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SELECTION FROM FR. FABER. CONSOLATRIX AFFLICTORUM. LIKE the voiceless starlight falling

Through the darkness of the night, Like the silent dewdrops forming

In the cold moon's cloudless light, So there come to hearts in sorrow

Mary's angels dear and bright. Like the scents of countless blossoms

That are trembling in the air, Like the breaths of gums that perfume

Sandy deserts bleak and bare, Are Our Lady's ceaseless answers

To afflictions lowly prayer. They are endless, they are countless,

Like the leaves upon the trees;
They are teachings sweetly hidden

Like the fragrance in the breeze;
They are spirits to the drooping,
- Like the freshness from the seas.
They are not like earthly comforts,

Nor like anything on earth,
They are peacefuller than slumber,

They are cheerfuller than mirth;
They are light to all life's darkness,

They are plenty to its dearth. They are presences and foretastes

Of some nameless heavenly things, From the golden throne of Mary

Wafted down to us on wings; Yet they come to none but mourners,

To the hearts that sorrow wrings.

They are wondrous thoughts of Jesus,

They are presences of God, Giving zest to weary sadness,

Or strange sweetness to the rod, Filling full of heavenly sunbeams

Sorrow's dark and lone abode. For they come into our spirits

With a soft and winning might, And they make our dead look brighter

In the waking hours of night, And they gently turn our darkness

Into depths of tenderest light. Oh! it is as if some fragments

Of the golden calms of heaven, By the mercy of our Father,

Into Mary's hands were given ; But to earth were only falling

Upon hearts with sorrow riven, For in Mary's ear all sorrow

Singeth ever like a psalm; Welcome, Mother! are the tempests

Which thou layest with thy calm ; Sweet the broken hearts thou healest

With thine own heart's nameless balm !

· THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

By FABER. Oh it is sweet to think

Of those that are departed, While murmured Aves sink

To silence tender hearted,

While tears that have no pain

Are tranquilly distilling, And the dead live again

In hearts that love is filling. Yet not as in the days

Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays

From light that is above them : Another sweetness shines

Around their well known features ; God with His glory signs

His dearly ransomed.creatures. Yes, they are more our own,

Since now they are God's only, And each one that has gone

Has left our heart less lonely. He mourns not seasons fled,

Who now in Him possesses Treasures of many dead

In their dear Lord's caresses. Dear dead! they have become

Like guardian angels to us; And distant heaven-like home

Through them begins to woo us; Love that was earthly wings

Its flight to holier places; The dead are sacred things

That multiply our graces. They whom we loved on earth

Attract us now to heaven; Who shared our grief and mirth

Back to us now are given. They move with noiseless foot

Gravely and sweetly round us, And their soft touch hath cut

Full many a chain that bound us.

O dearest dead! to heaven

With grudging sighs we gave you,
To Him-be doubts forgiven !

Who took you there to save you :-
Now get us grace to love

Your memories yet more kindly,
Pine for our homes above,

And trust to God more blindly.

THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.
THE YOUTHFUL MARTYRS.—Act I, SCENE I.

BY OAKELEY.
Fabiola.

How now, Syra,
Hast thou no gentle note to swell withal
This chorus of sweet music ? Ever mute,
When others press around with words complacent ?
Hast no kind wish to proffer, naught to claim
Of service meet and loyal ?

Syra.

Noble Mistress,
My only wish is thou mayst be happy.
And, for myself, what praise were justly hers
Who does but duty, when she does her best?

Fabiola.
This dull morality mislikes me, Slave;
Praise, surely, is but kindness in disguise.

Syra.
What boots my praise, poor servant that I am,
To her who, from the lips of orators,
Well used to turn and point the cunning phrase,
Hears all she can desire (forgive the thought)

And more than she believes ? and shall a slave
Gain credence for her vulgar flatteries,
Which polish'd eulogists can scarce command ?

Fabiola.
Hast thou to learn then, slave, that thou art mine?
Mine to command, to move, to play upon,
Like some obsequious instrument, at will ?
Know, then, proud menial, that thy voice is mine,
E'en as thy limbs; an't please me to command
Its tutor’d modulations, or its notes
Less strain’d and artful of colloquial grace,
Thy duty is, nay privilege, to please
On whom thy life depends.

Syra.

'Tis true, indeed,
My life, most gracious lady, yea, mine all,
That is of earth,-health, vigour body, breath,-
'Tis thine by purchase, and is thine to use;
Thy gold hath bought it, and it is thy property;
But I have that within me which no wealth
Of man can purchase, no dominion claim,
No chains embarrass, and no limit bound.

Fabiola.
And what is that?

Syra.
A soul.

Fabiola.
What is a soul ?

Syra.
Lady, I have no skill in high philosophy,
Nor find my thoughts their ready vehicle
In strict scholastic phrase; but I can feel
That power within me which surpasses speech.

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