"But when death comes, the Priest will come, And shriven I shall be;

I long have trusted, still I trust,
That day of grace to see.”

With wondering awe, the stranger heard,
And in these words replied:
"Your prayer is granted; now, my son,
A Priest is at your side."

The sign of blessing, words long since
Familiar to his ears,

Came to that dying man with all
The memories of years.

He bowed his aged head and smiled
A smile serene and bright,
Devoutly crossed himself and said-
"Now I shall die to-night."

The rites of Holy Church are o'er,
The Bread of Life is given,
The soul of that God-trusting man
Has winged its way to Heaven.

And he, whom God had sent, went on
Rejoicing in his heart

At the great wonders wrought for those
Who choose the better part.

THE PILGRIM'S PRAYER.

BY LADY G. FULLERTON.

WITH trials compassed and beset with foes Armed for the fight, thy life-long strife begin, And ever as the conflict deeper grows

With dangers round thee, and within the sin, Yield not an inch-press on—no efforts spare, But arm thee, Christian, with the Pilgrim's prayer. Temptation in thy path? Then call for aid— Guilt on thy soul? Behold thy ransom paid. God's kingdom in thy hopes; His will, thy will; God's name upon thy lips; there keep it still : A Heaven in view, and in the Cross a share, This, this, O Christian, is the Pilgrim's prayer!

THE LANGUAGE OF THE CHURCH.
BY LADY G. FULLERTON.

UNTO all lands thy sound has gone,
With still small voice or clarion tone,
Thou glorious old Church Latin tongue,
Familiar still the Saints among!
It floats on the chill midnight air,
It ushers in the morn with prayer,
It blends with the soft vesper bell,
And whispers in the convent cell;
Sower of Truth's eternal seed,
Tongue of the one unchanging creed
Confessed, where'er the Martyrs bled,
By myriads of the sainted dead;

In every clime beneath the skies
Where Mass is said, where Altars rise,
Distant and lone soe'er they be:
From pole to pole, from sea to sea,
In high cathedral's sculptured nave,
Or lofty dome, or humble cave,

There does the Church her "Sanctus sing,
And "Gloria in Excelsis" ring;
Throughout the world, in ceaseless round,
The "Credo's" thrilling accents sound.
"Domine non sum dignus" leads
The suppliant cry a sinner needs;
And Ecce Agnus Dei" tells

That Christ on earthly altars dwells.
"Ora pro nobis" swells the prayer
Angels in golden censers bear;
"Salve Regina" hails the star
By kings and prophets seen afar.
Still does the "De Profundis" rise;
The "Stabat Mater" breathes its sighs.
The glad "Te Deum's" notes upraise
Of joyful hearts th' enraptured praise:
Each solemn rite, each sacred hour,
Still claims thy words of love and power,
Sower of Truth's eternal seed,
Tongue of the one unchanging creed!

BY LADY G. FULLERTON.

WHO would not seek with eager steps
The hallowed spots of earth?
Who would not stand where angels spoke
Of Christ's approaching birth?

Who would not gaze upon the sea
Which hardened 'neath His feet;
Or on the mountain where He prayed,
And the lone well-side seat?

Who would not linger in the shade
Of the pale olive trees,
Lending an ear to the deep sighs
That swelled the midnight breeze?

Or higher yet-on Calvary

66

Who would not kneel and cry— "My God, my God! of very love Here let Thy creature die ?"

Yes, still to Salem's hallowed scenes,
Loretto's blessed home,

To Martyrs' graves, Apostles' tombs,
St. Peter's sacred dome,

The pilgrim's feet are duly bent;
In each he finds the grace
On every leaf and stone to read
What time can ne'er efface.

But there are Sanctuaries at hand
Where, not through mem'ry's spell,
But in reality and life

The Lord vouchsafes to dwell.

Oh! are not these the shrines where all
In pilgrimage should go,

And at His sacred feet their weight
Of sin and sorrow throw ?

Yea, blessed are the hallowed haunts
Where faith is wont to draw

A lesson from each silent scene
Of tenderness and awe.

In holy relics lies a joy

That all who love Him know,
And in the Crucifix we find
Solace in every woe.

But still more precious to the heart
The Shrines where God resides,
And His too dazzling Majesty
With patient mercy hides.

He gives us all, He gives Himself
In the one gift, that blends
All that we crave for, 'till the day
When Faith in vision ends !

"OH! THAT THY CREED WERE SOUND!"

"Oh! that thy Creed were sound,

For thou dost soothe the heart,

Thou Church of Rome," &c.

-Lyra Apostolica.

BY LADY G. FULLERTON.

O MOTHER CHURCH! my spirit's home! long sought and found at last,

Safe in the shelter of thy arms, I muse upon the past;

E'en in

my childhood's days, there rose a shadow of thy form,

And through the thoughtlessness of youth it showed amidst the storm;

Like angel visits came those gleams my startled soul before,

Wave upon wave advancing left a token on the shore.