USA > Rhode Island > Providence County > Woonsocket > History of the Catholic church in Woonsocket and vicinity, from the celebration of the first mass in 1828, to the present time, with a condensed account of the early history of the church in the United States > Part 16
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" In leading, directing and guiding his people he was in every way the true spiritual father, who did his whole duty. He acted always to all classes and sects as if one delegated by God to perform His work upon earth, in the elevation of the human race to its highest standard. His charity went out to the poor, to whom he spoke words of comfort and consolation. The souls of the poor seemed dearer to him than those whose earthly riches tended to raise them to power. He was the priest of the people and brought with him in his earthly mission the spirit of holy consolation
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wherever he went. All who had the happiness of his ac- quaintance were drawn magnetically to him, and all loved and revered him. The days of his years were devoted to the welfare of humanity. He lived for others more than for himself and died a glorious death.
" People of Blackstone, yon have a right to weep for the loss of such a spiritual father and friend. Another will fill his place, as the pastor of St. Paul's parish, and un- doubtedly will perform his whole duty, but then Father Power is dead, the anointed servant of God and your spirit- ual father has been taken from a world of sorrow, of suf- fering and pain to a peaceful and glorious abode in Heaven. God has extended to him his holy hand and has led up his released, triumphant spirit to a throne among the saints in Heaven. His voice will be heard no more in the Church he loved so well. The children of the Sunday school will no longer see him amongst them. He has walked his last upon earth, but the spirit of his teachings remains."
The pastor's dead. The holy one Who watched his flock from morn till night, From night till morn ! Shepherd of Christ, God's blessed son, Has left the earth for realms of light, For him we morn !
The priest is gone who cheered our way, His voiee in prayer and praise No more we'll hear. The faithful guide from day to day Has passed beyond the earthly shore, Our soggarth dear.
Beside baptismal font he stood, And water of eternal life
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Pour'd on the child, And with Christ's sacramental food Sustained the soul 'mid care and strife, And kept it undefiled.
When the hour of death was near He stood beside the pilgrim's bed, Whose race was o'er, And solace brought, allaying fear, And prayed the soul might home be led, To toil no more.
O, weep for him, our more than friend, Who sleeps in death, the victory won, Our pastor's dead ! In sorrow we deplore the end Of him, the priest, whose day is done, Whose soul has fled.
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A LETTER FROM HOME.
A few months previous to the death of Major Smyth he contributed the following to a local paper :
A letter from home, dear, cherished home, Affectionate letter from home ; With all the glow of love therein, With the heart's hope of long ago ; With sunlight bright of youthful days, With bloom of flowers and golden days And every fond remembered scene, Where childhood footsteps e're have been.
By placid lake and flowery dell, By castle tower where earls dwell ; Along through Cornacessa's wood And Colatovin's hills and flood ; And fair Drumriske and Camala's vale, Where oft I've listened to the tale Of Erin's wrongs and Erin's woe Told of the deeds of foreign foe.
I see in dreams where brave O'Neill, In Saxon blood drove deep his steel ; And where the great O'Donnell dwelt, And where St. Patrick humbly knelt, By Lough Dergh's healing tide, Where pilgrim's gather by its side ; And offer prayers to God above,
Who blessed the land with peace and love.
I see where Hugh McMahon stood,* Chief of my race, whose heart's best blood Flow'd for his cherished native land, Struck down by an assassin's hand, Who dared not meet there, face to face, That hero of a warrior race.
Again I see Killevey fair, Where Kathleen bound her golden hair,
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The churchyard bride of ancient tale, Whose form is seen by moonlight pale : That bride, who, in bride's array, Met death upon her wedding day, Before the nuptial vow was bless'd, Before the groom his bride caress'd, Before the marriage mass was sung, Before the wedding bell was rung.
She now in ghostly form appears At midnight throughout the years, In churchyard where her corpse is laid, Beneath a spreading cypress shade.
Ah! woe to him of funeral train, Who in the churchyard may remain, When weeping friends away have gone, And he is there, the last, alone, And yet ummarried still may be, And he the spirit bride may see. His heart must throb with deadly fear. For he shall die within a year.
This is a tale full often told, And believed by young and old, Thus does this letter from over the sea
Bring back the visions of childhood days to me.
Dear friends of childhood and of youth, Whose hearts were pure, whose words were truth,
Come back to me in a dream tonight And fill my soul with a heavenly light. I hear their joyful laughter ring, I hear the song we used to sing, I hear their happy, playful words Like mingled notes of singing birds ;
But on that vision, bright and fair, There is a wrinkled brow of care. The golden hair is silvered o'er, The bloom has fled for evermore From cheeks that glow'd with crimson hue, And now falls fast the evening dew. Eyes are dim, that once were bright,
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And fast is coming on the night When all shall rest from care and strife Whom I have known in early life. Songs of the past are in my ear, Their soft and soothing strains I hear, Like to the singing of the swan, And soon life's journey will be done.
*I do not think it can be justly called egotism on my part to make this reference to an illustrious kinsman. The McMahon here referred to was the last of the earls of that name. His estates were located in Monaghan, and of which he was robbed by the English Lord Deputy William Fitzwilliams, who placed a strong garrison there for the purpose of accomplishing this robbery. After the robbery, by confiscation, was accomplished, this last of the earls was assassinated on the steps leading to his castle.
All that remains to me and mine of the once vast es- tates is the burial lot in Tydavnet, near Scotstown, ceme- tery, in the county of Monaghan, where lies interred this last nobleman of a noble race. A monument erected on that lot tells the story of his death. That same Monaghan has a history which is great in all things considered great in this world, but most of all great in religion and learning. The original name, Meeinechan, was received from the monks, who erected a monastery there in the sixth century. The town is heard of through all the contests with England. During the Elizabethan wars it was frequently beseiged, and was occupied alternately by Irish and English soldiers down to the time of Cromwell, when Owen Roe O'Neill was succeeded in command of the national army by a Monaghan man, Heber MacMahon, Chief of the MacMahons of Oriel, and at that same time Bishop of Clogher. In 1798 the first martyrs for Irish liberty were three of the Monaghan
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militia, who were shot for being "Croppies." The whole county was long known as the MacMahon country.
In 1844 Rev. Father Tierney (a relative), parish priest of Clontibret, within the county of Monaghan and about eight miles from the town, with Charles Gavan Duffy, a native of the town, acknowledged greatest of all Irish na- tional journalists, were arrested with O'Connell and six others on a charge of "conspiracy and other misdemean- ors," aiming at the overthrow of her majesty's government in Ireland. Charles Gavan Duffy, now Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, K. C. M. G., was then editor of the Dublin Nation, at that time the acknowledged aggressive organ of the Re- peal movement. Duffy, with Thomas Devlin Reilly and Terrence Bellew MacManus, all three born in the town of Monaghan, took an active part in the '48 movement. Dur- ing that movement the writer's father organized a Confed- erate Club in Monaghan, being the first club of its kind or- ganized in the Province of Ulster. For this daring act on his part a warrant was issued for his arrest. MacManus was arrested with William Smith O'Brien, Thomas Francis Meagher and others during the short lived rebellion of 1848.
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REMINISCENSES OF REPORTORIAL LIFE.
For several months previous to the death of Major Smyth and while confined to his home, he contributed sev- eral articles to the press in which he described the many vicissitudes encountered by a reporter in performing his duty to his employer. We quote a few extracts from these articles, allowing Mr. Smyth to use his own language :
" During a long and exhaustive illness, thoughts of the past have very naturally occurred to me, and among these thoughts reminiscences of the reportorial period of my life, when I had the whole field to myself, as a reporter on a local daily paper. During the early portion of this time there were no street cars and the only way to reach a given point was by foot. Sometimes it was in the Privilege dis- trict, sometimes in the Social district, and again in the Globe district. But, wherever it was I managed to get there. No rain storm, however severe ; no snow storm- not even a blizzard, deterred me from the performance of duty. Many a time I was saturated through and through with rain, so far as my clothing was concerned, but I never went home during working hours to change my wet clothes for dry garments. Sympathy from those from whom I should receive sympathy on such occasions I had none, and therefore did not look for it. I did my duty, my whole duty, and my consciousness of having done my duty was sufficient for me. I could always, too, keep a secret. A secret once confided to me remained locked up within me. This I would not make known, even to the management of the paper on which I was employed. There were many in- stances in which I concluded it were well for me I could keep a secret. Being able to do this I could be relied upon by those who knew that in imparting a secret of importance to me they knew I could and would keep it to myself."
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" If reporters have often hard and disagreeable work to perform, still there are instances where pleasure abounds, which in part repays them for long hours of exhausting and exacting toil. I have had my full share of both. In re- calling the past there is one home in which I have often been highly honored and in which I have often in the dis- tant past, participated at banquets. This home is that of the late Arnold Wakefield in North Smithfield. Mr. Wake- field was in every sense of the word a gentleman farmer, and was respected throughout the whole State. At various banquets given by him his guests would include gentlemen of the highest official standing, not only in the State but in the nation. From among many banquets I will select one, this being on the occasion when two distinguished United States Senators were present, one of these being the late Major General Ambrose E. Burnside, the highly distin- guished soldier of the war of the rebellion, and Senator H. B. Anthony, at that time designated as the father of the United States Senate. Both are long since dead. There were among the other guests two Major Generals, two Justices of the Supreme Court of Rhode Island, the High Sheriff of Providence county, the State Treasurer and sev- eral Colonels and Majors. The honor paid me by the host I can never forget. My place was at the head of the table, with Senator Anthony on my right and Senator Burnside on my left. I also presided as toastmaster at the post- prandial exercises. The first speaker called on was Gen. Burnside, who was a United States Senator as well as a General. He made a brief, but eloquent speech, during which he spoke words of praise in favor of the host and hostess. Senator Anthony also made a brief speech, in which he corroborated what was said by Gen. Burnside con- cerning the host and hostess. The late Chief Justice Bur- gess, Gen. Charles R. Brayton, then Postmaster of Provi-
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dence ; Judge Wescott, Col. Amos Sherman and others fol- lowed in succession. After the postprandial exercises ended a general social time was enjoyed. This was the most notable banquet which I ever had the pleasure of at- tending. The memory of the occasion lingers with me like a ray of light through many years."
" Through something that I do not understand I have often been mistaken by strangers for a priest. But unfor- tunately for myself I never considered I was worthy of wearing sacerdotal robes. There has been spiritual grace in my family, however, as a deceased brother was a priest, a bishop was a distant relative on my father's side of the house, and a priest, a near relative on my mother's side of the house, was my godfather at the time of baptism. Rev. James McGee was the name of the gentleman. There is a story connected with this baptism which will probably bear repeating. As I was the firstborn son it was the intention of my parents that my Christian name should be John, to correspond with the Christian name of my father. Through some misunderstanding this name was overlooked at the time of baptism and so my godfather named me James, after himself. He subsequently joined an order of monks and was then closed out from worldly intercourse.
" I make the foregoing statements by way of leading up to some instances in my repertorial life, when I was mis- taken for a priest. One of these was as follows : A so- called baby farmer occupied a small tenement in the rear end of a Main street block. It was stated at one time along the street that she was given the care of a baby which was the child of well-to-do parents, and the curious were very anxious to find out all about that child. Several tried to gain entrance to the tenement, but were in each instance denied admission. Finally some one told me the story about this woman having such a baby and then I tried to
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enter. I knocked at the door and it was opened to me. I was surprised, however, when she addressed me with these words : 'How do you do, father, you are welcome. Come right in.' I did go in, and learned the whole story about the baby, which I remember was a beautiful, well-dressed and healthy child. When her story was ended I prepared to depart, when I was again surprised by her requesting that I baptize the child before leaving. This was too much, so I left the tenement as quick as I could. If she read the paper of that evening on which I was employed she found out she had made a great mistake.
" Another rather unfortunate mistake of this nature occurred at a six-round boxing contest for points in a hall on Main street, rented by the Woonsocket Athletic Asso- ciation, the contest being held under the auspices of this association. The late John G. Currier, Chief of Police, was there to see that no slugging would occur during the contest. He was accompanied by the late A. B. Church, Deputy Sheriff. I took a position between these two gen- tlemen, but was not long in the hall when a man came for- ward from among the big crowd present and politely ad- dressed me as follows : 'Father, it gives me great pleasure to see you here to-night, and what is the reason that priests cannot have the same privilege as others to see sport of this kind?' Deputy Sheriff Church enjoyed that mistake as long as he lived, and often enjoyed a hearty laugh at it."
Selected Poems
Composed by
Major James W. Smyth.
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THE MONTH OF MAY.
The following poem was composed and read by Major James W. Smyth, at the home of Dr. and Mrs. William F. Barry, before the Doggerel Club, of which the Major was a member, on the evening of May 6, 1902. Introductory remarks were made by the author and reader in regard to the month of May, in which Milton in his "L'Allegro " and Tennyson's " May Queen," were, in part, quoted :
Beautiful May, with blossoms so fair,
Azure skies and balmy air, And melodies of birds that sing, And butterflies upon the wing,
With wealth of bloom on orchard trees,
And fragrance blending with each breeze, And tune of brooks that flow along In cadence clear; with children's song, And hum of bees from flower to flower, Through sylvan dell and woodland bower ; Or where the garden brightly glows, With budding leaf and opening rose, And o'er the scene a splendor falls, Where sunbeams dance in Nature's halls.
O, May, to me you are more dear, Than all the months of all the year ; Not only for your wealth of flowers, Your verdant meads and fragrant bowers ; Not only for your sunny skies, And halo of light on your face that lies ; Not only for the soul-felt song, That comes from birds in groves among, Not only for the dews that fall Like diamond gems in each leafy hall, When the sunset glow of fading day Lingering shines with trembling ray.
I love you because your zephyrs bring To me, fair visions of youth's green spring, Blending with voices long pass'd away ;
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Like echoes they come on May's bright day ; And I think I hear those loved ones speak, And see the glow on each youthful cheek, As they gather flowers and garlands weave. As they did on each long-gone fair May eve ; And I fancy I hear their songs of joy, That thrilled my soul, when with pride, as a boy, I crown'd the May-time's blushing queen With wreath of roses and eglantine.
Now, as I stand in the evening's glow, And recall the dead of the long ago, I know their souls in the Saviour's sight Are crown'd with wreaths of glorious light, While the graves of earth, where their forms are laid, Are with May's fairest bloom arrayed ; And thus my soul sees through the gloom. An Eden of rest out beyond the tomb !
MY NATIVE LAND.
O, let me wake one song to-night, For thee, my native land ; A song of triumph bold and free. Whose notes in cadence grand Shall swell along each vale and streanı. Far o'er the moon-lit sea ; Let me but wake such song of hope, My Erin dear, for thee. Ah, you have suffered long and sore, By alien laws oppressed, Until the blood from every pore Has oozed from out thy breast. The chains have liung around thy limbs, Thy children, sad and pale, Look not like scions of their race, The brave, unconquered Gael. The centuries of wrong and crime Have left their stamp behind, And bow'd your spirit in the dust, And blighted heart and mind.
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But Erin, you're once more awake, I hear the tocsin sound, I see the light upon thy hills Flash radiance far around. Once more you spurn the tyrant's yoke, And stand like men again, And send your shout of victory forth, O'er mountain top and plain. The jails may yawn, the scaffolds reek With blood of martyrs shed ; These but inspire your hearts and arms With vengeance for the dead.
They vainly seize your chosen few, And shut them from the light, In dark and lonesome prison cells, Deprived of manhood's right. In vain they seize the priests of God, And bind each sacred limb,
That Christ ordained should offer up Salvation's Host to Him.
" Revenge is mine," the Lord has said, And he will it repay,
In the wrath of His Almighty power, In His own good time and day.
Then falter not beyond the sea, Be true, be firm, be brave,
" Who would be free must strike the blow," Or fill a felon's grave.
Ten million hearts in this free land Are watching your fair fame ; Then flinch not, friends beyond the sea, Or cursed will be your name. Let slaves and recreants stand aside, Nor block the path of men,
Who shall be free, who must be free, And end the despot's reign. Let " Freedom " be your battle cry, And turn not from the fight, "Till your flag in glorious triumph waves, In Heaven's eternal light.
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ROBERT EMMET.
Hail ! champion of a nation's cause, The noble, true and tried, Who led the charge in Freedom's van, And for our country died. Thy blood for vengeance calls aloud, In voice of thunder tone,
Against the government and laws, Of England's despot-throne ;
Whose mandates quenched the sacred fire, Which in your bosom burn'd, Because you dared to love your land, And all her tyrants spurn'd.
O, hero of a race oppressed, We still revere thy name, And fold its memory to our hearts, With glow of holiest flame. And long, with keen and firm resolve, For that glad day to come,
When Ireland, free, shall proudly write, Thy memoir on thy tomb.
Thy murderers thought not when they slew The leader of our cause,
That through the world his fame should ring, With loud and long applause.
That children, yet unborn, should praise The martyr-patriot brave, Who sleeps to-day in Irish earth, Low, in a nameless grave.
His eloquence resounding still, Bids tyrant-thrones to shake, As men inspired by it resolve Their galling chains to break.
"I part with all I hold most dear, My country, for thee, With her the idol of my soul, That Erin might be free. I go into my silent grave,
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My lamp of life burns low ; The pall of death is on my land ; Her children weep in woe. Let no man raise a sculptured stone, Where, cold, my body lies, "Till Ireland 'mid the nations, yet, Her flag in glory flies."
Thus spoke the patriot in the dock, With voice which thrilled with awe The court room's throng, the bench and bar, And all the pomp of law.
O, blest the bard whose hand shall write, The lines above his grave, When Freedom's light shines o'er the land, He proudly died to save.
O, God, could I but live to trace, In words of holy light, The epitaph upon his tomb, How joyful would I write.
If ten thousand lives were mine ; Did the world's wealth belong To me, I'd give them all to twine That noblest wreath of song ; To blend the two immortal names, In grand, heroic rhyme, Whose tale of pure devoted love Defies the march of Time.
O, names enshrined in Irish hearts, We honor thee to-day ; You nerve the arms that wield the blades In battle's grand array. When Ireland on the field of fame, At last demands her right,
And meets her ruthless, deadly foe, With bayonet charge in fight, Amid the shouts of patriot-men, From mountain, vale and burn, Our war cry shall be "Liberty, Emmet and Sarah Curran."
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March on! brave Irishmen, march on ! Nor think your task is done, 'Till Emmet's monument is raised, And Ireland's freedom won.
THE FUTURE OF THE NATIONS.
The future of the Nations, Lord, Who can that future tell ? What shall be their destiny When sounds a century knell ? Shall men in brotherhood agree? Shall Peace, divine, supreme, Dwell on the earth and on the sea, And God His word redeem?
Shall wolf and lamb serenely dwell? Shall war then be no more? Shall sacrifice of human blood No more in human battle pour? Shall then the song by shepherds heard, When Christ, the Sun, was born, Sound again o'er all the earth, As on that blessed morn?
Will God come nearer to each soul And with mild voice proclaim His will to man, as on Sinai, While all extol His name?
Will love, like rays of holy light, Dwell in each human breast,
And fill each heart with calm delight, And every home be blest?
The future of the Nations, Lord ! O, let tliat future be One glorious, eternal day Of love and Liberty !
Then purpling shades of eve shall fall, While birds in brake and bower Songs of blissful joy will sing,
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As hymnals to that hour. Then sweetest sounds will fill the air From dawn to set of sun; From vesper bell till matin hour, Time's course shall mildly run ; Then Peace on mountain top and hill In forest and in vale, Prayerful, gentle, white-robed Peace, Shall o'er the world prevail.
Creator of the Universe, Who marks the sparrow's fall, You shall guide man's destin'd course, Eternal Lord of all ! The monarchi's throne, so potent now, Shall sink in ruin's grave, And dynasties in dust be laid. By Time's resistless wave !
Earth's empires shall in blindness break Upon the rocks of doom, While Freedom's hosts shall onward march O'er every tyrant's tomb ! The banner of our glorious land Shall be by heroes borne, And wave in starry splendor still, O'er thrones asunder torn !
This is my vision of the theme, My faith in Christ, the Lord; A triumph o'er the grave and death, With man to bliss restored.
Behold that wond'rous setting sun ! At dawn again he'll rise ; Behold those stars in beauty there, Illumining the skies, With harmony throughout the spheres, Jehovah guide of all. Then why have jarring nations warr'd On earth since Adam's fall? Salvation's standard must prevail, The Lord is with us still,
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And shall the nations bless and guide, If men obey His will.
Jesus, Saviour of mankind, To thee I bend the knee, And pray that all the human race May be redeem'd and free ; So that all, when life is o'er, May rest before Thy throne, Addressed by these endearing words, " My best beloved! My own !"
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
Blue and gray, blend them together ; To-day let our nation rejoice in her might ; The soldier in gray should be hailed as a brother, Though he once was arrayed against Union and right.
The battle was won and the gray was defeated, And the flag of our country triumphantly waves O'er fields where the foe before brave men retreated ; O'er a land that lies broken the chains of her slaves.
The Angel of Freedom her banner unfurled, And blue was the color she flung to the blast, Gemm'd with bright stars, which lighten the world, And foes fell beneath where its radiance was cast.
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