Classic Poem

When at the city's gates
Some great one enters in,
Whose name is writ by the Eternal Fates
Time's honored roll within;
When from the battle-fields
The conquering hosts return,
Bearing aloft on fair, victorious shields
The laurels brave men earn,—
With cannon-burst and blare of echoing sound
We hail their entering feet,
While the glad clamor of the joyous crowd
Fills all the surging street.

O daughters of the Cross,
Not with such loud acclaim
Your strong, sweet souls, that soothe the pain of loss,
Have stormed the heights of Fame;
Not with the clang of bell,
Nor throbbing beat of drum,
Nor lusty shouts that echoing rise and swell,
Your conquering legions come;
But softly, with the slow and noiseless tread,
Of Him who quelleth strife,
Who opes the gate of glory to the dead,
And bids them enter life.

Yet from your gentle hands
Life's fiercest phantoms fly:
The battle-field, the plague-infested lands,
Find hope and mercy nigh!
Even from Sin's drear night
The veil of darkness lifts,
And stars of heaven, with mild, persuasive light,
Shine through the broken rifts;
While soft as summer winds that breathe and blow
Above the winter's sod,
Your message comes to frozen hearts below,
And warms them back to God.

For Mercy's work no creed
Confines your earnest will,—
Wherever misery tells its tale of need,
There bend your footsteps still;
Pure as the lily's cup,
Undimmed and undefiled,
Your stainless hands do lift the fallen up,
And soothe the orphaned child.
Burning with love, and strong with heavenly grace,
You seek the wanderer's side,
Nor Jew nor Gentile see in any face,
But His—the Crucified!

Ye who have conquered bliss,
Ye who have won the crown,
What can the empty praise of worlds like this
Add to your fair renown?
What can our heart's desire
Offer of gifts or grace
To you, who burning with the sacred fire,
Shall look upon His face?
For, O Beloved of the risen Lord,
Though Faith may mountains move,
And Hope point onward to the soul's reward,
None enters in but Love!