read the lives of the many who slumber beneath thy sod, and taking unto our hearts thy lessons, wiser grow.
-Mary T. Dawson.
Estelle
Perhaps it is a fancy, But it always seems to me, That little children earthward sent, Are flowers from God's garden lent.
Just here a pansy blossom sweet,
And there a violet's dainty face, While, pure and fair the lily tall, With blushing rose, fill bower and hall.
The wayward daffodil that nods And bends to every passing breeze, The winsome fairies of the wildwood, Who softly troop like dreams of childhood.
But thou wert Stella, e'en a Star, Thine eye did ray as pure a light As comes from seraph, great and bright Who basks fore'er in God's blessed sight.
The One who sent thee, for awhile, Kept thy dear heart all for His own, He knew how soon with brightest beam, Thy glance should heav'nward dart its gleam ..
Earth was not fair enough, Estelle, Its frame no fitting case for thee, For thou wert made for nobler things, A throne befitting royal kings.
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Now favor'd one, from thy dear Home Where crown'd thou stands't harp in hand, Look down on Mother, Teacher, Friend, And strains of thy sweet music send.
'Twill soothe the anguish'd heart of her, Who solaced e'er thy earthly woe, Who loved thee with an endless love, And longing waits her call above.
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It is the hour of twilight when all earth seems wrapt in a silent spell, it is the hour over which Time loves to linger and to open to the longing eyes of youth the broad vista of the future, ever flavored with the sunshine of happiness. A fair young girl is seated on the rocks, gazing far o'er the sea ; the murmuring of the waves as they break upon the strand falls unheeded on her ear, she sees not the beauty of the scene, for her thoughts are far away. The eyes where love lies dreaming and the blushes that softly mantle her cheek, tell that she is wandering in the future's rosy path. It is with a sigh she rises as the deepening shadows of night dispel her visions. O, halcyon days of youth, how heedlessly are you spent ! O, child of Heaven, remain not a dreamer ; why trouble yourself about the future, 'tis all prepared for you by the good God .- Mamie Lafferty.
Raphael and Michael CIngelo
Which of these two names shall be placed first ? It is indeed hard to decide. Alike only in being great and famous. We need only hear these names, and before us arise two forms, resplendent, transfigured in the light of immortal fame and radiance of their own great souls.
Many are the stars that shine in the vast firmament of art ; many beautiful and brilliant, illuming the earth with their heav- enly light ; but these two-Michael Angelo and Raphael-they rule, they are as the great sun and the beautiful moon. When that sun is in the heavens the stars are eclipsed and only his majestic self is visible. But that sweeter light of silvery moon-who would part with it ? It envelopes the earth, and holds it spell-bound in its chains of beauty. Yes, the mellow light from Raphael's brush lures us away ; until, gazing deeper and deeper into his heavenly visions we are unconsciously lifted far, far away, until we find ourselves listening to the melodies of angels that bless the lovely Mother or praise the transfigured Christ. How beautiful must have been the soul that filled that mind with such heavenly images and guided his hand in creating such soulful faces and angelic forms ! He must have lived, not as other men, who ever turn their sight on earth and , things of earth, but in a realm of harmony and beauty. One would think that his keen eye had even pierced the azure sky, and the beauty of Heaven itself was stamped upon his soul. Yes, it is only from Heaven that he could have caught so divine an expression as that which breathes from the face of his Madonna di San Sisto. When we look upon it, it is as though by an especial privilege the curtain of earth were drawn aside ; and, behold I in a real vision of Heaven, the Mother of God radiant, almost dazzling with celestial light.
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Ever gazing on the beautiful countenance of angels, his own face seems to have taken the impress of angelic beauty. And, when that beauty was, in all its freshness of growth and fairest bloom ; when the young artist's soul was still ardent with the love of the beauti- ful, God took him where his soul would live for evermore on heav- enly beauty ; and where, in youthful beauty, amongst the angel faces, his would blend in the harmony of Paradise.
And yet, the prince of painters was proud to consider himself a rival of the mighty Angelo, and to let the influence of this master of art be seen in his own beautiful work. Yes, mighty indeed must have been the man that Raphael was proud to equal. The greatness of Michael Angelo is too great for the human mind to grasp. He holds us spellbound and wondering ; we cannot look the mighty sun in the face ; his light is too dazzling for our poor sight ; and we are stunned and blinded by its strength. Like a streak of lightning he flashed through the world of art, crumbling all else to dust and insignificance. But, mighty as are his works, his “Moses," his " David," his "Prophets," these were but a reflection of the mightier conceptions that filled the soul of Angelo. Those indeed must have been stupendous and too great, alas, for the touch of any human hand. Yes, the names of Raphael and Michael Angelo will ever echo in the world of art. It is almost impossible to compare them ; both so great, yet neither greater-Michael Angelo, the arch- angel of painting ; and Raphael the guardian angel to the young aspirant of art and beauty.
Their ardent souls at last are satisfied ; for now the soul of Michael Angelo can contemplate face to face, a greatness greater than his own great soul: there he can realize his ideals in the infinity of Heaven, and the immensity of God. There Raphael sits, amidst choirs of angels, listening to the enraptured song of his "Cecelia," and ever gazing into the beauty of that divine Mother whom he loved and honored on earth.
INEZ DIBBLEE.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
Our Pleasant Days
He who replenishes the star-lanterns and hangs them one by one to light up the face of night ; He who scatters flowers abroad over the earth to make it fairer and more fragrant; He it is who twines the pleasant days into man's life. The Poet of our fireside has said :-
" Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary."
But alas if we consult stern facts, daily experience, shall we not con- clude from the average life of mankind that " into some days only, the sun is still shining," "many days are dark and dreary."
At creation's morn all days were days of happiness. Man's life was to be a perpetual sunshine, as it lay untainted in the light and love of the Creator's beneficence. Sin was the first cloud that obscured the sunlight of that glorious day, the first pang of sorrow that pierced a human heart. Ah, what a day to remember. What a day for all generations to regret. And how through the long, stern, penitent years of our First Parents' exile, how the memory of that sinless day, " walking with God in the garden," must have stood apart-a thing of beauty, but no less of pain, lying in the shadow of their offended Maker's displeasure, revealing a claim to happiness wilfully forfeited, and forfeited forever.
Yet they had a Father to deal with, whose mercy and love were not commensurate with His justice, whose Divine Heart could not fail to be touched by the woes of His penitent children. He would not dry up every source of pleasure, nor quench every light that might brighten their pathway. Along the rugged road of life, this
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forgiving Father has strewn many a pleasant hour, and there are few or none that have not to thank Him for days burdened with the wealth of His gifts, as well as the perfume of sweet memories.
What are happy days? The standard would vary with the capacity and possibilities for suffering and enjoying. Taste, situa- tion, temperament, knowledge, the physical, moral and intellectual conditions of mankind,-all would tend to make the standard differ. The invalid would bless God for a day's freedom from pain; the man of keen moral sensibilities would look for his sunny day among his virtuous and noble deeds; while the saints would soar to lofty summits in the unseen world of beauty and truth. God's un- clouded smile is the sun of that Nuptial Feast in which His holy ones revel eternally. The scholar would find it in the domain of the intellect, midst new prospects, lofty thoughts, startling theories ; while the child of art would call his happiest day in which he had given expression to his life-long ideal.
But a young girl's happy day, would she find it among these categories? No; the latter, for the most part, lie beyond the field of her experience. She must look back to the days of her child-life, where pleasant hours are as many and luxuriant as the flowers she loves to cull. Without a care, without a sorrow, she is the child of sunshine and song. Walking hand in hand with Innocence and Loveliness, Nature lavishes upon her the beautiful, Religion estab- lishes kinship with the Angels, the Savior leaves upon this age the print of His blessing, and His loving invitation : " Suffer little ones to come unto me." " Oh! how we envy the children," says the Poet, ignoring as they do the Past, smiling at the Present, bounding to- wards the Future. What are all their days, but pleasant days? Again our Poet sings :
" What would the world be to us, If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.
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Ye are better than all ballads That ever were sung or said, For ye are living poems And all the rest are dead."
The first season of childhood vanishes, to make room for another phase in which the development of reason tempers the glowing at- mosphere, wherein the little ones delighted to bask. With the dawn of this faculty and its gradual development, the struggles of the child begin-temper must be restrained, ignorance overcome, good habits instilled, the serious work of life commences, and now the bird which hitherto gladdened us with joyous song gives forth at times a note of sadness; its wings are clipped, its flight impeded ; its freedom interfered with. Alas for the caged songster, will it carol no more? Have all its happy days been counted? The child thinks so in the outburst of its first sorrow, beautiful in its very earnest- ness. But it is a spring-shower merging suddenly into new visions of happiness, and the day is only brighter for the cloud that over- cast its morning. "O man thou pendulum 'twixt a smile and a tear," finds ready application in this period of child-life.
Travelling onward the child has reached a more serious phase. Application and learning meet her with an ominous look. They point to arduous duties, to precipitous heights, to rugged paths which must be travelled over ere the goal is reached. Towards that goal the school-girl must ever press-press on as the soldier does towards victory, as the conqueror to his hard-won laurels, for a day of glory crowns the far-off summits. Yonder is her beacon; the clouds may darken, shadows fall thick and gloomy about her, she keeps her eye on this luminary, nerves her will, cheers her oft de- spondent heart, and presses onward.
Though the journey be long and the task an onerous one, there are many pleasant days strewn along the pathway of school-life- days bubbling over with frolic and mirth-days of quiet enjoyment, of sweet intercourse with master-minds, wherein lofty ideas are formed and " Excelsior " becomes the life-long motto-days of sweet
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dreaming when everything is fair and everyone worthy of love and trust. Alas that the illusion should vanish, that the charm should be broken.
Leaving the path of speculation and sweet reminiscence, we pass into those of reality. We, dear companions, have climbed those sum- mits, and the day whose light outshone that of all other days, has dawned upon us. In it we see reflected all the joys of the Past, we read the hopes of the Future. Let ours be the song of the vintagers as the grape gives forth its luscious wine, ours the mirth of the har- vesters as they garner in the golden sheaves. Whom do we find here to greet us? Those who have gone before us in the race. The friends of our childhood extend a welcome; the loved ones of our fireside press us to their bosom; Mother Church is here in the per- son of her prelate and pastors to bless us and smile their approval. Oh the joy, the pride of this eventful day, beautiful as it is in real- ity, will be still more charming in hours of retrospection. We hold it, dear companions ; we bless God, our dear teachers and beloved parents for the long-desired prize. Standing as we do on the thresh- old of the future, with a pure and lofty ideal in view, we kneel at our Archbishop's feet to beg a blessing that as our lives broaden and sink into deeper channels, our souls may be wedded to useful and virtuous deeds, and that the crown of true womanhood may ever be entwined with the laurels we bear away from our Alma Mater.
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