Merry Christmas to All!

NATIVITY

Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb,

Now leaves His well-beloved imprisonment.

There he hath made himself to his intent

Weak enough, now into our world to come.

But O!  for thee, for Him, hath th’ inn no room?

Yet lay Him in this stall, and from th’ orient,

Stars, and wise men will travel to prevent

The effects of Herod’s jealous general doom.

See’st thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eye, how He

Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?

Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,

That would have need to be pitied by thee?

Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,

With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.

Happy Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe!

Song to Our Mother

(Tonantzin Icuic)

At the foot of the hill

Where the roses bloomed

I contemplate the Virgin

Who captured my heart.

–

Mother mine of Guadalupe

Mother mine, all love,

We beg thee to give us

Thy benediction and peace.

–

No other nation on earth

Has been so blessed by God

For that the Indians of Mexico

Carry thee in their hearts.

–

Guadalupe, Guadalupe,

The name that brings us joy,

May it be ever on our lips

With great devotion.

–

Mayest thou be praised in heaven

Sweet Virgin Mother of God

And on earth beloved

From end to end of our land.

–

On Tepeyac she appeared

Like a divine Star

She is there to be our light

To protect and guide us.

–

Glory to the Immortal Princess

Who freed us from great evil

And to make us happy

She crushed the serpent.

–

Guadalupe, Guadalupe,

The name that brings us solace

–

It’s the name of my mother,

Of my mother and of God’s.

In Celebration of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception

Vigil of the Immaculate Conception

by Maurice Francis Egan

A sword of silver cuts the fields asunder—
A silver sword to-night, a lake in June—
And plains of snow reflect, the maples under,
The silver arrows of a wintry moon.

The trees are white with moonlight and with ice-pearls;
The trees are white, like ghosts we see in dreams;
The air is still: there are no moaning wind-whirls;
And one sees silence in the quivering beams.

December night, December night, how warming
Is all thy coldness to the Christian soul:
Thy very peace at each true heart is storming
In potent waves of love that surging roll.

December night, December night, how glowing
Thy frozen rains upon our warm hearts lie:
Our God upon this vigil is bestowing
A thousand graces from the silver sky.

O moon, O symbol of our Lady’s whiteness;
O snow, O symbol of our Lady’s heart;
O night, chaste night, bejewelled with argent brightness,
How sweet, how bright, how loving, kind thou art.

O miracle: to-morrow and to-morrow,
In tender reverence shall no praise abate;
For from all seasons shall we new jewels borrow
To deck the Mother born Immaculate.

A Ballad Of The Trees And The Master by Sidney Lanier

A Ballad Of The Trees And The Master

by Sidney Lanier

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When into the woods He came.
–
Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:
‘Twas on a tree they slew Him – last
When out of the woods He came.

Happy Easter!!!

Cold Iron

by Rudyard Kipling

“Gold is for the mistress — silver for the maid —

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.”

“Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of them all.”

–

So he made rebellion ‘gainst the King his liege,

Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.

“Nay!” said the cannoneer on the castle wall,

“But Iron — Cold Iron — shall be master of you all!”

–

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,

When the cruel cannon-balls laid ’em all along;

He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,

And Iron — Cold Iron — was master of it all!

–

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)

“What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?”

“Nay!” said the Baron, “mock not at my fall,

For Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all.”

–

“Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown —

Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.”

“As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,

For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”

–

Yet his King made answer  (few such Kings there be!)

“Here is Bread and here is Wine — sit and sup with me.

Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall

How Iron — Cold Iron — can be master of men all!”

–

He took the Wine and blessed it.  He blessed and brake the Bread.

With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:

“See!  These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,

Show Iron — Cold Iron — to be master of men all.”

–

“Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.

Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.

I forgive thy treason — I redeem thy fall —

For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”

–

“Crowns are for the valiant — scepters for the bold!

Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!”

“Nay!” said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,

“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all!

Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!”

Happy Easter, readers!

The Mithril Guardian

Remembering St. Juan Diego

Juan Diego

by Anne B. Quinn

An Indian’s brown cheek curved to a dusky rose,
Once long ago upon Tepeyac’s barren hill
When winter roses bloomed
And roses were mere roses in the glowing laughter
of the lady’s smile.
‘My little son. I love you.’ So all Tepeyac’s holy hill
Now sang an Indian lullaby of roses and wild birds.

The Feast of the Immaculate Conception

Vigil of the Immaculate Conception

by Maurice Francis Egan

A sword of silver cuts the fields asunder—
A silver sword to-night, a lake in June—
And plains of snow reflect, the maples under,
The silver arrows of a wintry moon.

The trees are white with moonlight and with ice-pearls;
The trees are white, like ghosts we see in dreams;
The air is still: there are no moaning wind-whirls;
And one sees silence in the quivering beams.

December night, December night, how warming
Is all thy coldness to the Christian soul:
Thy very peace at each true heart is storming
In potent waves of love that surging roll.

December night, December night, how glowing
Thy frozen rains upon our warm hearts lie:
Our God upon this vigil is bestowing
A thousand graces from the silver sky.

O moon, O symbol of our Lady’s whiteness;
O snow, O symbol of our Lady’s heart;
O night, chaste night, bejewelled with argent brightness,
How sweet, how bright, how loving, kind thou art.

O miracle: to-morrow and to-morrow,
In tender reverence shall no praise abate;
For from all seasons shall we new jewels borrow
To deck the Mother born Immaculate.

A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

A Visit from St. Nicholas

By Clement Clarke Moore

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

The Hunter by Ogden Nash

The Hunter

by Ogden Nash

The hunter crouches in his blind
‘Neath camouflage of every kind
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys
This grown-up man, with pluck and luck
is hoping to outwit a duck

The Last Department by Rudyard Kipling

The Last Department

by Rudyard Kipling

Twelve hundred million men are spread
About this Earth, and I and You
Wonder, when You and I are dead,
“What will those luckless millions do?”

None whole or clean, ” we cry, “or free from stain
Of favour.” Wait awhile, till we attain
The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools,
Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again.

Fear, Favour, or Affection — what are these
To the grim Head who claims our services?
I never knew a wife or interest yet
Delay that pukka step, miscalled “decease”;

When leave, long overdue, none can deny;
When idleness of all Eternity
Becomes our furlough, and the marigold
Our thriftless, bullion-minting Treasury

Transferred to the Eternal Settlement,
Each in his strait, wood-scantled office pent,
No longer Brown reverses Smith’s appeals,
Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent.

And One, long since a pillar of the Court,
As mud between the beams thereof is wrought;
And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops
Is subject-matter of his own Report.

These be the glorious ends whereto we pass —
Let Him who Is, go call on Him who Was;
And He shall see the mallie steals the slab
For currie-grinder, and for goats the grass.

A breath of wind, a Border bullet’s flight,
A draught of water, or a horse’s firght —
The droning of the fat Sheristadar
Ceases, the punkah stops, and falls the night

For you or Me. Do those who live decline
The step that offers, or their work resign?
Trust me, To-day’s Most Indispensables,
Five hundred men can take your place or mine.