There in a wood the Jesuits' chapel stands Amongst the gravestones, in secluded calm. But, Sabbath days, the censer's healing balm, The Crucified with His extended hands, And music of the masses, draw the fold Back to His worship, as in days of old. Upon a cape the priest's house northward blinks, To see St. Mary's Seminary guard The dead that sleep within the parish yard, In English faith—the parish church that links The present with the perished, for its walls Are of the clay that was the capital's, When halberdiers and musketeers kept ward, And armor sounded in the oaken halls. A fruity smell is in the school-house lane; The clover bees are sick with evening heats; A few old houses from the window pane Fling back the flame of sunset, and there beats The throb of oars from basking oyster fleets, And clangorous music of the oyster tongs, Plunged down in deep bivalvulous retreats, And sound of seine drawn home with negro songs. Night falls as heavily in such a clime As tired childhood after all day's play, Waiting for mother who has passed away, And some old nurse, with iterated rhyme Of hymns or topics of the olden time, Lulls wonder with her tenderness to rest: So, old St. Mary's! at the close of day, Sing thou to me, a truant, on thy breast. This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. |
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