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FROM “ROME AT THE EPIPHANY." O Rome, the eternal ! Rome, the ever young ! Shrine of the saint, and shelter of the sage, Balm of bruised hearts, and nerve to souls unstrung, And golden euthanasia to age :Amid the countless crowd whose pilgrimage Ended within thy loving arms divine, Let me read three from out the immortal page,

Tyrconnell’s Lord, Tirowen's Earl, and thine Whose troubled heart now rests in Agatha's lone

shrine. *

Familiar names—dear names, whose sounds recall
The distant Isle, that 'mid the northern lands,
Like the lone palm-tree on the Viminal
(Speaking of Jordan's shores and Judah's sands
Unto the colder pines), serenely stands,
The type and symbol of the warmer creed
With which the Southern Celtic heart expands ;

Long the sole type, but now its saving seed Floats to the neighbouring isles, and fructifies with


Island of Saints ! when Gaul, and Goth, and Hun
Profaned the relics of departed Rome ;
Island of Saints ! when perish'd one by one
Arts, laws, and letters, temple, tower, and dome ;-

* O'Connell.

Island of Saints ! the only shelter'd home Where learning, faith, and piety found rest ;Still dost thou stand above the Atlantic's foam,

Faith's foremost Pharos to the benighted West, Lighting the surest track that leadeth to the blest.


WE breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer,

Which makes us brothers even with the Lord : “Our Father," cried we, in the midnight air,

* In heaven and earth be Thy great name adored ; May Thy bright kingdomn, where the angels are,

Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim." And then, with eyes fix'd on some glorious star,

We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn !

“ Hail ! brightest star ! that o'er life's troubled sea

Shines pity down from heaven's elysian blue ! Mother and maid, we fondly look to thee, Fair gate of bliss, where Heaven beams brightly

through Star of the morning ! guide our youthful days,

Shine on our infant steps in life's long race ; Star of the evening ! with thy tranquil rays,

Gladden the agèd eyes that seek thy face.

“Hail ! sacred maid! thou brighter, better Eve,

Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin ; Within our hearts no selfish poison leave,

For thou the heavenly antidote canst win.

O sacred Mother ! 'tis to thee we run

Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; Ask all we need from thy immortal Son,

Who drank of death, that we might taste of life.

“Hail ! spotless virgin ! mildest, meekest maidHail ! purest Pearl that Time's great sea hath

borneMay our white souls, in purity array'd,

Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn ; Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure

Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, And make us pass to joys that will endure

When the dark term of mortal life arrives.'

Rev. T.

T. J. Potter.


ST. AUGUSTINE, A.D. 596. They came across the surging sea, a brave and fear

less band, To bring the grand old Faith of Rome unto a heathen


To free a nation from its chains, set Britain's children

free, To curve the haughty neck to Christ, and bend the

stubborn knee.

They come not in the pomp of pride, with mighty

spear and sword, Their coat of mail, their own brave hearts, and the

service of their Lord ;Poor humble monks, in lowly guise, they land on

Britain's shore, And softly sing the Virgin's hymn, as the Cross goes

on before.

The haughty king in savage state his nation's court

doth hold, And frowning brows, and curling lips, the humble

monks behold; Yet out they speak with right good heart, with little

show of fear, For God's bright flame is in their breasts, His mighty

aid is near.

“ From Rome we come, an humble band, but joyous

news we bring, Unto thy nation, and to thee, O great and mighty

king: We come to tell you of your God, to make you great

and free, Then haste to curve the willing neck, and bend the

willing knee.”

With eager ears they list the tale, with eyes more

keen and bright, And soon the stubborn heart doth bend before the

God of might

And king, and court, and nation all, quick bend the

willing knee, And raise with glowing hearts their hymn, O Lord of

Hosts, to thee.

O happy day! when Rome's great sons came o'er the

bounding wave, And brought the Cross to Britain's isle,—a standard

for the brave, A solace for the broken heart, a glory for the freeAnd led our land in willing chains, O Rome, great

Rome, to thee.

O happy days ! when Britain's sons were one in faith

and love, One faith, one altar, and one hope in Him who reigns

above ; When Peter's sway was gladly felt through all the

faithful land, And king, and priest, and peasant all obey'd his dread


O happy days ! when Mary's name fell on each British

ear, “ Familiar as a household word,” each sinking heart

to cheer ; When on each spire, and through each field, and o'er

each churchyard sod, The Cross was seen in goodly guise, to raise men's

hearts to God.

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