La Salette Poetry

– Poems by James P. O'Reilly, M.S., Our Lady's Praise in Poetry

The Mystic Rose of Salette

Amongst her ornaments, the children told
Of roses, oh! so richly hued and bright,
That fringed our Lady's diadem of gold
And graced her fairest brow. Fine threads of light
Shone from their centres, flames that upward streamed
Like incense in a sun-gilt fane. Across
Her white cape, too, a chain of roses gleamed,
And round her shoes they weaved their shimmering
gloss.

Mystical roses, these! and symbols all
Of fervent rosaries her clients thread,
And of the Aves from their lips that fall
As petals for her maiden feet to tread;
Their rosaries, as flowery crowns, adorn
With love's devotion her who came to mourn.

A Song of La Salette

On flower-enamelled peak of Dauphiné
The lilting voice of nature's Mistress rings,
And quickly a sweet water-music springs
From streamlet sadly mute until this day.
Nature unfolds a carpet blue and green
Before this light which makes the sun to pale,
Forget-me-not, blue gentian, violet frail,
A color-rhapsody sing to their Queen.

All round, the vast and snow-capped mountains
rise
Like stairs that beckon to eternal halls;
Beyond the birds and trees their purple walls
Go steeply up into the noonday skies.
Below, the cataracting torrents lead
Down craters dense with fir and silver pine;
On sloping meadows browse the peaceful kine,
The fertile loam lies harrowed for the seed.

O pilgrim! stand, admire this vast creation,
This great cathedral built by Master-hand
And placed in wildness terrible and grand;
Ah! well our Lady chose this tranquil isolation
To wean us from all worldly dissipation
And make us sigh for our true home and land!

The Miracles of La Salette

All who invoke her, kneeling at her shrine
Or looking towards her from some far-off land,
Soon felt the virtue of her gracious hand
Or learnt before the cross their wills incline.
But still more pilgrims came here to beseech
For greater cure—that of a wayward heart
Intent on nobler ways and brave new start,
For strength to make with past a lasting breach.
Of these two signs say which more wonderful—
Some portents wrought before our spell-bound eyes
Or rather inward victories of grace?
If such of things divine the measured rule,
Conceive what unsung glory hidden lies
In the mute annals of this hallowed place.