Classic Poem

1

Here's Holy Week! — How very different
We spent it in our native town at home!
Where everybody still and pious went
And hushed as though beneath some convent dome.
The merry tinkle of the belfries stilled,
The rattles had begun their hollow roll;
The entrance to the village church was filled
With pious folk grown anxious for their soul.
The women had put off their colored dress
And gaudy flowers and ribbons, to confess
In mourning garb their Jesus' death and loss;
The men suspending labor now attend,
Dressed in their best, awaiting to the end
" The Seven Last Words " and " Stations of the Cross. "

2

Then the procession — from the crowded nave —
Moves solemnly, a mighty multitude,
With sacred hymns and attitudes most grave
As though with mystic powers it were imbued.
Saint Antony's Sodality is there —
Old women who have made the church their home;
Each " Child of Mary " and each urchin bare —
How many in God's honor thither come!
The Cura forth 'mid chants and incense files
Beneath the canopy borne down the aisles
By parish notables with airs that brag;
But haughtiest of all, the village-mayor,
In broidered coat pre-eminently there,
Goes first to bear the patriotic flag.

3

'Tis Holy Saturday; the sunbeams smile
As though some sweetheart saw her love appear;
Crowds in the church are waiting hopeful while
The Lord prepares to rise — for ten is near! —
The linen sheet across the chantry parts —
" Gloria in excelsis " — scarce the priest has prayed,
When the high belfry's jubilation starts,
The organ roars — the " Royal March " is played.

At once the rattle of old musketry,
The sounds of children shouting in their glee
To chase old Judas down the crowded way! —
Life seethes in alleys that before were bare,
Anew the shopkeepers display their ware,
And each heart patters — " Resurrection Day! "