Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the springtime to th' expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal

His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,

That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak: And in their show of life more dead they live Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

THE

MAN IN HARMONY WITH NATURE

HE flowers I pass have eyes that look at me,
The birds have ears that hear my spirit's voice,
And I am glad the leaping brook to see,

Because it does at my light step rejoice.
Come, brothers all, who tread the grassy hill,

Or wander thoughtless o'er the blooming fields, Come, learn the sweet obedience of the will;

Then every sight and sound new pleasure yields. Nature shall seem another house of thine,

When he who formed thee bids it live and play:
And in thy rambles e'en the creeping vine
Shall keep with thee a jocund holiday;

And every plant and bird and insect be
Thine own companions born for harmony.

THE

THE GIANTS

HE giants, they who walked the earth of old,
Are come again to scourge this feeble race:
And weapons long forgot in pride they hold,

To dash to earth your idols in disgrace;
Their armor proof shall be 'gainst sword or spear
Your strength now lifts to smite a feebler foe:
Your cries for help their ears can never hear,

Nor wounded can their eyes your sufferings know.
Arise! gird on the might that now you waste
On harlots and in feasting night and day:
Their comings-on shall be with eagles' haste,

As from the heights they dart upon their prey,
That all unknowing pass their eyries by,
With idle pace and earthward-turning eye.

HERE are who wish to build their houses strong,

TH Yet of the earth material they will take;

And hope the brick within the fire burnt long
A lasting home for them and theirs will make.

And one, who thought him wiser than the rest,
Of the rough granite hewed his dwelling proud;
And all who passed this eagle's lofty nest

Praised his secure retreat from tempest loud.

But one I knew who sought him out no wood,

No brick, no stone, though as the others born;

And those who passed where waiting still he stood, Made light of him and laughed his hopes to scorn.

And time went by, and he was waiting still;

No house had he, and seemed to need one less: He felt that waiting yet his Master's will Was the best shelter in this wilderness.

And I beheld the rich man and the wise,
When lapsing years fell heavy on each shed,
As one by one they fled in lowly guise
To his poor hut for refuge and for bread.

BEAUTY

GAZED upon thy face,- and beating life

Once stilled its sleepless pulses in my breast,
And every thought whose being was a strife
Each in its silent chamber sank to rest.

I was not, save it were a thought of thee;

The world was but a spot where thou hadst trod;
From every star thy glance seemed fixed on me;
Almost I loved thee better than my God.
And still I gaze,- but 'tis a holier thought
Than that in which my spirit lived before.
Each star a purer ray of love has caught,

Earth wears a lovelier robe than then it wore;
And every lamp that burns around thy shrine
Is fed with fire whose fountain is divine.

THE PRAYER

WILT

Thou not visit me?

The plant beside me feels thy gentle

dew,

And every blade of grass I see

From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.

Wilt Thou not visit me?

Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;
And every hill and tree

Lend but one voice, - the voice of Thee alone.

Come, for I need thy love

More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain;
Come, gently as thy holy dove;

And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again.

I will not hide from them

When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath, But bow with leafy stem,

And strengthened follow on thy chosen path.

Yes, Thou wilt visit me:

Nor plant nor tree thine eye delights so well,
As, when from sin set free,

My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell.

LOUIS VEUILLOT

(1813-1883)

BY FRÉDÉRIC LOLIÉE

OUIS VEUILLOT, the celebrated Catholic journalist, was born at Boynes in the Department of Loiret, in 1813. He was a son of the people. The accident of his humble birth and popular education aided rather than hampered the free development of his innate literary talent. He entered upon journalism almost without preparation, still very uncertain of his own tendencies, and

seeking a personal conviction while battling against others. His early début dates from 1831, when he was eighteen years old. In 1838 he went to Rome. A witness of the pomps of Holy Week in the metropolis of Catholicism, he was profoundly impressed by it. He was touched, he believed; and vowed to himself to have henceforth but one aim in life, that of unmasking and stigmatizing the enemies of religion. Soon after, he became editor-in-chief of L'Univers, the official sheet of "ultramontanism.” With inequalities of talent, sometimes doubtful taste, and excesses of language, inherent in his profession as a polemist as in his natural disposition, he possessed a vigorous, fruitful fancy, and originality of touch. Both friends and enemies were soon forced to recognize in Louis Veuillot an exceptional journalist, powerful in his treatment of important subjects, sparkling with wit and malice in articles written for special occasions.

LOUIS VEUILLOT

The whole life of the great polemist was one struggle in defense of religious interests, as he understood them; that is, in a way not always conformed to Christian charity, or even to the spirit of purely human justice. For thirty years, always armed, always ready to roll in the dust whoever tried to bar his way, he used Catholicism as a flag under the folds of which he led to combat not only the ardors of a sincere faith, but also his own passions, his personal enthusi asms, and his intellectual hatreds. (I say intellectual hatreds because he knew no others; and it is said, showed himself in his private rela tions the most conciliating of men.)