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Show I Father Ryan,the Poet of the South writT in the Dublin4 Freeman, in a r- !v of Father Ryan's poetry, picks out :-ome eenis. which he regards as poems of -t Mrs" rather than of doctrine. Father "-.- m .1. Ryan was the poet of the south. '; lut -as comparatively unknown until : a-ter the clone of the civil waf. T-e writer in the Freeman says his po.-rrjjs principally of the lyrical order, n defective in spanism and rhythm : 1 vs-rr destitute of music or imagery ef ; fascinating nature. A more ethereal porm than the one in h the following stanza is found has i r been written, and therefore never "t-'.ut far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on Ihe. beach, I hnve heard songs in ihe silence TiiHt never shall float into speech; "d 1 have had dreams in the valley T"o lofty for language to reach." Jauiiful thoughts and feelings pervade r-' op.lv his "Song of the Mystic." but i- ,-.. be said all the poems that he has : ' i.s to read and enjoy, as the following .-'liking of those of a kindred nature himself, he says: ' -T',v are like angels, but some angels til!. , Vhiin some did keep their place. !';.. ir poems are the pates of heaven or, he; i. I I A Md dod or Satan's face." Then, referring to the powers of b-" " :v.,tion. . ons-iuont up the po.sMMon : twofold sight, he says: Thrv read the human face Vea.Jers read a naee. ; . 1 he while their thoughts will trace A life from youth to age. i 1h knowledge of the fact that "a rv'ThHt is not without honor -v,; eoumi"-." he alludes to 1- l-nt In the lines we quote as being tti iK li-'.v true: "How manv a flower was blooming there bi bmv vet wit hont h name, L ke humbV hearts that often bear 'I he gift.-, but not the palm of fame. , . Whe a man of Hned and exaltdeel-ir-. and one therefore th t had more s !- to live to himself. Mill ne . tne , ni.n was the victim of. J a cuMudian of, wrote accordingly. U1 is a burden, bear It. Lii,8rrw!tVearit t while than afndrt- H;:,,,inle bmg. at mned by a i:.:;;lrhwh,Vhbhe has no controL Hence the verse: Tor guard wo. : ma' j What is to be wnl be. The dark must fold each day. The stone must gird each sea." Lord Byron and other celebrated poets have done much to embody for us the feelings that are awakened by the grasping grasp-ing ol the hand for the last time; but it is doubtful if ever a more appropriate or realistic verse has dropped from the pen of a man than the one that has been given us by the poet-prie.st of the south on parting: . ' "Good-by! that word makes faces pale And fills the soul with fears, Good-by! two words that wing a wail Which flutters down the years." With the subject of sorrow he deals frequently and comprehensively, and only as a man of thought and feeling could ileal with it. Keenly alive to its prevalence preva-lence in the world. ct he knew it had its lises, and writes as loilows: "No dav shall return that has faded. The dead come not back from the tomb. The vale of each Jite must be shaded, That we may see best from the gloom." That the Rev. Abram Ryan was ever the victim of a deep-seated sorrow we have no reason to believe, but all the same ie was aware that in the breasts of some there abides a pain that is too deep to find expression either through the eye or ihe hand. This he knew as one. who was as able to enter into the feelings of others as he was to describe them. Here then Is what he says of what arc too deeply Immured in the bosom of some to find their way to the eye: "Put. ah! the tears that are. not wept, The tears thJt never outward fall; The tears that grief for vears has kept Within us: they are best of all: The tears our eyes shall never know Are dearer than the tears that flow. Knowing a good deal about the weakness weak-ness of man. and the many thinss that he is open to be affected by. mentally and phvsically, human imperfections he deals with in a verse that paints the picture with the nicest skill. "Their sweetest harps have broken strings. Their crreatest accords have their jars, Like shadows on the light of stars. And something, something ever mars. The songs the greatest minstrel sings. While he proposes no dictum with regard re-gard to the unequal distribution of wealth, he does not tail to draw attention to the fact that there is not only a great difference dif-ference between the amount of money that one man possesses and another, but with rcKard to the pathway that is traversed by the one and the other the pathway that is as smooth to some as it is rough to others. The truth he expresses in the words: "Some hands fold, while other hands Are lifted bravely in the s rife - And so thro' ages and thro la nds . Move on the two extremes in life. Ev wav of excuse for apparent forget-fuiriess. forget-fuiriess. 'he uses a very beautiful smile to show us that true friendship Js too steadfast a thing to be affected by distance dis-tance or silence: "To forget -often means to remember What we have forgotten too long; The fragrance is not the bright flower. The echo is not the fweet song." On the little word "now" he gives us enough in one verse to show us that great issues often depend upon "taking occasion by the hand": "Some time one minute folds the hearts of all the years. Just like the heart that holds The infinite in tears." While principally prone tto revel in philosophy phil-osophy and metaphysics' he was not at the same time a stranger to the influences in-fluences of the sublime ,and the beautiful in nature. Creation had its own silent but forceful attraction for bim or lie ! i-ould never have written such, a verse as 1 the following: - j i "The stream sang down the valley fair, I saw the water lilies nod. 1 felt and knew they whispered there, - 'How beautiful art Thou. O God!' " i r Alluding to those who had . talents' of more than an ordinary nature,-but who are unable to give the full expression to their thoughts and feelings, he strikes a note of the richest cadence and gives us much to meditate upon in the lines that run thus: - "Hearts that are great are always lane, Thev ne'er will manifest their best,-- . Their greater greatness is unknown,1' Earth knows a little. God the rest.'! It is to the same class of men he refers to. no doubt, in the poem that has erys-talized erys-talized for us a fact that .other- sreat minds have also laid hold opon as something some-thing they had an experience of themselves. them-selves. But no matter how the same thought may have been expressed bv others. Father Abram Ryan's -setting .of it is too good to be overlooked. N and not given as it is found in hisworks: "It is a truth bevond our ken. And vet a truth that all may read. As here with roses, so with men, . The sweetest hearts ar. those that bleed." Y - - - Like all philanthropists, he south's de- ceased ttfe't and priest met with much to discourage-him in the work he had et his hand to. For kindness he was repaid re-paid by ingratitude, and for profession in the wav of'holiness. be saw in this case or the-other Insincerity and retrogression. Deceived and disappointed as he had been from time to time, it is no wonder that his feelings at some particular moment inspired the poem that has the sad strain i in it that it. has. Of the six or even i stanzas of this plantive lay, one will serve i the purpose 'of sneaking for the whole of thera. and it Is this one: ''Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain. .. - -' , ' In barren .wav?: 'Tis hard to sow. and never garner grain In harvest da vs." The non-satisfying things of sense and time. coupled ..' with the perplexing thoughts that led. to .the writing of the noem conmenoing with "What ails this world.." fostered ther spirit that found its culmination, no doubt, in the ode that Dears the title of "Rest.". It is a poem of reculiar sweetness, and brings his w-rit- j lngs and his life to -.a close in the most, svachronical fashion. The spirit, it breathes is-that of resignation, and the tesireto be . "Where Ihe wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." The whole of the poem should, be. read to be fully appreciated and effective effect-ive in bringing us under its Influence, and therebv into closer touch with its sensitive author. ...... . 'Twill soon be o'er. For down the west. Life's sun Is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest. |
