Santa Filomena

A poem

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought
              Our hearts, in glad surprise,
              To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
              And lifts us unawares
              Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
              And by their overflow
              Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of all the great army of the dead,
              The trenches cold and damp,
              The starved and frozen camp, —

The wounded from the battle-plain
In dreary hospitals of pain,
              The cheerless corridors,
              The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
              Pass through the glimmering of gloom
              And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
              Her shadow, as it falls
              Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,
              The vision came and went,
              The light shone and was spent.

On England’s annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
              That light its rays shall cast
              From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
              A noble type of good,
              Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
              The symbols that of yore
              Saint Filomena bore.