The Rosary

The hours I spent with Thee, Dear Heart!
Or, as a string of pearls to Thee,
I count them over, every one apart,
My rosary, my rosary . . .

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
To still a heart in absence wrung,
I tell each bead unto the end,
And there a cross is hung . . .

O' memories that bless and burn,
O' barren gain and bitter loss,
I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn,
To kiss the cross, Sweet Heart,
To kiss the cross . . .

I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn,
To kiss the cross, Sweet Heart,
To kiss the cross . . . ( to kiss the cross )

Words and Music (era 1800's)
by Robert Cameron Rogers and Ethelbert Nevin

The Two Glasses

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There sat two glasses filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother:
Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might;
For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
I have blasted many an honoured name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall,
And my might and power are over all!
Ho, ho! pale brother, said the wine,
Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?

Said the water-glass: I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
But I can tell of hearts that were sad
By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud-fetters and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the wine-chained captive free,
And all are better for knowing me.

These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

Spooks

There's a goblin at my window,
A monster by my door.
The pumpkin at my table
Keeps on smiling more and more.
There's a ghost who haunts my bedroom,
A witch whose face is green.
They used to be my family,
Till they dressed for Halloween.

- by Sandra Liatsos

Value your priest

Today I picked up a book I read a few years ago, Angels & Demons by Joan Carroll Cruz, and out fell a pamphlet on priests. I'm not sure where it came from, but it contains some interesting perspectives on priests, and reminds us of their value in our salvation, along with a poem called "The Beautiful Hands of a Priest." Let me quote from the pamphlet:

What is a Priest?
Priests are mystery men. They come in assorted sizes, ages and clours. They are found everywhere speeding along, perspiring over, walking by, kneeling on, praying over, laughing with, preaching to, teaching about, pardoning for, and playing hockey with. (Hockey? -Now I know the pamphlet is Canadian!) Little children run to them, teenagers marvel at them, aged folk turn to them, non-Catholics stare at them.

A priest penetrates secrets, shares sorrows, heals wounds. He has the trust of a child, the kindness of a best friend, the sterness of a top-sergeant, the daring of a tightrope walker, the authority of an encyclopedia, the versatility of a commando, and the salesmanship of a Fuller-Brush man.

A priest is a humble creature, a mystifying worker at all professions. His hours are the longest, his salary the smallest, his Boss the best! He likes the smiles of children, a home-cooked meal, and the name "Father."

A priest is all things to all men in the sight of God. He may be misquoted, mistaken and misunderstood, but he'll always forgive because he's a mediator, a go-between heaven and earth. It's no wonder God loves him. He's a man standing at an altar clothed in Holy clothes, who, while being aware of his own nothingness, speaks to God for us and to us for God. And although his greatest act is to offer sacrifice, his most consoling one is to say to me, "Go in peace. Your sins are forgiven."

Beautiful Hands of a Priest
(Unknown)

We need them in life's early morning,
We need them again at its close;
We feel their warm clasp of true friendship,
We seek it while tasting life's woes.

When we come to this world we are sinful,
The greatest as well as the least.
And the hands that make us pure as angels
Are the beautiful hands of a priest.

At the altar each day we behold them,
And the hands of a king on his throne
Are not equal to them in their greatness
Their dignity stands alone.

For there in the stillness of morning
Ere the sun has emerged from the east,
There God rests between the pure fingers
Of the beautiful hands of a priest.

When we are tempted and wander
To pathways of shame and sin
'Tis the hand of a priest that absolve us.
Not once but again and again.

And when we are taking life's partner
Other hands may prepare us a feast
But the hands that will bless and unite us,
Are the beautiful hands of a priest.

God bless them and keep them all holy,
For the Host which their fingers caress,
What can a poor sinner do better
Than to ask Him who chose them to bless

When the death dews on our lids are falling,
May our courage and strength be increased
By seeing raised o'er us in blessing
The beautiful hands of a priest.

Which Road Are You On?

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

--Robert Frost

I like this poem. Makes one ponder all the decisions one makes in life. How a single decision leads inevitably to another and on and on.

The problem for some of us is, God wants us to take one road and sometimes we really want to take the other. A further problem is, God's road isn't always the easy road. He did say, after all, "Take up your cross and follow me."

Never mind me. I'm just being philosophical. In an uncomfortably didactic manner. Go back to discussing things amongst yourselves.

The Hellbound Train

This poem was one of our family favourites when we were growing up. I'm sure my sisters who read Salve Regina remember it well. It's from the book, "The Best Loved Poems of the American People."

The Hellbound Train (unknown author)

A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor,
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

The engine with murderous blood was damp
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;
An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.

The boiler was filled with lager beer
And the devil himself was the engineer;
The passengers were a most motly crew—
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,

Rich men in broadcloth, beggers in rags,
Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white,
All chained together—O God, what a site!

While the train rushed on at an awful pace—
The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;
Wider and wider the country grew,
As faster and faster the engine flew.

Louder and louder the thunder crashed
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;
Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the clothes were burned from each quivering frame.

And out of the distance there arose a yell,
"Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!"
Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain
And begged the devil to stop the train.

But he capered about and danced for glee,
And laughed and joked at their misery.
"My faithful friends, you have done the work
And the devil never can a payday shirk.

"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor,
The starving brother you've turned from the door;
You've laid up gold where the canker rust,
And have given free vent to your beastly lust.

"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown,
And trampled the laws of nature down.
You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.

"You have paid full fair, so I'll carry you through,
For it's only right you should have your due.
Why, the laborer always expects his hire,
So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire,

"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,
And my imps torment you forevermore."
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour
To be saved from his sin and the demon's power;
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain,
For he never road the hell-bound train.

The Story Behind The Poem

My dad would often read poetry to us when I was a child, and sometimes I post these poems on my blog. I received a most interesting comment from someone who read a poem that I published as a post in December. The poem was "St Peter at the Gate" and it was one of my favorites when I was growing up. So imagine my surprise to get this comment from a lady who said her great grandfather was the author of that poem. Here is her comment, and she tells the story behind the poem. Very interesting, indeed.

Anastasia Theodoridis said...

Thanks for posting this wonderful poem.

It is actually by my great grandfather, Joseph Bert Smiley. In 1893, he lived in Galesburg, Michigan, whose population was then 400, and fell in love with Nina Burdick. But her mother, Lucinda Burdick, quashed the romance. She didn't like Bert because of his nervous twitch (chorea, aka St. Vitus' Dance) and his occasional stammering.

One day at the post office, he and others heard Nina's father, Dr. William A. Burdick, comment that he wished the current series of revivals would come to an end, as he "Hadn't had anything at home but Jesus and cucumbers for six weeks." That triggered the writing of this poem; my great grandfather wanted to put that line in verbatim, but decided it was too profane.

My great grandfather was the publisher and editor of a local newspaper, Smiley's Kalamazoo County Enterprise. Printing it there was (I regert to say) his revenge upon Mrs. Burdick, because of course everyone in town knew who the poem was about.

Interestingly enough, Miss Nina Burdick remained a school teacher and single all her life. When she died, she left everything she had to Smiley's widow, Fern, my great grandmother.

Anastasia Theodoridis
Richmond, Virdinia

St Peter at the Gate

This poem originally appeared in the Brooklyn Eagle,
under the title of "Thirty Years With a Shrew". (around 1930)
It was founded upon the incidents of a case in the local
police court. A woman had her husband haled before a
city magistrate for the alleged offenses of cruelty
and neglect. The wife was such a garrulous witness
against her husband that the judge became wearied
with the woman's tongue, and he asked the husband
how long he had been married. 'Thirty years," replied
the defendant. 'Well," said the judge, 'a man who has
lived with this woman for thirty years has had
punishment enough. Defendant, you are discharged."


St. Peter at the Gate

ST. PETER stood guard at the golden gate,
With solemn mien and air sedate,
When up to the top of the golden stair,
A man and a woman ascending there,

Applied for admission. They came and stood
Before St. Peter, so great and good,
In hopes the City of Peace to win,
And asked St. Peter to let them in.

The woman was tall, and lank, and thin,
With a scraggy beardlet upon her chin.
The man was short, and thick, and stout,
His stomach was built so it rounded out;

His face was pleasant, and all the while
He wore a kindly and pleasant smile.
The choirs in the distance the echoes awoke,
And the man kept still while the woman spoke.

'O thou who guards the gate," said she,
'We two came hither, beseeching thee
To let us enter the heavenly land
And play our harps with the angel band.

Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt.
There is nothing from heaven to bar me out;
I've been to meeting three times a week,
And almost always I'd rise and speak.

'I've told the sinners about the day
When they repent of their evil way;
I've told my neighbors-I've told 'em all-
'Bout Adam and Eve and the Primal Fall;

I've shown them what they'd have to do
If they'd pass in with the chosen few;
I've marked their path of duty clear-
Laid out the plan for their whole career.

'I've talked and talked to 'em loud and long
For my lungs are good, and my voice is strong,
So good, St. Peter, you'll clearly see
The gate of heaven is open for me.

But my old man, I regret to say,
Hasn't walked in exactly the narrow way-,
He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he's got,
And I don't know whether he'll pass or not.

"He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival, or join in a hymn,
So I had to leave him in sorrow there
While I, with the chosen, united in prayer,

He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord.
'And if cucumbers were all he got
It's a chance if he merited them or not.

But, 0 St. Peter, I love him so.
To the pleasures of heaven, please let him go.
I've done enough, a saint I've been,
Won't that atone? Can't you let him in?

By my grim gospel I know 'tis so
That the unrepentant must try below.
But isn't there some way you can see
That he may enter, who's dear to me?

'It's narrow gospel by which I pray,
But the chosen expect to find some way
Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you
So that their relations can amble through,

And say, St. Peter, it seems to me
The gate isn't kept as it ought to be.
You ought to stand by the opening there,
And never sit down in that easy chair.

"And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,
But I don't like the way your whiskers are trimmed;
They're cut too wide and outward toss;
They'd look better narrow, cut straight across.

Well, we must be going, our crown to win,
So open, St. Peter, and we'll pass in."
St. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff,
But, in spite of his office, he had to laugh,

Then said with a fiery gleam in his eye,
"Who's tending this gateway, you or I?"
And then he arose in his stature tall,
And pressed a button upon the wall,

And said to an imp, who came all aglow,
"Escort this woman to the regions below.'
The man stood still as a piece of stone-
Stood sadly, gloomily, there alone.

A lifelong settled idea he had
That his wife was good and he was bad;
He thought if the woman went down below
That he would certainly have to go;

That if she went to the regions dim
There wasn't a ghost of a chance for him.
Slowly he turned, by habit bent,
To follow wherever the woman went.

St. Peter, standing on duty there,
Observed that the top of his head was bare.
He called the gentleman back and said:
"Friend, how long have you been wed?"

"Thirty years" (with a heavy sigh),
And then he thoughtfully added, 'Why?'
St. Peter was silent. With head bent down,
He raised his hand and scratched his crown.

Then, seeming a different thought to take,
Slowly, half to himself, he spake:
"Thirty years with that woman there?
No wonder the man hasn't any hair.

Swearing is wicked; smoking's not good;
He smoked and swore-I should think he would.
"Thirty years with that tongue so sharp?
0 Angel Gabriel, give him a harp,

A jeweled harp with a golden string.
Good sir, pass in where the angels sing;
Gabriel, give him a seat alone-
One with a cushion-up near the throne.

Call up some angels to play their best;
Let him enjoy the music-and rest.
'See that on the finest ambrosia he feeds;
He's had about all the hell he needs;

It isn't just hardly the thing to do-
To roast him on earth and the future, too."
They gave him a harp with golden strings,
A glittering robe and a pair of wings,

And he said as he entered the Realms of Day:
"Well, this beats cucumbers, anyway."
And so the Scriptures had come to pass-
"The last shall be first and the first shall be last."

JOSEPH BERT SMILEY

The Hellbound Train

I remember how, as a little girl, my father used to read poetry to us. We used to crowd around, and listen while he read to us from The Best Loved Poems of the American People. As an eight year old, this poem was one on my favourites, and I still read it occasionally.


The Hellbound Train (unknown author)

A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor,
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

The engine with murderous blood was damp
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;
An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.

The boiler was filled with lager beer
And the devil himself was the engineer;
The passengers were a most motly crew—
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,

Rich men in broadcloth, beggers in rags,
Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white,
All chained together—O God, what a site!

While the train rushed on at an awful pace—
The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;
Wider and wider the country grew,
As faster and faster the engine flew.

Louder and louder the thunder crashed
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;
Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the clothes were burned from each quivering frame.

And out of the distance there arose a yell,
"Ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!"
Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain
And begged the devil to stop the train.

But he capered about and danced for glee,
And laughed and joked at their misery.
"My faithful friends, you have done the work
And the devil never can a payday shirk.

"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor,
The starving brother you've turned from the door;
You've laid up gold where the canker rust,
And have given free vent to your beastly lust.

"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown,
And trampled the laws of nature down.
You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.

"You have paid full fair, so I'll carry you through,
For it's only right you should have your due.
Why, the laborer always expects his hire,
So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire,

"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,
And my imps torment you forevermore."
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour
To be saved from his sin and the demon's power;
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain,
For he never road the hell-bound train.