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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
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 . 1. s. 
 
 SUNDAY EVENINGS 
 
 AT 
 
 LORETTO. 
 
 BY 
 M. G. R. 
 
 DUBLIN : 
 
 M. & S. EATON, 49 DAME ST. & 95 GRAFTON ST. 
 
 1881.
 
 
 A few playful breathings of Fancy, 
 
 A few Legends, imperfectly told, 
 But the memories of beautiful childhood 
 
 Are always more precious than gold. 
 
 The years of the shadowy Future, 
 
 Will hail these mementoes again. 
 And the Child of Loretto will treasure 
 
 The simple, yet love-hallowed strain, 
 
 That will call back her thoughts to the " Evenings," 
 The Friends who were circling her there, 
 
 The sweet, kindly words of approval, 
 The gentle and vigilant care. 
 
 That earnestly, ceaselessly, ever 
 
 Was guiding, with motherly hand, 
 The heart of the Child of Loretto 
 
 To rest in the Heavenly Land. 
 
 LoKETTO Abbey, Rathfarnham, 
 5i/i May, ISSl. 
 
 963810
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Battle of Clontarf ....... 1 
 
 Saint Columba . . . . . • . . 6 
 
 Saint Ccedmon, the first English Poet ... 13 
 
 Legend of Blessed Ida of Lewes . . . .16 
 
 The Monk and the Pitcher 19 
 
 The Victory 23 
 
 St. Thomas of Aquin 26 
 
 Herman, the Cistercian Shepherd .... 29 
 
 St. Ignatius and the Novice 33 
 
 " I fear I have thrown myself away " ... 35 
 
 King Louis XI. and St. Francis of Paula ... 39 
 
 The Four Crowns ....... 43 
 
 Scenes from the Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary (for 
 
 Tableaux Vivants) 48 
 
 Humility (a Definition) ...... 56 
 
 The Courier Birds (Address for Distribution of Prizes) 59 
 
 St. Philip Neri and the Lay Brother . . . .61 
 
 The Daisy and the Foxglove ..... 63 
 
 Take them as you find them (a Gloss) ... 67 
 
 A Jesuit Novice ....... 68 
 
 Legend of the Madonna's Crown . . . .71 
 
 The Children of the " Bird's Nest " . . . .73 
 
 Scenes from the Life of Saint Germainc (for Tableaux 
 
 Vivants) 75
 
 VI. 
 
 Legend of Saint Hubert . 
 
 Legend of Blessed Sadoc and Companions (Martyrs 
 of the Order of Friars Preachers) 
 
 The Angel of Erin (Address for Distribution of Prizes) 
 
 The Sicilian Ox (St. Thomas of Aquin) 
 
 The Green Spots of Life . 
 
 St. John Baptist .... 
 
 Scenes from the Life of Saint Teresa 
 
 Three Guardian Angels (Address for Distribution of 
 Prizes) 
 
 Association of the Holy Childhood 
 
 Legend of the Passion Flower . 
 
 A Child's Dream 
 
 Hymn to the Sacred Heart 
 
 St. Francis of Assisi 
 
 Legend of the Franciscan Friars 
 
 Non Nobis Domine . 
 
 Jubilee of Pius IX. 
 
 Homage to Leo XI IL (Lumen in Coelo) . 
 
 Address to His Grace, Most Rev. Dr. M'Cabe 
 
 The Australian Lark 
 
 Heavenly Flowers . 
 
 St. Ignatius' Pet 
 
 A Dominican Pet 
 
 Christmas Greeting . 
 
 New Year's Wish 
 
 Farewell to 1880 
 
 Letter of Monsieur '!'. B., 
 liament, 1S81) . 
 
 -Answer of Monsieur J. i'., i'aris 
 
 " Monsieur, Que voulcz vous " . 
 
 .ondon (( )pcniiig of 
 
 'arlia 
 
 PAGE 
 
 79 
 
 84 
 87 
 90 
 92 
 95 
 96 
 
 101 
 103 
 107 
 109 
 113 
 lU 
 116 
 121 
 124 
 127 
 130 
 133 
 13G 
 110 
 145 
 150 
 150 
 151 
 
 152 
 155 
 15H
 
 vu. 
 
 The Arctic Expedition of 1876 
 
 Intermediate Education 
 
 Intermediate Harmony 
 
 Intermediate Geometry 
 
 Melania and the Hermit 
 
 Festal Flowers 
 
 Scenes from the Life of St. F. Xavier (for Tableaux 
 Vivants) . 
 
 Legend of the Confessors of Typasus 
 
 Vision of Saint Jerome 
 
 Address for Distribution of Prizes 
 
 Follies of the Age .... 
 
 This Nineteenth Century . 
 
 Words have Wings .... 
 
 Hymn to the Sacred Heart (fur ist Friday) 
 
 Weariness 
 
 Saint Sisoe, Hermit . 
 
 Saint Joseph . 
 
 Legend of the Painted Window 
 
 Song of the Bells 
 
 Canonization of St. Ignatius, St. F. Xavier, and St 
 Teresa 
 
 Martyrdom of St. Lawrence 
 
 Saint Rose of Lima 
 
 Fall of the Assyrian Empire 
 
 Scenes from the Life of St. Catherine of Siena (for 
 Tableaux Vivants) 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 1G2 
 
 icy 
 
 172 
 
 17G 
 179 
 181 
 
 182 
 189 
 191 
 194 
 195 
 199 
 202 
 206 
 207 
 209 
 212 
 214 
 217 
 
 219 
 223 
 225 
 
 228 
 
 231
 
 AT 
 
 Xj O IE?. E T 0? O . 
 
 Rattle 0f ^lonhxi. 
 
 Bright Eblana, thou art smiling 
 
 In the golden summer ray, 
 Lighting up thy proud Ben Eder, 
 
 Sparkling o'er thy lovely Bay. 
 Peaceful beauty! canst thou ever 
 
 Now recall the vanished years, 
 When thy eastern shores resounded 
 
 To the clash of Danish spears. 
 
 Day of triumph ! Day of glory ! 
 
 When the " Sunburst" grandly rose, 
 To disperse the " Birds " of evil, 
 
 To destroy our mighty foes. 
 Yet, a cloud came o'er thy splendour, 
 
 And a shadow o'er thy pride. 
 When the victor's song was chanted, 
 
 T/ie/i our last great monarch died. 
 
 Never one so richly gifted 
 
 For the sceptre and the throne. 
 He, whose nobly wielded power 
 
 Every heart bowed down to own. 
 Graceful peace and smiling plenty. 
 
 Loyal truth and love and faith. 
 Blessed the reign of Ard-Ri Brian, 
 
 Till our Sovereign slept in death. 
 
 B
 
 Oh ! they tell of many heroes 
 
 Who have conquered on the field, 
 Of the lofty brow and spirit 
 
 That could break, but could not yield. 
 Scotland's patriots are wreathed 
 
 With the poet's crown of fame 
 Be it ours to twine a garland 
 
 Round our King's unsullied name. 
 
 Spring, with all its tender sweetness, 
 
 With its breezes and its flowers, 
 Bore its tidings of the coming 
 
 Of the year's most sacred hours. 
 Loving hands on high were raising 
 
 The commemorative palm, 
 And the notes of the " Hosanna" 
 
 Sounded sadly dear and calm. 
 
 Hark ! let every voice be silenced, 
 
 lyCt the anthems cease. We hear 
 O'er the waters, dread forebodings 
 
 That a fearful strife is near. 
 Lo ! the Ravens of the Sea Kings 
 
 Spread their pinions far and wide. 
 And their dark flotilla anchors 
 
 In Eblana's sunny tide. 
 
 "Care we little for their numbers. 
 
 Care we little for their power, 
 Strong in God, we go to meet them, 
 
 'T is their last and fated hour." 
 So they spake, these gallant chieftains. 
 
 Warlike, resolute, and brave, 
 They had lived in fearless honour, 
 
 And they dreaded not a grave. 
 
 I'>om the southern plains they hastened. 
 From the glorious Munstcr vale, 
 
 From the mountain heights assembled 
 All the warriors of the Gael,
 
 And the maiden and the mother 
 Saw them part with kindling eye. 
 
 Ah ! these Celtic hearts could bid them 
 " Nobly live, and bravely die." 
 
 It was dawn upon the hill tops, 
 
 Early beams of glowing light 
 Rose upon the sea-girt island, 
 
 What should be its doom ere night. 
 Every shrine throughout Hibernia 
 
 Raised the veiled Cross on high, 
 'T was the day when God, our Saviour, 
 
 Came to agonize and die. 
 
 And the Children of the Sainted 
 
 Came, with trustful hearts, to lay 
 On the altar of their country 
 
 Life and hope of earth, that day. 
 Glorious sunbeams lit their armour. 
 
 And in pencilled beams revealed 
 Every sternly lovely charm 
 
 Of that densely brilliant field. 
 
 Breathless silence spread her mantle 
 
 For a moment yet — and then. 
 Loudly forth a martial greeting 
 
 Pealed again, and yet again. 
 For their crowned and sceptred Monarch 
 
 Passed within the opened way, 
 And his clarion voice ascended 
 
 O'er that vast and grand array. 
 
 In his aged arms uplifted 
 
 Were the Crucifix and Sword, 
 Bidding every man remember 
 
 That they fought for Calvary's Lord. 
 Well did each one know that bondage 
 
 And idolatry would reign 
 If their hearts and hands should fail theni 
 
 When they combated the Dane,
 
 And the kingly Leader bade them 
 
 Look to sorrowing days of old, 
 When the fell invaders wandered 
 
 Through the sheltered island fold. 
 "Aye, remember, ye beloved ! 
 
 How the Altars of our God 
 Lay dishonoured and dismantled 
 
 On the darkly purpled sod. 
 Faith and fatherland have called ye 
 
 To protect the home and shrine, 
 Be j(w/r victory my triumph, 
 
 Or your warrior's grave be mine. 
 
 Not mine only, for around me 
 
 Are the scions of my race, 
 They, the hope and pride of Erin, 
 
 Seek amid your ranks a place. 
 Oh ! look down, thou mighty Father, 
 
 On the valiant Irish host, 
 Nerve the arm, and touch the broadsword, 
 
 Lest yon Pagan legions boast 
 That the Christian arm is failing, 
 
 That its hour of doom has come, 
 If we live, be Thine the glory. 
 
 If we fall. Thou 'It lead us home " 
 
 Loud and long arose the answer 
 
 From the mailed ranks around. 
 Eager eyes and footsteps turning 
 
 To the stranded battle ground. 
 Hero met by hero ever. 
 
 And Dalcassia's fearless son 
 Told teti hundred brave Norwegians 
 
 That their day of life was done. 
 
 Still the raven wing was floating 
 
 In its vengeful ire, on high, 
 But fresh vigour in the arm, 
 
 Brighter lustre in the eye
 
 5 
 
 Of the Christian Gaelic soldiers, 
 
 Spoke a wondrous angel care, 
 And the raising of their weapons 
 
 Seemed like all availing prayer. 
 
 So sped on the direful combat, 
 
 Sultry noon looked down to close 
 Many drooping eyelids, resting 
 
 In the warrior's quick repose, 
 Almost sinking in the struggle, 
 
 All their mightiest leaders gone. 
 Fled the Sea Kings from the conflict 
 
 Erin's Victory was won. 
 
 Oh ! come forth, thou conquering Monarch, 
 
 Royal Victor ! though we see 
 Many true and tried have perished. 
 
 We can turn with joy to thee. 
 Ah ! thine eyes are raised to heaven 
 
 Hast thou no kind glance for those 
 Who have borne the heat and burden, 
 
 And destroyed the heathen foes ? 
 
 Hush ! the silence groweth deeper, 
 
 And the step hath paused in fear, 
 What ! Is this the Victor's Chariot ? 
 
 Back ! Away ! Oh ! funereal Bier ! 
 Nay, draw nigh, with reverent bearing, 
 
 Place that couch upon the sod, 
 Erin's last and greatest Monarch 
 
 Hath ascended to his God. 
 
 And beside him are the children 
 
 Whom he gave (a blessed band) 
 Love divine will re-unite them 
 
 In a peaceful changeless Land. 
 They are sleeping, calmly sleeping 
 
 (We will never call them dead). 
 One, with snows of many winters, 
 
 Falling thickly on his head.
 
 One, whose noble brow and bearing 
 
 Of undaunted manhood speak, 
 And the Boy, with golden tresses 
 
 Lying brightly on his cheek. 
 Priests and Prelates ! take these relics 
 
 Of the good, the wise and brave, 
 In the Sanctuary's shadow 
 
 Let them find a fitting grave. 
 Sadly, tearfully, O Erin ! 
 
 Chant the dirge of long regret, 
 For the sunlight of thy glory 
 
 On Eblana's Strand hath set. 
 
 J^atnt ^olumba. 
 
 Why o'er the mountains of the Gael 
 Ariseth sorrow's mighty wail ? 
 Why, when the breezes faintly bear 
 The echo of a requiem prayer. 
 Do sounds responsive ever float 
 Attuned to griefs most touching note ? 
 Ah ! chaunt tlie dirge, entone the lay, 
 A glorious Light hath passed away. 
 
 Our mortal praise ! so cold, so weak ! 
 Oh ! for an angel voice to seek 
 The brilliant gifts, the wondrous grace, 
 Of that bright Star, of Irish race, 
 That set, — nay — rose, in Heaven the day, 
 When, from lona passed away 
 Columba, with an eagle flight 
 Ascending to the Eden height. 
 
 A poet, warrior. Saint of Ood, 
 
 Each path his radiant step hath trod,
 
 And all the glory of renown 
 Is twined around his fadeless crown. 
 Most lovingly have Legends old 
 His infant story sweetly told, 
 How Purity and Wisdom smiled, 
 How Angels came to bless the Child. 
 
 How Learning's grand and brilliant rays 
 Shone round him in his youthful days, 
 Till, with the prophet-fire of old 
 He hastened through the island fold, 
 And cloisters rose beneath his hand 
 To bless and sanctify the land, 
 But then a sudden change was seen 
 Transforming thus the peaceful scene. 
 
 Youth, in its fiery strength arose, 
 Its struggles and its fancied woes 
 Pressed on his glowing spirit, still 
 Unused to bend the stubborn will 
 To virtue's meek and holy sway, 
 Then came to him the trial day. 
 
 By kindred hands the blow was dealt, 
 Stung by injustice, keenly felt, 
 Columba summoned to his aid 
 The myriad warriors, arrayed 
 In glittering steel, to hold his cause 
 Against the bondage of the laws. 
 
 Hot coursed his blood through every vein, 
 He charged himself with each red stain 
 That Erin's soil received that day. 
 And, strange to see, and sad to say. 
 He, the anointed of the Lord, 
 Led on the slaughter by his word. 
 
 He was avenged, but in that hour 
 
 The hand of God showed forth his power.
 
 8 
 
 The warrior monk, in shame and dread, 
 Bowed his repentant, humble head, 
 And wildly through the land he passed, 
 Seeking for pardon, till at last 
 
 The blest, absolving hand was raised, 
 
 His soul was cleansed, yet, as he praised 
 
 The mercy, from a Father sent. 
 
 He quivered 'neath the chastisement 
 
 Required, to purify the hand 
 
 That dyed with blood his native land. 
 
 "Go !" said the Priest, "from Erin's shore, 
 Go ! and return to it no fnore, 
 Let not thy wistful, earnest eyes. 
 Rest on Hibernia's heaven-blest skies, 
 Crush the fond longings of thy heart. 
 Linger not,— pause not — but — depart." 
 
 'T was strangely beautiful to see 
 
 The glory of humility 
 
 Descending on that youthful brow, 
 
 So sanctified, so chastened now. 
 
 No murmuring word his lips would speak, 
 
 But on his brightly flushing cheek 
 
 Flowed down the rapid, burning tear. 
 
 The mourner at the sad heart-bier. 
 
 He goes ! The boat has left the shore. 
 Impelled by half reluctant oar. 
 The blue, bright waters of the sea 
 Receive the parting melody. 
 As in a tender chant of grief, 
 His suffering spirit sought relief. 
 
 At last, upon the wave's white crest 
 They saw an Isle, he longed for rest, 
 And tenderly the l)oatmen bore 
 The wandering c.xilc to the shore.
 
 Nought could the sailor's practised eye 
 Discern afar, save sea and sky. 
 
 But, when Columba's earnest gaze, 
 Piercing the evening's golden haze, 
 Met Errigal's dark peak, he turned, 
 And hotly, in his sad heart burned 
 The love that exile could not change, 
 That absence never would estrange 
 From the fair Jewel of the sea, 
 His home in youth and infancy. 
 
 No ! even there he might not stay, 
 The vessel bent her silent way 
 O'er darkening billows. Night had sent 
 Her watchers through the firmament 
 When, once again, they touched the land 
 At blest lona's peaceful strand. 
 
 And there they left him, lone, yet strong. 
 Peace shall descend to him ere long, 
 And angel visitants shall bear 
 Their tidings of a land viore fair 
 Than even that lost, beloved home, 
 Cradled afar in snowy foam. 
 
 Then, as by miracle, uprose 
 Churches and Cloisters. Genius glows 
 In rich effulgence o'er the Isle, 
 Crowned by religion's vivid smile, 
 And soon Columba's fame went forth, 
 " The grand Apostle of the North." 
 
 There came at last the sound of strife, 
 War, in Hibernia's plains was rife. 
 And many tongues proclaimed that he 
 Who wrought lona's sanctity 
 Should come, and with his holy hand 
 Restore blest peace lo Erin's land.
 
 10 
 
 They call, they summon him, but now 
 Who shall absolve his solemn vow? 
 Ah ! he had schooled his heart so well, 
 That some there were who tried to tell 
 That " time and absence sorely prove 
 The doubtful constancy of love." 
 
 Yet was it so ? The placid mien, 
 The glance, so prayerfully serene, 
 Told little of the inner strife, 
 The history of his veiled life. 
 
 They knew he never spoke the name 
 Of Erin, but, if pilgrims came, 
 And then departed to its shore. 
 He said, in the soft tones of yore, 
 " Go to the land you love so well," 
 And, turning to his lonely Cell, 
 None, save the pitying angels there, 
 Heard his long agony of prayer. 
 
 In Drumceatt's Hall, the grand array 
 Of Erin's Chieftains meet to-day. 
 The Prelates stand expectant still, 
 When a low murmur seems to fill 
 The far resounding air, and then 
 Across the distant, winding glen 
 
 They see a figure slowly come. 
 Like one who riselh from the tomb, 
 They gaze on him, in mute surprise, 
 For, o'er his brow, and o'er his eyes 
 Is closely ])rcsscd a snowy band, 
 Coluniba treads his native land. 
 
 Low at his feet they humbly knelt. 
 The |)care of (lod was strangely felt,
 
 11 
 
 Pervading all the summer air, 
 In answer to the Exile's prayer, 
 And the dark messengers of war 
 Fled, at his voice, to realms afar. 
 
 " For Scotia's sons I come to plead, 
 Oh ! let their mountain wilds be freed 
 From dread of slavery's dark chain, 
 For /, who wear the exile's chain. 
 Would fain avert from them the woe 
 My homeless heart hath learned to know. 
 Call them not bondsmen, let your hand 
 Confer on Caledonia's land 
 The priceless gift of liberty, 
 
 Chieftains of the Western Sea ! 
 
 And, with a deeper feeling now, 
 Before my Country's power I bow, 
 And ask, nay, ardently implore 
 Peace for the Bards I loved of yore. 
 Oh ! can it be that Irish soul 
 Would crush, with tyranny's control, 
 The grand, poetic choir that fills, 
 With harmony our vales and hills ! 
 True, that a stray, discordant note 
 Amid the minstrelsy may float. 
 But deem ye that the glorious song 
 So reverenced through ages long 
 Should now be hushed for aye, because 
 One harp may violate its laws. 
 Nay ! in His blessed Name who gave 
 Music alike to land and wave, 
 
 1 promise that the Bardic strain 
 
 Shall sound His praise o'er land and main ; 
 I promise that the Lay shall be 
 Pure as yon wildbird's melody. 
 Soft prelude to the ceaseless hymn 
 That heavenly legions chant to Him 
 Who taught the Angel and the Bird 
 The first rich notes of Music's chord."
 
 12 
 
 Columba paused. His veiled eyes 
 
 Were lifted to the glowing skies, 
 
 For, o'er his white-robed form there played 
 
 The light of eve, he stood arrayed 
 
 In glory, by the western sun, 
 
 His task fulfilled, his mission done. 
 
 They prayed him to remain, but he, 
 
 With calmest, saddest majesty 
 
 Blessed them, in silence, then away 
 
 Sped his swift bark, o'er waters gray. 
 
 And once again, lona gave 
 
 Rest to the Exile, till the grave 
 
 Received the painless, peaceful heart, 
 
 So long transfixed by sorrow's dart. 
 
 With spirit all unwearied still. 
 His wasting frame obeyed the will 
 That forced his failing vigour on. 
 Till all the vital power was gone, 
 And his reluctant hand sank down 
 For angels held his finished Crown. 
 
 Morn had arisen, yet the light 
 Had scarcely rent the clouds of night 
 When, through lona's Isle was heard 
 A wail that every spirit stirred. 
 There, at the feet of Jesus, lay 
 Columba passing fast away 
 From all the cares and griefs of years, 
 From all his penitence and tears. 
 
 Oh ! what to him the land of earth, 
 Save a vast wilderness, a dearth 
 Of all that he could love or prize, 
 Now in the kingdom of the skies. 
 The Warrior's earthly combat o'er, 
 'I'hc roet"s earthly sigh no more 
 Breaks the sweet stillness of his rest. 
 The Dove hath found its changeless Nest.
 
 13 
 
 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET. 
 
 Who taught the Saxon tongue to frame 
 
 The poet's sweetest words ? 
 Who tuned the EngUsh harp to give 
 
 Its grand, poetic chords ? 
 Around St. Ccedmon's blessed name 
 Few hands have twined this wreath of fame. 
 
 In lowHest shepherd toil he spent 
 
 The years of early youth, 
 And little knew of worldly lore, 
 
 Though holy faith and truth, 
 With many bright celestial rays, 
 Had crowned the humble peasant's days. 
 
 When lute and song and sparkling jest 
 
 Made glad the evening time, 
 He sat alone, admiring oft 
 
 Some rude, untutored rhyme. 
 It seemed to him a wondrous thing 
 Thus to recite and thus to sing. 
 
 And, strange indeed, for one whose heart 
 
 With God and angels dwelt, 
 A great despondency and shame 
 
 The silent herdsman felt, 
 And when at last compelled to say 
 "■I cannot sing" he shrank away. 
 
 And tears, yes, bitter tear drops flowed 
 
 Before a quiet sleep. 
 The heavy, unrefreshing rest. 
 
 That comes to those who weep,
 
 14 
 
 Bade Coedmon's weary eyelids close, 
 Forgetful of his fancied woes. 
 
 But soon, with wondering, dazzled gaze. 
 
 He quickly rose to see 
 A stranger bending o'er him, robed 
 
 In shining majesty. 
 Who said, with smile, serenely bright, 
 "Sing me, I pray, a song, to-night." 
 
 Sweet were the tones, oh ! sweeter far 
 
 Than harmony had e'er 
 Inspired, when choral music breathed 
 
 The messages of prayer. 
 But Coedmon's voice, with quick sharp ring 
 Of pain, replied ''I cannot sing. 
 
 For this I left yon merry hall, 
 
 And vainly have I tried, 
 Within this cold, dark refuge, all 
 
 My shame and grief to hide. 
 For I am dull and slow to speak," 
 Again hot tears bedewed his cheek. 
 
 "Oh ! if that fair and noble gift 
 
 A poet-mind, were given 
 To beautify my life, I'd sing 
 
 Only of God and heaven, 
 And every note of mine should be 
 A homage to His Majesty." 
 
 "Yes !" spoke the Angel, "never yet 
 
 Such melody was heard 
 As thy pure lips shall now entone," 
 
 Swift, as the uttered word, 
 A change o'er Cfcdinon's s])irit ])assed, 
 C)li ' was it too divine to last? 
 
 All the bright beauty he had known. 
 Works of liis Maker's hand,
 
 15 
 
 All the calm loveliness that decked 
 
 His own beloved land, 
 The song of birds, the dazzling rays, 
 That glorify the summer days. 
 
 Beamed on his raptured sight, and then 
 
 Each earthly grace awoke 
 Blest memories of the fairer Land, 
 
 And when, at length, he spoke, 
 Rich were the tones, as sweet and clear, 
 As ever charmed the mortal ear. 
 
 The gift, so ardently implored. 
 
 In royal fulness came, 
 Coedmon, like Israel's Prophets, now 
 
 Should tend the heaven-sent flame. 
 Alas ! too oft its lofty birth 
 Is lost amid the clouds of earth. 
 
 Simple and child-like still, he went 
 
 To sing His Maker's praise, 
 To glorify, in tuneful speech, 
 
 The first created days, 
 And still, they say, no poet rare 
 Could with that lowly Saint compare. 
 
 Why ? Because every note arose, 
 
 Bird-like, to God above. 
 Why ? Because one unceasing chant 
 
 Of purity and love 
 Came from his spotless heart of peace 
 Till his sweet earthly song should cease. 
 
 Softer and holier grew the tones, 
 
 And many a soul was won 
 By our first poet's minstrelsy. 
 
 Till reverend age stole on, 
 And, listening to the angels' hymn, 
 He sought the light that ne'er grows dim.
 
 16 
 
 Spring called to life the birds and flowers, 
 
 But Coedmon sang no more, 
 For, with a quiet, painless step 
 
 He gained the Golden Shore, 
 And tliere, the laurel crown was given, 
 To him, the Poet-Saint of heaven. 
 
 ®Icssctr 2Eba of J^etoes. 
 
 They wondered at the sound ! 
 The strain of heavenly melody that rang, 
 While through the Vesper hour the Sisters sang 
 
 That music floated round. 
 
 A voice ne'er heard before, 
 Yet their calm hearts, attuned to heavenly chords. 
 Chanted with deeper love the sacred words, 
 
 Nor sought, nor questioned more. 
 
 And long years passed away. 
 Bringing but little change to that sweet home, 
 AVhen, at the Vesper-tide a call had come. 
 
 One on her death-bed lay. 
 
 One saintly life was o'er. 
 Passed was its (juiet toil, its praise and prayer, 
 One lowly Spouse of Ciirist was called to share 
 
 His Throne on Eden's shore. 
 
 'i'hcy thought she slumbered, when 
 A light, a beauty o'er her worn face spread, 
 And, with a sunny smile, she raised her head, 
 
 While, sweetly, once again.
 
 17 
 
 The well-remembered Voice ! 
 That filled the Choir that Vesper hour gone by, 
 Stole, like the wild-dove's sweetest, softest sigh. 
 
 Bidding their souls rejoice. 
 
 " My friends ! my sisters! now," 
 Thus spoke the dying Bride of Jesus, " hear, 
 How precious in His sight, how prized, how dear, 
 
 Our heaven inspired Vow. 
 
 Obedience ! prompt and mild. 
 Ready to welcome e'en the least command. 
 Led in our daily steps by His blest Hand, 
 
 Even as a little child. 
 
 Sisters, I go to Him ; 
 Now may you learn the secret of that song 
 That in your memory must have lingered long. 
 
 That lovely Vesper hymn. 
 
 I prayed with you that day, 
 When an unwonted ecstasy of love 
 Bore my enraptured spirit far above, 
 
 And on my heart He lay. 
 
 The Babe, the Infant King, 
 Came to the lowly shelter of my arms. 
 And, gazing on His sweet and wondrous charms, 
 
 I felt that I should sing. 
 
 As never yet I sang, 
 For all my inmost being brightly thrilled. 
 While your soft chant the evening choir filled. 
 
 And Vesper anthems rang. 
 
 Sisters ! you well may know, 
 With loving, yearning tenderness I pressed 
 The beauteous Child, who sought his lovely rest 
 
 With me, so poor, so low.
 
 18 
 
 But, at th' acctistomed Psalm, 
 When, with extended hands we all should pray, 
 How tremblingly I watched Him as He lay. 
 
 So pure, so calm. 
 
 Should I unclasp Him now, 
 Did He, the Master, will that I should be 
 Bound by that trivial rule ? It seemed to me 
 
 A shade passed o'er His brow. 
 
 Obedience ! and I raised 
 My hands like yours, leaving my Treasure there 
 All unsupported, resting on the air, 
 
 Obedience ! be thou praised ! 
 
 Closer and closer still 
 Round me the infant arms were gently twined, 
 And on my heart He peacefully reclined 
 
 In wordless love, until 
 
 My heaven-uplifted soul 
 Almost had burst its earthly bonds, and joy, 
 Joy that the lapse of time could ne'er destroy, 
 
 A joy beyond control. 
 
 Swelled forth in rapturous song, 
 All of unearthly sweetness. Sisters ! say. 
 Would you recall the memory of that day? 
 
 Would you its bliss prolong ? 
 
 Think, when my lijw shall close, 
 Of the dear lesson that the Infant taught, 
 And of that hour, with benedictions fraught, 
 
 His beautiful repose. 
 
 Oh ! not the loftiest flight, 
 Ol all seraphic love, adoring prayer, 
 Is half so glorious, half so wondrous fair 
 
 In His eternal sight
 
 19 
 
 As the calm trust that lays 
 Its will for ever in His blessed Hand, 
 Seeing but Him in those who o'er us stand 
 
 To guide our earthly ways. 
 
 Let not your courage quail, * 
 
 He knows how much each sacrifice can cost, 
 Not one bright jewel that it wins is lost, 
 
 His aid will never fail. 
 
 And, when the end shall come. 
 Believe me that ^is bounteous love will shed 
 Rich consolation o'er your dying bed, 
 
 Your passage home." 
 
 Ere morning dawn she died. 
 But sometimes, still, the Sisters think they hear 
 The voice of Angel sweetness, soft and clear, 
 
 That blessed the Vesper tide. 
 
 " O ! Father Abbot, I musf go, 
 I struggled terribly, you know, 
 I can't endure another day, 
 I cannot live with them, I say. 
 You call this mighty Brotherhood, 
 Most estimable, wise and good. 
 They are, of course, but all the same, 
 They rouse my feelings to a flame. 
 Nay, Father Abbot, need you tell 
 My faults, I know them all so well, 
 I 'm hot and quick, indeed, I am, 
 And others are serene and calm.
 
 20 
 
 The least rebuke, the slightest jar, 
 And I spring up, prepared for war, 
 'T is hard for them, but can you see 
 It 's infinitely ivorse for ine. 
 I watch them smile, when I am vexed, 
 Just half amused, and half perplexed. 
 I hear them tranquilly regret 
 My ' temper is not governed yet,' 
 And ' all have trials here to bear.' 
 Well ! mine is an enormous share. 
 I do n't dispute my stock of ire 
 Is something like Vesuvius' fire, 
 Ready, at any touch, to spout 
 A mass of wild commotion out. 
 Ah ! Father Abbot, I have read. 
 And listened too, to all that 's said 
 Of meekness and placidity, 
 No use is all that talk to me. 
 
 ' Many a one has had before 
 Just such a conflict, just as sore,' 
 And confjucred in it, I confess. 
 But hoiv they did, I cannot guess. 
 And as to asking help from heaven 
 Like Jacob, I have fought and striven. 
 I cannot li\e with them, indeed, 
 You "11 jjardon me, and say 'God speed' 
 Yon desert there is lone and wide, 
 And God, 1 know, will still i)rovide. 
 I '11 go where no one can come near, 
 I 11 have no care, no grief, no fear, 
 For sin and turmoil cannot come 
 To cloud my solitary home. 
 Oh ! see, tlie sun is sinking low. 
 Now, Father Abbot, I must go." 
 
 So silently the Abbot stood. 
 Nor tried to check that i)assionalc flood, 
 Nor answered " Go " nor pleaded " Stay," 
 Till the last sound had died away.
 
 21 
 
 Then, as if hall aroused from trance, 
 He cast a quiet, thoughtful glance 
 Upon the scene, so sweetly fair, 
 That lay before them, smiling there. 
 The church, the cells, the fields, the brook. 
 On each he bent his earnest look, 
 Ah ! that poor Brother ! He could tell 
 The meaning of that gaze so well. 
 All that his restless heart would leave. 
 But no ! He would not pause to grieve, 
 " I cannot live with them, and so, 
 Father, dear Father, I must go." 
 
 No change passed o'er the Abbot's face, 
 Whate'er he felt, it left no trace. 
 The skilled and saintly Ruler knew 
 This ancient axiom, always true. 
 Some souls require a schooling stern 
 Ere wisdom's alphabet they learn, 
 Experience these alone can teach, 
 No voice but hers can fitly preach. 
 Yet, something like a sigh was heard 
 Breathed through the Abbot's parting word, 
 " If, as you say, this step must be, 
 I give you back your liberty. 
 But, take this warning to your heart. 
 That, from yourself you cannot part. 
 And, my poor child, I fear you'll find 
 A sad companion in your mind." 
 
 One smothered sob. He turned away. 
 And, ere the closing of the day, 
 The desert wastes beneath his feet, 
 No living form his eye could meet. 
 When next day's sultry noon arose. 
 He said with rapture " No one knows 
 How peaceful and how saintly too 
 We are, when men are lost to view." 
 Some days flowed on, serenest days, 
 He sang perpetual hymns of praise,
 
 22 
 
 " I actually am," cried he, 
 
 "A living fount of charity, 
 
 All mankind I. in thought, embrace, 
 
 But never ask to see a face, 
 
 The beasts, the birds, the flowers, and /, 
 
 In harmony will live and die. 
 
 Impatience, anger, all are flown, 
 
 I feel like a contented stone. 
 
 'T is nearly bed-time, and I think 
 
 I '11 take my figs, my cr)^stal drink. 
 
 The water-pitcher must be near. 
 
 How dark ! Can't find it ! Oh ! 't is here." 
 
 Howe'er it was I cannot tell, 
 
 But down the precious Pitcher fell. 
 
 Its shattered fragments strewed the ground. 
 
 Up starts the Monk, with hasty bound, 
 
 And raved and stormed, " In such a plight 
 
 I will not live another night, 
 
 I 'm parched and choked with scalding thirst, 
 
 I 'm smothered. Oh ! my tongue will burst. 
 
 The spring away, a mile or more. 
 
 The serpents, may be, at the door. 
 
 And there my broken Pitcher lies, 
 
 Oh ! 1 '11 go back," he wildly cries. 
 
 " Yes ! Father Abbot ! you were right, 
 
 I '11 always have myself to figlit. 
 
 From every human being far, 
 
 I could not be secure from war, 
 
 So back I '11 go to them, once more, 
 
 A little wiser than before. 
 
 I '11 do my best. Perhaps I may 
 
 Get gentle when I 'm old and grey, 
 
 But oh ! the liour when I can say. 
 
 My jars and wars have i)assed away. 
 
 And I 'm at last, subdued and calm, 
 
 I '11 chant my ' Nunc Dimittis' psalm."
 
 23 
 
 Jplljc "W'ktarg. 
 
 " Saints are gentle," ?,o you say ! 
 
 " Tender, loving, sweet, 
 Saints can tread the roughest way 
 
 With untroubled feet." 
 Yes ! I know, but I can see. 
 Saints were once like you and vie. 
 
 " Saints delighted in the Cross, 
 Loved the humbling word. 
 
 Shrank away, if voice of i)raise 
 Human feeling stirred." 
 
 Yes ! at last, when many a day 
 
 Of their strife had passed away. 
 
 Let me tell you simply now, 
 
 That a Legend quaint 
 Gives me many a cheering thought, 
 
 'T was a certain Saint, 
 One who bravely toiled and fought 
 Ere her crown of peace was bought. 
 
 She was young, and richly blest, 
 Bright and beauteous Child, 
 
 On her infancy and youth 
 Life serenely smiled. 
 
 Ah ! she deemed them little worth 
 
 These false, fleeting smiles of earth. 
 
 So she turned her steps away 
 
 To the Convent Cell, 
 Gladly welcomed. She was one 
 
 To serve the Master well. 
 " Come," they said, " thy gifts will be 
 Glorified by sanctity."
 
 24 
 
 Brilliant mind and gifted hand, 
 Prompt and earnest, too, 
 
 Sure success was crowning all 
 That she sought to do, 
 
 Pencil, needle, book or pen 
 
 Used with wondrous art, and then, 
 
 It was beautiful to see 
 
 How she never dreamed 
 That applause should follow her, 
 
 Nay ! it even seemed 
 That she marvelled much to hear 
 All the praise that met her ear. 
 
 Ah ! but must I say — a blight 
 Touched that lovely Flower, 
 
 In her heart one passion dwelt. 
 One of mastering power. 
 
 Quick and stern, the angry word 
 
 Came, if jarring chord was stirred. 
 
 Long she strove against it. Did 
 Penance, sharp and long, 
 
 When th' impulsive feelings spoke 
 By the rapid tongue. 
 
 Though 't was but a moment's flame 
 
 Till her swift repentance came. 
 
 Never malice, 7iever aught 
 
 Of bitterness she knew, 
 And retaliation ne'er 
 
 Stained her soul ; 't was true 
 Kindliest thoughts were often there, 
 Melting into jjcaceful ])rayer. 
 
 But she sadly knew how oft 
 
 Pain and scandal given 
 By her i)roud, impetuous speech 
 
 Barred her way to heaven.
 
 25 
 
 Till, one day, she chanced to look, 
 Weeping, on the Sacred Book. 
 
 And the words that met her eye 
 
 Seemed a message sent, 
 " Jesu mi tacebat." " He 
 
 Was silent." While she bent 
 To reverence that saving Name, 
 Sudden inspiration came. 
 
 Rapidly her fingers traced 
 
 On a golden ground 
 That blest sentence, and she twined 
 
 Fairest flowers around. 
 Her soft load-star it would be 
 Leading her to Victory. 
 
 And she placed it wheresoe'er 
 
 Duty bade her stay, 
 Pondered on it lovingly. 
 
 Whispered, day by day, 
 " Jeered and mocked, and scorned by men, 
 Jesus, still, was silent then. 
 
 In the demon-maddened crowd, 
 
 Tossing to and fro, 
 Taunted and reviled, Alas ! 
 
 Smote with cruel blow, 
 Jesus could be silent, still, 
 For His sake I can and 7£'///." 
 
 Nobly, gloriously, she quelled 
 
 Passion's voice of ire, 
 Her bright eyes and flushing cheeks 
 
 Told the kindling fire. 
 But the closed lips would not part, 
 Guarded by the generous heart. 
 
 " Jesus silent." Watchfully, 
 Thus she gazed on Him,
 
 26 
 
 Till the long years passed away, 
 
 Life was growing dim, 
 And the Angels, looking down, 
 Wove, with tender s])eed, her crown. 
 
 Quietly she faded then, 
 
 Tranquilly she died, 
 Jesus radiantly drew near 
 
 Standing at her side, 
 " Come," he said, " thy struggle o'er, 
 Rest be thine, for evermore." 
 
 And mine eyes look up to-day 
 
 To her throne of gloiy, 
 As my lips thus feebly tell 
 
 Her immortal story. 
 Muse upon it, and you '11 see. 
 Saints were once like you and me. 
 
 j^aiut ^Ijomas of ^.^quiir. 
 
 A throne upon the earth is raised, 
 Alike by peer and peasant praised. 
 Many a bright and lofty brow 
 Beneath its da/zling sway doth bow, 
 And few there are whose eyes can see 
 How tinselled is its majesty, 
 It domineers, su])reme and wide, 
 '^I'he reign of intellectual jjride. 
 
 Its votaries stand, erect and high, 
 Tlie secrets of the heavenly sky. 
 The depths of earth, to llieni are nought. 
 They range them o'er, in fearless thought, 
 And error cannot date c:ome near 
 The savant's intellectual sphere.
 
 27 
 
 But /, unknown, and nothing worth, 
 My name, even, scarcely heard on earth, 
 Gaze on the vaunted modern lore, 
 And then upon the ancient store, 
 Beside the men of shallow mind. 
 Whose poor pretence even / can find ; 
 In thought I sometimes try to place 
 The giants of the olden race, 
 While love and praise my heart must fill 
 To watch their simple grandeur still 
 Safe, in Humility's sweet care. 
 And guarded by the shield of prayer. 
 Oh ! youthful eyes ! I long to raise 
 The shrouded veil of former days, 
 And bid you see how wisdom true 
 Can soar beyond our human view, 
 And then, with gentlest grace descend, 
 And, in submissive silence bend. 
 
 Europe resounded with thy fame, 
 Thomas of Aquin ! and thy name 
 By trumpet tongues was ringing forth 
 O'er land and sea, from South to North. 
 They hailed thy course, St. Dominic's Star, 
 Thy Ught shone out, o'er worlds afar, 
 A master mind, and formed to rule, 
 Prince of the Universal School ! 
 All this the outer world could see. 
 What did thy Brethren find in thee ? 
 Ah ! thine own words will fitly paint 
 Thy inner life, thou wondrous Saint ! 
 
 'T was just the setting of the sun. 
 Their apostolic labours done, 
 The white-robed Brethren came at last 
 To break their long-enduring fast, 
 And, while the frugal board was spread, 
 From the Lectorium, Thomas read. 
 His voice, so full, so rich and clear. 
 Like solemn music on the ear
 
 28 
 
 Entranced the listening Fathers there, 
 Lifting their minds to grateful prayer ; 
 But when, with glowing hearts, they spoke 
 Of all the thoughts that Lecture woke, 
 Lo ! a young Novice-voice was heard, 
 " Brothers, methinks a Latin word 
 Was strangely mispronounced to-night, 
 The accent, surely, was not right." 
 Meekly St. Thomas bowed assent, 
 In bright humility content, 
 And when, the following eve, he read 
 That word, with altered accent, said, 
 Provoked the learned Fathers' eyes 
 To rest on him, in mute surprise. 
 Their eager lips could scarce refrain 
 Indignant query. Yes ! 't was plain 
 That he, whose mighty genius grasped 
 The wide world's range of learning vast, 
 Had let that youthful Novice claim 
 The right to warn, correct, and blame. 
 " Master of Science ! should this be. 
 Is condescension meet for thee ? 
 By ignorance censured, dost thou stand. 
 Thou the great Glory of our land ? " 
 " Nay I " spoke the grand angelic Soul, 
 Should not the heart the tongue control. 
 Is not serene submission worth 
 All the ])Oor knowledge of the earth ? 
 My Fathers ! life is passing fast, 
 I seek the treasures that will last. 
 The trancjuil, deferential word, 
 When dejjths of ])ride are rudely stirred, 
 The calm acceptance of a slight, 
 These will be jewels, softly bright, 
 Set round the fair, eternal i)agc, 
 Traced by the one Almighty Sage." 
 
 Oh ! golden lesson ! \Vould that we 
 Who boast superiority
 
 29 
 
 When our poor, scanty harvests bear 
 Some buds of doubtful beauty there, 
 Would we could model word and thought 
 On these great maxims, sweetly taught. 
 Oh ! youthful eyes ! look up to see 
 The royal crown that sanctity 
 Can wreathe upon the scholar's brow 
 And own the reign of virtue now. 
 Bidding the brilliant, gifted mind 
 In lowliest deeds its " treasures " find. 
 Teaching it that the lessons given 
 To lead the lofty soul to heaven 
 Are far more precious, far more dear, 
 Than all the learning cherished here, 
 Won with so much of toil and cost. 
 And then, perchance, for ever lost. 
 While on some lowly peasant's head 
 The light of love divine is shed, 
 And God's supreme, unerring choice 
 Proclaims with calm Almighty voice, 
 " Not many great ^ tiot many wise, 
 Shall reign in amaranthine skies." 
 
 ^Ei^rman, i\t ^isternan J^^c|j^cr^. 
 
 I have brought you a group of children 
 
 To tell you a little tale, 
 It will show you a blooming hill side, 
 
 A beautiful, shining vale. 
 You can sit by its tiny river. 
 
 And hear how the waters sing, 
 Sparkling and dancing brightly, 
 
 Fanned by the breath of spring.
 
 30 
 
 There 's a grand old cloister near it, 
 
 A church and a spire high, 
 With a lovely Cross above it. 
 
 Crowned by the deep blue sky. 
 The birds in the forest round it, 
 
 Carol a happy lay, 
 And all through the quiet meadows. 
 
 You see the lambs at play. 
 
 But why is that old monk standing 
 
 With tears in his aged eyes ? 
 And why, as he looks around him, 
 
 Do we hear his heavy sighs ? 
 " My children," he says, " remember, 
 
 It is but a year to-day 
 Since our Brother Herman left us 
 
 Passed to his God away." 
 
 " But why arc you weeping. Father ? 
 
 So many a grave is there, 
 Wliere you raised the Churchyard Crosses, 
 
 With the 'Requiescat' of prayer." 
 " Yes ! there are many resting 
 
 Under the cypress dim. 
 But, children, there are not many 
 
 Mourned, as we mourn for ///>;/." 
 
 " Father, we always loved him, 
 
 Spoke to him every day, 
 He was always glad to see us. 
 
 Always so bright and gay. 
 Still, he was but a She])herd. 
 
 Often he used to tell 
 That he 'did not know a letter, 
 
 Never had learned to spell.' 
 
 And sometimes, whenever we told him 
 
 We were reading a holy book 
 About God or His Blessed Mother, 
 
 He gave such a longing look,
 
 31 
 
 But 't was only jusl for a moment, 
 And then he would smile and say, 
 
 ' I am only an ignorant shepherd, 
 But, still, I can love and pray.'" 
 
 " He was a Saint, my children, 
 
 A beautiful, blessed soul. 
 He needed no books to teach him. 
 
 He wanted no learned scroll. 
 Here, in this lonely valley, 
 
 His spirit walked with God, 
 Till the lovely light of heaven 
 
 Shone round, wherever he trod. 
 
 Yes ! he was but a Shepherd, 
 
 The lambs that are playing there, 
 The oxen in yonder meadow. 
 
 These were his daily care." 
 "And he loved them dearly, Father, 
 
 Did you ever hear one day, 
 That largest ox was unruly, 
 
 He was going to drive it away. 
 
 Then he just looked up for a moment, 
 
 I am sure he said a prayer. 
 For when he looked down, it was kneeling, 
 
 Yes ! the Ox was kneeling there. 
 Bowing before him gently. 
 
 He patted its great brown head. 
 And * I know you will never give me 
 
 Trouble again,' he said. 
 
 No wonder, children, 't was whisjjered 
 
 That the Queen of angels stood, 
 Coming to bless him fondly. 
 
 There, in that little wood. 
 And then, when the sun beat fiercely, 
 
 Or the winter blast was cold, 
 She covered the poor old Shepherd 
 
 Close in her mantle's fold."
 
 32 
 
 " Will you tell us now, dear Father, 
 
 How Brother Herman died ? 
 All the children were sorry, 
 
 Some of them sobbed and cried, 
 The last time I ever saw him, 
 
 He laid his hand on my head, 
 Stooped down, and (]uietly whispered 
 
 'Pray for me, when I 'm dead.'" 
 
 " He was failing fast, dear children, 
 
 But never a word's complaint 
 Came from his lips. No ! Never ! 
 
 Our gentle and joyous Saint 
 Smiled when his pains were greatest, 
 
 Sang us a simple song, 
 ' The poor old man is going. 
 
 He '11 be at home ere long.' 
 
 * Where are you going. Brother ? ' 
 
 I heard the Abbot say, 
 Oh ! the wasted face grew brighter, 
 
 ' To heaven, I hope and pray. 
 To that beautiful land, my Father, 
 
 I think Its Queen will come. 
 And tell the angels to take me 
 
 Away to her lovely home.' 
 
 'T was a summer morn. We raised him, 
 
 To ask how he felt that day, 
 'So well,' he said, ' and so happy,' 
 
 (Suffering had jxasscd away.) 
 ' Is that the Mass-bell ringing? 
 
 I '11 join it, here, in my bed.' 
 Ere the holy Sacrifice ended 
 
 Our Saint was lying dead. 
 
 Nay! Ciiiklrcn, you must not i)ity, 
 You must not mind my tears, 
 
 /, too, am old, and am sinking 
 Under ihc wcigiu of years.
 
 33 
 
 It is foolish to weep so sadly 
 For those who are ' gone before,' 
 
 We '11 soon be with them for ever 
 On the placid Golden Shore. 
 
 But, I want you all to remember. 
 
 It is not the worldly wise 
 Who will gain the Thrones of Glory 
 
 In the Palace of the skies. 
 The poor, and the weak and lowly 
 
 Are reigning grandly there, 
 When they lived, like our Brother Herman, 
 
 A life of love and prayer." 
 
 ^t 2E0ttatms antr l^e ^obite. 
 
 Saint Ignatius, walking stately 
 Through a corridor one day, 
 
 Recollected, yet observant. 
 Met a Brother on the way. 
 
 He was sweeping it, I grant you, 
 But the brush went here and there, 
 
 In a sort of zig-zag fashion. 
 With a free and easy air. 
 
 Well ! perhaps it was the weather. 
 
 We are not exactly told 
 Was it summer, was it winter. 
 
 So it might be freezing cold. 
 
 When the hands are rich in chilblains, 
 And the body shrunk together. 
 
 Some inculpable transgressions 
 May be laid upon the weather.
 
 34 
 
 Or, perhaps, it was so warm, 
 
 The poor Brother could not keep 
 
 His hot eyelids from reposing 
 In a kind of semi-sleep. 
 
 Saint Ignatius was a soldier, 
 
 Trained to military rule, 
 And the army, let me tell you. 
 
 Is a most unsparing school. 
 
 There they cultivate perfection 
 
 In the cleaning of a gun. 
 And the hand will surely rue it, 
 
 That produces work half done. 
 
 So 't was hard on Saint Ignatius, 
 
 As he passed along, to find 
 That the Brother who was sweeping 
 
 Was of plainly different mind. 
 
 He was barely skimming over, 
 
 With the dust left everywhere. 
 Till the very blindest Charity 
 
 Could see he did not care. 
 
 Saint Ignatius stepped up cjuietly 
 
 (The Brother slowly trod) 
 "Tell me, child, for whom you're 7aorking?" 
 
 Said the Brother ''All for God/" 
 
 But the Saint's dark eyes enkindled 
 With their ra])id, southern glow, 
 
 "All for (iod," he cried, "Oh'l never 
 Dare you serve our Master so. 
 
 If you said tliat you were toiHng 
 
 For I lie love or fear of me, 
 I would say 't was little matter, 
 
 \Vould pass on, and leave you free.
 
 35 
 
 Rut to Him, the great Creator, 
 Such a work as this to give. 
 
 Well ! your Penance of this evening 
 You '11 remember — while you live.'" 
 
 What the Penance was — I know not, 
 So I '11 not pretend to say, 
 
 But — the Corridor was perfect 
 From that memorable day. 
 
 W fear SE ^afax JpHIjrofoix ^Mi\x^t\i ^toan. 
 
 A sentence from a poet's pen, 
 
 One who had learned the minds of men, 
 
 Repeated to me here, one day. 
 
 In a half jesting, casual way, 
 
 And yet, like many a passing thing. 
 
 It must have touched some hidden spring, 
 
 For, surely, ever and again, 
 
 It echoes back in varied strain, 
 
 Sometimes in mirth-provoking thought. 
 
 Sometimes witli deeper feeling fraught, 
 
 And so, at last, I pause and say, 
 
 " How do we throw ourselves away?" 
 
 First, who are we ? Poor mites of earth. 
 Dust and abjection gave us birth. 
 And yet, the glorious, fire -robed sun 
 Will own its bright existence done. 
 The stars' transparent light will fade. 
 The w^orld, so wonderfully made. 
 Will vanish as a nightly dream. 
 While we, who all so fragile seem, 
 Shall live eternally, and move. 
 In land of woe, or home of love. 
 Then, let us ponder, while we may, 
 How can we throw ourselves away ?
 
 36 
 
 Oh ! far and wide the answers come, 
 Echoed by voices nearer home, 
 The wearied seekers after wealth, 
 The anxious devotees to health ; 
 Some, toiling on with hand or brain 
 Exhausted by the fevered strain ; 
 Some, with a closed-up anxious eye 
 On self, their one idolatry, 
 Wait for a few fast fleeting years, 
 Then the unveiled truth appears, 
 The hoarded stores of riches gone. 
 The gold, that all so grandly shone, 
 Scattered, or, if it still be there. 
 Battered and dim with pain and care. 
 Ye wealth adorers ! need we say, 
 " You 've madly thrown yourselves away." 
 
 The softly tended, nurtured frame. 
 Guarded from every blast that came 
 (Like hot-house plant, too fine to bear 
 An alteration in the air), 
 Whose comfortably pillowed head 
 Ached at a wrinkle in the bed, 
 The voice that whined in pettish way, 
 If haply, some unusual day 
 The pampered body could not find 
 The fare exactly to its mind. 
 Ah ! let the hand of Time advance 
 Wrinkling the delicate countenance. 
 Stealing away the youthful strength, 
 Till age o'crmastcrs it at length. 
 And nothing soothes it, nought avails 
 To ([ucll its melancholy wails. 
 With sliding step the Ancient Babe 
 Goes, unlamcnted, to the grave. 
 And lookers on draw near to say, 
 ''I fear that life 7vas thrown aicayT 
 
 The student, hungrily bent down, 
 With eyebrows meeting in a frown.
 
 37 
 
 Nibbling the crumbs of knowledge up, 
 Dreaming he drains the Pierian cup, 
 That only jealousy or chance 
 Retards his marvellous advance. 
 Mooning about, with clouded sight, 
 Dazzled, he thinks, by learning's light. 
 So do his ceaseless tasks go on, 
 Till the last page of life is done. 
 He closes it, 't is sealed ! They say 
 '"'■ Another life is thrown away" 
 
 A different type, of different mind, 
 
 Gifted, intelligent, refined, _ 
 
 One to whom love and praise belong, 
 
 A child of genius and of song, 
 
 Brilliant and winning, with the charm 
 
 That even envy can disarm, 
 
 No miserable scribbler he, 
 
 But a grand spirit, bold and free, 
 
 Who, should he touch the waves of rhyme. 
 
 Leaves " footprints on the sands of time." 
 
 Should deeper thought his mind engage. 
 
 Is hailed for ever, as a sage. 
 
 Alas ! thou soul of radiant birth ! 
 
 Thou 'rt shining— w'lih. the dross of earth. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! thine eagle eye 
 
 Cares not to pierce the heavenly sky. 
 
 Thy glorious, far-resounding, tone 
 
 Doth lack otie heart-chord, one alone, 
 
 The voice of prayer, the voice of love 
 
 That rises to the Land above. 
 
 Life beams around thee, till the day 
 
 That bids its roseate hues decay, 
 
 They lay thee on a stately bier, 
 
 With many a sigh and many a tear, 
 
 While sorrowing angel spirits say 
 
 " That beauteous life was thrown away." 
 
 One more, the meanest lot of all, 
 The bitterest bondage, hardest thrall,
 
 38 
 
 A wretched struggler, ill at ease, 
 Fain to conciliate and please, 
 Content, in lap-dog style, to be 
 A hanger-on to some grandee. 
 Or tripping here, and slouching there, 
 Handing a footstool, or a chair. 
 Retailing scraps of petty news 
 With poor endeavour to amuse, 
 Busy, from morning dawn till night, 
 Paying attentions, great or slight. 
 Quite happy, if a meek advance 
 Is met by half contemptuous glance 
 From those who stand in rank or power, 
 The monarchs of the passing hour, 
 Or lone and worried, if 't is seen 
 That others, of a calmer mien. 
 And tranquil dignity, obtain 
 Esteem the Seeker seeks in vain. 
 Yet, these weak butterflies are still 
 Advancing on the mortal hill. 
 Death and the Sentence wait the day 
 AVhen, round their couch, survivors say 
 " Was not that life all thrown a7C'ay ? " 
 
 Where shall we turn ? you ask me now, 
 Can thought or science teach us how 
 Our lives, so wondrously sustained, 
 May e/id wliere endless joy is gained ? 
 Simple the answer, simply given. 
 Work not for earth, but toil for heaven. 
 Study and labour, live and love, 
 But, first, look up to Cod above. 
 And let no lowlier object fill 
 The heart He claims so fondly still. 
 Nor hermit cell, nor cloistered wall 
 May e'er be yours. He may not call 
 Your steps to tread the desert ways, 
 Yet know you that His watchful gaze 
 Is closely, calmly bent to .see 
 T/ie Christian'' s vowed fidelity.
 
 39 
 
 Whate'er you say, whatc'cr you do, 
 Be truly honest, truly true, 
 Beneath His eye kneel down to pray, 
 Let each revolving night and day 
 Bear truthful witness, while you say 
 '■'■I do not throw myself atoay.'" 
 
 J^otns IX. of prance, mxH ^i. JRxmux^ 
 
 of ^iiula. 
 
 On a couch of rich adorning 
 Lies the fever-stricken King, 
 
 Darkly o'er him falls the shadow 
 Of a death-like spirit's wing. 
 
 And the monarch shrinks in terror 
 From the calm, majestic power 
 
 Of that silent, awful Watcher 
 Over life's fast-closing hour. 
 
 "Dost thou hear it, royal Louis? 
 
 Hath the stern decree gone forth ? 
 Art thou passing from the glory 
 
 And the royalty of earth ? 
 
 Dost thou see the written mandate 
 That thy kingly sway departs ? 
 
 Canst thou summon to thy presence 
 All thy deeply practised arts ? 
 
 Oh ! arouse thee from thy torpor, 
 
 By the dial-plate we see 
 That the stream of time is hastening 
 
 To the boundless, shoreless sea.
 
 40 
 
 Dark, mysterious fancies, wreathing 
 Shapes of deepest, loneliest gloom, 
 
 Stern Precursors of the future. 
 Direful heralds of the tomb." 
 
 Look ! he riseth from his slumber. 
 Ghastly, torture-worn, and wan. 
 
 Proud, disdainful King no longer, 
 But a trembling, dying ina?i. 
 
 " Bring, oh ! bring to me," he crieth, 
 " One whose healing power is gi\-en 
 
 Not by art of man, but only 
 By the miracles of heaven. 
 
 Come, O Francis ! to thy Monarch, 
 Lay thy hand upon my heart, 
 
 Yes ! call back the ebbing life-blood. 
 Haste! the last red drops depart." 
 
 "Nay! my Sire, my King! that power 
 Rests with Him alone, who gave 
 
 The bright tide of life, o'ershadowed 
 By the night-clouds of the grave." 
 
 " Peace! I hear thee not. Oh ! give me 
 But a few short years. Once more 
 
 Rich rewards await thee, honours 
 Never known to man before. 
 
 'T was but yester-eve, they told me 
 Thou didst rescue, as from deatli, 
 
 One who waited but to render 
 His last agonizing breath. 
 
 He was poor, despised, and wretched, 
 An uncared-for, worllilcss thing, 
 
 /, the Sovereign of the Nation, 
 /am Z^/v;>, /, the King."
 
 41 
 
 "Yet, my Liege, He who dwelleth 
 
 In yon far blue skies of light, 
 Raiseth up the meek and lowly, 
 
 Striketh hearts of power and might. 
 
 Place thy life, thy hopes, thy spirit, 
 
 In His guardianship to-day. 
 Earth is powerless to aid thee 
 
 On thy lonely, distant way." 
 
 " Pause, Oh ! pause ! in pity. Knowest thou 
 How the horrors thicken round ! 
 
 I have watched, and prayed, and fasted, 
 I have knelt on holy ground. 
 
 I have borne the blessed Image 
 
 Of Our Lady, see it there. 
 For Her gentle sake, thou 'It hearken 
 
 To my supplicating prayer. 
 
 Give me back the manly vigour. 
 
 That sustained me in the fight, 
 Give my sinking heart its courage. 
 
 Give me back my failing sight." 
 
 "Ah ! it cannot be — the darkness 
 And the night are drawing nigh, 
 
 Life hath fled from thee, O Monarch ! 
 Raise thy fearful heart on high." 
 
 " Thou may'st leave me, holy Father, 
 
 For, in sore distress and pain, 
 I implored thy kindly succour, 
 
 And entreated it, in vain. 
 
 To the peasant and the beggar 
 
 Tell thy melancholy tale. 
 Ha ! what means this dimness falling 
 
 Like a strangely shimmering veil ? "
 
 42 
 
 'T is a placid, summer evening, 
 But the flood of golden rays 
 
 Shines no more for Louis, shrouded 
 In a misty, death-like haze. 
 
 In the deepening shades of twilight 
 Kneel the watchers, round his bed, 
 
 Soothing nature's parting struggles, 
 Raising up the drooping head. 
 
 Sadly, o'er his wasted features, 
 Plays the old, deceitful gleam, 
 
 And like faintly whispered echoes, 
 Or the wanderings of a dream. 
 
 *' Notre Dame d'Embrun," he murmurs, 
 And the listeners shudder then. 
 
 For the guilty past is rising, 
 With an awful glare, again. 
 
 Broken hearts and ruined fortunes. 
 Life destroyed, and shattered fame. 
 
 Deeds of deadliest crime committed. 
 While Our Lady's spotless name 
 
 By those false, cold lips was uttered, 
 But — the hour approacheth now 
 
 That will summon Gallia's Monarch 
 At a Sovereign Throne to bow. 
 
 Hush ! the last convulsive throbbing 
 Breaks the stillness of the night, 
 
 He is gone! — the darkly gifted — 
 To the God of Truth, of Light. 
 
 He is gone! They know not whither. 
 But a mighty fear hath spread 
 
 Through the halls of regal splendour, 
 Where King Louis lieth — dead !
 
 43 
 
 jgHIjc WiOnx Protons. 
 
 My Mother ! My Mother Mary, 
 I knelt at your Shrine one day, 
 
 It was not to gaze on your beauty, 
 'T was scarcely even to pray. 
 
 The path of my life was opening 
 Before me, for weal or woe, 
 
 Eternity all depended 
 On the way that my steps would go. 
 
 No mother, no friend, was near me. 
 Not one, a wise word to say. 
 
 For some were with You, in heaven, 
 And others were far away. 
 
 So I went, that day, to your Altar, 
 And pondered, before You, there, 
 
 What were the real treasures, 
 And what was the fruly fair. 
 
 And I saw, or I fancied I saw them, 
 Four brilliant Crowns, that lay 
 
 Waiting my final decision, 
 I could not pause or delay. 
 
 One was a fairy-like Garland, 
 I knew that it could not last. 
 
 Its petals would scatter or wither 
 At the sweep of a wintry blast. 
 
 And its name (for when bending o'er it, 
 I found the soft letters there), 
 
 " Beauty :" I would not take it, 
 Though I knew that my face was fair,
 
 44 
 
 'T was not worth a passing reflection, 
 
 Not worth a moment's thought, 
 Nothing that I could value 
 
 By beauty was ever bought. 
 
 No ! and I gently touched it, 
 
 Fair as you are to the eye. 
 The coronal I am seeking 
 
 Is one that must never die. 
 
 Another was resting beside it, 
 
 A diadem richly set 
 With jewels, I never had fancied 
 
 One half so magnificent, yet. 
 
 But its weight, as it pressed my forehead. 
 
 Was a weight of anxious care, 
 And the diamonds were sharp, as they touched me, 
 
 Though they looked so dazzling there. 
 
 " Riches :" I might have had them. 
 They might have been mine, I knew, 
 
 But a choice I should make, my Mother, 
 A choice between them and you. 
 
 They would lead me away from your altars, 
 
 They would give me the world instead. 
 What—\i\\^n my life was closing? 
 What — when my life had fled ? 
 
 Could they smooth my dying pillow ? 
 
 Could they give me i)cacc and joy? 
 The only joy that Death's power 
 
 Can never at last destroy. 
 
 They could not, my heart made answer, 
 
 That was their farewell day. 
 They never could purchase heaven — 
 
 1 put the rich Crown away.
 
 45 
 
 The next was a lovely Circlet, 
 
 Glowing with splendid light, 
 Compelling my admiration, 
 
 So gloriously pure and bright. 
 
 " Science :" I paused upon it. 
 
 A right royal Crown to gain, 
 One that could never be altered 
 
 By poverty, sickness or pain. 
 
 The mind, the immortal spirit, 
 
 Heaping its golden store, 
 Daily to wonderful treasures. 
 
 Adding yet more and more. 
 
 Scanning the works of Creation, 
 
 The flower and the shining star, 
 The things that are passing around us, 
 
 And those that are distant far. 
 
 Conversing with many nations, 
 
 Wherever their lot is cast, 
 Communing with grand old sages, 
 
 The giants of the past. 
 
 The past! Oh! my heart beat quickly, 
 
 A mighty, vibrating chord, 
 In the depths of my soul's recesses, 
 
 Was waked by that one brief word. 
 
 They were gone, they had passed life's portals, 
 
 Those whom I reverenced here, 
 Could I think of their lot eternal, 
 
 Unshadowed by doubt or fear ? 
 
 The gloom of the grave enshrouds them. 
 And heavy the cerecloths spread, 
 
 Wet with the tears of heaven. 
 Over the gifted Dead.
 
 46 
 
 They had walked by the light of Science, 
 They had followed its fitful gleam ; 
 
 In the land where they now are dwelling, 
 What doth its radiance seem ? 
 
 They, whom the world, in folly, 
 
 Counted as nobly wise. 
 What is their hoarded treasure 
 
 Seen by eternal eyes ? 
 
 Earth had bowed down before them, 
 
 What when they stood alone, 
 At the great INIaster's summons, 
 Trembling, before His Throne. 
 
 Gorgeous as was the Circlet, 
 
 Gleaming like liquid gold, 
 Danger was lurking closely, 
 
 Hid in its burning fold. 
 
 No ! I would never ask it. 
 Where is the last fair Wreath ? 
 
 Peace, from its gentle blossoms. 
 Seems at my touch to breathe. 
 
 Lustrous it is, and spotless, 
 
 Pure as the winter snow, 
 Though its transparent leaflets 
 
 Warmly and brightly glow. 
 
 Innocence twined that garland. 
 
 Charity's holy fire 
 Touched thee with (juiet glory, 
 
 Crown of my heart's desire. 
 
 "Sanctity:" not \\\c scrapli's 
 
 Rapt and ecstatic prayer. 
 Not the uncounted tortures. 
 
 Martyrs were sent to bear.
 
 47 
 
 Nothi/ig I could not offer 
 
 Only a loving heart, 
 Steady and true and constant, 
 
 Seeking " the better part." 
 
 '' Sanctity," not forbidding 
 Earth's little joy or love, 
 
 Only our first affections 
 Claiming for God above. 
 
 ** Sanctity," never dreaming 
 
 Of an untrodden way, 
 Only, with care, fulfilling 
 
 Duties, as best we may. 
 
 Not to the mind refusing 
 Knowledge, its just demand, 
 
 Never indeed denying 
 Work to the eager hand. 
 
 But, with intense devotion, 
 Guarding the soul within, 
 
 Keeping it pure and spotless, 
 Free from the shade of sin. 
 
 Patient, yet not unheeding. 
 When the harsh look or tone 
 
 Bids e'en the Saints remember 
 " Hearts are not made of stone." 
 
 Knowing 't will soon be over, 
 Feeling 't will pass away, 
 
 Still, sorely needing courage, 
 Strength for the fleeting day. 
 
 Oh ! but the wordless comfort 
 When the mind bows in prayer, 
 
 When the calm heart is folded 
 Close in a Father's care,
 
 48 
 
 When the blue heavens open, 
 Showing the radiant Throne, 
 
 Yes ! I had found My Garland, 
 This one should be my own. 
 
 This I would place before me, 
 Watching its sunny smile, 
 
 All through the waiting hours. 
 All through earth's " little while." 
 
 Has it been so, my Mother ? 
 
 God and His Angels know. 
 Will it be so ? God grant it 
 
 Still, as through life I go. 
 
 Only to your protection 
 
 Leaving the closing day, 
 Sweet, brilliant Star ! to guide me 
 
 Over the darkening way. 
 
 And as my Wreath was chosen 
 First at your lovely Shrine, 
 
 May your dear hand, my Mother, 
 Give me that Crown divine. 
 
 J^rtius from Ibc JMifc of J^i. ^B-Ii^^tttlj 
 
 (FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS). 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Like a flower on the hill-side, all golden hucd, gleaming 
 Like a star, shining over the Infants' first sleep, 
 
 Came Elizabeth once, to Thuringia's Mountains, 
 Her beautiful life-watch of fervour, to keep.
 
 40 
 
 With loving devotion, dear Saint, wc will see thee 
 
 In childlike humility kneel at the Shrine, 
 We '11 watch thy young steps, all encircled with roses. 
 
 The flowers of thy Charity, truly divine. 
 We '11 own that the Cross and the Chalice were given 
 
 To lead thee, dear Sufferer, over the road 
 That brought thee to join in the Angels' rich choirs, 
 
 And placed thee, at last, in the Heart of thy God. 
 Dear Mother, kind Friends, if your Children, united, 
 
 One brief passing moment of pleasure afford, 
 Your sought for approval is all we ambition, 
 
 Our only desire, our dearest reward. 
 
 1st Tableau. — St. Elizabeth in Eisenach Church. She is 
 prostrate in adoration, her crown laid beside her. The 
 Landgravine Sophia standing haughtily near the young 
 Duchess. A train of Attendants around. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 A festival in Eisenach, 
 
 The Lady-day hath risen, 
 And gloriously the Temple shines, 
 
 Like portal meet for heaven. 
 The Teuton knights keep stately watch 
 
 Around the Virgin Queen, 
 The nobles of the land have sought 
 
 The grand and solemn scene. 
 
 Proud banners, trophies of the brave, 
 
 In richly waving fold, 
 Half veil the Shrine, and shade the streams 
 
 Of sunny, living gold 
 That light the gorgeous Fane, and seek 
 
 The jewel's starry ray, 
 As fair Thuringia's royal Bride 
 
 Kneels down to weep and pray. 
 
 What, if disdainful glance is bent 
 On her, who, prostrate, there
 
 50 
 
 Casts low the ducal coronet, 
 
 While waves of golden hair 
 Fall softly on her flushing cheek? 
 
 The earnest, heaven-lit eyes 
 See nought but Him, the Crucified, 
 
 Who suflcrs, droops and dies. 
 
 Then, when the haughty word was heard, 
 
 " Elizabeth, the scorn 
 That waits the refuse of the earth 
 
 The vile, the lowly born. 
 The taunt that greets the world-dulled ear 
 ■ Of aged devotee, 
 Is meet for her who lays aside 
 
 Her fitting dignity. 
 
 Replace thy diadem. Arise. 
 
 The peasafif shrouds her face. 
 Thine be a regal majesty, 
 
 A trancjuil, queenly grace." 
 Yea! she hath risen; the blood of kings 
 
 Is mantling brightly; still. 
 With lifted hand, she points to Him 
 
 Who bled on Calvary's hill. 
 
 " Dear Lady, sec that thorn crowned Head, 
 
 'I'hat ])allid, tortured brow, 
 And, tell me, 7ooiildst thou bid me wear 
 
 My jewelled circlet now? 
 Were it not mockery to bend 
 
 Before that awful 'i'hrone 
 Tearless and calm, that He might bear 
 
 Our sin and grief alone." 
 
 And faster flowed the quiet tears 
 
 The Courtly Lady there, 
 For very shame, should simulate 
 
 'J'hc love she could not share. 
 But those who saw her darkling brow 
 
 Were often wont to say
 
 51 
 
 The memory of that festal mom 
 Would never pass away. 
 
 2nd Tableau. — St. EUzabeth at the Castle Gate, distributing 
 alms to a crowd of beggars. Her store being exhausted, 
 she gives her jewelled glove to a poor pilgrim, from 
 whom it is speedily purchased by a Knight, who always 
 fastened it in his helmet when going to battle. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 She moved among them, and they deemed 
 
 The angels scarce more fair. 
 More pure, more wondrously serene. 
 
 More tender in their care. 
 That Wartburg Castle Hall enshrined 
 
 A Mother's heart of love, 
 She stooped to earth, that she might raise 
 
 These lowly ones, above. 
 
 And once they tell that all her store 
 
 Of daily alms was gone, 
 When, to her feet, an aged man 
 
 Crept near, with piteous moan. 
 The old, old tale, a childless hearth, 
 
 A feeble, waning life, 
 Poor, worn-out traveller, death alone. 
 
 Could ease that weary strife. 
 
 She laid her tender, pitying hand 
 
 Upon his silvery head 
 And, drawing off her jewelled glove, 
 
 " Take this, dear Friend,^'' she said. 
 She knew not that a watchful eye 
 
 Had marked her offering given. 
 She saw not, that with golden coin 
 
 Asking that pledge of heaven, 
 
 A Knight, with suppliant hand, redeemed 
 The prize the beggar bore,
 
 52 
 
 And henceforth, on his plumed crest 
 
 The silken gauntlet wore. 
 The Infidels, on Eastern plains, 
 
 Lay prostrate 'neath his arm. 
 He passed as one who knew not fear. 
 
 Secure from touch of harm. 
 
 They marvelled why — till years had fled, 
 
 And, as he went to rest, 
 His dying eyes sought lovingly 
 
 That treasure on his crest, 
 And, in his failing voice, he told 
 
 How powerful the shield 
 That nerved his hand for victory 
 
 On life's long battle-field. 
 
 3rd Tableau. — St. Elizabeth going with provisions to a poor 
 cabin, is met by Louis and tlie Courtiers. Louis raises 
 her mantle, expecting to find her carefully concealed 
 charity, but he sees only an exquisite wreath of roses. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 The Star of the evening, with silvery splendour. 
 
 Is seen o'er the mountain tops. Onward they come, 
 
 The day has gone by, in the shades of the forest 
 The hunters are merrily seeking their home. 
 
 Thuringia's echoes awake to their music. 
 
 The horn of the forester sounds on the breeze, 
 
 When the steed of the Landgrave stands still 'neath the 
 pressure, 
 For, treading the Iiill-sidc the Sovereign sees 
 
 Elizabeth, slowly and wearily bending 
 
 As tliough 'neath a burden too weighty to bear. 
 
 And closely around her a dark, heavy mantle 
 She folds, with unwonted, and sedulous care.
 
 53 
 
 She has heard from yon cabin the cry of the children 
 
 WaiUng and weeping, for hunger is sore, 
 And strange, in the hands of Thuringia's Lady, 
 
 Was the sustenance meet that she speedily bore. 
 
 But her wistful humility shrinks, as beside her 
 
 The Courtiers draw rein, that their Monarch may stand, 
 
 Though gently, resistlessly raising her mantle. 
 But — a garland of roses is touching his hand. 
 
 Some, white as the snow-flake, some brilliantly glowing. 
 
 Their exquisite perfume is wafted afar, 
 While above and around them a golden light hovered, 
 
 He looked to the skies for that wonderful Star. 
 
 No orb of the firmament shone with such splendour. 
 
 But, over Elizabeth's sanctified head, 
 A lovely and luminous Cross was uplifted, 
 
 Its beautiful heavenly lustre to shed. 
 
 And there, in the hush of the evening, they watched it, 
 That solemn and sweet revelation of God, 
 
 Proclaiming the fulness of Charity's blessing" 
 To hallow the path that Elizabeth trod. 
 
 4th Tableau. — St. Elizabeth driven from the Castle, with 
 her little children. She takes refuge in a stable. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 They have closed the Castle portals, 
 
 Not one kindly voice or hand 
 Is upraised to shield and aid her 
 
 In her own beloved land. 
 
 Oh ! the bitter, bitter night wind. 
 
 And the bitter, falling snow, 
 As the Mother and the Children 
 
 Through the winter starlight go,
 
 54 
 
 All so desolate, so friendless 
 
 That the lonely heart denies 
 E'en the tear drop's saddest healing 
 
 To the burning brow and eyes. 
 
 She, the sweet, consoling Angel 
 Of the sorrowing and the weak, 
 
 Now the lowliest of shelters 
 
 For her orphan babes must seek. 
 
 She hath found it. Oh ! my Saviour ! 
 
 Though Thy Bethlehem cave was drear. 
 Yet more comfortless the refuge 
 
 Thou hast given Thy servant here. 
 
 But the light, the joy of heaven 
 
 Bore aloft her raptured soul, 
 Cold and hunger vanished from her 
 
 As she rose to hear the toll 
 
 Of the Matin bell, and hastening 
 To the Friars, she bade them sing — 
 
 " Miserere ? " " No ! Te Deum," 
 To the world's redeeming King. 
 
 There she knelt, in radiant gladness. 
 
 As the glorious hymn arose, 
 God's own peace, the joy oi suffering, 
 
 And the love of earthly woes, 
 
 Came to dwell with her for ever, 
 For the patient heart had won 
 
 An unseen, victorious triumph 
 
 God's most blessed work was done. 
 
 5th Tableau. — St. Elizabeth on her deathbed. 
 
 RECITATION, 
 
 It was the reign of holy night, 
 When lol a dear, rclcslial light
 
 55 
 
 Shone o'er the sky, and lingered where 
 
 Elizabeth, in silent prayer, 
 
 Watched, through the hours of nature's rest, 
 
 When, sweetly spoke a voice so blest. 
 
 No melody, no song of bird 
 
 Like that rich tone was ever heard. 
 
 "Come, my Elizabeth, my Bride!" 
 
 Then, as the radiance glorified 
 
 All the poor dwelling, cold and bare, 
 
 Jesus, the Bridegroom, standing there, 
 
 Blessed her, and then He passed away. 
 
 While, as in bliss untold, she lay. 
 
 Entrancing melody had filled 
 
 The air, and every sound was stilled. 
 
 It ceased, and then arose again 
 Ehzabeth, on her couch of pain, 
 But mortal agony was o'er. 
 And, mirrored on th' eternal Shore, 
 The life, the love of by-gone years. 
 Their sorrows and their lonely tears, 
 All lay before her, and she saw, 
 How wise the rule, how sweet the law 
 That led her o'er the thorn strewed way, 
 To find the light of fadeless day. 
 She bowed her head — a silence fell — 
 The soul had fled, and then a swell 
 Of angel harmony around 
 Proclaimed, with grand, exulting sound, 
 " The Kingdom, and the pomps of earth, 
 These have I deemed of little worth. 
 These hath my inmost heart despised 
 For love of Him, the Crucified, 
 To whom my faith and hope are given. 
 Lord of eternity in heaven." 
 
 Six centuries have passed away, 
 And yet that unforgotten day
 
 56 
 
 Doth bid us tenderly revere 
 
 This Saint, so powerful, so dear. 
 
 Oh ! with thine own maternal care, 
 
 Lead us, we pray, through love and prayer, 
 
 Home to the Dove's beloved Nest, 
 
 Home to the Land of changeless rest. 
 
 iii XI m X 1 i f jT . 
 
 A DEFINITION. 
 
 'T is an age of definitions, 
 
 So I ask you to define 
 Something ve}y useful 
 
 That a great deal will combine. 
 
 Yes ! define for me. Humility, 
 Whose angel wings can rise 
 
 From the vales of self-abjection 
 To the Mountains of the skies. 
 
 Is it marked by downcast eyelids? 
 
 By a creeping, shrinking air? 
 Furtive glances, stooping shoulders? 
 
 No ! I cannot see it i/icre. 
 
 With a meekly drawling accent 
 Does it say, in humble tone, 
 
 That its i^eneral fund of sinfulness 
 \\. painfully must own? 
 
 All the time, its chosen failings 
 Keeping hid, with stealthy care. 
 
 Is that your xokc, Humility? 
 I cannot hear you there.
 
 57 
 
 Do you lavish special courtesy, 
 
 When special eyes can see 
 A pellucid stream of candour 
 
 And a bland civility 
 
 In a very lowly manner, 
 
 Sinking down to lowest place? 
 
 Nay ! my beautiful Humility, 
 I miss your truthful face. 
 
 Deeply conscious that unworthy 
 In the sight of God you stand, 
 
 Little caring, little heeding 
 
 If your acts look wise or grand 
 
 In the eyes of fellow-mortals. 
 
 In the gaze of shallow men. 
 But, with peaceful heart abiding 
 
 'Neath the heavenly Throne, and then, 
 
 Quite co7itent, if quite unnoticed, 
 Quite serene, if prized and sought. 
 
 Praise and blame, alike accepted 
 Without one disturbing thought. 
 
 Looking up to meet the sunshine 
 
 Of a genial word, and yet, 
 Should no voice of kindness greet you, 
 
 Scarcely feeling a regret. 
 
 Or, when trials rain around you, 
 
 Speaking lovingly to God, 
 "Tender Father, Friend and Master, 
 
 Let me bend beneath Thy rod. 
 
 None as /can know how justly 
 Thou art humbling me to-day, 
 
 None as / can know how sadly 
 I have wandered from Thy way."
 
 58 
 
 Then I see you, sweet Humility, 
 When the stormy hour is o'er 
 
 Just as gentle, just as placid, 
 Just as courteous, as before. 
 
 Nor servility, nor cringing, 
 
 Nor the flatterer's ready speech, 
 
 Nor astute insinuations 
 
 Can your simple greatness teach. 
 
 You, so strangely unpretending. 
 And, withal, I know not how, 
 
 True nobility is shining 
 
 On your mild, majestic brow. 
 
 It will yet be crowned resplendent, 
 Brilliant, heavenly rays entwined 
 
 Round the fair and glorious virtue 
 / so poorly have defined. 
 
 I have seen it ! I have loved it ! 
 
 Yet it seems a thing afar, 
 It is beaming high above me, 
 
 Like a heaven-enkindled star. 
 
 Tell me not of wit or genius, 
 Let me hear not of the praise 
 
 That is given to skilful windings 
 Through the world's intricate ways. 
 
 To the hands and tongues uplifted 
 To crush down the poor and weak, 
 
 There arc victories, more enduring, 
 Tiicsc n/o//e I'll bravely seek, 
 
 For the Land of God is promised 
 To the humble and the meek.
 
 69 
 
 (address for distribution of prizes) 
 
 Happy birds! sweet birds! let your light wings rest, 
 
 And silence your summer lay, 
 We are seeking for messengers, bright and free, 
 
 To the lands far, far away. 
 
 The ships come and go, o'er the restless main, 
 
 But they bear no tidings here. 
 And Loretto's Children long to know 
 
 Is there any home so dear, 
 
 Any spot so fair as their own green Isle 
 
 On Europe's vast expanse ; 
 Go forth, little warblers, we trust to you. 
 
 To your swift and bird-like glance. 
 
 1ST BIRD. 
 
 With drooping pinions a Bird has come 
 Back to the shelter of Erin's home. 
 It passed o'er the sea, and it cleft the air. 
 O'er cities of splendour, and valleys fair. 
 The waves of the Danube that Bird has seen, 
 On Thuringian mountains its rest has been. 
 And it tells that the wayside Cross is gone. 
 That the tide of oppression is rolling on. 
 Swifter far than the river's flow 
 Is the fell work done by our Church's foe. 
 Prelate and Priest, in their bondage lie. 
 Hunted, despoiled, till they droop and die 
 'Neath the long slow torture of care and pain. 
 Till the spirit, bursting its mortal chain, 
 Soars to the Centre of light above. 
 As home to the Ark fled the weary dove.
 
 60 
 
 2ND BIRD. 
 
 A little feathered wanderer 
 
 Will chant another lay, 
 On rapid wing he gained the shore 
 
 Of France, the bright and gay. 
 But, even amid the vine-clad hills, 
 The roseate groves, the sparkling rills. 
 He missed the shamrock on the fields, 
 
 The robin's happy song, 
 And all the many charms that must 
 
 To dear home scenes belong. 
 And, more than all, he vainly sought 
 The spirit our Apostle taught : 
 
 To cling, with constancy unchanged 
 
 By sorrow, time, or death. 
 To olden loves and olden hopes. 
 
 And to the olden faith. 
 Though Gallia's soil is bright and fair, 
 The Irish heart is tvanting there. 
 
 3RD BIRD. 
 
 To Italy hastened a warbler then. 
 
 With a loving, loyal word, 
 " Hail to our Pope, from the Irish child "— 
 
 So sang the messenger bird. 
 
 Why? Have the years in their flight effaced 
 
 The path to the Vatican Hall? 
 Is this Captive the Sovereign Pontiff King? 
 
 Can the circlet of Peter fall 
 
 I'Yom the brow of him who doth nobly bear 
 
 llic hcjnoured and sainted name 
 
 Of I^o ? " Alas ! it is so, sweet bird, 
 
 Since the traitor Sardinian came.
 
 61 
 
 Fly back to the shores oi the Emerald Isle, 
 
 To the little, faithful flock. 
 Who cling, through the waves of life's stormy sea, 
 
 To the One Eternal Rock." 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The birds we summoned here to-day. 
 With fanciful, yet truthful lay, 
 Have taught us, sisters, how to prize 
 Our island home, whose sunny skies 
 ,0'er-canopy a land thrice blest, 
 'Neath Mary's heavenly smile to rest. 
 Why, when the nations fell away. 
 Hath Erin's Faith defied decay? 
 Why have her children safely trod 
 The only path that leads to God? 
 We know it well, dear Reverend Friends, 
 On your devoted care depends 
 So much of future weal or woe. 
 That to your zeal we gladly owe 
 The precious gifts to Erin given. 
 Of peace on earth and joy in heaven. 
 If, as we do, this joyous day. 
 We place beneath Religion's sway 
 The talents, graciously bestowed 
 To beautify our earthly road, 
 Like rays across our pathway thrown. 
 They '11 guide us to our Father's home. 
 
 j^t. ^Ijilip ^Mtm imb lljc J^^citn ^rothr. 
 
 A Brother, whose patience was nearly spent, 
 To his Superior sadly went, 
 " Father," he said, " I '11 have to tell, 
 Jhey really do not treat me well.
 
 62 
 
 They call me here, and they call me there, 
 I scarcely get time to say a prayer, 
 And the best of it is, I 'm always to be 
 At work for the whole Community." 
 
 " What work, my Brother? Do you sew?" 
 " No — But the Buttons! Many a row 
 For all their soutanes, and collars, and clothes 
 I labour and toil at, and then they goes, 
 
 And they say, ' the Buttons are rather smalt,' 
 Or ' they 're much too large' — 'do n't suit at all.'" 
 " Is every one of the Brotherhood 
 So hard to be pleased?" No! some are good, 
 
 Really nice, and really kind. 
 If the Buttons do n't fit, they never mind. 
 They make the best of them, and they say 
 Won't you do better, another day?" 
 
 " Ah ! my Brother, that 's soft and sweet, 
 
 Such as these we like to meet. 
 
 But, tell me now, if your Buttons bright 
 
 Got all discoloured — would that be right? 
 
 Would you be pleased with them — sew them on ? 
 
 How would they look when your work was done?" 
 
 " Badly, Father, but when I choose 
 
 Metal buttons, I never refuse 
 
 To polish them up with a bit of leather, 
 
 Rubbing them, haid :iv\(\fast together. 
 
 " Ha! Ha! good Brother, that 's the way, 
 
 So it will be with your soul, some day. 
 
 All this rubbing they give you now 
 
 Is not very i)leasant, I allow. 
 
 They may be hard on you, thinking you 're slow, 
 
 You may be doing your best, I know, 
 
 But, trust me, they 're certainly brightening your soul 
 
 And making it smooth as a button-hole. 
 
 Knocking off the sharj) angles, too, if you 'II let 
 
 God's hand do His work by His instruments. \ci
 
 63 
 
 You '11 say 't is not easy. // is fwt, but try, 
 And see what a Saint you will be, when you die, 
 For I ask you to hope, and I ask you to pray, 
 That our souls may be bright as your Buttons one day. 
 
 Jplfje ^©atsn nitb i\n ^o.^^cjloijc. 
 
 Their home was in a meadow, 
 
 They were blooming side by side, 
 A Daisy and a Foxglove, 
 
 Like humility and pride. 
 For the latter stood up haughtily 
 
 In many tinted dyes, 
 With her half-closed bells, concealing 
 
 Her observant, wandering eyes. 
 
 But the Daisy's snowy petals 
 
 Were outspread to meet the light. 
 Quite content to watch the sunbeams 
 
 From the morning dawn till night. 
 Till, at last, the restless Foxglove 
 
 Their habitual silence broke. 
 And bending towards the Daisy, 
 
 In her softest tones she spoke : 
 
 " Daisy, pretty Daisy ! with your little golden eye 
 
 Looking up so sweetly ever 
 To that brilliant, dazzling sky. 
 
 To the cloudlets, waving o'er you, 
 Oh ! how weary you must be, 
 
 With the straining, constant straining 
 Through those azure depths to see."
 
 64 
 
 " Lovely Blossom," spoke the Daisy, 
 
 " It has never been a strain, 
 For I love the sunlight glory, 
 
 And the white clouds in his train. 
 You are very tall and stately. 
 
 And, no doubt, you 're very wise, 
 / am but a little Daisy, 
 
 Looking humbly to the skies." 
 
 " Nay ! look up, my little wildling. 
 
 There is many a pretty thing 
 Just beside, or very near you, 
 
 Coming out, to hail the spring. 
 I will give you some good lessons 
 
 On the bearings of the place, 
 Till I see a look of wisdom 
 
 On your foolish little face." 
 
 So the Daisy thought 't was better 
 
 Not quite ignorant to seem, 
 And she turned her golden glances 
 
 From the sun's majestic beam, 
 While her gorgeous Flower acquaintance 
 
 Undertook to make her wise, 
 Meeting Daisy's simple questions 
 
 With the cleverest replies. 
 
 " That 's a lovely Branch," said Daisy, 
 
 Waving down from yonder tree." 
 " Do you say so," was the answer, 
 
 " Look around, I think you '11 see 
 There are several leailets on it 
 
 In a sadly withered stale, 
 1 am not (juitc a prophet. 
 
 But I know its coming fate. 
 
 It is tolerably graceful, 
 
 But its charms are on the wane, 
 And j^« 're not a keen observer. 
 
 Little Daisy, that is plain."
 
 65 
 
 Daisy felt half vexed, half wounded, 
 
 But she tried to pass it o'er, 
 " Oh ! what lovely roses, climbing 
 
 All around the cottage door. 
 
 They are what / call perfection, 
 
 How I wish I had them here." 
 But the Blossom she consulted, 
 
 Said, with something like a sneer, 
 " Silly Thing ! They look enchanting. 
 
 And so soft and loving too, 
 Nestle down among their petals. 
 
 And they '11 show you what they do. 
 
 There are thorns, securely hidden, 
 
 That would leave a cruel smart 
 On your tiny velvet petals 
 
 And your tender little heart." 
 Ah ! poor Daisy ! she was weary, 
 
 Nothing fair or true. A blight 
 Lurked in everything around her 
 
 Seen in such an altered light. 
 
 But she tried again, and gazing 
 
 On a crystal, flowing stream, 
 With its wavelets richly coloured 
 
 By the sun's caressing beam. 
 " Do you see that gentle river. 
 
 Do you hear the tranquil song 
 Of its clear, transparent waters, 
 
 Hastening joyously along? 
 
 Surely, there, at least, you '11 tell me, 
 
 Happy loveliness may reign. 
 As it wanders, in low music. 
 
 Through the flower besprinkled plain." 
 " That river, why, sweet Daisy, 
 
 It is well it is so far 
 That you cannot hear how often 
 
 Its incessant ripplings jar.
 
 66 
 
 They may sound to you like inusic, 
 
 But my finely practised ear 
 A sharp, discordant wrangling 
 
 In its voice can often hear. 
 
 And you speak of spotless beauty, 
 
 If you only could but see 
 Through the depths of that same river 
 
 What a sight, my dear, 't would be ! 
 Full of creeping, loathsome insects, 
 
 And of slimy, tangled weeds. 
 Like a handsome monster, hiding 
 
 All his dark, repulsive deeds." 
 
 'T was too much. The Daisy sliuddered, 
 
 Then she raised her eyes above 
 And beheld the sun still shining 
 
 With its olden, truthful love, 
 With its pure and sj^lendid radiance 
 
 On the Branch, the Rose, the Tree, 
 And upon the slandered streamlet 
 
 With redoubled brilliancy. 
 
 "Oh! my changeless Friend," cried Daisy, 
 
 " I will never pause again 
 On the teachings that discover 
 
 Every hidden snare and stain. 
 Better far, and, Oh ! more happy 
 
 Thus to lift my eyes on high, 
 And to keep my heart rejoicing 
 
 In the calm resplendent sky." 
 
 Which was 7i.nsc, dear Friends, I ask you ? 
 
 Whicli the fairer, happier lot, 
 The sweet Daisy's or the Foxglove's 
 
 Skilled in tracing every spot? 
 Skilled in marking every blemish, 
 
 With distorted, envious mind, 
 Seeing nothing good or lovely, 
 
 Nothing noble, great or kind.
 
 67 
 
 While the Httle field flower, looking 
 
 To her One True Friend above, 
 Lived in his unspotted glory, 
 
 In his rays of trancjuil love, 
 Till her gentle life was ended, 
 
 And the faithful sunbeams kept 
 Their bright watch above the greensward 
 
 Where the buried Daisy slept. 
 
 Jplakc W-hm as '^ou ^tnb EEbcnt. 
 
 (A GLOSS). 
 
 Do n't disturb yourself about 
 
 Fair or stormy weather. 
 Squalls must sometimes whistle round, 
 
 When people live together. 
 Some will smile, and some WxWfroian, 
 
 You need never mind them, 
 Travel on, as best you can. 
 
 Take them as you find thevi. 
 
 You are peaceably inclined. 
 
 And you sometimes wonder 
 Why the restless souls delight 
 
 In exciting thunder. 
 Rushing hastily along, 
 
 Clouds of dust behind them, 
 Never follow in their track, 
 
 Take them as you find them. 
 
 Some are of a different stamp, 
 
 Quiet, deep and clever 
 (Well ! you know sincerity 
 
 Is canonised for ever).
 
 68 
 
 Nature first, and habit then, 
 Crookedly inclined them, 
 
 Do n't investigate them much, 
 Take them asyoujitid them. 
 
 Pass a little grievance by, 
 
 Do n't appear to heed it, 
 Be as helpful as you may, 
 
 Kind to those who need it. 
 Never flatter, never try 
 
 Skilfully to wind them 
 To your own peculiar views, 
 
 Take them as you find them. 
 
 They may think you very wrong, 
 
 You may think they wander, 
 Charity will whisper then, 
 
 " Better not to ponder. 
 Actions wear a different look 
 
 When motives are assigned them, 
 Keep your eyes upon yourself, 
 
 Take others as you find them." 
 
 j^ J^fsuit ^obicc. 
 
 He was of noble or princely blood. 
 
 You might trace his ancestors back to the Flood; 
 
 And sure I am that they all would be 
 
 Of wealth, importance, and dignity. 
 
 If the Tower of Babel they helped to raise. 
 
 Builders were gent/r/o/k, those days; 
 
 And if, when the Patriarch times came on, 
 
 'I'liey herded the cows, red, white and dun, 
 
 It was not the fashion then, as no7a 
 
 For a Lord to do nothing but sit and bow,
 
 69 
 
 Or walk with an utterly blue-blooded air, 
 
 And honour the rabble with mighty stare, 
 
 'T would be long and difficult, too, to trace 
 
 The pedigree of so great a race, 
 
 And, besides, in the end, you would come to find 
 
 That their Novice descendant did not mind 
 
 Whether his Father was king or cook. 
 
 In fact, if the latter, the Novice could look 
 
 For advice and assistance of which we read 
 
 At that very time he was sorely in need. 
 
 For, according to Saint Ignatius' way. 
 
 He was sent to assist in the Kitchen that day, 
 
 Not as a Master Cook, Oh ! no ! 
 
 That was too far for liis talent to go ; 
 
 But a sort of scullion, to clean and scour, 
 
 To grind the coffee, to sift the flour. 
 
 To hand the dishes and keep them hot, 
 
 To brighten the stewpan, and wash the pot. 
 
 He never attempted to boil or roast. 
 
 Nor went beyond the making of toast ; 
 
 He was often awkward, often peri)lexed, 
 
 But never complaining and never vexed ; 
 
 Only a gentle blush of shame 
 
 When his little " fu paws " to daylight came. 
 
 But was he not good, and swift, and kind. 
 
 Was he not eager, employment to find? 
 
 Did he not work with a splendid will ? 
 
 If not with extraordinary kitchen skill. 
 
 Indeed he did. He was weary and sore, 
 
 From pacing the sandy, uneven floor. 
 
 He was burned and scalded. His poor soutane, 
 
 So neat and nice when his service began. 
 
 Was greased luxuriantly here and there. 
 
 And the elbows remarkably rubbed and bare. 
 
 The sun of June was scorching the sky, 
 
 The Novice might well be forgiven a sigh, 
 
 If he heaved it over his toilsome lot, 
 
 For there he stood, lo polish :\. pot. 
 
 The inside? That might be well enough. 
 
 But no! He had got some polishing stuff,
 
 70 
 
 And Avas rubbing the outside, to-rthJy, too, 
 
 Though 't was blacker far than the blackest shoe. 
 
 Nor long in peace was he left to abide, 
 
 For a smothered voice was heard at his side ; 
 
 "Of all the vagaries ever made. 
 
 This o/ie puts them quite in the shade." 
 
 But the Novice lifted his candid look. 
 
 As clear as the page of an open book, 
 
 "// is very grii/iy, aivfuUy so, 
 
 But I '11 try to clean it before I go. 
 
 Because, at my morning prayer to-day, 
 
 I promised Our Lady that I would lay 
 
 An offering before Her, of all that is done 
 
 In this kitchen, from rising to setting of sun. 
 
 And I want to go to Her now, and tell 
 
 That I did it/t;r Her, and did // •tce!/. 
 
 To that Mother so fair, without stain or spot, 
 
 How could I offer this dirty Pot?" 
 
 The Father who listened stood very high 
 
 In learning and honour. Why did he sigh? 
 
 Why did a shade on his countenance rest? 
 
 Why did he turn, with so little zest. 
 
 To his scholarly studies and thoughts, that eve? 
 
 And why, at last, did he quietly leave 
 
 The Library Hall, for the Altar where 
 
 The tired Novice was kneeling in praver? 
 
 Ah ! there were many, who shone in the School, 
 
 Many a hand that was wise to rule, 
 
 Many a prudent, far-seeing mind. 
 
 Prompt at contrivances, quick to find 
 
 A way for bringing one safe and clear 
 
 Through any mischance that one could fear. 
 
 Perhaps this Father, himself, had been 
 
 One of these spirits, subtle and keen, 
 
 Or, perhaps, he had sometimes admiringly said, 
 
 " I envy the owner of snc/i a head." 
 
 But, somehow, tliat day, it had seemed to him 
 
 That t/ieir brilliancy might be unreal or dim, 
 
 And he knew that the Novice's soul was bright
 
 71 
 
 In God and Our Lady's eyes that night. 
 P^xperience and wisdom were wanting there, 
 They would come, in time, with trial and care, 
 But the simple devotion, the earnest heart. 
 Were so far beyond the teachings of Art, 
 That tlie Old Man looked, with a wistful gaze, 
 On that fresh, young love, in its innocent days. 
 And he owned that the wealth of the world was not 
 "Worth the Spirit that polished the Kitchen Pot. 
 
 Jplijc ^Mai:ronnii's ©"roixiitf 
 
 At the close of a summer evening, 
 
 When the Star of the Vesper time 
 Looked out from the quiet heavens 
 
 To welcome the Vesper chime. 
 While the light of the sunset lingered 
 
 Soft round the fading day, 
 To the Shrine of our Mother Mary 
 
 Came a fair Child to pray. 
 
 He was an orphan, and often 
 
 When thoughts of the past would come. 
 When, lonely and Motherless, feeling 
 
 How changed was his childhood's home. 
 He went, with a c[uiet footstep, 
 
 A weary, unchild-like brow, 
 To kneel by Her lovely Image, 
 
 His only Protectress now. 
 
 And always, to deck Her altar. 
 He haunted the summer bowers, 
 
 And twined with a constant devotion 
 A garland of blooming flowers.
 
 72 
 
 Some, that were as bright as roses, 
 
 Some, as the violet, sweet, 
 And then he would fondly lay it 
 
 To rest at Her marble feet. 
 
 One even, a wonderful longing 
 
 To crown her beloved head, 
 Stole o'er his mind, but sadly 
 
 He wept, as he gently said 
 "My Mother, thou 'rt far above me, 
 
 And I am so small, that see, 
 I never can place my flowers 
 
 There, where they ought to be." 
 
 He wistfully held the blossoms, 
 
 Uplifting his earnest gaze, 
 With ardent and loving desire. 
 
 His sweet fragrant gift to raise 
 To Her beautiful face, when, slowly, 
 
 The Queen of his heart bcfit down 
 And, with tears of devotion, the orphan 
 
 Could wreathe his bright summer Crown 
 
 Around the fair sculptured tresses. 
 
 And over the lovely face, 
 Whose delicate beauty was shining 
 
 With softest maternal grace. 
 As though our Immaculate Mother 
 
 Would teach us how dear the prayer 
 Of holy and innocent cliildren, 
 
 Who leave to Her tender care 
 
 Their hopes and their fears, with garlands 
 
 Of many a loving word. 
 Oh ! the music of cliild-like devotion 
 
 Is ever most fondly heard 
 Mid the songs of the glorified angels, 
 
 The hymns of the snowy throng 
 Who circle the throne of Mary, 
 
 Chanting the Virgin's song.
 
 73 
 
 May you, dear Children, be ever 
 
 Joined in that hymn of praise. 
 Till the smile of your heavenly Mother 
 
 Beams on your raptured gaze ; 
 Then may she take the garland 
 
 You wove in your early years, 
 And give you a Crown of Glory, 
 
 Twined in the Eden spheres. 
 
 drijiltirfn 0f % "MnV^ :^est." 
 
 There is many a voice uplifted 
 
 To plead for the suffenng poor. 
 There are tongues and pens proclaiming 
 
 The woes that they must endure. 
 We gaze on their wretched homesteads, 
 
 Ruined, and black, and bare. 
 As the cry of the broken-hearted 
 
 Pierces the wintry air. 
 
 We see them, with piteous faces, 
 
 Moaning for daily bread, 
 We sigh o'er the agonizing 
 
 Heaped in the fever-shed. 
 The lips that are parched and livid. 
 
 The scalded and sleepless eye. 
 They are pictured so oft before us. 
 
 That hourly we see them nigh. 
 
 But it is nof for these I utter 
 The wail of my heart to-day. 
 
 It is fiof for ^/lese I implore you, 
 A^of for these I come to pray; 
 
 Sadder the tale I tell you. 
 Misery deeper still.
 
 74 
 
 Anguish that sorely trieth 
 
 Submission to heaven's will. 
 Yea! prostrate in supplication, 
 
 Here, on the Irish sod, 
 For \\\e.faiiiisliing souls of the Children 
 
 I cry unto Thee, O God ! 
 
 These were Thy fairest Jewels, 
 
 Pure little Pearls of light, 
 Through their tattered garments shining 
 
 Clear in Thy blessed sight. 
 O'er them Thy Angels bending, 
 
 Round them Thine own great love, 
 Waited and watched to lead them 
 
 Up to Thy Throne above. 
 
 But hands have been laid upon them, 
 
 Torn them, O God ! from Thee, 
 And the depths of that desolation 
 
 Only Thine eyes can see. 
 Away from Thy glorious Altars, 
 
 Away from Thy Mother's Shrine 
 Their innocent lips reviling 
 
 The gifts of Thy Heart divine. 
 
 From all Thou hast consecrated. 
 
 These poor little waifs from heaven 
 Are carefully, sadly severed. 
 
 Till every bright link is riven. 
 They shudder at Mary's Image, 
 
 They shrink from tlie Priest and Nun, 
 Slowly, i)erhaps, but surely, 
 
 'l"he work of the foe is done. 
 
 Kind words, gentle smiles around them, 
 
 Food for the wasted frame, 
 Wanntli for the shivering infant, 
 
 Softly llie 'l"em])ter came; 
 For the brave, strong heart of liie I'ather, 
 
 And the love of the Mother gone,
 
 75 
 
 Nothing was left for the orphans, 
 
 But the grave and 'the church-yard stone. 
 
 Oh ! with tenderest, deepest feeling 
 
 We think of the orphan child, 
 The lonely, forsaken nestling. 
 
 To the well-woven snares beguiled. 
 And we lift through the Irish heavens 
 
 The cry of a mighty prayer — 
 "O God of the Irish Children 
 
 Shield them with earnest care." 
 
 While, for those who have won them from Thee, 
 
 Those who, with voice and hand, 
 Destroy, in the hearts of the children. 
 
 The Faith of the Irish land. 
 Daily, we '11 kneel to offer 
 
 The prayer that is sadly true, 
 "Father, forgive and save them, 
 
 They knotv not 7vhat they do." 
 
 ^am% from tijc 'JMixk of ^i. ©"trmiirire, 
 
 SHEPHERDESS OF PIBRAC, TOULOUSE. 
 (for tableaux vivants). 
 
 Tst Tableau. — St. Germaine, a little girl, in a meadow 
 surrounded by sheep and lambs. In her apron are 
 hidden some crusts, saved from her scanty breakfast, for 
 the poor. Her stepmother violently shakes Germaine's 
 apron, and a shower of lovely blossoms falls from it, on 
 the ground before them. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 O ! lonely little Shepherdess ! 
 
 Forsaken little Child ! 
 Thou 'rt very young and weak to tread 
 
 The world, so rude and wild.
 
 76 
 
 Thine eyes are bright with falling tears, 
 Thy cheeks are flushed with pain, 
 
 And thy heart may long for one kind word, 
 And long for it in vain. 
 
 Poor little Child ! thou 'rt all alone. 
 The birds, the sheep, the flowers, 
 
 The only friends that come to cheer 
 Thy solitary hours. 
 
 Yet, sweet and patient as the lambs 
 
 That cluster round thee here. 
 Thou art, O! little Shepherdess! 
 
 To God and angels dear. 
 
 For even the scanty crusts of bread. 
 
 So harshly flung to thee. 
 With poorer ones thou 'It try to share 
 
 In tender charity. 
 
 And when rude hands were laid upon 
 
 Thy little hoarded store, 
 Not bread ! — but such resplendent flowers, 
 
 As Pibrac soil ne'er bore, 
 
 Fell down, in rich, soft beauty, 
 While their fragrance filled the air, 
 
 Oh ! thou 'rt not alone, noi lonely, 
 God enfolds thee in His care. 
 
 Over I'Vancc, the great and niiglUy, 
 There are many would nut deign 
 Even to glance on thee one moment, 
 
 Little Shci)hordcss, Germainc. 
 
 But, 't were well for them, if heaven 
 In their brilliant lives could see 
 
 A faint shadow ol the loveliness 
 That angels find in ihce.
 
 77 
 
 2nd Tableau. — St. Germaine, a young girl, surrounded by 
 little children, whom she is instructing. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 The fairest, gladdest summer day, 
 The sunbeams shedding golden ray 
 
 On valleys brightly fair. 
 Toulouse in summer beauty glows, 
 The perfume of the wild white rose 
 
 Is borne upon the air. 
 
 Again we seek the Pibrac vale, 
 Again we trace our simple tale, 
 
 A life of toil and prayer, 
 Germaine, the Shepherdess, is still 
 Tending her flocks upon the hill, 
 
 Though suffering, want, and care 
 
 Have pressed their touch upon her brow 
 (The child's bright beauty faded now), 
 
 Yet calm, angelic peace, 
 That precious, well-won gift from heaven, 
 The peace to patient sorrow given, 
 
 Has bid the conflict cease. 
 
 Sharp words and bitter taunts no more 
 Wound, as they did, her spirit sore, 
 
 And every throb of pain 
 Shines, like a jewel, in her eyes, 
 Something to cherish and to prize, 
 
 A grand, eternal gain. 
 
 The little children round her press, 
 With many an innocent caress. 
 
 She speaks to them of God, 
 She tells of them of the Holy Child, 
 And of His Mother, blest and mild, 
 
 The weary path She trod.
 
 78 
 
 Tracing the way her Saviour goes, 
 She pictures all His closing woes, 
 
 The Cross on which He died. 
 She bids her little listeners stay 
 Near Him, through all their life's long day, 
 
 Close to His Wounded Side. 
 
 Then, when the shades of evening fell, 
 The tinkle of the Shepherd bell 
 
 Called her, at last to rest. 
 A wretched home, a sleepless night. 
 Though heavenly gleams of hope and light 
 
 And voices of the Blest 
 
 Solaced the poor, uncared-for frame, 
 They say that, surely, Angels came 
 
 With sweet and soothing love, 
 To whisper " Time is passing fast. 
 Soon shall thy struggles all be past. 
 
 And rest be thine — above!" 
 
 jrd Tableau. — St. Germaine on her death-bed, in a lonely 
 cabin, but surrounded by Angels, who conduct her, in 
 triumph, to heaven. The angelic procession is wit- 
 nessed by two pilgrims. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 O'er Pibrac, lone Pibrac, the shadows were falling, 
 The stars' diamond beauty was crowning the night, 
 
 And the moon's ([uict loveliness robed the deep valley 
 With her exciuisitc mantle of soft-folding light. 
 
 Two pilgrims, from Shrines of Our Lady returning, 
 Were passing through Pibrac in silence and prayer, 
 
 When lo! o'er a hut, by the wayside, extended 
 A clear, brilliant beam lit the dark midnight air, 
 
 And forth lioin lliat dwelling, they fancied deserted, 
 A glorious Procession rcsj)lcndcnlly j[)assed,
 
 79 
 
 The Angels of Heaven, in triumph were leading 
 The Soul of Germaine to its glory, at last. 
 
 The poor little desolate Child of the Mountains, 
 The sweet, patient sufferer, friendless in life. 
 
 Was to reign like a queen, in a Palace eternal. 
 
 Was crowned like a Victor, who conquers in strife. 
 
 The peasant, the Shci)herdess, servant of servants, 
 Looked up to the skies with a bright, fearless gaze, 
 
 For the garland of lonely, despised tribulation 
 Was wreathing her brow with its wonderful rays. 
 
 All past, and for ever, the heart-aching sorrows. 
 All past, and for ever, the throbbing of pain. 
 
 In the fulness of joy, the Beatific Vision, 
 Eternally dwelleth the sainted Germaine. 
 
 (THE FOREST-SAINT). 
 
 " The forest-Saint ! How often, 
 
 Harp of memory. 
 That lovely Chord is touching. 
 
 Sweetest melody. 
 Oh ! thou happy ' friend of angels,' 
 
 May thy spirit breathe 
 Fragrance on the tender flowers 
 
 That I try to wreathe. 
 
 Oh ! the bright wild birds were minstrels, 
 
 To entone the praise 
 Of Saint Hubert's gentle spirit 
 
 In those pagan days.
 
 80 
 
 Rude and dark the hearts around him, 
 But his sweet youth seemed 
 
 Like a sparkUng river flowing 
 Where the sunhght beamed. 
 
 He was very cahii and patient, 
 
 Very kind and mild, 
 Though the light of God had never 
 
 On his spirit smiled. 
 But the young, free heart was joyous, 
 
 And so brightly pure, 
 And o'erflowing with compassion 
 
 That could all endure. 
 
 'T was the day long consecrated 
 
 To the glorious Strife, 
 When the dying Saviour purchased 
 
 Our undying life, 
 But the pagan Hubert spent it 
 
 In gay revelr)-, 
 'Neath the merry, glancing shadows 
 
 Of the forest tree. 
 
 Suddenly appeared before him 
 
 A fair, snowy hart. 
 By its beauteous form inviting 
 
 The keen hunter's dart. 
 Then, with fairy fleetness passing 
 
 From admiring eyes, 
 Hubert followed, wild with longing 
 
 For so great a prize. 
 
 He alone could track its windings 
 
 Through the tangled wood, 
 So he hastened on and ever 
 
 Till the white deer stood 
 (la/.ing on him, with strange meaning 
 
 in her brilliant eye, 
 Wliile a ligiil streamed down in glory 
 
 From the evening sky.
 
 81 
 
 And it poured a steady radiance 
 
 On a bleeding Form 
 Floating in the air above him, 
 
 Crucified and worn, 
 And a sweet, sad voice of pleading 
 
 On the silence broke. 
 Till, to faith and love eternal 
 
 Hubert's soul awoke. 
 
 " O my Lord ! my God, my Father, 
 
 I am if/u'/ie~thine own. 
 Dead to eari/i, for ever living 
 
 Unto heaven alone." 
 With a smile of heavenly glory 
 
 Passed away the light. 
 Around Hubert was the forest 
 
 And the silent night. 
 
 But, with morning's earliest dawning 
 
 He had found a guide. 
 And Utrecht's saintly Pastor 
 
 Bade him lay aside 
 Every trace of pomp and power, 
 
 Every hope to come. 
 And within the lonely forest 
 
 Place his earthly home. 
 
 There were lovely hills and valleys. 
 
 But he passed them by, 
 Till a hollow rock arising 
 
 On his heaven-lit eye 
 Wooed him there to find a shelter 
 
 And a quiet Cell, 
 Where the forest deer could cluster, 
 
 For he loved them well. 
 
 Yes! his loving, childlike spirit 
 
 Seemed at once to cling 
 With a beautiful affection 
 
 To each timid thing
 
 82 
 
 That so fearlessly came round him 
 
 In his long deep prayer. 
 " My God," he said, " has made them, 
 
 They are dear and fair." 
 
 Was that woodland life too peaceful 'i 
 
 Could his crown be won 
 Only in a sterner conflict? 
 
 Yes ! " Thy will be done," 
 'T was his daily supplication. 
 
 And, as thus he prayed, 
 Lo ! he saw an Angel Watcher 
 
 In the dark tree's shade. 
 
 With a diadem of glory 
 
 Round the lovely head. 
 And soft wings of rainbow tinting 
 
 O'er his couch outspread. 
 And the clear low accents whispered 
 
 " Hubert, leave thy home, 
 God's most blessed will commands thee. 
 
 To imperial Rome." 
 
 Unresisting, uncomplaining, 
 
 Though his eyes grew dim, 
 Hubert sought the Friend who ever 
 
 Turned in love to him. 
 Only God, who truly knoweth 
 
 Deep affection's sway, 
 Knciv the bitter pang that tortured 
 
 Hubert's soul, that day. 
 
 For the snows of time fell thickly 
 
 On the honoured head 
 Of his cherished Guide and Father, 
 
 And the silent dead 
 Would receive him to their dwellings 
 
 Ere the hour could come 
 Thai would call back Hubert's tootsleps 
 
 From that far-off Rome.
 
 83 
 
 Long and lonely was the pathway, 
 
 Drear and desolate the time, 
 Till the weary pilgrim rested 
 
 At the Ave chime, 
 Near the shrine where Rome's Apostles 
 
 In their slumber lay, 
 And there, in rapt devotion. 
 
 He could kneel and pray. 
 
 There, with head bowed down in anguish, 
 
 And with burning tears. 
 Paying tribute to the friendship 
 
 Of his happier years, 
 Hubert learned that Utrecht's Bishop 
 
 Had received his Crown, 
 And on " Hubert,''' heaven elected. 
 
 Angel eyes looked down, 
 
 Angel forms came, swiftly, bearing 
 
 A bright key of gold, 
 And the jewelled crozier borne 
 
 In these days of old. 
 And again the angel voices 
 
 Bade him " Go," and then 
 Once again his chastened spirit 
 
 Spoke its sad " Amen." 
 
 Back to Utrecht's noble City 
 
 Went our gentle Saint 
 With the crozier and the mitre, 
 
 But a Legend quaint 
 Says his inmost heart was twining 
 
 With a great love still, 
 Round the mountains and the valleys, 
 
 And the tree-clad hill. 
 
 Never shrinking from his weary, 
 
 Anxious toil, and yet. 
 With un(iuestioning submission, 
 
 But with deep regret.
 
 84 
 
 Looking wistful on the forest, 
 
 And the peaceful days, 
 When its lonely grandeur echoed 
 
 To his prayer and praise. 
 
 Till, at length, arose, in splendour, 
 
 O'er his fading life. 
 The Star that told the closing 
 
 Of the mortal strife, 
 And the Angels watched the rising 
 
 Of the May-day sun. 
 For they knew that then Saint Hubert's 
 
 Earthly task was done. 
 With a prayer — the prayer of childhood- 
 
 On his lips, he trod 
 The shades of death's dark valley, 
 
 And found rest — in God. 
 
 ]]^(essciJ J^abac "^ ©"crmpanioiTS, ^i?iavtnrs, 
 
 OF THE ORDER OF FRIARS PREACHERS. 
 
 Round Poland, the fated, the noble, there rang 
 
 The clash of the Tartar sword, 
 And the war cry fled o'er its blood-red plains, 
 
 From the might of the Scythian horde. 
 
 Tumult and strife were within the walls 
 
 ( )f Sandomir's ancient town, 
 And the flower of its valiant and princely sons 
 
 Had gained an immortal crown. 
 
 But still, from St. Dominic's Cloister rose, 
 
 The chant of a prayerful hymn, 
 Still, round its altar, the i^ricstly band 
 
 Sang, while the day grew dim.
 
 85 
 
 It was the close of the Matin hour, 
 
 The reverent Novice came, 
 To open tlie record that daily told 
 
 Each saintly and martyred name. 
 
 But a change passed over his youthful face 
 
 Like a glancing ray of light, 
 For, traced on the page, were illumined words, 
 
 Gloriously clear and bright. 
 
 So dazzled his eye, he could scarce behold 
 
 The characters, gorgeously fair, 
 " In Sandomir's City, the Passion and Death 
 
 Of Forty-nine Martyrs," there. 
 
 A moment's pause, — and his boyish voice, 
 
 Like a heavenly trumpet, rang, 
 Peaceful, exulting, the coming strife, 
 
 The Victory, too, he sang. 
 
 One quick, wild thrill, through the hearts around, 
 
 Passed like a flash, and then. 
 Lowly bowed was each tonsured head, 
 
 As they chanted a grand "Amen." 
 
 And silence folded the solemn aisle, 
 
 The silence that giveth strength, 
 Nor voice, nor sound had dispelled the hush 
 
 When Sadoc arose at length. 
 
 They saw that the fire of youth had lit 
 
 The old priest's fading eye, 
 And the bright flush came, as he calmly said, 
 
 " 'T is a blessed thing to die ! 
 
 O glorious Combat ! O welcome Strife ! 
 
 The herald of God hath come, 
 Ere the sun of to-morrow shall set we '11 rest 
 
 In our Father's royal Home."
 
 86 
 
 In wonderful beauty the morning dawned, 
 
 The eastern sunbeams rose 
 In radiance over the martyr band, 
 
 And over their waiting foes. 
 
 No restless murmur afar, foretold 
 
 The terrible scene that lay 
 Folded close 'neath the sunny veil 
 
 Of that shining, summer day. 
 
 In after years there were many who said 
 
 That feelings and hopes divine 
 Floated, like Spirits of Light around 
 
 Saint Dominic's Cloister Shrine. 
 
 Oft had these visitants come to bless 
 
 The Feast of the Living Bread, 
 But never so tenderly felt, as then, 
 
 When the visions of earth had fled. 
 
 'T was over, that solemn Viaticum hour, 
 
 A quiet, and restful calm 
 Stole o'er the souls that so soon should win 
 
 The Martyrs' victorious palm. 
 
 Through the long, long day not a motion told 
 That tlie Combat was drawing near, 
 
 They walked with God, as the Angels do, 
 Loving too well to fear. 
 
 The evening came, 't was the Compline time. 
 
 The last of their earthly song, 
 The last sweet service of prayer and praise 
 
 Rose from the blessed throng. 
 
 In grandly magnificent chant, tlie notes 
 'I'lnough tlie arched aisles were given, 
 
 " Me who halli dwelt in the iielp of God 
 Abides in the care of heaven. "
 
 87 
 
 And then, in a softer and lowlier strain, 
 
 "O Sovereign Majesty! 
 O Father and Lord, in this solemn hour, 
 
 We commend our souls to Thee." 
 
 Already the rage of the battle drew nigh, 
 
 Already, with clamour wild. 
 The barbarous voices beneath prevailed 
 
 O'er the " Salve " calm and mild. 
 
 Down the long dark nave, in a white-robed file, 
 
 The peaceful Procession wends. 
 And the cherished hymn of their Mother's praise, 
 
 With the furious war-cry blends. 
 
 They kneel round the Altar, when open flung 
 
 Are the massive portals wide. 
 And so, 'neath the swords of the lawless bands 
 
 Sandomir's Martyrs died. 
 
 Lingering still on their closing lips, 
 
 The notes of the anthem rang. 
 "Oh! show us the glorious Fruit of thy womb," 
 
 The dead and the dyiiig sang. 
 
 Their exile was ended, their fadeless crown 
 
 Briefly and brightly won, 
 They went to their home with the last rich beams, 
 
 The day of their life was done. 
 
 (address for distribution of prizes). 
 
 The dawn of the morning was flushing 
 The silvery clouds o'er the sea, 
 
 And lo ! from their folds, as they parted, 
 A glory, appearing to me.
 
 88 
 
 Like a ray from the portals of heaven 
 Beamed over Hibernia's green sod, 
 
 And an Angel descended to herald 
 Some sweet revelation of God. 
 
 But, over the waters that circle 
 
 The shores of our wave-girded land. 
 
 He gazed, as he touched with a blessing, 
 The soft, sparkling billows of sand. 
 
 Why sends the fair Guardian of Erin 
 That glance o'er the nations afar? 
 
 Hath he wearied of watching and tending 
 The liglit of our Western Star? 
 
 Not so ! for, as eastward he turneth, 
 
 To cities of splendid array. 
 To halls where the Genius of learning 
 
 Can reign with an absolute sway. 
 
 Tlie low, gentle sigh of the spirit 
 Is borne on the breezes that swell 
 
 So tunefully over the mountains 
 The tales of the Summer to tell. 
 
 2ND SPEAKER, 
 
 Ye hallowed plains of Italy, 
 The blessed southern home 
 
 Of every loyal heart that clings 
 To Rome — immortal Rome. 
 
 Thy azure skies arc beautiful. 
 
 And, lovely, as of yore. 
 Arc all thy gorgeous flowery vales, 
 
 Thy placid golden shore. 
 
 And yet the earthly s])lendour fades 
 When angel eyes look down, 
 
 And sadly see the vai anl throne 
 The fallen Tri])le Crown.
 
 89 
 
 The tearful Guardians of the land 
 
 Uphold the standard still 
 That waved, when Israel's Victim stood 
 
 On Calvary's purpled Hill. 
 
 Oh ! far more meet the winter's rage, 
 The tempest's cry o'er thee, 
 
 Than this soft canopy of light, 
 Thou perjured Italy ! 
 
 3RD SPEAKER. 
 
 Alas ! o'er Europe's soil we see 
 No land, fair Spirit, meet for thee, 
 We turn to those that nobly bore 
 A glorious name, 't is theirs no more. 
 Love, hope and faith alike decayed, 
 Or feebly nurtured in the shade, 
 While the rich tree of knowledge bears 
 The fatal fruit, whose beauty snares 
 The youthful mind, the pliant will, 
 But, in our own blest Island still 
 Blest hands have tended it with care, 
 And still it bloometh, pure and fair. 
 
 Dear Reverend Friends ! to you who come 
 
 With kindly hearts within our home 
 
 We owe the blessings, dearly prized, 
 
 Learning, by virtue sanctified. 
 
 May we, by earnest wish and prayer. 
 
 Repay your long devoted care; 
 
 May Erin's Angel joy to see 
 
 Knowledge adorning sanctity. 
 
 That, when the earthly skies grow dark. 
 
 Our little vessel, our frail bark 
 
 May o'er the stormy waters steer. 
 
 Secure from danger and from fear. 
 
 Till the Angelic Pilot's hand 
 
 Guides it to heaven's eternal Land,
 
 90 
 
 (ST. THOMAS OF AQUIN). 
 
 He sat in the Class, but rarely a word 
 
 From his wondrously silent lips was heard, 
 
 Though Albert the Great was master there. 
 
 The King of the Professorial Chair. 
 
 And never, since scholars first began. 
 
 Had the world seen such a magical man. 
 
 There was nothing on earth he could not teach, 
 
 For the length of a day he could make a speech, 
 
 On anything great, or anything small, 
 
 In fact, on nearly nothing at all. 
 
 On every atom the eye could see. 
 
 From an elephant down to a humble-bee. 
 
 He could talk of the moon, the stars, the sun, 
 
 Of ever}thing that was ever done. 
 
 Logic of every remotest age. 
 
 The lives and maxims of every sage, 
 
 All flowed forth from his fluent tongue, 
 
 A\'hilc the students, in admiration hung 
 
 On his wonderful words, and prompt rcj^lies 
 
 To the subtlest questions that could arise. 
 
 But the Count of Aquin, day by day, 
 Had nothing, it seemed, to propose or say, 
 His bright companions, young founts of wit, 
 Mirthfully watched him silently sit, 
 "Thomas," they said, "is determined to be 
 A model of massii'c dignity." 
 For the poor young Count was inclined to he fat, 
 And the youths were ready to herald t/iat, 
 They sweetly enquired, " When will lie speak, 
 Anything — I'crsic — Arabic — Creek? 
 Since nothing his tight chjsed lijjs unlocks. 
 We 'II call him the dumb Sicilian Ox,"
 
 91 
 
 All in vain, for he never stirred, 
 
 Their i)leasantries might be quite unheard, 
 
 Although, if their roving eyes were keen, 
 
 A ray of intelligence could be seen. 
 
 But 't was hard to catch it, when never a trace 
 
 Of interest shone on the placid face. 
 
 When slow and measured the answers came, 
 
 If Albertus thundered Thomas's name, 
 
 Bidding him deftly take his part 
 
 In the sciohst work, with a ready heart, 
 
 Then to see him heavily rise ! 
 
 Lifting his luminous southern eyes, 
 
 A sentence uttering, but no more, 
 
 Down on his seat, as mute as before, 
 
 While all around, from the merry crowd, 
 
 Came the whisper, half aloud, 
 
 " Ponderous, surely, as granite blocks, 
 
 Are the words of our large Sicilian Ox." 
 
 The name had travelled afar and near. 
 Ere it came, at last, to the Master's ear, 
 He shook his noble, silvery head. 
 Quietly smiled, and quietly said, 
 "/ pity the mind or the tongue that mocks 
 The manjw/! call "the Sicilian Ox," 
 You humming-birds and you chattering throng 
 Like a trill and a warble of careless song, 
 Your prattle of wisdom may please the ear. 
 And then be no longer remembered here, 
 Your poor little task will be poorly done, 
 But, glorious and grand as the noontide sun, 
 Melting the hearts as hard as the rocks. 
 Shall splendidly move that " Sicilian Ox." 
 Like the roar of the lion his accents grand 
 Shall wake the echoes of many a land, 
 Then, soft as the music the wind-harps play, 
 Shall his voice speak on till the Final Day. 
 Till the Trumpet of Doom the Universe shocks, 
 Creation shall praise "the Sicihan Ox,"
 
 92 
 
 J^Ebe ^neii .^("pois of Jglife. 
 
 There 's an old, old feeling in my heart, 
 
 A feeling of distant date, 
 You '11 smile when you hear it, I know you will, 
 
 Shall I venture to speak of it? — Wait! 
 
 Come forth, Humility, guide my hand 
 
 And force the reluctant pen 
 To disclose a secret, never before 
 
 Revealed to my fellow men. 
 
 In my childish days, long, long ago, 
 
 I never could bear to pass 
 A creature I often met, in grief, 
 
 A wretched, ill-treated Ass. 
 
 It stood by the roadside, — a friendless thing, 
 
 Worse than friendless, indeed. 
 For a tyrant was tliere to goad it on 
 
 In its hardest hour of need. 
 
 The Ass was patient, the Ass would toil 
 
 From morning dawn till nigiu. 
 It bent its humble, submissive head 
 
 When a hand was raised to smite. 
 
 Its back was aching beneath the load, 
 
 Its i)Oor old knees were sore, 
 And the bounds of endurance were often reached 
 
 ^\'hcn the weary day was o'er. 
 
 There was one bright s])ol near our garden wall, 
 
 A plot of the greenest grass, 
 'T was something like i'aradise, often I thought. 
 
 To the jaded and worn-out Ass.
 
 93 
 
 But, whenever it hastily stooped to snatch 
 
 A morsel of comfort there, 
 Again and again, harsh blows were dealt 
 
 Till its bones were almost bare. 
 
 I passed by the plot one sunny day, 
 " Where was the Ass? " They said 
 
 It had "done its work but yesterday," 
 That morning they " found it dead." 
 
 So many years ! but I well recall 
 
 My sudden thrill of delight 
 (I know you are sorely tempted to smile 
 
 At the portrait before you to-night). 
 
 Yet gaze on it just for a moment more, 
 
 And I think you will surely see 
 Why the Ass is still, and for ever traced 
 
 On my tablet of memory. 
 
 Summers and winters had come and gone 
 When a touching Legend I heard 
 
 Of Padua's sweet Franciscan Saint, 
 And his joyous, parting word. 
 
 He had closed his eyes in the sleep of death. 
 
 When a glorious, a dazzling ray 
 Shone round Vercelli's Monastic walls, 
 
 As its Abbot knelt to pray. 
 
 The boy he had taught, the child he had loved, 
 
 Now of Paduan fame. 
 Like a Spirit of light, from the starry skies, 
 
 To his aged Master came. 
 
 *o^ 
 
 " Father, dear Father," Saint Antony cried, 
 
 "The day of my rest has come, 
 I have left my Ass near Padua, 
 
 And, I am hastening home."
 
 94 
 
 Then, clear as the pictures the sunbeams trace 
 
 On photography's faithful glass, 
 At Saint Antony's story I saw again 
 
 My poor old patient Ass. 
 
 IVe are travelling along the road of life, 
 
 Our daily work to do, 
 And nature will tempt us, at times, to think 
 
 That our bright green spots ^x&few. 
 
 We try to linger beside them. No ! 
 
 Our steps must forward press, 
 Though the Hand that urges us on is raised 
 
 Only to soothe and bless. 
 
 Yet the Ass, with its days of patient toil, 
 
 Its love for the one green spot, 
 A scant relief, and often denied, 
 
 Is the type of many a lot. 
 
 Oh ! the clinging ties of our hearts are strong, 
 And we fain would pause on the way, 
 
 By these beautiful sunny spots of earth. 
 Those fragile treasures of clay, 
 
 Till the voice of the Master says " Onward," on. 
 
 Sadly, yet hopefully still. 
 Pass the green spots resignedly by. 
 
 Thou art gaining the Holy Hill. 
 
 Bleeding and sore from the thorny path, 
 
 Tired and sjjcnt, and yet 
 Raising thine eyes to the distant sky, 
 
 With its heavenly jewels set. 
 
 There are the meadows of fadeless bloom, 
 
 There are the joys we i)ri/,c, 
 And the sunlight streams o'er that lovely shore, 
 
 With glory that never dies.
 
 95 
 
 One by one we are hastejiing there, 
 
 Sorrow and care and pain 
 Will vanish away, as the touch of God 
 
 Unbinds the mortal chain. 
 
 As the Father's hand on the weary soul 
 In a welcome of love is pressed, 
 
 And the life-long struggle is sweetly crowned 
 By the grand, eternal rest. 
 
 ^i, fcQ\\\ ^Saptist. 
 
 Dear Child of the Desert, the morn is approaching 
 That hails the glad dawn of thy wonderful birth, 
 
 'T was meet that the sunshine should cradle thy splendour. 
 Thou beautiful Light, o'er the sin darkened earth. 
 
 The home of thy fathers was tranquil and blessed, 
 
 The Holiest dwelling of Israel's God, 
 But strangely He led thee apart from its glories, 
 
 And guided thy steps o'er the wilderness sod. 
 
 Its cave was thy shelter, thy only companions 
 
 The free, happy birds that flew round thee, to gaze 
 
 With bright, silent wonder, as angels directed 
 Thy infantine feet o'er the rock covered ways. 
 
 How passed the long years of thy early seclusion 
 We know not, for none were around thee to trace 
 
 The " beauty of holiness," daily revealing 
 
 New marvels of wisdom, new treasures of grace. 
 
 Till at length the clear flame of thy ardent devotion 
 Rose brilliantly over the Jordan's lone tide. 
 
 And sinful and sorrowful thousands were hastening 
 To find consolation and peace at thy side.
 
 96 
 
 'T was strange that they souglit thee, thy garb was repelling, 
 
 Thy mien, in its majesty, ahiiost severe, 
 And yet they flocked round, with the love that forbiddeth 
 
 The sterner emotion of awe stricken fear. 
 
 And more gloriously still, o'er the Nazarene Mountains 
 Resounded the praise of thy heaven-sent Name, 
 
 When humbly to bend 'neath the pardoning waters, 
 The Lamb of the life giving Sacrifice came. 
 
 'T was even in that hour, Oh ! thou favoured of mortals, 
 
 The Victim of Calvary stooped to impart 
 The Crown of his gifts to the Child of Desires, 
 
 The Martyrdom spirit was placed in thy heart. 
 
 With ardour increasing, it nurtured within thee 
 
 The fortitude meet for the trials to come, 
 When swiftly the flash of the steel was extended 
 
 To open the gates of thy peace-girded home. 
 
 Dear Saint of the Wilderness! give us thy spirit 
 
 Of holy retirement, silence and prayer. 
 Thy heart stirring zeal, and the fervour that led thcc 
 
 Through trial and conflict to regions most fair. 
 
 And when, o'er the land of our exile shall linger 
 The shadows that darken the brightness above. 
 
 Be near us, console us, and bid us remember 
 The home that awaits us, the Dwelling of Love. 
 
 j^ccncs from the J^xh of J^a'mt FMcvcsii. 
 
 isr SCENK 
 
 O'er bright Caslilian bowers the sun 
 In summer s|)lendour glows,
 
 97 
 
 Birds through the southern air take wing, 
 
 And richly blooms the rose, 
 A golden pen should seek to paint 
 The land of our dear Spanish Saint. 
 
 And there, the fairest spot of all. 
 
 Is "God's own holy Ground," 
 Where those whom He has summoned home, 
 
 A peaceful rest have found. 
 The heavenly Gardener sure had made, 
 For buds he culled, a lovely shade. 
 
 What wealth of yearning tenderness, 
 
 What worlds of lonely woe. 
 Are closed within each " silent home," 
 
 Only the mourners know. 
 And see yon freshly upturned clay, 
 A new made grave is there to-day. 
 
 Bright blossoms, resting on the sod, 
 
 In gentle beauty glow, 
 And o'er the dark, cold dwelling-place, 
 
 A tender radiance throw 
 Poor fragile buds ! the last caress 
 Permitted to the motherless. 
 
 Alas ! the evening stars look down 
 
 Upon a sorrowing home. 
 Now, from that stately hall, its best 
 
 And dearest stay is gone. 
 And mark the orphan's fair young cheek 
 Pale with the grief she cannot speak. 
 
 But, o'er Teresa's drooping head 
 
 A sculptured figure bends. 
 And from the silent, parted lips 
 
 A mother's pity sends. 
 The lovely marble hands outs])read, 
 A mother's blessing seem to shed. 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 " Oh ! take me, Mother, to your heart," 
 
 So prays the orphan Child, 
 " So weary is the hfe-long path, 
 
 The world, so dark and wild, 
 Thy love, alone, hath power to bless, 
 To soothe and guide the motherless." 
 
 Was that petition heard in heaven? 
 
 Did Mary's eyes look down 
 On the fair Child who daily twined 
 
 A fragrant, loving Crown 
 Of prayer, and praise and homage sweet, 
 To offer at her Mother's feet ! 
 
 2ND SCENE. 
 
 The years have fled ! the chequered years, 
 
 A change has passed o'er all, 
 O'er garden, grove and sunny plain. 
 
 O'er stately home and hall. 
 And mid the bowers of beauty wild, 
 We seek in vain the weeping child. 
 
 Above the Mother's hallowed grave 
 The cross of sculptured stone. 
 
 Watches the Slecjier, but the flowers 
 That wreathed it, once, are gone. 
 
 And hushed is now the cry of pain. 
 
 Do loving memories remain? 
 
 Yes! doubt it not, although we see 
 
 No eye more softly bright, 
 No sweeter, sunnier smile than thine, 
 
 Teresa! Though the light 
 Of earth hath won thy passing gaze, 
 Canst thou forget tlie by-gone days? 
 
 They 've led thee to the flowery jjatli 
 That hides so many a snare.
 
 99 
 
 They 've dazzled thee, poor fluttering bird ! 
 
 With all the serpent's glare, 
 But, steadfast in unchanging love, 
 Thy Mother Mary, pleads above. 
 
 Over thy perilous way she bends, 
 
 The Angels' glorious Queen 
 Watches thy steps unceasingly 
 
 Through every brilliant scene, 
 So dearly prized in yonder heaven 
 Are hearts that childlike love has given. 
 
 Oh ! shun the world's idolatry, 
 
 Lay down the poisoned page 
 That whispers words of fatal tone, 
 
 Forsake thy gilded cage, 
 Raise thy young soul at last to Him, 
 Whose touch will bid life's lamp grow dim. 
 
 3RD SCENE. 
 
 Again the veil of time withdraws, 
 Its curtained depths disclose, 
 
 Not our past visions of the bowers, 
 The sunbeam and the rose, 
 
 But Carmel's Cell — a Figure there — 
 
 With eyes upraised in quiet prayer. 
 
 Though spiritual radiance lights 
 The glowing cheek and brow, 
 
 The old, bright beauty of the Child 
 Is faintly pictured now 
 
 In the calm loveliness that tells 
 
 Where her illumined spirit dwells. 
 
 And, to the heart that once was sunk 
 
 In tender, human grief, 
 The heart that sought in earthly joys 
 
 So fatal a relief,
 
 100 
 
 The Seraph's burning touch hath given 
 A love Hke theirs who reign in heaven. 
 
 Now doth the gifted mind i mpel 
 
 Teresa's wiUing hand, 
 Now are her words of wisdom heard 
 
 Around the Spanish land, 
 And saintly voices oft proclaim 
 The cloistered Virgin's honoured name. 
 
 She, in her sweet humility, 
 
 Hath sought the Carmel shade, 
 
 And 'neath that high and holy Mount, 
 Her carthl}- home hath made. 
 
 And so, within that peaceful bower, 
 
 Blossoms our beauteous Spanish Flower. 
 
 Earth's storms around its fragile head 
 
 But lent an added grace 
 To its white purity, and when 
 
 Keen suffering left its trace 
 On the fair petals, then a Hand 
 That pointed to the Better Land 
 
 Bade our Teresa's lifted gaze 
 
 Behold the royal Throne, 
 The spotless diadem, entwined, 
 
 That, yet, would be her own, 
 Where we revere our Saint to-day, 
 " Pray for us, blessed Mother, pray. 
 
 Ask that thy love may fill our souls, 
 
 Ask that our hearts may be 
 Sheltered and purified, till dawns 
 
 The bright eternity. 
 And, on the fadeless heavenly shore 
 We meet in joy, to ])arl no more."
 
 101 
 
 (address for distribution of prizes). 
 
 Three resplendent Angels, 
 
 From yon azure dome, 
 Guard the land of Erin, 
 
 Watching o'er our home. 
 Each bright Spirit resting 
 
 Love's devoted gaze 
 On our Island Beauty 
 
 Chants a hymn of praise. 
 
 • 1ST ANGEL. 
 
 One, the Children's Angel, 
 
 Folds his radiant wing 
 O'er the tender blossoms 
 
 In their early spring, 
 Blesses them, while sleeping, 
 
 Kneels with them to pray. 
 Tends these smiling flowrets 
 
 For the Queen of May. 
 
 When the Tree of Knowledge, 
 
 Bright with fruit and flower, 
 Shows the opening spirit 
 
 All its winning power. 
 Then the Children's Angel 
 
 Leads them to the fold. 
 Where, in heavenly Keeping 
 
 Shines that Tree of old. 
 
 Happy, beauteous Spirit ! 
 Thou art with us here, 
 
 ^S.
 
 102 
 
 Consecrate the closing 
 Of the peaceful year. 
 
 To the hours of childhood 
 Give the light that yet 
 
 Sheds unfading glory, 
 When earth's sun is set. 
 
 2ND ANGEL. 
 
 Then the Seraph of our Altars, 
 
 Grand Protector of our Faith, 
 Holds aloft the torch that never 
 
 Can be dimmed by time or death. 
 Heavy clouds of tribulation 
 
 Once arose, to dim its light, 
 But that Star shone all the brighter 
 
 Through the darkest, dreariest night. 
 
 For the Angel of the Priesthood, 
 Bore the martyr-strength to those 
 
 Who were victors in the conflict 
 With our spiritual foes. 
 
 In the cavern, on the hill side, 
 
 In the lonely mountain glen. 
 Were preserved our sacred treasures 
 
 Till the clouds dispersed, and then 
 'I'he anointed hands united 
 
 To erect the Church and Shrine, 
 Oh! thou Angel of our Tciii])les! 
 
 What a triumph now is thine. 
 
 3RI) ANGEL. 
 
 And still another AVatcher, calm and fair, 
 Doth crown our Island witli prolc( ling care, 
 Thai royal S|)iril clasps in his embrace, 
 'I'hc brave and good, tlie noble Irish race.
 
 103 
 
 And, o'er our loved Hibernia's verdant sod 
 He strews the rich, the priceless gifts of God, 
 Gives splendour to her skies, and to her bower, 
 The richest perfume, and the fairest flower 
 Breathes into every heart the ardent love 
 That leads, through many paths, to peace al)ove. 
 And, dearest of his tasks, he can sustain 
 The brilhant bond, the lovely golden chain 
 That closely binds our little Island home 
 To the far City of immortal Rome. 
 Every bright link is safe within his care. 
 Not one, we well believe, is wanting there. 
 All are united, parent, child, and youth, 
 The priestly band who tend the Lamp of Truth, 
 Who daily, with devoted voice and hand, 
 Lead Erin's Children to the Better Land. 
 
 ^^ssnaiitioii of lljc ^Bfioli) ®'j)ili)boci). 
 
 Children's Voices ! Baby Voices ! 
 
 Ringing o'er the world to-day, 
 Plaintive, sweet, yet mournful ever, 
 
 Tell me what your lispings say? 
 
 Little infant hands extended. 
 
 Asking pity, asking care. 
 Hearts, the stoniest, melt to see you. 
 
 Tell me why you 're pleading there? 
 
 Why does anxious supplication 
 Light each tiny, eager face ? 
 
 Love for little children liveth 
 Warmly in the Irish race.
 
 104 
 
 Voices, like to yours, uplifted 
 O'er the waves in days of yore, 
 
 Brought St. Patrick's priceless blessing 
 To the Pagan Irish shore. 
 
 Therefore, turn we now to hearken 
 To the children's cries to-day, 
 
 Little Voices ! Baby Voices ! 
 Tell me what you long to say? 
 
 "Oh ! send your gaze o'er the waters wild. 
 Oh ! look on the home of the Indian Child ! 
 And across the African deserts see 
 The lands of unsolaced misery 
 In hunger and loneliness, want and pain. 
 And, in later years, with slavery's cliain. 
 The desolate Children, in torture wait 
 Their eternal doom to the saddest fate. 
 
 'Neath the deadly rays of an Indian sky 
 And on China's road-sides the Babies lie, 
 ]''kmg out, like wcedlings, unsheltered there, 
 And the beautiful Angels' silent care 
 Cannot avail them, and cannot save 
 The unbaptised from a hopeless grave. 
 
 Each of these perishing souls could be 
 A star of light, for eternity. 
 Each could win an unfading crown. 
 And the Saviour God is lookin"; down 
 With yearning that only He has known 
 To raise them up to a glorious Throne. 
 
 But alas ! for the cleansing baptismal Flood, 
 The roseate flow of the Precious Blood, 
 Alas ! for the dying ! Alas ! for the dead ! 
 Bitter the tears that the saints have shed 
 Over these spirits, in demon tiirall. 
 As, one by one, the immortal pall
 
 105 
 
 Is laid on a poor little withered shrine 
 That might have bloomed with a life divine. 
 
 And Ye, whom God hath chosen to dwell 
 
 In the sound of the Church's holy Bell, 
 
 Oh ! Ye, who kneel at the altars fair, 
 
 Have ye no sorrowing thought to spare ? 
 
 Oh ! Ye who live in the daily sight 
 
 Of Calvary's dear and wondrous Rite, 
 
 Who hear, with the angels, the ' Sanctus ' ring. 
 
 As earth and heaven the anthems sing. 
 
 Have ye not mind or heart to know 
 
 The sickening depths of the heathen woe ? 
 
 Never a Christmas chime is heard, 
 
 Never an ' Alleluia ' word 
 
 Bids them hail, through the mists of earth, 
 
 The grand, bright day of a second birth. 
 
 And alas ! for the Infants' one dark stain ! 
 
 A tvord would send them with Christ to reign, 
 
 One moment's fall of that Blood-red Flow, 
 
 And the spotless, glorified souls would go 
 
 Away ! (like the bird that at morn you see 
 
 Soaring aloft so calm, so free), 
 
 Away ! o'er the hills by man untrod. 
 
 Away ! to the royal Mount of God. 
 
 Your prayers could save them, your alms could send 
 The Priest who would bid rich grace descend 
 On that lonely Child, by the wayside thrown, 
 And when years, long years of your life had flown, 
 Afar at the golden Eden gate, 
 You would see a luminous spirit wait 
 Who would fold your soul in a fond embrace 
 With the light of love on the beauteous face, 
 And the shining lips would sweetly part. 
 And whisper, close to your beating heart, 
 '/ was a desolate Pagan Child, 
 Round me were thronging the demons wild,
 
 106 
 
 But a Priest drew near, and he quickly shed 
 
 The Waters of Life on my dying head. 
 
 And I oped my eyes on a land so briglit, 
 
 Ifow had I entered that Home of light !! 
 
 I asked, and they told me that, far away, 
 
 A Child of Erin knelt down to pray, 
 
 And she gave a mite from her childish store, 
 
 Longing indeed that the alms were more, 
 
 Yet, that little coin and that little word. 
 
 In the hearts of many, new zeal had stirred ; 
 
 And the gold poured in, and the Missioner's hand 
 
 Was extended over the heathen land. 
 
 He baptised, and blessed me — and God hath given 
 
 To the Child of sorrow a home in heaven.'" 
 
 Children's Voices, Baby Voices ! 
 
 Ringing o'er the world to-day, 
 We have listened to your pleadings, 
 
 Can we coldly turn away? 
 
 Little in our power to offer, 
 Little is the aid you seek. 
 
 Tenderly we haste to give it, 
 
 God is strongs though we are tveak. 
 
 No gay hoards of earthly treasures. 
 Nothing gorgeous, nothing grand, 
 
 But a wealth of sup))lication 
 Rises from the Irish land. 
 
 By the memories of our childhood, 
 By the Faith to Erin taught. 
 
 By the heavcnl)- hopes wc cherish, 
 Dearly won, and dearly bought, 
 
 Wc will labour for Thy glory, 
 Saviour, l-alhcr, wc will be 
 
 Lovers of Thy Htllc cliildrcn, 
 Saving them and serving 'I'hcc.
 
 107 
 
 MtQCii^ of tin ^j§>ussioii ]E\Iolv)cr. 
 
 Bring me the Passion flower, my child, 
 'T is long, very long since first it smiled 
 
 In its sweet, sad beauty on me. 
 When lips that are silent now, and cold, 
 The beautiful Legend sweetly told 
 
 That lives in my memory. 
 
 My Mother ! I speak of her, calmly, dear, 
 So many a day, so many a year 
 
 Have passed since she went to God, 
 And I am weary, and spent, with age. 
 And the days of my earthly pilgrimage 
 
 Will very soon be trod. 
 
 But well I remember that far off day. 
 That sunny morn in the bloom of May, 
 
 When she walked in our garden bower. 
 And raising a graceful tendril there. 
 That waved a caress to the soft spring air. 
 
 She showed me the Passion flower. 
 
 She told me, then, that in olden time. 
 There lived in a beauteous southern clime, 
 
 The lovely land of Spain, 
 A priest, a Saint, in whose young heart burned 
 Such love for his God that earth's ties he spurned, 
 
 And counted their loss — a gain ! 
 
 While the Sacred Chrism was shining bright 
 On his youthful brow, and the holy light 
 
 Of the Seven-fold Spirit shone 
 In his consecrated heart, he sought 
 A region with peril and suffering fraught, 
 
 Living for heaven alone.
 
 108 
 
 He hastened away, till, in forests wild, 
 He found the home of the Indian child, 
 
 The hunted, deserted race. 
 Outcasts and scorned by the wise of earth, 
 But to ///;;/, grand souls of immortal birth, 
 
 All radiant with God's sweet grace. 
 
 He told them of heaven, so calm, so fair. 
 That the lowliest oft are the loveliest tJiere, 
 
 That a Father's eye looked down 
 From that lustrous home, and that He might save 
 Them from endless sorrow, the Father gave 
 
 The Son who doth share His Crown. 
 
 Gave Him to agony, long and sore, 
 
 To pangs that had never been felt before, 
 
 The Scourge and the awful Death. 
 Oh ! the poor, dark wanderers listened there, 
 So still they stood, that the summer air 
 
 Hardly stirred with a ({uickened breath. 
 
 And the Priest looked up to the shining skies. 
 Though the earnest gaze of his tearful eyes 
 
 Scarce pierced through the floral bower. 
 For, above, and around him, luxuriantly twined 
 A blossoming tree that was henceforth shrined 
 
 In his heart, as "//t^ Passion floiverP 
 
 There was the story of Calvary traced 
 On the beautiful petals, so sadly graced, 
 
 There was the Crown of our King 
 Imaged in circles of ])urple and red, 
 That round the fair rup of the flowret spread 
 
 In many a thorn-like ring. 
 
 There, to his mind, they could plainly see 
 The Wounds and the Nails of the Agony, 
 
 And the Pillar of S(-f)urging stood 
 High, in the midst of the hallowed Flower 
 As it bloomed before him, that evening hour, 
 
 On tiic Feast of the Holy Rood.
 
 100 
 
 Yes ! once, on that Day, an Empress of Rome, 
 Far from her splendid Imperial home, 
 
 Had chanted on Sion's ground, 
 A hymn of praise, while she knelt to see 
 The glorious Altar of Calvary 
 
 When the Cross of our God was found. 
 
 Oh ! the Missioner's heart-stirred thanksgiving strain 
 Echoed the praise of that Cross again, 
 
 For the work of grace was done, 
 And his hand the waters of baptism shed 
 O'er many a loving and contrite head. 
 
 Ere the setting of the sun. 
 
 So, ever since, that bright flowret's name 
 A tender and mournful thought must claim 
 
 Of the Sacrificial Day. 
 And / treasure the Legend, though years have sped, 
 Though all but the nieinories of time has fled, 
 
 And the loved have passed away. 
 
 Yes ! bring me the Passion flower, my Child, 
 
 For soon, very soon, will earth's blossoms have smiled 
 
 Their last farewell to me. 
 What matters it, dear, when we hail the flowers, 
 The cloudless skies, the unfading bowers 
 
 Of our Home in eternity. 
 
 ]^ @"!jilb's ^ream. 
 
 " Why are you watching that Picture, 
 
 My own little Sister, say? 
 Your eyes have been resting on it 
 
 Almost the whole long day.
 
 110 
 
 I know that you always loved it, 
 
 That beautiful ' Sacred Heart,' 
 That it holds, in your childish devotions 
 
 The first and the dearest part. 
 
 Had you a Vision, tell me, 
 
 For rapt in delight, you seem ? " 
 But the little one quietly answered, 
 
 " No ! not a vision, — a dream. 
 
 Last night I dreamt that I saw It, 
 
 Just as you see It there, 
 But an angel was bending o'er it. 
 
 Twining with saddest care, 
 
 A garland of prickly thorns 
 
 Round the dear Heart that bled. 
 And bitter and burning the tear drops 
 
 The beautiful angel shed. 
 
 The world, the heedless world, 
 
 AV'as festive and gay that night, 
 But its sin and its desolation 
 
 Were fearful in heaven's sight. 
 
 And each deed of the guilty creature 
 Touched the Heart of the Saviour again, 
 
 With something we almost could fancy 
 Were darts of a terrible jxain. 
 
 It cantiot be so, for I know it, 
 
 The torture and agony o'er, 
 I le reigns in a sunlighted Palace, 
 
 He dwells on a i)eace-guarded shore. 
 
 Yet, I longed and I prayed that the thorns, 
 'J'hc sharp things that jjierccd, might be llung 
 
 Away from my dearly loved ri( lure. 
 
 That round it sweet flowers might be hung.
 
 Ill 
 
 And then, Oh ! I wish you had seen it, 
 
 The lovely Procession that came, 
 The Angels of all our Companions, 
 
 And each bearing gifts in their name. 
 
 One had sent beautiful Roses, 
 
 She had prayed for the spirit of love, 
 
 Sweet thoughts, kindly words, gentle actions, 
 And these were her offering above. 
 
 Another had wreathed snowy Lilies, 
 With an eye that looked only to heaven. 
 
 She had worked with the purest intention, 
 In each daily task, she had striven 
 
 To seek for no praise, but to offer 
 
 Her heart, all unspotted, to God, 
 Oh ! her Lilies were fairer than any 
 
 That ever sprang up from the sod. 
 
 Then a fragrance so exquisite reached me, 
 
 I knew 't was a Violet wreath, 
 For humility's dear little flowers 
 
 The sweetest of perfumes can breathe. 
 
 'T was a child who had conquered the Tempter, 
 The strong, mighty demon of pride. 
 
 By winning the virtue of meekness 
 From the Heart in the Wounded Side. 
 
 And, oh ! there were beautiful Tansies, 
 
 Heart's-eases, of many dyes, 
 I felt they were all aspirations 
 
 Sent up to the heavenly skies. 
 
 Just only a glance of devotion. 
 
 Just only a passing word, 
 But with wonderful power in heaven, 
 
 The Love of the Father they stirred.
 
 112 
 
 That Child had saved many a sinner 
 Who faltered and sank on the way, 
 
 Her quiet, unknown intercession 
 Had brought down a comforting ray 
 
 On the dear, suffering souls who are watching 
 
 The dawn of eternity's light, 
 Tliat child's little hand often aided 
 
 Those beautiful souls in their flight. 
 
 There was many another bright blossom, 
 
 Some that I did not know. 
 Some that I thought could never 
 
 Here, in our gardens grow. 
 
 Obedience and holy Patience, 
 
 A delicate, suffering thing. 
 Waiting with resignation 
 
 The bloom of the Eden spring. 
 
 A little One, quietly bearing 
 
 The Cross of a constant pain. 
 Contented, indeed, but never 
 
 Merry and strong again. 
 
 But the Angel pressed it so fondly. 
 
 With tender and special care. 
 It will yet be a glorious flower 
 
 In God's royal garden fair. 
 
 I looked up again to the Picture, 
 And oh ! what a splendid sight ! 
 
 'J'he thorns were gone, or were hidden 
 By flowers of glowing light. 
 
 The Angels had twined ihcm around it. 
 And then liiey had hastencil away 
 
 To cull a new wreath from the (hildren — 
 Their gifts for another day.
 
 113 
 
 I awoke, but I cannot turn 
 
 My thoughts from that happy dream, 
 And all through the long school hours 
 
 Again and again I seem 
 
 To see, as I did, in fancy, 
 The beautiful Angels come, 
 
 Bringing the flowers they gathered 
 Here, in our Convent Home." 
 
 ^Klj^nnn ia iht ^'Atxt^ ^^tiiri 
 
 O Sacred Heart ! Thy Children's love 
 Hath sought Thy royal home above. 
 And though our mortal touch must fail 
 To draw aside the glorious veil 
 That hides the treasures of Thy grace, 
 In thought we kneel before Thy face. 
 And with a faltering tongue we speak 
 Thy praise, O Heart, divinely meek ! 
 
 Divinely calm, divinely pure, 
 
 True with the truth that must endure, 
 
 If earthly tenderness decay 
 
 Thy changeless love will be our stay, 
 
 And when our hearts are sorest tried, 
 
 T/ien, art Thou closest to our side. 
 
 O Sacred Heart ! to Thee we come 
 For blessings on our earthly home, 
 For solace in our days of care, 
 For holy peace and trust in prayer. 
 And for the sweet humility, 
 Mirrored, O blessed Heart, in Thee.
 
 114 
 
 O Sacred Heart! remember those 
 Who combat with Thy deadly foes, 
 And lead us, with Thy gracious Hand, 
 Safe to the fair, the heavenly Land, 
 Where Thou wilt all Thy joy impart ; 
 Oh ! guide us there, most Sacred Heart ! 
 
 j^aiiit ]i\raiicis of ,^ssist. 
 
 They bore him o'er the mountains, 
 
 Pale and motionless he lay, 
 While with reverent devotion, 
 
 Growing deeper, day by day, 
 Loving hands, their ministrations 
 
 To their dying Father gave. 
 As he lingered, like an angel, 
 
 On the threshold of the grave. 
 
 Evening's holy beams caressed him. 
 
 Or the morning rays looked down 
 On his couch, and circled round him. 
 
 Like a loving glorious Crown. 
 Sweetly smiled the flowers before him. 
 
 Springing up to meet him there, 
 He, with closed eyes, passed onward 
 
 In the Seraph's solemn care. 
 
 He was sinking, slowly, softly. 
 
 Every moment counted now. 
 Death, with marble hand, was pressing 
 
 His untroubled, saintly brow, 
 'J'cnder words were whisi)ercd near him, 
 
 Tearful, wistful looks were bent 
 On that wan and wasted form. 
 
 That grand soul, by heaven leiU.
 
 115 
 
 Till at last the Brethren, watching 
 
 O'er that couch of love and pain, 
 Spoke the one low word, "Assisi," 
 
 Light and life returned again. 
 Quickly rose his eyes, beyond them. 
 
 To the radiant, southern dome. 
 Then, with brilliant gaze they rested 
 
 On his own beloved h ne. 
 
 There it lay, in tranquil beauty. 
 
 Childhood, youth, came back that hour, 
 All the long-untold affection 
 
 Re-assumed its olden power. 
 Dear and blessed recollections 
 
 Touched his heart chords, one by one, 
 As Assisi smiled upon him. 
 
 In the splendour of the sun. 
 
 Did he see his lowly birthplace? 
 
 Did his Mother's arms enfold 
 His transpierced and fading figure? 
 
 Did the sparkle of the gold. 
 All rejected, shine upon him? 
 
 Or did fame's prophetic note, 
 On that peaceful summer evening 
 
 Through the gentle breezes float? 
 
 For the thin, transparent fingers. 
 
 Crossed for ever, on his breast, 
 Feebly parted, and they raised him. 
 
 While with burning words he blessed 
 Fair Assisi's tranquil homesteads. 
 
 Its bright plains, its glowing skies, 
 And the sad Amen was uttered 
 
 Mid the Brethren's smothered sighs. 
 
 But in after years they lingered 
 
 On that scene, so sadly fair. 
 That fervent, farewell blessing. 
 
 That earnest, dying prayer ;
 
 116 
 
 And their hearts grew strangely tender, 
 
 At that lesson from above, 
 That the touch of God can hallow 
 
 Earthly scenes and earthly love. 
 
 ^Mtgmb of the ^Eranrisran ^jiars. 
 
 They were weak, despised and lowly, 
 
 They were mocked, and scorned, and still. 
 With a sweet, submissive spirit. 
 
 Bending 'neath their Father's will. 
 In the storm and sunshine, toiling 
 
 On their weary, cross-strewn road, 
 Went the poor Franciscan Friars 
 
 Seeking only heaven and God. 
 
 Every earthly hope had failed them, 
 
 Every faithful friend was gone. 
 They would ask a scanty pittance. 
 
 And then bravely struggle on. 
 Ah ! could all resist the pleadings 
 
 Of the sunken, faded cheek, 
 And the tale of destitution 
 
 That the Friar came to speak : 
 
 " It hath pleased our God to try us 
 
 As seems good to Him, to-day, 
 And our very lives are ebbing 
 
 In starvation's pangs away. 
 One poor drop from your abundance, 
 
 One least alms would save us now." 
 iJul the wealthy merihant turned 
 
 With a hoi and angry brow :
 
 117 
 
 "Go, ye vagrants, to your dwelling, 
 
 Bring yOur hoarded stores to light, 
 For the good old town of Lucca 
 
 Is offended by your sight." 
 'T was the last drop in the chalice 
 
 Of these days of want and pain. 
 And the poor Franciscan, sadly 
 
 Sought his starving home again. 
 
 They followed him with eager, 
 
 Wild, derisive shout and cry. 
 As, like Jesus o'er the mountains, 
 
 Silent, prayerful, he passed by. 
 But alas ! for human weakness ! 
 
 There were failing hearts to meet 
 His return with empty wallet, 
 
 And with wearied, bleeding feet. 
 
 And, exulting in his triumph. 
 
 Stood the morning's Fallen Star, 
 " I have worked my will," so spake he, 
 
 " See how weak in faith they are, 
 See how comfortless and hopeless." 
 
 So he mused, when sudden light 
 Filled his spirit with new anguish, 
 
 Calm, benignant, grand and bright, 
 
 Stood the great Archangel, near him, 
 
 Raising in the withering form 
 Of the lost one there before him 
 
 A convulsive, passion storm. 
 " Undo thy work, proud spirit! 
 
 Thus decrees the God above, 
 Bring back these poor lost children 
 
 To their perfect faith and love. 
 
 Breathe the words of holy teaching 
 To the earth-chilled hearts around 
 
 Let a stately Church and Cloister 
 Sanctify fair Lucca's ground."
 
 118 
 
 Ah ! these lone Franciscan Friars, 
 
 Through their grieving long and sore, 
 Thought that all the heavenly mercies 
 
 Of the by-gone years were o'er, 
 And the few who yet would linger 
 
 In a hope of better days, 
 Felt their courage die within tliem 
 
 With the sun's fast fading rays. 
 
 A loud, commanding signal 
 
 At the Convent gate was heard. 
 And a deep-toned voice of greeting 
 
 Every drooping spirit stirred. 
 One was standing there, among them, 
 
 In their own coarse habit clad, 
 But an air of lofty grandeur. 
 
 Strangely noble, strangely sad. 
 
 Lit his brilliant eyes, as slowly 
 
 On the shrinking monks, he bent 
 A calm gaze of proud compassion. 
 
 Nay ! they almost deemed contempt. 
 "Oh! ye faithless ones, diffiding 
 
 In the strong and mighty God, 
 Are ye turning from the pathway 
 
 That your sainted Fathers trod. 
 
 Ye, the Sons of Saints, the Children 
 
 Of the palm-crowned martyr band, 
 Will ye dare look up to meet them 
 
 In the glorious, conquering land?" 
 Then, willi lowly, deep contrilion, 
 
 The repentant brethren came. 
 Kneeling round that strange Apostle, 
 
 Pouring blessings on his name. 
 
 And he (luivered with emotion, 
 
 As he said, in accents low, 
 " Call me Brother Obligatus, 
 
 Seek no more than this to know.
 
 119 
 
 But be calm, resigned and trustful, 
 Let your hymn of praise ascend. 
 
 For the pitying Father sends you 
 All you asked, — a potent Friend," 
 
 He went forth, unwilling preacher, 
 
 Men in sudden transport hung 
 On his golden words, like music, 
 
 In the soft, Italian tongue. 
 " For the love of God" he pleaded, 
 
 And the sad entreaty fell 
 With a melody so plaintive 
 
 That it seemed like magic spell. 
 
 Then his voice arose in thunder, 
 
 As he showed the deadly snare 
 Of the avaricious demon, 
 
 Till, in rich profusion, there 
 Lay the treasures of the wealthy, 
 
 The gay luxuries of pride, 
 And "Oh! teach us how to serve Him, 
 
 Our forgotten God," they cried. 
 
 With impulsive zeal they hastened 
 
 To erect a gorgeous Shrine 
 For the lowly Sons of Francis, 
 
 It would seem that aid divine 
 Blessed the work, when Obligatus 
 
 In his humble garb drew near, 
 Many gazed on him, with wonder. 
 
 And a few looked on, in fear. 
 
 Some would marvel had Assisi's 
 
 Gentle Saint returned to earth, 
 But the yet unspoken feeling 
 
 Often perished, in its birth. 
 True the Friar's words were holy, 
 
 Nay ! most wondrous in their might, 
 But — " the sanctity of Francis 
 
 Would have quelled that eye's fierce light,
 
 120 
 
 Would have stamped a softer meaning 
 
 On the fearless lip and brow." 
 Thus the Prior of St. Mary's 
 
 Pondered oft, in vain, but now 
 Comes the day, when, all revealing, 
 
 Obligatus shall have given 
 His last torturing submission 
 
 To the mandate sent from heaven. 
 
 On his death-bed, racked with anguish, 
 
 A remorseless sinner lay. 
 And, beside him, Obligatus 
 
 Knelt, unceasing, night and day. 
 All his eloquence outpouring. 
 
 While he writhed beneatli the task, 
 From the future of the lost ones 
 
 He had torn the hollow mask. 
 
 Oh ! the wild, wild sobs and wailing 
 
 That were floating round the bed. 
 While that thrilling voice was painting 
 
 Scenes of woe, so near, so dread. 
 But — in vain, for, as the moaning 
 
 Rent the hearts of all beside 
 In despair convulsive, shrieking 
 
 The unpardoned Sinner died. 
 
 And like one who madly follows 
 
 A resistless voice or hand 
 Fled away the Friar, beckoning 
 
 With a gesture of command 
 To the multitude around him, 
 
 WIio, with strained and eager eyes. 
 Saw him pause at last, and jjointing 
 
 To the evening's starry skies. 
 
 Like a glorious burst of music. 
 Solemn, grand, entrancing long 
 
 Was his last soul-moving warning 
 To the listening awe-struck throng
 
 121 
 
 Then " My task," he cried, " is ended, 
 And my fearful mission o'er, 
 
 And the Friar Obligatiis 
 
 Shall be seen on earth no more." 
 
 And his dark Franciscan Mantle 
 
 On the ground he madly flung, 
 While strange words of fearful meaning 
 
 Flowed in torrents from his tongue, 
 And the trembling Crowd, in terror 
 
 Deemed it was the Judgment hour, 
 Till a priestly voice, dispelling 
 
 The unholy Spirit's power, 
 
 Told the mystery, and in earnest, 
 
 Tender, thrilling tones he gave 
 The sweet pardon of the Father, 
 
 Who alone can soothe and save, 
 And their souls bowed down to hearken 
 
 To the teaching, always given 
 By the Wisdom that abideth 
 
 At the Throne of God, in heaven. 
 That " our works are unavailing 
 
 When the spirit is not there. 
 And, the gifts of genius worthless 
 
 Without humble prayer." 
 
 3Slon ^^oHs ^©ommc. 
 
 Doubt not that Pride, the traitor lies 
 In many a dark or bright disguise ; 
 The sparkling eye, and flushing cheek, 
 Its tale of arrogance can speak. 
 The low-toned voice and quiet smile 
 Reveal its more deceptive wile,
 
 122 
 
 With pain, we know, the spirit bends, 
 But passing strange it seems, when friends 
 Bid us beware, lest something given, 
 Nay ! only lent to us by heaven, 
 May seek for Pride, that baneful guest, 
 A silent welcome in our breast. 
 We close our eyes in sleep to-night, 
 We know not if the morning light 
 Shall find the gift of reason there, 
 Or e'en the power of thought and prayer, 
 Talent and beauty, wit and grace, 
 All that we prize in mind or face, 
 He who creates the form and heart, 
 Can all these ornaments impart. 
 And then withdraw them, at His Will, 
 They once were His, they are so still, 
 11 e only hold them for a day, 
 And, at His word, they pass away. 
 
 Once, when the world's free praise was won 
 
 By mighty deeds of valour done 
 
 By him who, when a bleak despair 
 
 Was rife in combat, hastened there, 
 
 AVho never seemed dismay to feel. 
 
 Who led the last faint hope at Lille, 
 
 And lay, as dead, among the slain 
 
 On Ramillies' victorious i)lain, 
 
 But rose to vigour, when they pressed 
 
 St. Louis' Cross upon his breast. 
 
 There came a day of danger, He 
 
 With manhood's skill, youth's bravery. 
 
 Led forth the chosen, fearless band 
 
 Honoured beneath his wise command. 
 
 He answered proudly, as of yore. 
 
 The music of the cannon's roar, 
 
 And glanced, with eye as calmly bright, 
 
 Where fiercely shone tlie rival light. 
 
 Then, keenly Hashed his glittering lance, 
 
 " Onward ! ye valiant Sons of France ! "
 
 123 
 
 They knew not what it was to quail, 
 But every rugged cheek grew pale, 
 And horror shone in every eye, 
 They saw their Leader turn and 7^. 
 
 Oh ! withering is the first sharp dart 
 
 Of pain, within the dauntless heart, 
 
 In mercy, or, in justice, sent. 
 
 This was his awful chastisement. 
 
 The very birds, in arrowy flight. 
 
 Scarce passed him, through the summer night ; 
 
 The hunted deer is not more fleet ; 
 
 The ground shot fire beneath his feet ; 
 
 Back to his home he madly came 
 
 Bearing the burden of his shame. 
 
 Trembling, they asked what awful spell 
 
 Had circled him. He could not tell, 
 
 Only, that when he faced the foes 
 
 A strong, o'ermastering terror rose, 
 
 " The touch of God," at last he said. 
 
 And meekly bowed his humbled head. 
 
 He laid aside his gallant sword, 
 
 And tears, in wild, hot torrents poured 
 
 When, from his broken heart, he drew 
 
 The Cross that spoke him tried and true. 
 
 Within his judges' hands, he placed 
 
 The life, so fearfully disgraced. 
 
 They gave it back, Alas ! I know 
 
 Death had been far the lesser woe, 
 
 For he had quivered at the thought 
 
 Of years with lingering torture fraught, 
 
 Indifference to praise and blame, 
 
 And carelessness of earthly fame. 
 
 These often find their real cause 
 
 In nature's unrelenting laws. 
 
 When changeless pain assumes its sway, 
 
 Keen agony oft dies away.
 
 124 
 
 And hearts that never find relief, 
 Wasted by deep, abiding grief, 
 Have felt their strong emotions cease, 
 Leaving to them a saddened peace. 
 But here, alas ! it was not so, 
 So swift, so sudden was the blow, 
 Upheld by manhood's strength and pride 
 'T was long ere shame and passion died. 
 Oft did his cheek with fever glow. 
 And his bright hair had turned to snow, 
 Ere patience brought her perfect meed. 
 The conquering heart had ceased to bleed, 
 And he could calmly tell his loss 
 Of dusky sword, and brilliant Cross. 
 At last arose a brighter day. 
 Contempt and mockery passed away, 
 Admiring eyes were often bent 
 On his tall form, where strangely blent 
 The well-won, deep humility 
 With all the olden dignity. 
 And yet, the few who knew him best, 
 Said that he yearned for endless rest. 
 It might be so. He murmured not, 
 Nor sighed, nor wept his darkened lot, 
 But sometimes, when in sleej) he lay, 
 A watcher heard him gently pray, 
 " Blessed, thrice blest I no7v can say. 
 Is He ivlio gives and takes awayT 
 
 jubilee of ]§>ius IX., J^nnc, 1877. 
 
 (CRU.X DF. CRUCE). 
 
 Ye glorious Bells ! ring solemnly to-day. 
 Send y<jur i)roud tribute to a deathless sway, 
 A jjowcr that lasts when noblest tlironcs are gone, 
 A reign that through long ages still lives on.
 
 125 
 
 O blessed Bells ! whose lofty tones proclaim 
 The glory of our Pontiff's saintly name, 
 Ring on ! ring on ! 
 
 Behold yon pilgrims ! O'er the distant seas 
 The white sails flutter in the summer breeze, 
 The barks are bending 'neath their hving freight, 
 There are the lowly, mingled with the great. 
 All, all are hastening to their Father's home, 
 To the eternal citadel of Rome. 
 See how the glad procession ever swells. 
 Ring out your welcome, grand Cathedral Bells, 
 Ring on ! ring on ! 
 
 Who do these many wanderers venerate ? 
 Is he a Monarch, throned in royal state ? 
 Stand there around him warriors true and tried ? 
 Hath he the bearing of imperial pride ? 
 Flash the rich jewels o'er a kingly brow, 
 While at his feet the nations come to bow ? 
 
 Nay ! 't is an aged man, whose softened eye 
 Rests on the Cross, so fitly standing nigh, 
 Bending o'er It, in search of strength and peace, 
 And, for the Captive, merciful release. 
 Till, as the bands of love and faith draw near. 
 Shines forth his glance, so bright, so pure, so clear ; 
 Then do the mighty " Vivas " rend the air, 
 Oh ! ye proud Bells of Rome ! that music share, 
 Ring on ! ring on ! 
 
 Alas ! the darkest shadows fall to-day 
 O'er all the splendour of that vast array, 
 Within the queenly City strangers reign. 
 And ever seek to bind the galling chain 
 Of stern oppression and of bondage sore 
 Round him who wears the Triple Crown no more. 
 Yes ! freedom from that southern land departs, 
 But our blest Pontiff, throned in many hearts,
 
 126 
 
 Can raise his soul in gratitude to God 
 Who guides his footsteps o'er the thorn strewed sod, 
 And on his brow, with Jubilee, to-day 
 Hath placed a Crown that cannot see decay, 
 While through the world the song of triumph swells, 
 Peal nobly forth, 3'e far resounding Bells ! 
 Ring on ! ring on ! 
 
 Australian shores are echoing to the sound, 
 Columbia's deep response is surely found. 
 From every dome, from every gilded tower. 
 The Church of Christ asserts her deathless power. 
 O'er Europe's plains, the notes grow sweetly clear, 
 And in our Island, sanctified and dear, 
 " The little ball of heavenly fire " set 
 Like ruby jewel in the coronet 
 Of sovereign faith that rests upon the brow 
 Of Christ's dethroned Vicar, even now. 
 Yes ! in Hibernia's fair and faithful Isle 
 Never did summer morn more brightly smile 
 Than when, with loving ardour, we proclaim 
 The spotless life, the grand undying fame 
 Of Pius, in that once devoted land, 
 Lone, mid the legions of a hostile band, . 
 Clasping the " Crux de Cruce " till the Crown 
 Is borne, by angel hands, in splendour down. 
 And, beaming from the blessed Eden shore, 
 " Lumen in Coelo " dawns, to fade no more. 
 
 O ! glorious Light, dispel the shades of care, 
 Cod of our Fathers ! hear Thy children's prayer ; 
 Silence the long decj) tones of sorrow's knell. 
 Let the blest voice of Peace, a heavenly liell ! 
 Ring on ! ring on !
 
 127 
 
 ]^oma0c ta JMco XIII. 
 
 (LUMEN IN CCELO). 
 
 Upon a parchment, worn with age, 
 Traced by an ancient Irish sage, 
 
 They tell us we may see 
 A lifting of the misty veil 
 That hides the yet unwritten tale 
 
 Of dim futurity. 
 
 Few are the words, and still, we look 
 With yearning o'er the prophet-book 
 
 That marks a mystic sign 
 On every glorious, saintly name 
 That God's own Hand hath crowned with fame. 
 
 The Apostolic Line. 
 
 The " Angel Pastor " of the Flock, 
 The " Mariner " on Peter's " Rock," 
 
 The " Guide " through good and ill. 
 And, Pius, sanctified and blest, 
 Whose steps the " Cross "-strewn path have prest. 
 
 Who dwelt on Calvary's Hill. 
 
 For thee, meek Sufferer ! all is o'er, 
 The weary chain of life no more 
 
 Bows down thy aged form. 
 Past are thy cares, thy toils, thy fears ; 
 Past are thy bitter heartwrung tears, 
 
 And past the earthly storm. 
 
 While Mary's name, in tenderest prayer, 
 Rang through the soft Italian air, 
 
 The angels hastened down. 
 With gentlest touch thy Cross they raised, 
 And lo ! thine eyes, in rapture, gazed 
 
 Upon thy fadeless Crown.
 
 128 
 
 We mourned for thee, and yet we knew 
 A soul as high, a heart as true 
 
 Would soon to us be given. 
 Swift was the answer to our prayer, 
 Our trust in God's unfailing care. 
 
 Welcome ! O " Light of Heaven/ " 
 
 No diadem, no royal home 
 Awaited thee, great King of Rome ! 
 
 Thou Crownless Monarch ! Yet 
 Thine empire o'er the earth is spread, 
 And on thy thrice anointed head 
 
 A mighty Crown is set. 
 
 And in thy hand is placed the sword 
 Of heavenly trutli, thy Master's word. 
 
 Oh ! thou wilt guard it well, 
 For thine illumined eye hath sought 
 The purest, holiest fount of thought, 
 
 In Aquin's hallowed Cell. 
 
 Still on its sacred mission goes, 
 The sacred torch, which ever glows 
 
 With calm, majestic light. 
 The fevered brain, the anxious mind 
 In its undying teachings find 
 
 A guide, secure and bright. 
 
 But the dark Tempter of the Scliools, 
 His satellites, liis wretched tools, 
 
 Whose words are bringing death 
 To faith and hope, to light and love, 
 To all that lives with God above, 
 
 Who shed their [)uisoned breath 
 
 O'er many a land, in many a home. 
 Nay! in thine own eternal Rome ! 
 
 15ehold thee, Leo ! now, 
 Pointing with apostolic hand 
 To One amid llic white-robed band 
 
 Wllh iaurel-wrealhed brow.
 
 129 
 
 " Come, great Aquinas ! come once more, 
 Send from thine own Italian shore 
 
 A light o'er worlds afar. 
 The rebel standard is displayed, 
 To thee, to thee, we turn for aid. 
 
 Saint Dominic's glorious Star ! 
 
 Oh ! thou canst speak with tongue of fire, 
 Oh ! thou canst sweetest love inspire 
 
 And deep humility. 
 Telling that all the lore of earth 
 Is little gain, and little worth 
 
 Unblest by sanctity. 
 
 That lowliest minds alone can rise 
 To learn the secrets of the skies. 
 
 That nought availeth there 
 But hearts, devoted and sincere. 
 Owning one love, one hope, 07ie fear, 
 
 One joy — the joy of prayer. 
 
 Passing through earth with eyes upraised, 
 Gazing, as thou, blest Saint, hast gazed 
 
 Upon one sole reward. 
 With the dark trials of the way, 
 Cheered by the Tabernacle ray, 
 
 Our Eucharistic Lord ! " 
 
 Leo ! Christ's Vicar ! may we deem 
 That this thy daily prayer has been. 
 
 That still it will be thine, 
 Till all thy world-wide children own 
 The beauty of the Sovereign Throne, 
 
 The Heart of Love divine. 
 
 Oh ! be that Heart thy refuge sweet, 
 Thy solace and thy calm retreat 
 
 When earthly Light grows dim. 
 For whom God loveth most, He trieth, 
 The souls by grief he sanctificth, 
 
 The dearest arc to Him. 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 We know not what the years may bring, 
 Perchance a peaceful, sunny spring, 
 
 A radiant summer day 
 Is hastening to replace the hour 
 Of darkness, and the evil power 
 
 So long maintaining sway. 
 
 We know not, will not seek to know. 
 As on the upward path we go. 
 
 The Happy Land is there. 
 God knoweth all. His ways are best, 
 In his paternal arms we rest, 
 
 Safe in His watchful care. 
 
 TO 
 
 Mts ©rate gl^ost :iilfb. :©r. g]©i'®"aljc. 
 
 O golden summer hours ! The light 
 That shines upon our home to-day, 
 
 Seems like a smile of joy to tell 
 The words of welcome we would say, 
 
 Welcome, Your Grace, Loretto's heart 
 Beats warmly for the Guardian given 
 
 To watch, to guide with ])astoral care. 
 His children's stc])s to peace in heaven. 
 
 Yet, ere that glorious rest is gained, 
 How stern the conflict with the foes 
 
 Who cluster round, to bar the way 
 'J'o the eternal, blest, repose.
 
 131 
 
 Dark days are these, and faith divine 
 Is earnest in the Ufc-long strife, 
 
 Not for a transitory gain, 
 
 But for the dear, immortal life. 
 
 Oh ! by conflicting forces torn, 
 
 Surrounded by besieging sin, 
 Without Thine aid, Almighty God ! 
 
 We cannot conquer, cannot win. 
 
 My Lord Archbishop ! Yours the task 
 To raise the heavenly Standard high, 
 
 While consecrated hearts and hands 
 To aid your toil, are standing nigh. 
 
 Nor power, nor wealth, nor earthly lore 
 Shall lure us from the olden love, 
 
 The olden trust in those who seek 
 Only to raise our thoughts above. 
 
 Our priests, our prelates and our shrines, 
 The hallowed altars where we pray. 
 
 These, in our inmost souls, we '11 prize, 
 And guard them fondly, come what may. 
 
 List, Reverend Friends, one moment while 
 
 My childish lips repeat a tale, 
 A simple one, and yet it shows 
 
 Confiding hope shall never fail. 
 
 One even, the summer sunbeams kissed 
 
 The waters of a lovely sea, 
 And gloriously the billows shone. 
 
 With calm, untroubled brilliancy. 
 
 Rich purple, glowing crimson, decked 
 The clouds that pressed the radiant sky, 
 
 All, all was there that nature gives 
 To charm the splendour-loving eye.
 
 132 
 
 And then, as if a voice of praise, 
 
 The wild, sweet carol of a bird 
 Meet homage to a scene so fair, 
 
 In rapturous melody I heard. 
 
 It sang, in ecstasy of peace, 
 
 When lo ! the storm-clouds hastened on, 
 And, ere an hour had passed, the light 
 
 And music of the waves were gone. 
 
 The angry tumult of the sea, 
 
 Its vengeful roar was all I heard, 
 
 I sighed, that stilled for aye should be 
 The tender warbling of the bird. 
 
 But, as the tempest, spent with rage, 
 
 Subsided, calmly o'er the sea, 
 A faint, sweet trill of quiet song 
 
 Was wafted, once again, to me. 
 
 All through the fury of the storm 
 It did not falter, did not cease. 
 
 The little chorister sang on. 
 Fit emblem of a heart at peace. 
 
 For, though the billows swept tlic shore, 
 And warred upon the trembling strand, 
 
 "Thus far, no farther" might they come, 
 Touched by their heavenly Master's hand. 
 
 So we, who rest in power divine, 
 
 ^V^^o dwell beneath our Father's eyes 
 
 With faith fast anchored to the Rock, 
 Behold, unmoved, the tempests rise. 
 
 We, like the bird, in childhood's hour, 
 
 Must learn a canticle of joy, 
 An echo of the angel hymn 
 
 That earthly sorrows ne'er destroy.
 
 133 
 
 We '11 look, beyond the sea of life, 
 To Him, who rules the waters wild, 
 
 And daily pray that He may give 
 The heart of a confiding Child 
 
 To all we love, to all who dwell 
 In Erin's Isle, until the ray 
 
 Of cloudless sunshine opes to all 
 The portals of eternal day. 
 
 -*o*- 
 
 Jpl^x .Australian JMark. 
 
 When the olden light of glory 
 From our island home had fled, 
 
 When the bravest and the fairest 
 Rested low, among the dead, 
 
 When the death cold touch of famine 
 
 Chilled the heart, and blanched the cheek, 
 
 Hibernia's sorrowing children 
 Another home should seek. 
 
 In the rich Australian bowers, 
 'Neath the glowing southern skies, 
 
 The Exiles found a dwelling 
 Where the Palmer waters rise. 
 
 Brilliant birds, though always silent, 
 Fluttered round, on aerial wing. 
 
 When lo ! one summer evenini 
 A lark was heard to sing. 
 
 ^(y
 
 134 
 
 Oh ! the lovely notes thrilled sadly 
 'Neath the fevered azure dome, 
 
 For the clear soft voice seemed ever 
 Chanting, " Home, sweet home, 
 
 Far, far away, are we doomed to roam 
 From the heaven-blest land of Erin, 
 From our home, sweet home." 
 
 With the trembling step that echoes 
 
 Longings deep and wild. 
 Came the worn and rugged Father 
 
 And the forest Child. 
 
 They cared not for the beauties 
 
 Of that glorious clime. 
 But their throbbing hearts were beating 
 
 To the old home chime. 
 
 For the humble russet songster 
 
 With its clear-toned lay. 
 Told of all they loved and mourned 
 
 Far away, far away. 
 
 Mid the shadows of the forest 
 
 At a cabin door. 
 They watched the gentle warbler 
 
 All his glad notes pour. 
 
 'T was a childless Widow's dwelling, 
 
 And that little Bird 
 Gave the only voice of comfort 
 
 That she ever heard. 
 
 With the golden store they gathered 
 
 'Neath llie alien sky. 
 They craved the little treasure, 
 
 But the Widow's eye 
 
 Shone with quivering tears, repeating 
 To the eager band,
 
 135 
 
 ^^He is all that now is left me 
 Of the dear Old Land, 
 
 But you '11 come, my friends, to hear him, 
 
 He will always sing, 
 And he '11 teach you, if you listen, 
 
 Many a holy thing. 
 
 When my poor old heart is longing 
 
 For a word of love, 
 Tliat peaceful carol tells me 
 
 Of the Home above. 
 
 When my troubled mind refuses 
 
 Hymns of grateful praise, 
 I can offer all my birdie's 
 
 Pure and joyful lays." 
 
 And so, on Sabbath evenings 
 
 To the Cottage came 
 Father, Mother, Grandsire, Children, 
 
 Men of stalwart frame, 
 
 Eyes that tear drops never moistened 
 
 Since the days gone by 
 Of their half forgotten childhood. 
 
 Wept in silence nigh. 
 
 The radiance of the sunset 
 
 Lit the forest trees, 
 The only sounds that floated 
 
 On the evening breeze 
 
 Were the smothered sob of anguish 
 
 From the exile throng, 
 And the clear triumphant anthem 
 
 Of the Lark's calm song. 
 
 When the last soft beams departed 
 At the close of day,
 
 136 
 
 With slow, unwilling footsteps 
 They should turn away. 
 
 But a sanctifying spirit 
 
 Blessed the silent throng, 
 It descended from the heavens 
 
 On the Lark's sweet song. 
 
 " Raise your eyes and hearts," it whispered, 
 
 " To that starry dome, 
 There, beyond the clouds and shadows, 
 
 Is the Exile's Home." 
 
 % 
 
 ^Kltabtnln ^lolncrs. 
 
 The day had faded, and I sat alone 
 
 Watching the night adorn her starry throne, 
 
 Watching the shadows fall, so soft and still. 
 
 On the dark beauty of a distant hill. 
 
 It was an hour for thoughts akin to prayer. 
 
 For thoughts of heaven, and those who worship there, 
 
 Over whose blessed day of glorious light 
 
 Never can fall the shadows of the niglit. 
 
 Thoughts of ])ure spirits, radiant and serene, 
 
 Bending so fondly o'er this carllily scene. 
 
 Yearning to gather from our mortal bowers 
 
 Garlands of glorious, never fading flowers. 
 
 Long, long I mused, for hours like these are dear, 
 When the life trials ])ress upon us here, 
 Sternly and sadly bidding us no more 
 Seek for our bliss on s//t:/i a troubled shore. 
 *' Surely," I said, " if dark regret coiiM come 
 To cloud the sunny .splendour oi their home,
 
 137 
 
 Tears of angelic grief would, ceaseless, flow 
 Over the sin stained world they watch below." 
 But, as I gazed, the mountains seemed to rise 
 Almost to touch the softly lighted skies, 
 And a fair, Angel band came floating down. 
 Wreathing the hill-top, like a splendid crown. 
 Blossoms they bore, of many a varied hue, 
 Lovely and fragrant, yet, I felt they grew 
 First, in frail beauty, on our earthly sod, 
 Then, shone resplendent, in the bowers of God. 
 All the bright Guardians of the flowrets still 
 Seemed with unwearied joy and love to thrill, 
 And, as I watched them, I beheld outspread 
 Banners that floated o'er each radiant head. 
 Names of their chosen lands I there could see. 
 And the fair buds seemed living things to me, 
 Telling the glories of their earthly home, 
 Looked I for thine, O Italy and Rome ! 
 
 Oh ! what a solemn, heavenly chorus rose, 
 
 Victors, who conquered Christ's imperial foes, 
 
 Virgins, in snowy loveliness arrayed, 
 
 Flowers that had won their sweetness in the shade, 
 
 Agnes, the Martyr Child ! Francesca ! there, 
 
 Still, with uplifted eyes, in Angel care ; 
 
 Still did Ceciha mid the flames rejoice. 
 
 Chanting her death song, with enraptured voice ; 
 
 There was the Seraph of Assisian birth, 
 
 Scarcely a dweller on this lower earth ; 
 
 There was the placid form we love to paint, 
 
 Philip of Neri, gentle, joyous Saint; 
 
 And, in their priestly robes, a phalanx grand. 
 
 Stood, as they did, when first the Leader's Hand 
 
 Summoned Ignatius to the Roman land. 
 
 Then, like a summer breeze across the main, 
 Swelled the rich music from the land of Spain, 
 Hymning the " royal Order's " deathless praise. 
 And, on St. Dominic's Sons, I turned to gaze.
 
 138 
 
 There was the glorious Father ! Rays of light 
 Beamed from his shining brow, and golden bright, 
 Sparkling with jewels wonderful to see, 
 Still in his hands he clasped the Rosary. 
 Countless as are the orbs that deck the sky, 
 Numberless as the sands tliat 'neath it lie. 
 Thronged the " white " ranks, so buoyant, so serene, 
 Lit with the loving smile of heaven's fair queen ; 
 Near them, the veiled, seraphic Saint, who prayed, 
 Suffered and laboured, in the Carmel shade, 
 Ages resounding with Teresa's cry, 
 " Give me, O Lord, to suffer or to die." 
 
 Then came a strain, so exciuisite, so clear. 
 
 That my heart throbbed, the birdlike notes to hear, 
 
 Thrilling with deepest joy's ecstatic trance, 
 
 O thou sweet Violet of the land of France ! 
 
 Lost in the Heart of Love's o'erflowing rays, 
 
 How shall we name thee ! How entone thy praise. 
 
 Thou, in thy virgin innocence, enshrined 
 
 In the "closed garden" of the gentle mind, 
 
 Unwearied patience and angelic prayer, 
 
 Earnest, yet peaceful. Yes ! with constant care. 
 
 Tender and watchful, from his distant throne, 
 
 Francis, Geneva's Bishop, guards his (m<ii, 
 
 And by his side the great and valiant heart, 
 
 She in liis toil who bore a noble part. 
 
 While near her stands the ardent loving Friend 
 
 Of every sufferer, all, alike, wlio bend 
 
 'Neath sickness, want or orphan misery, 
 
 Vincent de Paul ! their refuge is in thee. 
 
 So, every Country gave its own bright flowers, 
 So, in each land, harmonious, from the bowers, 
 Rang the glad anthems of untiring love, 
 Braising the glorious Fatlierland above. 
 Hungarian forests echoed still the lay 
 Of Iler who cast the due al crown away, 
 Gertrude, Mechlikla, and their Virgin Choir 
 Always the Benedictine chant insi)irc,
 
 139 
 
 And the grand heroes of the English shore 
 Join in the heavenly music evermore. 
 
 Ah ! but our own sweet Isle, our Emerald bright, 
 Long, on its beauty, dwelt my soul that night. 
 Over its shamrock wreath I fondly bent, 
 Counting the lovely gifts to heaven it sent. 
 Lilies of pure, unsullied hearts, so fair, 
 Roses of martyr-crimson, shining there, 
 Snowdrops and Violets, dear young offerings laid 
 On God's great Altar. Tender homage paid 
 Daily and hourly, at our Mother's Shrine, 
 Sufferings endured with fortitude divine. 
 Friendless, despised, and trampled on, yet still 
 Climbing, with patient step, the Holy Hill, 
 Asking, God knoweth, but little comfort here, 
 Looking to Him With, faith that k?iows not fear. 
 
 Dear, loving Island of the Western Sea ! 
 Let not harsh time imprint its trace on thee, 
 Let not the blight on other lands that fell 
 Touch the bright shores St. Patrick loved so well. 
 Still sing thine own unbroken virgin hymn. 
 Still tend the Lamp of Love that ne'er grows dim. 
 Hope's radiant smile foretells a fairer world. 
 There shall the " Sunburst " grandly be unfurled ! 
 
 " Angels," I cried, " forgive the gaze that saw 
 Nought on this earth but God's dishonoured law. 
 Thought not of all the incense breathing flowers 
 Nurtured by you, even in these lowly bowers. 
 Watched not God's hidden, chosen Ones, who tread 
 Life's weary ways, with hearts that long have fled. 
 To your immortal home, O guardians fair, 
 Joy lights the steps surrounded by your care. 
 Even as the rosy dawn is gilding now 
 All the stern darkness of the mountain brow, 
 So shall our otvn iincloudcd morning come, 
 Spirits of beauty ! lead us to your home.
 
 140 
 
 it. 3£gnatms's ^tt 
 
 The early Jesuit Fathers ! 
 
 Were wonderful souls, and yet, 
 Among a/l his sanctified Children, 
 
 Ignatius had ofie great Pet. 
 Some grave old Father, surely 
 
 Laynez or Salmeron? No! 
 Was mortified Bobadilla, 
 
 Or Faber, distinguished so? 
 
 Or perhaps it might be Xavier, 
 
 Always ready to fly 
 To India, or vice versa, 
 
 When he saw the letter " I." • 
 Not one of them all, I tell you, 
 
 No lofty, ascetic soul, 
 But a Boy— a Child,— whom Ignatius 
 
 Could scarcely even control 
 
 It was Pedro Ribadeneira, 
 
 Hastily running away, 
 After setting the Pages on fire, 
 
 At a Cardinal's Court one day. 
 Ignatius lovingly took him 
 
 Into his home and heart, 
 For the boy was bright and trusting, 
 
 A stranger to guile and art. 
 
 But Pedro Ribadeneira 
 
 Was arc/i enough, in truth. 
 And the Fatlicrs were sorely tempted 
 
 To chastise the provoking youth. 
 There was scant resource in Ignatius, 
 
 His disci])linarian ways 
 Found a.C'w/ dca/ to blame in liis favourite, 
 
 But — a great deal, too, to praise.
 
 141 
 
 The poor little fellow's transgressions 
 
 Were duly and carefully told, 
 " I know them all," said Ignatius, 
 
 But — he has a heart of gold, 
 A soul that will battle bravely 
 
 To win its crown above. 
 " Leave vie to manage Pedro, 
 
 The only way is lover 
 
 " Father ! Father Ignatius ! " 
 
 His Socius called one day, 
 "That Brother Ribadeneira 
 
 Is pocketing apples, I say." 
 It was true enough ; he was sitting 
 
 Up in the highest tree, 
 And helping himself to the apples 
 
 Quickly and generously. 
 
 Ignatius gently called him, 
 
 Down, with a spring, he came, 
 A little abashed. No wonder ! 
 
 His cheeks were all aflame, 
 For one of the largest apples. 
 
 By some unfortunate chance, 
 Fell straight before Ignatius, 
 
 Who never gave it a glance. 
 
 But, as Pedro, in re-assurance, 
 
 Pretended to limp behind, 
 (Oh ! shame, to mimic his Father ! 
 
 Though Ignatius did not mind). 
 With his stick he pushed the apple 
 
 A little before them, until, 
 Pedro, ashamed of his folly. 
 
 Knelt, of his own free will. 
 
 Asking the Pardon and Penance, 
 
 Hopping gaily away. 
 Resolved to be very observant. 
 
 At least, till the next had day.
 
 142 
 
 Ah ! whatever his good intentions, 
 
 They were not made to last, 
 He was sent to Father Ignatius 
 
 Before a week had passed. 
 
 The long, grave lecture was trj'ing, 
 
 And, ere 't was a quarter done. 
 His restless foot kept beating 
 
 In a vague desire for fun. 
 Ignatius, with all his indulgence, 
 
 ^^'as far from spoiling his Pet, 
 He was called away on business, 
 
 The lecture not finished yet. 
 
 " Stay there," he said, as he left him, 
 
 "And, till I come back again, 
 You can think how often you give me 
 
 Trouble and care and i)ain." 
 Well ! business followed on business, 
 
 Ignatius quite forgot 
 That Pedro was still a prisoner, 
 
 A most unhappy lot. 
 
 Evening came, and they missed him, 
 
 They hunted him everywhere. 
 Till Ignatius suddenly started, 
 
 "Oh! I \Q.{\.poor Pedro there." 
 Lame as he was, he hurried 
 
 Away, to open the door, 
 Pedro was lying prostrate, 
 
 Beating time on the floor. 
 
 He was " hungry," he said, and " thirsty," 
 
 " Nearly ready to faint," 
 But i)crfectly good and repentant, 
 
 "Going to be a Saint." 
 
 A Saint! The Fathers who heard him. 
 Shook their heads, in dism.iy, 
 
 Yet, I'cdro fulfilled his promise 
 Before Ihey i)assed away.
 
 143 
 
 And my stories must have an ending, 
 
 Too long it would take to find 
 The plans and the ways of Ignatius 
 
 To train that erratic mind. 
 
 Up and down went Pedro, 
 
 Sometimes excessively bold, 
 But the General always repeated, 
 
 ''^He has a heart of gold, 
 He prays like a Saint in fervour, 
 
 He often struggles and tries, 
 I cannot be hard on Pedro 
 
 When I meet his innocent eyes." 
 
 And, at last, it dawned on the Fathers, 
 
 That the boyish faults were gone, 
 And the upright and honest spirit, 
 
 Clear and true as the sun, 
 Shone out, while the Young flocked round him. 
 
 Calling him Teacher and Guide, 
 And the cautious Elders named him, 
 
 " The Company's Joy and Pride." 
 
 Fourscore years passed o'er him, 
 
 Fourscore years of strife, 
 They came to Pedro to tell him 
 
 They were going to write a Life. 
 " The Life of Father Ignatius ! " 
 
 Oh ! he had much to tell, 
 Many a sweet old story, 
 
 He " knew them all so well." 
 
 And — a Likeness, too, to be painted, — 
 
 " Could not the Painter be 
 At work in this room ? " he asked them, 
 
 " A heart's delight to me." 
 
 And so they came to him daily. 
 Writers and painters, then.
 
 144 
 
 He was like a Boy, in his rapture, 
 Watching the pencil and pen. ^ 
 
 " You will give me a copy — won't you ? 
 I 'd love to have it here, 
 
 My blessed Father will help me 
 When sickness and death are near." 
 
 Oh ! I love you, Ribadeneira, 
 
 I love your heart of gold, 
 The heart that won Saint Ignatius, 
 
 The heart that never grew old, 
 I fancy that " reservation " 
 
 Was a difficult task to you, 
 That your " reticence" was not perfect, 
 
 But, Oh ! you were frank and true. 
 
 Richly dowered with talent, 
 
 A scholar, a genius, styled, 
 But, Pedro Ribadeneira, 
 
 Your soul li'as the soul of a Child. 
 Yes ! and I can revere you 
 
 In your grand old age, as you sit 
 Humbly before that Picture, 
 
 Praying and thinking of it. 
 
 Probably, some would pity. 
 
 Some of the clever men 
 Smiled at your " simple affection," 
 
 Considered you ''childish ;" but then, 
 In heaven they did not think so, 
 
 You were skilful enough to get 
 A place in the Father's Mansions, 
 
 Where Ignatius welcomed his Pet.
 
 145 
 
 „PC y^ominumx ^tt. 
 
 I oped the Dominican Annals, 
 
 And I scanned the " white robed " throng, 
 I carefully bent to listen 
 
 To the tones of their cloistral song. 
 And what was I seeking, ask you ? 
 
 What did I hope to get 
 By my eager investigation ? 
 
 I was trying to find — a Pet. 
 
 But the search went on for hours, 
 
 Saint Dominic's Children came, 
 All were loved and loving. 
 
 Of world wide, saintly fame. 
 All, serene and joyous, 
 
 A sweet, perpetual youth 
 Shone and sparkled for ever 
 
 In the " royal Order of Truth." 
 
 Jordan, the Saint and Scholar, 
 
 Brightly before me stood. 
 Caressing the frolicsome squirrels, 
 
 And the birds in the German wood. 
 And St. Dominic's little namesake. 
 
 Marvel of science and grace, 
 A very gigantic spirit 
 
 In a tiny bodily case. 
 
 And Manes, the snowy seraph. 
 
 And Reginald, chosen friend 
 Of that "gracious creature" Henry, 
 
 In fact, I would never end 
 If I counted St. Dominic's favourites. 
 
 Lodged in his great, grand heart. 
 And I wanted a special Treasure, 
 
 Holding a place apart,
 
 146 
 
 All was darkness around me, 
 
 The very depth of the night, 
 When, as often suddenly happens, 
 
 Down shot a ray of light, 
 Siena beamed out before me 
 
 With its glorious Dominican Nun, 
 And — there was Stephen Maconi ! 
 
 St. Catherine's " Negligent Son." 
 
 She called him " careless and tepid," 
 
 But 't was easy enough to tell 
 That he was \}l\& first and dearest, 
 
 She loved him passing well. 
 The petted and playful darling. 
 
 Heir to riches and pride, 
 He flung them heedlessly from him, 
 
 To kneel by Catherine's side. 
 
 Away from the bonds that clasped him. 
 
 Away from his brilliant home. 
 With HER he had .-vll he wanted 
 
 In Avignon, Florence, or Rome. 
 She, with her angel existence, 
 
 Her lofty absorbing thought, 
 God ! His Church, and His Vicar, 
 
 Why was her guidance sought 
 
 By that bright young Lord of Siena, 
 
 Pressing the saintly hand 
 That he felt was given to lead him 
 
 Up to the Better Land ? 
 Well, with all his light-hearted prattle, 
 
 His wondrously winning way, 
 You could not call him happy. 
 
 He was only carelessly gay. 
 
 Sometimes a glow of devotion. 
 Sometimes a torrent of jjrayer, 
 
 And then, how his eyes would wander 
 To the world that looked so fair.
 
 147 
 
 But Catherine never spared him : 
 Rebuke and remonstrance went 
 
 After every unguarded rattle 
 Or gossiping letter he sent. 
 
 Docile he was, and ready 
 
 His small peccadilloes to own, 
 His candid and loving contrition 
 
 Had melted a heart of stone. 
 " I would rather die than displease you," 
 
 Stephen would piteously say. 
 And then, what an eager endeavour 
 
 To wipe his transgression away. 
 
 He was general Procurator, 
 
 General Messenger, too, 
 He could settle business, and purchase 
 
 From a horse to a kid-skin shoe. 
 Good old Master Matthew 
 
 Encouraged the gleeful Boy, 
 Always welcomed him gladly, 
 
 Called him " a bringer of joy." 
 
 Neri, the dismal Poet, 
 
 Thought Stephen giddy, indeed. 
 And sometimes dolefully hinted 
 
 At "a character run to seed." 
 But the Mother's eyes were watching 
 
 With close and vigilant gaze, 
 And her heart exulted in Stephen, 
 
 Foreseeing his latter days. 
 
 *"T is a dangerous thing to be near you, 
 
 You read my thoughts," he cried, 
 But she smiled and quietly answered, 
 
 " Nor distance nor care can hide 
 The deeds and the words of my children 
 
 From my glad or sorrowing sight ; 
 Blest be the God, who gives me 
 
 A share of His piercing light."
 
 148 
 
 Ah ! the light of earth was fading 
 
 When she bade her favourite come 
 Hastily, just to see her 
 
 Wending her footsteps home. 
 And then, as he knelt beside her^ 
 
 The solemn farewell was said, 
 Faithfully kept and treasured 
 
 When her lips were mute and dead. 
 
 He came to that dying pillow, 
 
 A grieving, innocent Child, 
 He left it, prepared for the combat, 
 
 Prepared for a warfare wild. 
 The pleadings and ties of kindred, 
 
 The world's seductive tone, 
 Were nought in the ears of the mourner, 
 
 Hearing her voice alone. 
 
 It showed him the silent Cloister, 
 
 The prayerful Carthusian Cell, 
 Afar from earth and its splendour 
 
 Should Stephen Maconi dwell. 
 And there, at last, we find him, 
 
 A reverend, grey-haired man. 
 Calmly and wisely fulfilling 
 
 The days of his life's long span. 
 
 Still the tender and clinging affection 
 
 Was living, in fulness, yet, 
 In the General of the Carthusians, 
 
 Once St. Catherine's Pet ; 
 And his dear deliglit was to linger 
 
 On the fondly remembered days, 
 When her gentle hand had led him 
 
 To holier, higher ways. 
 
 To others a Father and Ruler, 
 To ITcr he was only a Child, 
 
 And with all their true veneration 
 The Brethren sometimes smiled,
 
 149 
 
 When the General gravely called them, 
 In his deep-toned voice to say, 
 
 "Have a Dish of Beans, to-morrow, 
 In honour of Easter Day, 
 
 For long ago, in Siena, 
 
 We knelt at our Mother's feet 
 For her wonted Paschal blessing, 
 
 And she bade us rise and eat. 
 What did she offer us, think you? 
 
 A Dish of Beans; and yet 
 / thought 't was the richest banquet 
 
 Ever before me set." 
 
 Ah ! Stephen, Stephen Maconi ! 
 
 Brave and beautiful heart ! 
 In the peace of a summer evening 
 
 Thou wert watching thy life depart, 
 For the glory of sanctity round thee 
 
 Proclaimed that thy crown was near, 
 And the call of the Master found thee 
 
 Too pure, too trusting, to fear. 
 
 The eyes that had grown so faded 
 
 With the mists of lengthened age. 
 Lit up with redoubled lustre, 
 
 Reading the closing page. 
 The sunny glance of thy childhood. 
 
 Spread o'er thy pallid face. 
 As thy lips unclosed to whisper 
 
 " Mary, Mother of grace." 
 
 And then, like an exquisite echo, 
 
 The old and beloved name, 
 "Catherine! friend for ever ! " 
 
 Soft as a bird-note, came. 
 Surely, she hastened to meet thee. 
 
 Surely, she stood at thy side, 
 And the joy-bells of heaven were ringing 
 
 When Stephen Maconi died !
 
 150 
 
 (^bristmas ^ri^ctin0. 
 
 Sweet, happy Christmas-tide, brightly we greet thee, 
 With the light of thy Star, with thy Angels' glad hymn, 
 
 And the glory that shone o'er the Cave's lonely splendour, 
 A ray that long centuries never can dim. 
 
 Dear Babe of the Crib ! let us cluster around thee, 
 
 Let thy Heart of great love hear the little ones' prayer, 
 
 And over our Mother, in heavenly blessing, 
 Extend the soft shield of thy tenderest care. 
 
 Dear Infant of Bethlehem ! lowly before Thee, 
 We lay every wish that we breathe to Thee here, 
 
 We pray Thee to hallow the wreaths we are twining 
 And crown with Thy joy the glad close of the year. 
 
 Thine own sinless Mother's unwearied protection 
 We claim, as fond children, who always have known 
 
 That our home of Loretto is watchfully sheltered 
 'Neath Mary Immaculate's Angel-crowned throne. 
 
 O fair, radiant Queen, let thy hands be extended 
 With the graces thy children are seeking to-day, 
 
 For we ask for our Alothcr, we ask for Loretto, 
 Thine oivn Christmas gifts that can never decay. 
 
 :@,ctu l^mr's "W^isli. 
 
 A glad, a bright New Year, Mother, 
 
 A year of sunshine fair. 
 Long days f)f golden brightness, all 
 
 Undimmcd by grief or care!
 
 1/31 
 
 Blessings a hundred fold, sent down, 
 
 To light a i)eaceful way, 
 The happiest you have ever known 
 
 We wish for you to-day. 
 
 But what avail are all our words, 
 For, earnest though they be, 
 
 They cannot rule the coming hours 
 Nor plan futurity. 
 
 Yet, Mother, to our little hands 
 A wondrous power is given, 
 
 The Babe of Bethlehem loves to hear 
 The Children's prayej-s in heaven. 
 
 We tell Him all we ask for you, 
 
 And then, without a fear. 
 Leave to His gentle, watchful care 
 
 The brightly opening year. 
 
 He loves you well, dear Mother, then 
 We trust to Him, and say, 
 
 United hearts and voices wish 
 A happy New Year's Day. 
 
 larctodl ia JL880. 
 
 Thou 'rt past. Old Year ! Thou 'rt past for ever ! 
 
 Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 All are past, for ever buried 
 
 In the mighty grave of years. 
 
 Beams of sunshine often lingered 
 
 Gloriously around thy way, 
 Grateful thanks to God be given 
 
 For each calm, each hajipy day.
 
 152 
 
 Shadows, too, have pressed upon thee, 
 Touched thy brow, Old Year, with care, 
 
 Yet for these we kneel to offer 
 
 Grateful thanks to heaven, in prayer. 
 
 Not one Cross has been too heavy, 
 Not one grief too hard to bear, 
 
 Even the darkest hour was hallowed — 
 God's eternal love was there. 
 
 Therefore, let the heart's " Te Deum " 
 O'er the wide world grandly swell, 
 
 Peace and pardon then imploring, 
 Now, Old Year ! farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 LETTER 
 
 FROM 
 TO 
 
 ON THE OPENING OF PARLIAMENT, JANUARY, 1881. 
 
 Mon Cher Ami ! My dearest Friend, 
 
 An English lettrc I will send, 
 
 I speak it baiittifiil, and then 
 
 I must begin to take the jien. 
 
 We never will get on, Mon Cher, 
 
 Unless we make a hardi dare, 
 
 Un effort. Ah ! you undcrst.and, 
 
 Bien, here 's my news from l']nglish land. 
 
 rrcmicrcment, first, there such a fog, 
 
 1 had to hire a blindman's dog.
 
 153 
 
 We promenade, the Dog and Me, 
 I leave the go before, to he^ 
 They stare at us, the vilain folk, 
 The Dog and Me is made a joke. 
 Rien partout, but ice and snow, 
 I pace along Corrompu Row. 
 Tel Nom, Ami ! and more, as bad, 
 When they are finished one is glad. 
 When Peeccadeely I do say, 
 I always end with, C'en est fait. 
 
 The Patineurs are on the Tames, 
 They snowballed me. Ten thousand shames ! 
 The Dog was blinded, in the eye, 
 " Gendarmes, igi," I had to cry, 
 Alors, they all proclaimed at me, 
 " You 're up for war, you 'd better flee 
 To arms, indeed ! If Gladstone come 
 You '11 wish your Dog and You at home, 
 He 'd Habeas Corpus you to day." 
 The Dog and me go fast away 
 So lonely and so tristement. 
 And I was saying nothing wrong. 
 
 But just, il m'est venu in mind 
 That maintenant I ought to find 
 The way the Parliament goes on, 
 And see how all the laws are done. 
 The day of opening for the Year 
 Came on, glorieuse ! I would hear 
 La Reine, vraiment, oui ! Victoire ! 
 Saying her Speech. Quelle joie ! Quelle gloire ! 
 The Dog and Me were early up, 
 We took our leetle bit and sup, 
 I buyed — no — bought — two penny cake 
 For share and share alike we take. 
 
 I asked the way, as on we went. 
 Said we was going to Parliament, 
 They said of course the Dog would be 
 One of the Irhindais M. P. 
 What M. P. meant, I could not see, 
 But it was better to agree.
 
 154 
 
 The Dog and Me were tired and hot 
 ^Vhen ziito Farliame/it we got, 
 Such bursting up I'escaUer then ! 
 Such knocking down the steps again ! 
 At last we got up Iiigh, tres haiif, 
 And stretched our necks, to see the Show. 
 
 O Mon Ami ! 't was silence great ! 
 It put me in a heat — a hate, 
 And then a foule of wigs came in, 
 A multitude of fat and thin, 
 The Parliamenters filled the Hall, 
 The Lords and Commons, what they call, 
 They gave such solemn shakes of head, 
 I thought perhaps the Queen was dead. 
 And when a Man stood up to speak, 
 The Dog and Me near gave a squeak. 
 
 The Queen ! Mon Cher ! She can't be well, 
 
 This Lord or Common had to tell, 
 
 All that Victoria wants to say, 
 
 She wrote it down the other day. 
 
 She 's pleased at how she 's getting on, 
 
 She likes the way that things are done, 
 " Russia and France and Germany, 
 
 Are very friendly ones," says she, 
 
 " I hope they '11 stop that Transvaal War, 
 
 And then I' 11 be at ease, so far. 
 
 Poor Ireland is sad, I hear. 
 
 Do try to comfort Iter this year." 
 The Queen is most extremely kind, 
 
 With such a nice, maternal mind ! 
 
 Alor.s they made a sort of ]\ausc, 
 
 Thought I, they 're going to have the Laws, 
 
 But not a word, the Common Men, 
 
 With bows and bends, went off, and then 
 
 The others followed, too, and so 
 
 'J'he Dog and Me got up to go. 
 We travelled home, got lost about, 
 
 'i'ill he and me were worn out ; 
 
 My mind is very sad, because 
 
 1 did not hear them make the Laws ;
 
 155 
 
 I '11 go again, another day, 
 
 The Dog and Me will make our way ; 
 
 I saw a quiet gallery, 
 
 For /;7/^/^r-people, there I '11 be. 
 
 I lended^ loaried, my writing case, 
 To some one with an honest face, 
 He took it off, when he was done, 
 I 'm sure, le drole, 't \NZ.sforfiin, 
 He '11 call with it, sans doute, to-morrow, 
 And say, " I thank you for the borroivT 
 
 But, Ne'anmoins, Mon Cher Ami, 
 I find the plan to write to thee, 
 With ardour of sincerity. 
 
 Thine for ever, 
 
 THOMAS B. 
 
 ANSWER 
 
 OF 
 
 ^0nsmir J?. J^E. IP., ^aris. 
 
 Cher Thomas, 
 
 I am tout afraid 
 (Vu le progres you have made) 
 To write you in the English langue. 
 Certain I '11 go affreusement wrong. 
 
 Mon frere, how mon coeur palpite 
 To think of you in London Street, 
 Braving that miserable fog, 
 Your one appui, that precious Dog. 
 His snowballed eye ! Is 't blinded quite ? 
 Was it the gauche, on bien le right ? 
 Et toi, Ch^ri ! I do implore 
 You '11 veesit Patineurs no more. 
 Take garde of Villiam Gladstone, too, 
 He 's dehcat, and " in the blue "
 
 156 
 
 This melancholy time of year, 
 
 When sun will shine, he '11 have more cheer 
 
 But if you ever suffer more, 
 Or if the Dog is made cry sore, 
 I think you ought at once complain 
 To that nice femme, Victoire, la Reine. 
 She 's raising up the children well, 
 Une Dame d'Ecosse came to tell 
 That young Prince Leopold did preach 
 The sweetest and the goodest speech, 
 Wanting the poor to have nice flowers, 
 To make some leetle lovely bowers 
 All round their leetle cabins, then 
 He said they 'd soon be change men, 
 They 'd sit and smell Xho. poses there 
 Instead of going — you knows cohere. 
 And too, he spoke, they ought to all 
 Have pictures on the cottage wall. 
 He thinks Ecosse soon would be 
 An Eden garden — Paradis! 
 I 'm pained to hear he 's white and thin, 
 They tell me that he wants one skin. 
 
 The Queen ! A pity she can't talk, 
 And you, with such a troubled walk 
 To hear her speeching out the Laws. 
 Do go to Parliament, because 
 If peoples do n"t improve their mind 
 They '11 all be left long 7oays behind. 
 
 On dit Irlande 's in sobs of grief. 
 Though hcajjs and heaps of gold relief 
 Was sent her. Ah ! but one idee 
 Has struck me on the head to-day. 
 
 The Children ! Ireland's leetle Loves, 
 What slie would call her pij^eon do7rs, 
 Their brains arc all at tread-mill work. 
 And Ireland knows she 'd be a Turk 
 If she did not a leetle fret 
 To see the lives her l^abies get. 
 
 This Eentermcdiatc ! Well ! the Boys ! 
 They make so mvfiul tears and noise,
 
 157 
 
 I like to see tJwn learning, sit ; 
 
 But the poor Girls ! Now ! that is it, 
 
 They want to be a small bit gay, 
 
 They want piano-keys to play, 
 
 They want to sing a treble tune, 
 
 They won't be let, and, bientot, soon, 
 
 They will be all so dreadful fags 
 
 They '11 leave the garments to be rags, 
 
 And not a femme '11 know, you '11 see, 
 
 To make a leetle cup of tea ; 
 
 'T is no surprise that Ireland sigh, 
 
 'T is no surprise, she 's tears in eye ; 
 
 The Queen will make some law, maybe. 
 
 And say that Ireland's gaiety 
 
 Is hurt and spoiled, since they began 
 
 This Eentermediate learning plan. 
 
 The news / have, it is not much. 
 And nothing that your heart will touch. 
 In Greece they found a Poet's head, 
 A woman-poefs, long time dead. 
 Her name was Hero ! Do n't you wonder 
 The God-papa made such a blunder ! 
 Perhaps she had a foolish mind, 
 Mais non ! I '11 never think 't was kind 
 (Because the wovmn-poef s dead), 
 That when they found poor Hero's head, 
 In Italy they made a feast 
 Of what is called a silly beast, 
 An Ass they boiled. An Ass they roast, 
 And Assy brains they served on toast. 
 But when the Assy tongue they eat, 
 They said 't was such a gorgeous treat 
 That news should be sent on to France, 
 And now they 'spect ?« to advance. 
 The Donkey-meat will not be dear, 
 I '11 wait to try, till you are here. 
 
 Did ever Writing Case come back ? 
 The English fogs being all so black, 
 The brave young Man who got the lend, 
 Can't know the way to bring or send.
 
 158 
 
 Hang up a Placard at your door, 
 
 " De Grace, my Writing Case restore." 
 
 Men bon Ami ! at now Je pense. 
 You '11 write on each semaine to France, 
 Je vous embrasse, with both the ar>iis, 
 Oh ! May you 'scape from all the harms 
 Of Angleterre's foggy days, 
 With passionate amitie says. 
 
 Your lovingest and best Ami, 
 Your darling frere, 
 
 JEAN T. T. 
 
 ^iiiansicur <§iuc "^^"01110 bous. 
 
 Oh ! has it ever been your lot 
 
 A wandering wight to see. 
 Making a Continental tour. 
 
 And visiting Par/V ? (ree). 
 
 Some years ago ! How many? Ah! 
 
 I do not care to count, 
 For, dear, my birthdays now liavc reached 
 
 A pretty fair amount. 
 
 Well ! once upon a time, I spent 
 
 My holidays in France, 
 And gay good fortune sent to me 
 
 A rarely luippy chance. 
 
 I'm rather of a genial turn, 
 
 1 can't abide a frown, 
 I run from discontcuicd »iout/is, 
 
 And eyes that 7vill look down.
 
 159 
 
 My fellow travellers were sedate, 
 
 My heart was getting cold, 
 As heavily the Diligence 
 
 Through miles of country rolled. 
 
 It stopped ! The open door disclosed 
 
 A form of portly mien, 
 " Jean Bull ! Jean Bull," the whisper went, 
 
 ^'Mushiisf" He smiled serene. 
 
 He bowed with doubtful grace, and then 
 
 Outspread upon his knee, 
 A handkerchief of gorgeous dyes, 
 
 " Parle Anglais, plaise" said he. 
 
 " Mais non," amid a smothered burst 
 
 Of merriment, they said. 
 He shook his handkerchief about, 
 
 And wiped his great bald head. 
 
 " Un peu, a little," faintly heard, 
 The beaming Yeoman smiled, 
 
 "Madame! /parle peu Frangais, 
 They parle so fast and wild. 
 
 I not comprennee, but we '11 try, 
 
 Vous savez, you and me, 
 I aime tres beaucoup your fine France, 
 
 Your beautiful countree ! ! 
 
 To whom that Maison there belong? 
 
 It has a charmante view," 
 Half choked the Lady's answer came 
 
 " Monsieur ! que voulez vous? " 
 
 "Ah ! does it," tranquilly he said. 
 
 So perfectly content, 
 The answer satisfied him quite, 
 
 He nodded an assent.
 
 160 
 
 But speedily the silence broke, 
 
 " Madame, again, encore, 
 Pardon, vous savez, who is that, 
 
 The carriage at yon door?" 
 
 Our fair Companion's blooming cheeks 
 
 As red as roses grew, 
 She managed to articulate 
 
 "Monsieur! que voulez vous?" 
 
 " Well, off," he cried, " the fine chevals 
 
 So charmante, he is grand, 
 A nobleman, a presque Roi, 
 
 In such a charmante land. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! a Park, a garden, too, 
 
 A splendid Castle, Oh ! 
 Madame ! to whom it all belong. 
 
 Oh ! parle it — if you know." 
 
 With one accord, we all looked out. 
 
 The Lady, turning too. 
 With quivering lips contrived to say 
 
 "Monsieur! que voulez vous?" 
 
 "Another maison ! O Madame ! 
 
 He is too rich, I say," 
 And, then, as if to grasp the thought. 
 
 Back, on his scat, he lay. 
 
 Till, presently, his jovial face 
 Was darkened with a cloud. 
 
 And, bending forward, once again. 
 He whis])ercd, half aloud, 
 
 " Madame! a gorgeous funeral, 
 
 Some man of high degree, 
 Just look! I never saw the like, 
 
 Who can tliat Francais be?
 
 161 
 
 His coat-of-arms is on the coach, 
 
 Perhaps 't would tell you who, 
 Again th' embarrassed Lady said 
 
 " Monsieur! que voulez vous?" 
 
 Poor Jean Bull opened wide his eyes, 
 
 " Well ! there 's the e)id of all, 
 Mushti que voulez vous is dead ! 
 
 He 's there, 'aneath that pall. 
 
 O Madam ! and his carriages, 
 
 His houses and his park. 
 We passing by them all to-day. 
 
 And he was lying stark. 
 
 Oh ! shame, Mushus I I see you all. 
 
 You 're laughing at him now, 
 And soon you '11 have lo follow him, 
 
 You don't know when or how. 
 
 Perhaps you 're laughing at me too. 
 
 But I '11 destroy your chance, 
 Mushu que voulez vous, and / 
 
 Will say good-bye to France. 
 
 He 's in a better place, I hope, 
 
 Mushus, and, as for me, 
 I '11 never trouble you again, 
 
 Such Frangais charity ! 
 
 Some day jv*?/-;;' turn, Mushus, will come. 
 
 And, then, I think you '11 rue 
 The way you all amused yourselves 
 
 At poor Que Voulez vous. 
 
 No matter what he 7vas, he ^s dead, 
 
 And there you can go on, 
 A tittering, unchristianlike, 
 
 You must be made of stone. 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 Adjeu, Mushus, perhaps you all 
 Are light about the head ; 
 
 It 's well for poor Que Voulez vous, 
 I 'm glad the Creature 's dead." 
 
 That was the last we heard, for then 
 
 Up and away he strode, 
 Hailing the Diligence that passed 
 
 Along the Calais road. 
 
 l^\]t J^xdxt 'JMj^tMmx. 
 
 The two old gentlemen who formerly distinguished tliem- 
 selves at the "Observations of the Transit of Venus," 
 relate their "Adventures in company with the Arctic 
 Expedition, of 1876." 
 
 " Oh ! this Arctic Expedition ! 
 
 I confess I 'm growing old. 
 And, when Venus was a transitting 
 
 I suffered from the cold. 
 No doubt you all remember here 
 
 'I'hat I and my good Friend, 
 Brought that blessed starry voyage 
 
 To a very sjjccdy end. 
 But we 're both so self-forgetful, 
 
 And so filled with ardent love 
 For the interests of Science, 
 
 'I'liat we made another move. 
 Come, cheer up, my old Companion, 
 
 l'V)r )'0u 'vc got a splendid io/igue, 
 'Hiougli your Ofjui/i/ie adornment 
 
 Is, alas ! for over gone.
 
 163 
 
 "Well, I '11 try; you know I can 't consent 
 
 To lie, unknown, aside. 
 Because there 's such a thing, young Friends, 
 
 As very proper pride ; 
 And 1 think that one who suffers for 
 
 His noble country's weal, 
 Should make his efforts duly felt, 
 
 To show the good of zeal. 
 When this Arctic Expedition came, 
 
 To stir me up again, 
 I trotted off, to find this friend, 
 
 The very best of men. 
 ' We can sail in the ' Discovery,' ' 
 
 Said he, but then said I, 
 * Do n't you think it would be better 
 
 The 'AlerV Ship just to try? ' 
 Are you smiling, my young Ladies, 
 
 When I say that I am brisk, 
 That my natural inclination 
 
 Is to gambol and to frisk. 
 Oh ! you 're very ready with your laugh. 
 
 But take a little care, 
 My heart is light, my step is light, 
 
 My stick 's not light, Beware ! 
 
 " Oh ! we won't be egotistical, 
 
 Just tell how we prepared. 
 We were fine, experienced travellers, 
 
 And Captain Nares declared. 
 That he never met such coats as ours, 
 
 You 'd only see our eyes 
 Through the furry overalls we got 
 
 To face the Arctic Skies. 
 Of course the Bill of Fare we tried, 
 
 Because I must admit, 
 When turned forty we must care 
 
 Ourselves a little bit. 
 
 " So we joined the Expedition ! 
 Though indeed / could not guess
 
 164 
 
 JV/iaf we went to f;id, or see, or do, 
 
 And you, I think, knew /ess, 
 For, as we paced about the deck 
 
 One ver}' sultry day, 
 You said that, for the life of you 
 
 You really could not say 
 If we were bent on dirds or beasts. 
 
 You hoped 't was not the Stars, 
 For we 'd had enough of Venus, 
 
 And we did not care for Mars. 
 
 " In fact, his very name inspired 
 
 A certain sort of fear, 
 Lest we, the Expeditioners, 
 
 Should chance to go too near 
 These quarrelsome old Turkmen, 
 
 Who are always crying out 
 For us all to go and help them, 
 
 What on earth are they about ? 
 But just as I was thinking 
 
 Could I ever like to Jight? 
 The Captain said, ])olitely, 
 
 ' We 've theatricals, to-night, 
 Will you honour by your presence, 
 
 You 've a histrionic air?' 
 Well, I guessed he meant hysterical, 
 
 And said, ' I 'm not aware 
 I was ever thus affected. 
 
 Though I never will deny 
 That a very doleful ditty 
 
 Brings a tear into my eye.* 
 So we went, and it was splendid 
 
 Just to see tliem all ])crform, 
 And my friend, like Mr. Braham, 
 
 Fairly 'took the ship by storm,' 
 For lie sang the ' Hay of Biscay' 
 
 In such graiul bravura style, 
 That I trembled for liis lungs, 
 
 And he was heard for half di mile.
 
 165 
 
 The ofificers cried ' Bravo ! ' twice, and 
 So did all the men, 
 
 " But strange it was, they never asked 
 
 To hear me sing again. 
 / knew what they were losing, 
 
 So I offered now and then 
 To give a verse. They said it might 
 
 Attract the savage men. 
 For we were sailing gallantly 
 
 In some fine channel wide, 
 And with a telescope, I saw 
 
 The negroes, on each side. 
 Then we went among the icebergs, 
 
 And they said a voice like mine 
 Would draw down the peaks upon us. 
 
 So I lost the chance to shine. 
 And one of them, — a naturalist, — 
 
 He said it was as bad 
 As to find that now and ever 
 
 All the lovely seacows had 
 Disappeared, though, as they tell me 
 
 That they fed upon the weed 
 Of these very salty waters, 
 
 They were no great loss indeed. 
 Did you ever see musk oxen? 
 
 Oh ! the pretty beasts would run 
 (And no wonder for the creatures) 
 
 When they heard the British gun. 
 But as long as we could have them, 
 
 We were never brought too low, 
 Till, my dears, we stumbled onward, 
 
 To the land of ice and snow. 
 If you only saw the willows the7-e, 
 
 The poplars and the oaks, 
 With all your great politeness 
 
 You would say it was a hoax, 
 To call these funny pigmies 
 
 By the name of British^trees,
 
 166 
 
 Well, no matter, they Ve a struggling life, 
 In such a frosty breeze. 
 
 " And so had we, when we began 
 
 To go a-sleighing, oh ! 
 They call it pleasant travelling, 
 
 Just a gliding down the snow, 
 I went with Captain Aldrich, 
 
 And I got a lovely view, 
 And a deal of nasty frost-bites. 
 
 So my Friend would venture too. 
 But alas ! there came upon him 
 
 Such a storm of biting snows. 
 That it ruined his appearance. 
 
 And destroyed his Roman nose. 
 It was formerly quite prominent, 
 
 And now you see 't isjlaf, 
 Ah ! so much for foreign travelling, 
 
 Will you all remember that ? [f/iey sigh deeply\. 
 
 '' We had 07vh for curiosities, 
 
 I cannot tell you why 
 I never liked these birds, that keep 
 
 A blinking at the sky. 
 I was n't sorry when they died, 
 
 They 're opt to give a scream 
 And wake you, when you 're dozing, 
 
 From a very pleasant dream. 
 And, Oh ! do you remember 
 
 How we got a dreadful fright, 
 When told that hcncclortli, all our days 
 
 Would be as black as night ? 
 Aurora Borcalis is a fine thing ! 
 
 Now and then, 
 For rats antl hares to scamper by, 
 
 But Jiot for steady men. 
 And the moonlight is a beauty, 
 
 \Vhcn you see it from )our bed, 
 But all \wy fine poetic tiioughls 
 
 Were frozen in my head.
 
 167 
 
 " At last I met poor Petersen, 
 
 Said I, ' I 'd like to know 
 What knowledge we are getting 
 
 By our winter in the snow.' 
 And then, in twenty words, or so, 
 
 He told me out the whole. 
 That we were going on, to try 
 
 And find the Northern Pole. 
 * Dear me,' said I, ' we '11 all be in 
 
 A most terrific state. 
 If we go on, a freezing here 
 
 At such a rapid rate. 
 Why can't we try the Southern Pole, 
 
 We never went to that, 
 I 'd rather far be scorched and tanned 
 
 As black as any hat?' 
 Last night, as I was trying hard 
 
 To get a little nigher 
 To something like a spark of heat, 
 
 Ifell into the^re. 
 It did not inconvenience me, 
 
 But then, beyond a doubt, 
 / was so very icy 
 
 That the flames at once went out, 
 And only I 'm good-humoured, 
 
 I 'd have settled down to cry. 
 And, for want of making efforts. 
 
 You 'd have seen me droop and die. 
 
 " Ah ! you 've splendid dispositions. 
 
 And so sweet a little smile. 
 When your very teeth were chattering, 
 
 You looked so nice the while. 
 A discontented mouth I hold 
 
 In special fear and dread, 
 For, when I see //, then, I 'm sure 
 
 There 's mischief \w the head. 
 Well ! while yoti talked with Petersen 
 
 I thought I 'd have a look 
 From what they call the ' Nest for Crows,'
 
 168 
 
 Though goodness help the rook 
 That ever found himseU', poor bird ! 
 
 In such an awful plight 
 As spying from that eminence 
 
 Upon an Arctic night. 
 
 " I scarcely had climbed up, because 
 
 A sharp, rheumatic stab 
 Is very trying to the knees, 
 
 (As if you met a crab 
 Who held you very tightly 
 
 In a finical embrace), 
 When, gracious me ! 't was Captain Nares 
 
 Who met me, face to face, 
 I gently tried, upon our case. 
 
 To find his real view, 
 And so I saw it was the fact 
 
 That matters did look blue. 
 ' We have not,' candidly he spoke, 
 
 ' Found how to reach that spot, 
 The Northern Pole, but then, at least, 
 
 We know this way is not 
 The right one, so we 're all content 
 
 For just a few years more. 
 And soon, I think, we '11 steer away 
 
 To Britain's hai)py shore,' 
 
 " ' Oh ! thank you, Sir, you 're very 7vise, 
 
 My friend will say the same, 
 You '11 always find that we '11 agree. 
 
 You 're ([uite a Son of Fame. 
 When all the icrong ways have been tried, 
 
 You Ul surely find the right, 
 And then ice '11 travel out again 
 
 To sec the glorious sight.' 
 
 " So here we are, at home again. 
 
 And only, just in time 
 To give you entertainment 
 
 And instruction in our rhyme,
 
 169 
 
 And now good night, and sweet repose 
 
 To every travelled head, 
 Excuse the weary voyagers, 
 
 We 're going off — to Bed ! " 
 
 \^They ?nake their exit, arm in arfti\. 
 
 W.viimm)ixvcU ^ISbutattoit. 
 
 O Ireland ! Ireland ! raise your head 
 
 Rejoice to-day that you are not dead. 
 
 You poor, disconsolate land, do n't fret. 
 
 You are training up a wonderful set. 
 
 "A set of whatV is poor Ireland's cry, 
 
 " I thought I was onlyyf/ to die. 
 
 What am /doing, that's grand or great? 
 
 Oh ! praise is sweet, when you 're in this state. 
 
 When your laudable friends are saying to you, 
 
 ' You 're wrong, you We 7tirong,' whatever you do. 
 
 And if you modestly try to tell 
 
 Something you executed well, 
 
 ''Dear, you ""re astray, you 're quite astray y 
 
 That 's poor Ireland's case to-day. 
 
 "Cheer up my Country, and lift your eye 
 To something that banishes every sigh. 
 Do n't lie down. Get up, and stand 
 To gaze on your Intermediate Band. 
 There they are, these noble girls ! 
 Their brains in constant, perpetual whirls, 
 Racing after Latin and Greek, 
 Doing the work of years in a week. 
 Flinging their dolls, and their toys aside, 
 Placing their joy and their honest pride 
 In plunging daily in Learning's well
 
 170 
 
 Struggling about in it. Proud to tell, 
 
 That Algebra 's nothing, and Euclid less. 
 
 That they '11 never sufficiently love and bless 
 
 The fine idea that gave them a place 
 
 On the blue stocking stage of the female race. 
 
 "Omnium gatherum," so they say. 
 
 Never a halt on the royal way. 
 
 Fill your brains, and ^11 them fast, 
 
 Till the good old folks all stand aghast, 
 
 Or sink to a horizontal state, 
 
 When the Intermediate begins to dilate, 
 
 Prattles of Shakspeare, as if she knew 
 
 Every inch of him, through and through, 
 
 Dashes, rectangular sketches, and quick 
 
 Sp'ns through the " Civil Arithmetic." 
 
 Quotes from " Souvestre," and " Tasso," and then 
 
 Hastily snatching a worn out pen. 
 
 Gives them a page from the Celtic, so, so, 
 
 Till her grandfather cries "Oh ! let me go, 
 
 I could lay my head in my grave to-night. 
 
 With s/ieer surprise, — and pride, — and delight. 
 
 / do n't know ra/iat she was talking about, 
 
 I 'm sure / never could make it out, 
 
 ' Permutations,' and ' theorem ' 
 
 * Simultaneous equations,' she mentioned them. 
 
 Yes ! and a something — a spectroscope — 
 
 Whatever t/iat is, nothing wrong, I ]wpe. 
 
 ' Plane Trigonometry ' came on next, 
 
 And then, I 'm afraid she was getting vexed, 
 
 But the ' Ccrman ' made my head go round. 
 
 It was such an awful, guttural sound. 
 
 So I slipped in a word, to ask her to tell 
 
 Could she do the Spelling and Grammar 7C'e/l? 
 
 She could, she said, and could analyse 
 
 Everything that is under the skies. 
 
 So / 'd nothing to say, after tJiat, you know, 
 
 But ''tliat Girl is fit for a royal Sho7o:" 
 
 O Ireland ! Ireland ! what do you say 
 When we come to the splendid Exanicn Day.
 
 171 
 
 When the railways are aching with learned freight^ 
 
 Anxiously crying, " We 're surely late.'' 
 
 Father and mother, escorting a Child, 
 
 A gentle Aunt, or an Uncle mild, 
 
 Begging to know the shortest way 
 
 To the " Intermediate Hall " of display. 
 
 They see it, they pause at the open door, 
 
 " Wait, oh ! wait for an instant more," 
 
 The Superintendent wofully cries, 
 
 "A mistake, a slight one, had to arise. 
 
 The papers for Dublin are gone to Cork" 
 
 But the telegraph wires are all at work, 
 
 Messengers chasing on flying cars, 
 
 As if they were 'scaping from civil wars. 
 
 And the whole of the country is tearing away, 
 
 For the " Intermediate Examen Day." 
 
 Ireland's Hope, and Ireland's Pride 
 
 At last, are safely locked inside, 
 
 Rather secluded, with pen and ink. 
 
 And then, they begin to try to think. 
 
 But somehow they 're just a little upset, 
 
 It is not quite so easy to get 
 
 "The stocks and shares," and the "discount" right. 
 
 And the " involutions " begin to fight. 
 
 The " mountains " tumble rather together. 
 
 The "rivers" are tangled. They scarce know whether 
 
 " Julius Csesar " was right or wrong. 
 
 When lo ! " The time for the English, gone," 
 
 And " French," " Italian," and " German " come, 
 
 " Spanish " and " Latin," and " Grecian " drum 
 
 Beating the poor Intermediate head, 
 
 Wonder you noia, that its wit has fled. 
 
 On they struggle. Geometry o'er 
 
 Harmony knocks at their aural door. 
 
 All is over ! They stumble out, 
 
 The weary Examiners sit in doubt 
 
 Counting the Marks. The Parents call, 
 
 "That List will never be done at all." 
 
 Months pass by. They are worn out.
 
 172 
 
 The List appears. A terrible rout ! 
 
 " It 's zvrong, you must do it over again." 
 
 luckless Examiners ! Martyred Men ! 
 
 1 hope you are all of heroic mould, 
 
 Or the sum of your days will soon be told. 
 
 Now Ireland ! Ireland ! when you feel 
 
 A little despondent about your weal, 
 
 Just put t/n's Picture before your eye, 
 
 Watch how your Intermediates fly 
 
 Up and down the ruggedest ways, 
 
 And think you are ''•fallen " on glorious " days." 
 
 Next year they '11 labour from peep of light, 
 
 They '11 eat their breakfast overnight, 
 
 Their dinner, a penny roll, you '11 find, 
 
 For they '11 principally live on the food of the mind. 
 
 They '11 never annoy themselves, learning to sew, 
 
 Holes in the stockings, are trifles you know. 
 
 Nothings, to Ladies of learned degree, 
 
 Not ^i'orfh minding. Such things must be. 
 
 Good-bye to Needles ! Good-bye to Thread ! 
 
 'T is head, all head, and nothing but head. 
 
 All the cosy, housekeeping train 
 
 Vanish away, in Victoria's reign. 
 
 But maybe they '11 all come back to n?, yet, 
 
 When the " Intermediate" Sun has set. 
 
 ^l^ntcrmcbiatc ^Efiarmonn. 
 
 (A Comic Tableau). — A Music Master surrounded by his 
 l)Upils. Each ])upil holds a nmsic slate or a jiagc of 
 exercises. Blackboard in the centre, with illustrations 
 of chords, etc, 
 
 I) dear i'ricnds ! 1 ask your pity, 
 Here 's a sad, an awful case,
 
 173 
 
 Yon distracted Music Master 
 Dying fast of — Double Bass. 
 
 Once, he was a happy Creature, 
 Gentle soul ! so soft and mild. 
 
 Music was his darling Mother, 
 His piano was his Child. 
 
 How he loved it ! How he touched it ! 
 
 Petting it, so tenderly, 
 Smiling on his little pupils, 
 
 Training them in melody. 
 
 Now, they 're all like goblins round him, 
 
 Holding each an Exercise, 
 Pages of the " New Notation " 
 
 Dazzling the poor Master's eyes. 
 
 " Please you. Sir," one elf will thunder 
 
 (She is in her seventh year), 
 " I am pet-fed in ' Inversions,' 
 
 Something new I 'd like to hear." 
 
 " O Sir ! O Sir ! " squeaks another, 
 With a voice of ! ! ! — well — of brass ! 
 
 "If you give those easy questions, 
 Sure, you know, we '11 never pass." 
 
 Easy questions ! Easy talking ! 
 
 I 've been sitting up all night 
 " Changing " all the " Enharmonics," 
 
 Getting " diatonics " right. 
 
 Oh ! I 'm fairly half demented, 
 
 Never bard in Tara's Hall 
 Felt as I, — I '11 vent my feelings. 
 
 Hear them now, you 're welcome, all ! 
 
 Oh ! Music hath a fearful power ! 
 From morning's dawn to evening's close,
 
 174 
 
 It comes, to darken every hour, 
 And steep my heart in bitter woes. 
 
 O ye Crotchets ! O ye Quavers ! 
 
 Quivering all through my brain, 
 Shall I ever ! Shall I nrver 
 
 Banish Harmony again ? 
 
 O you Concord, and you Discord ! 
 
 You are all astray in space, 
 And that shocking " Dominant Seventh " 
 
 Never keeping in its place. 
 
 Do n't you tell me of " Suspensions," 
 
 There is no suspension here. 
 Up we go the ]\Iusic Ladder, 
 
 High and higher every year. 
 
 Hand me out that " Stainer's Primer, 
 
 Intermediate Harmony," 
 Where are wc to end, I ask you, 
 
 This is just our " A. B. C." 
 
 " Build the Chords." Why, mercy on me ! 
 
 Even the Babies do them, grand ! 
 We '11 have legions of Composers 
 
 Shortly, rushing through the land. 
 
 Who 's to play the Compositions ? 
 
 That is what / want to know. 
 Ask a Genius to perform, 
 
 " Oh ! I can't, Oh ! dear, No ! no !" 
 
 Very antiquated Notion ! 
 
 riay for > ou ! Oh ! not at all ! 
 Theory, and figured Basses 
 
 Fill our Modern Music Hall. 
 
 If wc venture on a l>allad, 
 
 " Low and vulgar " is the sigh,
 
 175 
 
 If we touch a briglit " Fantasia " 
 Straight we hear a warning cry. 
 
 (Points to Blackboard). 
 
 Ah ! 't is beautiful to see them, 
 
 " Tonic," " Mediant," all displayed 
 On that Blackboard there, before us, 
 
 " Junior, Middle, Senior Grade." 
 
 " Perfect Intervals," dear help me ! 
 
 Then " Augmented," Oh ! my head ! 
 Only they 're at times " diminished," 
 
 Here I 'd be a lying dead. 
 
 Major scales a crashing on me. 
 Minor ones a whining here, 
 
 But 't was nothing, all was nothing. 
 Counterpoint steps forth this year. 
 
 '' Triads," " Tetrachords," looked tangled, 
 Oh ! but all that 's gone before 
 
 Fades away, as looms this Vision, 
 Comiterpoint is at the door. 
 
 Shall I meet it ! Cati I meet it ! 
 
 Come, I '11 struggle to be brave, 
 If I sink in the endeavour, 
 
 Lay the Blackboard on my grave. 
 
 Sing the funeral dirge above me 
 In a " Tonic Sol-fa" strain. 
 
 Let my Epitaph be only, 
 
 " Z?/V^ ^—Harmony on the Brain."
 
 176 
 
 SEiitermcbiatc ©comctrw. 
 
 I hear a great deal of crying out, 
 
 A great deal of work and woe, 
 And a litde of what we familiarly style 
 
 Drawing a long, long bow. 
 And it 's all about that Harmony, 
 
 The Counterpoint and the Bass, 
 The Hidden Fifths that cannot be found, 
 
 The etceteras of the case. 
 
 But there 's many a tale that 's just as sad, 
 
 And only wants to be told ; 
 My own distresses are marvellous, 
 
 Fearfully manifold. 
 There 's amazing progress in Art, they say, 
 
 I 'm sure 't is very fine, 
 But alas, when we toil on the equiangular, 
 
 Rectilinear Line. 
 
 You mourn your closed Pianos, 
 
 But look at our Pictures, dear ! 
 We used to do such Landscapes, 
 
 A dozen or two in a year. 
 We used to paint the roses. 
 
 The butterflies and the bees, 
 The skies above, and the grass beneath. 
 
 And tlic moonlight on the seas. 
 
 That Day of Beauty has faded now, 
 
 Its graces we must resign. 
 For wc s])cnd ourselves on the equiangular, 
 
 Rectilinear Line. 
 I purchased " Hurchctt's deonictry," 
 
 And " Dycc's Drawing- Book,"
 
 177 
 
 " Jewitt's Perspective," sure you see 
 They had an imposing look. 
 
 'T was quite enough for the present, I thought, 
 
 When a Prize-lass chanced to call. 
 "Oh! oh!" she exclaimed, "you are not complete, 
 
 You want that ' Treatise by Rawle.' " 
 Well ! money is scarce ; the times are bad ; 
 
 But I stretched a point — and so, 
 I have books sufficient, at all events, 
 
 Quite a respectable row. 
 
 Sections and elevations! now 
 
 I '11 settle seriously down, 
 I have no time to wear a dress, 
 
 I '11 sit in my dressing gown. 
 Given a point, and presto, then 
 
 Out from that radius shoot 
 Curves and twists, and serpentines, 
 
 Winding back to the root. 
 
 " Draw a line from A to B, 
 
 Go to C, up high. 
 Let fall to perpendicular D," 
 
 And something will charm your eye. 
 Form a " regular Octagon " then, 
 
 With " tangents " all around. 
 You '11 be off at a tangent often enough, 
 
 Before the way is found. 
 
 Object drawing, in light and shade. 
 
 The latter, I think, is best. 
 My ideas upon them are rather dark, 
 
 Too much light is a test. 
 I am gazing now at a glorious affair, 
 
 Call it whatever you will, 
 It 's a geometrical, tuberous plant, 
 
 Portrayed with comsummate skill, 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 That 's for the Junior Grade, my love, 
 
 Proceed to the Middle, now, 
 A " Rectangular Parallelogram " 
 
 Is prostrate, making its bow. 
 And my heart sinks down on the "ground work plane" 
 
 It is awfully plain to me. 
 That my spirits ''recede'' with the "long edged lines" 
 
 " Divided in ])arts of three." 
 
 The " rhombus " had a pugnacious sound, 
 
 The "pentagon" makes me feel 
 That my bendmg back would want to be made 
 
 Of i\\e finest kind of steel. 
 There 's a Sprig displayed, with extraordinary leaves, 
 
 And some vague attempts at fl.owers, 
 Such blossoms as these were never beheld 
 
 In one of our mortal bowers. 
 
 Yet this. Oh ! aid me ! is peaceably named 
 
 An airy kind of thing, 
 " Solids " are ranged before me now, 
 
 I must make a desperate spring. 
 Look at that Pyramid ! Look at its Base ! 
 
 40 degrees to x y, 
 Could n't they finish it off with z, 
 
 As if 't were the last of the cry. 
 
 There 's an axis too, to be nicely arranged. 
 
 Oh ! if the world went round. 
 And took me afar, where 1 'd never hear 
 
 "An eciuilatcral" sound. 
 Hurry away with that " Square of T," 
 
 Fling it out of my sight, 
 Would that a tea-table spread for me 
 
 Were my only T to-night. 
 
 But they '11 do it, remorselessly, over the way 
 
 The Octavo volumes are i)ilcd. 
 Farewell to the times when the poets sang 
 
 Of the lia])i)y days of a child.
 
 179 
 
 Behold yon Pile ! and above it placed, 
 
 O Peacock of Pride ! I see 
 A '* Branch of Laurel " proclaiming aloft 
 
 Geometry's Victory ! 
 
 No more ! no more ! I am worn and wild, 
 
 My auditors say 't is enough, 
 Some of them wonder what it means, 
 
 Or call it jargon and stuff. 
 But the anxious Creatures who daily frame 
 
 Triangles, right and wrong, 
 In mournful comfort sit and weep 
 
 At my Geometrical Song. 
 
 ^l^tlanm m^ \\n '^i^xmi. 
 
 An Ancient Dame from the Roman land, 
 Entirely stately, and very grand. 
 With a black browed train of attendants came 
 To a poor old Hermit, of saintly fame. 
 
 She swept herself into his little cell, 
 
 And the dear Old Saint could hardly tell 
 
 Why or wherefore he was to be 
 
 The victim of her great courtesy. 
 
 He was not quick at a courtly speech. 
 
 He never cared to talk or preach. 
 
 He only asked to be hidden there. 
 
 If they 'd let him be given up to prayer. 
 
 So he said a few words, as best he could, 
 
 Simply told her to " try to be good," 
 
 To mind her children, to mind her home, 
 
 There was advice for that Dame of Rome. 
 
 But she conquered herself, I do allow. 
 
 And, making a beautiful^ courtly bow
 
 180 
 
 " Father," she said, " accept this gift " 
 (A bag of gold she could scarcely lift). 
 He never glanced at it, merely said, 
 With a quiet bend of his old grey head, 
 " Thank you, madam, you know 't will be 
 Given away in charity." 
 She stopped, " But, Father, are you aware 
 One T/iousa/id golden crowns are there?" 
 " Madame," he said, with an upward look, 
 "They are numbered in God's Eternal Book. 
 If you gave them to me 't were well to count 
 A treasure of such a vast amount. 
 But He '11 take care you are well repaid, 
 He knows your bounty, be not afraid." 
 
 What sent this Legend into my head ? 
 
 Friends, dear friends ! the Old Year is dead ! 
 
 Its ups and downs have come and gone. 
 
 And a terrible time is hastening on. 
 
 We, of the Intermediate Band, 
 
 In the Literati take our stand. 
 
 That angled Geometry ! — awful work ! 
 
 That Harmony ! Task for a silent Turk. 
 
 So we think we 'd better lay up our store, 
 
 In as safe a place as that Dame of Yore. 
 
 We '11 not go about, hunting for praise 
 
 (Indeed not much of it comes in our ways). 
 
 High up! Excelsior! Higher still I 
 
 We are travelling up a magnificent hill ! 
 
 The Mountain of Science, the Mountain of Life! 
 
 The Mountain of Goodness, in lands of strife, 
 
 We'll climb lliem! see what a work we 'U have done 
 
 At the close of Eighteen-eighty-one.
 
 181 
 
 ^Ktstal :E\lol\j(rs. 
 
 Three bright Angels, dearest Mother ! 
 
 Three fair Spirits coming down, 
 Brought us blooming, fragrant flowers 
 
 To entwine a lovely Crown. 
 
 1ST ANGEL, 
 
 One had tiny baby blossoms, 
 
 Little waxen beauties, sweet 
 As the heart would love to offer 
 
 At the dear Bambino's feet. 
 And on every pretty leaflet 
 
 Was inscribed a prayer of love. 
 Your children's fervent pleadings 
 
 On your Festal Day above. 
 
 2ND ANGEL. 
 
 Then another radiant Spirit 
 
 Brought us buds of gorgeous hue, 
 Rich and varied, we were certain 
 
 That in different climes they grew. 
 He had culled, in many gardens, 
 
 Many a rose of earnest prayer, 
 And forget-me-nots unnumbered. 
 
 Memories of your gentle care. 
 You may deem it all forgotten, 
 
 Or unheeded, 't is not so, 
 And its beautiful fruition 
 
 In eternity you '11 know. 
 There are hearts so sorely struggling. 
 
 Some wath sorrow, some with sin, < 
 But for them your early teachings 
 
 Will at last the victory win ; 
 And though long they have been parted, 
 
 Though they dwell so far away. 
 They are thinking of you, Mother, 
 
 On St. Francis Xavier's Day.
 
 182 
 
 3RD ANGEL. 
 
 But the last resplendent Guardian 
 
 Bore a wreath of touching spell, 
 Such a tender beauty, shining 
 
 From its starry Immortelles, 
 That we felt it must be surely 
 
 Dear and precious in your sight, 
 For it came from those who left us 
 
 For the Land of Love and Light. 
 Never changing in affection, 
 
 Never chilled by time or sin, 
 Their adoring supplications 
 
 Will the richest graces win, 
 First for you, our dearest Mother, 
 
 Then for all who join to say, 
 " Heaven's best blessing crown the hours 
 
 Of your joyous Festal Day." 
 
 ^aiics hoin tin jEL\k of ^t. Francis 
 
 (FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS). 
 
 isf Tableau. — St. Francis Xavier preaching to the motley 
 crowd in the streets of Malacca. I'he Brahmins in 
 their richest robes. The whole group in bright 
 coloured clothing, contrasting with the Saint, in his 
 soutane and surplice. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 How beautiful upon the distant mountains 
 
 The feet of those who j)rcach tlie word of peace ! 
 
 How ])lesl the liour that hears their holy tidings, 
 The glorious tones of Faith that cannot cca.sc 1
 
 183 
 
 The sun had set in dazzling Eastern splendour, 
 The fiery God of Day had sunk to rest, 
 
 Leaving rich traces of his radiant beauty,- 
 In gold and crimson, on the mountain crest. 
 
 Cool as the breath of Spring, came breezes, sweeping 
 All through the furnace folds of Indian air, 
 
 When lip to lip with eager voice repeated, 
 
 "Hark ye, it rings again, the Bell of Prayer." 
 
 Malacca's streets are thronged with hurrying footsteps, 
 Each homestead opens, and each stately hall 
 
 Sends forth its brilliant train to swell the answer 
 That speeds like magic to that evening call. 
 
 Strange, gorgeous mingling of the high and lowly, 
 Pariah and Brahmin, slave and master there, 
 
 Just for a swiftly passing space united 
 
 In the great Temple of God's own free air. 
 
 On to the hill-top pressing, 'neath the glory 
 Shed o'er their path by starry lamps above, 
 
 Burning with passionate ardour for the story 
 
 (Poor thirsting hearts), the tale of heavenly love. 
 
 Eyes, whose dark blaze could mock the paler lustre 
 Of jewels, flashing o'er the swarthy face, 
 
 Stern, haughty brows, that tell of southern anger, 
 That bear of deadliest deeds the awful trace. 
 
 Weary and restless, too, with evil striving, 
 How soothing falls the unaccustomed sound. 
 
 That tells them, " When this mortal strife is ended, 
 A golden Home of Peace may yet be found. 
 
 Suffering nor sorrow, tears nor parting anguish, 
 Can cloud the sunlight of that mansion fair," 
 
 Ah ! unto i/s these words are c/u7dhood^s ieachifigs, 
 But, think ye how they stirred the wanderers there.
 
 184 
 
 The stately Brahmin head was bowed, concealing 
 The tear drop, falling from the softened eye, 
 
 And even the outcast Pariah drew yet nearer. 
 At such an hour they brooked his presence nigh. 
 
 The Mother, wasted with a life-long sorrow. 
 
 Looked to the skies, and thought '-'My Child is there'^ 
 
 And even the Baby lips in lisping accents. 
 
 Swelled the grand chorus of that evening prayer. 
 
 Angels, with soft wings closely folded round them, 
 Gathered the rescued lambs within the fold, 
 
 And twined fair coronals for India's children, 
 Far more resplendent than the Indian gold. 
 
 Some in that dusky band would reign for ever, 
 Clothed in the virgin robe of spotless white ; 
 
 Some, with the martyr palm to heaven ascending 
 A\'ould claim the laurel of the well-won fight. 
 
 Love, strong as death, in fetters bright had bound them, 
 Chained these wild spirits, fearless yet, and free. 
 
 But, with intense devotion, henceforth clinging 
 To Calvary's Mountain and its blood-stained Tree. 
 
 There — zxi^for ihein—'\ God had lain in torture, 
 There — and for them — a God, a Saviour, gave 
 
 The last rich life drops of his earthly dwelling, 
 And why? — He loved them — loved the Indian slave. 
 
 Yearned o'er them still. Oh ! what the fleeting trials ! 
 
 What though a day of conflict sore might come, 
 An hour would dawn when He who watched the combat 
 
 Would call His Indian children to their home. 
 
 So 'ncalh that midnight sky their vow was taken, 
 
 Faitiifully kei)t, lor history's pages tell 
 How Eastern souls have concjuered in the struggle, 
 
 How Eastern hearts have served their Master well.
 
 185 
 
 Children of favoured Erin ! Asia's mountains, 
 And Afric's deserts, throng with souls like those, 
 
 Oh ! let your earnest, daily supplications 
 Save the poor wanderers from eternal woes. 
 
 Life is so cheerless, and so sad its closing, 
 Hopelessly hastening down the awful way, 
 
 Say not, " we 're helpless, powerless to aid them," 
 Children of Erin ! you can kneel and pray. 
 
 Here, in our Island home, in silence, weaving 
 Prayer's lovely garland, rich and pure and sweet, 
 
 Light, hope and peace you '11 win for the forsaken, 
 And lead the scattered flock to Jesus' feet, 
 
 Till your astonished eyes, for ever closing 
 
 To earthly scenes, see angels hastening down, 
 
 And, in their hands, your garland of petitions, 
 A wondrous sight ! Your Apostolic Crown ! 
 
 2nd Tableau. — St. Francis Xavier baptising the Indian 
 Queen. Her crown and jewels lie on the ground near 
 her. Attendants stand in the background. 
 
 RECITATION, 
 
 " My soul is thirsting for that Sacred Stream ! 
 My only waking thought, my nightly dream 
 Dwells on those crystal Waters, pure and bright, 
 Father ! Oh ! give them to my longing sight. 
 What wouldst thou bid me ? See my regal Crown 
 Cast in neglectful, wistful sadness down \ 
 See the bright jewels that I joyed to wear. 
 Heedless, \ flung the glittering baubles there. 
 What of these gorgeous robes ! They only hide 
 Hearts that eternal woe may yet betide. 
 Father, in tears my humbled head I bow. 
 Tour the Baptismal Waters on my brow.
 
 186 
 
 \\Tiy do I seek them? Ask your God above, 
 He, well I know, hath heard my cry of love. 
 For, as the night wind hastened through the sky, 
 Up to His Throne I sent my yearning sigh. 
 Father, His Heart will not reject me now, 
 Pour the Baptismal AA'aters on my brow. 
 Love hath departed from my childhood's home, 
 Shades o'er the friends of youth have coldly come, 
 And the soft, soothing ties of kindred seem 
 But as the memory of a vanished dream. 
 Death stands before me. Sufferings hard to bear 
 Throng the steep pathway to yon heavens fair, 
 Yet I can welcome them, with joy, if thou 
 Pour the Baptismal Waters on my brow." 
 
 But Xavier's eyes are dim with pitying tears. 
 For to his gaze the kneeling queen appears 
 Just as he saw her first, in bright array. 
 Sharing the pageant of some festal day. 
 Well could he picture still that youthful face, 
 With the dark beauty of her ro}al race, 
 Calm in the happy glow of life's sweet morn, 
 Passed in a bower whose roses knew no thorn. 
 
 Oh ! could he dream the tiny seed of trutli 
 Placed in that heart, would bear so splendid fruit, 
 Till, day by day, he watched it, blooming there, 
 Always more fragrant, ever still more fair, 
 Though, as the llowrets grew, so purely sweet, 
 'I'horns, sharp and sore, were strewn around her feet. 
 Jhavely she trod them, bravely went lier way, 
 Smiling serenely, while each closing day 
 Saw some new sunbeam from her life depart. 
 Left some new anguish on her bleeding heart, 
 Strength all divine had grown with every prayer, 
 And a //<7<' loveliness, defying care. 
 Beamed o'er her face, as still she i)rayed " Wilt thou 
 Pour the Baptismal Waters on my brow."
 
 187 
 
 " Ego baptiso te." The sparkling flow 
 Falls on her spirit, pure as mountain snow, 
 Radiant with grace, and lovely as a slirine, 
 Now, crownless Queen, a truer Kingdom thine. 
 Go ! in the name of Him who chose thee, go ! 
 Love, joy and hope forsake thee here below. 
 Yes ! but a royal Bark will bear thee home. 
 Where the wild, stormy waters cannot come. 
 Look to the everlasting Shore — and see 
 A Diadem is waiting there for thee. 
 
 2rd Tableau. — Death of St. F. Xavier, on the shore of 
 Sancian Island. An Angel supports the head of the 
 dying Saint. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 Lonely Isle of Sanciano ! We had scarcely heard of thee, 
 Scarcely known that thou wert nestling in that far off Indian- 
 sea. 
 Never watched thy palm trees waving graceful homage to 
 
 the sky. 
 Never listened to the murmur of thy wavelet's summer sigh, 
 But the Angel of the Death-bed his calm pinions o'er thee 
 
 spread, 
 And his own most tranquil glory, fame undying on thee 
 
 shed. 
 And thy name, thou Eastern Island ! swept across o'er 
 
 mount and main. 
 There was mourning when it echoed in the princely halls of 
 
 Spain. 
 There were tears and bitter wailing in the Castle of Navarre, 
 For they wept the lonely setting of their brilliant, glorious 
 
 Star! 
 And they veiled their ancient banners in the sable folds of 
 
 grief, 
 While tliey sighed for Xavier, resting in his last untroubled 
 
 sleep.
 
 188 
 
 From the short, sharp struggle hastening, from the noontide's 
 
 sultry heat, 
 He had gained the heavenly bowers, and the cloudless 
 
 " Golden Street." 
 Angels gently folded round him the bright mantle of the 
 
 Blest, 
 On that shore of Sanciano, by the Southern breeze carest. 
 O'er the vast, transparent waters that were circling round 
 
 him there, 
 The parting sunbeams wandered, in bright rays, like jewels 
 
 fair ; 
 But they lingered, with soft splendour, where the worn 
 
 Apostle lay. 
 While they robed the wretched dwelling with a glorifying 
 
 ra)-. 
 Do ye deem him all forsaken ? Do ye look with saddened 
 
 eye 
 On that friend-deserted pillow, 'neath the scorching Indian 
 
 sky? 
 Nay, that smile of love forbids you, as the glad triumphant 
 
 sound, 
 " In te Domine speravi, non confundar," echoes round. 
 
 Lonely Isle of Sanciano ! Lonely death-bed ! day by day, 
 In the wide world's desert i)laces, souls are passing fast away, 
 Those who walk with us at morn, ere the eventide have fled, 
 They have sought the " house of silence," in the dwellings 
 
 of the dead. 
 Swift as light may be the summons, yet, the great I/i[i;:/i 
 
 Pries/ is there. 
 And the trembling heart is resting in a Father's loving care. 
 He is ///ere, with gentlest soothing, to atwint them for the 
 
 fight ; 
 He is there to shine before them, in the close of earthly 
 
 Till the tender Hand thai blessed them in the morning of 
 
 their life 
 Crowns the weary Victor, rescued from the spirit-wounding 
 
 strife,
 
 189 
 
 And the dust, the earthly vesture, sinks to rest beneath the 
 
 sod, 
 But the free, immortal Spirit hath ascended to its God. 
 
 J^eg^nb of i\n ®*.oufcssors of JplDpcisus. 
 
 Credo in Deum ! royal Words ! 
 
 And sign of prostrate faith, 
 From life's first morn, till comes the night 
 
 Of calm and blessed death. 
 Through long, long years the music swells, 
 
 Of that grand hymn of praise, 
 Its solemn cadence sanctified 
 
 The Martyr's closing days. 
 
 But never rose its mighty strain 
 
 In loftier majesty. 
 Than when Typasus city stood 
 
 In power and dignity. 
 It looked so fair, so beautiful, 
 
 With shining arch and pile, 
 Sleeping in waves of tranquil light, 
 
 The day-god's southern smile. 
 
 'T was sad to mark impiety, 
 
 Magnificent in pride. 
 Its hollow deeds,' in guise so fair, 
 
 So winning, strive to hide. 
 For in thy halls, Typasus ! then 
 
 The Vandal reigned supreme, 
 And 'neath thy domes the torch of faith 
 
 Sent but a feeble gleam.
 
 190 
 
 A tiny star yet upward shone 
 
 Its steady, beacon ray, 
 And oft, with rich, diffusive glow, 
 
 It ht the Final Day. 
 
 Once, when the midnight hour had chimed, 
 
 A brilliant, threatening glare 
 Shone o'er a poor, sequestered roof, 
 
 The home of Christian prayer. 
 'T were vain to paint that awful night, 
 
 When fierce, demoniac skill 
 Wrought on the weak defenceless band 
 
 The royal Pagan's will. 
 
 But fearlessly their peaceful voice, 
 
 Strong in its union rose, 
 " Credo in Deum, and in Her 
 
 ^Vho shared His mortal woes. 
 Blest be the Mother, standing near 
 
 Her dying God and Son," 
 So sang these glorious Confessors 
 
 Till hatred's work was done. 
 
 The tongues that thrillingly proclaimed 
 
 The noble " Credo " there. 
 Were torn from out their quivering lips, 
 
 The hands upraised in i)raycr, 
 To savage dogs that liovered round 
 
 Were pitilessly cast, 
 And then, tlic unrelenting foes 
 
 Rested — content al last. 
 
 Not yet, for, as they passed the spot 
 
 Wlicrc Rc])aratus lay, 
 One hauglUy Chieftain paused in scorn, 
 
 With bitter taunt to say : — 
 " Now arc ye silent, speechless there, 
 
 Your rich reward receive," 
 But low, and clear, and sweetly came 
 
 The answer, " I believe."
 
 191 
 
 Then, in a full harmonious chant 
 
 Of triumph o'er the foes, 
 That wondrous " Credo " echoed round, 
 
 The prostrate forms arose, 
 And with a calm, unfaltering step 
 
 Went forth, a fearless band, 
 To chant that matchless song of faith, 
 
 In many a distant land. 
 
 The cities of the royal West ! 
 
 The Islands of the Sea ! 
 Resounded with that " Credo," given 
 
 In strange, sweet melody. 
 The broad, bright plains of Italy, 
 
 The mountain wilds of Spain, 
 Heard that untiring chorus, we 
 
 Still chant the glad refrain. 
 
 For though no trace Typasus leaves 
 
 On Modern Afric's Shore, 
 The memory of its Martyrs oft 
 
 Brings back the days of yore ; 
 And when the " Credo " chant is borne 
 
 To God's blest dwelling, there 
 The Confessors of Africa 
 
 Bend down to join our prayer. 
 
 "Vision 0f j^i JP^romc. 
 
 The radiance of the Asian sky, 
 From Chalcis' desert fled. 
 
 Lone in that fearful solitude. 
 They watched around the dead. 
 
 A mortal tenement of clay, 
 
 Shattered and still, before them lay.
 
 192 
 
 Swift was the awful stroke, and yet 
 
 (How little moment now), 
 Pain, startling pain, its impress left 
 
 Upon the troubled brow. 
 They almost thanked the God who gave, 
 The restful quiet of the grave. 
 
 So knelt the mourners, nor perceived 
 
 That one faint spark lived on, 
 One feeble bond retained the life 
 
 To human feeling gone, 
 Although the spirit winged its flight 
 Far beyond scene of mortal sight. 
 
 Away it fled, through realms of space, 
 
 Away through fields of air. 
 Till, like a scorching f^ame burst forth, 
 
 A spiritual glare. 
 And from the heavenly Throne there came 
 A voice, demanding Jerome's name. 
 
 " Who— what art thou? " "A Christian, Lord," 
 
 The Spirit made reply, 
 " Nay," was the stern and mighty Word, 
 
 " Mortal, forbear that lie. 
 Pagan in heart, for in thy mind 
 Are heathen teachings fondly shrined. 
 
 Thou, in the Ciceronian page 
 
 Hast revelled niglit and day. 
 Thou, from the well of truth divine, 
 
 Unthirsting, turned away." 
 Trembling and contrite, Jerome fell, 
 " Who sliall confess to thee in hell." 
 
 So did he murmur, 'ncatli the stroke 
 
 Of th' avenging band, 
 *' Mercy, O Cod, on sinking dust, 
 
 Mercy, withdraw Thy hand.
 
 193 
 
 Thou who the bruised reed wouldst spare, 
 Hear me and list the sinner's prayer." 
 
 Then, Hke a melody afar. 
 
 Re-echoing from the Throne, 
 Rose the Angelic harps to plead 
 
 For him who knelt to own. 
 Before the grand and glorious throng, 
 That mind and soul to God belong. 
 
 The vision fled, the deathlike power 
 
 Relaxed its rigid sway, 
 Light o'er the eastern hills was seen, 
 
 And, with returning day, 
 Awakening from his dread repose, 
 To holiest life St. Jerome rose. 
 
 Gone from his noble mind the ray 
 
 Of false and meteor gleam. 
 Over his onward footsteps played 
 
 A clear, resplendent beam. 
 Philosophy, its snares and pride 
 Were vanquished by the Crucified. 
 
 Oft at the Bethlehem Cave he knelt 
 
 To watch the Silent Child, 
 To say with meek, submissive love, 
 
 While peaceful Angels smiled, 
 " No gifts so precious and so fair, 
 As simple faith and trusting prayer." 
 
 Brave Combatant, in days like these 
 
 We turn with hope to thee, 
 Crush thou the foes of childlike trust. 
 
 And give the victory 
 To hearts that, through dark shadows, seek 
 The knowledge of the pure and meek. 
 
 Thou, who hast conquered in the strife, 
 Descend unto our aid,
 
 194 
 
 Draw back with heavenly touch the veil 
 
 That casts so deep a shade 
 O'er earthly science, and send down 
 The light that led thee to thy Crown. 
 
 ^bbrcss for ^IDislriljittioii of ^ri^cs. 
 
 My Lord and Reverend Friends ! how brightly o'er us 
 Beams in its summer pride yon golden ray, 
 
 How richly do these fair and fragrant blossoms 
 Smile forth a welcome to our Premium Day. 
 
 The Year's full circle now hath swiftly vanished, 
 The Autumn days their plenteous fruit liave given, 
 
 Winter's long sleep hath borne its blest fruition, 
 And Spring hath brought its promises from heaven. 
 
 Most valued Friends ! whose wise and holy teachings 
 Unveil to us the clear and lustrous Star, 
 
 The blessed light of Mary's sweet protection 
 That guides her children's steps to worlds afar; 
 
 For you, indeed, the bygone hours are Avreath^d 
 With heavenly buds that cannot see decay, 
 
 Your words of truth, your deeds of peace and mercy, 
 These are the jewels of your earthly way. 
 
 And you, my Lord, to us, Loretto's Children, 
 Have deigned this kind assurance to impart, 
 
 That time and change arc powerless to alter 
 Our place within your kind paternal heart. 
 
 Dark arc the sliades o'er Europe's sunny bowers, 
 
 'Hie clash of war, the cry of misery 
 Resound afar, though peace for ever blessed 
 
 Is dwelling in our Island of the Sea.
 
 195 
 
 Still are its lovely valleys green and fertile, 
 Its sparkling rivers musical and grand, 
 
 And still the blessing of the Triune Spirit 
 Protects the faith of Patrick's favoured land. 
 
 The light, the glorious light of faith forbids us 
 To sink beneath the trials of the way, 
 
 The eastern dawn reveals the coming splendour. 
 We wait, in trust, for heaven's unclouded day. 
 
 ^ollbs 0f ih ,^Qt 
 
 Could Angels weep, could tear or sigh 
 
 Their placid beauty shade. 
 The Guardian of our Irish homes, 
 
 Who sees his flowrets fade, 
 Might mourn the fair young blossoms lost 
 
 To heaven's immortal bloom. 
 For the sweet buds he fondly tends 
 
 Must live beyond the tomb. 
 He sees the innocent and fair 
 
 Touched by the poisoned dart 
 Of vanity's envenomed shaft, 
 
 Fixed in the youthful heart. 
 He marks the canker worm of pride, 
 
 The serpent's caustic tongue, 
 Seeking the treasures of his love, 
 
 The beautiful, the young. 
 List to the words that may reveal 
 
 The Tempter's work within, 
 As vanity, with all her arts, 
 
 The portraits will begin. 
 
 VANITY, 
 
 VANITY, 
 
 Do n't you think me very fine. 
 Graceful, smiling and benign ?
 
 196 
 
 Hat and feathers, lace and flowers, 
 I 'm the beauty of the bowers. 
 Saw you ever blush more bright, 
 Eyes more full of sunny light ? ' 
 And the charms of this sweet dress 
 Adding to my loveliness. 
 Never tell me days will come 
 When this cheek will lose its bloom ; 
 Never shake your head and sigh, 
 " Tears can dim the brightest eye ; " 
 Never sing that sad old lay, 
 " Beauty 's but a summer day ; " 
 Mine 's the sweetest voice in song; 
 Mine 's the step of all the throng 
 That admiring eyes can see, 
 No dull books or cares for me. 
 When I see a studious face, 
 I compare it with my grace, 
 Oh ! defend me, one draws near, 
 Such a one as I most fear ; 
 Saw you ever such z fright ? 
 Let me hasten from her sight. 
 
 THE NOVEL READER. 
 
 Poor buiterfy! well may you hasten away, 
 
 Whew feeling and genius draw nigh, 
 I cannot refuse to your delicate wing 
 
 The tribute of one passing sigh. 
 But /, in my calm, meditative retreat, 
 
 Am dwelling \\\\.\\ />oet and sage, 
 And I scarce can recall my sublitnely toned mind 
 
 To this sadly degenerate age. 
 The Stars are my dearest Companions, and when 
 
 My eyes arc just closing in sleep, 
 I force the dull lids to re-open, and gaze 
 
 On the orbs that so radiantly keep 
 Their watc li o'er tlic gifted and g/o7i'ing, like me ; 
 
 'T is hard that a talented head
 
 197 
 
 Should ever recline, in oblivious repose, 
 
 On a really commonplace bed. 
 Some poor paltry creature may whisper aside 
 
 (I 'm sure with malignity's glance), 
 If I do not resign my " heroical ways," 
 
 She would not give much for my chance 
 Of a happy old age. Ah ! 't is little I heed 
 
 What those earth-clinging mortals can say, 
 My glorious intelligence bears me aloft, 
 
 Far away, my friends, far, far away. 
 
 THE ARISTOCRAT. 
 
 Floating away, indeed ! floating away ! 
 
 Ratha substantia for that I should say, 
 
 Sadly deficient in manner and style, 
 
 Her accent ! do hear it ! is really vile. 
 
 'T is wondrously vulgar, exceedingly low, 
 
 To blazon one's trifling acquirements so, 
 
 Youx fa rveiuie knows not the stately address 
 
 That only belongs to us — Ancient Noblesse. 
 
 We 're never affected, pedantic or quaint, 
 
 Emotion and energy cause us to faint, 
 
 And let us be dark-hued, or neutral, or fair, 
 
 We care not, we only attend to our air 
 
 Of fashion and elegance. Strongly despise 
 
 Yon rustic Miss Beauty's red cheeks and round eyes. 
 
 Ah ! order my Stanhope, I 've worlds of claims 
 
 On my poor, precious time, not a moment remains 
 
 For vie to indulge in the needful repose. 
 
 Physicians foretell a sad premature close 
 
 To my fragile existence, unless I can stray 
 
 To seclusion ! Alas ! but Society says " Nay," 
 
 It cannot accord me even one single day. 
 
 PRACTICAL PIETY. 
 
 Sisters ! they tell us angel eyes 
 Are watching from above,
 
 198 
 
 Noting each word, each thought, each act, 
 
 With wise and tender love. 
 They, with their heaven illumined gaze, 
 
 Dispel the outward glare, 
 And seek the " inner Shrine " to mark 
 
 The truest beauty there. 
 The heart may beat 'neath silken robes, 
 
 Decked with exotic flowers, 
 Or throb in lowliest, humblest garb. 
 
 With wildlings of the bowers. 
 The cheek may wear the rose's dye, 
 
 The youthful eye be bright, 
 Or only show the trace of care. 
 
 The lack of earthly light. 
 It matters not. The tranquil soul, 
 
 The steadfast, heaven-taught mind. 
 The sweet, low voice, attuned to words, 
 
 Gentle, and true, and kind. 
 The hands whose touch is sanctified 
 
 By Mercy's jewels, given 
 To those who suffer and wlio weep, 
 
 These are the loved of lieaven. 
 Time cannot mar the loveliness 
 
 That angel watchers ]iri/,e, 
 And knowledge is ennobled wlien 
 
 From yonder radiant skies 
 A blessing comes, to sanctify 
 
 The wealth of eartlily lore, 
 And raise our thouglits to seek the light 
 
 Of Eden's happy shore. 
 Believe me, too, that bliss untold 
 
 Ever awaits the ])rayer 
 Of llujse whose loving, childlike gaze 
 
 Rests on a model fair. 
 The Angels' Queen, thougli, sweeter still 
 
 The tender words tiiat claim 
 The right to give that " Pearl of Trice " — 
 
 A mother's cherished name. 
 Yes ! only she can guide us on 
 
 The arduous, heavenward way,
 
 199 
 
 Her spotless hands can twine the flowers 
 
 That never will decay, 
 And tend the Lamp of Love that burns 
 
 In heaven's unclouded Day. 
 
 J51llljb ^^tnctecntlj ®'cnturiy. 
 
 Two elderly Ladies enjoy a quiet tete-a-tete, conversing on 
 the "Dublin style and society in this Nineteenth 
 Century." 
 
 1ST LADY. 
 
 " O Dublin, dear! I fear your state 
 
 Is getting quite degenerate, 
 
 I 'm gazing on you, day by day. 
 
 Half of your splendour passed away. 
 
 Alas ! for times of long ago 
 
 I sigh, as I behold a row 
 
 Of cabs and cars (a vulgar race), 
 
 The stately elegance replace 
 
 With which the equipages rolled 
 
 Down Sackville Street, in days of old. 
 
 Wrapped in my furs, I raise the glass 
 
 Of yonder window. See ! they pass, 
 
 Two beings, but I cannot well 
 
 Their sex or their condition tell. 
 
 Each has a hat, an Ulster coat, 
 
 A collar, mounting up the throat, 
 
 And each is swinging in the air 
 
 A parapluie, with careless care. 
 
 'T is so indeed ! my dear, and yet 
 
 I fancy that I lately met 
 
 That slighter one, in some gay whirl, 
 
 And recognised her as — a girl ! "
 
 200 
 
 2ND LADY. 
 
 " Quite true, my love. Yes ! I declare 
 She 's 7iot a man, I see her hair, 
 It 's rather tightly rolled behind, 
 But what they call 'a fringe'' I find 
 Hangs in her eyes, and on her nose 
 Will very shortly seek repose." 
 
 1ST LADY. 
 
 " But what a costume, rather tight, 
 Now, you or / would look a fright 
 If we were clad in such a gown. 
 How would our ancestors look down 
 In pity on us, they would think 
 That we were hastening to the Rink. ' 
 
 2ND LADY. 
 
 " A fearful place ! But we 're alone, 
 
 And, candidly, to you I own. 
 
 Our Mother Eve has left to me 
 
 A tinge of curiosity. 
 
 So, one sad day, incognito, 
 
 To try the Rink, I dared to go. 
 
 The whole performance looked so nice. 
 
 Such sport and gambol on the ice, 
 
 That when a friendly voice and arm 
 
 Seemed to secure my frame from harm, 
 
 1 volunteered a step to try 
 
 (My dancing used to charm the eye 
 
 In other days), so, once again 
 
 I felt temptation to be vain. 
 
 When, 'mid applause, 1 ventured forth, 
 
 Alas ! too soon, maternal earth 
 
 Exerted all her gravity. 
 
 Down, down I went, and Oh ! the glee 
 
 That hailed my Rink adventure gave 
 
 A shock that I could never brave.
 
 201 
 
 I left that spot, in real haste, 
 
 And wondered at the dreadful waste 
 
 Of energy I saw displayed 
 
 \n figurantes, not afraid 
 
 Of injury to life or limb, 
 
 So recklessly the lassies skim 
 
 On Rinky ways, until an arm 
 
 Broken or bent, destroys the charm." 
 
 1ST LADY, 
 
 " Better again to strain one's eyes 
 By staring, with inane surprise, 
 At S2ich a feat of manly power 
 As walking, walking by the hour, 
 Till full seven hundred miles are done, 
 And vast, admiring crowds look on 
 At each pedestrian, proud to be 
 A Hero of This Century." 
 
 2ND LADY. 
 
 *' Which of our entertainments, say. 
 Will Gladstone patronise to-day? 
 Perhaps that Orator will lend 
 His vigourous talent to amend 
 The lowly state of womankind, 
 Declaring loudly, ' Vast the mind 
 That grasps at lawyerly degree, 
 That aims at being styled M.D.'" 
 
 1ST LADY. 
 
 " Nay! Can it be that Irish maid, 
 Although not easily dismayed. 
 Could lay aside the gentle grace 
 That marks the daughters of our race ? 
 Surely, no brilUant gifts could be 
 So winning as their modesty.
 
 202 
 
 Their quiet mien, retiring air, 
 No ornament is half so fair. 
 Then, let America display 
 Her very scholarly array. 
 Let Germany be proud to show 
 Professoresses in a row; 
 England, of lady-lawyers boast, 
 And Scotch diplomas, in a host 
 Reward sweet Physic's votary : 
 But, Erin, we will claim for thee. 
 And for thy daughters, gifts that may 
 Brighten and smoothe the daily way. 
 And Crown our Land with Sanctity — 
 Our Emerald jewel of the sea." 
 
 "^^M^orbs b:tbc "^^M^ings. 
 
 Brightly the sunbeams were sparkling on high, 
 Flushing the clouds of the summer sky, 
 And the birds were singing their hajjpicst lay, 
 As if calling the children to come and play. 
 The little ones answered with joyous song, 
 I loved to see them, the merry throng; 
 Never a shadow of pain or care, 
 Everything round them gay and fair ; 
 'T was a lovely i)icturc of life for me, 
 And I ])auscd to join in their holiday glee. 
 
 But sorry I am, at last, to say. 
 
 There came a cloud o'er the sunny day. 
 
 First, I noticed a fretful glance, 
 
 Then a pause in the hai)i)y dance ; 
 
 Next a pout and a hasty frown 
 
 (The cloud was sullenly settling down). 
 
 And soon, with grieved surprise 1 heard
 
 203 
 
 The sound of an angry, a bitter word, 
 And the cry went round, as, one by one 
 They joined in the storm by the word begun, 
 Till one of the little tempestuous band 
 Was led away by a Mother's hand. 
 
 Gently, but still, with a firm control 
 (With vigilant care for the little soul) 
 The Mother calmed the passionate cry, 
 Hushed the sobbing, then, bye-and-bye, 
 Said, in a voice, that told of pain : 
 " Promise me, dear, that never again 
 That angry voice and that bitter word 
 '^xoxa your lips, at least, shall ever be heard, 
 For a word like that has wings ; indeed 
 It flies about, at awful speed, 
 It travels away, on a horrid track, 
 
 >■> 
 
 And a Coach-and-four could not bring it back." 
 
 to 
 
 The evening hours had quickly sped, 
 
 The Child lay down on her tiny bed, 
 
 Thinking of what her Mother meant. 
 
 By a mischievous word on its travels sent, 
 
 Till thoughts and tears both failed to keep 
 
 The tired Child from falling asleep. 
 
 And she dreamed she walked in a woodland sweet, 
 
 Flowers were springing beneath her feet. 
 
 The loveliest fragrance filled the breeze ; 
 
 The softest music was stirring the trees ; 
 
 Nature had decked with her richest grace 
 
 Her exquisite home in that tranquil place. 
 
 The Child looked up in surprised delight, 
 The sunbeams touched her, like blessings bright, 
 And she stooped to gaze on the smiling flowers, 
 When! — a wild cry startled the forest bowers; 
 And a wild confusion rapidly spread. 
 Dust and smoke, around, o'erhead. 
 And the sound of horses' hurrying feet 
 Madly broke through the calm retreat.
 
 204 
 
 On they came, at a terrible pace, 
 
 A coachman, urging the fevered race. 
 
 And the terrified Child stood shrinking near, 
 
 When she saw a fairy-like form appear, 
 
 A pretty vision, a graceful Sprite, 
 
 Such as the woodlands see at night. 
 
 She gently raised her beautiful head, 
 
 And fearlessly stopping the Coachman, said, 
 
 " What is this tumult? What do you mean 
 
 By breaking the peace of the fairy scene ? " 
 
 " Madam ! forgive me," the Coachman cried, 
 
 " But — a word is flying afar and wide, 
 
 A mischievous word that is causing wrong. 
 
 We are trying to catcJi it the whole day long ; 
 
 Wherever we go, that word we find 
 
 Is working mischief in every mind. 
 
 But we cannot catch it, for loords have wings, 
 
 And its echoes are like so many stings. 
 
 We are following hot and fast on its track. 
 
 But the Coach-and-four cannot bring it back." 
 
 " Yes," said the Fair}', " but wait and try. 
 
 Cannot a kind word a/so fly? 
 
 Has it not swifter, airier wings. 
 
 Can it not heal the bad word's stings? 
 
 It can indeed, so send that word 
 
 To catch the venomous thing you heard ; 
 
 It will travel faster, and do far more 
 
 Than thi^fle/j business of Coach-and-four." 
 
 " Madam, you 're right," the Coachman spoke, 
 
 'J'he scene grew calm, and the Child awoke. 
 
 "Mother! O! Mother! I know it wrc, 
 
 I Ml catch the 7(iofd, I must tell you how 
 
 A Coach-and-four could not bring it back, 
 
 But a kindly word can efface its track." 
 
 And the Child, with cjuick, glad footsteps went 
 To try could the messenger word be sent ;
 
 205 
 
 Here and there she bade it go, 
 And the kindly wings were never slow. 
 With sweet, soft flutterings on they passed, 
 Caught up the mischievous word, at last, 
 And, ere they looked at the setting sun, 
 A beautiful, peacemaking work was done, 
 All were happy, and all were friends, 
 And so, my tale of that winged word ends. 
 
 But no ! The Mother's prophetic gaze 
 
 Looked on, far on, to the future days. 
 
 Thought of the path that her steps had trod. 
 
 The weary wastes of this earthly sod. 
 
 And, laying her hand on her child's bright head, 
 
 " Remember, dear," she earnestly said, 
 
 " It is not the hastiest word that brings 
 
 The sorest pang, and the sharpest stings ; 
 
 Many a word, apparently sweet. 
 
 Is harder to bear, and harder to meet. 
 
 What though its sound may be plausibly fair, 
 
 Charity often is wounded there, 
 
 Blighted by many a voice that sends 
 
 Its keenest shafts at its closest friends. 
 
 With a steady watch on their actions set 
 
 So seemingly true, and so zealous, and yet 
 
 You will see the confidantes turning aside, 
 
 While they quietly, skilfully manage to guide 
 
 The eyes of another acquaintance to find 
 
 Every speck on the heart, every flaw in the mind, 
 
 Obscuring, with scarcely perceptible care. 
 
 The virtues that often are blossoming there. 
 
 These are the words /would fly to bring back, 
 And bid them unravel the ways of their track ; 
 These are the words that I ask you to dread. 
 For, woe worth the day when their history is read ! 
 When the words on their wings shall for ever have 
 
 flown 
 To Eternity's Land, to the Judge on the Throne;
 
 206 
 
 There the kind, truthful words shine resplendently 
 
 bright, 
 While the others must shrink from the blaze of the 
 
 Light, 
 Where nothing can cover their poisonous track, 
 When — nought can avail to bring them back. 
 
 ^Efiinnii lo tijc ^^acnb JSicart. 
 
 (FOR 1ST FRIDAY). 
 
 Dear and Sacred Heart of Jesus ! 
 
 We, Thy Children, come to sing 
 Praises of Thy wondrous glory, 
 
 And our little offerings bring. 
 
 Little acts of lowly virtues. 
 
 Daily, hourly, wreathed for Thee, 
 
 Take them as the loving pledges 
 Of Thy children's constancy. 
 
 Dear and Sacred Heart of Jesus ! 
 
 Life is strangely sad and dark, 
 Tempests rage and wild winds gather 
 
 Round the little Irish Bark. 
 
 Thou, serene and calm, abiding 
 In the blue, untroubled sky. 
 
 Wilt thou not, in pity, hear us, 
 Hear Thy lonely children's sigh. 
 
 Dear and Sacred Heart of Jesus ! 
 
 Thou hast borne our mortal grief. 
 Thou canst send Thy glorious comfort, 
 
 Thou, alone, canst give relief.
 
 207 
 
 Heavenly joy is high above us, 
 Heavenly peace seems far away, 
 
 Thou canst come to guide us onward, 
 Thou canst light the darkened way. 
 
 Dear and Sacred Heart of Jesus ! 
 
 Wilt Thou bless the years to come 
 With the graces that will lead us 
 
 Safely, to Thy glorious home. 
 
 May Loretto's children never 
 
 From Thy Wounded Side depart, 
 
 Till they rest, in peace, for ever, 
 On Thy dear and Sacred Heart. 
 
 "^^ijarmess. 
 
 " Weary," dear Friends, you tell me you are weary, 
 Sinking and faltering on the lengthened road. 
 
 Life, with its anxious burden, presses on you, 
 " Weary " at last, you bend beneath the load. 
 
 " Weary," dear Friends ! Too well, alas ! I feel it, 
 My heart is bleeding, as I watch you go 
 
 Bravely, but oh ! so suffering 'neath the pressure, 
 Too well your strained endurance do I know. 
 
 " Weary " — and — yet — the rest, the quiet slumber 
 The calm, untroubled glory of repose 
 
 Is never, or, at least, but rarely given 
 To lay its cooling balm uj^on your woes. 
 
 " Weary," indeed ! Not for a day or hour, 
 But months go by, and years are added still, 
 
 And then, with feebler pace, I see you trying 
 To force your weary footsteps up the hill;
 
 208 
 
 While others are so sweetly gliding onward, 
 Moving in summer tide's luxurious noon, 
 
 For you, it seems as though a wintry sunbeam 
 Can but appear, to fade away as soon. 
 
 Others, in soft, perpetual comfort dwelling, 
 Every slight grievance promptly turned aside, 
 
 And you ! How brief, how scant your hour of pleasure, 
 And almost every earthly joy denied. 
 
 " Weary " I watched you, till the hot compassion 
 Welled up, in tide of feeling all too strong, 
 
 And, half complainingly, I dared to murmur, 
 
 " O great Omniscient God ! how long, how long ! 
 
 ' Weary ' they are ! Thou dost not stoop to comfort, 
 
 Sorer and sorer grows the galling weight 
 Of care and pain. Thou dost not bend to raise it, 
 
 Haste ! or Thy pitying love may come too late." 
 
 But hush ! dear Friends ! Some Angel must have guided 
 
 Mine eyes, to rest upon a golden word, 
 Old and familiar in its teaching, surely, 
 
 Yet, only then, its voice of truth I heard. 
 
 " We serve a Master." So the writer traced it, 
 " We serve Him, oft with toil and care and pain, 
 
 But, trust me, that with eager love He numbers 
 Each step, each task. Not one will be in vain. 
 
 We serve a Master, oft with tears and sighing, 
 But He with fond, devoted gaze looks down, 
 
 Folds His unseen, unfell embrace around us, 
 And wisely bears us upward to the Crown. 
 
 We 're not uncared-for, never yet unheeded, 
 Over the struggling stej) Our I'alher bends, 
 
 We see Him not, but Oh ! with tenderest yearning, 
 At Sorrow's Voice His mighty Heart descends."
 
 209 
 
 Dear Friends ! / know it now, your cares are counted, 
 Your " weary" path is sanctified by Him, 
 
 ^T is hard to watch the founts of nature faihng, 
 'T is hardio watch the eye grow sadly dim. 
 
 Yet hope, and peace, and changeless consolation, 
 Steal o'er the mind that looks to your reward. 
 
 And says with confidence, serene, unshaken, 
 
 " They serve but Thee, O great and glorious Lord." 
 
 Thou, in Thy passionate tenderness, art bending 
 Over Thy suffering Children, doubly blest. 
 
 Thine own abounding love will crown the conflict, 
 Will dry the tears, and give the weary rest. 
 
 J^ainl j^isoe — ^Eifrmit. 
 
 Seventy Years ! Seventy Years ! 
 Passed in penance and prayer and tears, 
 But all is over, and Sisoe lies 
 Watching the sun of the morning rise. 
 In patient thought, but in wonder, too. 
 That he cannot, as he was wont to do, 
 Join the bright birds in their matin song. 
 And send up his orisons, fervent, strong, 
 To the God of the Wilderness. Can it be 
 That the doors of the glorious Eternity 
 Will close to-day on the hopes and fears 
 Of Seventy Years ! Seventy Years ! 
 
 Seventy summers past and gone, 
 Days of toil in the scorching sun ; 
 Seventy winters' piercing snow, 
 The sport of the savage winds that blow
 
 210 
 
 Over the sweeping desert sand, 
 
 The wastes of the fierce Egyptian land. 
 
 Seventy autumns, counting o'er 
 
 The Hermit's hard won, scanty store, 
 
 A poor supply of the desert fruit, 
 
 A wretched hoard of some desert root. 
 
 Only such would the Hermit give 
 
 To support the frame that could scarcely live. 
 
 Yet, again and again, should own the sway 
 
 Of the soul that ruled in its prison of clay ; 
 
 But rest is coming, and short appears 
 
 The vanished combat of Seventy Years ! 
 
 Seventy years had Sisoe fled 
 
 From a joyous home to a desert dread, 
 
 A boy, or even, in age, a child, 
 
 He entered the solitude, bleak and wild, 
 
 And the days of manhood found him there, 
 
 Earnest in labour, ardent in prayer, 
 
 His bearing many would call severe, 
 
 In its dignified calm, its mien austere. 
 
 Yet no ! As upward his spirit rose 
 
 To the mountains where love eternal glows, 
 
 Softer, tenderer feelings stole 
 
 Through the lonely Hermit's heaven-taught soul, 
 
 And when multitudes hastened to hear his word, 
 
 " 'Twas an echo,"they cried "of the voice of the Lord," 
 
 For his lips were only unclosed to speak 
 
 Simplicity's voice, — " Be humble and meek" — 
 
 Like a melody learned in heavenly spheres 
 
 Was that ceaseless teac-hing, for Seventy Years. 
 
 A grand old Athlete of God ! and still 
 So gentle to those of a weaker will. 
 So soothing to sorrow, so sweetly kind 
 To the restless heart and the feverish mind, 
 Coming to him, with the weary tale, 
 That their best endeavours were sure to fail, 
 'I'hal llie daily struggle, the breathless strain 
 Were all too weak to bind a chain
 
 211 
 
 On the wayward natures that often sought 
 The Hermit's fountain of peaceful thought. 
 " Rise up, my Child," he quietly said, 
 " The Angels smile on the bowed down head, 
 And, whenever the penitent kneels forgiven, 
 A new, bright radiance shines forth in heaven. 
 There are Saints ascending by lofty ways, 
 Splendid and beautiful, winning praise. 
 But, safer and better it seems, that 7C>e 
 Should tread the path of Humility. 
 Enthrone in your spirit that gentle Queen, 
 Your life will be peaceful, your death serene," 
 And thus, in the hope divine that cheers, 
 He lived and spoke for Seventy Years. 
 
 Seventy Years ! The /asf was gone, 
 
 His innocent life of penance done, 
 
 The Old Man watched in his narrow Cell, 
 
 Feeling so tranquil, he could not tell 
 
 Why they were weeping around him there. 
 
 Why they were craving his blessing and prayer ; 
 
 But, suddenly raising his closing eyes, 
 
 The pearly gates of the heavenly skies 
 
 Opened their portals. Saint Antony came, 
 
 Lovingly calling on Sisoe's name. 
 
 And the Prophets of by-gone ages sent 
 
 To the dying Hermit, tenderly bent 
 
 Over the aged Saint, who lay 
 
 Crowned by the light of the golden day. 
 
 His lips were moving. They asked him "Why?" 
 
 "The Angels," he said "would bear me on high. 
 
 But I ask them to leave me awhile on earth, 
 
 For my life was wasted, and nothing worth. 
 
 Nor prayers, nor penance, nor contrite tears, 
 
 Fill the page of my Seventy Years. 
 
 How can /enter the ranks of the Blest? 
 
 How can /hope for their lovely rest? 
 
 Yet, I hear the notes of their welcoming song, 
 
 A welcome for me, a glorious throng !
 
 212 
 
 Prophets, Apostles, and Martyrs near," 
 He paused, — then whispered, " My God is here;' 
 And the sanctified spirit, pure as the sun, 
 Gazed on the Crown its humility won. 
 Gazed on the jewels that penance had given. 
 The flowers of his Charity, blooming in heaven, 
 And the peace of eternity seemed to spread 
 Over the desert — Saint Sisoe was dead. 
 
 j^atnt JF'oscpb. 
 
 Why have I sought thee, thou gentle Saint ? 
 Why have I gazed on thee, longing to paint 
 
 A picture of love like thine, 
 Of thy shrouded sanctil)', dwelling apart. 
 In the depths of thy beautiful tranquil heart, 
 
 That wondrously guarded Shrine? 
 
 Tender thou art, and never severe, 
 But yet, with a feeling akin to fear, 
 
 I lift the veil of thy life : 
 I watch thy footstejjs silently go 
 Through passing joy, through abiding woe, 
 
 Through peace and through wCviry strife. 
 
 Silent thou art, one precious word 
 From thy holy lips we have never heard, 
 
 And yet we can almost feel 
 Thy breathings of trustful, unshaken faith. 
 Of fortitude, conquering life and death. 
 
 Over our spirits steal. 
 
 When wc see thee. Father, so weak and old, 
 The strong, the omnipotent God enfold 
 U'ith softly protecting care,
 
 213 
 
 Gazing upon Him adoringly; still, 
 So placid, so free from the fitful thrill 
 Of our own inconstant prayer. 
 
 Poor was thy dwelling, and poor indeed 
 Thy scant supply for the Infant's need, 
 
 But never a brief complaint. 
 Never a longing for added store, 
 A wish that poverty's struggle was o'er, 
 
 Moved thee, thou patient Saint. 
 
 All that thou hadst thou wouldst freely bring. 
 With a royal heart, to the Child, thy King, 
 
 He was the Master there; 
 And thou, in thy sweet humility, went 
 O'er the road He traced for thee, calmly intent 
 
 On His service, dear and fair. 
 
 Loving thou art. Alas ! for me. 
 
 Through the cold earth mists I can never see 
 
 The burning, consuming light 
 That hallowed the Nazarene mountain Home, 
 That blessed thee, wherever thy steps might roam, 
 
 That shone through Egyptian night. 
 
 The Child and the Mother and Thou, whose hand 
 Guided them on through the earthly land, 
 
 Till thy wonderful task was done. 
 And age stole near thee, with noiseless tread, 
 Touched with its glory thy bending head. 
 
 Like a beam of the setting sun. 
 
 Over thee brightly the angels smiled. 
 
 Round thee the arms of the Mother and Child 
 
 Were clasped in a long embrace. 
 And the earthly voice of the Sacred Heart 
 Whispered " In peace and in joy depart," 
 
 While, flushing thy quiet face
 
 214 
 
 The radiance of Love's first sweet surprise, 
 Told that the Judge in the heavenly skies 
 
 Had come with a crown for thee ; 
 Had led thee away to the Patriarch's rest, 
 Till the Day Star rose that proclaimed thee blest 
 
 In the Land of Eternity. 
 
 Yes ! gentle Saint ! I have sought thee there, 
 Yearning to win thy fatherly care 
 
 For the passing souls on earth. 
 Oh ! w^hen thou hearest the agony-bell. 
 Will not the blessed and sorrowing knell. 
 
 That tells of immortal birth. 
 Call thee, dear Father, with mighty cry. 
 To the shrinking and sin-stained ones who die 
 
 Trembling at wasted worth. 
 
 Yes ! by the bliss of thy closing hour, 
 Come with thy soothing, resistless power 
 
 To the pillow of death and pain, 
 And then, let the dew of thy comfort shed 
 Balm on the saved, yet suffering head. 
 
 Till the Purgatorial chain 
 
 Casts its dark links away, as the light 
 Of the Saviour's smile disi)crses the night, 
 
 And the Child, the Mother, and Thou, 
 Canst bear away to the radiant Land 
 Another gift to the ransomed Band, _ 
 
 Crowning the Victor's brow. 
 
 J^ccjcnb of the ^ainfcb "^M'inbob. 
 
 A cloister, rising in its (juiet splendour, 
 A glorious home of calm, devoted prayer,
 
 215 
 
 A Sanctuary, Shrine of graceful beauty, 
 
 Adorned with ardent zeal, with loving care, 
 The hands that tended it could never be 
 Slow in the service of the Deity. 
 
 The flowers that decked its altar were the fairest 
 That bloomed in bower or grove, afar and near, 
 
 The choir of cloistral harmony, the sweetest, 
 Like angel voices, ringing glad and clear, 
 
 And floods of many tinted rays were shed 
 
 From painted windows on the cowled head. 
 
 There came a Stranger, from a far-off dwelling, 
 A land where cultured genius proudly reigned, 
 
 Entranced, he owned the palm of artist glory. 
 By saintly hands had here been nobly gained. 
 
 For aught so grandly beautiful had ne'er 
 
 Repaid his years of studious toil and care. 
 
 That Painted Window ! Hours he gazed upon it. 
 And eager questions ceaselessly he plied, 
 
 "Who was the Artist? Where had been his birthplace? 
 Where had he lived? Where had that Earth-Star 
 died ? " 
 
 *' He was our own" they said, 
 
 "Our Friend, our Brother, 
 We knew he had a sweet, a wondrous skill, 
 
 We prized him well ; his memory lives among us. 
 He loved this Church, — we feel he loves it still. 
 
 He left us yon bright treasures, yes ! and then 
 
 He left a lesson Uttle known to men. 
 
 That Eastern Window ! See you not how truly 
 Our Brother's touch portrayed the Saviour there, 
 
 With Heart and Hands wide open to receive us. 
 And see you not how, all surpassing fair, 
 
 The Virgin Mother's rapt, adoring gaze 
 
 Lifts up our spirits to eternal days.
 
 216 
 
 Long years of quiet, prayerful toil were closing 
 Our Artist Brother o'er that Window bent, 
 
 The secrets of his pencil all were lavished, 
 The rich resources of his mind were spent 
 
 On that great triumph of his life, and so 
 
 He waited for the furnace fire to glow. 
 
 The swift red flame sprang up. A quick completion 
 ^Vould crown his cherished work, he placed it there, 
 
 And anxiously beside the furnace kneeling, 
 His lips were moving in confiding prayer. 
 
 One moment more — and then his task would stand, 
 
 A fair creation of his master-hand." 
 
 A footstep near him, and a gentle whisper, 
 " Brother, the Abbot bade me go and say 
 
 He wishes you to hasten to the questing. 
 The Convent sorely needs an alms to-day." 
 
 Even at the word the Artist bowed his head. 
 
 '''I go, at once" submissively he said. 
 
 All through the weary hours he begged and waited 
 For rich man's bounty, and for poor man's mite, 
 
 Perhaps a slight, unnoticed mist should gather 
 Over the humble, questing Friar's sight, 
 
 Whene'er involuntary thoughts would stray 
 
 To where he felt his ruined Window lay. 
 
 Shattered and melted, in the fiery wavelets, 
 A red hot mass of sad decay, he knew. 
 
 Too hard to bear, you think, but no ! He conquered ! 
 The brave, monastic sjiirit, firm and true, 
 
 Hushed the unbidden throbbings of the heart, 
 
 And sternly bade rei)ining sighs dejiart. 
 
 The evening fell. He reached the Convent ])ortals, 
 Willi steady hand he oped the furnace door. 
 
 The tomb of many a joyful hope. He pondered, 
 " My artist dreams are buried evermore." 
 
 But, Oh! what vision met his startled eyes, 
 
 The Window! radiant with its brilliant dyes!
 
 217 
 
 With wondrous ruby flashes, golden glories, 
 And emerald tints, and soft cerulean blue, 
 
 And then, that God-like gaze of tender power, 
 Beamed in full beauty on his dazzled view. 
 
 His soul rose up in grateful, rapturous prayer, 
 
 Unconscious of the wondering listeners there. 
 
 But round the Cloister soon the tale was whispered, 
 And, though the tide of years is flowing on, 
 
 Though He who painted, and though They who watched 
 him, 
 To fairer, hoUer, happier scenes are gone, 
 
 That Painted Window hath a silent voice, 
 
 "Obedient hearts shall triumph and rejoice." 
 
 J^0n0 of tin i^ells. 
 
 I wish we had a carillon 
 
 Of clear, sweet bells, 
 Like those that rang in days of old, 
 
 As story tells. 
 Dear Mother, with a merry peal, 
 
 A glad, bright lay. 
 Their silvery chimes should celebrate 
 
 Thy festal day. 
 Ring, ring each bell ! 
 Thine own tale tell. 
 
 1ST BELL. 
 
 'T is a day I love. 
 And my notes will move 
 In joyful harmony.
 
 218 
 
 Merry laughter near, 
 Happy faces here, 
 
 A sight I hke to see. 
 For the dull school time 
 I have no gay chime, 
 
 But my tinkling peal can say, 
 Happy be this morn. 
 May all gifts adorn 
 
 Your Mother's festal day. 
 
 2ND BELL. 
 
 Can / bear no dearer greeting ? 
 
 Can / naught more lasting bring, 
 Than the words that are as fleeting 
 
 As the wild bird on the wing. 
 Have you any little offerings 
 
 That my tuneful voice may tell ? 
 Will it glad the heart to listen 
 
 To the music of my Bell ? 
 
 Yes ! I see around your Mother 
 
 Many grateful hearts to-day, 
 And I sing the little tribute 
 
 That affection comes to pay. 
 For her sake you have been patient, 
 
 You have checked the hasty word, 
 And these tiny acts of virtue 
 
 By my Bell to-day, are heard. 
 
 You were silent oft, wlien longing 
 
 For '■'one loord^^ and, better still, 
 Most obedient, when the struggle 
 
 Tried the power of self-will. 
 I would never ask you surely, 
 
 All your own good deeds to tell, 
 But your Mother loves to hear them 
 
 From the chiming of my Bell.
 
 219 
 
 3^^ BELL. 
 
 I touch the silvery peal once more, 
 
 For softer notes are there, 
 The music waked by holy thoughts, 
 
 And tender words of prayer. 
 The tones that, far resounding, seek 
 
 Saint Francis Xavier's throne, 
 And win his glorious eyes to rest 
 
 On these poor gifts we've shown. 
 
 Surely he '11 bless these joyous hours, 
 
 For Bells could never say, 
 How much of supplication greets 
 
 This well loved Festal Day. 
 With earnest prayers, dear Mother, that 
 
 Joy and sweet peace may be, 
 Thine, truly thine, till dawns the light 
 
 Of blest eternity. 
 
 ^airier, aub J^t. Jpl^vtsa. 
 
 Loud rang the Bells ! a glorious song ! 
 
 Far o'er the Roman land, 
 In peals of melody it swelled. 
 
 So jubilant, so grand. 
 
 The snow-clad Alps their white robes stirred 
 
 To hear that blessed chime. 
 While lingering echoes bore the tones 
 
 O'er every southern clime.
 
 220 
 
 Fair France looked up with glistening eyes 
 
 To join the glad refrain, 
 And every note with rapture thrilled 
 
 The heart's deep chords in Spain. 
 
 A sweet spring morn ! The sunbeams cast 
 Their broad gold bands on Rome, 
 
 The showers of sparkling brightness bathed 
 St. Peter's royal Dome. 
 
 And lustrously they wandered round 
 
 A fair Corinthian pile, 
 To touch the sanctified Gesu 
 
 With softly loving smile. 
 
 Plashing with jewels stood the Shrine, 
 
 But, raised above it, hung 
 Three portraits, carefully concealed, 
 
 Rich drapery o'er them flung. 
 
 And lo ! by trumpet music led, 
 
 In gorgeous, solemn file. 
 The Princes of the Church of Rome 
 
 Passed up the flower strewed aisle. 
 
 Lowly the Priests and Prelates bowed. 
 
 Lowly the Pontiff lay 
 Prostrate before the Hidden God, 
 
 Whose power shone forth that day. 
 
 Again, again, such burning prayer 
 
 As supplication knows 
 Rang through the Temple vaults, and then, 
 
 Pope Gregory arose. 
 
 And every voice, save his, was hushed. 
 
 No sound the silence broke, 
 As, at the I'kicharistic Throne, 
 
 Christ's Vicar knelt and spoke.
 
 221 
 
 " Father supreme ! Thou wise, eternal King ! 
 
 Thou from whom all our precious treasures spring, 
 
 With trembling hands we come, at last, to place 
 
 This earthly crown of sanctity and grace 
 
 On those whom Thy omniscient, wondrous choice 
 
 Has glorified for aye, we raise our voice, 
 
 We raise our eyes to heaven, we kneel and pray, 
 
 To those whom earth has canonized to-day. 
 
 Ignatius ! Xavier ! and Teresa ! given 
 
 To be our guiding stars to thee in heaven." 
 
 Back, with deft hand, the veils were flung, 
 
 Sant' Angelo's cannons rolled. 
 And o'er the southern hills and plains 
 
 The glorious tidings told. 
 
 In splendid harmony aloft, 
 
 The full " Te Deum " rang, 
 The pent-up love and faith of years 
 
 To fervent utterance sprang. 
 
 And still the pictured saints looked down 
 
 Upon the brilliant scene, 
 So calm, so beautiful, so pure. 
 
 So changelessly serene. 
 
 Ignatius ! with his placid brow, 
 
 His earnest, thoughtful eyes. 
 Shining with wisdom, nobly won. 
 
 The science of the skies. 
 
 Ignatius ! vowed, in heart and mind, 
 
 To Jesus' blessed name, 
 Pressed to His cross of agony. 
 
 Its suffering and its shame. 
 
 'B 
 
 Ignatius ! strength of those who toil, 
 The tranquil, fearless Guide, 
 
 The Warrior Leader to the heights 
 Where self is crucified.
 
 222 
 
 And Xavier ! ardent, gifted soul ! 
 
 Light of the Indian shore ! 
 Watching with love's bright glance alone, 
 
 The Crucifix he bore. 
 
 And She ! the Carmel Glory, too, 
 The heaven-taught saint who came 
 
 To fire the Spanish solitudes 
 ^Vith strong seraphic flame. 
 
 Who bade the desert wastes bloom forth 
 
 With spotless Virgin Flowers, 
 And shed the fragrance of the rose 
 
 Through Carmel's hallowed bowers. 
 
 Oh ! well might sovereign anthems swell 
 
 Around the world that day, 
 And we, who venerate it here, 
 
 Well may we kneel and pray. 
 
 Oh ! Thou ! who gavest these chosen ones 
 Their radiant, conquering palm, 
 
 Oh ! Thou ! who for their souls prepared 
 The nuptials of the Lamb. 
 
 " Oh ! Thou ! who made their virtues shine 
 
 Resplendent, pure and clear. 
 Give to us now, the faith of those 
 
 We tenderly revere. 
 
 " Oh ! bid our gaze, unwavering, mark 
 
 The path i/iey trod of yore, 
 The only way that gains at last 
 
 Thine own untroubled shore. 
 
 "And, till our ransomed spirits hail 
 
 The glorious days to come, 
 Teach us to wait, in strength and hope, 
 
 Thy last, long Welcome Home."
 
 223 
 
 ^]©artjjrti0m oi ^t. ^Miix^xma, 
 
 " The day has come," the fossor said, 
 As, with an eager, reverent tread, 
 
 Pancratius sought his side. 
 " This very day, in years gone by, 
 To seek his home in yonder sky, 
 
 The martyr, Lawrence, died. 
 
 He moved among us, Hke a beam 
 Of sunlight o'er a darkened stream, 
 
 For those were awful days. 
 And many a long-tried heart sank down 
 And failed to reach the throne and crown. 
 
 So wild and dark our ways. 
 
 But Lawrence ! ah ! Pancratius, /le 
 Seemed like an angel, pure and free 
 
 From every care and fear, 
 He loved and pitied us, for we 
 Were sunk in want and misery, 
 
 Yet, when his step drew near, 
 
 The fading eye regained its light. 
 
 Our wretched homes grew fair and bright. 
 
 Lit by his presence dear. 
 Till one long summer day passed on 
 Without him. Was our Treasure gone 
 
 To seek a happier sphere ? 
 
 I hastened to the direful hall. 
 
 Where captive saints were held in thrall 
 
 No ! Lawrence was not there, 
 But, to my startled ear there came 
 The hissing of a mighty flame, 
 
 And then a sudden glare.
 
 224 
 
 Through all the fierce, revolting crowd, 
 Their mocking jests, their clamour loud, 
 
 I madly clove my way. 
 Oh ! on the furnace-fire outspread, 
 That fearful couch, his dying bed, 
 
 The martyr, Lawrence, lay. 
 
 O God ! that terrible repose ! 
 
 Even now, the scorching tear drop flows, 
 
 To think upon that sight. 
 His tender flesh was molten there, 
 The very bones were charred and bare, 
 
 And yet, the lurid light 
 
 Had dared not print its dread embrace 
 Upon the calm and beauteous face, 
 
 That smiled, serene, on death. 
 The rising flames even seemed to shed 
 A wreath of glory round the head 
 
 I watched with bated breath. 
 
 And then, at last, it seemed to me 
 As if the dark futurity 
 
 ^Vithdrcw its solemn veil. 
 And from the misty depths came forth 
 The sad and suffering ones of earth, 
 
 With forms so wan and pale. 
 
 They gazed upon the martyr blest, 
 So tranquil, in his tortured rest, 
 
 Until a ray of peace 
 Passed o'er their wasted features, then, 
 They raised their cross of pain again, 
 
 And asked not for release. 
 
 While from the lips of Lawrence came, 
 More ardent than the vivid flame, 
 
 His last availing prayer 
 For all who would, in after days, 
 Their holocaust of suflering raise 
 
 Beneath /lis holy care.
 
 225 
 
 All ! the swift triumpli of the sword 
 That sends the victor to his Lord, 
 
 With keen, but transient dart, 
 Is grand and beautiful to see. 
 But this slow, lingej'ing ago?iy, 
 
 Spoke better to the heart. 
 
 And then, Pancratius, as the glow 
 Of sunset lit yon hills of snow, 
 
 An angel hastened down, 
 With soothing tenderness he prest 
 The worn out martyr to his breast, 
 
 And bore him to his crown." 
 
 -*o*- 
 
 ^i, 3^0sc d J^hna. 
 
 She gazes on it ! Sad surprise 
 
 Clouds the soft lustre of her eyes, 
 
 And, kneeling by the broken flower, 
 
 The loveliest treasure of her bower, 
 
 The bitter, trembling tear-drop flows 
 
 From Lima's Consecrated Rose. 
 
 But yestereve she left it there, 
 
 Never so fragrant, brightly fair. 
 
 And while the setting southern sun 
 
 Kissed the pure blossoms, one by one. 
 
 She touched them, with a fond delight, 
 
 As if to bid the Flower "good night." 
 
 She thought how exquisite 't would be 
 
 Before the Hidden Deity, 
 
 To see it bloom like voiceless prayer. 
 
 Close to the Marble Home, and there 
 
 Lift wandering thoughts, with sweetest power. 
 
 To Him who made that lovely Flower. 
 
 Q
 
 226 
 
 Alas ! what evil sway that night 
 Had come, with fierc^ and fatal blight, 
 And flung the brilliant petals round, 
 Besprinkling all the garden ground. 
 Your cheek with pain's rich colour glows, 
 Your breath comes fast, O Virgin Rose ! 
 
 She was a Saint ! whose lofty soul 
 Had ruled with stern and strong control 
 The te7ider, girlish frame that shrined 
 A nobly wrought, heroic mind. 
 Vigil and fast, and penance sore, 
 A wondrous penitential store, 
 Scourges and circlets, thorns and chain, 
 Incessant search of throbbing pain ; 
 The spirit waging bitter strife 
 Against the body. Such her life ! 
 They called her " crucified and dead," 
 With "every human feeling fled," 
 And yet, that summer morn she stood 
 In vain attempt to stay the flood 
 Of passionate human tears and grief. 
 Over each crushed and withered leaf; 
 While words of strangely sad complaint 
 Poured forth from Lima's gentle Saint. 
 
 But hush !— a peaceful breathing stole 
 All through the garden, and her soul 
 Felt that the awful Presence filled 
 The air around her. Softly thrilled 
 The flowery bells, the birds flew near, 
 With twittering note of joyous fear, 
 And light supernal, rays outspread 
 Glory celestial on her head. 
 
 He stood before her! God and Man ! 
 Her troubled soul His eyes could scan, 
 His voice resounded through the bower, 
 " Rose of my Heart ! I took your Flower^
 
 227 
 
 Round it I watched sortie tendrils twine, 
 
 Some thoughts, some cares that should be Mine. 
 
 'Only a Flower.' Be it so, 
 
 Rose, my beloved ! I bid you know 
 
 That nought on earth should win your eyes 
 
 From the pure dwelling of the skies. 
 
 Too much of tenderness you gave, 
 
 You deemed your watchfulness could save 
 
 That fragile beauty from the blast. 
 
 I a7}i a jealous God. At last, 
 
 /visited your Flower at night, 
 
 / struck it with that sudden blight, 
 
 And mournfully, my Rose, my Child, 
 
 I heard this plaint of sorrow wild, 
 
 Will you not calmly try to lay 
 
 Your treasure in My Hands to-day?" 
 
 Her lips were silent, but her heart, 
 
 With vivid and impetuous dart. 
 
 Sprang up, like ardent fire, to meet 
 
 The God-like gaze, so pure, so sweet. 
 
 And mightily, the waves of love 
 
 Bore her enraptured soul above. 
 
 The whole wide world to her was lost. 
 
 Nothing could grieve her, nought could cost 
 
 One moment's pang. A heavenly calm 
 
 Entoned a softly soothing Psalm 
 
 Within her inmost being. Then 
 
 She looked upon the Flower again. 
 
 But oh ! how altered was the scene, 
 
 Unlike what it had ever been. 
 
 The garden still was sweetly fair. 
 
 The fragrance of the buds was there, 
 
 Yet a strange dimness o'er it lay. 
 
 Its false enchantment passed away. 
 
 She wondered hoiv her heart could cling 
 
 So wildly round a fading thing. 
 
 She rested m the perfect peace, 
 
 The love that bade her struggle cease, 
 
 As, lifting up the broken spray. 
 
 She watched its swift, entire decay,
 
 228 
 
 Though not a sigh of faint regret 
 
 Stirred the few leaves before her yet. 
 
 She could not murmur, could ?7ot feel 
 
 The shadow of a conflict steal. 
 
 God's blessed Will, and His alone, 
 
 The tranquil glory of His Throne, 
 
 Absorbed her, in its close embrace. 
 
 Lifting her up, to higher grace, 
 
 And then, the radiant Vision smiled, 
 
 " Henceforth, you '11 know, my cherished Child, 
 
 That every glance of yours I prize. 
 
 Each act is precious in My Eyes, 
 
 That o'er you constantly / bend, 
 
 Longing to ht your only Friend." 
 
 It passed away, — that heavenly light, 
 The Vision faded from her sight, 
 But, in her heart, securely shrined, 
 Its memory round her spirit twined, 
 And thenceforth, as through life she trod, 
 (Her soul uplifted to her God), 
 With tranquil, all-subduing power 
 She placed in His unchanging Bower, 
 Each joy — each love — each earthly Flower, 
 
 ^all of iht J^^^m'wm ^l^mpirc. 
 
 Night o'er the the stately city ! 
 
 Night through tlic summer air. 
 Darkness and restful beauty. 
 
 Reigning in stillness there. 
 Yet, in the sculptured ])alace 
 
 Rings the glad, festal song, 
 Tlirougli its majestic portals 
 
 Wanders the radiant throng.
 
 229 
 
 " Hail to our sceptred monarch ! 
 
 Hail to Baltassar's power !" 
 Earth, in its pagan glory, 
 
 Dwelleth supreme that hour. 
 
 Night o'er the haughty city ! 
 
 Low, in its deepest place, 
 Shrinking in lonely sorrow 
 
 Find we the captive race. 
 Down by the quiet river, 
 
 Weeping beside its flow, 
 Mourning beneath the willows, 
 
 Melodies soft and low. 
 Stir the green leaves above them, 
 
 There, where the harps are hung, 
 Silence, her heavy mantle 
 
 Over the chords has flung. 
 
 Night o'er the fated city ! 
 
 See an unnumbered band 
 Noiselessly circling round it, 
 
 Persian and Median stand 
 Motionless. First they hearken 
 
 Unto the music high, 
 Then to the plaintive murmur, 
 
 Juda's imprisoned sigh. 
 
 Night o'er the gorgeous city ! 
 
 God with an awful hand 
 Traces, in touch of fire, 
 
 Characters sadly grand. 
 " Manes — thy days are numbered, 
 
 Thekel — thy works are weighed, 
 Phares — thy mighty kingdom 
 
 Low in the dust is laid." 
 
 Night o'er the anxious city ! 
 
 Forth from the Palace gate 
 Issues a strange procession, 
 
 Borne on a chair of state.
 
 230 
 
 Calm as adoring angel, 
 Resting in quiet prayer, 
 
 See the despised Hebrew. 
 Throned, like a victor, there. 
 
 Lowered is every weapon, 
 
 Guards from their post depart, 
 Doubt and dismay are throbbing 
 
 Quickly through every heart. 
 Yes ! in that chant of triumph, 
 
 Swells the wild note of fear, 
 Then, with a swifter footstep, 
 
 Cyrus, the King, draws near. 
 
 Night o'er the trembling city ! 
 
 Horror and ruin spread 
 Over its dying glories, 
 
 Over its Monarch dead. 
 Up to the darkened heavens 
 
 Riseth an awful glare. 
 Justice, in stern dominion, 
 
 Waveth her standard there. 
 
 Night o'er the mourning city ! 
 
 Bleeding and conquered. Still, 
 Why doth a pale lamp's lustre 
 
 Shine on that farthest hill ? 
 Like a soft Star of Mercy, 
 
 Bidding the tempest cease, 
 Seemcth that ray to whisper 
 
 " There dwells a heart at peace^ 
 
 He, the forsaken Captive, 
 
 He of the prophet tongue. 
 On whose inspired accents 
 
 Millions, in awe, had hung, 
 Kneels by the o])en casement, 
 
 Purple and gold laid down, 
 Tell of his fleeting si)lcndour, 
 
 Picture his brief renown.
 
 231 
 
 Oh ! how the lurid torches 
 
 Gleam on his youthful face, 
 Tenderly, yet revealing 
 
 All its unearthly grace. 
 Far, from the fearful clangour, 
 
 Far, from the piteous moan. 
 He, with the peaceful angels, 
 
 Watching before the Throne. 
 
 Night on the slaughtered city ! 
 
 Babylon's pride is o'er, 
 And the Assyrian glory 
 
 Fadeth for evermore. 
 Victor and vanquished struggle 
 
 Each with his galling pain, 
 Each, with a fatal pressure, 
 
 Weareth the heathen chain. 
 
 But, in his rapt devotion, 
 
 Beautiful, pure, serene, 
 Israel's youthful Prophet 
 
 Looks on the troubled scene. 
 Power and Pride are stricken, 
 
 'Neath the avenging rod, 
 Juda's lone Exile dwelleth, 
 
 Safe, in the Heart of God. 
 
 J^ancs from i^t JMifc of j^aint ^atj^crine 
 
 (FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS). 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 O Bells ! sweet Bells of Angel tone ! 
 
 O holy Christmas Bells ! 
 Dear is the music of your voice, 
 
 Most dear the hope it tells.
 
 232 
 
 Blest messengers of peace and love 
 
 Ring out your gladdest chime, 
 Your brightest melody, to hail 
 
 The joyous Christmas time. 
 
 Ask you, dear Mother, why you'll hear 
 
 Saint Catherine's tale to-day ? 
 Ask you why we have feebly sought, 
 
 Her Legend to portray ? 
 We answer, that your childhood's hearts 
 
 Have sought the Saint of Rome, 
 And longed for her sweet aid, to save 
 
 Our Church's hallowed home. 
 
 So dark these days, so sorely tried 
 
 Our captive Pontiff King, 
 That closer do the Irish love. 
 
 The Irish reverence cling 
 Round the lone Bark of Peter, cast 
 
 Upon the stormy sea, 
 The waves that hide the golden shore, 
 
 The grand eternity. 
 
 Dear Mother, on that Blessed Bark, 
 
 Your hand even now is laid. 
 The heavenly Pilot deigns to claim 
 
 Your earnest, jjraycrful aid. 
 Souls, by your guidance led to him, 
 
 The light of Holy Faith, 
 Spread through the world, by young hearts saved 
 
 From sad, eternal death. 
 
 Therefore, we know responsive chords 
 
 Will wake, as we unfold. 
 Grand memories of the noble life 
 
 Saint Catherine lived, of old. 
 Send down, O glorious Virgin Saint ! 
 
 From thy inmiortal home, 
 A blessing on the Irish laiul, 
 
 And on the Church oi- Rome!
 
 233 
 
 isi Tableaux. — Rome personified, as described in Petrarch's 
 letter to Pope Gregory XL, namely, a figure clad in the 
 poorest garb of deep mourning. A gold circlet lying 
 on the ground, with the name " Roma " inscribed on 
 it. Rather apart, Saint Catherine, in the Dominican 
 habit, as she appeared during the vision, when angels 
 placed a cross on her shoulders, and an olive branch 
 in her hand, thus foretelling her public life. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 The solemn visions of the night 
 
 Moved round me, still and slow, 
 My heart grew cold, my pulses thrill, 
 
 At shades of coming woe. 
 And lo ! mine eyes entranced, at last, 
 
 Rested with saddened gaze 
 On a veiled form, that seemed to me 
 
 Well known in other days. 
 
 Neglected and forlorn, she stood, 
 
 In poorest garb arrayed, 
 And yet, in that strange presence. Kings 
 
 Had owned themselves dismayed. 
 Royal her bearing, and her tone 
 
 As that of One whose hand 
 Had ruled with vigorous sway, o'er men 
 
 Who bowed at her command. 
 
 Her lofty soul, her spirit high. 
 
 Shone through her vesture mean, 
 I knew, I felt, that I beheld 
 
 A once unequalled queen. 
 Trembling, I asked her name — she paused- 
 
 Scarcely the words would come, 
 Scarcely, through broken sobs, I heard 
 
 The mighty name of " Rome." 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what memories thronged 
 At that beloved sound,
 
 234 
 
 Mine eyes, through gathering teardrops saw- 
 That City's hallowed ground. 
 
 The glorious things that never die, 
 The fire of genius bright, 
 
 The patriot's self-devoted life 
 Illumed with splendid light. 
 
 The Saints, the Martyred Ones who rest 
 
 Beneath the Roman sod. 
 Grand Combatants for heavenly Crowns, 
 
 Heroes of Rome and God. 
 " How long, O Lord ! how long," I cried, 
 
 "Shall the land mourn and weep? 
 How long, o'er pastures bleak and wild, 
 
 Shall stray the scattered sheep? 
 
 Behold Thy Sanctuary stands 
 
 Deserted and forlorn, 
 The House of Thy great glory lies, 
 
 Of all its splendour shorn." 
 But, while my heart-wrung prayer arose, 
 
 Softly, as summer air, 
 Another Figure, silently 
 
 Appeared before me, there. 
 
 With eyes of yearning tenderness, 
 
 With earnest faith and love, 
 She gazed on Rome, the desolate, 
 
 And then she looked above. 
 Looked with the glance of one whose soul 
 
 Daily, in prayer, had trod 
 Far o'er the earthbound hills of life, 
 
 The sacred Mount of God. 
 
 Oh ! on her lifted hands shone forth, 
 
 The stigmas' awful light. 
 And angel touch had laid on her, 
 
 The Cross of Calvary's height. 
 While (blessed token of the love, 
 
 That ne'er can change or die), '
 
 235 
 
 She bore the olive branch of peace, 
 God heard His children's cry. 
 
 Calm in her steadfast trust in Him, 
 His royal Heart her home, 
 
 Stood Catherine of Siena, there, 
 To watch and pray for Rome. 
 
 2nd Tableau. — Saint Catherine before Pope Gregory XI. in 
 the Papal Court at Avignon. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 Before the Court of Avignon, 
 
 Its regal pomp and pride, 
 She stood, in silent majesty, 
 
 Christ's chosen, glorious Bride. 
 A strange, a wondrous beauty hers, 
 
 For heaven's bright touch had shed 
 Something of future glory round 
 
 St. Catherine's veiled head. 
 
 The " Daughter of the People " still, 
 
 Siena's lowly maid, 
 Sternly, and yet, most sadly, too, 
 
 The brilliant scene surveyed. 
 The costly robes, the glittering sheen 
 
 Of jewels, and the light 
 Of countless tapers flashing on 
 
 Her heaven illumined sight ; 
 
 And She, with heart and brow that throbbed 
 
 With God's own fire alone. 
 Standing to plead His cause before 
 
 His Vicar's mortal Throne. 
 The silence deepened, for She prayed, 
 
 As only those can pray. 
 Who feel that every hope of earth 
 
 Has long, lofig passed away.
 
 236 
 
 Around her thronged in solemn state 
 
 The noble, great, and wise, 
 Poor mockery of the Courts abovef, 
 
 The Princes of the skies. 
 The haughtiest trembled, as they felt 
 
 Her strange, unconscious sway, 
 When, suddenly, the calm, stern look 
 
 Passed from her face away. 
 
 And o'er it swept a tender light, 
 
 A smile, so sadly sweet, 
 That tears flowed fast, as Catherine knelt, 
 
 Low, at the Pontiff's feet. 
 But she — her woman's heart grew strong 
 
 To meet that solemn hour, 
 And, in the rich Italian tongue. 
 
 Flowed forth her words of power. 
 
 " Peace for the Land of Italy, 
 
 Paternal love and care 
 For perishing souls, so dearly bought, 
 
 So precious and so fair. 
 Ye Ministers of Christ ! pour forth 
 
 The all-atoning flood, 
 Over the faltering and the weak, 
 
 Pour forth His Precious Blood. 
 
 Vicar of Christ ! in His great Name 
 
 / call you to your home. 
 Linger not here, on foreign soil, 
 
 Return, — return to Rome. 
 Return ! The queenly City weeps 
 
 Her life-blood fast away. 
 False are the friends, and/aAr the tongues 
 
 That bid you still delay. 
 
 Earth's worthless chains have bound you long, 
 
 Spurn their weak fetters now, 
 God and His Angels r(:;istereJ 
 
 Your silent, secret Vow."
 
 237 
 
 Half in dismay, and half in fear 
 Had Gregory heard and gazed, 
 
 But now (as soars the bird in air), 
 On its light pinions raised. 
 
 The Saint's transfigured form arose, 
 
 So angel-like, so fair, 
 That every heart stood still to hear 
 
 Her burning words of prayer. 
 " Oh ! thou eternal Deity, 
 
 I in thy presence stand. 
 Lowly and sinful. Lord ! extend 
 
 Thy all-transforming hand. 
 To thee I give my soul, my life. 
 
 My worthless frame to-day. 
 Destroy, annihilate it, Lord ! 
 
 But save these souls, I pray. 
 Let me in agony bow down 
 
 Even to the very dust. 
 But to Thy Vicar, give, O Lord ! 
 
 Courage and fearless trust ; 
 Give Him Thy Heart, Thy Heart of fire, 
 
 That he may raise on high 
 The Standard of Thy blood-stained Cross, 
 
 Save us, we sink, we die, 
 Peccavi, Domine, ante Te, 
 
 Oh ! Miserere Mei ! " 
 
 One moment's pause, one upward glance. 
 
 The Tempter fled away, 
 Peter de Beaufort de Turenne 
 
 Died unto earth that day. 
 Calm and serene, and resolute. 
 
 The Pontiff Gregory passed 
 From the proud halls of Avignon, 
 
 A Conqueror, at last. 
 
 Tearless and silent, even when 
 His aged Father lay,
 
 238 
 
 Barring the threshold of the home, 
 
 So beautiful that day. 
 Christ's Vicar o'er the prostrate form 
 
 Stepped, as a monarch goes 
 On his victorious path, to crush 
 
 His long rebellious foes. 
 While from his lips the glorious words 
 
 Like chant of triumph rose, 
 " Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis, et conculcabis 
 leonem et draconem." 
 
 2rd Tableau. — St. Catherine before three learned Doctors, 
 who came to the discussion with the intention of con- 
 founding her. They left her, admiring her heavenly 
 wisdom and humility. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 "Ye have come," said she, "in your wisdom clad, 
 
 With the laurel crown of fame 
 Twined round your brows by a regal hand, 
 
 Ye have won an honoured name. 
 What seek ye, my Fathers ? " she gently asked, 
 
 Though her bright and piercing eye 
 Rested upon them, with calm, clear gaze. 
 
 Unheeding the splendours nigh, 
 "/ never have bent o'er the learned page, 
 
 Or pondered the mighty tome. 
 My days have been passed, as you see them now, 
 
 In a lowly, unlettered home. 
 Philosophy's depths I have never explored, 
 
 Nor Theology's mountain height. 
 The portals of Science ne'er opened to me 
 
 The halls of its dazzling light. 
 My hand hath been i)roni])t at the humblest employ. 
 
 Yet seldom hath taken the i-)cn, 
 If I spoke, if I taught, 't was the Spirit on high 
 
 Who prompted my utterance then." 
 And her wistful glnncc was so touchingly sweet, 
 
 In its true huuulity there,
 
 239 
 
 But cold were the hearts that around her wove 
 
 Their envious and fruitless snare, 
 In the subtle discussion, so skilled, so wise, 
 
 In the pride of thought, so strong. 
 They stood to confound her, to win, that day, 
 
 The triumph they sought so long. 
 Oh ! paltry and poor did their sophistries seem. 
 
 And worthless their practised art, 
 She questioned not, faltered not, silently prayed 
 
 In the depths of her quiet heart. 
 Long years had gone by since her eyes had beheld 
 
 Eternity's radiance above. 
 She had stood on the shores of the Infinite Sea, 
 
 The Ocean of Knowledge and Love, 
 In the light of that Vision, that glory divine, 
 
 Her sunbright Intelligence soared 
 O'er the wisdom of men, o'er the teaching of schools, 
 
 To the feet of the God she adored. 
 And the rich, lovely flush on her delicate cheek, 
 
 Like a beam of the summertide, passed, 
 As the wonderful flood of her eloquence poured, 
 
 Subduing the scoffers, at last. 
 
 " Oh ! crushed be the Science, vain glory inflames, 
 
 Oh ! withered the fruits it has brought, 
 Despised and contemned be its paltry display. 
 
 Hear what the Saints have taught, 
 Open, my Fathers, with reverent hand, 
 
 The pages by Sanctity traced, 
 And mark ye, how nobly, how brightly revealed 
 
 Is genius, by holiness graced. 
 What light hath been given, your footsteps to guide, 
 
 Hath the one spotless Mirror been shown 
 To the souls that have turned from the Fountain of 
 Truth 
 
 To lis feeble reflection alone?" 
 
 And even as she spoke, like the breath of a rose. 
 An exquisite fragrance stole round,
 
 240 
 
 They felt, those Philosophers, courtly and wise. 
 
 They were treading on Sanctified ground. 
 And, again and again, did her angel-toned voice 
 
 Refute, with a heaven-taught skill, 
 Every argument false, every doctrine untrue. 
 
 Till they bowed their stern judgment and will. 
 " Enough, O my Fathers," at last she said, 
 
 " Ye will follow the Crucified, 
 Henceforth at His Cross will your science be found, 
 
 Your light in His Wounded Side. 
 Would you see the clear stars of His Mysteries, descend 
 
 To humility's lowliest well ? 
 Let purity reign in your hearts and your minds. 
 
 Ere His heavenly doctrines you tell. 
 And Hope, the sweet Sister of Faith, will extend 
 
 Her hand o'er your perilous way. 
 And the roseate flood of redemption will bless 
 
 Your souls, witli its dearly won ray. 
 O Blood of my God ! " and her teardrops fell 
 
 Like a shower of crimson rain, 
 And strangely they touched the Philosophers' robes, 
 
 With a mystical blood-red stain. 
 With reverent step from her presence they went. 
 
 One to a humble Cell, 
 One to obscure and unhonoured toil. 
 
 Winning poor souls from hell, 
 One — and the haughtiest — laid at her feet, 
 
 The learning he treasured of old, 
 ^'■Mine was but dross" he submissively said, 
 
 '■'Thine is \.\\e fire-tried gold." 
 
 4II1 Tableau. — St. Catherine in her httle cell. She is 
 wreathing flowers for the Madonna's allar. Two 
 Crowns of roses and thorns are near her. St. Mary 
 Magdalen is seen in vision, by St. Catlicrinc, who, 
 hcncclorth, lakes the holy Penitent for her special Pa- 
 troness.
 
 241 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 She lived in days of anxious care, 
 
 When heavenly skies were dark, 
 When the wild billows raged around 
 
 St. Peter's lonely Bark. 
 Tossed like the plaything of the waves, 
 
 The royal vessel lay, 
 Deserted by the hands that should 
 
 Have been its firmest stay. 
 
 In mystic vision she had felt 
 
 That Navicella pressed 
 On her slight form, forbidding her 
 
 One hour of peaceful rest. 
 The night brought no serene repose. 
 
 The day brought toil and pain, 
 Pleadings, and tears, and weary sighs, 
 
 Too oft, alas ! in vain. 
 
 And yet they said that sunny joy. 
 
 Shone from her inmost heart. 
 That even her very presence there 
 
 Bid saddened thoughts depart. 
 Her pure and ardent soul went forth 
 
 To all things good and fair. 
 She smiled when summer breezes swept 
 
 The soft Italian air. 
 
 She gazed upon Siena's spires, ' 
 
 Its grand Cathedral dome, 
 Her warm affections gloried in 
 
 Her lovely southern home. 
 Its olive hills were dear to her, 
 
 Most dear its shining bowers. 
 And with a strange, sweet tenderness. 
 
 She loved its bright wild flowers. 
 
 She oped the poet's glowing page, 
 And watched, with kindling eyes, 
 
 R
 
 242 
 
 When some new bud of genius bloomed 
 
 Beneath Siena's skies. 
 When fell disease, with fevered hand, 
 
 Or passions fierce, were rife, 
 She soothed the sufferer, closed the wound, 
 
 And calmed the wildest strife. 
 
 Oh ! beauteous are the Legends twined 
 
 Around St. Catherine's cell. 
 Yes ! exquisite as childhood's dreams. 
 
 The tales they oft could tell. 
 Angels, on silvery harps entoned 
 
 Rich music, round her there, 
 The far resounding harmony 
 
 Made answer to her prayer. ' 
 
 And when she brought the flowers to deck 
 
 Her loved Madonna's shrine, 
 The wildings of the fields were robed 
 
 With splendour, all divine. 
 Her hand had touched them with the light 
 
 That Eden's Garden knows. 
 Gave whiteness to the lily leaf, 
 
 And fragrance to the rose. 
 
 But still, when at her feet there lay 
 
 Two coronals to wreathe 
 Her suffering brow with joy or grief, 
 
 The generous heart should breathe : 
 " Forbid it. Lord ! \.ha.t ^mccrs should crown 
 
 A soul so sinful here. 
 Give me T/iy tliorny diadem^ 
 
 Wet with Thy life blood dear." 
 
 Dear, loving Saint ! what marvel then 
 That heaven's bright courts should send 
 
 The Watcher by Golgotha's Cross 
 To guard thee to the end. 
 
 That Magdalen, Love's trojjhy, came 
 I'rom her bright home to share
 
 243 
 
 Thy wondrous life, its wondrous ways, 
 Its vigils and its prayer. 
 
 With soft, maternal touch to heal 
 
 Affliction's venomed dart, 
 To whisper, in the hour of need, 
 
 " Bride of the Sacred Heart ! 
 The night is passing fast away. 
 
 The spousal morn will come. 
 It dawneth in the eastern skies. 
 
 Thou 'rt hastening^ hastening ho/ne." 
 
 5th Tableau. — St. Catherine on her death-bed, surrounded 
 by the Sisters of the Third Order of Penance, her 
 Mother, Lapa, Stephen Maconi, Bardoccio, etc. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 Oh ! wonder not if words should fail 
 To lift the sadly beauteous veil 
 So softly, closely folded round 
 The death-bed's consecrated ground ! 
 
 The Spring had sent its promise bright, 
 And Rome, exulting in its light, 
 Saw the long years of sorrow cease. 
 Rejoicing in the reign of Peace. 
 But She, — whose grand, devoted life 
 Had faded in the fearful strife, 
 God's willing Victim, calmly lay. 
 Waiting the Sacrificial Day. 
 
 Oh ! that we could bring back again 
 Those hours of sweet and hallowed pain, 
 The tears of sorrowing hearts that yet 
 Could scarcely dare to feel regret, 
 As round the silent Home they moved. 
 Or watched by Pier, so fondly loved.
 
 244 
 
 Till every wish and hope was gone, 
 
 And every earthly thought, save one, 
 
 Yes ! call it earthly^ if you will, 
 
 But — though she lingered with them still, 
 
 Nature and earth claimed little part 
 
 In that angelic form and heart, 
 
 And even her pure and peaceful face. 
 
 Transparent, shone with heavenly grace. 
 
 Day followed day, it seemed as though 
 
 She lived and breathed, alone to show 
 
 What glorious fortitude can be 
 
 Linked to our frail mortality. 
 
 Not one low murmur, scarce a sigh. 
 
 Save when the " Miserere Mei " 
 
 In plaintive accents broke the prayer 
 
 That told her life-long love and care. 
 
 " Rome, the loved soil St. Peter trod. 
 
 The Vicar of the Triune God; 
 
 Friests whose grand ministrations poured 
 
 The Blood" so fer\ently adored ; 
 
 The Souls who wandered, far and wide, 
 
 So shepherdless. She yearned to guide 
 
 These poor, forsaken Ones to Him, 
 
 Ere life's pale lamp grew faint and dim. 
 
 The Friends, whose tenderness, she knew, 
 
 Clasped her with bonds, so warm, so true, 
 
 That Death's stern Angel seemed to stay 
 
 The parting hour, tlie farewell day, 
 
 Till they could learn to bless the Hand 
 
 That led Her to the restful Land. 
 
 Alas 1 tlie sands were counted now. 
 
 The death-shades pressed her tranquil brow, 
 
 The last sweet words of counsel given 
 
 Half as from earth, and half from heaven. 
 
 To some she spoke of days of toil. 
 
 Of strong, stern combat, prompt to foil
 
 245 
 
 The snares, so thickly woven round 
 Christ's mystic, royal Battle ground. 
 For others, words of gentle love, 
 And promises of care above. 
 To one, — the best beloved of all — 
 Revealing God's mysterious call 
 (A home in the Carthusian cell), 
 And then, — she bade the last farewell. 
 
 It came ! The closing hour of life ! 
 The agony of mortal strife 
 Racked the worn tenement of clay. 
 St. Peter Martyr's Festal Day 
 Saw the great Patriarch look down 
 On that fair Jewel of his crown. 
 The Virgin Flower, so soon to shine 
 Near him, in realms of love divine. 
 
 One last fond blessing on her home. 
 One last, long burni??g prayer for Rome, 
 And then, o'erwearied, bowed her head, 
 The pure, heroic Soul had fled ! 
 
 6th Tableau. — The Stage divided by a drop curtain. In the 
 I St Part, the Tomb, guarded by Angels, is shown, in a 
 dim light. At 24th Line the curtain rises, and shows 
 St. Catherine ascending to heaven, as described in the 
 Verses. 
 
 RECITATION. 
 
 The night shades fell, to robe with solemn splendour 
 The grand old church, the Angel guarded Tomb, 
 
 With reverent hand the mourners closed the portals, 
 Leaving their Treasure in the gathering gloom. 
 
 Though, when their last and lingering look was taken, 
 She smiled upon them still, serenely fair, 
 
 'T was but a Shrine, whose glory had departed. 
 They knew it well — their Mother was not there.
 
 246 
 
 Not there, indeed! In palaces eternal 
 
 Far, far away, she lived, and prayed, and loved, 
 
 The same, in earnest and intense devotion. 
 As when, among them here, she softly moved. 
 
 One, in celestial majesty, had seen her, 
 
 Her bright lips shining with the old, sweet smile, 
 
 Whose placid beauty gently seemed to whisper 
 " Parted, beloved, but,>r 'a little wliiU: " 
 
 One, in the hour of struggle and temptation, 
 A helpless prey to doubt and anxious fear. 
 
 Heard the calm music of her voice, that told him, 
 "/will protect thee, /am with thee, /lere." 
 
 Another, on his distant mission tending, 
 The flock //er hands confided to his care. 
 
 With heart that sought her in eternal dwellings, 
 Beheld the radiant answer to his prayer. 
 
 *"T was early morn," he said, "and I was seeking 
 Strength for the duties of the weary day, 
 
 When, suddenly, a glory shone around me, 
 A clear, resplendent, beautifying ray. 
 
 And o'er the sky, suffused with morning splendour, 
 Angels, in bright procession, slowly passed. 
 
 Victorious palms, above them proudly waving. 
 Rich, golden shadows on their white wings cast. 
 
 With fair and precious things their liands were laden. 
 
 Crosses and relics, all with jewels set, 
 And music, by tlieir wondrous touch was wakened, 
 
 Suc/i melody ! It thrills me even yet. 
 
 ' Gloria Deo,' ' fianctus, sanctus, sanctus,' 
 Over the clouds the anthems seemed to roll, 
 
 Till a strange courage filled me, and my longing 
 Spoke in the eager question of my soul.
 
 247 
 
 " Tell me, blest Spirits, are ye not thus leading 
 Some chosen Bride in triumph to her home?' 
 
 Lo ! the grand ranks, with rapid motion, parted. 
 And a rich voice exclaimed ' Behold her come.' 
 
 'T was She ! our Mother ! every well-known feature 
 Beamed, as of old, upon my raptured sight, 
 
 But all resplendent with the spotless glory, 
 The loveliness of heaven's seraphic light. 
 
 U/ichatiged she seemed, as sweet, as fond, as tender^ 
 The soft, bright glances of those glorious eyes, 
 
 Resting on me, one moment, then uplifted 
 In wordless longing to the opening skies." 
 
 '• A Dream ? " Ah no ! Forbid that sceptic murmur, 
 We, who have learned to know that Mother's heart, 
 
 Feel that a love like hers could ne'er forsake them, 
 Could never from its cherished ones depart. 
 
 Her gentle memory o'er our lives must linger. 
 Though, turning from its sweet resistless spell, 
 
 We see the weary path of life before us, 
 And to Siena's Glory, bid farewell. 
 
 Farewell ! bright City of the Virgin Flower, 
 Farewell ! ye valleys, by her presence blest. 
 
 Farewell ! O Sanctuary of her earthly hours ! 
 
 Farewell ! O Graves, where those who loved her rest. 
 
 Ye happy ones ! the hour of separation 
 
 Has passed for ever, and ye brightly stand, 
 
 All re-united, mid the white-robed choirs, 
 Never to leave that cloudless, changeless Land. 
 
 Centuries five have fled, yet, as we ponder 
 On you and on your Mother, time doth seem 
 
 But as a lightning flash, a moment flying, 
 A night that passeth, with the morning beam.
 
 248 
 
 And, from the distant heavens, low music greets us, 
 Like holy bells that stir the summer air, 
 
 O blessed tones ! O melody undying ! 
 The voices of the loved and lost are there. 
 
 They cease ! The vision from our sight is fading, 
 It matters not, again, we know, they '11 come. 
 
 Those heavenly sounds will celebrate our meeting. 
 That glorious song will hail our Welcome Home. 

 
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